The Veteran Experience - by Ben Shaw

Companion to Honor

2010-05-29T01:17:00.001-04:00

*Originally published on Words For Warriors.

Doc was singing when I first met him, if I remember correctly. He was always singing. I'd just arrived in my new unit's office and was removing the porn I'd found on the government computer. I'd been in the Marines for about 3.5 years, and Doc had been in the Navy for about the same. He came crashing in singing some unknown R&B piece, tossed down his backpack, and looked around at the new faces.

“Who the hell are you guys?”

We were the new instructors sent to the unit, we explained, and introduced ourselves. He shook our hands briefly and cordially, welcomed us, and returned to rummaging in his pack. A moment later, he had wandered off. I learned later that he was always like this; he never sat still.

Part of it was a continual desire to improve himself. When he wasn't buried in a medical text for his job, he was studying for college classes, which he took online and at a local college. In fact, he'd nearly finished his Bachelor's degree before he came off of active duty. While some might describe him as a flake, it's more accurate to say that he was involved in a myriad of occupational, academic, and social activities and he had to organize his time carefully. His cellphone voicemail greeting even indicated this:

“This is Doc. Leave a clear, concise, grammatically correct message at the tone.” If you didn't, he wouldn't call you back. He might not have called you back anyway. He was busy.

Despite being constantly stretched thin, Doc never allowed it to diminish his attitude. Without exception, he was cheerful, 100% present, and ready at a moment's notice to throw in a humorous remark that would send us all into gales of laughter. At times, he seemed too funny to know his job, but it was a misassumption.

When he taught his medical classes, it was evident that he not only knew his profession, but knew more than most anybody of his rank or position, and excelled at explaining it to others. After seeing him instruct, we never doubted his medical knowledge again. But even his teaching was hilarious to watch. Flamboyant, to say the least.

While extremely intelligent and articulate, Doc tended to stutter; both in private conversation and in front of an audience. You could tell that he knew exactly what he was trying to say, but that his mouth had a hard time articulating the words. He'd stumble over a phrase, stutter a couple times, get visibly irritated, then spit it out with force. He grew even more annoyed when we all buried our faces in our hands and tried not to laugh (unsuccessfully). He never let it slow him down, and he would invariably get us back somehow. My “punishment” one day was driving several miles around Camp Lejeune, North Carolina with a rainbow-colored “Gay Pride” vanity license plate taped to my back bumper. When I found it, I pulled it off in horror.

In 2007, Doc was on a small team of dozen Marines and Sailors sent to Iraq to train Iraqi soldiers, police, and army recruits. It was his second tour doing this, so many of us looked up to him for guidance, advice on working with a radically-different culture, and the subtle nuances of instruction. He stuttered in those classrooms, too. Regardless, the Iraqi students always listened with rapt attention. They even liked it when he sang, which seemed to be a baseline activity whenever he wasn't speaking.

On the firing ranges, surrounded by hundreds of recruits who spoke not a word of English, Doc commanded their attention, their respect, and their friendship, working with them individually to perfect their marksmanship, congratulating them when they shot superbly, and providing encouragement when they needed to improve. He had a knack for getting along with people. Whereas most of us focus on differences and disagreements, Doc searched for reasons to like them. Aside from the stuttering, he'd have made a fine spokesman for any organization.

With our team being as small as it was in Iraq, it was easy for work responsibilities and even chores to totally overwhelm us. Doc, however, always pitched in where he could. While technically just our senior medical guy, he routinely instructed in infantry tactics (which he knew thoroughly), foreign weapons, marksmanship, and a host of other classes that were presumably far outside his area of expertise. If some of us had projects that kept us working late, he never turned down our requests for assistance. For a time, he even awoke early to go running with me – in the cold, in the dark, with the shrieks of hyenas occasionally disrupting the quiet. He'd still go work out later, too. Frankly, the only time he stopped moving was to eat, which for us was always an event.

Marines usually grab some sort of slop, pretend it's food, swallow it, and go back to work (or sleep). Our team, however, “broke bread.” It was the only period of the day when we were all in one location and not consumed with responsibilities. Doc was always the life of the party. Knowing that I disliked people who chewed with their mouths open, he'd sit right across from me and do just that. Then somebody would slap him in the head with a hotdog and he'd start yelling. Then our laughter would drown out the yelling. More than once we were nearly kicked out of chow halls. Only our commanding officer's senior rank prevented it happening.

Our commander said this about Doc's personality: “He was always ready to speak confidently on matters which, in his own mind, he had resolved in full.”

Far more than a coworker, Doc was a son to those older than him, and a brother to his peers. Each of us, on multiple occasions, confided in him, sought his advice, or even vented. Despite being on the move constantly, he would stop, give you his undivided attention, and help you. If people were his calling, loving them was his gift. He was the glue that bound us all together.

During that tour in 2007, insurgents detonated a carbomb directly outside of our base, with disastrous results. The wounded and dead were immediately evacuated onto base where Doc was among the first responders to begin medical treatment. Surrounded by dozens of wounded, screaming Iraqis, including children, women and the elderly, he moved swiftly to help those he could, assigned others to assist him, and created order in an absolutely devastating situation. More than 40 were killed that day and perhaps 60 others injured. I am firmly convinced that many of the injured survived entirely because of Doc's skilled, methodical care. Barking orders, speaking through interpreters, and moving patients, he never stuttered. There was work to be done.

Doc finished his service to his brothers and his country in 2008, but maintained contact with nearly all of us. We weren't professional responsibilities in his mind, but friends – our relationships cemented in a single oath, tragedy, and key involvement in an historic war.

Whenever I was in his area, he'd offer me a free place to sleep, feed me, and introduce me to his neighbors and friends. Whatever he had, he offered freely. I know many others kept in contact with him, too. Occasionally he'd drive long hours to visit some of us. Yet even then, he was constantly busy.

Soon after leaving the Navy, Doc finished his degree and began not only working full time, but also studying for a graduate degree. When that was done, he began studying to become a Physician's Assistant (PA). He not only enjoyed medicine, but he had a genuine desire to help people. His whole attitude was one of giving.

I visited Doc a few months back, staying at his place for free, as usual. Another friend, between jobs and apartments, was also visiting long-term. Doc, always benevolent, had seen the need and simply taken him in. Since he was getting ready to start in PA school, Doc had moved to a smaller apartment, taken steps to save his money, and prepare for the financial strain of his additional schooling. But he'd figured it all out. He remained enthusiastic about his studies, confident he could manage the money, and looked forward to starting in the fall.

Three weeks ago, under circumstances that none of us will ever fully grasp, Doc took his own life. A man who had invested his life in giving to others, who would drop anything to come to the aid of hundreds of friends and brothers, refused to let us help him – something we would have done without hesitation. His death leaves a void in all of our lives.

His memorial service – one of at at least three – was this past weekend. Marines, Soldiers and Sailors, some active, some former and some retired, men accustomed to burying friends, wept as we honored yet another who fell too young. He was supposed to grow old and do great things. We often forget that while national service brings the highest of honor, its close companion is immeasurable grief.

The roughly 5,500 combat dead of Iraq and Afghanistan frequently and rightfully command national attention, extensive news coverage and hometown memorials, but we ignore the more than 20,000 who have fallen to inner wars with demons the likes of which the living cannot comprehend.

I have a mental image of the ranks with whom I've served since 2003. There are now more holes than I can count. Some 46 dead and more than 200 wounded one tour alone, six dead and a dozen wounded another, a dozen more since I left the Marines, and still another dozen dead from self-inflicted wounds in the past three years alone. They have been replaced with little marble crosses in cemeteries around the country, or urns, or inconspicuous granite markers and weathered miniature flags. Their memorials are wholly insufficient.

Nearly 600,000 men and women have given their lives for this country, and an untold number more have taken their own lives soon after serving (at a rate of 17-20 a day). To lower a flag to half mast on Memorial Day morning (til noon) seems almost a mockery of all that they have offered and all that has been taken from them. But I don't know what else to do, besides grieve for an untold number of companions. Will you have a barbeque this weekend and celebrate the beginning of summer, or will you remember the journey of sacrifice, honor and grief that brought us where we are?

Godspeed, Doc, and may we see you in the morning.

www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

"I Remember"

2010-05-28T01:04:00.000-04:00

Originally published on Words for Warriors

I’m not really sure that I like hearing people thank me for my military service. It always sounds strange, if nothing else. What do you say when a stranger walks up to you and says, “thank you for fighting for my freedom?” Do you say you’re welcome? It seems silly.

I don’t doubt the sincerity of these remarks in the least. People want to acknowledge veterans, which I certainly appreciate, but there has to be a better way to do it. Saying, “thank you for my freedom” is clunky, however genuine, and my response, a hesitant, “you’re welcome” seems equally out-of-place. Thankful for what? That you have no idea?

There are things that should be better known about veterans. Frankly, I don’t think I’ve heard anybody talk about them before, which could be part of the problem. First, while we all enjoy hearing somebody acknowledge our service, part of us is thinking, “you have no idea what you’re thanking me for.” Another part of us is somewhat embarrassed, since not one of us, when under fire, running for cover, or rushing to the aid of a fallen comrade is thinking about our country, patriotism, or freedom. We’re thinking about the guys next to us or the guy on the ground and praying to God that they all live to come home. We’re also praying for our own safety.

Yet another part of us feels that we don’t deserve the thanks, even though we enjoy it. The ones who deserve it never lived long enough to hear it. You may say, “thank you,” but we’re thinking “no, thank THEM – even though they can’t hear you now.” You thank us, but in our heart of hearts, not one of us – the living – believe we’ve done nearly enough.

We deployed as cohesive units, dysfunctional little families sent out into strange places where we endured a myriad of attacks and lost some of our friends and comrades. Though we all know that war invariably sends home fewer than arrived, we view the holes in the ranks with a degree of personal failure. None of us did enough.

Then we get angry at people for being ignorant and trying to approach us with gratitude we don’t feel we deserve. Some of us accuse you of being condescending, though I don’t think any of you are. You just don’t know what else to say, and we don’t have a clue what to say in return. Point at some graves and say “thank them?” It seems disrespectful – not only to you, but also to the many we’ve seen broken and fallen.

There are demons in all of us saying, “If you have all you limbs, you didn’t do enough. If you had bullets left, you didn’t shoot enough. If you got out before the war was ended and won, you didn’t serve enough. If you lived, you didn’t sacrifice enough, so you don’t deserve any thanks.” Some people call it survivor’s guilt. I just call it reality. The veteran experience is one of intense pride but marred with equally intense grief. We made it, but others did not, so we must not have given it our fullest. “Thank you” is hard to hear, and harder still to answer.

How about saying this: “I remember.” That solemn statement is enough. We don’t expect you to fully understand what a war is like, which is fine. We served so you don’t have to know – ever. But we do want you to remember. Remember that there are only two days in the year when veterans, both living and dead receive any unified recognition for their service and sacrifices. Remember that if you put up a flag, you really shouldn’t take it down when the “holiday” is over. Remember that there are thousands of families that feel the pang of a missing loved one every day; not just Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day.

Remember that there are men and women who did things and will never be the same. Remember that there are generations of broken bodies and hearts who will forever be convinced that they should have done more. Remember that the living veterans will never forget the faces of the dead – and wonder why some survived and others did not. Remember that this country and the freedoms we all enjoy aren’t innate; they were purchased at high cost. We didn’t purchase them, not really, but we fought alongside those who did. And we remember them more than anybody. They’ll haunt us until we join them…

www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

The First Week Home

2010-05-17T16:31:00.000-04:00

If you are just coming out of a combat zone (specifically from combat arms), you are about to encounter a wave of emotions, thoughts and dreams for which we are all unprepared. Some of them will make perfect sense considering the environment you just left, but most will bother you. A few may even scare you. While virtually none of the generalizations listed below help overcome these sensations, perhaps knowing about them in advance will help eliminate confusion or the feeling that you’ve lost control. At the very least, take some comfort knowing that you’re not the only one who has encountered this. Millions before you have, and future generations will as well. The first few days are definitely the most chaotic.

When you reach the states and finally reacquaint with your loved ones, your overwhelming emotion will be one of relief. You’ll be thrilled that you survived the combat experience, and equally thrilled that you’ve been reunited with your family. They’ll be excited to update you on events back home and you’ll be eager to listen. No doubt, there will be things you want to tell them, too. More than anything, you’re just glad to be home. Unfortunately, this elation won’t last. When the initial enthusiasm has begun to wane (within a few hours), other thoughts are going to invade.

The first thought will be fleeting. At some point – most likely less than 24 hours after you return home – you’ll briefly consider just grabbing your bags (which are probably still packed), and heading back again. Your new surroundings are too unfamiliar. And besides, you probably have friends still in the line of fire, and you’ll want to help them; or at least maintain some sort of solidarity by at least being in the same theater of operations. You’ll feel like you’re no longer contributing to the effort, and you’ll feel guilty. No veteran comes home believing that he or she did enough. You’ll think that maybe you can do more if you go back.

Despite all the better food, the safety, the family, and routine, you will still feel like a stranger or visitor in your own country. Just how normal everything appears will bother you, even frustrate you, since on the other side of the world, US citizens are still fighting for their lives. Your heart, your mind, and even your dreams are probably still back there, too. You’ll probably watch the news very closely – just to keep up with how your area of operations has changed since you left it. Even though it’s a relief to be out of harm’s way, you’ll be convinced that you’re missing out in the next firefight. You’ll feel adrift.

You may also feel trapped. After months or years of fast-paced living and lots of dangerous situations, the calm and predictability of home is frightening. Our natural impulse when we feel trapped is to run – in this case back to something with which you’re now quite familiar: a combat zone. With embarrassment, you’ll discover that you miss the violence, you feel naked and vulnerable without a gun, and you’ll be afraid that home may never again actually feel like home. You’ll be convinced that part of you, perhaps forever, is trapped in a combat zone, ducking fire, firing back, and waiting for the next attack. You will be restless.

In between bouts of feeling trapped, you will be overcome with boredom. The momentary excitement of seeing your loved ones fades quickly, and before you know it you’re desperately looking for something to occupy your time – and all of your senses. Combat, after all, demands all of you. “Coming down” from combat is like coming down from a hard drug. You’ll be irritable, uneasy, and you’ll start substituting various things to make up for the void that leaving combat created. Just how this looks is very unique to the individual.

Some of you will have an impulse to drink entirely too much. The easy excuse is that you need to make up for lost drinking time. If you really think about it, though, you won’t be able to rationally explain it. You just need to drink. A lot. And you won’t know when to stop. Chances are you’ll pass out first. Others among you will drink to deliberately calm your nerves – which will definitely be on edge. A few of you will experience a general feeling of numbness, about your surroundings, relationships, and maybe life in general.

A number of you will want to feel pain for some reason – something that engages their senses. You might want to run out and get tattoos or piercings. You might go out looking for a fight. More likely than not, you’ll find one. For a few of you, there is an inexplicable urge to engage in a number of risky behaviors: get drunk, get in fights, and get laid. Sex will strike you as a very appealing drug. You may be startled with how powerful the desires are to do this, and choose to carefully limit how often you go out, who you go with, and what you do. Many of you will restrict yourselves to simply drinking – entirely too much.

Many of you may give in to the impulses for reckless behavior. After a night or two of this, you’ll probably have it all out of your system, so to speak. You’ll be embarrassed with what you did or how you acted, and you’ll have little interest in repeating those mistakes. Be aware that they will probably resurface after a time and you’ll have to decide to give in or resist. Some of you may carefully control yourselves and stay out of trouble. The urges to be self-destructive will still be there for quite some time, and you’ll have to battle them daily. You might find yourself wondering if you should just give in to it, go all out for a little while and get it over with. Regardless of if you give in or not, you’ll be bothered that you have such a strong desire to be so irresponsible. Your self-esteem, which is already shaky, may take a severe blow. You’ll be angry with yourself.

You’ll have a hard time controlling your temper, and it will frighten you. Loud noises will startle you and you’ll get irrationally angry. You won’t put it to words, but you’ll be embarrassed that people saw you in a moment of weakness. They saw you afraid. You’ll get angry that they observed a crack in your composure. You’ll also be angry with how much of their lives and daily routines seem devoted to unimportant, useless activities. Some of you will drink to appear more patient. You may also feel other impulses, like a need to spend money, or eat entirely too much. Even work out too hard just to “feel the burn.” Each of us “substitutes” differently, but it always comes from the same place: an overpowering impulse to do something rash. Consider these withdrawal symptoms.

People will ask you questions about “what’s it like” that you can’t easily answer. You might try, but become immediately angry when you think about the number of harrowing situations you experienced and how people repeatedly failed to perform at their best (including yourself). You may be angry at the injustices of war itself. Or, you may simply get angry at the people (you will consider them very ignorant) who ask stupid questions. Do not be surprised if you find yourself avoiding situations where you might be asked questions you have difficulty answering.

Because of your recent experiences, there will probably be times where you DO want to talk to people. You will try to put your emotions to words, but they will come out as one of two things: anger or grief. In some cases you may be able to fully articulate what you mean, but people receive it poorly – either with horror, or just awkward silence. They will be largely unable to relate. After a few attempts, you’ll give up in frustration. You’ll be furious that you can’t explain yourself to your own satisfaction, exasperated that you have things to say that people aren’t going to understand, and that after repeated tries, it’s all still stuck on the tip of your tongue. You’ll start feeling sorry for yourself – misunderstood, a victim, a survivor, etc. You will begin to think about all the grief you’ve experienced over the past deployment but never dealt with properly. You may retreat at some point to simply cry.

There will be a nagging sensation with a number of you that you haven’t done enough; that you’ve abandoned the war or your brothers and sisters still fighting it. You’ll think about the friends you have who came home maimed – or the friends who never came home at all. If you’ve escaped injury yourself, you’ll be simultaneously thankful and guilty about it. It is commonly called survivor’s guilt.

You may find many of your dreams startlingly violent. In some, you will be killing people. In others, you may die. You may also have dreams where you are in a horrible situation and it’s entirely your fault. Some of the dreams will be familiar – the people, the situations, but they will probably play out differently than they did in reality. Your mind may create a more appealing outcome, or imagine an even a more terrible one. You will sleep lightly and likely be easily awakened. You will frequently be tired and cranky.

Part of you will be so afraid of “normal” life that it’ll seem too daunting to face head-on. To your total surprise, you will briefly think about suicide – or at least about death. The thought will startle you so much that you go to great lengths and efforts to deliberately never think of it again. Most of you will be successful, but for a few it will creep back again and terrify you. Tragically, a few of you may act on it.

In general, you will be inundated with emotions you’ve probably never before encountered. You will be unsure what to do with them. Give in? Resist them? Give up talking? Try to talk? Pretend there’s nothing wrong? The answers to these questions are entirely up to the individual. Nor is there anything that can make it all simply go away. You’ve just been through hell. You KNEW it was hell, but you grew accustomed to it, and you’re going to miss certain aspects of it for awhile. The familiarity of home is now totally unfamiliar, your loved ones are strangers, and you have just experienced a series of situations that the human mind always has difficulty processing. Everybody processes differently, at any rate.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any solutions, but at least take some comfort in knowing that every combatant goes through this upon return to “normal” life. What I do know, however, is this: time has a curious way of mending things. Almost imperceptibly, a great deal of the impulses, irrational ideas, and self-destructive tendencies fade. One day you’ll discover that you just don’t think about it anymore. You may ALWAYS think about some things, but it becomes controllable and even predictable. What you do with it is entirely up to you. Know this, though: you are not alone, and there are millions of veterans in the United States who would gladly go through this with you. Somebody did for me, and that has made all the difference.

Copyright © 2010, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Some Guys in Need

2010-05-13T14:24:00.005-04:00

Due to their isolation Soldiers on COP Charkh are always in great need of supplies – from food to hand tools to cigarettes and dip. I know that many of you balk at the idea of condoning or supporting somebody's “bad habit,” but I will remind you that Afghanistan is more hazardous to their health than any tobacco product. If smoking or dipping helps them stay awake for extremely long missions and countless hours on perimeter security, I think it'd be wrong of us to not support them. For my part, I'll send them whatever they need – and whatever I can afford.

I am absolutely certain that the troops would be appreciative of anything you wish to send. Given this, I am posting not only a needs list and an address where you may mail any supplies, but also some e-mail addresses where you can confirm that the address is still valid (since returned packages have been a problem in the past). As it stands, this unit will be on COP Charkh for quite some time longer (e-mail me for the specifics) – so our support would be invaluable to them. I recommend that you post what you intend to ship in the “comments” section of this blog post so as to avoid too much overlap in what is sent. For example, while they could use a couple decent hand saws, they don't need fifty of them.

1. "Top" brand Ramen Noodles (lots)
2. "Cup O' Noodles" (lots)
3. Chef Boyardee canned meals (lots)
4. Doritos (some)
5. Hershey's with almonds (a few)
6. Cigarettes: Newports, Marlboro Menthols, Marlboro Lights, Camel Crush
7. Dip: Copenhagen Long Cut/Snuff, Skoal Wintergreen
8. Coffee creamer (a fair amount)
9. Baby Wipes (ALWAYS a necessity)
10.Dozens of P-Mags - specialty M-16/M-4 magazines that have superior performance to issued products (I realize these are expensive)
Click here for an example (OD green is the preferred color)
(Please note that these cannot be shipped overseas directly from the supplier. Must be shipped by you.)
11. TWO hand saws, click here for an example.
12. A FEW boxes of cement-coated framing and sheathing nails.
13. TWO standard claw hammers.
14. A FEW Stanley brand utility knives
15. SOME Kool Aid

Send packages to:

SSG Jason Patrick
B Troop 1-91 CAV (Recon) 173rd Airborne
FOB Altimur
APO AE 09364

(This is the correct address; not an error)

Packages may also be addressed to: SSG John Vlasis, same address.

E-mail point of contact (to confirm address, or inquire about additional supplies):

SPC Rusty Smith: itsasoldier@gmail.com

If you have any questions, just write them in the "comments" section of this blog and I'll answer to the best of my abilities. You may also e-mail me at byshaw@gmail.com

Thank you all for supporting these guys!

Photo Update (20100501)

2010-05-01T09:32:00.000-04:00

Click here to see photos in the slideshow below

Photo Update (20100420)

2010-04-20T05:57:00.000-04:00

Click here to see the below album:

Photo Update (20100417)

2010-04-17T16:44:00.004-04:00

Click here to see the below photo album...

A Must-Read Article

2010-04-13T23:59:00.003-04:00

The below is an unclassified report produced by Human Terrain Team AF-6 while assigned to Afghanistan. While shocking, it provides critical insight into the workings of Pashtun Islamic culture in certain areas of Afghanistan. Given its significance, it should be assigned reading for all troops deploying to Afghanistan.

http://docs.google.com/View?id=dc2kxcrt_49crft3wc7

This document can be found through a Google search with the following phrase: "HTT AF-6, Pashtun Sexuality"

It can also be found publicly available by clicking here (published in .doc format)

Photo Update (20100412a)

2010-04-12T12:03:00.001-04:00

Photo Update (20100412)

2010-04-12T10:33:00.002-04:00

Photo Update (20100406)

2010-04-06T08:32:00.005-04:00

See the below photos on an album at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/byshaw/Afghanistan5#

2010-04-05T08:58:00.001-04:00

2010-04-05T08:57:00.001-04:00

2010-04-05T08:56:00.001-04:00

2010-04-05T08:54:00.003-04:00

Photo Update (20100405)

2010-04-05T08:47:00.001-04:00

Another album of photos from here in Charkh district has been posted online at: http://picasaweb.google.com/byshaw/Afghanistan4#

Photo Update (20100403)

2010-04-03T00:24:00.004-04:00

A new batch of photos is posted online at: http://picasaweb.google.com/byshaw/Afghanistan3#

Photos (20100330)

2010-03-30T00:22:00.000-04:00

There are now 85 photos taken in Charkh district posted online at: http://picasaweb.google.com/byshaw/Afghanistan1#

Several are unprofessionally grainy, but this is due to the fact that most photographing of local nationals was done "offhand," or on the sly. The result: sub-par photos. My apologies.

Earthen Walls

2010-03-28T05:13:00.000-04:00

While on patrol with the Soldiers the other day, I had the rare opportunity to observe just how mud walls are constructed here in Charkh district. I would imagine there are many ways to build them, but here is the one I've seen. More than being simply utilitarian; they're works of art. And obviously, some builders are more artistic than others.

For a culture which claims to be quite community-oriented, perhaps even communal, the profusion of walls throughout Afghanistan is astounding. In many regards, it is the most compartmentalized place I have ever seen – even in the more rural areas. Walls are constructed for a host of reasons, no doubt, but appear fundamentally intended to keep others out.

I wondered for a time if they were erected to keep animals away from fruit and vegetable crops, but that theory fell collapsed when I quickly observed that most walls are nowhere near secure enough to keep out anything smaller than a human being. Small animals could easily breech these walls, and I haven't seen enough sheep, goats, or donkeys to presume that they pose a significant threat. The walls, I suppose, are to isolate one's home and property from everybody else.

While on helicopter flights, I've looked out the windows to see long, high walls skirting the perimeter of a local's property. Oddly, directly on the other side of his wall is another wall – skirting the perimeter of his neighbor's property. The narrow spaces between the two contain foot paths, occasionally a small canal (more a rut, really), or nothing at all. It seems like a waste of effort.

One could probably argue that Afghans are fiercely private people and wish to conceal their day-to-day lives from scrutinous (and frequently abundant) onlookers. Perhaps. I would also cautiously propose that this is a shame-based culture, and privacy reduces witness to one's behavior incongruous with Koranic law. Some of these walls (and the houses often incorporated into them), more closely resemble near-windowless fortresses. In a way I don't fully understand, privacy to the point of isolation is important to the Afghans.

Walls here range from precarious and weak to absolutely massive, depending on their location, the dedication of those building them, their intended purpose, and a number of other factors. The only reason mud is a viable building product, incidentally, is that rainfall is remarkably low here; most water comes from snow melt or qanats (I'll save that one for another day). Additionally, the composition of the dirt itself, when mixed with a few key additives, makes for a cheap, stable, and undeniably abundant material.

Walls of any size or height aren't simply placed on the ground. A number of I've seen have a loosely-fitted stone base (usually the nicer ones). Stones are, after all, another readily-available building material in this region of the world. Depending on the size of the wall and probably the laziness of the builder, the stone foundations will be anywhere from eight inches to 36 inches high. This structure effectively preserves the lowest portions of the wall from seasonal runoff and erosion, freeze/thaw cycles and maybe even the abuse of traffic and animals. Atop this stone base, damp soil is shoveled into place.

When I observed the practice along the roadside, one man shoveled uniformly-sized, roughly rectangular clods to a second, who grabbed them and adeptly tossed them into the slowly-forming run of wall. A third man, using his hands and what I suppose was a trowel, tightened the packed clods and shaped them into a course of wall approximately 16 inches high and perhaps 14 inches deep (the depth diminishes as the wall tapers upwards with height). Though I cannot prove it, I would hypothesize that the consistency of the dirt (how wet it is, mostly) determines just how high each course will be built. If the soil is too soft, it sags. If it's too dry, it never packs properly and remains weak. Just how high to make the course, as well as soil moisture content, probably requires some skill and practice. So, course after course of wall is shoveled into place (after letting the previous one dry sufficiently), and the final result will be a wall of impressive strength and size. As the mud/soil sun bakes the entire project into virtual bricks, cracks will slowly develop (at fairly even intervals, oddly enough), giving the impression that the wall was actually composed of earthen blocks (see below photographs). These are the nicer, more elaborate examples: *Click on photos for a larger image, if desired.

In other areas (and seemingly at random), walls will be of lesser quality. Instead of clearly-defined courses, Afghans appear to have simply heaped dirt/mud into a winding, rough wall that skirts the edges of their yards, crops or properties.

It is difficult to tell which walls are simply poorly-built and which are ancient. I can't determine if some of them are 500 years old and showing their age, or five years old and shabbily constructed. Assessing their age and original condition is made all the more difficult by the practice of stuccoing. A number, particularly the nicer structures and frequently homes, are covered in a troweled smooth layer of softer mud – oftentimes mixed with straw (as a primitive strengthener). It, too, cracks and deteriorates with time, slowly revealing the workmanship beneath. See the photo below:

Since any rain at all jeopardizes the top edge of a wall, various things are done to protect them. For many, it simply means heaping soft mud atop the structure and expecting to replace or repair it on a fairly regular basis. For others, they run a course of flagstones or of loose stones mortared with mud. On some of the largest walls, builders will level off the top, install a layer of boards, and then sculpt a final course of mud atop them. Without a doubt, these top courses need considerable attention, at least relative to the remainder of the wall. See the photos below:

If you look closely at that last photo, you will see that in addition to simply throwing on an semi-expendable layer of mud, the builder also added sticks as reinforcement (hard to see, sorry). At first glance, I thought they were all raspberry shoots, but I have since seen a number of other plants represented there – to include cuttings from the cottonwood-like trees seen in the above photograph. None of them, at least as far as I can tell, have taken root. They're just there. If I ever get any video footage uploaded successfully (and I promise I'm trying), you will see examples of this practice more closely.

And so, with the great availability of soil and only a modest need for water, the only significant investment into a mud structure is labor. I imagine they're very time consuming. All the same, it's a very versatile material, and I've seen it augmented with bricks, mud bricks (probably not kiln fired), and concrete. All a builder need do is build a wall, add in some logs above doorways and windows (or breaks in the wall around the property), and an entryway is created. For a roof, the same can be done, and houses are probably reinforced with internal supports, too. In the end, a structure of consider height and durability can be built quite inexpensively. The first photo below shows a two-story structure with mud bricks in the background note the smoke from the small window or chimney port), and the second illustrates some of the colossal compounds that may be seen in more open terrain (near the flood plain).

Looking around the homes and walls in Charkh district, I get the impression that some homes and walls are genuinely ancient, and residents have been simply adding to them for years. The final product is a strange and confusing labyrinth of not only walls, but also the interiors of homes. Three steps lead into a small foyer, where you can turn one way, walk up more stairs, and enter a two-story tower. Or you can walk straight and enter a courtyard. You can walk to the right and enter living quarters (which are also elaborately compartmentalized). It is a unique building style which I have seen nowhere else.

There are a few mud homes in Iraq (usually along the river and very rural, impoverished regions). The favored building material is concrete, bricks and cinder block. It could be due to an excess of sand in the soil (which would limit the soil's use as a building product), or it could be the ease of constructing a plumb and true concrete or block wall relative to the great efforts of a mud one. But out here, with poverty, abysmal road conditions, seasonal problems with mud and snow, the one consistently available and inexpensive building material is soil itself.

