IT’S QUIET.
Cemetery quiet with the same kind of odd, morbid feeling surrounding me. That sweep of prickly cold that comes when death envelops you.
After two previous deployments, I know what a deafening silence like this can mean in a warzone, especially when it comes on the heels of a two-day firefight with little support or visible way out.
I wonder how the hell we even got in this mess to begin with, my ragged breathing the only thing taking my mind off the awful quiet as my men await my directives.
It was supposed to be a simple overnight mission for us. The five of us were to be dropped off at the shack we’ve been in now for two and a half days, under the dark cloak of night, to provide sniper overwatch on the main road in preparation for a special delegation convoy, and then we were to be picked up the next morning. What we hadn’t anticipated was the enemy knowing the plan from the start (likely a gift from one of the many spies who wear the Iraqi Police uniform and pretend to be our allies). They took out our two support squads who were encircling the neighborhood in Humvees—Lord knows how those men are doing, how my friends are doing—leaving us alone to fight our way out. In all the firefights and mayhem I have endured in combat up to this point, nothing could’ve prepared me for the carnage we’ve been met with over the past two days.
After fixing communications a day ago, we’ve scheduled a rescue chopper from headquarters and received very specific instructions on landing location and time, both of which add an element of danger to this already fucked up situation. But with the break in fighting, this may be our only opportunity for escape. They will bring back the fight—that’s a certainty. It’s just a matter of when.
“Alright.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s move,” I say, leading my men outside of the shack and we aim our backs toward its adobe walls, our rifles out toward the road and buildings around us. The barrel of my rifle trembles with a combination of battle fatigue and fear.
For three hours now, there has been only silence as the enemy scurried away, their ranks decimated, morale likely broken, but they are no doubt taking the opportunity to obtain more ammunition and fresh bodies. Dozens upon dozens of their buddies now lay dead or dying in the street. It’s hard to decipher the difference between blood and sand anymore. Some of the bodies are from the initial round of fighting that first day and their flesh has been mostly picked clean by birds. I note that a few dogs must’ve joined in as many of the jagged bite marks are far too large to have been from a beak.
A stiff shudder trails down my spine.
I don’t want to feel like it bothers me to see them in this state. I want to believe they’re insurgents and they were trying to kill us, so our actions were warranted, their deaths necessary. And realistically, they were. It was their lives or ours. But I’m also tormented by one frequent thought: should we even be here in the first place? And what’s so different between them and me? If I had grown up here, with the childhood I had, would I have found my way to terrorism too? I don’t see how I wouldn’t have. I quickly swallow against the choking weight of remorse and glance back toward my second in command, Sergeant Tommy Callahan, positioned in the back with an M240Bravo machine gun aimed to our rear.
“You ready?”
He nods, but his eyes are wide, his chest heaving with each breath.
Not counting the agonizing moans of dying men, the streets are empty and quiet, the silence deafening. The absence of gunfire after so long is both calming and unnerving.
I nod, my focus shifting back out to the quiet road, my hands gripping the rifle with white-knuckled intensity.
There’s a dog bark in the distance and a whistle of the wind as it stirs up the dusty road, but nothing else. The town was abandoned by most residents long before the battle, as they’re always warned ahead of time. Others, I imagine, hid themselves away sometime thereafter, leaving this place feeling like a ghost town. It’s terribly unsettling.
I glance back once more, this time, meeting eyes with every man on my team. “Watch your asses and that of the man in front of you. Let’s get the fuck out of here in one piece, huh?” I whisper, motioning toward the road.
My men nod, but their faces say it all. They’re scared, and they want out of here. The desperation is ever-present in their sunken eyes, but they’d never say a word. We don’t discuss things like fear out here. Just like we try our damnedest to not think about remorse or empathy. And that’s why they wouldn’t know that I’m scared too, so scared I can feel it in my marrow.
“Jensen, Barker… Just like we talked about. You press forward first, Sanchez and I will cover you,” I whisper, my eyes trailing to Tommy—one of my oldest military friends.“Callahan, you watch the rear.”
“Roger that,” Tommy responds, winking and clicking his teeth as he turns his head back toward the road.
I motion Sanchez forward and he meets me at my side, his rifle aimed down one end of the road, and mine down the other, my muzzle just past the side of the shack.
“Go. We got you,” I whisper over my shoulder.
Jensen and Barker abruptly sprint across the road, kicking up dust with their boots and reaching the other side without incident. They raise their barrels, scanning either end of the road like Sanchez and I are doing, and enabling us to lower our weapons and cross the road after them.
I take a deep breath, looking toward Sanchez. He passes me an assured nod and I count off, “One, two, three,” before we take off toward the other side simultaneously. We reach the others without issue, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, wiping the dirty beads of sweat from my forehead.
Motioning behind us, I order, “Sanchez, you get the rear. Jensen, Barker, keep overwatch.” I cup a hand to my mouth and, in a whisper-yell, call out, “Callahan … Callahan!”
He turns, finally hearing me, and I wave him forward.
