“Unspoken Understanding”

“Some of you are concerned about
the attack helicopters
and mortar fire
from the base.
I will tell you this:
those are the sounds of peace.”
– Col. Stephen Davis, USMC. Rawa, Iraq. October 2005.

The date was 15Jul2005. 1620 hours. A lone HMMWV pulled up to the razor wire perimeter of combat outpost Rawa, near the town of the same name in Iraq. This aroused the suspicions of the security detail pulling watch. They stopped the path of the HMMWV with a Stryker and aimed their M-2 at the smaller vehicle. After stopping, the ramp of the Stryker dropped, and soldiers marched out to surround the HMMWV.

One soldier, with an M-4 pointed at the window of the HMMWV shouted, “Open the door slowly, place your hands in the air, step out of the vehicle, and identify yourself.”

Slowly, the door creaked open. A United States Army Soldier stepped out. “Hi!” He was breathing heavily. “I’m Private Nathaniel Jones.” Gulping in air. “With the 269.” Gasping for breath. “We got ambushed.”

“Let’s see some ID,” the soldier closest to Private Jones said. “Slowly,” the soldier advised. “Are you the only one in the HMMWV?” The soldier kept his rifle pointed at Private Jones.

“Yeah, I’m the only one,” Jones nodded.

The soldier took his hand off the handguard of his M-4 while keeping his stance and hold on the pistol grip firm and beckoned Jones, “Alright, ID now, soldier Jones.”

“Oh, uh…” Jones scratched the back of his head.

That was when the soldier realized that Private First Class Nathaniel Jones was covered almost head to toe in dried blood. “Who’s your point of contact here?” the soldier asked.

“Sergeant First Class Norbert Jenkins.”

The soldier dropped his offensive posture and called out orders. Once there was a thumbs up from a soldier at the Stryker, the soldier nearest Jones said, “Alright, PFC Jones. We’re gonna get you squared away. Hop back in that HMMWV and drive on up to where the rest of your unit is parked.”

Jones nodded and complied.

When he arrived at his unit’s area of the outpost, he was not greeted with smiling faces or a warm welcome. Jones wasn’t met with a check-in for his mental or physical health. Instead, he was met with harsh interrogation.

“What the shit happened out there, soldier? Y’all were sent out in a perfectly good HMMWV with a Ma Deuce mount, a full squad of soldiers, two full combat loads of ammunition, two days rations, and you come back alone looking like you took a bath in a fucking Hal-al butcher house. Where the fuck is the rest of the squad?” Sergeant Jenkins was not pleased.

Jones couldn’t face Jenkins. He stared at the powdery sand. Jones knew what happened, but knew he couldn’t say it. “There was an ambush,” Jones said, softly.

“Of course there was an ambush!” Jenkins shouted, slapping a manila folder against the corner of a makeshift desk. “There’s always a fucking ambush! We’re not at a ‘Peace, Love, and Faggotry’ Outpost like you’d like Private! We’re at a combat outpost in the middle of a goddamn war!” Jenkins was shouting even louder now. “A war we’d be a whole hell of a lot closer to winning if not for being saddled with crossdressing, cocksucking, faggot fuck-ups like yourself doing fuck-all knows what when there’s an ambush and getting an entire goddamn squad killed!”

Jones already hit a limit earlier today. Maybe Jenkins was trying to make Jones hit another limit. Jones looked up at Jenkins and stared. The expression had anger, but it wasn’t the same as what Jenkins was expressing. It was a more muted fury. Jones exhaled slowly after a moment. “I’m not the one who’s been making verbal advances. That was Sergeant Jacobsen,” Jones held his left fist up with the elbow rested on his left knee with his index finger extended to start counting.

“I’m not the one who’s been getting handsy with others. That was Sergeant Jacobsen and Specialist Hathaway getting handsy with me,” Jones’ index finger and middle finger were now extended.

“I’m not the one who’s been causing friendly fire weapons misfires by not knowing how the weapons work. That would be Specialist Lindblum,” his index, middle, and ring finger were extended.

“Who also happens to be the one who was playing with a knife with PFC Armstrong and put said knife through Armstrong’s hand,” Now all four of Jones’ non-thumb digits were extended. He raised his hand a bit to put his extended digits between his eyes and Jenkins’. He formed a fist for emphasis and leaned back in a more relaxed position in his chair.

“Armstrong was out of commission for two weeks until yesterday. Now they’re both out of commission. Forever.” Jones stood up and strapped his weapon across his body. “They’re all out of commission. Forever.” He tipped his Kevlar onto his skull and clipped the chin strap. “Gonna go get some water and doll myself up, Sergeant. I’ll do better at winning the war if I feel like I’m actually on the same team.” Jones said with a deadpan wink before exiting the tent.

He could hear Sergeant Jenkins screaming after him something about not being dismissed until being told he’d bed dildoes? But Jones already had a pair of earbuds in. Which was against AR-670-1? FM 22-5? Punishable by Article 15? Leavenworth? Firing squad? He really couldn’t give a damn. All he wanted at that moment was his shitty beach chair, an ice cold water, and for Courtney to sing about petals and truth through his Zune.