If the occasional car and far more frequent motorcycle were removed from the picture, photos from here could very well be from ancient times. Building practices appear relatively unchanged, save for the improvements of metal doors, glass windows, and electricity. A walk through nearly any area of Charkh, along the Pengram river in the valley, or moving out towards the hills in any direction, consistently strikes me as a walk through time.

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Photos from Afghanistan (1)

2010-03-26T10:15:00.000-04:00

US Soldier observes a Charkh District marketplace from elevated overwatch position.

US Soldier spots for snipers overwatching nearby marketplace.

A mid-sized Charkh District town from nearby hilltop.

US Soldier spots for snipers overwatching nearby marketplace (Charkh District).

Walled fruit orchard with small graveyard in foreground (Charkh District).

Blossoming fruit trees in Charkh District.

US Soldiers patrol the edge of a Charkh District town.

Fruit crops and mud walls, Charkh District.

US Soldiers patrol public road in Charkh District.

Charkh District.

US Soldiers patrol through Charkh District.

Grape arbor (without trellises) in Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Afghan farmer manually tills field in Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Farm in Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Afghan farmer tills soil while others look on. Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Afghan rests while working in field. Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Secondary home entrance. Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

Afhgan villager. Jan Qadam village, Parwan Province.

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On Afghanistan (12 Mar, 2010)

2010-03-11T22:00:00.000-05:00

Though it may be viewed by some as premature (for it frankly is), I have collected a few assessments of the Afghani countryside, terrain, the people, and the international effort to aid them in restoring and maintaining order within their borders.

It should be noted that the culture is altogether fractious – due to ethnic tension, geographic isolation, pockets of extremism, international influence (namely in the regions periphery to Pakistan), and widely-varying economic conditions. As a general rule, however, survivalism appears to trump almost anything else. I will return to this momentarily.

To the surprise of many, I touched down in a civilian airport in this country – Kabul International Airport (however small), was quickly processed by customs, grabbed my bags, and wandered outside alone. No military personnel were waiting for me (nor was I expecting them to be there). Upon reaching the parking lot, a local national approached, inquired in English if I needed a cab (to which I responded in the affirmative), and he grabbed his driver, stuffed my gear into the trunk, and we drove off into the chaos of Kabul. The total cost for this transport: 100 US dollars.

Traffic was much as I expected; road-beaten old cars, jumping along pothole-ridden streets, opposing traffic careening towards us, open vendor stalls on either side of the roads, and a high number of pedestrians. I attempted to get some footage of it, which can be found online here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KFosar2IcM

As I witnessed firsthand in Iraq, there were frequent police and military checkpoints. Also as I noticed in Iraq, they're virtually ineffective. Personnel simply wave vehicles through, perhaps wave a greeting at a familiar face, and that's about it. That, friends, is how Iraqi security forces failed to effectively reduce ordnance trafficking into Baghdad (ordnance which later became devastating carbombs in crowded public areas).

For lack of a better way to put it, some degree of poverty is commonplace here. One could argue it's a lower standard of living, but such things are usually the consequence of necessity, not conscious decision. Nothing is new, nothing is clean, and very little appears particularly improved. I did see some new structures under construction, but they seemed to be the exception.

In terms of terrain, northern Kabul sprawls. It extends away from the road, and up the surrounding hills (mostly to the west). Most of it appears to have been developed DESPITE the inhospitable terrain. Buildings are perched on rocks, or rocks are carved back a bit and a home is butted against them. Most homes, however, are just square concrete structures built on dusty soil and rock, and the land is utterly devoid of vegetation. I honestly don't recall seeing but a few trees or shrubs (whereas portions of Afghanistan to the south of here are quite superb for growing certain crops).

Aside from a strong propensity for peace, the other fundamentally missing element here in the north is water. Rainfall is already minimal, a drought has worsened it, and Afghans complain that the bulk of their water is “lost into Pakistan,” which I presume means the river flows out of the country and Afghanistan, for more reasons than I can list here, lacks the sustainable infrastructure and finance to create a canal system. Everything is dry, and this is considered the tail end of the rainy season. Come later in the year, the dust will be choking. The Afghans told me that.

The picture is decidedly bleak, insofar as poverty creates an imprisoning culture of hand-to-mouth survival. People don't seem to thrive here. Frankly, they don't seem to live, either. No; they survive. They get by. It's probably best summed up by a recurring sight I encountered on the road north out of the city. Firewood, of all things.

Anyone in the US who has spent time outside of a major city knows what firewood looks like. Even if they live in a city, they've probably seen it. Around Christmas, many grocery stores SELL it. Vendors sell it here, too, but I initially didn't even recognize it as firewood. It's all wrong.

Firewood logs – typically – are roughly 20 inch lengths of a tree, usually fairly straight, and chopped into manageable sizes. Yet here, that isn't the case. Here it's gnarled, twisted, and looks more like short pieces of root than tree. At first glace, that's what I thought it was. But after a saw it a few more times, I concluded it was from grape vines.

If I can drive nearly an hour and not observe hardly a single scrap of vegetation, I can presume that most vegetation is going to be cultivated. Unlike the US, grapes probably don't just grow naturally around here. They are planted, tended, and used to somehow support oneself and family. So, if it's firewood, there's something severely amiss.

A grape arbor transformed into a heap of firewood indicates that a crop is dead or dying, a primary source of income is diminished or altogether gone, and there's little more to do but sell the scraps as fuel. I even observed a boy attempting to SPLIT some of these short “logs.” He appeared unsuccessful.

So, if you're burning your dead crops (the only fuel available) for firewood today, what will you burn tomorrow? Moreover, what will you eat, what will you sell, and how will you survive? None of these are easy questions, and I confess I have't a single reasonable answer.

I do know for a fact that the Army Corps of Engineers is building wells in the area and that the locals are supremely excited that they may now be able to irrigate their crops. I heard of one village today where the population has dwindled from about 1,500 to 500 – mostly for reasons of water unavailability. As much as it will help, wells won't fix everything. They merely represent a positive step in the right direction. Also, take into consideration that this is a problem around NORTHERN Afghanistan. To the south, the objection is with WHAT they're growing.

Survivalism, if I may overuse the word, is not conducive to a sustainable culture, region, country, or geographically isolated locality. It is a philosophy of “make do” today, and worry about tomorrow whenever tomorrow arrives. Typically, tomorrow will require a greater sacrifice; but the troubles of today make that a distant second to the present.

Survivalism also provides a breeding ground for a host of other social problems. Moral flexibility takes root (at least here), as Afghans concern themselves less with doing right and more with not starving to death. Now, if you factor in a longstanding history of violence (from a myriad of sources), the conditions are further worsened.

Despots will rise abundantly with the promise that they can provide some sort of sustainability. People, in dire need of food and stability, will eagerly follow them. But despots also have agendas – often very self-serving agendas – and use their positions of power for person gain, overtly or subtly.

Violence is also given a dangerous foothold, since overwhelming fear of somebody or some group becomes the only means by which to control them. When despots aren't promising things they rarely deliver, they're using fear to maintain their positions.

Now, factor in ethnic tensions, Islamic extremism, and whatever localized problems plague a culture, and the situation is worsened even further. In fact, things spiral out of control. Kindness is generally confused for weakness, and the kind give up after they've been exploited. Good leadership challenges a populace, so they're often killed off before they have opportunity to make much difference. Battle lines are drawn, people arbitrarily align themselves on either side (and frequently switch, too), and chaos ensues.

International Security Assistance Forces (ISAF), the collaborative effort of more than 40 countries serving here under NATO command (54% of whom are US forces), are caught in the middle of it, and faced with difficult problems for which there are few (if any) easy remedies.

How do you convince a culture of the merits of peace when “peacemongers” are consistently killed off by the opportunistically violent? How do you raise good leaders when it guarantees an imminent threat on your life? How do you break a cycle of violence more than 1,000 years in the making? How do you encourage a culture to consider sustainability when they don't have the luxury of thinking beyond what and how they'll eat today? How do you bring forth lush vegetation and crops from a land where the rain rarely falls, winters are brutally harsh and summers are oppressively hot?

Fundamentally, how to you convince a culture unfamiliar with it, that some sort of peaceful self rule, free from the fear of their leadership, is a better way of life? They've never witnessed it, after all, so it's unreasonable to presume it an innate conviction. No, you have to DEMONSTRATE that it's a viable alternative to perpetual war with other nations, one's own countrymen, and even a neighbor. But that, however, takes an enormous commitment of time, resources, and the unwavering attention of people who genuinely care. Time, though, is in short supply. Neither the US public, nor the citizenry of any other country serving here under ISAF are patient. They want results, and they want them soon. They want their boys and girls home, and less time invested in foreign catastrophes while they face lesser ones domestically. They want results now, or yesterday. At the very least, soon.

Looking about Bagram Airfield (BAF), one gets the impression that NATO forces have committed enough troops to make a difference in Afghanistan, but a wholly insufficient number to make a LASTING one. A public relations war is not won strictly by creating “sustainable wealth” (the favorite catchphrase in both Iraq and Afghanistan). Nor is a kinetic war won by simply killing the enemy. Eliminating a dominant threat may be necessary, but truly sacrificial leadership must be poised and ready to step into the void created by dispatching the enemy.

The nature of Afghanistan is that the populace isn't terribly inclined to align with the “right” side. Instead, they're inclined to align with the side they think will win – and thereby stay in their good graces. Yet NATO, fighting a PR and kinetic war on multiple fronts, doesn't want to win. They want a legitimate Afghan government and defense forces to win. And that has proven quite difficult.

Unfortunately, international efforts are notoriously top-heavy, full of overlapping logistics and planning personnel, redundancy, confusion, and organizational nightmares. I have to wonder sometimes if a number of personnel, isolated as they are on Bagram, have forgotten there's a war going on. The best example of that was what I observed yesterday.

While walking along the roadside, I passed a foreign airman (perhaps Polish?), appropriately dressed in his fire-retardant flight suit. Inappropriately, he was sporting at least ten individual unit patches which virtually covered both shoulders and the upper torso of his uniform. And even some shiny pins. Worse yet, he was also wearing a blue silk ASCOT. Who, may I ask, wears an ascot in a combat zone? I would equate the sporting of an ascot in a combat zone to a Marine infantryman buckling the NCO sword to his waist every time he prepares for a mission. I'll say no more.

It's hard to make generalizations about this place, this terrain, and this culture. Because of that, solutions – which require a degree of generalizations – will meet with only limited success. But everybody's learning, and the battlescape is changing quickly to reflect this. Over the next two months, I'm looking forward to discovering how individual units and commands are tackling the challenges unique to their areas of responsibility. Please keep reading, and encourage others to do so as well. As a nation, we need to know what our servicemembers are doing.

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Video Footage - Afghanistan (20100311)

2010-03-10T22:25:00.001-05:00

Video footage shot from a cab going north out of Kabul, Afghanistan. Clip is muted and slowed for the sake of detail:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KFosar2IcM

Copyright © 2010, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
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What to Expect

2010-03-01T16:15:00.001-05:00

If you are veteran of OIF or OEF (preferably with combat experience) and are now transitioning back to the civilian world, you should read this. It doesn't provide much in the way of solutions, but it does offer explanations, which will hopefully enable YOU to find solutions. It isn't exhaustive, either. It only addresses some of the most common challenges a transitioning veteran will face. What you do with it is your decision, but it is my hope that this somehow helps you move beyond an active participation in war and towards the myriad of opportunities and adventures that life has to offer. This time in your life will be among the most trying. That is almost irrefutable.

Foremost, you will be angry. Things which didn't used to bother you now will. In fact, nearly everything will anger you.

However much you enjoyed your time in the military and whatever you got out of it, it doesn't change the fact that you're now exiting – for a reason. It's difficult to make generalizations as to the “why,” but it probably centers around you being weary of an extremely demanding deployment schedule, tired of the relational sacrifice the military requires (in this day and age), lack of belief in the missions you've been called to undertake, and very likely a great deal of bitterness with your leaders. Looking back on it, nearly every aspect of it will either invoke anger or grief.

You'll be angry that you answered a call to patriotic service, but learned somewhere along the way that your peers, subordinates and leaders are all human and prone to mistakes. Subordinates make mistakes that create more work for you. Peers make more mistakes that create more work for you. Leaders make mistakes that get your friends killed, seemingly endangered you needlessly, and at the very least made life miserable. You'll feel like you've just burned some number of years of your life and have very little to show for it but a number of deceased friends and a body that's falling apart long before its time.

You will be angry at the leadership that sent you out on missions you swore were unnecessary. You'll be equally angry at the rules of engagement under which you were forced to operate. They sent you away to war, but handcuffed you when you tried to complete your missions. Individual mistakes of your leaders may have resulted in some of your friends never returning home – or at least returning broken and mutilated. You'll be angry at the conduct of the war.

You'll be angry with your service, but when people attempt to tell you how stupid the wars are, you'll fiercely defend your service, not willing to make the admission that the past few years of your life have been invested in something that a number of US citizens vocally condemned. You'll avoid them as best you can, and may not even mention that you're a veteran in their presence. It might seem like the best way to avoid a confrontation.

You'll go out to stores and observe with horror how people rudely complain when the express checkout aisle takes more than a minute to navigate. You'll overhear conversations from your peers that center around what appear to be meaningless subjects. Which celebrity is dating so-and-so, and what movie star is having an affair. Most, when asked, won't be able to find Iraq or Afghanistan on a map. You might observe a few fussing how the barrista gave them a skim milk latte instead of a soy latte, which will drive home your belief that your peer group is completely out of touch with reality. They will often have no knowledge whatsoever of current events. In the back of your mind you'll think, “I defended THESE people?” and you'll question the fundamental merits of your service.

People will rarely know how to approach you. Many, for lack of anything better to say, will thank you for your service. Despite their sincerity (as much as they're capable of expressing legitimate thanks), you'll frequently see their comments as condescending. You'll avoid them as best you can. Others will start a conversation with, “so what are your thoughts on the war,” but before you even begin to answer, they'll continue with, “because I think...” or “because I heard...” What you mistook for genuine curiosity turned out to be simply a clever means for them to initiate talking AT you about their support, opposition, or indifference towards your war. Much of what they say will be firmly rooted in misinformation. In reality, their minds are already made up, so attempting to change them will be an angering – and futile – endeavor.

After repeated encounters like this – people trying to share their opinions without regard for yours – you may reach the conclusion that nobody really cares that you served at all, that they're incapable of understanding what you did, and also unable to grasp any of the dangers the United States faces abroad. Once again, you'll find yourself wondering why you bothered to swear an oath to defend these people.

Fundamentally, you are now a different person – and the consequence of this is that you've lost a lot of connectivity with the public. Your civilian friends, though they may not put it to words, will notice changes in you – perhaps sufficient to drive a wedge into your relationship, or even ruin your friendship. You'll be angry that they're appearing to abandon you, and you'll blame them fully for not making any greater attempts to understand you, to listen to you, or even let you explain what you've endured.

Your family will view you differently, too. The young son or daughter they sent off to war has come back fundamentally changed. They'll be keenly aware that you're angry, and will probably try to steer clear of any subject or situation that might set you off. You'll view it as abandonment. More than this, they won't know how to engage you very well. Your experiences, though now similar to nearly 2,000,000 other young men and women who have served in Afghanistan or Iraq, are so vastly dissimilar from their own lives that they'll have no idea how to connect with you, find common ground, and continue the same level of relationship you perhaps once enjoyed. In truth, they may also be afraid of you. News articles, reports, and television programming has repeatedly painted veterans as easily-inflamed, prone to violence, and socially awkward. As they draw away from you from lack of understanding, you will get more frustrated by it, which will serve to reinforce their misinformation.

Because you've spent the last few years in the military and a number of months in a combat zone, you're going to try to make up for lost “party time.” Though you know it's impossible, you're going to try to drink a year's worth of beer and shots in one sitting, go out entirely too often, and soon realize that it doesn't make you any happier or more fulfilled. Realizing this will be a great disappointment, but you'll probably keep trying anyway.

The nature of combat is that your body and mind have chemically and psychologically adapted to a different perception of “normal.” There's an immediacy and urgency to everything, and you've grown accustomed to it. Your physiology has received frequent injections of adrenalin, endorphins, and whatever other naturally-occurring hormones the body released when in firefights, their aftermaths, and high stress. In some ways, you will be like an addict coming off a drug. Just like addicts, you're probably going to look for a substitution.

Alcohol will seem like the most convenient solution because it calms the nerves, dulls whatever hyper-vigilance you might be experiencing, and helps you relax or talk more freely. Alcohol, however, is also a depressant, so it may very well bring out the darkest things you have on your mind, but would have never discussed sober. And because alcohol also impairs judgment, it may also cause you to consider violence. You will frighten people, worry others, and a number will simply avoid you.

When friends or bouncers try to restrain you or calm you down, the first thing you'll retort is that you're a combat veteran and don't deserve to be treated so rudely. In reality, they are in the right, and you are in the wrong. Your status as veteran does not authorize illegal, violent, or socially unacceptable behavior – despite however honorable your service to the country might have been.

Aside from alcohol, you might try other substances as “substitutions,” but they, too will be be disappointments. For a number of veterans, it will be more subtle.

Because of the high impact lifestyle you've lived in the military, civilian life will strike you as extremely boring, unrewarding, and in some cases, “not worth the bother.” You might seek out new ways to get an adrenaline rush or at least experience some excitement. For some this means buying a motorcycle because you crave the danger. For others, spending huge sums of money will be the drug. Others will get into fights all the time, and a few will simply withdraw altogether in defeat.

You will occasionally find yourself willing to talk about difficult subjects and presumably in the company of a receptive audience. Carefully, you'll start to tell a story about losing a friend, or about a car bomb that caused catastrophic injury and deaths. Just as you think they're starting to understand what you're trying to explain, they'll blurt out, “oh my God that's so scary,” or something similar. They won't know how to “receive” what you're telling them – and much of it is so horrifying that they can't listen without comment. You'll be angry with them, and might give up talking to them completely. Part of you may also be sufficiently afraid of your own anger that you flee any situations that may cause you to feel like you're losing control.

In your heart of hearts you will believe that nobody understands you except for the few men and women who went through the same experiences over there with you. For lack of an alternative, you'll turn to your fellow veterans as the only people to whom you'll be able to relate in the least. You will be tempted to spend all your time with veterans, not only sharing stories of your experiences, but also complaining about how stupid everybody else is. You might conclude that the country you swore to defend is full of people who are too ignorant and blind to reality to deserve defense.

The nature of combat service means its participants will see first-hand the “underbelly of life.” Whereas the average American might believe that people are generally good and nice to each other, you have seen with your own eyes just how horrible humans are towards each other. While a US civilian may assume the best about humanity, you will likely presume the worst.

Because you feel naked without it (from so many months of carrying one), you might attempt to carry a firearm everywhere for safety. Part of you is aware that it's probably completely unnecessary, but another part of you wants to be prepared regardless. You just want to still feel in control. Your fascination with firearms, however well-founded, however much you sincerely enjoy shooting, however trained you might be, will scare people unaccustomed to seeing guns.

Even though you probably don't regret getting out of the military, there will be certain aspects that you miss about it – and you'll try to recreate them. A few might choose to go back in, but others will try alternatives. You might look into becoming a private military contractor, a mercenary, or even consider joining Israeli Defense Forces or the French Foreign Legion. These all fall into the category of “substitutions.”

A number of you will attempt to pursue the closest civilian equivalent to combat military service – police officer. Very quickly, however, you will realize how fiercely competitive the hiring process is, and, even though you have years of exemplary military service, you aren't nearly as qualified as you might think. You will also experience this when applying for other positions. You thought your military service represented some degree of maturity, intelligence, and responsibility. The civilian world, however, does not. For the most part, they still want to see college degrees, college transcripts, or some other certification. Just because you know how to maneuver house-to-house under fire, doesn't mean you're qualified to be a police officer. You will be angry when you realize that military service prepared you for very little in the “real world.”

College will frustrate you, since it is often taught by men and women who have never left academia long enough to see how the world really works, and because it is attended by students who strike you as extremely immature and sheltered. You will try to voice your opinions in classes, but teachers will often shut you down or shut you up. If they disagree with your ideas, they may very well give you a poor grade in their course. It will only increase your contempt for them and discourage you pursuing school any further. You might give up altogether.

You will have nightmares about certain things you experienced in a combat zone, but you will be reluctant to talk to anybody about them. Civilians won't understand, and even psychologists won't be much help, you'll think. It's something you'll have to suffer through alone.

You'll play and replay events in your mind and wonder what you could have done differently – or what somebody ELSE could have done differently. If they made a mistake, you will focus all your rage on them. You'll forget that the enemy was the one attacking you and your fellow troops, and instead blame individual leaders for whatever went wrong. You will be dissatisfied with your own performance, and therefore also angry at yourself.

You will genuinely want to talk about certain experiences you had in the military, but you'll be too angry to know where to begin. If you're you able to do it, it'll still come out as a shotgun blast of information, emotions, and anger, and unless your audience is extremely patient and empathetic, they might be so uncomfortable that they never ask you anything again. Some of your friendships will end because of this, and you'll be angry at them for it.

Leaving the house at all will put you in contact with people you will no doubt determine are ignorant, uninformed, impatient, and extremely rude. It's possible that you'll start seeing your home as one of the few safe places left. You'll leave the house only when you have to, come home as quickly as possible, and avoid human interaction in environments that you can't control. The isolation, however, will also make you angry, reaffirm your belief that people will never understand you, and convince you that even trying is a waste of time. Out of loneliness, you will turn to the only two groups that don't judge you wrongly: fellow veterans and substances.

Isolating yourself may become so second nature to you that leaving the house becomes a nightmare. You won't like crowds because you can't control them. You won't like busy restaurants because you can't hear what people are saying at your table – which is both frustrating and socially awkward. You might even give up talking on the phone – because your hearing isn't so good, people don't want to listen, and you're convinced they're only checking in on you out of guilt, anyway. You may retreat from reality altogether – not a civilian, not a servicemember, but something in between. You will consider yourself a misfit, and it will anger you.

You may wrongly conclude that the most interesting, important, and honorable times of your life are already over. That after being a war hero, or at least a warrior, everything else you do will be ultimately meaningless, unrewarding, and a total waste of energy. You will feel abandoned by the very country you swore to defend, misunderstood by your family, apathetically ignored by your peers, and scornfully judged by your professors. You will be so blind with rage that you'll be unable to step back long enough to gain any clarity. That place of total discontent will feel like a trap, and at a certain point you may determine that your life isn't worth continuing. At least it will be a merciful escape from what you're experiencing. With embarrassment, you'll consider it, never talk to anybody about it, and then dismiss it. But it'll creep back when you least expect it, and you won't know what to do with it. You will feel helpless, and ending it will seem like the only way to regain control.

If you look at all of this, it paints what may appear to be a hopelessly bleak picture. But that's not the case. Speaking from experience, none of this lasts forever. Time has a mysterious way of mending things, and people have a beautiful way of helping. And truthfully, you are not alone. Every one of the 26,000,000 United States veterans alive today has dealt with this on some level, moved through it completely, or at least begun the process. Their questions are the same as yours and mine, and the answers we find, in time, will closely parallel theirs. These men and women, more than any others, are perfectly suited to help us, reach out to us, and provide peace where we currently have little. They're reaching out to us right now, eager to help, and all we have to do is reach back.

Copyright © 2010, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

On Afghanistan

2010-02-18T00:57:00.000-05:00

Several months ago, while on patrol with an Army unit in Samarra, Iraq, I mentioned to one of the platoon sergeants that my next combat embed would probably see me heading to Afghanistan. He went quiet for a moment, then turned to me, mentioning that he’d done some time in Afghanistan himself.

“Never before have I felt so alone, forgotten, and afraid for my life.” And he said nothing more about it.

As anyone who only casually follows the news knows, the United States has had forces operating in Afghanistan since 2001. Several months from now, we will have been on the ground for nine years. As anyone who more closely follows the news is aware, major operations are still very much underway, the Taliban still represents a formidable, and in some places firmly-entrenched enemy, and US/NATO, and Afghan Army casualties are on the rise. When the war began, improvised explosive devices were virtually unknown in that theater. Now, though, they claim more lives than any other form of attack.

The whole effort is not aided by the fact Afghanistan is considered the second most corrupt nation in the world next to Somalia. Additionally, the country has been at war with either a foreign power or itself for three decades. It is impoverished, ethnically diverse, extremely geographically isolated in some places, and now struggling in the infancy of an Islamic Republic – with the significant assistance of more than 40 other foreign powers representing five separate continents. The United States, with more than 45,000 personnel, accounts for over half of their number.

Despite a heavy international presence and mindboggling sums of money dumped into the country, the likelihood of success is a subject of much international, domestic and dinner table debate. Military commanders are optimistic, but one must wonder if they are only saying as they have been directed to say. The US military, after all, does not practice democracy (i.e. free speech); it only defends it.

A friend of mine once remarked that Afghanistan is where empires go to die. Throughout the course of their bloody history, Afghanis have seen numerous wars fought in their land, repulsed attempted foreign invasions, dissuaded imperialists, and then returned to killing each other in droves. By some standards, killing, death, and wholesale conflict are an Afghani way of life. The ultimate outcome of this international effort is as of yet unclear. When spring arrives, the Taliban will remobilize in force, friendly casualties will rise, and the outlook will be grim.

Some have speculated that US presence in Afghanistan has been sufficient to keep the Taliban and Al Qaeda at bay, yet not sufficient to expel them. Inarguably, the terrain has complicated the effort. It’s difficult to secure a village that can only be reached by either helicopters in the best of conditions, or on the back of a donkey. Until relatively recently, there were only two paved roads in the country.

War, coupled with frequent earthquakes, brutal winters, and a barren climate, have reduced many Afghanis from living to simply surviving. Moral ambiguity has authorized a number to switch to whatever side they think will win, not to a side that they believe to be right. International Security Assistance Forces (ISAF) sweep through an area, clear it of Taliban, and move on. The Taliban returns from the hills, caves and rocks, and life continues as usual. Violently. Meanwhile, the country accounts for more than half of the world’s opium production. It’s often seen as the only crop that affords them a reasonable profit.

I will be in Afghanistan in three weeks, and have no idea what to expect. Many have made the mistake of assuming Iraqi Arab culture is nearly synonymous with that of Afghanistan. Most have been surprised with their vast differences. One similarity is irrefutable: it is a country where many would prefer to live in peace, yet many are working hard to ensure this never happens.

While the plight of the Afghani people is an important one and I imagine I will address it in part, my fundamental purpose is that “we” are there. Nearly 2,000,000 US men and women have served in either Iraq or Afghanistan (or both). Nevertheless, they still comprise less than one percent of the population of the United States. Many of them – primarily those under 30 – will struggle when they return; for understanding from the public, for peace of mind, and to move forward with their lives. After all, it is relatively easy to go to war, but relatively difficult to come home from it.

Their dominant emotions will be anger and the sincere belief that nobody understands them. Conversations with many will reinforce both of these. Ideally, they will encounter others who are willing to listen without judgment and demonstrate consistent friendship. It begins with people knowing their stories.

“The troops” aren’t a sea of faceless guys wearing digital uniforms and carrying rifles, but the sons and daughters of this country. They are loved ones to somebody, dearly missed in their absence, and wholly grieved if they do not make it home. They deserve treatment as citizens, patriots, volunteers, and servants. When one of them claims that “nobody cares what I did,” I want scores ready to eagerly prove him wrong. When one of them sinks into an all-too-common place of isolation, I want sincere friends willing to meet him or her there and walk alongside. When one needs to speak, I want people to listen. THAT is my mission, and I believe it begins with the public knowing what’s on their hearts. As before, I will be telling their stories. Let us see if anybody is listening.

-----

Dear Friends;

This pursuit has not been without personal sacrifice. By the end of this upcoming tour, I will have spent nearly $4,000 on flights alone. I’ve already spent almost half of that on body armor. Electronics, gear and other expenses have added to these figures, too. The damage to relationships, worry I have caused, and other aspects of life I’ve had to temporarily shelve has been incalculable. Thus, I ask for two things.

First, prayer and encouragement. Though it is daunting, I am flattered that people believe in me and what I’m doing. Advocacy for my safety is certainly always appreciated. Secondly, I humbly ask for monetary support as well, since not a single word of what I write will earn me a penny. In truth, I’m going broke doing this. While money doesn’t guarantee any results and may be a poor investment, it will still help bring about something which I consider crucial to the reintegration of hundreds of thousands of US servicemembers.

After nearly nine years at war, we in the States have grown dangerously immune to it. We forget why we’re fighting, and more devastatingly we forget who is fighting on our behalf. Thus, we’re unimpressed when they return. And that simply serves to reinforce many servicemembers’ belief that nobody cares. Knowing them, however, and knowing their stories, can quickly prove them wrong. If you claim to support the troops, prove it.

Sincerely;

Ben Shaw

www.byshaw.com

www.byshaw.com/blog

2009-12-07T20:24:00.002-05:00

For a story totally unrelated to the military, please click here.

Local News

2009-12-04T00:35:00.003-05:00

Despite the cool, spring temperatures, sweat soaked through Army Tech Sergeant Van Barfoot’s uniform as he ran. It was the last thing on his mind as he gasped for oxygen. Getting shot to pieces was more pressing – running ever further from his platoon behind him. They remained trapped in the open fields near Carano, Italy, and pinned under heavy German fire. Unable to move, they faced certain death if they attempted to advance or even retreat. In front of him, several German machine gun bunkers continued to pour concentrated fire into his comrades. He alone, keeping to the left flank of their position, remained unnoticed.

As he neared the Germans, he dove to the ground, prayed he would remain unseen, and dragged himself forward on his stomach. The buckle of his web belt raked in the dirt, clinging to his gear and increasing the resistance as he crawled. His heart raced. In front of him, the German machine gun nests continued to fire on his platoon behind him. Wriggling closer, he pulled out a grenade, ripped off the pin, and heaved the device into the first machine gun nest he saw. He hit it directly – killing two Germans and wounding three. The firing stopped – at least from that position.

He approached it cautiously, observing the battered remains of the guns and the soldiers manning it. None of them posed any further threat. Further down the line the firing continued, and he kept moving towards it. Having essentially infiltrated the enemy defenses, Barfoot crawled close to the next machine gun emplacement and opened fire with his Thompson, killing two Germans instantly.

The three remaining, recognizing their situation, threw up their hands in surrender immediately. Nearby, German soldiers in another position observed the fates of their comrades and also surrendered to Barfoot. He disarmed them, leaving the prisoners for a squad of his brothers approaching behind him. Still operating on a combination of adrenalin and desperation, he continued moving down the line.

