Balaam took a deep breath, thinking as he glanced at the other American soldiers that were sleeping around them. How he hated them all. How he hated what they stood for and the things they had done. How he hated their kindness and the reasons they fought.
* * *
Sam wrestled on his cot, stretching his legs uncomfortably. He felt so agitated and angry. Hatred was building inside. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his hands through his hair, his bare chest glistening in the dim, moonlit night. His dog tags hung from his neck, and the chain swayed against his chest as he rubbed his eyes.
* * *
“You hate them!” Balaam continued to hiss in his ear. “They smell. They are dirty. These people are not like you. They are not as good as you are, nor as strong. They are lazy. They are stupid and evil and stubborn and weak. They aren’t really God’s children, they are . . . you don’t know . . . something else . . . something
less . . . something unworthy of democracy and the things you fight for.”
* * *
Sam shook his head and frowned, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He knew they weren’t true, and he was ashamed for even thinking them.
But the little boy. The youngest martyr. How could he reconcile that!
He struggled again, trying to force the depressing thoughts from his mind. And though Balaam kept hissing at him, he wasn’t listening anymore.
Yes, there were times when he wondered . . . times when he had his doubts.
But he knew that it was not the Iraqi people’s fault. For almost three thousand years, these descendents of ancient Babylon had lived through a nearly endless cycle of subjection and strife. The idea of democracy was completely foreign to them.
But they wanted it. At least most of them did. It was just that there were enough of the others to make it so difficult.
Sam shook his head in frustration, thinking of the dead little boy. That was the real tragedy. All the children. They were innocent. And far too often now, they took the brunt of the war. Not from the U.S. soldiers, that was never true; the U.S. military took exceptional pains to protect civilians and innocents. But these insurgents, these evil men who claimed to be fighting for the people but were clearly fighting for the power they craved, they were all too willing to fight their battles between the arms of another man’s children, using them as shields or as bait, as diversions or screens, taking any advantage the children might give them to spring a surprise.
Maybe because he had suffered as a little boy, Sam had an exceptional soft spot, an almost deadly weakness, for the children he saw. He wondered again, and not for the first time, if there wasn’t something he could do for these innocents. He had seen far too many suffer—the little boy in the car, the young girl in Iran, so many others through the last year. If he could just think of something, anything, that might make a difference in even one of their lives.
He paused suddenly.
He had an idea.
He stood up instantly. He was going to need some help.
* * *
Four tents down from Sam, the lieutenant also lay awake on his cot. He thought of the little boy, then turned painfully to his side.
He thought of his daughter, and felt a cold quiver inside.
Then he heard a knock on the post outside his tent door. “Lieutenant! You awake?” It was Sergeant Brighton’s voice.
“What’s up?” he answered quickly, and Sam slipped through the tent door.
“Lieutenant, I really need a favor,” Sam said in a hushed voice.
Chapter Ten
Camp Freedom
Iraq
A blazing sandstorm had wrapped Camp Freedom in a miserable blanket of suffocating brown dirt and sand as fine as talcum powder. It turned the afternoon a dismal brown while coating everything in fine grit, bringing security operations to a slow and gloomy crawl.
Sam stood alone in his tent. He tied a brown handkerchief over his mouth and nose, pulled his combat goggles down over his eyes, fastened the Velcro collar on his combat jacket, and headed out the tent door. As soon as he stepped into the wind, he felt the sand blowing down his collar, up his sleeves, around his fastened pant legs, and into his ears. He lifted a hand to block the wind as he made his way to the Operations Center. Before stepping inside, he shook off his clothes as best as he could, then dropped the handkerchief from his face and squeezed through the door, sliding in quickly to keep the sand at bay. A temporary shield had been put up between the door and the interior of the tent, and he brushed himself off from his boots to his hair, then pushed the heavy cloth back and stepped into the room.
The Ops C. was crowded and noisy. The sandstorm had significantly complicated combat operations, and the officers and senior enlisted men were busy working their contingency plans. Sam saw Bono sitting at a makeshift plywood table in a quiet corner at the back of the center. Spread out on the desk in front of him were half a dozen satellite photographs, his next patrol order, a communications plan, and several other items.
The patrol order included the detailed Rules of Engagement (ROE) for the mission: a three- or four-page analysis of the anticipated enemy action, the purpose of the mission, the position of friendly forces, including the location and availability of air force fighters for ground support, ingress and emergency egress routes, communications plans, radio frequencies, code words and the meanings of various smoke and illumination signals, and a list of the teams that were assigned for backup and support. Written in large block letters across the cover page of the patrol order were the words Prepare Now or Die, a fairly effective means of reminding the squad leaders of the importance of preparing for their patrol. And though reviewing the patrol orders was one of the least liked tasks for most officers, Bono took the responsibility very seriously.
As Sam walked toward him, Bono kept his head in his work. Watching him, Sam thought he seemed to be nervous. Sam knew that the previous squad leader had been reassigned to logistics or chow hall or some other non-combat duty, and that Bono was determined not to make a miserable mistake, though it wasn’t his career he was worried about nearly so much as his men.
Bono was writing notes in the margin of his tactical map; Sam watched over his shoulder as he worked. In the corner of the desk, Bono had placed a picture of his wife and daughter. Most soldiers had some kind of charm or pre-mission routine that was supposed to bring them good luck: Some wore the same color underwear each time, some spit in the wind, some chewed the same gum, kissed a cross, wrote a letter, or listened to the same song. Bono’s ritual was to tape a picture of his family on the wall next to the table while he prepared for patrol. Sam didn’t know why, but, of course, he never asked. It was considered extremely bad form to question another’s pre-combat routine.
