EPTI was pleased to hear that our first stop would be in Germany, a land I had long admired. Ice cold rain stung the skin on my face and hands as I walked to the bus. I was, however, disappointed to realize that I would see little of Germany. We were kept within a single building in the airport, accompanied by a few resident crew and the many soldiers I am sick of seeing. I would have been grateful to be cleansed of the USO fervor by the morally indignant quip of some pseudo-intellectual German about the war or the US military. Even though I hate that sort of thing.
We herded ourselves like cattle to the small area outside designated for smoking. The soldiers, in their characteristically loud and rambunctious manner, proceeded to take pictures of themselves behind a steel fence, clinging to it, with eyes wide. From their behavior and conversations, I could infer that Germany brings nothing to most Americans except for thoughts of Hitler killing Jews. Their insensitivity embarrassed me. I finished my cigarette quickly and went inside.
I sat and watched them crowd around the phones. I watched them in the shops, admiring the assortment of alcohol they were not allowed to drink or buy for the next eighteen months. Eventually I gave way to quiet introspection and reflection, as I always do.
Some suspected that I was German because of my last name. The pilot even asked me if I spoke German. I am not German, I told them. What I did not tell them is that I don’t consider myself an American either. We ought to define ourselves first and foremost as human beings, and disdain the very distinctions and separations engendered by man's herd instinct which led to the same Holocaust these naive Americans consider the sole essence of Germany. Within an hour we were back on the plane.
I am going to be hurting when we finally get there, I thought. I haven't had decent sleep in days. And I am on baggage detail, I'll be throwing around dozens of bags that weigh nearly half my weight. I decided to put my laptop away and try to get some sleep before we arrived. It would quite likely be needed.
We flew over the desert. Upon first sight, a landscape devoid of mountains or trees, only plumes of black smoke rising from a barren, yellow wasteland. The flat, dry earth spotted with black holes, the aftermath of man’s struggle for wealth. This is a land forsaken by God. An inhospitable and tortured land, which returns the suffering it has received upon its inhabitants. Upon first sight of this wasteland, extremism did not appear so extreme. Here, extremes were the norm. Extreme temperatures, disparity between worthless dust and black gold, religious and political civil war. This is the land I have volunteered to join the fight for. The fight for control and supremacy over the wealth that is this barren desert. It is not my fight, but I am here. And who is right, and who is wrong? The sand has been soaked with blood. To try and understand the laws that govern this other world is not to grasp and understand this world. I suddenly realized how naïve it is for foreigners sitting on their green, developed ground, their safe and stable ground, their powerful and rich ground, to form opinions and judgments about a land and a people they cannot comprehend. This is a land forsaken by God. Just live your lives, Americans, Europeans. Stop trying to judge the world. Just be thankful that you have been born in the right place at the right time. This is a foreign world that cannot be lent American solutions.
That is what I felt as I flew above the desert in a steel, air-conditioned bird traveling hundreds of miles per hour, safely, with a single serving, seasoned meal sitting before me. Plastic forks and knives, a laptop in my bag, philosophy in my pocket. And how important is that philosophy, when all of the words on the planet cannot move a single grain of sand in this desert.
I stepped off the plane into the bearable heat. A civilian in a reflective jacket began yelling above the sound of the jet engines to take off our gear and jackets, put on our ear plugs. He went through a list of safety regulations, the kind of feminized formality necessary to impart before taking any action in this bureaucratic government world devoid of personal responsibility. Then we began unloading bags. My job had begun.
Once we arrived at ---, we had a formation, and then another briefing, this one outlining rules, finance, and more feminized formalities. What do I mean? For example, we had a short class repeating for the thirtieth time the importance of wearing ear plugs. Damaging our hearing can affect our “lethality,” we were told.
Life on a cot in a large tent with three inches of personal space in every direction is surprisingly palatable contrasted with the vicious heat outside. Some soldiers have even quit smoking to avoid standing in the heat. What for years tobacco cessation campaigns, classes, and laws failed to do, the Iraqi sun accomplished in less than a week. While in the grasp of the heat, all desires are leveled and replaced with a singular purpose: to escape it. It is incredible the pleasure that can be derived from simply removing your socks in an air-conditioned tent. Where there is an increase in discomfort or suffering in one place, there is often an increase in pleasure somewhere else. Thus it is undeniably true that the good wouldn’t be as good if it were not for the bad. This is what I thought as I sat on my cot.
Of course, my father has the opinion that most overly concerned parents would have. Do whatever it takes to get home safely. Don’t stop to think, never even hesitate to kill, just come home alive. So the question becomes: If an enemy were using a human child as a shield while firing at you, what would you do? This question usually assumes that the only real options are to kill the child or die. The answer to this question depends upon how much a man values an innocent child’s life in comparison to his own. I'll be honest with you: I don't value my life much at all. Which would explain why I was here in the first place.
I can’t sleep. I am worried about tomorrow, the convoy, another hot day in the sun, only longer. I pray that the gear and body armor that weigh my scoliosis ridden back down and cause a painful tension are not causing irreversible damage to my spine. But to complain would be very un-manly of me. Men keep silent and perfect their denial. Writing, my only outlet. I stay up, unable to sleep on the floor of the lit tent. I thought about my wife. I wondered what she was doing. I missed her. Several months from now this sharp sting will fade into an unending, dull anxiety. A constant feeling of something lacking. A hole in my life. So I sit on the ground typing on my laptop, worrying about tomorrow and the sleep I should be getting, with a longing loneliness in the background of my mind. Welcome to Iraq.