In short order, he had captured seventeen Germans, effectively broken the assault’s stalemate, and his men soon moved into the positions he had singlehandedly overrun. It looked for a moment that Barfoot could rest. They were relatively safe now. Yet they would receive no respite. In the distance, the firing intensified. The Germans were launching a fierce counterassault against them. And, they were using tanks.

As three Mark VI tanks rumbled towards them, Barfoot crawled out of his position, exposed himself directly to their fire, and launched a bazooka at the lead tank 75 meters away. His rocket hit it in the tread, causing a mobility kill. The brazen destruction of their lead caused the other two tanks to immediately turn off to the flanks. Sprinting towards the now-disabled tank, Barfoot killed three tankers as they scrambled from the hatch, and continued deeper into the German lines. When he reached a recently-abandoned German field piece, he rammed a demolition charge in its breech and destroyed it. The immediate threats eliminated and now utterly exhausted, he began retreating to his platoon’s position behind him. He was probably contemplating how many times over he should have been killed that day.

As he moved, he came upon two seriously-wounded US Soldiers and, despite his own weariness, helped them both to their feet and assisted them a full 1,700 meters back to a position of safety before rejoining his own platoon. For his valorous efforts on that day, May 23rd 1944, Barfoot was later awarded the nation’s highest military citation; the Medal of Honor. (Another Soldier, 2nd Lt Thomas Fowler, was also awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions that day, but was killed 11 days later and received the citation posthumously.)

Decades later, by this time a field-grade officer, and having fought honorably in World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War, Van Barfoot retired from the United States Army a highly decorated Soldier. Now 90 years old, he lives in Henrico County, Virginia, about 45 miles from my home. Every morning, he solemnly raises the colors on the flagpole in his front yard, and at sunset lowers and folds them perfectly. He has done this for as long as he has lived at that residence.

Yesterday (December 2nd, 2009), the Coates & Davenport lawfirm of Richmond, Virginia (representing the Sussex Square Homeowners Association) issued him a five-paragraph letter stating that he must remove the flagpole by 5PM on Friday or face “legal action being brought to enforce the Covenants and Restrictions against you.” According to the homeowners association, the flagpole was erected despite their denial of his request to their board. The letter also states that he will be held liable for all legal fees the homeowners association incurs to enforce the matter. According to Barfoot’s daughter, however, there is no provision in the association’s rules that expressly forbids flagpoles. Instead, in July they determined it to be forbidden on aesthetic grounds and ordered him remove it. He ignored them.

Evidently, the Colors of the United States of America are an eyesore to the community.

If there is such a thing as a class of citizen who has earned the right to do virtually whatever he pleases, it is a Medal of Honor recipient – one whose actions have changed the course of battles, saved countless lives, and brought a quicker end to bloodshed. More than simply being held in high esteem, bearers of this sacred award must be saluted by all uniformed members of the armed services, regardless of their rank. Even Admiral Mike Mullen, current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, must salute this man. Additionally, in a room full of officers, all enlisted men will salute him, the wearer of the Medal of Honor, before rendering respects to any other. It is a well-earned privilege and honor, there are less than 200 of them living today. Under federal law, the award cannot be imitated or privately sold. The penalty: prison.

Yet Barfoot apparently is not permitted to post the colors on his own property on account of it being an eyesore. Though this situation only came to a head one day ago, it has already gained national media attention depicting an overbearing homeowners association making a stand in entirely the wrong places. Barfoot’s daughter, appropriately, alerted the media to the situation, who have made the public aware of a hero’s wrongful treatment. No doubt, the media will also cover the outcome tomorrow, when Barfoot refuses to remove his flagpole.

I am aware that we live in an age where it is “trendy” to take a stand for something. I am also aware that, in a time when being pro-military and patriotic is vocally encouraged, daring to behave differently is trendy, too. Furthermore, I am fully aware that nobody likes to be told “no,” especially when they considered themselves in a position of authority. It is also “trendy” to bring legal action against anybody who insults you. What I was unaware of, however, is that it is apparently trendy to be an absolute asshole.

*Related Article
*Historical Information

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

A Few Differences

2009-12-02T01:00:00.001-05:00

*Retold with permission.

We’ve talked long about how veterans are different from everybody else. Sometimes it’s voiced as complaints about how we’ll never be understood beyond a certain degree, yet other times it’s announced with pride and pleasure that we aren’t as vulnerable to stupid trivialities. But near as I can tell, little has been done to put these differences to words, besides from a haughty “I’m better than you because I’m a veteran” or a fatalistic “I’m different and you’re never going to get it.” Neither explains much of anything. There are differences, though, and some of them are significant.

For starters, we have developed intolerance to injustice. We see something, recognize it’s wrong, and then we grow indignant. As men and women who are trained to lead, to problem-solve and create order from chaos, we will make every effort to right a wrong. If there is a fight, we will pick a side and end it, or we will break it up and throw the offenders out the door. We will NOT be found huddled in the corner and meekly praying that nobody throws something our direction.

If somebody says or does something inappropriate to our wives, mothers, sisters, girlfriends, or any sort of loved one, we will take immediate action to make sure the person knows what they said was wrong – and that it has consequences. Diplomacy was terminated when they acted as they did, and we graduate to the next measure: apologize and leave, or get hurt and wish you’d apologized – or just not opened your mouth at all. This isn’t unchecked anger, it’s refusal to be a coward.

If we arrive upon the scene of a car accident, we will not keep driving and “just hope that everybody’s okay.” Instead, we will help you, summon emergency services, try to calm you down, tell jokes, mop blood, and be otherwise generally helpful until somebody arrives to take our place. We’ve seen broken bodies before, and we’ve done what we can to help them. Most of them were friends, and some didn’t make it home. Later on, we’ll think about them, one name at a time, and wish we’d been able to help them more. Not one of us will confidently say that we have done enough.

Innately and vehemently, we all love our country. We know how others elsewhere are forced to live, and we’re thankful that we, our families, and friends don’t have to live like that also. Many of you may be blithely unaware of current events and not particularly interested in them, but we follow them closely. We know where our friends are, and we pray fervently for their return. We are quickly angered when somebody announces that they’re embarrassed to be an American. We strongly encourage you to live elsewhere and see how much you like it. Sadly, one is unaware of one’s rights until they’ve been painfully revoked.

If somebody asks us to take down the flags hanging on our porches, we will invest in flag poles and hang them higher. Few more than us have purchased the right to demonstrate our patriotism, and your lack of it encourages us to do it even more. We took an oath to the Constitution, and nowhere in there does it mention anything about sensitivity to lowering our colors because somebody finds it offensive. No, so long as our attempts at self-determination do not interfere or encroach on yours, we can do as we please. If it’s a really big problem for you, move elsewhere.

When the National Anthem plays, we will be standing solemnly, attentively, and place our hands across our chests. Some of us will salute. You may be assured that we will say something if you do not show any respect. That song, that annoying little ditty that delays the start of every sporting event, is a national hymn, and for a pivotal time in our lives we stood at attention and saluted whenever it was played. Failing to do so means you respect neither your country, those who have served it, or yourself. We will help you rediscover that sentiment, or simply embarrass you in public.

I will quickly admit that not all of our differences are good ones. Some are character problems we should all work on, and many of us are. We admit imperfection, as should all people.

We have lost all patience for standing in lines. Years of waiting long hours for gear we didn’t need, shots we didn’t want, or to go places we didn’t want to see have done this to us. We get irritated, and occasionally say rude things. We should work on it. We’ve observed and endured the very epitome of inefficiency and it pains us to see any more of it. Sorry.

We are occasionally too loud in public places, causing discomfort for the rest of our party and potentially displeasure for all those around us. Part of it may be the incorrect supposition that what we have to say bears more weight than others, but it’s mostly an inability to hear very well. Various explosions, machine guns, and roadside bombs have left almost every one of us with some form of hearing impairment. For a few, we just speak more quietly – awkwardly so.

We are not always very comfortable in loud, crowded places. We are trained to seize control of situations and make the best of them, but with so many people and so much noise, there is little we can do. We feel somewhat helpless, preferring to hug the perimeter, or the wall, or a darkened, quieter corner. We can more easily control our little corners. We may not be interested in dancing, either, because people may be watching and we don’t desire the attention. Once again, sorry.

We will yell loudly to get our points across, failing at times to remember that our audience isn’t a lot of idiot subordinates who can’t seem to go one weekend without getting in trouble. We forget that “normal” people always begin by discussing things amicably, not set upon each other with rabid spit-slinging obscenities. The further we move from our service, however, the less we will do this. Just give us some time. Nobody’s perfect, and we know we aren’t.

Sometimes we refuse to talk to you on the assumption that you will never understand what we’re trying to say. We appear silent, or at least painfully reserved, but there’s a reason. Strange as it may sound, we’re truly fearful that what we say will further distance us from you, and we don’t want to do that. We don’t want you to fear us, or hate us, or confuse us with criminals, because we are nothing of the sort. Simply put, we have an understanding of violence.

If, for some terrible reason, somebody runs into a building and starts shooting at people or otherwise attacking them, you will not find us cowering behind furniture frantically punching on our cell phones to dial the police. We will be running towards the enemy. We are trained to assault through the objective, and we will resort to that training as best we can. If we are armed, we will shoot. If we are not, we will FIND a weapon. Somehow, some way, we will kill the aggressor. Later, our hands will shake and we’ll get incredibly thirsty, and we’ll think back to the other times we’ve been attacked and how many of our friends we lost. Without warning, we will be overcome with emotions we long ago tucked into a secluded room and barricaded. Some of us will puke.

There is a high probability that how we act may kill us, but we have identified something far worse than dying. It’s living with regret. For as long as we draw breath, regardless of if we are still in the military or not, we remain keepers, stewards, watchers, and protectors, porters, pall bearers and carriers of a burden. Our actions may be fatal, but they are also right and we’re not going to stop thinking that way. We will gladly use violence to prevent further violence against the innocent. We, on the other hand, are not innocent, and are still combatants. And we’re peacemakers.

Finally, we do not tolerate accusations – particularly when we’re accused of being lazy, ungrateful, ignorant, or members of a generation of losers. When you tell us we don’t know the meaning of work or sacrifice, we will answer you, some quietly and some quite loudly. I, personally, will answer you quietly.

I will reach into my wallet and pull out my lifetime membership card to the Disabled American Veterans, and then I will tell you this: "I can't remember all the friends I lost, or the number of missions I've run, or the years I've spent serving a nation which I am mostly convinced didn’t desire my service. But despite what you may think, and for as long as my body holds out, if they call me again, I will answer."

We ARE different, and these are some of the reasons why. If you look for us, you’ll see us. We may not stand out particularly, but we stand up a little straighter, and perhaps smile a little less, or start limping a little younger than we should. We’re proud of what we did, and proud of most of our differences. This nation needs keepers, and we’re glad to do it. We can’t help it, either; it’s just right.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Now What?

2009-11-28T22:54:00.001-05:00

*Retold with permission.

Years ago, somebody working for the Veterans Affairs Administration told me that if we had a combat action ribbon, we automatically rated 10% disability for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Apparently the mere act of being in such a life-threatening situation meant we were certifiably crazy – well, 10% crazy. Even though I certainly have that ribbon, earned multiple times over, I never asked for my 10%. It seemed embarrassing, not only because I don’t consider myself nuts, but because other men from other wars had been through far worse and still come out in the other side of it just fine – or at least seem to be so.

Besides that, I expected many of the tragedies of war. I expected to see bodies. I expected to see blood. I expected that some of us would get hurt. Sometimes, I was convinced it would be me. Occasionally, I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to make it at all. I distinctly remember sitting in the humvee with my feet as far apart on the floorboards as I could get them. That way, if the shrapnel came through, maybe I’d only lose one leg and not both. Or one arm. I’d practiced putting on a tourniquet with one hand in the event that I’d lost the other. That part of it was expected, though I hesitate to call it fun.

I know a lot of guys absolutely hate the “did you kill anybody” question, but I’m going to be honest about it. Yes. How did that make me feel? Truthfully, it was remarkably uneventful. It was necessary at the time, and the alternative – potentially losing people because I hesitated – was far less appealing. Am I guilty about it? No. I did the right thing. The only troubling part is hindsight; I, singlehandedly, made the decision and took action to terminate the life of another human being. It’s not guilt, but wonderment.

Recently, I met a girl who shot an aggressor as he attempted to force his way through her window into the bedroom. I told her I thought it was pretty badass, and she confessed that it was most powerful she’d felt in her entire life. I think we feel that way in the military, too, but don’t talk about it. If we were to say it, people would assume we’re warmongers, which we are not. We just volunteered for an ugly business – knowing full well and agreeing that it’s ugly. Nobody hates war more than those fighting it. But it didn’t make us crazy.

All the flurry in the news about veteran suicide is bothersome, since they almost always blame it on PTSD, or us being crazy. I don’t think that’s it at all. If it were, then why didn’t previous generations of veterans kill themselves more frequently? God knows many of them saw more friends die in front of them, saw their own violent demise as a near-certainty, and lost countless friends along the way. There are plenty of veterans from my generation who genuinely have PTSD, but their situations are excusable. I know what many of them went through. I also don’t believe it’s why many of them take their own lives. There are other reasons for that.

It wasn’t killing people. That, perhaps horrifyingly so, was fairly easy. Identify the target, make a decision, and then respond accordingly. More often than not, the aggressor was hidden, or elusive. Fire a shot and leave. Detonate the IED and run. It was infuriating. We WANTED to shoot something, but there was nobody there to shoot. They’d inflicted their damage and flee, leaving us bleeding, dying, and angry.

It wasn’t being gone for months on end, either. Sure, it’s miserably, lonely, and stressful, but those are the dominant emotions of a deployment. Go away, lose a few people (or a lot of people), and then come back demoralized. With the deployment schedules being what they were, we’d come back and start training to leave again in a matter of months. After a time, you get used to it, watch the calendar closely, and eagerly look forward to being done with it all; or out of the military. Being overseas didn’t kill us; it just burned us out, broke our spirits, and made many of us rue the day we joined.

It wasn’t the living conditions, either. Those were total exasperations while we were enduring them, however. All the days sitting in the mud and trying to keep the mosquitoes from eating us – they were over soon enough. All the night mission chainsmoking to stay awake or punching yourself in the head trying to keep from slumping over the steering wheel, they’re great stories for the grandkids someday. Besides that, I take some pride in having gone through all of it and not completely shut down. I’m proud of my intestinal fortitude, self-discipline and endurance. Plenty of other guys didn’t do so well. Even still, I had my days. During one tour, I wasted away to a zombie from stress and lack of sleep. But none of this makes me want to kill myself.

Why do so many want to? I wish I knew specifically, because then I’d make every effort to help them. Though the specifics are still a mystery to me, I have a few ideas. It was purpose; more specifically, the total loss of it.

Throughout boot camp, we’re inundated with stories of heroism, dedication and patriotism. Before we were ordered to jump into our racks [beds] at the position of attention, we were required to scream out, “honor, courage, commitment,” at the top of our lungs. From the very beginning, we were told what we were doing was honorable. Even now, I sincerely believe that it is.

Whenever we went out somewhere in uniform, we always attracted attention – even the ugliest among us. Something about the uniform drew people. Women would naturally forget that we’re morons and gush about how dashing we looked. Men would come up and tell us about how their friends served, or they served, or how a distant cousin was in the Navy and I guess somehow they felt a connection with us. We were quasi-superheroes or something, or at least we garnered a lot of attention. Many civilian guys didn’t like us because we automatically had a leg up when we hit on girls. But when we lost the uniform, we lost everything that went with it. We were suddenly just like everybody else.

Whenever we ran out of things to say in a conversation, we could always tell a war story, or one from training, and people would listen with rapt attention. It was a foreign world to them; far off places, imminent danger, guns and explosions. If we were good talkers, we could dominate every conversation. Even when people said something awful to us, they were usually so much in the minority that people immediately sided with us, defended us, felt sorry for us, and then hung around even closer when we vented about how we’d been wronged. This, too, helped us hit on the girls. We were special. When we left the ranks, it stopped abruptly.

Whenever we were overseas, strangers from all across the United States would send us letters, pray for us, and inundate us with packages full of things that they wouldn’t normally buy even a close friend or relative. We were rock stars. They thanked us for keeping them safe, for volunteering to do miserably difficult things on behalf of strangers, and then thanked us on behalf of a grateful nation. We were heroes in their eyes, though few of us felt like it. Still, though, it was great to be put on a pedestal. Our service wasn’t just a dirty job; it was an identity. We lost it when we were discharged.

At first the discharge was freedom – almost the end of a prison sentence, but that changed. In reality, it was also a discharge from the reality we’d been living in, as well as the unique identity that went with it. What once set us apart from everybody else was now completely, irrevocably gone (unless we got so desperate that we elected to go back in). We didn’t just lose a uniform, but also a job, a calling, an elevated status, and direction. We poured our hearts into earning the mantle of warrior, but promptly extinguished our hearts when we left it all behind. We walked away with nothing. Without purpose and completely adrift.

And that, I think, is why many so quickly give up. That’s why they kill themselves – they see life as over. They’re jobless, they’ve lost their purpose, their motivation, and everything that once categorized them as worthy of respect. They try to keep telling war stories, but people lose interest quickly. They’re just the ramblings of a washed-up veteran. They’re told to move on.

They go off to college, but it seems a waste of time. Listening to kids and professors with no clue about the world pontificating how stupid and evil war is, but none of them has ever seen the face somebody who truly wanted to kill them simply because they were different. Besides this, it’s not purposeful. Instead, it’s an endless stream of boring information, mostly forgotten, and far less interesting than doing patrols and carrying a rifle.

What profession, pastime or hobby can come close to the respectability that they earned in the military? Law enforcement? Hardly. Academia? Not really. Besides, few of them ever end up in positions if great importance. They’ve put aside an adventure and picked up monotony. After the military, “normal life” is boring. Nothing seems meaningful.

And so, with the best behind them and blinded to the hope that the future might offer something equally rewarding, they flounder, turn inside themselves and see life as mostly over. The remainder is survival, not living. With a total lack of hope, why bother to keep trying? What’s the point? At best, it’s all less interesting, adventurous, and meaningful. Life, as they know it, is over.

They never prepared us for this in training, either. They spend months readying us to go fight, live in filth and get by on little to no sleep, but then they do virtually nothing to see us off. And I’m not even sure it’s their fault, anyway. We all made the voluntary decision to go in, so it seems appropriate that we also make the voluntary decision to do something great after we get out, too. What I wish they DID do, however, is help us see beyond the patriotism, beyond the service, and beyond the identity of warrior.

Even for the guys that do 20 years and retire, there’s still more living on the outside, and that’s what none of us were ready to face. Having exhausted our hearts becoming warriors, there’s little energy left for much else. Life isn’t over, but living seems to be. And with our greatest achievements behind us, why keep struggling? A quick end seems almost merciful, saving us years of futility. It’s not the war that kills us, or the PTSD, the sights and horrors; it’s the end of the war and the end of purpose. We gave the military our all, and now there’s nothing left.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Meeting In The Rain

2009-11-24T13:04:00.001-05:00

For mid-autumn, the weather was typical. The skies were grey and the clouds low – alternating between irritating drizzle, gentle rain, and short pauses before the next insult. It was arthritically cold and everyone’s joints hurt. As they walked, their feet turned sodden in the wet, perfectly-kempt grass. A number regretted not bringing umbrellas. It was fitting for the funeral. It was awful.

Half of those gathered were his “blood” family, and the other half the family with whom he bled, in uniform. Grief read on all their faces, manifested as total devastation on many, yet tempered with anger, guilt and disbelief on most of the veterans. In some way, though unquantifiably so, they felt they owned this. All grieved yet another brother who, after years of honorable service, took his own life.

Well-intentioned public figures are always eager to provide data that proves the military and veterans “aren’t that bad off,” but they must not know anybody who has endured a miserable deployment or struggled to regain their footing after transitioning out of the service. To me, their expositions do little more than demonstrate how little they care. They must not know the people I know, either. If they did, they would be unable to NOT grieve.

Since 2003, my Marine battalion has sustained well over forty combat fatalities in Iraq. At least twelve of those were from a single friendly fire incident. Back in the states, the same battalion has lost half a dozen in training accidents such as vehicle rollovers or “runaway guns.” Nearly that many have been lost to liberty incidents – mostly automobile crashes. They have also lost almost a dozen to suicide, and these are just the numbers I’ve been told about. Already, I struggle to remember their names, which embarrasses me.

Even those who have survived their service still seem to be doing poorly. Among those I knew the vast majority of their marriages have failed. Others have since begun relationships and watched them deteriorate, too. I know of few couples who are doing undeniably well.

Amongst my peers, college has become a default – the free option awaiting them when they left the ranks, but remarkably few seem to approach it with any ambition. It’s not preparation for greater dreams, but a way to prolong the inevitable. Real life is fast approaching, and none of it looks enjoyable. Physically, they’re falling apart. Mentally, they may not be far behind.

Those who elected to stay in the Marines are now regretting doing so. Despite their optimism, it hasn’t improved for them. One recently noted that, “it’s just not fun being a Marine anymore.” Those that moved into other branches of the military are also questioning their decisions. It’s turning out to just be more of the same.

And nor can I overlook the dozens from my battalion who have been discharged for medical reasons. They frequently stood right next to those who were killed, and somehow managed to survive – but barely. They’re missing legs and fingers, eyesight, or hearing. They’ve lost mobility, or are still waiting for shrapnel to migrate out from under their skin. Several grapple with Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBIs), loss of memory, radically adjusted personalities, and a host of other side effects. One of my own Marines, struck several times by IEDs, confessed to me that he can’t remember his own father’s funeral. He knows he was there, but can’t remember where it was, or anything about it. His girlfriend left him because she didn’t like who he’d become.

Nobody, as near as I can tell, is remotely happy. One friend announced with conviction that his greatest achievements in life are behind him and now he looks forward to a miserable life without meaning or purpose. People keep insisting that most veterans get out and thrive, but I’m not seeing it. Not the guys I know.

More than I can count are still reeling from some sort of emotional injury – and these are the ones who I have the most trouble understanding. We were infantry, so we expected to lose some in combat. None of us liked it, but such is the nature of war. Fewer always come home. We did not expect to lose any more, though. We did not anticipate an internal war. It’s one we don’t know how to fight; one with staggering casualty figures. In 2005 alone, for example, more than 6,100 veterans took their own lives in the states. To put that in perspective, approximately 5,000 servicemembers have died in either Iraq or Afghanistan since 2001. But in the states, more than that died by their own hands in one year.

Several of my surviving friends wonder what they could have done differently. They mull over what warning signs they should have seen. They soul-search for how they could have made themselves more available, or approachable, or attentive. They’re angry with themselves for what they see as a failure on their part. They’re angry with the departed for not talking to them, because they would have gladly helped. They’re haunted. We are haunted. “I just talked with him, and now he’s gone.”

They say the wars may be ending soon, but I fear the casualties are just beginning to mount. For the majority of veterans I know, to include myself, there is a pervasive feeling of discontent, desperation, and protracted misery. Statistics keep insisting that we’re mostly okay, but I see differently. I see men and women caught in a slow and lonesome death. I see defeated warriors. And I see little being done about it.

The US Army recently admitted that they have no idea what to do about the epidemic of suicides within their ranks. Nor have their aggressive ad campaigns done anything to reduce the numbers. Similarly, the VA has seen only marginal success – a sad realization considering the thousands of mental health professionals they have recently hired. In some regards, it’s as if the war has chewed up a generation of young men and women and permitted them do great and terrible things, but then spit them back into society alone, unprepared, and unsupported. I have no great solutions. I wish I did.

If I knew what else I should be doing, I would do it. Just as it is for my brothers, I see this as personal failure. More than perhaps ever before, we need this nation’s help. Yet more than perhaps ever before, we don’t know what to ask for. Instead, there is a growing generation of complete screw-ups. Something changed in us, and we have no clue how to reverse it. Something died, and many are simply waiting for the rest of their beings to follow.

We were all trained to be leaders. We were trained to be problem-solvers and to rationally overcome any situation even in midst of total chaos. The enemy was tangible, and easy. The one that consistently slays us, however, is nebulous, evasive, and clever. We’re fighting demons; a battle for which we’re gravely unprepared. But trained leaders and problem-solvers are loath to ask for help. They suffer, wage war, and frequently lose in silence. Even at my worst, I never sought any help. It seemed an exhibition of weakness.

There will be more rain-soaked cemeteries with assemblies of grieving parents and angry, guilty, devastated veterans. There will be more haunting questions about how we’ve failed our brothers. There will be more self-doubting and discontent. There will be more struggling, and there will be more defeat. We’ll stand there quietly and not know what to say, and we’ll walk away not knowing what to do differently next time. Who will the next assembly be for? A close friend? Us? The training never addressed this kind of battle. For as much as we struggle to put our war behind us, we keep being pulled back into it. Men, our brothers, our friends, our subordinates and leaders, still keep disappearing from the ranks. Helplessly, we watch them fall.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

The Return 1

2009-11-20T20:27:00.005-05:00

*The below is fiction. Maybe...

Hall remembered when he liked being called insane. By his interpretation of the accusation, people were impressed that he was willing to do creative things, but they were entirely too weenie to try such things themselves. It invariably took them too far from the comforts of their suburban neighborhoods with neglected little lawns, overweight and emotionally disengaged husbands yelling at a football games on TV, and their disillusioned wives attempting to keep the kids from climbing the walls while they struggled to cook dinner. He enjoyed not being like that. But now, the prospect of drinking his cheap beer, watching his game, and disliking his frantic wife seemed appealing.

Absently grinding the curved magazine of his AK—47 into the top ledge of the mortared half wall, he looked behind him to confirm if Tucker was asleep. As expected, he was. Despite frequent eminent danger, Tucker still considered any lull as a superb opportunity to catch up sleep – a puzzling trait considering that he never appeared to exert more than the very minimum required energy to stand from his bed in the morning, eat something, drink a strong coffee, and drift back to sleep. Hall had more than once accused him of being a waste of carbon.

He flicked his still-lit cigarette back towards Tucker, hitting the low wall above his head. In the dark, red embers showered onto his head and shoulders and he stirred, eventually lifting his head to stare groggily at Hall.

“They coming?” he managed to ask around a yawn.

“No.”

“They why’d you wake me up?” He vigorously brushed cigarette ash from his hair.

“Because if I have to be alert up here, so do you.”

Tucker stood with monumental effort, slung his rifle on his shoulder like a shovel, and shrugged. He remained silent, unwilling to concede that Hall was right.

He peered off the roof into the dark. “Anything to see out there?”

“Just jackals. I haven’t heard anything else, and no car’s come near for an hour, but they could be walking in this time.”

“We’ll see, I guess. Hand me a smoke, will you?”

In silence, they looked out into the desert, listening to jackals bicker over which one owned what piece of empty desert. Hall thought about the suburbs again and realized with irony that he was doing exactly the same thing the jackals were doing – only with guns. Being insane had disadvantages.

---------------

It had begun as a barroom joke years before. US commanders often made shabby attempts at humor when addressing their troops. “I’ve been here so long, I ought to buy real estate and build a house.” Nobody would laugh, afraid to give them any license to continue. It was true, though. They’d ALL been there too long.

Hall and Tucker, along with five other escapees from the infantry ranks, had repeated the joke over drinks one evening in Oceanside, California and wondered if maybe the commanders’ jokes were more reasonable than they had previously been willing to admit. Tucker thought it would be funny – the ultimate middle finger to a country he had visited repeatedly, never liked, but strangely would be willing to visit again. Hall considered it an adventure. Burr, always eager to horrify people, thought it was a splendid opportunity to wear a “man dress” and get away with it. The rest, judgment blurred by varying quantities of beer and discontent at the prospect of living in their parents’ basements and attending community college, quickly agreed. It could be done, maybe, with the proper funding, careful planning, and a certain death wish.

“Why?” was the question they were asked with incredulity when they tried to explain their reasoning. “Why not?” however, was the best response they could summon. It satisfied them, but not “normal people.” They always seemed enthusiastic to provide a long list of reasons why it was a stupid idea. Most of them were valid, too. If they were so enthusiastic about visiting the sandbox again, why not stay in the military? Each quickly fired off his own reasons for getting out. After Hall mentioned his intentions to one friend, who looked at him with incredulity, he determined it was better to simply not talk about it. He’d wait until he’d done it, grew bored of it, and came back home. He was eager to further distance himself from the weenies.

They concluded that the logistics would be bloody awful. To anybody’s knowledge, no US servicemembers had ever decided to return to Iraq as residents. Tourists had traveled through the relative safety of Kurdistan, yes, but nowhere else – at least not without securing large compounds, hiring enormous guard forces, driving exorbitantly expensive armored vehicles, and living in terror. One American guy had tried to motorcycle the country, but he’d been arrested by Iraqi forces, handed over to the US military, and quickly deported. He was clearly insane, and not in a good, adventurous way. This would be more calculated, and methodical – and still seemed absurdly dangerous. But, that was part of the thrill.

It would take years to research and execute, obviously. Not so much because it was difficult to visit a dangerous area of the world, but because certain things needed to transpire first. The conflict as a whole, specifically as it pertained to US presence, needed to change first. Very simply, the longer they waited, the less likely it would be that they were marching blithely to their own deaths. Time would change the situation on the ground, no doubt, and give them ample opportunity to prepare. Something as complex as this deserved a little forethought. With refilled glasses and even dimmer thinking, they toasted to their health, their success in future exploits, and to hell with everybody else.

To be continued...

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

The Glory Days

2009-11-16T23:53:00.000-05:00

Over the course of the Marine Corps Birthday (Nov. 10th) and Veterans’ Day on November 11th, I, and millions of other veterans did what they seem to do best: occupy poorly-lit, smoke-filled bars, buy drinks for strangers and poison ourselves. Amid all the conversations, all the speeches about honor and service, all the toasts to friends who never made it home, and the poorly-remembered second and third lines of the Marine Corps hymn, it was one Vietnam veteran who I most noticed. Despite the blur of alcohol, whenever something meaningful was said, he adjusted his campaign cover (drill instructor hat), snapped to the position of attention, and executed a sharp salute. His behavior loosed a cascade of difficult questions I don’t particularly want to address. Do I want to be like him in thirty years?

For how long can we look back on our service as the most meaningful, memorable experience of our lives and remain uninterested in other memories? For how many years is it acceptable to introduce ourselves as veterans and not simply by our names? When will something else be more important?

How many free drinks can we accept from strangers and older veterans before we drop the title of returned heroes and become the ones buying drinks for others? How long is it appropriate for us to live each day like our last and drink ourselves into a stupor? How much longer will people excuse us for it because we’re veterans and deserve to live a little after all we’ve lived through over the past few years?

