Ryan Smithson (9 page)

But it’s not this logic that’s keeping me from crying. I can’t cry because I don’t feel anything. Seeing blood, speckled brown blood, takes the feeling, the life, right out of me.

“We’re gonna have to spray this off,” someone finally says.

We use a small forklift and bring the bloody thing over
to the pressure washer, which lies on the other side of the motor pool. Whisler takes hold of the hose and begins spraying the dusty blood off the roof. The water carries the blood to the dirt.

Recycling,
I think.

Whisler hits a pocket, maybe from the turret, and the blood-water sprays into his mouth. Whisler throws the hose to the ground and spits out dirty brown water.

I imagine that smell of burnt meat and metal. I imagine it in my mouth. And I cringe just watching Whisler spit out the dirty water.

Zerega almost keels over because he’s laughing so hard.

“Oh, God,” says Whisler.

“Oh, God,” cries Zerega. “You ate brains! You ate brains! Oh, my God!”

“Shut up,” says Whisler, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

“Zombie!” Zerega points and laughs. “You ate brains! Zombie!”

“I think I’m going to puke,” says Whisler.

But he doesn’t. Zerega’s laugh is maniacal. I almost admire it. Why cry when you can laugh?

Over the next week the four of us scrub, strip, and scrap the old Humvees. Part of the job is taking a putty knife to the foam that lines the inside of the roof. The foam is riddled with chunks of skull and shrapnel. It’s splattered with blood and bomb residue, so we scrape it off and throw it away.

Before we put it in the Dumpster, though, we offer the pieces to Whisler. We just know he’s starving for some good human brain. And we check the sergeant’s eyes in the morning to see if they’ve glazed over and turned yellow. We watch our backs when he’s around, afraid he’ll try to sneak a bite out of the fleshy part of our shoulders or necks.

We joke about the death we encounter, even these little tastes. Because when it’s humorous, it’s not scary or sad. We can’t dictate fear. We can’t control sadness. These feelings are beyond our reach. But we can control sarcasm, irony.

In a lot of ways it’s our humor that allows us to conquer death. It’s our humor that lets us live. Even if it’s temporary, just for a day, it’s survival. We have to rise above death. We have to laugh in its face.

O
nly after we have been completely destroyed can we begin to find ourselves.

The drill sergeants do it like this: they break us down, build us up, break us down again, and then build us back up. The first breakdown is the hardest part. It’s the first three weeks, and they call it Red Phase.

The second three weeks, White Phase, is when they build us up.

We stand in formation outside the brick barracks on the Monday of the fourth week, completely destroyed, anticipating moving to White Phase. The red guidon waves in the Missouri wind at the front of our formation. We’re so sick of that flag, that bloody red flag. We want the white
one. We want to move on, to grow and learn. We want to leave the last three weeks behind us.

The drill sergeant comes out with a folded cloth in his hand. It’s white. I can almost sense everyone in the platoon smiling. He takes the flagpole from the guidon bearer and, instead of changing the flag, he yells, “Front leaning rest position, move.”

This means push-up position.

“Congratulations, fourth platoon,” he says. “You fail again.”

Then he says, “Down…”

“Attention to detail!” we yell.

“You think you deserve White Phase?”

No one says a word.

“In no way have you little hemorrhoids shown me you deserve this white flag,” he says.

Then he says, “Up…”

“Work as a team!”

“You make me sick!” he yells. “You can’t agree with each other. You don’t help each other on the confidence courses. You hardly deserve the
red
flag.

“Down…” he says.

“Attention to detail!”

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, “the drill sergeant on duty yesterday informed me that I have an atheist in my platoon.”

Silence.

“Is that true?” he says.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” says the atheist.

“Well, you know what they say, don’t you?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“Well?”

Silence.

“I can keep you in the front leaning rest all day, Antichrist,” says the drill sergeant.

“Drill Sergeant…” she starts, stammers. “Drill Sergeant, there’s no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.”

“You’re damn right,” he says.

Then he waits, we’re holding ourselves four inches off the ground. Silence and the burn of worked muscles. He walks to the front of the formation, “Up…”

“Work as a team!”

“Position of attention, move.”

We stand back up. The drill sergeant hands the flagpole back to the guidon bearer and puts the white flag in his cargo pocket.

“I’m marching you to the arms room to draw dummy weapons,” he tells us. “Today, we start BRM.”

Like every other training, BRM, or Basic Rifle Marksmanship, has a crawl, walk, and run phase. Three steps—like red, white, and blue—to ensure we’re experts. The crawl phase of BRM starts with dummy weapons.
Rubber rifles, sometimes called rubber duckies, that are the same size and weight as real M16s.

The first thing we do with the rubber duckies is “rifle PT.” On the march back to the barracks from the arms room, we don’t call cadence loud enough. We don’t deserve White Phase, and our punishment is rifle PT.

