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by Art Foster
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“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble, clutching a cold draft beer with dry, cracked hands. Positioned at the deepest end of the semi-circle airport bar, my back as close to a wall as possible, I have full view of everyone coming and going. From the edge of the fatal funnel, I watch as three businessmen slap the shoulders of a young soldier. “Put it on my tab,” the one in the blue blazer says, as the kid orders a soda. His brand-new camouflage uniform, and lone chevron, tells me he is either on his way home from basic training, or on his way to learn whatever job the Army is going to teach him. What the hell are they thanking him for? What the fuck had he done?
I pull the ticket from the mesh pocket of my backpack and check my boarding time again. My Casio G-Shock indicates that I have an hour before my connecting flight to Savannah. I wipe the corners of the recessed watch face with a dampened bar napkin trying in vain to clean off the dust that gathered in those deep hard-to-get places. I check behind me and scan the faces and hands of the men and women in the bar, and the people walking by, on their way to Washington, New York, and LA.
What’s out of place, what am I missing? What’s in that briefcase, that trashcan? My heart pounds into both sides of my neck; my vision narrows. My hands grip the cold mug, squeezing it, nearly crushing it. Snap out of it. You’ve been here before, I tell myself. I take a drink. I take another. Relax your shoulders. Breathe. The ringing in my ears is getting louder.
I take another drink.
The clattering and clanking of plates and glasses echoes through the small bar and grill. The sweet smell of bourbon glaze and fresh hot fries wafts up from my plate. The orange melty cheese drips from the grilled burger and my mouth prepares itself for a long overdue indulgence. I look up as an overcoated traveler pushes his designer rolling bag under the bar. I reach for my weapon and pull back only air. I’m suddenly not hungry.
I stuff the edge of the damp bar napkin under my fingernail to mop out the dirt. I scrub one, then another, working each of them until the white of the napkin is mottled with dark crescent stains. Tiny bits of a faraway world that held on through Kuwait and through Germany, only to be discarded in Atlanta.
Just like his brand-new uniform, the young soldier’s soft brown hands are spotless. I haven’t had a decent shower in the better part of a year. The musty, wrinkled clothes I’m wearing have spent the last eight months in the bottom of my seabag. We always pack one set of civilian attire in case we need to fly home for an emergency. Wearing utilities, like this Army Private, isn’t an option for Marines. When we travel, it’s either in civilian clothes, or our service / dress uniform, and I didn’t take my dress uniforms to Iraq.
The ringing in my ears is enough to drive me insane. It’s a constant and deafening ringing in the depths of my mind, EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Doctors call it tinnitus; I call it combat echo. The first time I remember hearing it was right after I posted a guard on the northern edge of our firebase, three miles southeast of Al-Fallujah.
***
We heard the air displace, we heard the explosion, and like turtles we pulled our bodies in tight, begging for protection from our Kevlar helmets and flak vests. We saw the hot jagged steel from the rocket propelled grenade tear into the earth on all sides of us. But somehow, we were spared. Not a scratch. Not a fucking scratch.
That wasn’t the first time I was lucky. On our second day in-country, we were about fifteen miles from Camp Fallujah when someone called over the radio, “We’ve got pop-ups on the right.” Lance Cpl. Rodriguez was manning the M2 .50-caliber machine gun on the roof of our truck. I tapped him on the leg, “Keep your eyes open, something ain’t right.”
“Aye, aye Staff Sgt., I see it,” he yelled back, as he swung the gun toward the light of the flares in the early morning darkness. Just then, I heard the crack of gunfire in the distance. Over the radio, a Marine yelled “CONTACT RIGHT, CONTACT RIGHT.” Just as we had rehearsed, I repeated it, screaming, “CONTACT RIGHT, CONTACT RIGHT,” and the whole world lit up. From a little house on the side of the road, and the field next to it, about fifteen insurgent fighters began shooting at the convoy. Our front security escort vehicle spun around and returned fire. In the chaos of the moment, they inadvertently blocked the road, and the column came to a halt, trapping the front of the convoy in the kill zone.
We returned machine gun and rifle fire on the house and on the fighters in the field. An SUV in the driveway rolled forward and was nearly cut in half by an onslaught of .50-caliber rounds. We saw their silhouettes in the light of the floating flares, and we saw their green-grey figures in our NVGs. We killed one, then another, and another. An insurgent was shooting at us from a window of the house. AK rounds smacked against the armor plates of our vehicles; the radio antenna of the Commander’s vehicle was shot off. In a truck in front of mine, Sgt. Dean loaded his M203 grenade launcher, a weapon he had become surgical with in the months of training leading to our deployment, and launched a single 40mm grenade into the window, an impossible shot, silencing the gunfire. We discovered later that the SUV was a vehicle borne improvised explosive device (VBIED) and the driver intended to detonate it next to one of our trucks. When we reached the camp, we counted bullet holes and pock marks in the armor, and we high fived for the awful thing we had just done.
***
I glare at the guy in the blue blazer that bought the young soldier a Coke. He looks so proud of himself, as if he just singlehandedly won the war. I order another beer; pay full price for it. Fuck that guy.