How long can we legitimately be angry about at leadership decisions that we’re convinced killed our friends, or bitter at a government that really seemed to have little idea how to properly employ us? For how many more years will we visit the gravesites of fallen comrades before our obligation and guilt fades? For how much longer can we reminisce about out glory days at war and sincerely believe that we’re fundamentally different and don’t want to fit in again? How many more nights can we get away with puking ourselves or wetting the bed? How many more mornings can we justify reeking of booze?

When will we stop devoting all our time to news stories about the war before we grow tired of it and conclude that there are other things happening in the world that deserve attention? How much longer will we watch war movies even though they take us to places we don’t particularly want to be? When will we drop the military jargon and acronyms and make an attempt to speak like everybody else? When will we grow tired of wearing paraphernalia from our uniforms and dress like those around us?

How long will it be before we can no longer hide the secret that we actually enjoy peoples’ sympathy, as much as we may insist we don’t want it? When will we stop telling people we’re deaf because of IEDs and machine guns and simply lean in a little closer? When will we throw away all our old uniforms or stop putting military bumper stickers on our cars? When will we quit limiting our closest friends to veterans and grow comfortable speaking with those who haven’t served? When will we stop wearing combat boots? When will we no longer want to be different?

How much longer will we sputter, “I’m a combat veteran” whenever we’re insulted and conclude that most people really don’t care? When will we grow tired of muttering, “fucking civilians” and remember that we, too, are civilians? When will we stop missing the military? When will we lose interest in being identified by our rank? When will we stop trying to explain?

When will we determine that our short years of service aren’t who or what we are, but instead something adventurous that we did? When will we be interested in seeking out other adventures? When will people no longer ask us our opinions on the war? When will we no longer want to talk about it? When will our stories be about other things? When will we grow our hair back out to normal lengths?

How much longer can we ride the wave of quasi-fame because we’re veterans and instead set out for greater things? When will our service evolve into a memory and cease being an identity? When will we no longer try to defend ourselves when somebody accuses us of being warmongers? When will we move forward? When will we stop abusing ourselves? When will we stop killing ourselves? When will we awaken?

When we are older? When we are old? Tomorrow? Next year? When there is another war underway? When we accept defeat? When we acknowledge smallness? When nobody cares anymore? When we have other things to occupy our thoughts? When we hit rock bottom?

Inarguably, many of these changes, both good and bad, are irreversible. It is impossible to simply forget participation in a war. It’s just hard to see other things. I don’t have answers to any of these questions, but one thing is certain. For us, the generation of warriors who are prone to self destruction, time is definitely running out.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

For All It's Thrill

2009-11-09T00:00:00.001-05:00

After months of fabricating an image of what home would be like, long hours forgetting every one of its unappealing aspects, and sufficient time to develop its anticipation to an unrealistic fever pitch, it is no surprise that, at least on some level, I found arriving home a disappointment. My expectations were absurdly unrealistic.

With each passing day in Iraq, home had slowly transformed into the antithesis of a combat zone. In my mind’s eye, whatever being deployed was (even as a writer), home was distinctly NOT. If a combat zone was dangerous, I remembered home as peaceful. If the desert was unbearably loud with the roar of generators and trucks, home was beautifully quiet. If Iraq was miserably lonely, home was immeasurably good company. If my deployed life was complicated, home was simple. But fantasies, just like the best-laid battle plans, never survive first contact. Home is just as complex, just as chaotic, and just as tragic and incomprehensible as a combat zone. I just don’t understand it as well as I understand tactical operations; there aren’t any manuals. But still, it has been good to see my family, catch up with old friends, and make a few new ones.

Nationwide, a hundred thousand husbands return from a deployment to discover that their wives have frequently done quite well in their absence. What was once a mutual partnership to raise a family and maintain a home was successfully handled by only one of them. And marriages, those that survive deployments, are forever different. For many troops, single or otherwise, there’s the initial excitement at your return, but then life continues – without your inclusion. Nobody’s a hero at home, but the guy who cleans the gutters, or the one who’s asked to discipline the children. They’ll go back to taking out the garbage and doing household chores. After leading troops in a combat situation, preparing intelligence briefs, or repairing multi-million dollar pieces of tactical equipment, the return home often seems a permanent descent into obscurity. There are plenty of calamities, but they seem simultaneously trivial and inexplicably unmanageable. We were once making history, yet now we’re only viewing it pass us by.

A few weeks prior to his return, a servicemember was briefing subtle changes in the Rules of Engagement to his Soldiers or preparing weapon systems and vehicles for combat operations. Now, however, he’s arguing with his wife over bills. Loving people proves far more involved than dearly missing them from afar. To their alarm, many find themselves missing the simplicity of a combat zone: conduct the mission, lead troops, stay alive, eat, and sleep when able. Back home, relationships are hard, traffic is awful, and people are generally rude, and seemingly always in the way. Friends are still dying, too – overseas and at home – all under horrible circumstances.

A number will depart the military and smoothly move forward with life – relegating their service to stories for the grandchildren. A number more will stay in and begin preparing for their next tour in six to eighteen months time. None will ever be the same, but a few will become inherently self-destructive, reclusive, or simply go adrift. In staggering numbers, they’ll take their own lives.

Now that they’re home, people will ask questions that they still don’t know how to answer. Most are good questions, but it’s difficult to see beyond the anger, personal loss, total frustration, and culture shock of returning. It’s easier to not talk to anybody, or wile away the evenings in bars talking (and thinking) about as little as possible. Nothing makes sense, and despite the distance from a combat zone, clarity is rare. Truthfully, the combat zone is never that far away at all.

For myself, I still can’t tell you what I think about Iraq. Four tours have simply afforded an increasingly complex jumble of information, disconnected facts, and observations that are nearly impossible to explain to others. I’m embarrassed that I’m avoiding people who ask me challenging questions and ignoring incoming phone calls. I’m still frustrated. Before God I swear that if I knew a way to change how the war has settled with me, I would. But thus far the solution evades me. Perhaps I am in the minority.

Of the dozens of things I planned to do when I returned, I’ve still done none of them. Home is nice, but I don't particularly want to be here. My thoughts are far, far way.

They’re immersed in a very interesting, complicated story; more than one, actually. One is the past decade of my life, which has seen me on four separate continents and scrambling to pull the right currency from my wallet and not confuse languages. Sometimes I held a rifle; other times a pencil. There's a strange draw to deserts of all sorts, and dislike of rain on every continent.

There's the story of a two-front war which continues to occupy billions of taxpayers' dollars and nearly a quarter million US troops. There's the simultaneous absurdity and critical nature of the war. There’s the tragedy of war itself, the adventure of combat, the fear of being the one who never sees his family again, and the general belief that the leaders of this country have committed the US armed forces to a mission the policymakers didn’t clearly understand. There are the individual stories of the hundreds of friends I still have out there.

There is the chaos of being home, the complication of human interaction. There is a total lack of the peace and refreshment which I so desperately sought. I’ve told people I’m ready to leave again, which no doubt horrifies them. Yet how much of this is a calling, and how much of it is running? I wish I knew the answer. Prayers have thus far produced little response. I will keep praying. It changes me - which can't be a bad thing.

If I had to distill everything, I would say that choosing the path I have has alienated me from a great deal of what most people consider "normal." I don't regret taking it, but I confess that I don't particularly like walking it alone. I am not in the military anymore, yet I am not exactly a civilian either. I am both, and none, and something in between. A bridge perhaps? A link? A misfit? An adventurer? A wayward? My answer depends on my demeanor, and the weather, and how much sunlight I've seen. And the rain. I miss combat boots. A lot of vets never stop wearing them.

When I pulled into a gas station three day ago, the first thing I noticed about the car in front of me was the Marine Corps sticker on the back window. The second thing was a young guy stepping from the passenger’s seat. The third thing was the USMC tattoo on his arm. In talking with him, I learned he’s home on pre-deployment leave – a month away from his first combat deployment. In short order, his unit will be patrolling lonely territory in the Helmand province of Afghanistan.

For all my eagerness to return to the United States, as much as I missed my family and detest the heartbreaking worry I’ve caused them and others, as lonely as I have been, as little as I like living out of a bag and wearing the added weight of body armor, for all the danger, misery and tragedy of a combat zone, and despite the fact that I will make friends only to lose some of them, I still miss it. As we stood in the gas station parking lot talking, there was only one thing I wanted to tell that young Marine: “Take me with you, brother; I’m ready to go. I’ll absolutely hate it, but I love you guys.”

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Watch Closely

2009-11-02T22:12:00.000-05:00

“You know why I feel so close to this war? It’s because of two guys we had come through a while back.

“They were both in town for treatment at the hospital – they’d been blown up pretty badly. Since they couldn’t drive anywhere, we took care of it and drove them around when they needed it. We also brought them down here to the VFW, gave them free memberships, and bought ‘em a couple beers. They were the nicest guys you could imagine.

“One of them brought his laptop with him, and he had live footage of some of the firefights and IEDs he’d gone through. Hell, I guess some guy had recorded the mission where he got blown up, too. Just riding along, and all the sudden the humvee’s lost in a mushroom cloud and he’s tossed into the ditch like a ragdoll.

“He had another video where they were doing a foot patrol, too. As it was playing, he said, ‘watch closely here. This is where my friend gets blown away.’ A moment later, a sniper round takes off the head of the guy in front of him, and then all hell breaks loose.

“Some of the folks in here couldn’t even watch it; it was too disturbing for them. But I watched it over and over. These are the images playing through this guy’s mind all the time.

“He told me that when he got home, the first thing he did was go to his friend’s parents’ house and sit down to tell them how their son had died. He figured they had a right to know. He said they cursed at him at first, but later on they thanked him.

“He said that whenever he finished treatment for his brain injury he was planning to get married, but I don’t know if it ever happened. He was still messed up pretty bad. He’d be talking normally for awhile, but then he’d start repeating himself, over and over. Can’t say I blame him, either. Those images keep playing in my mind, too.

“After what he’s gone through, I don’t know how he’s going to fit back in; him or the others. Especially if all he can think about is getting blown out of his goddam humvee or watching the poor sonofabitch in front of him have his head taken off by a sniper.

“I wish I knew how to help these guys, but I really don’t. Right now, I just want them all to come home.”

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

In Closing

2009-10-20T09:49:00.000-04:00

In August of 2004, while on a mounted patrol outside of Mahmudiyah Iraq, an IED struck two trucks in front of mine, causing concussions and severely injuring the gunner in the turret. While Doc dragged him out and went to work, insurgents in the nearby buildings and treeline started firing on us. When Doc discovered he was still in the line of fire, he dragged his patient to the other side of the truck and continued working. The rest of us fired back, gathered our casualties, and ran a chaotic ground evacuation back to base. It was my first firefight. I think I’ve done a poor job of describing it to people, but I’ll keep trying.

In 2006, while attached to US and Iraqi Special Forces, my squad conducted a targeted hit on a high-value target west of Ramadi. After turning over the package to other US forces for interrogation, we retreated into the desert wadis to sleep. In the morning, we warmed ourselves with coffee while huddled around trash fires. When it started to rain, we were miserable. While on watch that night with a friend, I had one of the most memorable conversations of the deployment. I’m still in close contact with him, too. In fact, he e-mailed me this morning.

In 2007, we and scores others assisted with the casualties of a carbomb that detonated directly outside the base, killing dozens and injuring unknown dozens more. In their haste to evacuate some of the living, the Iraqis unintentionally ran over a few of their dead. Our Doc helped save a few, but better remembers those he couldn’t save, especially one little girl. I think I’ve talked about it more than Doc ever has. It may be years before he’s ready.

About two months ago, a rocket landed about 35 feet from where I stood. Thankfully, for me and the Soldier standing next to me, it failed to detonate. Less than a month ago, the Stryker in which I rode struck an IED, totaling the vehicle. None of the passengers, however, sustained any serious injuries. I have been fortunate. Most of my friends have been through far more. A few of them are dead now. They were all under 30. We rest of us are now tasked with telling their stories.

I’ve navigated through night vision goggles as my driver roared through the desert and prayed I didn’t lead him off a cliff. More than once I nearly did. I’ve slept with a rifle. I’ve awakened in a puddle of water, surprised by unexpected rain during the night. I’ve cooked food over trash fires. I’ve fired most of the common weapons in the Marine Corps infantry arsenal and seen the others fired on various occasions. I’ve expended more than my fair share of $70,000 missiles. I’ve been fired upon.

I’ve helped arrange weapons caches for detonation and rigged them with explosives so powerful that our safety standoff is more than a kilometer away. I’ve heard rockets whine overhead and seen the damage they cause on detonation. I’ve experienced more than enough mortar attacks. I’ve been in firefights and other situations where I’m forced to make a kill/no kill decision which may have determined if my comrades lived or died. A number ARE dead, and I, like many others, still sometimes wonder why I was spared and they were not. I have to remind myself that bullets and shrapnel don’t discriminate.

I’ve missed home so badly that I didn’t care about anything else, potentially at the expense of my leadership decisions. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. Even still, I’d do it again if my country so called me. So will millions of others veterans. Some of this never leaves you, regardless of how much you hated it at the time.

By nearly all western standards, these are horrifying events and experiences, and they come with more baggage than any of us could have anticipated. These, as well as the loss of friends, are the brief occurrences that will permanently shape a servicemember. They are the short ten minutes of a deployment that stick out above all else. Everybody’s experiences are different. Believe it or not, mine were comparatively tame.

Many still wonder sometimes if they’ve made a difference at all in the grand scheme of things. Depending on how it’s defined, victory is either very distant or very near. Unfortunately, nobody can seem to agree to its definition. I find some comfort in my uncle’s sagacious remarks: “The warrior has always been separated from the war. The warrior is sacred. The war may be political. Respect for the fallen is never an issue.” He’s entirely correct. Where we served is far less relevant than the fact that we volunteered to go. That we stood up, in a crowd of Americans unwilling to leave the comfort of their lives; that has made all the difference. It’s difficult to define patriotism. It’s more of a sensation; or perhaps a belief.

For some, because they are young, this is first great thing they have done with their lives. They will return, move forward, and do other great things. For a few, this may also be their last great thing. Either they will fall doing it, or they will return to lives that don’t interest them. Much of it is mundane – even in the military. And after traveling hither and yon with a rifle, calamities at home are unimpressive. Those out here are always well-remembered, though poorly articulated.

And there’s always more to think about, too. There’s the challenge of how to internalize one’s service. Are we victims, or are we battered servants? Were we well-employed, or were we misappropriated? Do we choose bitterness, or do we stand proudly? Do we let grief overwhelm us, or do we find reason to smile through tears? We freely gave something, yet something else was taken. We viewed it simply at first, but walk away astounded with its complexity. Our own thoughts are muddled.

We were youthful once, and enthusiastically fought a war. The public lost interest and some forgot, yet still we fought it. We’re still fighting now. For those veterans deprived a resolute victory, the war may never end. Or at least not for quite some time. It hasn’t settled well with us.

But beneath the layers of emotion, the trauma, the loneliness, the complexity, excitement, confusion and grief, there’s one hell of an adventure, for better or for worse. Five years and four tours later, I still struggle for words; and I’m not the only one. People need ears to hear, though. Not to idolize the military or aggrandize war, but because these stories are our nation’s history, and we won’t be around forever to tell them. It’s a virtual race to write it all down. Still, I have to try.

The friend who e-mailed me this morning wrote me with devastating news. Two days ago, another one of our veteran friends took his own life. After all his years in the military, all his combat deployments and all his adventures, I wonder if he found words to tell his story. I wonder if anybody was listening when he did. Finally, I wonder if it would have made a difference.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Two Perspectives

2009-10-18T12:20:00.002-04:00

*Reprinted with permission from the Fluvanna Review.

HIS PERSPECTIVE

*Retold with permission.

Without a doubt, we all get a lot of attention out here. People stateside go out of their way to take up donations for us, pack boxes, send us things, pray for us, and put yellow ribbons all over the place. While I think that’s good and I certainly appreciate it, they’re not doing so well in another area: supporting the families of those deployed. In fact, I think our families are virtually neglected.

The reality is this: when we deploy, it’s such a dramatic change from what we’d doing stateside, we stay plenty busy – occupied with learning and excelling in our new mission. Sure, it’s lonely, but we’re often too busy to think about it. Families, however, undergo enormous change, endure absent spouses, and still have to function. They often do so with little to no support.

I know the military is making an effort to assemble a support network within the FRG (family readiness group), but there’s only so much that they can legitimately do. The fact still remains that an essential player in a household is missing. The hardest thing out here for me is separation from my wife. She’s my better half, of course. And that’s the hardest thing for her, too – and actually more so than it is for me, since she still has to keep the family running. Out here I have little part in that.

Back in the states, I would get up and go to work, and when I came home, I’d cook dinner. As necessary, I’d also take care of “handyman” chores. Everything else my wife already managed: bills, banking, everything. My absence only means she has to cook one more meal a day and maybe some fix-it stuff. But that’s not entirely accurate. We aren’t merely two people who cohabitate; we are one – and my wife and I are both operating at half capacity as a consequence of our separation.

I think that deployments are harder for the families of reservists, mostly because they’re accustomed to our status as reservists. We’re gone one weekend a month, and then two weeks a year. They’re used to that, not to having us disappear for well over a year. It’s a shock, because you never really know when it’s going to happen, and then you only receive fairly short notice. Surprise, your spouse is leaving. Then we depart with lots of people in the states supporting us, and they’re left to their loneliness, silence, and a home and family that still need to function smoothly.

The number of detriments to all of it begs the question why I volunteered to do this. I have easy explanations. First, it’s for my family. This is a reliable, honorable job, and it provides an income to support them. Second, it’s something I can do for my country, and something I’ve always wanted to do. Third, this is for my children. Not in the conventional sense that I’m trying to pay their college funds, but something else.

Here’s how I look at it. I want my children to know what military service is like. I want them to know that it pulls away mom or dad at random intervals and puts them in harm’s way. I want them to know that while it’s something to be proud of, it comes with a number of costs – potentially high ones not only for me, but for them as well. I want to be a hero for them, and right now that means doing something difficult for all of us.

The reality is that at any time in the states, I could be run over by a bus and killed. There is an inherent risk to life, and it’s unavoidable. And yes, there are added risks out here, too. But, I’d rather go out doing something meaningful than any manner of accident or “tragedy” in the states.

So why do I want my children to know what military service is like? It’s simple. I want them to be equipped with enough information and insight to make wise decisions about whether or not they wish to serve. They will have an intimate knowledge of the separation it causes. If they determine that they accept the downfalls and choose to do it anyway, I will support them. If they wish to never go through it again, I will support that decision, too. At least now they will have the information to know what it does to a family.

People like to talk about how we’re doing such great things for the Iraqi people, but they’re not part of the equation for me. This is not a part of the world about which I particularly care, and nor do I have any expectation that they will thrive under democratic leadership. That’s not my concern. This is for my family, and for my children. The hard part is what it does to my family.

During the Family Readiness Group briefing, we learned a bit about programs available for our loves ones in the states, mostly our children. There are organizations that collect donations and cover the expenses of involving our kids in some sort of extracurricular activity. They’re not so much trying to train athletes as keep the children of deployed US troops busy – and therefore less fixated on familial struggles or the absence of a parent. Thanks to one of these programs, my son will begin learning to box fairly soon.

Despite the programs available, there’s entirely too little available for the families of deployed servicemembers. We get all the care packages, the prayers, and media attention. They get virtually nothing. It’s assumed that because they’re not in harm’s way, they must not be going through much – which is untrue. They’re trying to sustain a broken, long-distance marriage. I’d say that merits some attention.

How can they be helped? More support, more awareness of the sacrifices they make while we’re overseas, more programs for our children, and assistance with whatever minutiae their spouses handled when he or she was home. That’s just the beginning. How about prayers? How about a nation devoted to encouraging and caring for them in our absence. We’ll be okay out here. We’re busy. They need the help back in the states. Unfortunately, though, the nation can help with everything but the one thing they want: to simply have us home. Only time can resolve that one.

----------

HER PERSPECTIVE

*Reprinted with permission (from email interviews).

First, thank you for speaking with my husband, and for what you said about our marriage. He and I are indeed very close. We are one, as you will see. Also, thank you for taking the time out to speak with me. I will try to answer your questions as best I can.

For the most part, people who I don't know very well, yet still know my husband is deployed, have been supportive. They ask how we are doing and how my husband is doing and then reassure me that we are all in their prayers. The conversation usually turns to something else fairly quickly.

The one thing that angers me, though, is when they follow all that up with, “our troops shouldn't even be over there, getting involved in all that mess; they don't even want us there." But people have lost sight of why these brave Soldiers are there and what they are doing for us. They mistakenly think they have all the facts, when in reality they have but few. They’re impatient, and I don’t think any of them understand that our entire way of life as Americans is in jeopardy.

When my husband went back in to the Army Reserves after being out for thirteen years, and after serving in the Persian Gulf War [Desert Storm], I remember somebody asking him, “why would you do that? You have a family.” His response was that he would rather be over there [in Iraq], than have them [the terrorists] over here.

He is doing this not only for his country, but for his family to be able to sleep soundly at night, to play outside during the day, and never fear that we may face another 9-11. All the protestors speaking out against the war have forgotten where their right to speak freely and openly came from. Somebody fought to preserve that. The whole world over, people are dying for speaking their minds, but here they do not. They take it for granted, but it came at a high cost – especially to the military and their families.

Yes, the families of the troops might not be fighting a war. But in order for our Soldiers to concentrate on THEIR jobs and on coming home safely, they need to have total confidence that things at home are being taken care of without any worry to them. That’s our war back here – keep everything running flawlessly, so the Soldiers can concentrate on what’s important to them out there. I tease my husband by telling him he's on vacation. He laughs, since he knows I don’t seriously believe that. My better half, my lover, my best friend, and father to my children isn't here. That's my reality.

We have three children, two of whom are teenagers, and Daddy’s girl is seven. Every responsibility we shared as partners: bills, raising a family, the house work, cooking, cleaning, homework, sports, taxi service (for the kids), taking them to school, picking them up from school, and much more – that’s now solely my responsibility.

I don't allow people to see me at my emotional worst. I cry, scream, curse and hate life for a few minutes, but then I pull myself back together. I have to for the sake of my kids. I don't complain to people how hard it is on me. I tell them I'm doing fine. That's because someone once said to me, "Well he joined, it's not like he didn't know he was going, right?" I don’t think anybody has any interest in listening.

I honestly feel people just don't give a damn about what the families go through back here. Or perhaps they do, but they’re too busy with their own lives to consider somebody else’s. I know everybody has a hectic life; not just us. I’m sure someone completely unaffiliated with the military can easily tell me what kind of horrible day they’re having. Not only military families are busy. Everybody is.

This is absolutely the hardest thing my kids and I have ever endured. My husband is the love of my life. We are ONE, and yet I have to live without him for a year. I worry about him every day and I pray every night for his safety. As hard as this is for us, he is our HERO. My kids and I are so proud of him and what he and all the other brave Soldiers are doing for us. I proudly display my "Army Wife" sticker on my car because I truly believe I am immeasurably blessed to have such a brave man as my husband.

I guess, in the eye of the public, you could call us military families "The Forgotten Ones". Though overlooked, we are the backbone to the Soldiers fighting for our country. Without us, they would fall.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

One Photo

2009-10-14T15:29:00.003-04:00

When they stepped off the Blackhawk, it was difficult to resist the urge to run over and help them. Several were limping badly, yet nobody moved. Despite the sincerity of the offer, it would be received as an insult. Still proud, and still persevering, none would consider himself crippled. They walked to the trucks unassisted and climbed in.

Four lost limbs to IEDs or rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). One suffered a hip disarticulation from an RPG attack. One is missing an arm, another an eye, and the last suffered severe Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBIs). All eight are back in Iraq to observe first-hand the products of their sacrifice. A number are still on active duty.

The battalion commander first showed them the Wall of Heroes, the building’s foyer dedicated to their men who have fallen in the line of duty. Before their medical evacuations, two of the Soldiers visiting were once stationed on that base. One limped over to observe their photographs. The other Soldier leaned close enough to see with his one remaining eye. The photos were all of friends. One choked back tears. Camera crews from the media pool scrambled for photos. The last unit’s section of the wall is noticeably empty. They lost none in an entire year of operations.

Next, the battalion commander drove the group to the Iraqi side of the base to meet their division general. Outside, the Iraqi troops stood at attention, while inside the general greeted each man individually, thanked each for his sacrifice, assured him that they had not served in vain, and that, “your blood having mixed with ours,” he was forever welcome and honored in Iraq. Two Soldiers, standing awkwardly on prosthetics, fought back tears. The Marine announced how much of an honor it was for him to serve with the Iraq army. Two years ago, he and I served together in Habbaniyah, Iraq. We have several of the same friends. After repeated TBIs spread over multiple attacks, he awakened one morning unable to read or write. After extensive rehabilitation, he’s working on a degree in journalism and plans to become an officer.

Following their formal greeting from the Iraqi general, the wounded warriors reconvened outside to receive a greeting from his soldiers. One-by-one, the entire Iraqi platoon walked the line of injured warriors and shook their hands. Many, in quiet, respectful English, whispered “welcome” or “thank you.” One Soldier shifted his weight uncomfortably from his one limb to his prosthetic.

The next event was a briefing in the newly-constructed joint communications center where US forces and their Iraqi counterparts coordinate joint operations, share intelligence reports and collaborate to maximize battlespace security. The US battalion commander explained just how much of his operations are now channeled through the Iraqi general before execution.

When the brief was complete, the whole group went to lunch and reassembled for an intelligence in-brief. The US commander wanted to update the wounded warriors on progress in the region. The two who had served there on previous tours listened attentively.

Years ago, to help deny Al Qaeda vehicular access to a particular area, the Soldiers had dragged old, destroyed Iraqi tanks into a few small roads. Al Qaeda would drag them off and into the canals. Each time, the Soldiers would reposition them. This July, as one of the battalion’s first projects intended to improve the area through humanitarian missions, the US removed those three tanks. One took eleven hours to load and move. A wounded Soldier apologized for the inconvenience he caused, drawing laughter.

The battalion commander responded quickly: “That’s okay, son; we still haven’t found a way to rebuild the bank you guys blew up.” Laughter again. During the heaviest fighting of 2007, the bank had been used as an insurgent position.

Back in the Wall of Heroes again, the nearly-blind Soldier removed his prosthetic eye and showed it to me. The set is a small purple heart. As he replaces it in the socket, he half grins and tells me that children often stare at him.

Operation Proper Exit, a pilot program sanctioned by the Department of the Army and Surgeon General and sponsored through private donors, the USO, and a non-profit organization called Troops First, strives to assist in the emotional rehabilitation of troops severely wounded in the line of duty. They do this by flying selected volunteers back to Iraq to their previous area of service, showing them changes and improvements, providing a degree of closure, and demonstrating that their profound sacrifice has brought about lasting change. Due to security risks today, hosts were unfortunately forbidden from giving the wounded men a tour of the areas outside the wire. Other bases throughout Iraq have permitted it.

The gym on this base is named after a US Soldier killed in 2007. His surviving wife is now married to one of the visiting wounded Soldiers. Tomorrow, he and his brothers will fly to Ramadi, and the wounded Marine will see the areas where he once patrolled and was eventually gravely injured. Ramadi, like Baqubah, is different now. The whole country is different, to varying degrees.

For thousands, it’s over now. For tens of thousands, it’s only just begun. For our nation, it still continues.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Here's Your Letter

2009-10-12T13:13:00.002-04:00

To Whom It Doesn’t Concern;

With our nation at war on two fronts, it’s understandable that years of news from a combat zone will mostly fall on deaf ears. People are losing interest in the subject. For your disinterest, you are forgiven.

Few Americans having relatives or friends serving in a combat zone, so it is understandable how little they may think about the war on any given day. In their minds, it doesn’t affect them. More immediate matters do, like bills, work, and social lives. For your lack of familiarity, you are forgiven.

Since few of you are able to distinguish a general from a private, it is understandable that you often approach low ranking troops in airports and bombard them with questions about the war. You see a uniformed servicemember and see an opportunity to learn more, or at least voice your own opinions. For your inappropriate questions, you are forgiven.

Because it is an inexplicable aspect of human nature to be drawn to the obscene, it is understandable that you want to see photos from a war zone, however, graphic they may be. In some ways, we all do this. Because of your disconnection from the conflict itself, you do not view these victims as national servants. Your interest in such images, however vulgar, is forgiven.

Since it is an indisputable fact that no media outlets are accurately and thoroughly portraying the two fronts for what they really are, it is also understandable that you are mostly misinformed about the course of the war, its successes, failures, progress, and lessons learned. You have few options for learning the truth, aside from asking a veteran. You are forgiven for being misinformed.

For not caring, however, you are unforgiven. In fact, damn you for your apathy. When your country is engaged in war, a 7,000 mile separation from the conflict itself is still no license to forget.

For looking at a photograph of a Soldier burned down to the muscle from an IED blast and thinking little more than, “ooh, that sucks,” you are not forgiven. That man is somebody’s son, father, husband or brother. If he lives, he will return home severely disfigured and unrecognizable to his loved ones. Many others are missing limbs, or carry colostomy bags, or blind. Thousands more are virtually deaf. Their service has not been for your entertainment, but to safeguard your way of life.

For approaching a returning servicemember in an airport and ridiculing him, you are unforgiven. He is not an instrument of war, but a warrior. When have you last done something for somebody other than yourself? He didn’t join for a war, but to serve his country. And at any rate, he was sent by the political leaders you elected.

For hoping that the deaths of more servicemembers encourage the government to quit the war and come home, you are unforgiven. It is a disgraceful abuse of the freedoms they have sworn to defend. Their service and sacrifice is the very thing enabling you remaining ignorant and apathetic of the threats this nation faces. If they did not serve, you would impotent with fear.

For claiming that you are too busy to worry about the war, you are unforgiven. You may have a life, job, and loved ones, but it is so hard to utter a prayer every now and then? Is it so hard to mail off a care package or a letter of encouragement? Did you really need that last gourmet coffee? Somewhere, on some distant combat outpost, there are troops who would rejoice at being mailed a pair of socks.

For viewing the war as simply a poor economic investment, you are unforgiven. Do you presume to put a value on human life? What is the cost of NOT waging war? Does your apathy extend to the fundamental human rights of others? There are incalculable millions who have benefitted from US military action. Ask a Filipino, a South Korean, a Jew, a Gypsy, or other nationals from around the world.

For believing that there is no such thing as a war worth fighting, you are unforgiven. War is certainly an evil, but one undertaken to halt an even greater evil. You don’t know this because the military has successfully held the enemy at bay. Had they not, you would live in fear for your life.