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Title: Unspoken Understandings
Now Playing: “Asking For It” by Hole
Saturday, 08/08/2005, 8:08PM

My unit seems to have no idea about this. Which is fine. All the better that they don’t. If they did know, I would probably be dead. They also have no idea what it’s like to stand up for what is good and right. Just like they don’t know anything about freedom. Or democracy. Truth. Justice. “The American Way” *queue John Williams*

What they do know is that I’m… something. Not a man. But something different than them. Whatever I am, I’m better than they are. I’m not sure if I should feel guilty about what happened the other week. But I’d probably feel more guilt about the alternative in the long run. I’ve heard so many of them say so many times something like “If you shoot up the motor pool, tell me to go to lunch,” or something similar. Even though… I’m the least violent one among them. I think that is the thing that scares them the most. The fact that I don’t want anything to do with their patriotism, or this war. I never wanted to be here. I feel like Dante from Clerks, except instead of a day that I wasn’t supposed to work at a convenience store… I’m stuck in a war that I wanted no part in (thanks Dad, hope you’re having fun living vicariously through me).

The other morning, my squad and I went out on patrol in the nearby town. It was routine. But I’m tired. I’ve been tired. I’m tired of listening to soldiers bitch about their wives back home. If you hate her so much, why did you marry her? I’m tired of listening to the soldiers complain about the Iraqi civilians. If you hate them so much, then why are you here? Go home (believe me, I wish I could, see Dante mentioned above). I didn’t want to be here, but I was forced to. Maybe they feel much like I did. Stuck. And paradoxically, while being a full decade younger than most of them, I am simply further ahead than a lot of them… I simply knew I was dealing with a fictional world long before they could figure it out. Maybe that’s why so many of them come to me for advice in private while reviling me in public. Fuck I’m tired of that, too.

That day, last month, though… I was tired of something I never even experienced until then.

We had an ambush. One insurgent from the sound of it. My vantage point didn’t allow me clear visual considering where I was hearing the weapons fire coming from. Our turret guy laid down suppressing fire. Insurgent stopped firing, and fled into a nearby apartment, or so our Glorious(TM) squad leader said. We should have moved on with our patrol and our lives, as per the RoE. But the squad leader, “in all his infinite wisdom” (oblig BHD quote on this soldier’s blog 9.9), had other ideas. Based on our intel, it seemed obvious to me that these people simply do not want us here. Based on the constant attacks we get, I’m inclined to agree.

Anyways, ambush. So we stop the humvee at the squad leader’s orders. Get out, and go into the apartment building. I tried to suggest that maybe leaving a .50-cal unattended wasn’t the best idea, but the squad leader assured me no one would take it. So we went into the apartment building one of the other soldiers said the insurgent went into and began our search. Except… the squad leader wasn’t interested in searching. He was interested in murdering.

I was horrified. We found an AK in the first apartment. The Iraqi civilians were allowed a firearm and three clips per household, so far as I was aware. Anyways, I grabbed it. Said something about always wanting to see how one of them worked in practice (I’d read up on them already). One of the soldiers made some fucked up comment about me being a secret commie. I bit tongue and bided time. I said I was gonna cover their six. Squad leader attempted a… “joke” before the guy on point kicked in the door to the next apartment to begin “clearing” (killing). I delivered the punchline before any of them could get a round off.

Time slowed down. Seconds became hours. I can’t explain how it went down in a play-by-play. The looks of shame and guilt I hoped for on my “fellow” soldiers’ faces for the torment they put me through as judgment was passed upon them was not as liberating as I had hoped it would be. Partially because they probably did not feel guilt for any harm they caused me. They only felt bad because they were getting their comeuppance. And that doesn’t even touch on the harm we were causing the Iraqi populace just by being here, doing what we were doing. The harm they caused me alone was not enough to do what I did. I did it to save a building full of innocent families just trying to live their lives in peace.

I couldn’t save the first family. But I saved the rest of them.

After my squad was dead, I knelt with my head bowed, and offered their neighbor’s rifle as if I were visiting an altar. I said in English, “I’m not like the others. I didn’t want this. I’m sorry. I just want to leave.”

A middle-aged man translated, I think. An older woman said something. Some discussion ensued. I looked up while they seemed to argue amongst themselves about what to do. They stopped once a handsome young person (about my age, I’d guess) wearing a lovely violet hijab and a beautiful blue dress took the rifle from me, placing her(?) hands on mine very intentionally as she did. She gave me the warmest, most compassionate smile I had ever seen, and said “Go in peace,” in a soothing, deep voice. “We will pray for your safe return home.” She? He? They? Yeah. They. I bet singular “they” is gonna be a thing soon. They took the rifle from me like someone who’d handled one before. Someone who was probably pretty good with one.

There was a brief moment when I think this person and I just saw something in each other’s eyes before I rose… that we shared some sort of unspoken understanding about one another… some bit of sameness and otherness… where we just wanted to reach across worlds, in a shared tenderness and exhaustion. Acknowledge our differences, celebrate them, while also embracing each other in our common humanity. How we both came from worlds rocked by violence and controls we never asked for. How we both longed to escape those worlds. But there was something more… I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe even something beyond our worlds. Beyond this world. How we both desired a healing far and away from all of this torment. I wished we could have both taken the time to explore it more fully. As equals.

However, I was an invader there. I knew I had to leave. And I knew they were breaking all kinds of taboos that could get them into 17 levels of shit if the wrong person looked at the situation the wrong way. I stood, bowed, thanked them all, and left.

When I got back to post, I got about the reception I expected. Since getting back to our regular post, I’ve been filling duties on-post only. Which I’m fine with. I think my platoon sergeant and I have come to a bit of an unspoken understanding of our own about the whole situation. He doesn’t ask. I don’t tell.

(for legal reasons, Dear Reader, this is, of course, a work of PURE fiction… no REAL soldier would be silly enough to write about the deaths of their own squad members in such a matter, would they…?)

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