Hillah, Iraq.
The day wore on with nothing in particular to do, which, of course, made us antsy. The Captain finally allowed a presence patrol, an activity much like a pleasant drive in the country but the possibility of violence both given and received. The Captain authorized only half the team and vehicles to go, and there was much competition to determine which vehicles will be the lucky ones.
What was once routine has become precious, and we want to soak up as much combat as possible before we are pulled off line. I thought about this, and it made sense only in the context of the situation: we are commandos engaged in what commandos do, and such an opportunity comes along blessedly infrequently. I have often heard the analogy that the military is a sports team that practices often, but actually plays infrequently. Combat, while beautiful and terrifying, is what we do, and as we approach the end of our war days, everyone seems to want to get in as much as we can, maybe for fear of missing something, or perhaps to make sure that we have done “what we came here to do”, a concept with different meanings.
My war has been one of the most masculine things I have ever done. We are men of war, and low intensity combat is still the real thing. I am repeatedly amazed when I see us geared up, complete with the equipment and permission to kill. I understand now what it means to trust someone else with my life, and to have the trust of someone’s life. While I personally have no strong opinions either way on women in combat, I feel fortunate to be in a small unit of exclusively men. Women have a way of making men behave profoundly foolishly, and the mere presence of ovaries can reduce even the most tightly knit group of friends to knuckle dragging, mouth breathing troglodytes intensely competing, consciously or otherwise, for female grace and favor. I was happy that there were no women around to disrupt the focus at hand, particularly as my life and well being are directly involved.
As the senior officer, I could and did claim the privilege of going out, and Yazoo 25 geared up for war. I wanted to go, not because I wanted to fight or kill, but because suddenly I wanted to see Iraq one more time. I realized that I don’t even look around much any more save for the threat of imminent peril, and I wanted to make sure that I take as many pictures, mental or otherwise, as I could before we leave. Presence patrols mean driving around through neighborhoods, and I knew I will pay attention.
I just wanted to see the war one more time.
The afternoon is spent driving along, and the lack of music heightens the tension as we roll past block after block of genuine war zone. I was experiencing it all again for the first time. There was the stink of smoke and sewage, and I swallowed dust when I drank from the water bottles we freeze before missions. The water was so cold that I could feel it coursing down my throat. I got chilled as we bumped over debris, turning the corners to cross over the bridge into the market part of town. The stalls were colorful, the people more so. The ice merchants had tables set up, supporting great blocks
of ice waiting to be carved with a bow saw. Watermelons for sale, and the ubiquitous vendors of soft drinks. Cigarettes, then bins of what appeared to be onions. Past an internet chafe, then the cell phone store, and back along the traffic circle with its painting of the imam. Chickens being roasted in a rotisserie. Staff Sergeant and I discussed the probability of talking the Team Sergeant into letting us stop at a restaurant.
The war passed by my window, a slow panorama of things so familiar as to be now unfamiliar, and I tried to take it all in, to hold it so that I never forget. But, try as I might, war is mostly tedious and dull, and my mind wandered to thoughts of my Beautiful Bride and what home will look like. Staff Sergeant and I talked about flying, and being back at work. We headed out into the outlying areas, and drove past the orphanage, with its low wall and crumbling arch guarding ramshackle buildings, the courtyard filled with actual and human debris. The hulks of vehicles are peoples’ homes, and I was glad when we left.
Finally, our presence sufficiently patrolled, we returned to Camp Charlie. Heading back into town, twin pillars of black smoke rose from downtown. They grew unnaturally vertically in the calm wind, dishonestly rigid and necrotic stalks. The smoke hit a sheer layer of wind a couple thousand feet up, and the smoke flattened out into a single thin black disk, a smudge that drifted away on a breeze not felt on the ground. As we turned into the parking lot, I found there were no vehicles remaining.
Insurgents had detonated two car bombs in the downtown area, killing dozens of Iraqis. The other half of the team had responded as a quick reaction force, and we all quickly stripped off our gear to meet in the team room, hoping to catch some news on the radios. The other Marines and Green Berets were out on a patrol of their own, occasionally radioing back reports. Car bombs make people nervous, but the presence of heavily armed soldiers and Marines often dissuade people from making a stupid decision. No further bombs exploded, and eventually our guys returned to Camp Charlie as the sunlight finally faded to shine on parts west.
This war is going to be the most photographed conflict in history. Digital cameras are cheap and good, and everybody has one. The Marines had taken many pictures of the dead. Normally, they are ghoulish as is the wont of young twenty something males, but these photos sobered everyone. The dead, in whole and parts, were stacked on trailers and vehicles, anything that could remove the remains.
After chow, we gathered in the team room to watch the season finale of Deadwood. This was a big social event, and served to relieve the pall that had fallen.