For presuming that all veterans are inherently unstable, dangerous, and potentially criminals, you are unforgiven. Despite recent reports by the Department of Homeland Security suggesting otherwise, veterans pose no greater threat to the peace of this country than any other group. Considering that many of them know how to kill, the fact that they do not indicates superior character. They choose not to.

For preferring not to think about it all because it’s stressful, you are unforgiven. You’ve shown your true colors as inherently selfish. You enjoy all the fruits of the military’s labor, but you are unwilling to consider their purchasing price: blood, fear, unbelievable loss, loneliness, and at times death. Your ingratitude is profoundly inexcusable.

Not too long ago, an inebriated VFW commander confessed to me that he doesn’t want to know the names and stories of the troops overseas. He reasoned that, “it’s too much like losing my own children every time.” Caring may be painful, but citizenship bears more responsibilities than merely voting. Voting gives you the right to complain when the other candidate gets elected. Caring means you have a heart beating in your chest. If these men and women can sacrifice their lives, you can sacrifice a few tears.

Those who take freedom for granted are quick to either lose it or cede it as a small sacrifice for comfort. Its loss, however, is quickly felt.

Do you fear bombing while you shop at the supermarket? Are you concerned that somebody will run you out of your home in the middle of the night? Have you had any family members disappear only to be found days later decomposing in a ditch? Do you adjust the course of your day to accommodate fearing for your life? No. The military has ensured that.

What have you done for your country? What sacrifices of comfort, family, and safety have you made? Have you done anything extremely beneficial for countless millions, but inherently jeopardizing to yourself? Have any of you sacrificed a clean conscience or spent months and years away from home, only to realize that part of you never fully returns? Have you spent years trying to find peace with your own actions, service and sacrifice, but certain you have done something good? No, you have not. And nor have you felt the searing pain of your fellow Americans stabbing you in the back.

If something, God forbid, were to happen in the states, all these men and women, however disappointed they may be with their country, however betrayed they may feel, will once again answer their nation’s call. They don’t do it because they like you. Many of them don’t, and I don’t like you either. They do it because it’s right. Nobody expects you to fully understand, but they do expect you to try.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

That's the Plan

2009-10-11T13:12:00.000-04:00

In about three weeks time, I will be touching down somewhere in a United States airport. As the day of my departure grows closer, I struggle to maintain interest in what I’m doing here, in my mission, in genuine concern for the troops, and concern for the war as a whole. For lack of a better way to put it, my head may no longer be in game. I’m elsewhere already. The overriding desire to get the hell out of here and go home has drowned out all my other interests. Every day, I schedule a few more things to do when I return.

First, I’ll turn on my cellphone. There are a number of people I have promised to alert when I’m safely stateside, and they are most easily contacted via phone. Additionally, talking on the phone helps keep me awake while I drive, and I plan to do a lot of it. There’s a great deal of catching up to do. Then there are the plans.

Initially, my time will be spent with my family. I’m sure I’ll see them all in one place at some point, but I still intend to sit down with each of them, see how they’re doing, catch up on their goings on over the past four months, and generally return to a more proactive involvement in their lives. I get along with all of them, so this is probably the one thing I’ve missed the most out here.

Following this, there are a few local friends who I need to see. There is the former boss and now mentor and friend I need to visit. He’s been busy this summer, so I know little about the details of his life at the moment. I’m hoping for good news, but more realistically I expect a mixed bag. Such is reality. For him and most everybody else, there are always difficulties.

In my absence I also missed a wedding, so I’m eager to congratulate the newlyweds (both friends of mine), see their new house, and see photos from the event. Their wedding party, comprised mostly of people I know, would have been a fantastic reunion.

My media sponsor also deserves a visit, since it was his implicit trust in me that permitted my travel to Iraq in the first place. As a veteran himself, I’m sure he has a number of questions about Iraq. It’s been a good eighteen years since he was last here. Much has changed. His editor has also promised me lunch. I’ve yet to turn down free food.

Across the entire United States, I have been guaranteed shelter should I come for a visit, and I hope to visit at least a few. There are two volunteer editors in Kentucky who have set aside more pressing matters and provided me critical feedback on pieces prior to my posting them. There is another faithful volunteer in New Orleans, though I doubt I will have time to make it down there for a visit.

There are two Iraq veterans who have provided me invaluable encouragement while I’ve been gone, and both have promised me free drinks if I make it up their way. One even promised be food. Coincidentally, both will be in one place soon after my return. With a little luck, I’ll catch them both in Detroit. Flatteringly, they both consider me a brother.

In all the initial excitement of being home, I will take a break from writing. Seeing as it’s basically all I’ve done for the past fourteen months, I look forward to having no deadlines, self-imposed or otherwise, no pressing responsibilities, and nobody particularly concerned about my silence. I will sleep late every day and not feel guilty about it.

There are a couple local restaurants whose cuisine I’ve missed while out here, and I can’t wait to sit down in their crowded dining areas, observe nobody in a uniform, and chat with friends I’ve known for years. I will make at least one trip to the local coffeeshop, buy an overpriced gourmet drink, tune out the background chatter around me, and play solitaire on my computer.

When I have settled in and finished all the greetings, I plan to head into the mountains. I’ve longed to see something other than scraggly palm trees, and there’s no better place for that than in the Appalachians. I hope to hike out there at least weekly, carry in all my gear, stay out overnight, and stretch my legs. After riding in military vehicles for so long, I need the exercise. It’ll be nice to not have to be on the alert for anything more than the occasional bear.

At some point, every conversation will invariably turn to Iraq. People will have questions, and I will try to answer. Many I will be unable to answer. I have too many questions of my own.

And then, after somewhere between three and five weeks, I will miss Iraq and want to come back, as will many servicemembers returning to the states. Part of me will still be here.

I will still have friends over here, many of whom have long months still remaining on their tours. I will have other friends who are preparing to deploy to Iraq in the near future. There’s still a war going on, and its outcome is still uncertain. I will want to see its closing first hand.

I will miss the mission briefs before each excursion outside the wire. I will miss the troops I accompanied. God forbid it, but some of them may never see home again. Regardless, they will still need a voice.

I will miss combat boots and rifles, and thousands of men and women uniformly dedicated to the same cause. I will miss hearing their stories. I will miss being around those who get it and who don’t ask difficult questions I still can’t answer. I will miss the conversations over headsets as we drive a boring road to some town with an unpronounceable name. I will miss the chai we’re served when we get there. I will miss the potential for every mission devolving into an IED attack or a firefight.

I will miss this place because it’s grown on me, but most of all I will miss my fellow Americans who have answered their country’s call to serve here. I will miss introducing them to other Americans. I will miss the adventure. Home life, after some initial excitement, will be disappointingly boring. Though every situation is different and every servicemember has his or her own unique outlook, many will feel this way, too. National service, and more specifically combat service, is memorable. Like little else, this never leaves you.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

They're Not There Yet (by Ben Shaw)

2009-10-10T11:49:00.001-04:00

*Reprinted with permission from the Fluvanna Review.

*Retold with permission

Last tour out here, they put me on suicide watch, even though given no indication of wishing to hurt myself. The command would probably argue that they’d rather be safe than sorry, which is legitimate, but the way they went about it wasn’t appropriate. They were acting off too many assumptions.

When I enlisted in the Army, I took advantage of the “Battle Buddy” program, which guarantees that you and a friend who enlists with you will train through boot camp together, and remain together in the same unit for a certain length of time. I’d joined with a friend I’d known for a good three years prior to enlisting, and we remained in the same unit well into my first deployment into Iraq. In fact, we were on the same patrol when things went horribly wrong.

Just like most every other US base in Iraq, whenever we took incoming rocket or mortar fire, a point of origin would be quickly calculated, and a unit would be sent out to investigate that coordinate – maybe they’d even find the perpetrators. Either way, it was the standard operating procedure: take incoming, go out and investigate. We’d done it at least fifty times before.

As we got ready to roll out, I remember our platoon sergeant telling us that instead of varying our route and reducing our “predictability,” we would drive straight out to the site, check it out, and drive straight back. He told us he wanted to be back in time for chow. We shouldn’t have made that compromise in tactics, but it wasn’t our call.

I have long questioned if what happened would have been avoided had we been smarter about our route planning. I have also struggled with the temptation of blaming my platoon sergeant for something that may or may not have been his fault. In this case, the enemy knew our standard operating procedure through and through. They weren’t around when we arrived at the point of origin of the incoming fire, but IEDs were, which detonated, killing two Soldiers. One of them was my battle buddy. I was actually the one that loaded him into the bodybag.

The unit leadership had known that the two of us were close, so they watched me intently over the next two days. Yet what I knew to be grief (relative isolation, lack of interest in talking to people, and restlessness), they presumed to be potentially suicidal behavior. Based off of what they saw, they made their judgment call. Not only was I going to be considered a combat stress case, but I was also going to be placed on suicide watch.

The command took away my rifle, lest I do myself harm to myself or others with it, placed me under 24 hour watch, insisted I wear a reflective safety vest, and attend daily combat stress classes. Needless to say, it was humiliating. I didn’t want to kill myself at all; I was grieving over the loss of a close friend.

Whenever I went to the chow hall, without my rifle but with my suicide watch vest, I was followed by Soldiers who watched me intently. Naturally, dressed as I was and unarmed, everybody else watched me too. Everybody that saw me labeled me a head case. In the combat stress classes, we all sat around while the facilitator soothingly invited us to talk about what we were feeling. I had little to say, obviously.

I understand the command’s concern, since suicide is a problem out here, but I think they overreacted in my case. I think it would be MORE concerning if I showed no emotion at all when my friend was killed. Grief is a natural and appropriate response to devastating loss. Aside from the personal humiliation, my biggest objection was the fact that what they did caused a loss of confidence with the rest of my peers. They assumed, based upon the command’s response, that I was unstable. I was monitored for two months, and it took a few weeks before my fellow Soldiers treated me as an equal again.

The Army has since changed their policies on how they respond in these situations, which is encouraging. For starters, rather than taking your weapon away from you, they simply take the bolt out. You may still be suspect, but at least your peers aren’t as aware that you’re being monitored. The Army is also working hard to improve their combat stress courses. In fact, the chaplain recently conducted an all-hands series of courses about suicide awareness and prevention. They’re making changes, but they still have some distance to go. I’m thankful they’re at least trying. In my case, though, I’m fairly convinced that the command made the situation worse. I wasn’t dangerous to myself or others; I just wanted my friend back. That, however, nobody could provide.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Reveiw, All Rights Reserved

It Began With Rocks (by Ben Shaw)

2009-10-08T17:58:00.001-04:00

*Reprinted with permission from the Fluvanna Review.

*Retold with permission.

When we first arrived in Sadr City in early 2004, we were informed it would be a peacekeeping mission. The city itself was quiet, the locals were glad we were there, and Moqtada Al Sadr’s Mahdi militia forces were keeping everything in check. The unit we relieved said they basically just drove around the city every now and then, nothing happened, and that was about it. We would begin the reconstruction. The war was over, and we were there to rebuild the infrastructure.

The RIP [relief-in-place] was extremely uneventful. In fact, with the threat being as minimal as it was, none of us was carrying more than three or four magazines of ammunition. Our first movements alone into the city were equally dull. We just drove in, found key leaders, and started asking them what they needed to get the city back up and running, and how could we best assist them with it.

Their response was water, power, and sewage. With power and water down or intermittent as long as they were, the streets were overflowing with raw sewage. It was simple. While we worked to get the water and power running, we would escort a sewage truck throughout the city and begin cleaning up the streets. The locals seemed happy enough with this.

But after two weeks, however, the residents realized that we weren’t really going away like they assumed we would. We would be there for a long time, assisting in the reconstruction, yes, but still conducting patrols throughout the city. Apparently they didn’t like this, either. We were out on the day they began to express their opposition.

We were patrolling along, minding our own business, but as we slowly advanced, a crowd formed behind us. Before long, the crowd grew to a mob that filled the streets from one side to the other, thick enough that you couldn’t see the street itself. They were yelling at us and gesturing. Whenever we turned out backs, they pelted us with rocks, but when we turned back to them, they stopped. As per our rules of engagement, I considered it a hostile act, but I remember my squad leader screaming at all of us, “DO NOT FIRE ON THEM!” So, we’d turn our backs and get hit with rocks again. Frankly, I’m still amazed how effortlessly an Iraqi kid can wing a cinderblock from one side of the street to the other – at us.

As Sadr militiamen and civilians started lying in the street to thwart any further movement in humvees, Charlie company made the decision to head back to base. There wasn’t much else anybody could do without inciting a riot. We, too, returned and gave our report.

Another unit (a sister platoon) was still in the city, though, a platoon-sized mix of mounted and dismounted Soldiers. They were having problems with crowd control like us, and when they started taking fire (and casualties), they occupied a building at the end of a side street and elected to wait until the situation deescalated. Unfortunately, their communications were also completely down. Completely cut off from any support, medical evacuations or other assistance, their location completely unknown to any other unit, one humvee remained in the street outside the house, while inside the vehicle the platoon sergeant worked on the radio.

As he tinkered with the radio (unsuccessfully), the mob began moving down the street toward them. But this time it was different. They weren’t merely throwing rocks or firing sporadically. Instead, women and children rushed forward, while behind them men fired over them at the humvee. After a quick assessment, the gunner made a difficult, but wise decision: fire back.

I was on base at the time, getting ready to go on tower watch, when I heard the fourth of July open up inside the city. Turning to the Sergeant First Class in charge of the guard mount, I told him sorry, he was on his own. Those were our guys in the city. I was only a Specialist, but he wasn’t even my chain of command. We were supposed to be replacing his guys. It wouldn’t kill them to stand one more guard shift. What was happening in the city, however, might kill quite a few.

As the firing in the city intensified, Soldiers on base started crawling out of the woodwork. Cooks ran from the chow hall. Mechanics ran from the motor pool. Alpha company was being spun up as QRF [quick reaction force] to go find and help the platoon pinned in the city. While they prepared their vehicles and scrambled to find more, all these Soldiers asked if they could come along too; those trapped Soldiers needed help. The commander agreed, and soon they headed into the city to search for the missing, isolated platoon. They would never arrive.

As the convoy of humvees, Bradleys, and even an LMTV [flatbed, unarmored utility truck] moved closer to the pinned platoon, a large, coach-sized bus suddenly pulled in front of the lead Bradley and stopped. Moments later, a few cars pulled up to reinforce it. Somebody threw burning tires into the mix, too. In the rear, a similar blockade was driven in, effectively trapping the Alpha company QRF in a gauntlet. As they rolled to a halt, Sadr militiamen and other fighters appeared in every second story window and on every rooftop, firing down on the Soldiers. On the ground, children ran up to the vehicles and placed small IEDs or threw grenades at the vehicles. One hit the Charlie company commander’s vehicle. Of all the occupants, he was the only one that escaped injury or death.

In the ensuing ambush, Soldiers did the best they could, but with the odds stacked against them. From their elevated position in and atop the buildings, the insurgents began picking off the troops.

One of my buddies out there later told me that as he was firing, he looks over at his gunner in the rear of the unarmored humvee. He was jerking his machine gun back and forth from one target to another. As he sees his squad leader staring at him, he grins, holds out his left hand with three fingers up, and yells “third squad, baby!” He was missing the other two.

On the LMTV, originally packed with troops, Soldiers started dropping from injuries until only two remained uninjured, one of whom was a crusty old Staff Sergeant. He’d been in forever, and had already submitted his retirement papers. I’m sure he was thinking he’d just gotten into more than he’d bargained for. He scrambled throughout the wounded (and dying), plugging bullet holes, dressing wounds, and still firing. He tried to drive out the LMTV, but it was disabled. Thinking quickly, he commandeered a local bus and packed his crowd of casualties into it.

As the Bradley in the front finally pushed through/over the bus and cars, this Staff Sergeant climbed into the bus he commandeered and drove the injured back to base. He later was awarded a Silver Star for his actions. I’d say he deserved it, too.

I was on base during all this, and commanders were assembling whatever was left of my company (myself included) into another QRF to go out and help the initial QRF. We were told to get out there, help them out, and recover the down vehicles. By the time we departed the base, the aid station had a chest-high stack of boots from all the wounded. All told, 40 were injured that day, and ten were killed. It was later reported that we’d killed about 800 Iraqi fighters.

Later, I remember seeing the LMTV sitting on our FOB. In the back, empty water bottles floated in the pools of blood. When we finally went out, it was with orders to locate and recapture all five Iraqi Police [IP] stations in the city. Every last one of them was being occupied by Sadr militiamen. So, one-by-one, we attacked and cleared them.

As darkness fell, my unit halted at the third station and we were instructed to hold it, commencing the longest five days of my life. Every night, they’d hit us hard, and all day long we waited for another assault. By the end of five days with no sleep, I was a zombie. Tired, but still high on adrenalin, gaunt, but still puking. Eventually we were relieved and returned to base.

After all this, things quieted a bit in the city and we resumed normal patrols. Every few days, we’d get hit, ambushed or IEDed, so we’d cut power and water into the city, Muqtada Al Sadr would announce another ceasefire to his Mahdi militia, and things would be peaceful for a few days. Then it’d start up again.

As our tour continued, we did eventually make a lot of progress in the city, and by the end of things, we were more or less concentrated on reconstruction. Sadr, we presumed, had been tamed. But it didn’t last. Just as we had been “tested,” the new unit was as well. The very day we arrived in Kuwait on our way home, we learned the new guys were taking casualties. In reality, Sadr City didn’t calm down until we basically began to avoid it. I’m not sure if anybody’s in there these days.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

The Bowling Alley

2009-10-07T16:32:00.000-04:00

*Retold with permission.

When we were doing clearing operations last tour, we’d frequently move through whole neighborhoods that had been cleaned out and abandoned – many of them abruptly, if not violently. I imagine that many were killed before they had a chance to flee. We spent a fair amount of our time in a town called Gazalia.

Just looking around, you could see that it used to have beautiful streets with lavish homes, but six years of war, neglect and poverty had taken its toll. The buildings were often abandoned, the walls riddled with bullet holes, and once-gorgeous yards now covered in trash. We called one neighborhood the “Bowling Alley.”

Every AO [area of operations] has place like this; a stretch of road or a neighborhood where US forces are always get fired upon or blown up and the aggressors could quickly retreat into the alleys and disappear. In our case, the bowling alley was two streets divided by a long, open field, which I presume at one time was a well-kept lawn. After years of conflict, it’d been transformed into nothing more than a trash dump. On the outer edges of the streets to either side of the field, were large, two-story houses. Though many showed overt signs of war, it was obvious that the area used to be beautiful. Now, many homes were abandoned, and those few who elected to stay had somehow survived untold violence.

As we’d sweep through, we’d occupy a house for the night. There were always more than enough to choose from. Once we’d settled in I always tried to figure out what happened to the occupants. Because so many had left in a hurry, there was more than enough evidence. With a little patience, you could learn their entire story, up to a point. One house in particular sticks with me.

After we’d moved in that evening and set up the guard rotation, I started looking through some of the possessions the occupants had left behind. In this case, there was a surprisingly large collection of photographs.

In the beginning of the albums, I found old childhood pictures of a boy, shot in a background not too dissimilar to the one we were now in. From those, I more or less concluded that he was a native of Iraq. But he didn’t stay in Iraq.

I found a number of photos of him attending college – somewhere in Europe, actually. It would be him and a few of his friends; typical college shots of them hanging out somewhere or getting dressed up to go out for the evening. There were photos of him receiving his degree, and eventually photos of him earning certification as a doctor. He always looked happy in those shots. Then there were more of him back in Iraq.

Those photos showed him in Spartan conditions again, in a small house with meager furnishings, but as the timeline progressed, his surroundings improved. There’d be shots of him in his clinic, then with nicer clothing, then shots of him with his clinic staff, him in a white coat, and eventually a few where he was wearing a suit. He also apparently moved to a lavish home, too.

From other photos mixed in, I could also see that he’d met his wife and gotten married at some point along the way, and in time there were photos of the two of them with children, infants at first. By the end of the album’s record, there were two adult sons, the doctor’s wife, and maybe a younger daughter, too.

As a doctor, he must have been making a good living, too, because I found photos of them touring in Europe, and even a few of them visiting the United States. And then abruptly, the timeline, the records, and the photos just stopped.

From the photos, and also from some of the other papers I found, I could tell that this man and his family rushed to leave. After all, who, when moving methodically, leaves family photo albums? Not only this, but I even found his degrees and medical license among his possessions. No doubt, they’d left hurriedly. I wanted to know what happened to them, if they were alive, and if they were safe.

Whenever we first entered any area for clearing operations, we’d receive a pretty cold reception. It was understandable, since we were blocking roads, walking through homes and interrupting personal lives, but we always made every effort to do it respectfully, disturb as little as possible, and treat the locals with dignity. And because of that, they’d usually warm up to us fairly quickly. One family went so far as to invite us in, offer us chai [tea], cheese, bread and dates. They were relieved to see us in their neighborhood. After a time, I asked them about the doctor’s empty house. It was like opening a floodgate.

They explained that a few years back, one terrorist organization or another came through and started threatening a number of the locals. Many left in fear of their lives, and many more were approached and given deadlines. If they didn’t leave within the allotted period of time, they would be killed, as would their entire families. That, this family explained, is what happened to the doctor and his family. About three years ago, he was approached, told to leave, and with little more preparation than packing a few clothes, he fled with his family. His whereabouts since then were unknown, but he was probably out of the country. He’d left nearly everything. I still think about him, though, and many others.

When people think of the Army, they often mistakenly think of one word: “kill.” It doesn’t occur to them that we have other purposes, like preventing violence. While we may have been sent here to conduct a war, we were also sent to help prevent several more. At the time of that clearing operation, sectarian violence was at its peak, and the slightest provocation would commence regular kidnapping, killing and bombs. In many ways, the purpose of our war was to prevent a sectarian war from consuming the country. And personally, it was a rewarding mission.

We weren’t here just to kill people. In fact, we never were. We’re here to preserve the lives of the innocent from brutality, fear, and coercion. I enjoy what I do, I enjoy leading Soldiers, and I’d like to think we’re making a difference. I want to leave here knowing that these people are safe at least in part because of our efforts. Ideally, I want those who fled to feel safe enough to come home. When all those who fled have been safely and voluntarily repatriated to their own homes and properties, I’ll feel satisfied that we’ve completed our mission. As it stands, just 30 minutes ago, a car bomb detonated outside the Iraqi base here with a handful of deaths and several wounded. Though drastically reduced, the violence continues. And so, we still continue to work.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

In Absentia

2009-10-06T13:41:00.000-04:00

*Retold with permission.

Not long ago, I sat down and wrote my daughter a letter. She’s only seven months old right now, but there’s going to be a point when she’s older and notices that all the photos and videos of her as an infant and toddler don’t have me in them. When she took her first step, I was in Iraq. The same thing when she said her first word. In a few months, I’m going to miss her first birthday. Eventually, she’s going to wonder where Daddy was when she was a baby. Hopefully, the letter I wrote will help answer her questions.

Basically, I wrote down everything to explain why I’m in the military, and why I was in Iraq while she was little. As for why I’m in the Army, I wrote that I wanted to do something greater than myself and to serve my country. For lack of a better way to put it, I wanted to live an honorable life. Military service seemed like an ideal way to do that.

I also wrote that, for now, the Army has taken me to Iraq. It’s not because I WANTED to be here, because I didn’t. I would have loved to be with her every step of the way, from the moment she was born onwards through adulthood. But, for good or ill, this is where the Army needs me to be. I need to finish what my brothers before me started. Unfortunately, it takes me far from home, from my wife, and from her. As much as I don’t like it or what it does to my family, I’m doing a job that others wouldn’t do.

I have no idea if she’ll understand all this. I think a great deal of that depends on what age she is when reads the letter. But I’m hopeful that it’ll pique her interest. And rather than reaching conclusions based off the media’s slanted coverage of the war, I’m hoping that this will encourage a dialog between the two of us. Maybe she’ll ask me questions about it, and maybe she’ll actually listen to the answers. Maybe she’ll understand. Even if she doesn’t, I’m not apologizing. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if I had to.

I suppose it’s possible that she’ll be interested in joining the military herself. If she’s 18 years old and announces that she wants to follow in my footsteps, I’ll probably try to talk her out of it. And if she’s her father’s daughter, she’ll also completely ignore me. I might try advising her to join the Air Force. I don’t wish this life on her.

In many ways, I also did this so there’s no need for her to serve. Years ago, my grandfather said something which still holds meaning to me: “you always want a better life for your children.” He’s right. I’m serving in the hopes that she won’t have to. One family member is enough. I also don’t wish this on her family, and I don’t personally want to ever worry about my daughter serving in a combat zone. My service is enough.

While I certainly want her to grasp why I did this, she may never get it, but that’s okay. None of this is intended to vindicate myself. I wrote the letter to start her asking questions, to help her realize that I’d be glad to talk about it, and also to know that my absence wasn’t by choice, but by necessity. And hopefully this will permit her to make informed decisions based not off of whatever she reads and hears in school or from friends, but from her own father, who she loves and trusts.

And, God willing, this is the last war we have for awhile. I’ll have already missed the most pivotal landmarks of her early childhood; I don’t need to miss anymore. I’m hoping this is the last time. I want to watch her grow up in person, not write more letters to explain my absence.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Still the Empty Plate

2009-10-05T09:46:00.001-04:00

“Ben, aren’t you ever going to find other things to write about? There’s nothing you can do about all this. I mean, you’re not even in the military anymore. It’s over for you.” I’m wasting my time, they argue.

It may be over, but it isn’t done.

There are still men and women who awaken regularly to nightmares. There are still men who can stand quite calmly in a sea of corpses without losing their minds, but break down with they smell trash fires that remind them of the IED that destroyed the humvee in front of theirs. There are still men who feel vulnerable without a firearm at their sides. There are still many who rarely leave their homes.

There are still servicewomen who after repeated concussions from IEDs along roads in Iraq return home with their brains permanently scrambled. Many can’t find a partner who understands them. A number can’t remember things sufficiently to succeed in school. A few cut themselves regularly.

There are still VFWs and American Legions packed with drunkards who desperately seek the company of other veterans, but don’t talk about their experiences when they’re together. There is still an empty plate, an upside down glass, a spoonful of salt and a lime in every VFW hall. There are still 74,000 men missing in action. There are still an alarming number of homeless vets. Seventeen veterans a day still take their own lives.

There are still bent old men who inexplicably straighten when a flag passes before them, and younger men who still salute it when they think nobody is looking. There are still men who bear the physical scars of objects thrown at them when they stepped off the planes after an unbearably long tour overseas. There are many more who bear the emotional scars of something said to them.

There are still men and women of all ages who walk out of theaters when the war movie gets too real for them and the street battle too similar to their own experiences. There are still millions with a drawer, closet, or box full of military paraphernalia or ribbons that family members will never see or understand. There are old dogtags and helmets and boots which invoke more emotion than any photograph or conversation.

There are still national cemeteries running out of room as one generation of warrior quickly expires, buried amongst the friends and brothers who went years before them. There are still grandchildren at the funerals who don’t know what grandfathers did. There are infants now who don’t know what their mothers or father did, and why a US flag is always flying in their front yard. There are still 180,000 US citizens serving on combat zones.

There are still millions in the states who don’t understand the concept of national service and won’t appreciate their freedoms until they’re all gone. There are still a few million more who, regardless of the thanks they may or may not receive, will stand to prevent that from occurring. There are millions who still think the troops are pawns in a misguided US foreign policy, or collectively the brutal killing end of the government’s unnecessarily aggressive agenda. There are millions who still ask inappropriate questions that have no good answer. There are millions of veterans who still don’t how to articulate how vile war was for them but how quickly they’d do it again if the nation needed them. There is still an enemy, but there are still people who want grow impatient and want us to quit.

There are still almost 3,000 civilians who, while doing nothing more than touring, traveling or working, were burned or crushed to death for no other reason than they were different from somebody who hated them. There are still nearly 5,000 dead in the global war on terror, and more than 30,000 missing limbs and eyes or who need assistance to complete everyday tasks. There are still 5,000 families enduring the bitter misery of a missing loved one and more than half a million more from other wars. There are still thousands who make annual trips to gravesites for brothers and sisters they knew only briefly.

When those graves have crumbled and the rest of us dead and gone, it will be done. When children know what their parents did in the face of chaos and imminent danger, there will be no more stories to tell. When this nation uniformly learns gratitude, there will be no further need for understanding. When there is no more enemy, there will be no further need for sacrifice. When there is no more war, there will be no warriors volunteering to fight them on behalf of millions they will never meet. When everybody is home, there will be no need for care packages and mail. When there is no more fear, there shall be no requirement for bravery. When all this happens, there will be nothing more to say. But this is not utopia, but real life. And oftentimes it is manifestly ugly.

So, I’ll keep talking. And when I fall silent, others will take my place. We don’t accept defeat.
----------
“Can I see you on the webcam, honey?”

“I don’t know; I just woke up.”

“Honey, I’ve been wearing the same uniform for two weeks. I piss in a tube behind my room. I have sand in everything and shower in a stall without a showerhead. Even after I’m done, I still don’t feel clean. Every other day, I eat the same thing at the chow hall and on most mornings I don’t have time for breakfast. I had my hair buzz cut and call it a haircut. I have a sunburn. I don’t care that you just woke up.”

“Point taken.”

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Hoot Said It (by Ben Shaw)

2009-10-04T18:02:00.001-04:00

*Reprinted with permission of the Fluvanna Review

*Retold with permission.

I’m growing weary of sitting in airports and bars and hearing some guy regale a typically female audience about all the missions he’s been on, how many times he’s worked with special forces, and how many people he’s killed. I’ve asked a few what their MOS [military occupational specialty] was, and they usually say something like “cook.” That’s when you know they’re lying. I don’t even bother correcting them, though. What’s the point?

People that feel the need to measure their self worth by the number of missions they’ve run or how many people they’ve killed have something wrong with them. My calling their bluff isn’t going to change them, either. They’ll just say I’m a poser or accuse me of being jealous. Far from it. I’m not jealous at all.

The reality is that the people who HAVE done something aren’t going to talk about it much. There’s nothing to say, really. It’s not an experience we have much desire to dwell on, much less remember for the rest of our lives. Only the liars talk about it openly, no doubt to make up for personal insecurity. But none of us really want to discuss it. It doesn’t accomplish anything.

I know what I’ve done out here, and while I take pride in knowing that I have what it takes to accomplish the mission, there’s nothing to be gained in telling people about it. For one, they’ll never understand unless they were there. More than that, though, they’ll probably be horrified – even though they’re often the ones who initiated the conversation.

