A Disciple Goes to War
It’s not like the movies. Most of us grew up either directly involved in or knowing someone who served then in the World Wars, Korea, or Vietnam. John Williams wrote music for the soundtracks and our favorite stars played the roles of the quiet hometown heroes, struggling for a hard-fought victory and a happy homecoming. It’s not like that. I have the feeling that if you ask a combat veteran to really tell you if it was like the movies, he or she will either say no or decline to talk about it with you. Because it’s just not that cool.
It’s not cool for a lot of reasons. There is validation, of course, and the system has gotten good at closure for us returning vets. But it’s not cool. It was, for a while, especially in the beginning when the air in Iraq smelled of victory, like the smell of new snow on a still night. We had that smell in our noses and we had that tiger by the tail, then.
None of us knew what to expect. It was like practicing to play football for twenty years and never having a single game. We faked a lot; we made up names for our humvees and took pictures of ourselves in all the cool places and gave each other awards. But we really had no idea just how hard it is to get our arms around a nation, around a culture, and hug it until it stops screaming. I wish I could say things will work out there; I wish I could take all the people that I met and worked with and give them all a glass of clean water or a night in summertime with electricity that stays on for a change. I wish I could make Iraq whole again, take away the bloody streets and put back all the broken lives. I tried. But I can’t. It’s ok: that’s who I am and that’s what I did. So I’ll tell you my little story without the lights and without John Williams or a parade. But it’s my story and I don’t think I can ever tell it enough, for several reasons.
I am broken. I was broken on the rocks of Iraq, like so many others. I was broken in the wash and tumble of corruption, loneliness, fear, anger and any other emotion you can name. I am not the same now as I was four years ago. Thirty-three months in a place will change anyone, and my time there was at times more intense than I care to remember. But of course the memories come. They come to me and they come to the others who served and are there now as you read this. They come like daggers to the heart; like silent and swaggering drunks; like dogs surrounding the bones of your soul.
The trick, then, is how to live with them. How indeed to live with the dogs of war: how to trick and tame them into submission; to cause them to serve you. You tame the dogs of war in different ways. Expediency rules, you could say. Some days it’s with conscious effort, some nights are spent screaming to no one about nothing, and some dragons are slain twelve ounces at a time. There is, however, an undercurrent to all of these techniques; a silent partner waiting in the wings, a help in time of trouble. There is something that can only be lost if you want to lose it; can only be of help if you choose. It is that thing that dies without works; given by grace to each of us. Lately, given to me as a gift unlooked for, and sorely needed.
I had lost that gift; lost the way in the darkness of rebuilding a country when all I could focus on was rebuilding myself. I had lost my family, lost friends, and almost myself. The losing is easy. Finding faith again, if you let it, is easier still.
You see faith is the pickle in the sandwich, the oil in your motor, the stuff that fills up all the holes in the fabric of space and makes it look black. Faith is in you and through you like time is in the space between the big hand and the little hand. Faith is what you want, where you want it, when you want it and, most importantly, always, always there. You can’t shake it out of you. But sometimes you think it’s gone.
March, 2003, 9:30 at night. I get the first mission of my brigade into Iraq: lead a three-vehicle convoy up the road ten hours to the Baghdad Zoo and drop off a semi-load of animal food. Never been in Iraq; don’t know what’s happening there; don’t speak much Arabic, don’t have enough shooters or guns. I study that map like it’s Genesis and I’m wondering about those six days He used. We roll at 0900 the next day. My driver is scared and not hiding it. I know that if we stay on the main drag we’ll hit Baghdad around dark, and occasionally check the map. My driver has no idea that I have no idea. My driver has faith. I find it through him, and we come back alive.
February, 2004, 11 AM. The phone rings in my office and my secretary turns white and hands me the phone. One of my US citizen contractors has been involved in an assassination attempt and there is no way to get to her or help. I stay calm, talking with her on the phone, until she takes the calm from me like an IV drip and I feel her relax, feel her feeling my voice through the phone and I know that somehow she will be alright and she knows it, too.