***
My unit, C Battery, 1st Battalion 12th Marines, an artillery unit, was part of Battalion Landing Team (BLT) 1/3, we had been training together for several months in preparation of Operation Phantom Fury, better known as the Second Battle of Fallujah. And we were camped only a few miles from the insurgent stronghold. They lobbed mortars and launched rockets at us constantly. On our second day in camp, my wristwatch alarm beeped me awake at 0500, and less than a second later, three 122mm rockets screamed overhead and exploded a few dozen yards from our tents. I haven’t slept soundly since. The sound of incoming rockets and explosions tormented our psyches. When we heard them roar in, all we could do was flatten our bodies as close to the ground as possible and pray. The word that describes my hatred for those things doesn’t exist. If it did exist, it would likely be forbidden to write.
We reinforced the walls of our tents with countless sandbags, and we wore flak and Kevlar everywhere but the port-o-johns. As counterintuitive as it sounds, shrapnel wounds were preferred to the unbearable heat inside those rancid plastic shitters.
***
I take a drink and look up at the off-white tiled ceiling. I wonder what the roof of the bar is made of. Thin metal sheets, maybe asphalt, and tar. Just a few inches of material between the bar and sky.
I take another drink.
***
In preparation for the battle, we established a firebase and pointed our cannons at the city. We sandbagged everything, we cleaned and prepared our weapons, and we stacked ammunition at the ready. I wrote a letter to my wife. I sealed the envelope, wrote her name on the outside, and stuffed it deep into the pocket of my flak jacket.
As the unit’s Transportation Chief, I was responsible for the movement of all personnel and equipment. But since we weren’t going anywhere, I became the Guard Chief. I was responsible for the security of the Marines and our guns.
One of the BLT’s first missions was to draw attention away from the actual attack location by conducting a feint on the southern edge of the city. Once it was over, the Marines needed to be picked up and brought back to camp. Since I was now the Guard Chief, my assistant, Cpl. Jones, took four trucks and three of our Marines to join the convoy that was bringing them home. If I hadn’t been reassigned to the guard force, I would have been with them. They were my Marines, my trucks, and my responsibility. I would have been sitting in the passenger seat of Jones’ truck. But on September 30, 2004, Sgt. Kelly Courtney was sitting in that seat. When a VBIED detonated next to the truck, the explosion mangled and twisted the cab, pinning him in that seat where he burned to death. When the cab twisted, Jones’ door popped open, and he was blown out. When Lance Cpl. Benezette got to Jones, he was hanging from the door, tangled in the seatbelt, bloody, and on fire. Somehow, Jones survived the blast and he, along with several others, was airlifted to the surgical hospital back at camp. But that was just the beginning, it took two days for the rest of my Marines to fight their way out of the hornet’s nest. By the time it was all over, we had nine severely wounded and eight Marines lay dead.
My friend, Staff Sgt. Josh Baeza, and I visited Jones at Bravo Surgical. White gauze covered his right arm. Rows of black knotted catgut held his face together. Josh did the talking because I couldn’t. If I so much as opened my mouth, my eyes flooded, my lungs convulsed, and my voice betrayed me. I should have been there.
The man on the news said it was the deadliest day in Iraq in six months. Not a record we were hoping to set. Little did we know, we would soon shatter that record.
***
I take another drink and check my watch again. I’m hoping to get home before the heart attack my stepfather had three days ago kills him. I’m not really going home to see him; it’s to see my wife and kids. I don’t even know him that well, but he’s my ticket home.
I order another. It goes down easy. It tastes good. The ringing isn’t as noticeable anymore.
***
The assault on Fallujah kicked off on the evening of November 8, 2004, and for the next two weeks we fired hundreds of missions in support of the men fighting in the streets. Our casualties were high, but we were expecting that. What we weren’t expecting, is who they’d be.
From atop an abandoned school building, I watched the City of Mosques burn and I listened to the radio. Each man was assigned a kill number so names wouldn’t be broadcast over the radio. It was a simple code, consisting of a letter and three digits. The letter identified the Marine’s unit. Alpha company was letter A, Bravo company, letter B, and so on. We were assigned the letter R, for artillery. Marine Corps logic never fails to amaze. The remainder was the number that corresponded with the last name on an alphabetical unit roster. For example, Allen was Romeo 001, Baker was Romeo 002, and Carter was Romeo 003, and so on. The code was simple, yet quite secure, unless you had an accurate roster. We had a roster.
The radio would crackle and the voice on the other end would give a report and a kill number, sometimes one, sometimes several. Lima 044, gunshot wound to the head. – Charlie 180, shrapnel to the legs. – Bravo 061, gunshot wound to the neck. I listened helplessly as that radio told me that my friend, Staff Sgt. Hensley, had been shot in the neck, my friend, Cpl. Reynoso, had blast wounds to his legs, and my friend, Staff Sgt. Holder, had been shot multiple times in the torso and head, killing him.
It was time for retribution.
I hooked up and held the braided lanyard tight to my waist and waited for the command. I had never longed to hear a single word more in the entirety of my life.
“FIRE.”