Perhaps the most inappropriate question I’ve been asked is, “did you kill anybody?” I have several problems with that, though. Why do you want to know? Isn’t that a sick thing to ask? Will it change your opinion of me if I have? Also, only a small number of the troops overseas are serving in combat positions. The rest are support. They’re not all out there engaged in glorious combat. That’s not how it is out here. Yes, my service is honorable, but there are certain aspects that you just don’t share with people.

It’s kind of like a burden, living with what we’ve done and now do. And it’s a burden that I don’t want others to have to carry. I definitely don’t want my siblings over here, and I don’t think anybody else does either. We’re doing this so they don’t have to. I don’t wish this on people.

People like to pressure us to talk sometimes. No doubt because they read all the time that veterans need to talk about their experiences to be able to move beyond them and get on with life. That might be true, but it’s not a subject you just chat about with a stranger at a bar, or even with your own family. They won’t get it, and they may very well presume you’re a monster.

In a strange way, combat experiences are akin to lovemaking. If you love the woman you’re with, you’re not going to run out and tell all your buddies about it. What happened between the two of you was a private, intimate act. If it’s discussed at all, it’s only between the two of you. The same applies to combat. Talking about it to somebody who doesn’t understand either cheapens or aggrandizes what happened. Talking about it to somebody who was there, though, is acceptable. You bore the same burden together.

Some may think we’re cocky, but they’re mistaken. It might look like arrogance, but it’s confidence. It’s the knowledge that we’ve been through a furnace and we lived to tell about it. We learned what we were made of in there, and we’re pleased with the results. What we’re not pleased with is the burden that comes with it. We’re stronger than most people, which is certainly something to be proud of, but there are consequences. Combat changes you. You keep most of it to yourself.

I see old veterans from time to time back home. Old men wearing trucker hats with the Combat Infantry Badge on the front. I don’t care what their MOS was or where they served, I know they’ve gone through hell. Whenever we spot each other, we just nod briefly and keep on walking. I know what they’ve done, and they know what I’ve done, too. There isn’t much else to say about it. We may be one, maybe two generations apart, but we carry the same burden. In fact, they carry a bigger one, since they saw things none of us have seen or ever want to see. The conduct of war itself has changed, too.

More than once I’ve stood in lines at stores and listened to the person in front of me complain rudely that the express checkout is moving too slowly. I want to yell at them, but I don’t. I don’t say a word, but I’m thinking how ungrateful they are, and how small their lives must be. They have all they need, money to burn, and plenty of ways to spend it. They’re also safe, too. You have all day, lady. Stop complaining and wake up. I’m just thankful to be home.

Personally, I love the Army. I love the operations tempo, the training, and even the deployments. I like everything about it. This is what we do. We’re grunts. I don’t think I could go back to being a civilian even if I wanted to. Sure, there are bad days – plenty of them – but I still love what I do. I’m in this for life.

I think everybody in the United States should serve in the military, maybe three years or so. If they deploy, great, but if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. They’ve earned their mantle and done their time. It’ll help them understand us a little better, at least. Besides this, service itself changes you, if nothing else because you learn to do things that sometimes you really don’t want to do. That’s why it’s called “service.” It’s not easy, and there are plenty of risks. We’ve all lost friends out here. Ideally, though, we’ve done this so nobody else has to.

It may be overused and even misquoted, but I like what the character “Hoot” said about the military in the movie “Blackhawk Down.” He really hit the nail on the head for all of us. Every man I know feels this way.

When I go home people'll ask me, "Hey Hoot, why do you do it man? What, you some kinda war junkie?" You know what I'll say? I won't say a goddamn word. Why? They won't understand. They won't understand why we do it. They won't understand that it's about the men next to you, and that's it. That's all it is.

He’s right. We fight so the man next to us goes home, and hopefully we’ll go home too. None of us loves war.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

"Servicemales"

2009-10-03T18:23:00.005-04:00

Military working dogs and their handlers relax after a joint IA/US operation to locate weapons caches. Both the German shepherd and his handler were in a vehicle struck by an IED today. Despite having just survived an IED attack, the dog clamored out of the disabled vehicle before any Soldiers, and cleared the area of secondary devices. Although the vehicle was totaled, there were no injuries.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Everything Changes

2009-10-02T12:44:00.000-04:00

*Retold with permission.

I’ve only done three tours out here, but it’s changed dramatically each time. On the first tour, we knew who the enemy was. It was easy. The second time, you didn’t really know who was going to shoot at you. Now I’m not sure who the enemy is because I don’t go outside the wire anymore. I couldn’t tell you what it’s like out there. It’s always changing, anyway.

They said that we’d change, too, but I’m really not aware of it. My wife said I was different when I got back, but she couldn’t really tell me how exactly. Just different. The only thing I’m aware of is that I don’t talk to people as much anymore.

When I was training in 2003, I remember some kids coming up to me, shaking my hand and saying thank you. I told them I really hadn’t done much in the Army but it didn’t matter to them. “You wear the uniform. You serve,” they said. That was enough for them. Two and a half years later, the public has changed, too.

As we readied for my second tour, we had to convoy all the vehicles to port to load them on ships. There was a really anti-military town our route carried us through, and they briefed us not to talk to the protesters, not look at them, and sure as hell don’t start anything. Just ignore them. Once we do something, they can’t help us. Just keep driving. Sure enough, protesters were lining the streets.

It was kids, mostly. Kids and college students. The college students are the worst, because they think they know everything about the world and about life. They’re bold in their ignorance. As we drove through town, a number of them held up signs saying things like, “Fuck You, Army,” or “We Hate You.” Some said, “You Kill for Oil.” But I’m thinking, “what oil?” I sure haven’t seen any. We get all the hatred overseas, so we don’t need it from home, too.

Some of them threw rocks at us and a few threw bottles. I saw a kid toss one, and then suddenly a group of cops descended on him with batons. That’s what you get for attacking the military, I guess.

In that same town, if somebody saw the military installation sticker on your car you were liable to come back to the parking lot and find it keyed or smashed in with baseball bats. We avoided that town as best we could. Strangely, it’s gotten better now, but I have no idea why. Maybe they got tired of protesting all the time. Even still, I hear occasional reports about Soldiers getting their vehicles vandalized out there. Some people get their hands shaken or somebody says thank you, but I’ve mostly been just cursed at or stared down. Whatever. I’ll keep fighting for their right to protest, but only because it’s my job.

As we pushed north during the invasion, my truck kept overheating, requiring us halt all the time to let it cool. During one stop, I remember seeing a decrepit little mud home in the desert outside of a city. There was a father, two older brothers, and a little girl, too. I’m guessing that nobody liked them very much. They were impoverished and skinny, and riding around in a donkey cart because it was all they had.

The little girl was wearing a shirt that used to be pink and a calf-length skirt that used to be white. Both were torn and smeared with dirt and her shirt was faded out from the sun. That’s my question for people: have you ever seen a starving little girl with rags for clothes begging for food? Most have not. It made me think about my own little sister, and it broke my heart.

That was the invasion, so our water was severely rationed. We couldn’t get any more of it, or food, either. But, when we saw the starving little girl, we all pooled what we could and gave her dad some MREs and a case of water. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had. He gave us maybe 50 cents worth if Iraqi dinars as a gift, and we gave him all the money in our wallets. It was probably only twenty bucks, but better than nothing. “Buy something for your kid,” we told him.

We had visited a PX not long before and bought as much candy as we could, so we gathered it all together and gave it to the little girl. I’ll never forget how much her face lit up when she saw it. She was absolutely thrilled. That little child, walking around in rags, matted hair, malnourished and destitute, was probably the most disheartening thing I’ve ever seen. The firefights, the explosions, none of it bothers me as much as seeing that little girl. Even now it still brings tears to my eyes.

My daughter back home plays with a soccer ball we bought her. I sit out back as she runs all around the yard having a blast, and all I can think about is that little girl. I wonder how she’s doing now.

Don’t tell me we didn’t make a difference, because we have. On a local level, we brightened one little girl’s life and helped her family as best we could. We made friends. On a grander scale, that little girl and other girls can go to school now. No doubt some of them will go to college, too. The ones that didn’t have electricity are starting to get it now, and the ones that didn’t even have light bulbs now do. Call us what you want and claim we didn’t do anything, but we all know what we did, and we’re proud of it. It’s what we couldn’t change that still haunts us.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Misplaced Hostility

2009-10-01T15:08:00.000-04:00

*Retold with permission.

I remember Christmas of 2003 when it seemed like half the commercials on TV said something about supporting the troops during the holiday season. The next year after that you still saw them, but not as many as before. Now, though, you don’t see any. People have forgotten. It’s not news anymore over here. Nothing that happens in Iraq impacts them.

My great grandmother tells me stories about how she and all her girlfriends would use a marker to draw a black line up the back of their legs to simulate wearing silk stockings. They didn’t have any, and neither did anybody else. In her day, all the silk was going to make parachutes. I’ve seen photos of Boy Scout troops walking down the streets in columns pulling old Radio Flyer wagons full of scrap metal. The war, the rations, the recycling, the sacrifice, the victory gardens; it was a national effort. In those days, they cared what happened in the war. Maybe it was because so many of them had fathers, husbands or sons overseas. Now, though, the numbers are much lower.

I think people don’t care because they have no vested interest in what happens out here. Hardly anybody has a loved one serving anymore. Only those that do actually give a damn about Iraq. To everybody else, the war, which was once a headline news item is now lucky to be a byline – if that. It’s not America’s war; it’s the troops’ war. To the public, the casualties are just numbers, not sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, husbands and wives who were killed in service to their country. More than four thousand times now parents have buried their sons or daughters. No doubt it’s the most terrible grief they’ve ever experienced. The war only concerns those fighting it and their families back home. The numbers are too low for the public to care. But, forgetting is human nature.

I know people forget, and I’m sure I’ll forget, too. But more than just disinterest towards us, there seems to be hostility. People hate the war so they take it out on the Soldiers. They think that I chose to be here. The fact is, I didn’t want to come. God knows I’m not doing this for any sort of self improvement. Iraq sucks, it’s dangerous, and we’re only here because our country sent us. We’re doing this for somebody else; not ourselves.

When they hand a flag to the family of the bereaved, they always say something like, “On behalf of a grateful nation…” They should update that, though. “On behalf of an ungrateful nation…” That’s how most of us feel the public views us.

I have a friend who stopped at a gas station only to get heckled by the owner. “Don’t come around here anymore,“ he told my friend. Whatever happened to respecting somebody who did something honorable? Most people don’t have the boldness to serve, but they don’t even care that we did.

And what about the people who protest the military funerals? When I heard about what they do, I experienced more contempt than I do for even the enemy. How can they justify depriving the loved ones of at least an honorable burial? That man or women died to preserve their right to protest. Just because you have the freedom to do something doesn’t make it necessarily right to do it. If I run into any of those people, I’m probably going to go to jail for what I do to them.

It’s hard to put to words. It’s emotional. It’s anger, disappointment. I’m more sad about it than anything else. Here some young man or woman’s last memory is of being far from home, lonely, stuck in a sandbox, then their lives are taken from them. And back home people are more concerned about politics and foreign policy than the fact that another US family is devastated with grief. From what I can see, people are divided between hatred of the military or total lack of interest.

Even my old friends don’t really care. Every now and then they’ll check to make sure I’m okay, but then they go right back to their XBox games – mostly war games, oddly enough. Everybody wants the thrill of a war game, but few want the sacrifice of war. To most of them, nothing is worth fighting or sacrificing for.

I’ve wondered for quite some time why people are so unwilling to do something besides watch out for number one. I’m afraid that even if the country was in a state of crisis that most still wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice or fight. They’re too busy entertaining themselves. They forget that somewhere on this planet, maybe here or elsewhere, there is an “Ali Baba” trying to get his hands on a nuke to blow it up on Americans. It’s a credible threat, and it’s not going away, either.

I know the country is changing; it’s inevitable. We’re not going to see a culture of honor, discipline or patriotism like we did in World War II. Those men are mostly gone now. But what about simply caring about the course of our country? Most don’t, and I have no idea why. I also don’t know why they seem to hate the few of us who do choose to serve. For a society of people who seem to care for nothing but themselves, they sure do invest a lot of energy in hating us.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

No Words

2009-09-30T00:46:00.000-04:00

When the sun sets, the sand flies always come out, inflicting some of the most irritating bites imaginable. No building, however tightly sealed the doors and windows may be, is free of them. Soldiers’ arms and legs are covered in scabs from scratching bites. Few, if any, have insect repellant.

When you climb out of the shower to dry off, they bite. When you sit on a broken toilet seat in the bathroom, they bite. While you sleep, they bite. As uncomfortable as it may be in direct sunlight, at least they aren’t biting you then. If this combat outpost had a PX, you could purchase some relief. But, none is scheduled to come. There are many things this base doesn’t have. It’s a far cry from the wireless internet hubs of the larger FOBs or the shopping malls on others. It’s small, it sucks, but it’s home for the next eleven months. It’s Iraq.

And how do you describe it to people who have never ventured to a third world country? How do you convey how aghast you were when you first saw cows, donkeys, sheep and goats grazing in a field of garbage? How do you describe wearing a uniform continuously for a year surrounded by people you’d rather not see and shaking hands with local nationals who usually demand you to give them something? How do you describe getting used to losing a few friends here and there to explosions or indirect fire? How do you explain the resignation that when it’s your time, it’s your time and there’s nothing you can do about it? How do you describe a car bomb scene where the street is covered in blood and loose, unmatched sandals? How do you describe Iraq?

You don’t. At best, you describe a mission, or an evening, or a conversation, or something you saw outside the wire, and wait impatiently to go home. And when you get there, you hope nobody asks you about it, because you still don’t know what to say. Months in the desert, even years, still seem unreal. There aren’t words for it all anyway. There are emotions which defy articulation. There are putrid odors and the sickeningly sweet aroma of Iraqi cologne. There are trash fires and clouds of dust. There are elaborate tangles of power lines that impede movement down every street. There are beautiful ruins of Bedouin mud homes in the desert near the oases. All around them there are tank traps to slow an Iranian advance across the border. There are palaces – some of them with bombed-out sections.

There are emaciated children eagerly waving at every convoy and portly older men demanding first place in every line. There are Iraqi soldiers and policemen asking you to give them every piece of gear you wear. There are flies everywhere, and open sewage, and dead animal carcasses with other half-living animals gnawing on them. There are immaculate courtyards with mountains of trash on the other sides of the walls. There are rickety mud huts and sprawling concrete estates. There are crowds of people who stare at you as you pass and a few who spit or give you the finger. In the past, children would throw grenades. Now you keep your eyes open for somebody throwing RKG-3s, which can easily destroy an MRAP.

There are endless miles of roads with guardrails removed because at one time they were used to conceal IEDs. There are other roads with a patchwork of concrete-filled IED craters – remnants of past deployments when driving anywhere was a dangerous roll of the dice. There are dirt roads which still hide mines and IEDs. There are hundreds who watch everything but never seem to know who emplaced the devices. There is a culture of apathy. There is the constant roar of generators. There are good people who care and don’t want you to leave, and others who you fear will shoot you when you turn your back.

There are filthy streets were the sewage runs and vendors selling food directly beyond the curb. In the past, sectarian violence used to see at least one marketplace a week rocked with car bombs. Now, there are people shopping, walking, and watching you. As you watch them, they throw their trash at their feet.

There are frustrating hours on long missions, and the days when you feel something isn’t quite right but then nothing happens. When you’ve finally convinced yourself that it’s all in your head, something does occur and you go back to your superstitions. You knock on wood when you say you haven’t lost anybody yet and pray it stays that way the entire deployment. You miss home.

You breathe dust all summer in unbearable heat and slog in mud throughout the winter. You fall down constantly when the rough ground freezes on the coldest mornings, and find yourself missing the heat. You spend months assembling scraps of wood to make furniture for your room, only to have them collapse when somebody leans against them. You fear electrical fires from all the haphazard wiring. You grow accustomed to sleeping at any time of the day or night, regardless of the din around you. A mission may call you out again at any time. You endure wearing 80 pounds of gear every time you’re outside the wire. You watch your commanders play dominoes and drink chai while you stand guard at the building’s perimeter.

You find yourself less and less caring about anything except simply going home to a normal bed, a normal life and normal food, but guiltily miss it all when it finally arrives. You spend years bitter at a command decision that you’re convinced led to the death of a friend – or perhaps many friends. You wear bracelets with their names engraved on them. You think about your family and hope they aren’t watching the news. It’s always bad news anyway, and just makes them worry more. You miss beer. You miss driving your own car. You plan to get drunk when you get home. You miss pretty girls or your wife.

You grow accustomed to the attempts on your life and start making jokes about it, but every so often there’s a really close call and you remember it’s not funny. Someone is still trying to kill you. You’re more alert for a few days and then you go back to joking. You look forward to not having to pay attention to the roadsides as you drive. You look forward to smooth streets free of craters and suspicious debris. You want to never see the guys in your platoon again, but you keep up with them anyway. As much as you may have disagreed about everything and hated each other’s guts, as least they were there with you. Unlike most, they know how it was out here. You hate MREs, sandbags, port-a-jons and mosque loudspeakers.

You compile elaborate lists of things you’ll do when you go home, amend it repeatedly, and end up following none of it. It won’t really matter so long as you get to see your family and wear civilian clothing. You create a mental picture of what home will be like, but find it disappointing and mundane when you finally see it. You get tired of answering questions about Iraq. Most have no good responses, some are grotesquely inappropriate, and some are laughably naïve. You’ll miss carrying a gun.

You swear that you’ll never take the little things for granted, like showers, soft beds and home cooked food, but find yourself surprisingly apathetic in short order. You get tired of hearing your civilian friends tell you their opinion of your war. For somebody who never served, they seem to have a lot of ideas. Most feel sorry for you, which is irritating.

You listen to horror stories from men who went through Sadr City, Baghdad and Baqubah and admit with a trace of jealousy that you didn’t see all that much and that your AO was relatively quiet. Your battalion only lost eighteen on the first tour. You observe as most of your friends’ long-term relationships crumble while their overseas and perhaps yours fails as well. Many are divorced. Many more are on their second marriages. A few refuse to marry ever again. You’re bothered by the number of troops your unit has lost to suicide.

You get nosebleeds in the dry heat of summer and sick in the winter, and still run missions. You lose relatives in the states, but if they’re not immediate family you’re not allowed to go home for the funerals. You watch every cheap, pirated DVD you can find and wonder why they seem to only pirate the B movies. You sleep a lot and get bored a lot, but then you get busy and you miss being bored. You read outdated magazines on subjects that don’t interest you, but it’s the only reading material you can find.

You want people to understand, but you don’t want them to see how stupid some days were, how borings others were, and how terrifying or tragic a few turned out to be. They’ll want to comfort you and say they’re sorry, but you just want them to understand what it was like. You get frustrated that people really don’t get it and aren’t making any attempts to learn. For the most part they’ve already formed their opinions – few are based on reality.

You want to go home. You don’t give a damn about the ugly backwards country that won’t stand up on its own, but at the same time you want them to succeed so you know you’ve done something and that your friends haven’t died for nothing. You miss normal. You miss your dog. You miss freedom. You miss your family. You’re angry. You’re tired. You’re living an adventure. You’re living a nightmare.

You’ll remember it fondly some days and other days with disgust. You’re proud of what you did, but wish you hadn’t done it. You figure out how to explain it to people, so you don’t even bother to try. War is a mystery to all those who have not fought in one, and waged so that they may remain ignorant of what happens in their prosecution. You wish they knew. You’re glad they don’t. You’ll spend your whole life trying to put it to words, but those words will never come. Laughter will. Pleasant reminiscing will. Tears will. Nightmares will. Anger will. But still, no words; just emotions.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

While They Waited

2009-09-28T16:20:00.000-04:00

While nothing short of being here satisfactorily describes what it’s like in Iraq, conversations do provide a good window into the hearts and minds of troops. The following recounts the topics of discussion between four Soldiers as they waited for their shift on truck watch to end.

Initially, the debate was over which brand of baby wipes is the most comfortable and effective. On small outpost like this, where bathroom facilities aren’t the best, baby wipes are still preferred over toilet paper. One Soldier enthusiastically stated that his Sesame Street Elmo wipes were the best. Another believed his Looney Tunes brand wipes were softer and less scratchy. A third Soldier preferred his Sam’s Club generic wipes, but the fourth insisted that this Charmin Ultras beat them all. “They’re like soapy quilts,” he assured us. They were all better than the brand a fifth Soldier was using, which he described as too dry, scratchy, and deceptively ineffective. Baby wipes as a medium wouldn’t be so popular if it weren’t for the food, which was the next complaint.

With bases throughout Iraq contracting food services to third parties, the food is generally good. But on this outpost, military cooks still boil “UGRA rats” (military rations), tear open the bag, and serve it to the Soldiers. According to those present, portions are too small and the snacks are too unhealthy to be considered a viable augment to their diet, so most get by with protein shakes or Gatorade. They’re desperate to get real food in care packages, like tuna, canned chicken, etc. They’re all sick of unhealthy snacks and hard candy. One Soldier was irritated that somebody sent him a bag of coughdrops in the middle of summer. Out of hunger, he ate them anyway.

One remarked that he couldn’t wait to get home to buy his new gun. After carefully researching the best brand and make, he’s reached his decision. When he goes home on R&R, he’s looking forward to purchasing it and taking it to the range. It’ll make a fine addition to his collection.

Another commented that his girlfriend loves it when he buys guns, so he’s never had problems with her thinking it a poor use of his money. Seeing as she’s a gun lover like him, and undoubtedly for a host of other reasons, he considers her a keeper. A third remarked that his wife is still nervous about firearms, but willing to learn. He’ll either find her a professional gun safety course when he gets back, or simply teach her himself. Gun safety is paramount to him, and he doesn’t want to see any more “accidents.” He’s already lost one friend in an incident that was listed as accidental, but everybody involved is fairly certain that the friend took his own life. “Nobody accidentally shoots themselves in the temple,” he said, which began a discussion about troops killing themselves. Few here understand how they can do that. After dead air for a bit, the conversation turned to entertainment.

One Soldier is an avid reader, immersing himself in what he describes as “war books;” stories about troops showing courage under fire and surviving insurmountable odds. He’s read several out here already, and one three times because it was so impactful. Another likes novels and sci-fi. Others prefer movies.

The Soldiers’ truck watch interrupted a movie that two were watching, and in deference to the plot, the other two elected not to talk about it, even though they thought it was a great movie and wanted to share their comments on it. Questions went back and forth over who has the more interesting movies, which ones showed so-and-so’s breasts, and if anybody had it so they could watch that one next. When they heard that one of their fellow Soldiers is a big fan of a particular film, they all swore not to watch it. None of them likes him and they presume he has bad taste.

And on that note, there are a few guys in the unit they don’t like for a variety of reasons. Some appear to be incompetent or spineless, and a few others they aren’t certain will perform well under fire. With some of the newer men, they’re concerned that they’ll either lose their cool in a firefight or break down soon after. What they might find great, purposeful, and the closest thing they’ve seen to doing their jobs, these newer guys might find horrifying or traumatizing. They wish they could trust the new guys. Trust that they’ll point their weapons the right direction, hit their targets, and cover their sectors. Nobody will really know for certain until they’re getting fired upon, and nobody likes the uncertainty.

One Soldier remarked that he absolutely hates using his military ID anywhere. He had done so recently to buy beer since his driver’s license had expired. The cashier looked at military ID, looked at him, and blurted out, “so what’s it like to kill people?” The Soldier responded in anger.

“Who the hell are you, man? I don’t even KNOW you.”

When one Soldier was stationed in Germany, the Germans, upon seeing his military ID, would always ask, “so what’s your opinion of George Bush?” which also received an irritated response.

“I have my opinions, but I keep them to myself; I just follow orders. I’m in the Army.”

One trooper’s wife likes it when he uses his mil ID because she likes the military discounts. He still prefers not to use it, though he admits he really ought to take advantage of the benefit while he can. He’ll be getting out before too long.

Wives. There’s always conjecture that “Jody” is back home with their wives or girlfriends right now. Two are confident it’s not happening; he just likes to joke about it. Another isn’t sure. The fourth withholds his thoughts and recounts the Soldier they heard about who came home to find his wife in bed with another man. According to what they’d heard, he shot them both with a shotgun. For the most part, they don’t worry about it out here. One will be taking leave early to finalize his divorce. Before he gets there, he intends to have his girlfriend serve the papers to his wife.

Many of the Soldiers here don’t particularly like the interpreters, not because they’re incompetent, but because they ask irritating questions about the US or girls, or constantly ask the troops to give them things – issued items they’re not allowed to hand over even if they wanted to. They also dislike that the “terps” are authorized to wear the same uniforms as they do. The Soldiers worked for theirs, but the terps were simply handed them.

As a whole, they much prefer the Ugandans (the Triple Canopy personnel that guard every entry control point and the base perimeter). Not only are they extremely friendly and typically speak decent English, but they either ask interesting questions about the United States or simply invite the Soldiers to come visit Uganda, which they all love and speak of highly.

Watches are long out here, and even longer in the states – when they’re mostly notional and unessential. The Soldiers swap stories about catching people asleep on watch, or standing watch in their sleeping bags. On stateside watches, somebody always falls asleep and half the guys never stand their posts. Nobody ever woke them up. They can’t wait for their watch shift to end this evening. They have games to play, movies to watch, and a couple would like to catch up on sleep.

They’re all waiting for something. For the watch to end. For their shift on Quick Reaction Force to end. For the holidays to come and go. For R&R leave. A few can’t wait to get out. They all can’t wait to go home.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Some Home Life

2009-09-27T16:00:00.002-04:00

*Retold with permission.

When I arrived in the Dallas, TX airport for R&R [mid-deployment rest and relaxation], I was greeted by my wife, my mother-in-law, and my aunt. It was anything but a warm welcome. While my wife and aunt were certainly glad to see me, an incident with my mother-in-law quickly ruined my mood.

Dallas airport always has crowds of locals waiting to warmly greet troops arriving in the terminal. Though they don’t know you, they wave flags, cheer, and welcome us all back to the states. It’s something they take seriously, and we definitely appreciate it. Many others aren’t so well received. In my case, it was my own family who received me poorly.

As we walked out of the terminal, one of the greeters approached my mother-in-law and offered her a little pin. It ready simply, “I Support Our Troops;” nothing more. My mother-in-law waved her away.

“If I take that pin and wear it, it means I support George Bush’s policies.”

In embarrassment and disgust, my aunt simply walked away. This is not the first time something like this has happened.

My mother-in-law describes herself as an “unrepentant 60s hippie liberal.” I respect this, since she’s certainly entitled to her own opinion, but it’s not reciprocated. Every time we see her, even holidays and other family events, the only thing she’s interested in talking about is how the Army is doing terrible things in Iraq, George Bush ruined our country, and how everything the military is doing is shameless obeisance to an overly-aggressive, reckless foreign policy. She doesn’t even give me (or anybody else) the opportunity to disagree.

I remember when I first told her that I may be deploying, to which she responded, “well, I guess I can support you, providing you go to Afghanistan, since that’s a just war. But not if you go to Iraq. That war is wrong.” Yet when I announced that we were shipping out to Iraq, she gushed with relief. “Thank GOD! At least I know you’ll be safe.” Then she went back to saying negative things about the troops and the war.

She once asked if I’d get dressed up in my class A’s [military dress uniform] and let her introduce me around her workplace. Thinking she’d had a change of heart, I agreed to it. I also brought my newborn daughter with me, too. But when we arrived, she’d walk up to her coworkers and say, “this is my new granddaughter.”

“Who’s that in uniform holding her?” they would ask.

“Oh, that’s my son-in-law,” she’d say dismissively, quickly step in front of me, and turn the conversation back onto her granddaughter. After it happened a couple times, she grabbed my daughter from me. Giving up, I went outside to wait for her to finish. She never commented on my absence.

My wife hates the situation because, whenever we’re together, my mother-in-law is always trying to convince her that I’m wrong, she’s right, and my wife should therefore side with her own mother. Later, my wife will tell me what she said about me, which is usually either personally insulting or derogatory towards the troops as a whole. Though she hasn’t directly said it to me, I think my mother-in-law actually celebrates when things go wrong in Iraq. She considers it more ammunition for her argument.

When I was getting ready to deploy, she asked me if I could get her a bumper sticker that said, “my son serves in the US Army.” I bluntly asked her if it was to alleviate her guilt about speaking so negatively about the troops, which did nothing more than spark off another argument. All our encounters end that way: her accusing, me defending, and my wife caught in the middle. I do everything in my power to avoid her now, because there’s no point in even arguing. She’s already made up her mind – mostly from the anti-war propaganda she reads and casually leaves around my house. “I think you’d find this interesting,” she’ll say.

What she fails to understand is that I didn’t sign up for Iraq – or any other conflict for that matter. None of us did. I signed up to support my family and serve my country. Iraq happens to be where my country as asked me to go. My mother-in-law, however, believes we’ve all volunteered to go to Iraq because we agree with US foreign policy. Whether I do or not is irrelevant. I agreed to follow orders. Now it seems we’re being punished for the public’s disagreement with the war. In my case, her hopeless negativity is straining my marriage, distancing me from my wife, and sowing discord throughout the entire family.

My mother-in-law is already divorced because her husband couldn’t stand her, and over the years she’s alienated most of her relatives as well. Even her parents have a hard time being around her. But I, as the only family member currently serving in the military, receive the worst of her rants. Within five minutes of seeing her anywhere, she’s started off on an anti-military, anti-war speech, hushed anybody who dares disagree with her, and dominated the conversation. Because I’m family and she’s mostly unavoidable, I suppose I’m an easy target. As far as I can tell, she’s projecting her total discontent with life onto the most convenient target: me. I intend to raise my daughter with as little contact as possible. Nothing she says is edifying.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

A Din of Pigs

2009-09-26T08:12:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I sat in the back of a Stryker and listened to the chatter between the driver, gunner, vehicle commander and scout. The conversation, laced with off-color racial, ethnic and gender jokes, was largely unprintable. Since it is not a discussion essential to understanding the troops or one I could even secure command approval to write, I didn’t even bother to try. By most standards, it was extremely offensive. But as one of the Soldiers put it, “that’s every day in our truck. It helps pass the time.”

A day later, another Soldier noted how much he liked the fact that infantry doesn’t form cliques. Regardless of age, ethnic origin or religion, he remarked, you wear the same uniform, do the same job, and poke fun at each other constantly. You either develop thick skin, or you go mad.