March, 2004, checking emails. From my wife, the subject line reads “Divorce”. I feel the blood draining from my body into some underground pool. Three hours later I come back to the office and somehow get through the day. Sometimes you just don’t know the plan.
June, 2004. In my civilian office, in Benouk, a suburb of Baghdad. The VP is talking to me about how the company is suffering because of a certain former employee and could I kill him. Yes. Just like that. Money was no problem. He’s a bad guy, after all. Why not, Mr. Tom? Why not, indeed. I ask her if the guy has any children. She doesn’t know. “Well, what if he does?” “It’s just business, it’s not personal” she replies. Right.
April, 2005. Another company, another civilian office in Baghdad, seeing my friend Doug’s picture on CNN, his kidnapping announced to the world. I move. James Bond would have to run to catch up with me. The hostage team, my driver, Doug’s apartment, the debrief. Doug recovered a month later by the Coalition. Me, fired, because I went out in the Red Zone without a ‘valid business reason’. Give me a break. Doug has kids and so do I.
March, 2006. A full-bird Colonel screaming at me because his custom-built movie screens don’t have the right kind of wood molding. The carpenter, hearing all of this, head down in shame. Me, saluting that pretense of an officer, apologizing to the carpenter for the tirade and assuring him that his work was so much more then we had expected. A handshake and he leaves with his three assistants, the screen installed on the wall.
May, 2006. Enduring the not-so-subtle Over-40 physical. The doc asking me about my clicks and squeaks. The evaluation, the MRI, the diagnosis, the referral and possibility of surgery. The solitary nights in a hotel room wondering if I should sell my motorcycle; if I will ever go for walks with my boys.
June, 2006. Walking (not running: doctor’s orders) on Ft. Bragg, taking stock, taking time, taking advantage, feeling good about things. Passing a quiet lady on her porch in officer-land on Bragg. She waves. I pull out my headphones and talk with her a bit. She can’t walk more than a block at a time. The MS in her body keeps her on an invisible tether to her house. I tell her she is in my prayers.
Me, waving goodbye to that stricken stranger, tears clouding my vision, thanking God for being able to answer my phone and the wake-up calls He sends me every day.
Me, taking the dogs of war for a walk in the park.
-30-
It’s not cool for a lot of reasons. There is validation, of course, and the system has gotten good at closure for us returning vets. But it’s not cool. It was, for a while, especially in the beginning when the air in Iraq smelled of victory, like the smell of new snow on a still night. We had that smell in our noses and we had that tiger by the tail, then.
None of us knew what to expect. It was like practicing to play football for twenty years and never having a single game. We faked a lot; we made up names for our humvees and took pictures of ourselves in all the cool places and gave each other awards. But we really had no idea just how hard it is to get our arms around a nation, around a culture, and hug it until it stops screaming. I wish I could say things will work out there; I wish I could take all the people that I met and worked with and give them all a glass of clean water or a night in summertime with electricity that stays on for a change. I wish I could make Iraq whole again, take away the bloody streets and put back all the broken lives. I tried. But I can’t. It’s ok: that’s who I am and that’s what I did. So I’ll tell you my little story without the lights and without John Williams or a parade. But it’s my story and I don’t think I can ever tell it enough, for several reasons.
I am broken. I was broken on the rocks of Iraq, like so many others. I was broken in the wash and tumble of corruption, loneliness, fear, anger and any other emotion you can name. I am not the same now as I was four years ago. Thirty-three months in a place will change anyone, and my time there was at times more intense than I care to remember. But of course the memories come. They come to me and they come to the others who served and are there now as you read this. They come like daggers to the heart; like silent and swaggering drunks; like dogs surrounding the bones of your soul.
The trick, then, is how to live with them. How indeed to live with the dogs of war: how to trick and tame them into submission; to cause them to serve you. You tame the dogs of war in different ways. Expediency rules, you could say. Some days it’s with conscious effort, some nights are spent screaming to no one about nothing, and some dragons are slain twelve ounces at a time. There is, however, an undercurrent to all of these techniques; a silent partner waiting in the wings, a help in time of trouble. There is something that can only be lost if you want to lose it; can only be of help if you choose. It is that thing that dies without works; given by grace to each of us. Lately, given to me as a gift unlooked for, and sorely needed.