After a few deep breaths, Callahan lowers his machine gun and takes off. He’s nearly halfway to us when I hear it—the piercing sound of a sniper round echoing down the empty road. My heart lurches in my chest as I see Callahan’s face go pale, blood spurting from the side of his neck. His weapon tumbles to the ground with a clatter before he falls over on top of it.
“Nooooo!” I yell, charging forward, but I’m stopped by Jensen and Barker before I can make it very far. They hold tightly, inching me back toward them.
“Sarge, it’s not safe,” Jensen pleads, a ragged hoarseness to his voice.
“Fuck safety. We ain’t leavin’ him there to die!” I yell back. “Y’all cover me. I don’t care if you see somethin’ or not, you spray bullets down that fuckin’ road, so I can get him out.”
“Roger, Sarge,” Jensen says as he begins squeezing his trigger in indiscriminate bursts down the road as ordered. Barker does the same as I creep my way out onto the open road, my rifle up and ready to fire, but my eyes locked on Tommy.
Once I reach him, I yell, “Callahan … Callahan…” prodding him with a stiff hand.
There’s no response. I can only hear the gargle of blood in his throat as he struggles to breathe.
“Fuck, Tommy!” I scream, my entire body shaking. Slinging my weapon over my shoulder and squatting down, I grab him by his protective vest and walk backward in slow, meticulous steps, pulling him along with me. He’s much bulkier than I am, so the process takes longer than I’d like, considering I’m completely exposed, but I would do anything for this man. I will do anything for him.
As the sweat runs into my eyes, stinging them with relentless fury, the explosion of friendly gunfire erupts from behind me. I hear Barker yell at the top of his lungs, “Sarge, watch out! Rooftop. Three o’clock!”
There’s more eardrum battering gunfire as I look to my right while still dragging Callahan. I spot an insurgent with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher sitting on his shoulder, his head no more as he goes tumbling over the side of the building, hitting the dirt road below with a bone-cracking thud.
“Nice shot!” I yell, just as Sanchez comes to my side to help, grabbing Callahan and pulling along with me to pick up the pace.
“Look out!” Barker screams.
By the time I’m able to look up, all I see is a fireball streaking its way toward us, trumping the evening sun in its burning intensity. And then, pitch-black takes hold. I see nothing. I hear only a steady, piercing ring between my ears and the faint, desperate cries of my men. I taste the distinct iron of my own blood as it fills my mouth. I feel what must be my teeth in small oblong pieces like Tic Tacs against my tongue.
I gasp, rising from my sweat-soaked sheets in a panic, throwing a pillow I had clenched in my hands across the room. I don’t initially know where I am, my heart thumping in my chest like a bass drum. The pillow hits the desk and topples a mess of empty beer bottles to the ground with a clatter. The sound snaps me to the present and I take a thick swallow, shaking my head as I breathe a sigh of sweet relief.
Two weeks I’ve spent in this prison disguised as an apartment. My roommate never leaves his room; he just plays video games all day long. The few times I have run into him, we’ve gotten into some military chitchat, which tends to happen when you bring veterans together. Come to find out, much to my dismay, the guy was dishonorably discharged for two DUIs. He was a shitbag in the Army, and now I have to share an apartment with the asshole for a semester. It’s almost a blessing he’s addicted to video games since he’s still the only person I know here. I’d much rather pass the time with Jerry Seinfeld or Doug Heffernan than some idiot with no deployments under his belt who couldn’t hack it in the Army.
It does get lonely, though. Yeah, there are about fifty people in each one of my classes, but I’m always the oldest, often the quietest, and how does one strike up a conversation in that kind of environment anyway? You sit down, a professor teaches (if you’re lucky. More often than not, it’s a teacher’s aide not much older than me.), time runs out, and you make your way home. That’s about it. Between the lectures, my scars, and my social anxiety, it hasn’t been an ideal environment for any type of human bonding.
My laptop sits just beside the TV on the dresser where I left it, trying to keep it away from me. The screen pulls at my attention anyway. I should’ve just closed it. I should’ve been stronger.
The rush page for BSU fraternities sits on the screen, as it has been for the past few days while I mull over my options.
I’d always wanted to be in a fraternity before joining the military—the brotherhood aspect always appealed just as the military did—and after watching all seven seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in a span of two days, I’m drawn ever closer to the possibility of rushing. As old as I am, I can’t help but envision them laughing as I approach the house, wondering what such an old man is doing at a frat party. They’d probably bring attention to my eye right off the bat. And what the hell do they even know about the real world? What it feels like to have your whole life turned upside down in a matter of seconds? What true pain really feels like?
I scowl at the computer screen.
“Fuck that,” I grunt, directing my anger toward the laptop. My words are strong, but my thoughts are in revolt. No matter how much denial I’m in, I know I’m fighting a battle I just can’t win. I refuse to live like I have these past two weeks, suffocating under the weight of regret and loneliness. I refuse to wallow in the pain of losing the only thing that ever meant anything to me in this life. I refuse to sit here pining over a woman I probably never loved to begin with.
I have to rush. I knew it from the moment I first pulled the website up. No matter how much I deny it to myself, the brotherhood of a fraternity—hopefully a suitable replacement for Army camaraderie—is too strong of a desire to fight. I just don’t think I can do this on my own.