Years ago, while waiting in the dark for a mission to end, I remember listening on the radio to the banter between two gunners. One had an unusually large head and the other unusually crooked teeth.

“Wilson, I need help opening my MRE. Walk over here and use your teeth to saw it open.”

“Why don’t you smash it open with your gigantic head?”

“Your teeth actually might SCARE it open.”

“Like your huge head scared your mother when she had to deliver you?”

…And so on. In short order, every one of us was laughing – perhaps to the point of compromising our tactical readiness. Yet we all stayed awake and mostly alert. On long missions, boredom to the point of desperation trumps manners. And despite the undeniable hostility and decidedly offensive language, these two Marines were roommates and close friends.

There are places where such conversations are wholly inappropriate and hurtful, but Iraq isn’t one of them. Troops are often outside the wire, usually in the same vehicle, and have the same purpose: keep each other alive, complete the mission, and go home safely. Gentility becomes far less relevant.

Regardless of their brutality, one thing remains a fact: each of these young men and women are friends with each other and trusts them with their lives. And besides this, there are still rules to the “game.” Most consider racial jokes and “your mom” comments to be acceptable, but nobody says a thing about a man’s wife or children. In fact, remarks about spouses or children are always encouraging, edifying, and complimentary. If there’s nothing nice to say, they simply remain quiet. (Even when a Marine Corporal I know named his newborn son “Corporal”) These guys aren’t total criminals; they’re just pigs.

And thus, I have witnessed innumerable derogatory conversations about Mexicans, white people, blacks, Jews, Asians, fat people, skinny people, and any other defining title under the sun. Quite often, their sources are of the same ethnic or philosophical origin. For example, I know a black Marine with a German SS tattoo on his arm. It’s all in good fun. In fact, I’ve even observed this behavior in other armies.

While visiting an Iraqi army barracks a few years ago, Iraqi soldiers went around the room and identified themselves as Sunni, Shiite, Yazidi, and even a couple self-described devil worshippers. As they joked about each other, they stroked their chins and casually drew a finger across their throats. But they’re not serious. Many of them stated to me directly what most US troops quietly live by daily: “I don’t care what he believes; he’s my brother.” Their actions demonstrate it, too.

Our big headed Marine was often known simply as “The Head.” Everybody knew who it referred to. The one with the misaligned orthodontia was occasionally called “Chainsaw.” “Beak” had an enormous nose, naturally. The unit’s two Smiths were differentiated as “Stinky Smith” and “Stupid Smith.” A Hispanic Marine titled himself “Your Friendly Neighborhood Minority” (think Spiderman). Here on this base, “Radio” is named after a mentally retarded man from a movie. “Honeytrap” is a female Soldier called upon whenever looks might help get what the unit needs. As for “Trouser Snake,” I elected not to ask. It doesn’t particularly matter. They’re all in the same boat, working to complete the same mission, and all would unthinkingly do everything in their power to preserve the life of their brothers and sisters.

Besides, when everybody is home, they’ll find something besides vulgarity to occupy their time. But out here, it’s no holds barred. When the mission in the sun gets tiresome or the late night mission swatting sand flies runs long, the jokes, the insults and the verbal assaults begin. And when it’s over, they’ll all go home as friends. They’re not hateful in the least; they’re just bored, tired, and lonely. Why not make this forced marriage (and a bad one) fun?

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

The Whole Clip

2009-09-25T04:12:00.002-04:00

*Retold with permission.

Even though I’m really thirsty right now, I can’t drink too much water. My stomach can’t handle it. I can’t eat much either. It’s a complicated story.

From about 2004 to 2007, I was fighting alongside my friends and neighbors in an attempt to keep Al Qaeda out of our area. We weren’t really a militia, but a group of locals just trying to keep our community safe. We’ve seen how they kill people for no reason, even women and children.

According to Al Qaeda, the Prophet didn’t cut his hair, so they kill all the barbers. The Prophet didn’t drink cold water, so they kill the guys who distribute ice. Even the people who make mattresses or pillows. The Prophet didn’t have those comforts, so they kill them too. Same with smokers, real estate agents, people who wear shorts, and so on. I don’t understand how they do it because it’s not what the Koran teaches. In fact, the word “Islam” itself means “peace.” We’re taught to respect and accept all people. We’re supposed to pray for unbelievers, not kill everybody who believes differently than us.

Al Qaeda would kill the innocent and hide the bodies everywhere. They’re like cavemen. They’d murder somebody, scrape out a shallow grave, and throw in the corpse. Often they’ll cover them with a little dirt, pour oil or diesel over the whole area to keep down the odor, and then sprinkle some dust over it to hide the evidence. Other times they hide bodies in walls and cement over them. I know they kill women and children because we’ve dug up some of these graves before and found murdered women still holding their babies. They were butchers, and we hated them.

But we hardly had enough bullets to defend ourselves, much less our whole community. Al Quaeda would attack with a hundred and we’d hold them off, but then they’d come back with maybe four hundred. We lost a lot of people. All I did was fight – nearly every day – for almost three years. We fought cowards; men who murder the innocent and run away. This whole country had plenty of them.

When I was home once, an old friend called me and asked if I wanted to stop by. I said I would and drove over. But when I walked up to him, he shot me, point blank. Somehow, even though I’d kept it a secret, he’d found out that I was fighting for Al Qeada. And he, also in secret, had been working for Al Qaeda. When they learned who I worked for, they told him to kill me. In an instant, he betrayed twelve years of friendship.

He emptied the 9mm clip into me. Of the fifteen rounds, fourteen of them hit me. The first hit in me in my elbow and the next few in my chest near my heart. Somehow I stayed standing for those, but when the next one lodged in my stomach, I collapsed. As the others fighters yelled “finish him,” he fired the rest of the magazine into me and ran away. I can’t describe the pain to you. It was worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.

A number of people walked up and stared at me lying on the ground bleeding, but nobody helped. I begged them to, but they were all too afraid to actually aid me. They were afraid that the fighters would come back. Eventually, I resorted to bargaining with them. I asked them to at least call my family so they could come get me out of the street. If they didn’t, the dogs would eat my body. I deserved to be buried, I told them. Finally, after two hours of bleeding on the side of the road, they called. By the time my family came to get me, I was nearly dead.

My parents rushed me to the hospital, but when they discovered how low my blood pressure was, they refused to take me into emergency surgery. The anesthesia would make my heart stop completely, they said. For two more hours, I waited in agony. Eventually they figured I wasn’t going to die and took me in to operate.

Four hours into the surgery, my heart stopped and I remember seeing a white light. Then I remember being jerked awake; maybe by the paddles. Not just back to life, but awake, IN surgery. I was still completely paralyzed, but I could move my eyes. Looking down my body, I could see my stomach held open and the surgeon working on me. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to scream in pain, but I couldn’t. They knew I was awake, but they couldn’t give me any more anesthetics. My heart might stop again. After seven hours of surgery, I was moved to recovery. The doctor was amazed I lived at all. He said it was a miracle.

It was six months before I could walk, and another two before I could move my arm. The bullet had severed some of the nerves. Even now I only have limited use of it. At first, even blowing on my hand caused excruciating pain, so I had to wear a glove. More than a year later, I still don’t feel pain when I put it in boiling water. It feels cool for some reason.

This was all about the time my father died, too. He’d been alternately weak and ill for quite some time, but my almost getting murdered put him over the edge. Before he died, he told me that the best way to get back at them was to fight with the Americans, and he was right. I did what was right by him and by myself. Soon after his death, I reported as much as I could to the Iraqi army and police, watched them arrest my former friend and many others, and then went to work as a translator for the US. Since then, I’ve been all over here and Baghdad trying to turn in more of them.

The surgeon who saved my life has been killed now, too, but by Jaish Al Mahdi – which is probably worse than Al Qaeda. While Al Qaeda mostly killed just Shiites, JSM killed everybody. If they didn’t know you, you were dead. My surgeon, who saved my life and the lives of many others, ultimately couldn’t save himself.

And now, most of my friends are either dead from Al Qeada or Jaish Al Mahdi, or working for them. My father is dead, Al Qaeda bombed my house, I’ve lost all my possessions, and there’s a $20,000 reward for my head in my hometown. I’m a man with nothing to lose. I’ll work for the Americans as long as I can, turn in as many bad guys as I possibly can, and then, as the US leaves and this country descends into civil war, I’ll leave with them. There’s nothing left for me here now. Nothing but fear, violence, and eventually death. These people aren’t ready for freedom. They don’t know what to do with it.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Further Myths

2009-09-23T16:06:00.000-04:00

Recently, I spoke with somebody in the states who believed that troops in Iraq, from the moment they set foot in-country until the very moment they departed, are constantly engaged in epic, house-to-house combat on the eminently dangerous streets of Iraq. When I got over my initial shock at this misassumption, I explained that this was not the case. Troops here, as always, spend most of their time waiting.

In the Mojave desert in California, I once waited fifteen hours for a flight to arrive. Elsewhere, I waited three for flight mechanics to replace a battery for our plane. Most formations, when a commander announces the time, will be “15 minutes priored” through every leader in the chain of command. The company commander said be there at noon, so the first sergeant says 1145, the platoon sergeant says 1130, the section leaders pass down 1115, and the squad leaders say 1100. The end result is that small clusters of troops will appear at random intervals outside a barracks, wander over to join other small clusters of troops, then walk a dozen yards to a third location to stand for another half hour. Eventually, usually some time well after noon, the commander will come out for the formation. Some people don’t mind it, but the vast majority of veterans I know are absolutely intolerant of waiting in lines. They’ve already done more than their fair share of it.

Iraq is similar to this. There are hours of briefings, hours of preparation for a mission, and then eventually the mission itself. If the mission is a planned one, troops will normally be gathered on the vehicles at least an hour prior to actually departing. There is gear and equipment to prepare, and then there is more waiting.

Even the missions themselves aren’t terribly action-packed. With notable exceptions, they are mostly driving or walking, a little bit of talking with locals, a lot of water-drinking, some more driving or walking, some more talking, and long, dull hours manning weapons in vehicle turrets. Firefights and IEDs, should they even happen, are usually short-lived. Thus, my most memorable time of four years and five months in the Marine Corps can be distilled down to about two hours of interesting or harried missions, firefights, and attacks. Everything else was just waiting.

During one EOD mission (for which unit provided the outer cordon), my vehicle was parked for several hours directly outside a mosque. Under normal circumstances, mosques loudly broadcast prayers perhaps five times a day. We should have heard them twice. But, as is often the case of religious leaders in Iraq, they will deliberately broadcast prayers (and anti-American messages) at other times just to annoy us. In this particular case, the local leader had a young child belt them out. Needless to say, it made the waiting all the more unpleasant.

Other wars have been different from this one (what such protracted engagements as the Battle of the Bulge, Okinawa, etc), but even still, waiting is what dominates most of a mission, most of a war, and most of military service. Junior servicemembers occasionally gloat that they’re overpaid to wait, but then quickly lament that they’re underpaid to get in firefights or hit by IEDs. I can’t say I disagree. My “war” is about two hours over almost four and a half years. For others, it’s a few days, or perhaps a week, or the month of combat during Operation Phantom Fury to finally subdue and secure Fallujah. It all depends on the individual servicemember’s experiences.

If troops were to be shot at constantly for the entire length of their tour, few would have good odds of coming home, despite the notoriously (and laughably) poor marksmanship skills of insurgents. Eventually, according to statistics, they would be hit. War is hurry up, wait, and then move quickly for a few minutes. In truth, troops spend months, years, or perhaps the vast majority of their careers training and waiting for something they may only occur for a matter of minutes. Is it ludicrous? Not at all. It’s proper planning.

The advent of IEDs certainly increases one’s danger outside the wire, but even still it has never been a sure thing. It’s a crap shoot. Whenever somebody announces that they’re going to Iraq, the first thing that flashes through peoples’ minds (however briefly), is that this person is going to get killed. The media has done little to help this. Frankly, nor have veterans. Quite simply, we don’t mention the waiting because it was terribly boring.

If my most memorable experiences from the military take place over perhaps two hours of action, those will somehow blossom into innumerable stories and a self-declaration of combat expertise, all at the expense of fact: we trained some, waited a lot, and fought a little.

I waited in formations until I felt like fainting (some did), as one outgoing commander yakked about how nice the command was and the new commander (invariably after assuring us that his remarks would be brief), spoke at length about his new command and how honored he is. I’ve waited at the position of attention until I fell asleep, tipped forward, and hitting the guy in front of me awakened me.

I’ve waited on the trucks for hours while mission start times changed, intelligence reports were verified, or various personnel were tracked down from wherever they decided to wander off and hide. I’ve waited countless hours outside the wire as EOD blows up an IED, or as an officer inside a local home, police station or compound has a meeting with a local leader. I’ve waited in the turret while the sun rose around me and the heat came back, or as the sun went down and the sand flies came out and ate all of us alive. I’ve waited for the rain to stop so I could finally get some sleep, or waited in my sleeping bag until my boots thawed enough to put them on. I’ve waited for the trucks to warm up, or for the truck to get fixed, or for the wrecker to come and tow my truck, or Motor T to loan me a new one, or for my commander to get a brief about what we’re doing next.

I’ve waited to get chewed out, to have my uniform or room inspected, or for the battalion sergeant major (who didn’t have a license because of repeated DUIs) to remind us all, once again, to not drink and drive. I’ve waited for my platoon sergeant and the chaplain to say the same thing. I distinctly remember waiting for whatever we were doing to end: the mission, the convoy, the PT session, the brief, the powerpoint presentation with photographs of various STDs, the search for a missing weapon, the “health and comfort inspection, the air flight status to return to green, the awards ceremony, the promotion, repeated speeches about why we leave our curtains open during work hours, how we should watch out for our buddies in liberty ports, etc. And of course, I remember waiting to get out of the military.

This is not intended to downplay the salaries that troops receive, or suggest that they serve no other purpose than standing by. The nature of standing army is that there will be waiting. Out here, they wait to go on missions, wait for the missions to end, and always wait to go home. That, more than anything else, is the thing most eagerly anticipated: going home. Barring the few minutes or hours where troops are engaged in combat, calling in medical evacuations, dropping rounds, sending rounds downrange, or closing with the enemy, chances are they are waiting for something else. Are they waiting to kill something or even to die? Not in the least; they’re waiting to go home. Their loved ones back home are waiting for them, too. And in reality, the whole nation should be.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

A Different Perspective

2009-09-22T15:21:00.001-04:00

*Retold with permission.

Guys like to talk about how awful it is out here, how much they hate it, or how much they want to go home, but I’m not one of them. Truthfully, I absolutely love it out here. And running missions outside the wire – that’s my happy place. It’s taken me 22 years to find this.

I might be fairly young, but I’ve held almost every job you can think of already, and I wasn’t able to keep any of them for very long. They’re too boring; like you’re trapped in a state of meaninglessness. The Army – specifically the infantry – is perfect for me. I’d gladly do twenty years out here. All I need is ammunition, MREs and water. I’m not suited for a “normal” life, I guess.

I admit that I’m a thrill seeker and an adrenalin junkie. And this, far more than anything else I’ve found in the states (legally), satisfies the cravings. This is awesome, that is when we’re doing something – not just sitting around and waiting. The action is appealing, but so is the purposefulness. You don’t get that with most jobs. Whereas most people do things for money, I do this because I enjoy it. It’s an added benefit that I get paid to do it.

I also acknowledge that this is extremely dangerous. Believe me, hitting an IED the other day was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever been through. The reality is that people here still want us dead, and they’re still going to do whatever they can to accomplish that. Tragically, they may take out some of us along the way. I don’t have a death wish by any means, but I still want to be here.

I think that most people back home are under the impression that we do this for our country or that we’re fierce patriots giving our lives to protect Americans. I don’t believe that’s accurate, or at least not the reason why I’m do it. I’m not here for them, and I’m really not even here for my country. I’m here for my friends and family: they being the guys around me and beside me out here. This unit, like any other good unit, is a family. I think that’s how most of the Soldiers view it: they’re either here to dutifully protect the brothers that go with them, or they’re here to honor the brothers they lost. It’s certainly sacrificial, but not necessarily for America as a whole.

I didn’t volunteer to come fight the war in Iraq or because I particularly care about the Iraqis. Ultimately, this is their country, and very shortly it will be up to them to sort things out. We came here because this is where the US government sent us and gave us a mission to execute. People think we chose this, but we didn’t. We just go where we are ordered. Nobody really wants to be here, except for maybe me, because I’m an adrenalin junkie or something. At any rate, for the time being, the US government wants us here. Eight months after we get back from this tour, they will want us in Afghanistan.

As much as I may like it out here, it’s still not at all what I anticipated. The best part is when I’m actually doing my job: outside the wire, dismounting and patrolling. That’s truly my happy place. Unfortunately, we’re not doing that as often anymore. I was here nearly three months before I did what I was actually trained to do, and I have no idea how long I’ll have to wait before I can do it again. As the operations tempo continues to slow, we’re talking more, driving more, but “doing” less. I consider it a bad day when nothing happens, strange as that may sound.

But still, I like it. I like being outside the wire. This is far more exciting than any of the jobs I worked before I came in, far more purposeful, and admittedly far more dangerous. Maybe that’s the appeal: more adrenalin, more excitement, and great friends. After 22 years of searching, I’ve finally found my niche.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Adopting Home

2009-09-21T17:03:00.002-04:00

*Reprinted with permission of the Fluvanna Review

*Retold with permission.

Like many other units out here did, we adopted a pet on our last tour. Our case, though, was a little more elaborate. I guess at some point a dog had stolen onto the FOB [forward operations base] and had a litter of four pups or so. Then most of them died, only one survived, and she wandered off again and abandoned it.

It was extremely small when we first saw it. In fact, its ears may have still been closed. We saw it wobbling along out in the open, and didn’t really know what to do with it.

“We should shoot that thing. It probably has some sort of disease, or maybe rabies,” said one of the Soldiers.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t doing it.”

“Me neither. I’m not shooting a puppy.”

None of us would, in fact, so we did the only other logical thing we could think of: we fed it.

Not surprisingly, it grew big rapidly, and between hand-fed meals and the constant contact of an entire unit lining up to play with it, it grew pretty fond of us. We liked it. It was cute, and a refreshing break from day-to-day operations.

I know this happens a lot out here, too, and each person does it for their own reasons. For me, though, it was the closest thing to America – a domesticated, furry pet to care for. We may be infantry and usually considered tough guys, killers or even lunatics, but we’re still human. We’re not out here to butcher innocent creatures, people or animals. For us, this reminded of us home.

More than this, most of us are also fathers or husbands, too. The desire to nurture and care for something is almost innate within us. We can’t really care for our children out here, or our wives, but we can definitely take care of a little puppy and make sure it’s well treated.

Despite us trying to keep the dog fairly well concealed, our first sergeant spotted it one day and demanded to know why the hell some well-fed stray dog would perk up and happily run over to us every time it saw us. We decided to come clean and explained we’d had it nearly since it was born. He relented a little, but told us he never wanted to see it again. If he did, that’s the last we’d see of it. Okay, first sergeant, we promised take care of the situation.

So, we built it a pen. Behind our living area we had some free space, so we rustled up some tools and materials and built a relatively large fenced area for it. The dog didn’t particularly care, since we still spent plenty of time with it. The pen was in the area where we all went to smoke and hang out when we got off missions, so it definitely received more than enough attention. Since we were there for fifteen months, we’d grown pretty fond of it. We set it loose when we left to go home, and I’m hopeful it’s still doing okay.

We found ourselves with pets on this tour too, in almost the same way. A little marmalade cat wandered up one day looking half starved, and out of pity, we started to feed it. While our company commander was on leave, it went into his quarters and had a litter of kittens. We knew it’d be trouble, too.

Sure enough, there was one kitten in the litter that liked to wander, and whenever we saw it, we’d quickly grab it up and put it back with the litter. In time, people started observing us acting somewhat strangely, and asked us what the hell we were doing. As before, we told the whole story. But, since none of us are really “keeping” them here, they’ve been allowed to stay. The kittens are getting bigger now, and even mom has warmed up to us, too. Besides, they’re helping to keep the rodents down. Lord knows there’s a lot out here – especially on a base that used to be a granary.

We do this because it’s normal, and it reminds us of home. We all miss our families back there, so it’s nice to have something to focus our affections on – even if it’s a semi-wild animal that more adopted us than we adopted it. It happens all over Iraq. We find furry things and take care of them. This whole badass image we have really doesn’t hold much water. In the end, we’re all humans and we all miss home. This helps bring it a little closer for us. And in the absence of something better, it works quite well.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

Coming Soon

2009-09-21T16:33:00.001-04:00

"A Din of Pigs"

A Good 15

2009-09-19T15:21:00.001-04:00

*Retold with permission.

We landed in Kuwait at the beginning of my second tour expecting to head out to western Iraq, but those plans quickly changed – the first of many surprises. Before we’d even begun heading north, a frag-o [fragmentary order] came down the line directing us to Baghdad. With sectarian violence spiraling out of control, we were among a number of units diverted to central Iraq to help stanch the flow of blood.

As the first Stryker unit to operate within Baghdad, we quickly found our vehicles relatively unsuited to the narrow streets and confusing alleyways of the city, but we maximized our maneuverability as best we could. Wherever our vehicles couldn’t reach, our dismounted Soldiers certainly could, leaving us with 100% coverage of our battlespace. We would need it badly.

Our AOR [Area of Responsibility] within the city was bisected by a single large road. To one side lay Sunnis, and to the other, Shiites. Without question, their behavior was a godawful representation of humanity. On any given day, we would find between one and ten bodies, mostly murdered execution-style. We frequently be out on a patrol, hear a brief report of gunfire nearby, and rush around the corner to find somebody else dead or dying in the street. Of course, none of the locals ever saw anything. They were either terrified for their lives or part of the problem. We could never tell.

Various Shiite militia and terrorist groups would even go so far as to create fake checkpoints along the road, too. They’d set up quickly, murder a few Sunnis as they came through, and fade away just as quickly. They were always too brief for us to pinpoint and respond. They were so prepared that they’d have weapons and other material stashed along the roads at random intervals. They simply walked up empty-handed, “fell in” on their weapons, killed a few people, dropped the weapons again, and disappeared into the city. It was completely lawless.

We were assigned to work in partnership with a local element of the Iraqi National Police, which, at least initially, was a disaster. The unit, a predominantly Shiite group operating in a mixed Sunni and Shiite area, was rife with corruption. We suspected that many of the officers were acting on personal interests rather than the law, and in some cases working directly for various local terrorist organizations, to include handing over people to the terrorists. We’d have our interpreters monitor their comm traffic and hear them talking about us using code words. Our first order of business was getting them in line.

It took a month or two to vastly improve that police unit, but we were successful. When we first started working with them, we’d tell them we would begin our joint patrol at 0600, but arrive at 0545 to find them all still asleep. After immense effort, we changed that. We’d arrive at 0600 and find them geared up and ready to step. In time, they become some of our greatest allies.

The bulk of our operations were clearing missions. Using company-sized forces of US personnel and augmenting with national police, we would completely cordon off various sections of the city, bar all entrance and departure, and methodically search every home, every room, and property, documenting every “atmospheric” we could obtain.

Abandoned properties (and there were plenty of them) were usually either safehouses for terrorist operations, or housed weapons caches. We found several caches with an alarming number of silenced weapons. Homemade though many of them were, they were highly effective. If they were fired nearby, we’d never hear a thing. We even found a torture house, complete with chains, drills and other torture devices. It was sobering, to say the least.

One neighborhood and block at a time, we cleared our entire AOR, then started over again – this time at random locations, on a smaller scale, and with absolutely no warning. It turned out to be a highly effective form of terrain denial that left the terrorists confused, constantly on the run, and unsure what area was safe, clear, and welcoming to their presence. We were highly successful.

As our AO quieted down, we were temporarily relocated down into a more rural region on the outskirts of southern Baghdad. The units down there were getting hammered constantly and overwhelmed with IEDs along one particular stretch of dirt road, and the whole area was a known hotbed of Al Qaeda activity. Just as we had before, we worked with these units to methodically clear the fields, canals, palm groves and houses.

We also helped them man checkpoints every 600 meters along the road to help reduce IEDs. Somehow, the insurgents still planted a few – even 500 pound aircraft bombs. I have no idea how they pulled that off without detection. At one point, they managed to destroy an Abrams tank down there – so catastrophically that the turret was blown off of the vehicle. We never took the same route twice. We’d go in one way, and return another. Retracing our steps was virtually suicide.

Our outpost down there was a three story house bristling with weapons. Not only were we dealing with constant attacks outside the wire, but our base of operations was equally threatened. On just the roof of this building we had counter-mortar radar, at least ten crew-served machine guns, and within the small compound we stood by with multiple dismount elements, tanks, Strykers, and a quick reaction force ready to spin up at a moment’s notice. Rockets and other indirect fire, and sniper attacks were a daily occurrence.

Directly to the south of this position was the terminus of our AOR, and an area that nobody dared venture. Anyone who did was pretty much guaranteed an attack. One tank platoon tried it, but lost a tank within a few hundred meters. Not even helicopters entered that battlespace very often. They kept getting shot down.

We were mostly successful in securing our area, and as a new unit arrived to replace us, we prepared to leave, this time for the green zone. But unfortunately, that new unit wasn’t well prepared for their mission, despite our efforts to ready them. After we left, it wasn’t long before the three story house was overrun in a complex attack.

While a maneuver element of fighters distracted perimeter security with small arms fire, a suicide bomber in a dump truck drove as close as he could and detonated himself. They’d fired on him, but he made it within 50 meters of the compound, and the blast was still so powerful that it took down the t-walls and destroyed part of the building itself. I don’t know the exact figures, but the unit there sustained a horrific number of casualties.

After a short time in the green zone, we were pushed out to Diwaniyah to help a Polish unit that was having difficulty with their area. We literally had to fight our way across the city to reach them. We were also attacked as soon as we arrived inside the base, too.

It was actually a joint base, with Polish, Latvian and Mongolian forces. I had no problems with the Latvians, but the Polish weren’t very impressive, and the Mongolians had been restricted to base for being “overly aggressive.”

As was the case on the other outpost, we sustained daily mortar and rocket attacks – deadly accurate ones, too. Even on base, we wore all our gear. We had to. We began conducting round-the-clock counter mortar patrols with air support, and little by little began killing off all the ground fighters in the region. By the time we readied to leave again, the only significant threat that still remained was the indirect fire [mortars and rockets]. All the other fighters had been killed off.

I remember the day we left that place. I was parked next to a generator on the base, so I couldn’t hear anything. I was installing the .50 cal barrel when I looked up just the right time to see a mortar make a direct hit on the laundry facility. I’ve heard that laundry soap was a major component in a lot of the homemade explosives in the area, so I think that was the reason the entire building went up in a Hollywood-style fireball. A few of us jumped in a humvee and ran to see if we could help, but we didn’t move but perhaps two feet inside the remnants of the building before the heat and the smoke pushed us back. I don’t know if we lost anybody in there, and we were literally on our way out the gate when it happened, anyway. As we drove away, we received word that we were being extended from twelve to fifteen months. Morale, as you might imagine, slumped pretty low.

Our next assignment was the infamous Haifa Street, an area of Iraq known for its enormous high rises apartments, and some of the most derelict slums in their shadows. Our base was the most heavily fortified and defended in the theater. We, unfortunately, were the guinea pigs as we rolled through there. I remember being asked if I could elevate my .50 high enough to reach all sixteen floors of the nearby buildings from our position. I could not. The best I could do was the sixth or seventh.

As we had done before, we began our clearing operations, going from one high rise to another, clearing floor after floor. I was surprised at the number of foreigners in the apartments. Most were well educated, and perhaps one in three spoke English. Sixteen stories of stairs isn’t fun in full kit, believe me. One of the more interesting things we did was paint enormous numbers on all the roofs so we could call air support on specific buildings as needed. God knows we couldn’t reach their higher floors with our weapons.

Between the clearing ops, extensive atmospheric operations, and hiring a local leader as a valuable informant, attacks dropped off significantly in the area, and we focused our attention on the corruption within the local Iraqi Army units.

When we determined who the most corrupt officers were, we set up a sting operation. Under the guise of giving those officers awards, we lured them all to separate vehicles, closed the doors, and arrested them. The culprits included a few of their company commanders and even the battalion commander. That day, as we conducted a joint patrol, I distinctly remember that our weapons were pointed inboard – on the remaining soldiers. We weren’t sure if they intended to revolt. Thankfully, they did not. The arrests didn’t really disrupt our day-to-day operations.

What did, however, were the “isolation zones.” As part of the effort to cut down on free movement of fighters in vehicles, every neighborhood or “muhalla” was surrounded by high t-wall barricades and only one vehicle entrance was left open. At random intervals, that entrance would be closed and another opened. It was highly effective in reducing EJKs [extra-judicial killings], but severely impeded our own movement.

We’d get a drive-by shooting from a dude on a moped right outside the gate, he’d cut through a gap in the barricade, yet in order to respond, we had to go out, drive completely around the compound to the entrance, and then try to find the guy again. While we found it extremely frustrating and I personally thought it was stupid, over the long haul it was very beneficial. Violence was greatly diminished in each compartmentalized area. Our part in the surge, just as it was for many others, was a rousing success.

Despite our extension to fifteen months, despite the danger, the lack of sleep, the constant movement and stress, I actually had a good time on that tour. We were doing good things. I’d lost a few close friends on the first tour, and none of it had settled well with me when I’d come home. I didn’t feel particularly connected to anybody or anything. In many ways, I felt lost.

Though I have no idea what caused it, this second tour was good closure for me, like I was finally taking care of unfinished business. Despite all that happened to us, I came home in much better shape than from the first tour. Maybe it was my age. I wasn’t a year out of high school on that first tour. Whatever the reason, I walked away from the second much more settled than after the first.

Now, things are different. We’re in a supporting role instead of a kinetic one. Rather than conducting missions with an Iraqi Security Force accompaniment, THEY conduct missions and we accompany them if they request it. Since we’re here to enable them rather than do our own thing, the operations tempo has slowed considerably.

Personally, I think the Iraqi forces need more guidance. When we help them, they usually do quite well, but they’re not so good on their own. I think they’re unready to assume total control of operations. I also think they’re stretched pretty thin in some areas. They lack the personnel and equipment they need to fully control their own battlespace. As it is, they’re more reactive than proactive.