I twisted quick to the left, tripping the mechanism that ignited the primer. The primer ignited several pounds of gunpowder that blasted a 98-pound, high explosive projectile from the muzzle of the M-198 Howitzer at twice the speed of sound. The concussion from the blast drove the 16,000-pound cannon backward and downward into the earth. The round was in flight; its target predetermined. Seconds later, it exploded in a house in the center of Fallujah, ripping apart the eleven men inside. I lit a cigarette, drank a Rip-It, and waited for the next fire mission. Fuck ‘em all.
***
I take another drink. My shoulders relax, feeling returns to the tips of my fingers. The cool glass feels good in my hands. The condensation from the mug loosens dirt from the cracks in my palms, muddying the glass. I’d just washed my hands, but somehow, they’re still dirty. I wipe away the dirt; it stains the new white napkin.
***
Intense fighting continued for almost two weeks; we leveled half the city with our cannons. When the fighting slowed, and our big guns weren’t needed, we put them away and picked up our rifles. We constructed and operated an entry control point (ECP-2) on the northern edge of the city. The intent was to identify who was reentering the city and prevent it from becoming an insurgent stronghold again. We searched hundreds of people and vehicles daily. We used state-of-the-art x-ray equipment and bomb sniffing dogs, and we arrested scores of insurgents trying to reenter. The guy on the news said the fighting was over, but we were still getting shot at. But in time, it subsided to an acceptable level. Enough to keep us from getting complacent, but not enough to wear us down. It was exactly the right amount of gunfire.
On January 30, 2005, the people of Iraq were set to conduct the first free election since Saddam came into power. This was a big day for Iraq, and for us. My unit was tasked to secure an election site in the center of Fallujah. I was going to ensure that men and women could cast their vote without fear of intimidation or reprisal. So, we moved into the city and patrolled the streets. We lived amongst the returning citizens, and we transitioned to the role of protector. A role we were well suited for and thoroughly enjoyed. We had always been sheepdogs at heart.
***
I wonder if that young soldier has what it takes to become a sheepdog. He may think of himself as one already, but he’s still a sheep. You don’t become a sheepdog by putting on a uniform, you become a sheepdog by fighting off the wolves.
I take another drink. I lean back in my seat, arms hanging loosely by my sides, and I watch a young girl, maybe nine or ten, pull her Minnie Mouse carry-on past the bar, lagging just behind her parents. I eat a fry.
***
When we weren’t on patrol, I, and the six Marines assigned to my team, was in house #28 at the south end of Sierra Street. We didn’t know if the owner was alive or dead, but it was empty, so we moved in. We had all the amenities of home. A working gas cooktop, a ton of rice the owner stockpiled, a television with a satellite antenna, and machine guns on the rooftop. We found a gas generator and plugged in the TV. We were able to tune in BBC and an English-speaking movie channel for a short while. I unpacked my clippers, and we gave each other long overdue haircuts.
Four days before the election, the radio crackled, and we listened in the cold dark of the early morning. We matched kill numbers to names as the voice on the other end announced Charlie….. Charlie….. Charlie….., twenty-seven times in a row.
January 26, 2005 was the deadliest day for American troops in the whole of the Iraq war. At 01:30 am, a CH-53E helicopter, call sign Tiger 60, crashed in a sandstorm, killing all thirty-one men on board. Four crew and twenty-seven passengers from BLT 1/3. The platoon was on their way to provide security for an election site.
***
I take another drink and picture the faces of the ones I had known. Tears wash out stubborn dust from the corners of my eyes. I take a drink. The weight of the mug is comforting.
***
We had crossed back into Kuwait just forty-eight hours before I got the Red Cross message. My wife pleaded with me to come home, and I reluctantly agreed. “It’s over,” she said. “They don’t need you anymore, we do.” On one hand, she was right. The kinetic fighting was over. But they still needed me. I knew this because I still needed them. I will always need them. But just how in the hell was I supposed to explain that to her? To my kids?
I stayed in Kuwait just long enough to attend the memorial service for the Marines and Sailors that didn’t get to go home. Fifty-one inverted rifles stood in formation. Fifty-one pairs of empty boots reminded us of their sacrifice. The Marines and Sailors of BLT 1/3 will collectively mourn the loss of our brothers until the day we join them in Valhalla.
I turned in my ammunition, said goodbye to my men, and boarded a plane bound for Germany. They would stay in Kuwait for a few more weeks and clean their weapons, inventory their equipment, and attend decompression training. It was intended to help Marines deal with the horrific things they had seen and had done. In order to make the transition from war to peace a little easier, they were being taught how to deal with the fear, the anger, the sadness, and the guilt of what we had been thrust in to.
***
Meanwhile, I’m here, sitting at a bar, hanging on to a beer mug for dear life.
I watch the young soldier walk to his gate and patiently wait in line. A lady in blue signals for him to move to the front of the line. She smiles, scans his ticket, and just like that, he vanishes.
I take another drink.
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Art Foster is a U.S. Marine (retired), writer, student, sailor, and a veteran of three wars. He was born in Savannah, Georgia, has lived and traveled around the world, and currently resides in Southern Louisiana with his wife and two dogs. He is currently pursuing an MLA in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University, Harvard Extension School.
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