I had lost that gift; lost the way in the darkness of rebuilding a country when all I could focus on was rebuilding myself. I had lost my family, lost friends, and almost myself. The losing is easy. Finding faith again, if you let it, is easier still.
You see faith is the pickle in the sandwich, the oil in your motor, the stuff that fills up all the holes in the fabric of space and makes it look black. Faith is in you and through you like time is in the space between the big hand and the little hand. Faith is what you want, where you want it, when you want it and, most importantly, always, always there. You can’t shake it out of you. But sometimes you think it’s gone.
March, 2003, 9:30 at night. I get the first mission of my brigade into Iraq: lead a three-vehicle convoy up the road ten hours to the Baghdad Zoo and drop off a semi-load of animal food. Never been in Iraq; don’t know what’s happening there; don’t speak much Arabic, don’t have enough shooters or guns. I study that map like it’s Genesis and I’m wondering about those six days He used. We roll at 0900 the next day. My driver is scared and not hiding it. I know that if we stay on the main drag we’ll hit Baghdad around dark, and occasionally check the map. My driver has no idea that I have no idea. My driver has faith. I find it through him, and we come back alive.
February, 2004, 11 AM. The phone rings in my office and my secretary turns white and hands me the phone. One of my US citizen contractors has been involved in an assassination attempt and there is no way to get to her or help. I stay calm, talking with her on the phone, until she takes the calm from me like an IV drip and I feel her relax, feel her feeling my voice through the phone and I know that somehow she will be alright and she knows it, too.
March, 2004, checking emails. From my wife, the subject line reads “Divorce”. I feel the blood draining from my body into some underground pool. Three hours later I come back to the office and somehow get through the day. Sometimes you just don’t know the plan.
June, 2004. In my civilian office, in Benouk, a suburb of Baghdad. The VP is talking to me about how the company is suffering because of a certain former employee and could I kill him. Yes. Just like that. Money was no problem. He’s a bad guy, after all. Why not, Mr. Tom? Why not, indeed. I ask her if the guy has any children. She doesn’t know. “Well, what if he does?” “It’s just business, it’s not personal” she replies. Right.
April, 2005. Another company, another civilian office in Baghdad, seeing my friend Doug’s picture on CNN, his kidnapping announced to the world. I move. James Bond would have to run to catch up with me. The hostage team, my driver, Doug’s apartment, the debrief. Doug recovered a month later by the Coalition. Me, fired, because I went out in the Red Zone without a ‘valid business reason’. Give me a break. Doug has kids and so do I.
March, 2006. A full-bird Colonel screaming at me because his custom-built movie screens don’t have the right kind of wood molding. The carpenter, hearing all of this, head down in shame. Me, saluting that pretense of an officer, apologizing to the carpenter for the tirade and assuring him that his work was so much more then we had expected. A handshake and he leaves with his three assistants, the screen installed on the wall.
May, 2006. Enduring the not-so-subtle Over-40 physical. The doc asking me about my clicks and squeaks. The evaluation, the MRI, the diagnosis, the referral and possibility of surgery. The solitary nights in a hotel room wondering if I should sell my motorcycle; if I will ever go for walks with my boys.
June, 2006. Walking (not running: doctor’s orders) on Ft. Bragg, taking stock, taking time, taking advantage, feeling good about things. Passing a quiet lady on her porch in officer-land on Bragg. She waves. I pull out my headphones and talk with her a bit. She can’t walk more than a block at a time. The MS in her body keeps her on an invisible tether to her house. I tell her she is in my prayers.
Me, waving goodbye to that stricken stranger, tears clouding my vision, thanking God for being able to answer my phone and the wake-up calls He sends me every day.
Me, taking the dogs of war for a walk in the park.
-30-
posted by tomk at 9:20 PM
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