Neither the M16 nor its rubber counterpart is very heavy: about eight pounds. But press either over your head two-hundred times and it’s heavier than granite. Squat for ten minutes while holding a rubber ducky straight out in front of you, and just marching to chow the next day is a challenge.

The purpose of the rubber duckies is to get us used to handling M16s—which are a meter long, and not to mention, lethal. We have to know how to interact with one and the safest way to manage it. This is partly the reason for rifle PT.

“Your weapon,” yells the drill sergeant, “is an extension of your body. It is a part of you. You will not leave it dirty. You will not leave it behind.”

Holding a weapon lying on your stomach is called the prone position. Picture fifty privates lying in chopped-up tire pieces, propped up on one elbow, aiming their fake rubber rifles at nothing.

“Roll left,” says the drill sergeant, his voice echoing off the barracks that surround us.

He means roll like a barrel. One full turn to the left, then
stop. The trick is to keep your muzzle off the ground.

“Your weapon,” says the drill sergeant, “is your best friend. You will take care of it. And it will take care of you.

“Roll right.”

Fifty privates in the prone position roll like barrels, then stop.

“Your weapon,” says the drill sergeant, “is unbiased. It does not care where you are from. Or what color your skin is. Or your religion. And don’t think for a minute that your weapon cares about what’s between your legs.

“Rush.”

He means three to five seconds. In your head, as you jump up and run, you think,
I’m up…. He sees me…. I’m down.
That should be three to five seconds. Fifty privates jump up, run ten meters, drop down. Little chunks of tire bounce up around them. The trick is to keep your muzzle off the ground.

“Your weapon,” says the drill sergeant, “does not know how to miss. It fires perfect every time. Your weapon cannot be blamed for a bad shot. Your weapon cannot be blamed for anything.

“Low crawl.”

This means on your stomach, keeping your head low. The smell of rubber is so close it becomes the taste of rubber. And there’s the familiar sting of lactic acid coating my
shoulders as I try to keep the muzzle off the ground.

“Your weapon,” says the drill sergeant, “does not kill your enemy. You kill your enemy.”

After a few days of carrying, marching, and rolling around with the rubber rifles we draw real ones. In the training bay of the barracks, we lie in the prone position and practice aiming at paper targets, little silhouettes of men. We practice putting the front sight post on his torso.

The front sight post aims the barrel of the weapon. The rear aperture aims the chamber. In order to hit the target the front sight post needs to be in the center of the rear aperture. This is called the sight picture.

When we’re steady enough in the prone, we put a penny on the end of the muzzle. When you pull the trigger, if the penny falls, it’s ten push-ups. The trick to pulling a trigger is not pulling. It’s squeezing. Concentrating on your index finger, tighten your fist. Don’t pull with your arm. Pull, and the sight picture moves, the whole rifle moves. And if the rifle moves, the penny falls. That’s ten push-ups. In a combat zone, that’s your life.

Another thing: don’t breathe. Breathe while firing and the penny falls. Patience is key. Attention to detail. Being aware of your body and its patterns. There’s a natural pause at the end of an exhale. That’s when you shoot. Holding your breath too long can make the rifle jittery. You have to relax.

The fifth week, while we’re still waiting to go to White
Phase, morale is low and the fourth platoon training bay is silent. Five privates lie on the buffed tile floor concentrating, each holding an M16. Five lines of privates stand behind them. And five privates squat next to the ones in the prone. Each balances a penny on the end of his battle buddy’s muzzle.

One at a time,
clack
: the sound of the rifle’s hammer falling. The sound that would be a
bang
if there was a bullet in the chamber. But this is walk phase; there are no bullets.

And then, the one lonely
clink-clink
of a penny falling. The drill sergeant doesn’t say a word. The private whose penny falls places his weapon on the tops of his hands (you never put a rifle on the ground) and knocks out ten push-ups. His battle buddy does them, too. No private should ever be punished alone. Because no soldier should ever be alone.

The privates who squeezed their triggers successfully move on. Each stands up, hands his weapon to the next private in line, and then squats to place a penny on the barrel.

The private whose penny fell lies back down and tries again, his whole line waiting for him.

Think relay race. The first line to get everyone through successfully gets to pick the exercise for the rest of the platoon. When the winner is declared, the drill sergeant tells them to discuss the punishment they want everyone else to do.

“What’s it going to be?” the drill sergeant asks the winners.

“Drill sergeant,” says one of the privates, “we pick flutter kicks.”

“My favorite,” says the drill sergeant. “Which one of you is going to call cadence?”

“Drill sergeant,” says the private, “we’re going to do them, too.”

“Okay,” says the drill sergeant. To the platoon he says, “The flutter kick.”

“The flutter kick,” we repeat.

“Starting position, move.”

We lie on our backs and lift our feet off the ground.

“And begin,” says the drill sergeant. “One, two, three…”

“One,” we yell.

“One, two, three…”

“Two.”

After number thirty the drill sergeant says, “Halt.”

He says, “Position of attention, move.”

And we stand.

