A true story from the war
On that fateful night of 18 October
2003, I was standing in the motor pool of the FOB (Forward Operating Base) in
Taza. My friend John Hart was present,
and both of us were taking in the Iraqi evening with its perpetually dusty
smell, playing black jack on the hood of a Humvee. We were both enjoying a Marlboro Red, and
talking about nothing at all. The
evening was cool but not cold, quite pleasant for all involved, after a 110+
degree summer.
Overall there was a relaxed mood, with neither of us
worried about much. We’d met shortly
after Airborne School and had enjoyed some time together in the rear detachment
of the 173rd Airborne Brigade in Italy, being too new and green to
join the unit until several months after the war began. He was a good man, with a good heart, and
everyone liked him. Many thought he
would become a psychologist one day, due to his kindness and empathy. He was a good listener, and was easy to talk
to. We were alike in that we both seemed
fish out of water. Both of us seemed to
have an odd disposition for being airborne infantry (paratroopers, to use another
term), him being so empathetic, me being so aloof and nerdy. Like me, he was also at the bottom of the
totem pole, a fellow Private First Class.
His platoon would stop by my little FOB almost every night, either to go
on patrol or to drop things off, or pick things up and take them back to the
airbase at Kirkuk.
It was about 6:30 pm or so when the
platoon had to return to the airbase, and left those of us at the FOB behind
for another night in the village of Taza.
Hart and I shook hands and said goodbye, sure we’d see each other with
the resupply tomorrow night. I noted
that the company Executive Officer, David Bernstein, was going on the convoy. He was the second in command, and him tagging
along struck me as odd, since the commander and first sergeant were going as
well (normally you don’t have all 3 top leaders in the company at the same
place at the same time, just in case). There
was a coin toss in the mortar section as to who would be part of the escort
back to the airbase (and back), and I won.
I would be staying and pulling guard, while Martin got stuck driving Bernstein
and Hart back in Bernstein’s personal Humvee, Charlie 5.
Relieved of the
burden of having to sit through a roundabout convoy, I strolled back into my
little room, happy once again that I was living in a confiscated building and
not on the concrete foundation of an unbuilt home, the way I’d spent the
previous two months. I even had air
conditioning! Compared to the miserable,
mosquito infested position we’d held for months on the Zab river, suffering
through that infernal summer, I was living in the lap of luxury.
My guard shift started in 10
minutes, and so me and Smithey, a fellow private in the mortar section, geared
up and went to the roof. We were just
passing the time in talk, when suddenly we heard distant rumbling. Somehow I knew it portended the worst, and my
stomach clenched. It was a few seconds
later that I saw the soldier below on radio guard sprinting into the main
building. Smithey and I exchanged
wide-eyed looks, and saw first platoon running to the remaining trucks, the
first responders.
Long minutes passed while first
platoon got ready, and finally drove off into the direction of the
rumbling. The radio was handed up to Smithey
and I, as one of the few people left back at the FOB. Something in me changed then, as I listened
to the commander’s voice asking where the FLA (Humvee ambulance) was. Every 30 seconds to a minute he’d come on to
ask the inbound reinforcements where the ambulance was and how soon it would be
there. The strain and concern in his
voice become more and more evident, and it was then that I knew that it was
really bad out there.
Smithey and I did our best to play
relay between the attack site and the airbase, until a screaming lieutenant
from first platoon told us to get off and find a sergeant. We did so, and were relieved to be rid of the
radio. Smithey and I were relieved for
guard, and I was shocked that it’d been 3 hours since it had all started. It had seemed like 30 minutes. We had somehow become very tired over those
three hours, and climbed down.
Inside our little room, Smithey and I took our gear off and
began to get ready for bed, but we both stopped halfway through as if by some
unheard command, and simply looked at each other for a moment. The events of the night so far played out
again in my mind, and I can only imagine what was going through his head. After that silent minute, I got up and went
outside and just sort of stared into space.
I had been standing
outside for a few minutes when Tuttle, my team leader at the time, came and
asked me, “Did you know Hart?” Did? Past tense?
My heart sank, and I silently nodded.
He motioned for me to go up the ladder to the radio.
I climbed back up to
the roof, and stood dumbly in front of the sergeants collected up there. My section sergeant, Pullen, was blunt:
“Hart’s dead.” Even now I’m not sure what
I felt. Mostly just numb shock. I didn’t cry.
I wasn’t overcome with sorrow. At
first I simply I stood there silently and uselessly. Then an unbelievable anger filled me, and
something in my changed for life, just then.
The Iraqi scum had killed Hart.
My friend since Airborne School was dead. Up until then I’d somehow half-heartedly
believed in Hearts and Minds, and all that other politically correct nonsense
about winning over the locals. It was
bullshit of course, but such had been our orders and the priority of the
leadership. After that night, though, I
was filled with a singular hatred. What
had been a more general distaste for them had morphed into something very
visceral and personal. I wanted nothing
more than to execute every man, woman, and child I found on street.
It seemed foolish to stand up there any longer, so I
wordlessly climbed back down in an angry daze, and returned to the room. I climbed into the sleeping bag on my cot,
and managed to pass into a dreamless sleep, shock overcome by exhaustion.
I was awoken by Tuttle, here again to tell me we had some
cleanup to do. The worst was not over
yet. The whole convoy had come back,
everyone looking haggard and dejected. I
followed Tuttle through the motor pool and there it stood: Charlie 5, the truck
that both Hart and Bernstein had been on.
The air reeked of sweat and dried blood. The sun was just starting to come up, and
some birds were chirping, adding a morbid quality to the air. The passenger’s side of the Humvee had a deep
puddle of blood pooled below the seat. Seeing
the raw volume of blood, doubt began to fester in me as to whether Bernstein
could possibly have survived. There were
unidentifiable bits of organic matter on the seat, which was also soaked in
blood. The whole truck was riddled with
holes, hinting at what the passengers must have gone through. In the back, there was still more blood,
everywhere. Spent shell casings
practically covered the truck bed.
I felt somehow detached from the whole scene as I took a
green scrub pad and got to work. Some of
the other guys with me started to tear up, but choked it down. Others began dry heaving. I think only one actually vomited into the
slit trench nearby. There was something
grisly and ghastly about the whole affair, yet we carried it out, working for
at least 4 hours on that truck. I didn't
know what to feel, and I recall feeling only numbness. I simply shut out the situation and cleaned a
Humvee. I had a job to do, and as a lowly
Private First Class, I was being paid to follow orders, not speak or
think. As we finished the job, someone
came up and told me it was a shame Bernstein hadn’t survived the flight. His femoral artery had been hit, and he’d
bled out on the medical evacuation helicopter.
Late at night, when I’m deep in my drinks, as usual,
sometimes I think about that night. A
coin toss kept me off of that truck. I
think about what good, promising men Hart and Bernstein both were. The former was my friend, and the latter was
truly an exceptional soldier. I look at
my life and wonder – should it have been me instead?
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