by Elvis Leighton
The relentless Iraqi sun slants through the open windows of the Hemtt. Dust devils pirouette around our four-vehicle convoy, miniature sandstorms taunting us and reminding us we are no longer in Minnesota. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel of the fuel truck, the engine whines a high-pitched lament against the arid backdrop. Four months in Iraq, and all I crave is the normalcy I’ve left behind.
The National Guard seemed like a win-win – a chance to give back to my Minnesota community while earning a college degree. Weekends and summers for a debt-free education sounded like a simple equation for an English major.
The First Sergeant’s words echo in my head: “Everybody will get a chance to be blown up and shot at.” I wasn’t built for the adrenaline rush my fellow soldiers seemed to thrive on. I just want quiet. Yet, here I am, hauling 2,500 gallons of fuel through a notorious “RPG Alley.”
I’d survived the irrationality of Army life – learning to sleep through artillery barrages, detecting higher ranking soldiers drifting into irrationality, making lifelong friends among the chaos. But people were trying to kill me, and I concealed the worst from loved ones, describing it as “Arab Disney Land” to Mom. While my brother only knew an American Sniper myth. Reality lies slightly in-between. I developed a talent for telling friends and family versions of the truth depending on my goal.
Stuck in the thick of Baghdad’s rush hour, we are sitting ducks for an ambush. Escape routes clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic, making us easy targets. My eyes dart across the tan buildings, searching for a glint of metal, a flicker of movement. Fuel trucks are prime targets – easy to hit, exploding in a fiery inferno. A morbid joke, considering my family’s history with fire. Memories flicker: my sister’s burns from a candlelit walk, my own brush with hot coals as a kid, the garage fire that ravaged our home. And then, most vividly, my brother Chris, engulfed in flames after playing with lighter fluid. The hospital, the stench of burnt flesh, the searing guilt.
A wave of nostalgia washes over me – Mom, seemingly always tired, working the night shift for years. After high school, I’d even gotten a job at the same printing plant, but the monotony drove me crazy within weeks. The image of her looking out the kitchen window as I drove away, breaking the news about Iraq, came unbidden. Mom would kill me if I came home covered in burns. A desperate plea formed in my mind, a plea to anyone, anything, for salvation. Was I a fool for enlisting for the college money?
A crack! The afternoon shattered. I flinched, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The gunner in the gun truck ahead whipped his fifty cal. towards the source of the sound. Panic clawed at my throat. The marketplace, usually a cacophony of life, stood deserted – a bad omen.
I had gambled with my life for college tuition money. Now, Uncle Sam was calling in my bet. I thought of bailing out of the truck. Just hit the road and keep running. My sister suggested I escape to Mexico’s sun and safety, but I ignored her pleas and headed for the Iraqi war zone instead. In Mexico, I could have found a way to live comfortably. When I finally broke the news, my family unanimously asked how I could get out of it. “I can’t,” I hesitated, bound by the deal I’d made. Yet I could have fled to Mexico and lived in exile.
Trapped in the truck, a cold dread seeped into my bones. A truck without armor. Would my obituary add to my family’s history of fire? I glanced at my watch. 1:00 PM here meant 3:00 AM back in Minnesota. Mom should be asleep. If hell broke loose, they’d have to wake her. My thoughts turned to her. Forced into early retirement, a computer now handled the job she’d held for twenty-three years. A blessing in disguise, really. My youngest sister, Vickie, needed someone to watch her three kids during the day. Mom moved in, perfectly suited for the job of watching her grandkids with her endless patience, unconditional love, and devotion – qualities no technology could ever replace.
Now what I wouldn’t give to trade my dollars for pesos. Flee to Mexico and buy a little seaside house. Fall in love with a spirited señorita. Spend eternity loving her on the beach. We won’t have to talk. Some things are just obvious. I will love her. And she me. Have kids. Live. But abandoning my obligations as an American soldier felt wrong. Despite my doubts and fears, I couldn’t refuse the call to war. I was duty-bound to fight for my country.
Suddenly, the truck in front lurched forward. Instinct took over and I stood on the gas pedal, the convoy surging out of the city and onto the open highway. Silence stretched between us, a heavy, unspoken fear. Back at base, my legs wobbled as I parked the truck. I dialed my mother’s number, a wave of relief washing over me as I realized she’d be asleep. My voice, forced into a casual tone, masked the terror of the afternoon.
“Hey Mom, this is Elvis… Nothing too exciting here…” The lie felt thick in my throat, a shield against the fear I couldn’t voice. Hanging up, I stepped into the desert wind whistling a mournful tune. I wasn’t sure if I’d been fired upon, but the fear was real. And in the heart of that fear, a sliver of determination – I wouldn’t let it break me.
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Elvis Leighton is an author and a veteran. He currently works as the Program Manager of the Credentialing and Privileging Office at the Minneapolis VA Healthcare System. He has worked in numerous positions within the VA for the past twenty years. Elvis served in the Minnesota Army National Guard from 2002 to 2008. He served with Delta Battery 216th ADA, attached to Task Force 4-5 ADA of the First Cavalry Division in Baghdad, Iraq from March 2004 to March 2005. Mr. Leighton’s story “American Cliché” was published in the anthology These Fought in Any Case: A Collection of Poems and Short Stories by Veterans. His essay “Bastard Children of the Army” appears online in The Line Literary Review.
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