At formation for dinner chow the drill sergeant walks out of the barracks with a white flag. He takes down the red flag and puts up the white one.

Our heads are high as we march to chow. Our voices are strong as we call the cadence. During Red Phase the drill sergeants just said, “Left…left…left, right, left…”
when we marched. In White Phase they sing songs.

“Used to date a beauty queen!” yells the drill sergeant on our way to chow.

“Used to date a beauty queen!” we repeat, our left foots hitting the ground on “used” and “beauty.”

“Now I date my M16!” yells the drill sergeant.

There are a million of these songs. Army cadences to keep us in step with one another. The sound of us singing with one another—that rumbling, unified sound—it makes us a team. It makes us believe in one another. It gives us faith.

The private next to me knows exactly how sore I am, how tired, and how worn out. He knows exactly what I’m going through. But our left and right feet step onto the ground at the same time. All the privates surrounding me are dress, right, dressed. I follow them and they follow me.

We keep one another going. We’re all in this together. No matter what happens we have one another.

We are on our way to becoming soldiers.

I
n Iraq two things keep us going: one another and letters from home—our unmistakable signs of love and support. But not all the letters are from our families.

A box is delivered to our barracks from an elementary school in North Carolina. It contains Slim Jims, instant tea, instant coffee, Pringles, Gummi Worms, peppermints, caramels, and mixed salted peanuts. The box also contains hygiene products: body soap, shampoo, deodorant, baby wipes, ChapStick, moisturizer, and pocket-sized bottles of antibacterial hand sanitizer.

These items are so appreciated and so vital to our welfare. A package with true thought behind it means so much
more than the people who sent it may ever know. It’s not “Thank God, I was almost out of soap.” We could easily walk to the PX at camp and pick up a bar of soap. It’s the feeling we get from knowing we’re thought of.

Our real home is on the other side of the world. We can’t see the magnetic yellow ribbons, the patriotic signs on people’s front lawns. We aren’t in a parade. We forget. The war is in the way.

Bottom line is it’s nice to get a little slap on the back once in a while.

The hygiene products are great. The food is appreciated. But the letters are the best part about packages sent from schools. The kids are the people we’re here for. We’re fighting for them and their future. We’re tired of the nagging and debating that adults do so well. We don’t care anymore. We know more, we’ve seen more, and we’re just plain sick of their arguments. The kids don’t write to us about their political views.

Call it ignorance. Call it naïve. Call it unrealistic.

We call it relief.

I see a folded piece of green construction paper. On the front, in black crayon, there’s an awkwardly drawn trapezoid sitting on a lumpy conveyor belt. It’s a second grader’s rendition of a tank, and a smiling face wearing a World War II helmet sticks out of the top. The tank’s cannon shoots a triangle across the length of the paper. I can tell
the triangle is shot from the cannon because there are three bullet straight lines connecting the two.

At the top, in blue crayon, there is one word, soldier. Perhaps the most adorable part is the fact that after the word
soldier
, there is a comma. It’s unnecessary, but the comma’s there because this child knows that when you address a letter, you put a comma after the name.

My name is Soldier, and this is the letter that was left on my bunk this evening.

It is not the first time. We’ve already had a few of these packages. Every time one comes, the cards get dispersed throughout the barracks, one for every soldier, and the food and hygiene products are put on a shelf in the common room.

I smile at the card and take off my body armor. I put down my weapon and unlace my boots. I take off my shirt and feel the cool air of the barracks dry the sweat on my back. I pick up the card and open it.

It wasn’t folded straight down the middle, so its edges don’t quite line up. On the left side of the card there is a big drawing of the American flag. A dozen blue stars in the upper left-hand corner are unsymmetrical, crooked: perfect.

The kid tried to use a white crayon for the stripes but hasn’t yet learned that white crayon never works. Uneven, horizontal streaks of pale wax alternating with uneven,
horizontal red lines form the rest of the flag. There are seven stripes. Underneath it a big red
U
, a waxy white
S
, and a dark blue
A
.

On the right side a message sums up everything the kid would ever want to know about me. In lopsided, misspelled words he writes,

The innocence behind this last question makes me chuckle. At the bottom, exactly how his teacher taught him, the kid writes,
Thank you. From, Dylan

It’s a touching card, and the corners of my eyes start to feel ticklish. But I don’t cry. It’s just a card. The gluey, pulpy smell of the construction paper reminds me of second grade. There’s a war going on outside, and I’d give anything to be in second grade again. But I don’t cry.

I read the last line one more time, and I touch the raised, waxy letters.
Thank you
. I’m amazed at how easy it is for a kid to say yet it seems so hard for adults. I’m amazed at how much courage it takes to say it and at the courageous young boy who said it.

I reread the card, making sure I didn’t miss anything. Then I touch it again, feeling the love and innocence of one little boy.

I lie down on my bunk. The war will be there tomorrow. The only thing that matters tonight is this green piece of construction paper.

We call it relief.