But I’m hopeful that it’ll work. It’d BETTER work. I don’t want any more US personnel to lose their lives for a country that seems increasingly ungrateful for our help. We’ve lost enough here already. Furthermore, while I’ve received closure for my service and my tours, I want closure for this war. In fact, the entire United States needs it. It’s time for the Iraqis to take over things and fully secure their own country; and it’s time for all of us to go home. We’ve been at this long enough.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

It's Normal

2009-09-16T13:45:00.002-04:00

The mission today was routine for this area of operations: drive out to a nearby Iraqi Army compound and facilitate a key leader engagement (KLE) between the Soldier’s troop commander and a senior Iraqi Army commander. For US personnel, these missions, while potentially lengthy, are often relaxed. Soldiers sit with Iraqis, drink chai (the Iraqi Arabic word for “tea”), chat with the Iraqi soldiers, and go home. But when the IED went off, the mission changed completely.

As the front vehicle rolled over the crush wire or pressure plate initiator, the device detonated under the front right tire, sending it outwards and airborne perhaps 50 feet. The associated suspension was sheared off, as the blast pressure ripped off the forward skirt armor and swung it back around to hit the vehicle again. The engine, fully eviscerated, lost all its oil and coolant onto the ground in a 30 foot slick before all forward momentum ceased. Inside, communications were down and alarms were sounding. This, believe it or not, is largely irrelevant.

Two things, however, are quite relevant. Foremost, save for a few rung bells and bruises, no Soldier inside the vehicles sustained any serious injuries. Of nearly equal import is what happened after the blast itself.

Inside the vehicle, a few gear items were dislodged and tossed about, alarms screamed into headsets, radios didn’t work, and a heavy layer of dust stirred up by the concussive wave, added to the confusion. Nobody spoke at first. But, as all three “topside” Soldiers lowered themselves back inside, the yelling began.

Each Soldier turned to the man next to him and, hollering above the din of the alarms, asked if he was okay. From the front of the vehicle, the driver scuttled back and checked on the vehicle commander, who in turn checked on him. The coaxial .50 gunner scrunched himself down around his periscopes and electronics and yelled to confirm that the vehicle commander was alright. In the back, the rear gunner demanded the condition of the rear sentry beside him, who more quietly posed the same question back to the gunner. He was still reeling from being struck in the back by two loose ammo cans.

Everybody, it seemed, was fine. Within moments, signals were sent to nearby vehicles, Soldiers snatched up weapons and serialized gear, and then retreated to cover behind another vehicle. Never were the words “I” or “me” uttered. Instead, only “you.”

While being assessed by the on-scene medic, the most common phrase was “I’m fine.” Seven hours later, while watching uninvolved troops take their own photos in front of his totaled vehicle, one involved Soldier had something very memorable to say:

“This isn’t funny, assholes. I could have lost a lot of friends in there.” Neither he, or any other, mentioned anything about himself.

In chaotic situations, it is a natural inclination to panic. “I’m scared” or “I’m going to die” are perhaps the most common statements, but not here. After determining that his eyes and mouth both apparently worked, every Soldier concerned himself with somebody else. How amazing, and how rare.

Later tonight, these same Soldiers will scour every obscure corner inside their totaled vehicle and pull out sensitive items, weapons, and gear. The vehicle itself will be shipped out of theater for total overhaul. In short order, the Soldiers will be issued another vehicle, into which they will transfer all their equipment. Tomorrow morning, they will head back outside the wire once again. Things will quickly return to normal, or at least to what’s normal out here. What might that be? Concern for somebody else, not oneself.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Not By Logic

2009-09-15T14:56:00.002-04:00

For those that really want to know “what’s it like in Iraq?” simply eavesdrop on a few snippets of conversations while a unit is conducting a mission. Very little of what is said requires explanation. It familiarizes the listener with what’s on their minds, what’s in their hearts, and their past experiences in a combat zone (These are all reminiscent of previous tours in Iraq. The security situation is now, thankfully, much improved.)

“After the IED blew, they discovered that the gunner had slammed his head against a brick wall and died. All they found of the other guy was a torso covered by a flak vest, and a head.”

“The EFP [explosively-formed penetrator] actually saved his life. When it went through his knees, it was hot enough to cauterize the wounds. If that hadn’t happened, he would have bled out.”

“Can he walk?”

“No.”

“A buddy of mine ended up losing one of his legs, the lower half of the other, and one hand. He’s a triple amputee now.”

“The turret was about 150 meters down the road with the guy still in it – or what was left of him.”

“They didn’t find much of anything of the two guys inside. Just a hand, I think.”

“No, getting shot isn’t much fun. I certainly didn’t like it when it happened to me last tour.”

“This is my fifth tour out here.”

“The two hits that really screwed with my mind were the one that mutilated my gunner, and the one that went off right next to our truck but didn’t hurt any of us.”

“I’ve seen guys shit themselves when IEDs go off. It happens. Others get back to base, see all the shrapnel damage, and when they realize how they were only a fraction of an inch from dying, they finally break down.”

“After the IED where they found the guy against the brick wall, that was only the beginning. When EOD showed up, one of the guys ended up getting his legs mangled when they got caught under the mine plow. Then a sniper took out another Soldier.”

And to these stories I can add the Marine in my battalion whose remains were picked off the roadside by a first sergeant carrying a trash bag, or the guy they found in pieces on a nearby roof, or the Navy Corpsman whose legs were both traumatically amputated when an antitank mine went off under a tire and caused the vehicle’s armor to fold back over him. There are others. And although these incidents are certainly (and thankfully) on the decline, it’s still Iraq and these events have replayed countless times. It’s not normal.

But it is reality for the troops, and consequence of the fact that they are well acquainted with their own mortality and the fragility of human life. Most people, I submit, would be utterly immobilized with fear or horror, but there is no place for it here. These conversations take place on missions, while vehicles navigate known insurgent hotspots, weave around filled-in IED craters and some not so refilled. The possibility remains that it may happen again.

“I don’t worry about it, really. If it’s my time, it’s my time, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

It would be a lie to say there is no fear here, because it is a natural sentiment in the face of imminent danger. But paramount to any fear or apprehension is duty. And what it illustrates is that nearly every man in combat arms is well aware of what fate may await him, but nevertheless reenlists, redeploys, volunteers to man the turret, to dismount and inspect the roadsides repeatedly. They will run hundreds of missions per tour, and many will be back here or in Afghanistan in less than two years time.

“People might think we’re bloodthirsty warmongers, but we actually want to go home more than they want us home. Nobody hates war more than those fighting them.”

What’s it like in Iraq? Dangerous, and sometimes people die. They did so doing their jobs, though, because their nation called them. Is it illogical? Perhaps, yet nations aren’t purchased and preserved by logic, but by men with hearts for duty and selflessness. You will find no greater demonstration of this than here. So again, what is Iraq like? Again, it is dangerous. But you will find yourself in good company, for it is also where America has collected her finest citizens.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Conversations

2009-09-14T15:46:00.003-04:00

For perhaps the first time since coming out here, I directly asked two Soldiers what they felt the public most needed to know about them, about Iraq, and about the war. The following remarks, retold with permission, was the response from one of them.

“What I most want the public to know is that we’re out here acting under orders and executing a mission, and we’ll keep doing that until the mission is complete. Yeah, we think about things – we’re not stupid – but we’re here to carry out the mission with which we’ve been tasked. We’re unique in that we’re the ones the volunteered to trust the decisions of our leaders and take their orders. The options are to do that, or sit at home, bitch and complain about everything, but ultimately do nothing. I think it counts for something that we care enough to volunteer. It’s only maybe 1% of the population that does that.

“I think that if people came out here, they’d be a little more understanding. They’d see what we go through, and they’d also see what the Iraqis go through – and what we’re trying to prevent. They’re out here killing each other, and we’re attempting to intervene. Better that than nothing, I’d say. It’s better than just complaining about it.

“In general, I’d say people really support us. A number of folks back home understand us and understand what a combat zone is like – they always take care of us with tons of care packages and letters. They’re good people, and I think they should be recognized for it. Same with the people who don’t really understand, but really support us anyway. They have an idea that it’s difficult out here, they admit that they don’t really grasp everything in full, but they still stand behind us 100%. I admire that. And even the folks that don’t really support the effort, but definitely support the guys fighting it. I’m thankful they’re taking such good care of us.

“The ones I don’t particularly like are the ones that don’t get it, don’t support what we’re doing, and then somehow ‘punish’ us for the policies they oppose. But they forget that we’re not setting policy out here. We’re following the orders of our commanders, who are in turn following the guidance from THEIR commanders – all the way back to the elected leadership of the nation. In the end, it’s they who decide what’s going on here – even though most of them have never been to Iraq. If this is a chess game, we’re the pawns. You have to go a long way before you reach any bishops, castles or queens.

“I think that people back in the states are reluctant to blame one person for whatever they disagree with over here. They’re hesitant to put full responsibility on either an individual or a small body of leaders for their objections to things. It’s easier to blame all of us – the pawns – the 1% of the population that volunteered to do something for their country. We didn’t volunteer for the mission; we volunteered to serve. Sadly, we still get blamed a lot for the mission, which makes no sense.

“I think the hardest thing for us is that we didn’t expect to operate this way. We spend months training on machine gun and rifle ranges. We practice gunnery skills and clearing houses and detaining suspects. We practiced combat missions, because our job is to kill the enemy. Nowhere in our pre-deployment package did we get any classes on being ambassadors, statement or politicians. That job is best reserved for politicians; not men and women who were trained to shoot and destroy the enemy.

“How many people would have joined if they knew this was what they were going to be doing? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I think it depends on the person and their specific reasons for joining."

He seemed finished with this monologue, and the vehicle went silent for a few minutes before he returned to chatting with his partner up front.

“Hey, so how long do you think we could survive in this town by ourselves? Think we’d make it through the night?”

“I dunno man. If I barricaded myself in a fortified building and I was heavily armed, maybe.”

“Yeah, I was thinking either that or run and hide all night. No way in hell we’d survive the daylight hours. They’d kill us…”

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

Haifa (By Ben Shaw)

2009-09-13T14:58:00.001-04:00

*Reprinted with permission from the Fluvanna Review.

*Retold with permission

Until about eighteen months ago, Haifa Street through Baghdad was known as one of the most dangerous roads in central Iraq. You’d had a good day if you didn’t get blown up or shot at moving through there. None of us particularly enjoyed missions that took us along that route, since it was usually just a matter of time before we were hit with something.

We did a patrol through there in Bradleys one night, and as we hit a straight stretch, we started hearing rounds ping off the armor. We weren’t exactly sure where it came from, so my vehicle commander stuck his head out the commander’s hatch and peered out into the dark with night vision goggles. A second later, a round impacted right next to him, so he ducked back down and used the internal optics. In back, I switched on the screen to see what he was looking at.

There on thermals, plain as day, an Iraqi Army soldier was shooting at us from the balcony. You could even see the shell casings flying from the weapon as he fired. Then he stopped, looked around, took off his flak vest and helmet, and tried to look innocent. A moment later, he put his gear back on and resumed shooting directly as us.

Friendly fire isn’t unheard of in Iraq, but there are times when there’s simply no excuse for it. There’s no other vehicle like a Bradley. It’s loud as hell and easily identifiable. If you’re shooting at it, you’re doing it deliberately. It’s not like a single guy on the ground; it’s a huge, loud, armored vehicle with a 25mm cannon mounted on the turret.

My vehicle commander radios up the chain to see if we have any friendly troops in the area. Are there any known IA positions nearby? If yes, then why the hell is an IA soldier shooting at us? His inquiry went all the way up the chain, then back down. The answer: there are no friendly troops at that position. All fire is hostile. Yeah, no kidding… We all start dismounting as the 25 opens up.

A second later, the entire side of the building explodes as HE [high explosive] rounds level the entire structure. It was awesome, like the fourth of July. I was standing there in awe when a bullet from the opposite direction rips through the cargo pocket on my pants. Shit; we were getting shot at from the other side of the road, too.

Over the next hour and a half, we fought hard. People were coming out of the woodwork to shoot at us, and it got pretty harried a few times. We kept gunning with everything we had on the ground, both small arms and our main guns [25mm Bushmasters]. Overhead, helicopters fired away with their 30mm cannons as the hot, heavy brass rained down us below. Dangerous as it was, it was absolutely beautiful. We were finally doing something – and definitely taking out the enemy. Eventually, everything fell silent, and we headed back home. After that night, nobody really ever got hit hard on Haifa. Whoever they were, we’d pretty much cleared them out.

Sometime later, we were doing another night patrol on Haifa, and our driver turns a corner and plows into a tangle of concertina wire somebody had left in the middle of the road. Sure enough, it snagged in the treads and then wrapped around the sprocket. It was massive enough that we couldn’t continue to roll. We’d have to cut it out before we moved any further.

When we dismounted, the birds nest was so bad that thought we might have to break tread, which is complex, time-consuming, and just a major pain in the ass, especially in the dark. We figured we could get by without doing it, but it’d still take awhile.

As we screwed around trying to cut out the wire, we sort of lost track of time, and before we knew it the sun was up – and we’re stuck there on Haifa Street, vulnerable as hell, trying to get our Bradley operable. People were starting to come out and stare at us, too, so we pushed out dismounts and got the interpreters out to explain the situation.

The terps told the locals that we’d run into a heap of concertina wire and now we were stuck out there trying to cut it loose. To our surprise, they said no problem. Even more than that, they said we’re welcome there because we were out killing the bad guys. Then, to everybody’s total amazement, they came out, grabbed their own tools and equipment, and pulled out the wire for us. We were so thankful that we gave them all the waters and Gatorades we had on our vehicles, said a bunch of thank you’s, and headed back to base.

Haifa Street hasn’t been the same since that morning. Nothing happens through there anymore. It’s not a gauntlet now; it’s just another road.

Copyright © 2009, the Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

Roger (By Ben Shaw)

2009-09-12T14:49:00.002-04:00

*Reprinted with permission from the Fluvanna Review.

It is the habit of people when they lose a friend to pontificate about how well they knew him or her and how dearly they will be missed. Such talk, however, is often hollow, spoken by distant acquaintances or those that attempt to borrow grief out of some great desire for self-flagellation. Those that know them closest are silent in their grief. They have nothing to say.

As for Sgt Roger L. Adams, I will make no such claim of knowing him closely, for I did not. I knew him only briefly, but what I remember of him was good. He had character.

During our tour in Iskhandariyah, Adams was sent as a replacement for another Marine who not long before was killed in action. He volunteered for the position.

He was friendly, to say the least, and not the sort of leader who needed to resort to screaming and threats to relay orders. If he asked you to do something, you simply did it. Chances are he’d be helping you, anyway. I don’t ever recall seeing him angry. He laughed a lot.

After thirteen years as a Marine Infantryman, Adams moved over to the Army National Guard, and was serving with the 120th Combined Arms Brigade in and around Baghdad. Like all others who choose to make a career of the military, he was doing what loved most.

He rode in our second humvee, which I believe sustained more hits than any other in our unit. Humorous to all of us, including him, it was never hit again after he arrived. Yet that fortune departed him on June 29th, when he and three other Guardsmen were killed in a catastrophic IED attack in Baghdad. He leaves behind a wife and four sons. He was 36.

I spoke with several of the Guardsmen who were serving with Adams when he died, and they miss him dearly. Though it was painful, they wished to tell me more about him and why they liked him. They told me about the memorial service held for him and the three others, and how they found it powerful, tearful, and meaningful. There in Iraq, more than a week later, several still carried the memorial service bulletin in their pockets. One gave me his copy.

A few Guardsmen volunteered with Adams at the local fire department, where he was known for his extensive knowledge and enthusiasm. Another used to spend his free time with Adams, his wife, and four sons. One offered to give me photographs from the service. Several members of that Guard unit are headed home on R&R, and rather than spend time with their own families, they’re planning to attend Adams’ funeral in North Carolina. Adams was family to them, and they loved him.

That I was no longer serving with him is irrelevant; I still take his death personally. And so should this nation, for they have lost a son. He joins the ranks of several over comrades and leaders who I knew but briefly before Providence saw fit to take them home.

For those who believe the war is over here, think again. Continued attacks on US troops prove otherwise, resoundingly. There is still an enemy here, and that enemy demands the attention and ferocity of the United States Armed Forces.

We will release a sigh and solemnly utter, “rest in peace, Roger,” but he shall have none. At least not until there is no enemy, but peace. There is still a war to fight and his brothers will fight it for him, and for his memory, and for the young family that he leaves behind. Victory is his memorial.

Copyright © 2009, Fluvanna Review, All Rights Reserved

8 Years Later

2009-09-11T17:26:00.000-04:00

Eight years ago today, America was awakened to a threat which had been developing for quite some time. 2,974 people (mostly US citizens, but still representing 90 different countries) died in four separate aircraft hijacking attacks – one into the US Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, two into the Twin Towers on Manhattan Island New York, and one more hijacked over the mid Atlantic states before ultimately crashing into a field in rural Pennsylvania. We were all Americans for a few days and weeks. Soon after, we concentrated on finding somebody to blame. Yet rather than targeting an enemy for attacking us, we often preferred to blame our own for negligence.

But these were far more than unprovoked tragedies. The western world was awakened to the fact that there is an underclass of humanity who, for no other reason than that we breathe free, hates us and will devote every last man to killing all those not like them. They do not negotiate, and will only stop when they have exterminated anybody who dares adhere to a different philosophy.

Eight years later, the United States has more than 170,000 forward-deployed troops serving in a two-front campaign commonly known as the War on Terror. Most people have nothing positive to say about their presence. How quickly we forget our own loss of life.

For the better part of a decade, extremists have been flocking to the Middle East to kill Americans. Some have been successful. However, they have largely ignored US consulates, embassies, and our homeland. US forces have kept them preoccupied. The fight, so to speak, was taken to them and distanced from our own backyards. The United States has sustained no serious terrorist attack since September 11th, 2001. This is a magnificent triumph.

Nowhere in the states are there long lines of cars waiting to pass through vehicle checkpoints every few miles. Nor are concrete barriers compartmentalizing entire cities to limit vehicular traffic and reduce the kill radii of VBIEDs and other explosives placed in crowded areas. For the most part, Americans are free to travel throughout their own country without fear of bombs and executions by rogue police or army personnel. Christians aren’t fearful of attacks at churches on Sundays, and nor are Muslims concerned for their safety as they worship on Fridays. Additionally, enhanced stateside security measures have ensured no air hijackings, rendering airlines the safest means of travel once again. As a whole, Americans are free from the bonds of fear. We win.

We win because, while both fronts of the war continue, Americans are still safe, and still welcome to exercise their Constitutional rights to speak, think, and worship freely. They will not receive “guests” in the middle of the night that order them to leave their homes or face immediate death. No Americans have observed as these visitors carve up a child, cooked his flesh, and fed it back to them. Few Americans have suffered the disappearance of a family member, only to find them in a ditch a few days later, dead by execution. NO American has gone to a store or market and experienced a suicide bomber detonating him or herself in their midst. By and large, Americans are still safe, and woefully unaware of how nice it is.

Their safety has been purchased by the efforts and sacrifices of the United States military, which serves as the final line of defense between a free nation and a world which is increasingly dedicated to forcing their way of life on others. They have paid heavily to maintain our freedoms, and no doubt the death toll will continue to rise.

Is it worth it? Yes. And now is not the time to diminish our footprint. Those that hate the United States continue to pose a legitimate threat to our way of life. They are not a class of human with whom to negotiate, for all kindness is misunderstood as weakness. We are best served to continue acting as the merciful warriors we have trained our military to be. We offer clemency to those who wish it, and we kill those who do not. They will not stop until they are dead, so we must hasten that.

There is worldwide concern these days with being internationally liked and understood, but I would argue that it is of greater import to be right, with only moderate regard to how others feel about it. For, we do not simply support the Constitution for ourselves, but as basic human rights applicable to all humanity. Our efforts are not to simply protect our own, but provide freedom for others worldwide. The nature of our ideals requires they be shared.

Clearly, preservation of these ideals comes at high cost, and there are more than 5,000 families in the United States who have lost a loved one in either Iraq or Afghanistan. And more will fall, too. Few servicemembers over here are unfamiliar with the loss of a comrade. It doesn’t get easier, either.

But it must continue, because the threat also continues. Our eyes are now opened to the clear and present danger to our way of life. They can never be shut again, or not at least until there is no enemy. There are humans worldwide that wish to kill us. We must kill them first, for ignoring them simply emboldens them. There is no room for political correctness, because this is not politics; this is war. It is heartwrenching that it took nearly 3,000 innocent lives to awaken us to this threat. It is tragic that the human investment in our national defense has now far exceeded this number. But, it is absolutely self destructive that we are quick to quit the race. Where went our national spirit? Long passed like the memory of two towers crushing thousands, a jet liner plunging into our Pentagon, a famous phone call from Flight 93? We must choose to fight, lest history repeat itself.

Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog

When Words Fall Short

2009-09-10T16:30:00.001-04:00

Yesterday morning I received a short e-mail which, despite being but a handful of words, broke my heart: "3 KIA,6 others hurt. I need some words of wisdom." Yet I had none. Three killed? Six wounded? What am I to say? I'm not even in the military anymore. Any words I utter, however poetic or powerful, ultimately change nothing. There are still three men gone, and I cannot bring them back.

I am reminded of how I reacted when my unit sustained one killed and another wounded. I remember hearing the news from the platoon commander and walking off to sulk for a bit. I remember not wanting to be inactive, and instead investing all my energy in going down to Motor T and working with the mechanics to repair the damaged vehicle and replace the one destroyed. I remember cannibalizing a windshield off another commander's humvee, and swapping out our shattered one. I remember a friend bringing me a belt of ammunition still covered in blood and saying, "we're all going to load these in our magazines. You want some?" Two hours after the incident, we were ready to run another mission – should one have been assigned to us. The point is we didn't deal with it. We simply couldn't right then. Five years and thirteen days later, I'm not sure I have still.

A few guys cried, mostly the ones who knew the victim more closely than I, but most of us just remained silent. There weren't words to describe how we felt. We'd only been in-country for about six weeks, so we didn't have the luxury of slowing down to think about it. In truth, it had only just begun. Welcome to war. Awful things happen.

There are times when words fail completely. There are times when no single sentence or remark, however heartfelt, will change a situation and reverse or lessen the tragedy that just took place. As a Marine on deployment, I stomached it and did my job. We all did. And now on the outside looking in, I want to help, but feel impotent to do so.

When anybody suffers a loss or tragedy in the states (at least from my observations), there is a custom of calling or sending them cards to express how sorry we are for their loss. Well-intentioned though it may be it falls far short of what is needed. Others will deliver an array of casseroles and buckets of fried chicken, but it's probably more to ease their own feeling of helplessness than render any comfort. None of us knows what to do. But when words fail and actions are insufficient, one great thing remains: presence.

Presence. I may be unable to say anything of substance, but I can bring my full presence to this person. I can sit with them in silence, for at least they will not be sitting alone. They are entering a furnace. They won't like it there, and nor will I, but if I want to help, this is the only way. They are saved from going alone. Words carry little weight here, but WE carry much more.

I cannot claim to understand what it is like to suffer 3 KIA and 6 others hurt. I've had similar experiences, but every single situation is different. Similarly, everybody processes it differently. I am simply able to empathize with the sensation of devastation and loss. While I cannot put it into meaningful words, I can join them where they are. "I will go there with you," said a friend to me, and I have learned much from it.

It is pointless to recite the mantras to the effect of "you still have a mission to accomplish," or "take care of each other so it doesn't happen again." They already know these things. Their grief is at the loss of three loved ones, and the broken families they now leave behind. I can join them, and say nothing. I can show up.

Most troops will not process tragedy in full until they are far removed from those situations, so it stands to reason that their friends and families will see the grief first hand when their loved one returns. How can you help? Say nothing, but give them your full presence. This, perhaps above all else, is why attempting to overload a returning servicemember with questions and attention is so poorly received. They know you won't understand, so they don't bother trying to explain it. Nor do they seriously take comfort in your assurance that you know what they're going through. You do not. But they do respect your presence.

More than simply spending time with those in grief, you are wordlessly expressing love. You are fully there, and entirely because you wish to be. You offer no words of comfort or casseroles or flowers; you offer yourself. And this is the greatest gift you can bring.

For my friend who lost three companions, I have no words of wisdom. Nothing I can say will bring back the three fallen men or restore their devastated families. But, should our paths cross out here, I will offer myself. I will say nothing, for there is nothing to say. Better that than grieve alone. I will attend because that is the best I can do. And may every one of the three go swiftly to God.

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Same Story, Different War (3)

2009-09-09T18:16:00.002-04:00

*Third in the ongoing series of letters between PFC Arthur _____ and his parents back home (WWII). Click here to read the first. Here to read the second.

Burtzback, Germany
April 18, 1946

Dear Mom and Dad,

Well, yesterday, I received a letter from home dated April 7, which isn’t or rather wasn’t too long in getting here, as it usually takes two weeks or longer and, as usual, was glad to hear from you and I was also very pleased to hear that Jack was able to phone you. He told me that he’d probably be very busy but “at least,” he said, he’d try. I hope that you received my other letter, informing you of the probability, before he called.

Yesterday, also, I moved out of my semi-private rook to the barracks, here in camp. I was living in one of the houses that the Army had taken over as living quarters for the soldiers who were staying here but now only officers are allowed to sleep in those buildings; so, I, along with the rest of the EM, had to move out. But these barracks are OK, so I don’t mind too much.

I’m enclosing some stamps that I want you to keep or else change into money. The only reasons I’m sending home stamps is that I haven’t been paid in German currency yet, and so, I can’t send home any money until I do; so, I’m buying stamps and sending those home instead. They’re supposed to be almost as good as money; so do whatever you want to do and if you want to wait…OK.

I have received those three letters that you though I wouldn’t get because of the wrong address, Dad, but there’s nothing doing just yet; so, give me a little more time and I’ll find out exactly what the story is. But in the meantime, don’t be too optimistic because it’s not as easy as one would think it is.

Well, I guess that that’s all there is to write about for now; so bye until the next time.

All my love,

Arthur

It Needs Saying

2009-09-08T17:18:00.001-04:00

In Afghanistan, on August 14th, Marine Lance Corporal Joshua Bernard (21) was mortally wounded by a Taliban RPG while conducting a foot patrol in the Helmand Province. His last few minutes, as he struggled to stay alive and fellow Marines labored to stabilize him, were photographed and filmed by an Associated Press photographer. Against the emotional pleas of his parents and the personal requests of Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, the AP ran the photos anyway. People have been positioning themselves on both sides of the battle lines ever since. As a photographer, an embedded journalist, and a veteran, I strongly oppose the AP’s decision.

As Colonel Jack Jacobs wrote in his article, “The Associated Press Loses Its Way,” the public is well aware of war’s cost in human lives, thus dismantling the AP argument that “it conveys the grimness of war and the sacrifice of young men and women fighting it.” Just ask the more than 4,500 families that have lost loved ones in the War on Terror, or the more than 750,000 families that have sacrificed a loved one to US conflict in the 20th century alone. A picture doesn’t make it any more real for them; it plunges the knife deeper in to unhealed wounds. What would the loved ones of the Virginia Tech massacre said had forensic footage been published? I doubt anything positive.

If a photograph is essential to providing accurate details of a conflict, then are we to assume that all wars prior to photography were poorly understood by the public? I daresay not, since in all wars fewer came home than left – and families were permanently deprived a loved one. They knew first hand, as did all their friends, the “grimness of war.”

If photos and film accurately portrayed violence and gore, they wouldn’t be a staple of movies and graphic novels. Quite simply, they would be too traumatizing. Ask anybody who’s endured a serious car accident. Ask if they think photos compare at all to the real thing. Gore on television and in print is accepted because it does nothing to put the viewer in the actual scene. It satisfies a grotesque curiosity – and makes millions of dollars. I would propose that the AP, like any other company in the entertainment industry, was trying to drum up publicity and a profit. I am extremely disappointed they were successful.

War is not profit; it is hell. A photograph fails to convey the loss of a friend, or the reek of blood mixing with soil in a country that the US will never own, but simply hand back to its rightful owners. It shows no pain. It doesn’t portray the ebbing of life. It doesn’t accurately show grief.

As a veteran, I can’t imagine allowing a reporter to hover around a fallen comrade and take photos. It isn’t a hot story; it’s a man dying. I would have snatched the camera from his/her hands and thrown it towards the enemy. “Go get it now, you bastard. Or get his blood on your hands. What you’re doing deserves it. Profiteering off a death…” I would be disgusted that they are there at all. There’s a special room in hell reserved for these people. Would they take photos in an emergency room too?

As an embedded reporter, I find such a response to be extremely disrespectful, to say the least, and a very poor use of my time. If they’re losing people, they need help. Perhaps I could hold a bandage, or carry ammo, or just lay low and stay out of the way. As a writer, I find their medium odious. They have successfully captured images that will now burn in the minds of Joshua Bernard’s family indefinitely – photographs that the whole world saw, thought “how awful,” and went back to playing on their computers or reading the stock market report.

Very bluntly, the observer wasn’t there. It’s a photo of somebody they’ll never meet, in a country they’ll probably never visit, and they will never experience the fear, the chaos, and the heart wrenching pain of watching a brother lose his life before their eyes. To them, it’s marginally inappropriate horror – the stuff of films; not real life.

Here’s what I would have done: set aside the camera. I cannot photograph a dying brother. But, I would write story down in graphic detail. I would describe the routine patrol. I will describe the personalities of the troops, their demeanor as they stepped off on their patrol. I would describe the weather, the smell, the buildings and the lay of the land. I would write about how the Marines interacted and how they chatted with the Afghan soldiers as they readied their gear for the mission. I would write about the camaraderie. I would also write about Joshua Bernard. In the end, the story is about him.

As the piece progresses, I would write about what happens, and describe the absolute revulsion I experience as a fellow American and veteran falls to enemy fire. I would write about my amazement as his comrades do everything in their power to save his life while remaining calm, returning fire, and functioning in a state of total chaos and tragedy. I would reach for a rifle, media restrictions be damned. I would help.

If the public really wants to know what a war is like, they should fight in one. But even that is not an ideal solution. Every last man and woman in the military as volunteered for service so the public need NOT experience war. They serve so that others are sheltered from it – because war is horrible, and men will die. They know this more than any other. Nearly every combat Soldier or Marine out here has lost a friend along the way.

Should the Associated Press write about war? Yes. Should they write about what happens in Afghanistan? Yes. Should they tell Joshua Bernard’s story? Absolutely. And they should do so with passion, with emotion, and heart – if their reporters HAVE hearts. Lance Corporal Bernard was not a journalistic fact, a statistic, or an attention-gaining photograph to send around the world. He was a son, a man barely out of his teens, and a servant to his country. No photograph will accurately show that. Words won’t either, but they’ll come closer. His life is a story worth telling. His death should remain a tragedy etched into the hearts of his loved ones and comrades, not fodder for a newspaper.

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