Staring at the picture of the beautiful little family, Sam felt a tiny sinking in his gut. He moved toward the picture, looking closely while Bono kept his head down.
Will I ever have this? he wondered. He could only hope that he would.
Family was something Sam rarely talked about. His biological father, the old drunk who occasionally made a little money as a charter fisherman on the southern Virginia coast, and his mother, who had deserted him to the old man when he was only eight, had never been anything but a stress in his life. Yeah, they were back together now, and it seemed they were getting along, but after years of abuse, it was impossible for him to think of them as his mom and dad. If it hadn’t been for the Brightons . . . Sam hated to even think. They had literally saved him. They were his family now.
But still he felt, deep inside, that he wasn’t really one of them. The Brightons seemed to have something that he would never have, some innate goodness, some moral bearing that he just didn’t possess. They were as straight down the line as anyone Sam had ever known, and he wasn’t quite like that, though he had really tried. Sometimes he thought there was something inside them, something that literally ran through their veins, that made them different from him, even better somehow. He had tried.
He had tried really hard. He was still trying. But he fell short so often, it seemed it just didn’t work.
Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by Bono’s finally looking up. “Still blowing out?” he asked wearily.
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “No choppers will be flying tonight.”
Bono looked down at his map and mumbled. That meant no air support. He shook his head.
Bono’s desert fatigue shirt was open, showing the dog tags that dangled from the chain on his neck. Hanging next to the dog tags was a small silver shield. Lots of soldiers wore them. They called the little charm the Shield of Strength. Joshua 1:9 was etched on the back—not the entire scripture, just the reference. Sam, who also wore a Shield, had the scripture memorized:
“Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Subconsciously, he reached under his fatigues and felt for the Shield there. Squeezing it, he asked Bono, “You thirsty?”
“Feels like I’ve got half the desert stuck in my throat.”
Sam cocked his head toward the rear door of the Operations Center. Bono nodded, stood up, and followed him through a wooden door that opened up to a wide canvas hallway, then to another tent, which was set up as a lounge for the unit’s soldiers. Once inside the second tent, they made their way to the refrigerator and grabbed some sodas, then dropped onto a couple of cheap, folding chairs. It was quiet here, and the two men relaxed for a while. Bono finished his soda in three long gulps, then took the picture of his family, which he had been holding in his hand, and tucked it inside the chest pocket on his shirt.
Sam watched him. “Do you always think of them?” he wondered.
“You know, it’s funny,” Bono replied. “When I’m out there in the fight, I don’t think about my family. I don’t think about my wife, my kid, nothing like that. I don’t think about going home, the reason I’m fighting, the idea of freedom or America or any of that. All I think about is the guys in the team. Protecting each other. Keeping each other safe.”
Sam didn’t answer. He felt the same way.
“We are the only men in the world who know what that means, to fight and die with your brothers. It’s a huge privilege, man.”
Sam held his cold soda bottle to his cheek, feeling the condensation cooling his skin. The lounge wasn’t air-conditioned; despite the strong wind, it was hot inside.
“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Bono asked, staring blankly ahead.
“What’s that?” Sam replied.
Bono crushed his plastic bottle, walked to the fridge, pulled out another soda, then came back and sat down. “People say American soldiers fight to protect their freedoms,” he started. “Some people write us letters and thank us for keeping them safe. The politicians back home always thank us. Some are even sincere in their thanks. They say we are fighting for their freedoms. But I don’t think that’s true.”
Sam laughed. “You going Jane Fonda on me, baby?”
“No, really,” Bono answered. “Think about it, man. When was the last time Americans were actually fighting for their freedom? You might have to go back to the Revolutionary War. That might have been the last time.”
“I don’t know, Bono. How about the Civil War, boss?”
“I understand the North was fighting to protect the Union, but I think most of those men were fighting for something else. The freedom of others. I just don’t believe, I can’t believe in my gut, that men were laying it on the line there, laying it down like they did, just to protect the Union. I think there was more to it than that. They were freeing the slaves. Fighting to free other men.”
Sam remained skeptical. “What about the first and second World Wars?” he asked.
“World War One was plain and simple a fight to save Europe. We had no national interest, nothing really at stake. World War Two? The Japanese were our enemy, the ones who attacked. We could have confined our war to the Pacific and won easily. We could have let Stalin and Hitler divide Europe, knowing they would eventually turn on each other and devour themselves. But we put our own interest aside and saved Europe first. Again, another fight to save other men.
“I know a lot of people like to talk about the Vietnam War, but can anyone make a serious argument that we were fighting for imperial power? I mean, come on, man, what did the Vietnamese have to offer if we had conquered them? Nothing. Nada. Not so much as a bowl of white rice. So why were we there, if not to save the South Vietnamese? And if you want to know what happens when we fail, you should look no further than Indochina. How many million Vietnamese and Cambodians were slaughtered because we failed in that war! The Killing Fields should haunt us for the next hundred years.”
Sam didn’t answer, he just listened, content to sip his soda for now.
“Kuwait?” Bono continued, his voice rising now. “Afghanistan and Iraq? Yeah, we needed stability in the region, but if all we were interested in was the oil, we could have been like the Germans and French who propped up Saddam to keep the oil rolling in. Heaven knows he would have sold us all that we needed. That isn’t the reason we came here. There was more to it than that. Yeah, I think we needed to double-tap the Taliban and take out the madman, Hussein, and yes, in that sense, you might argue that we went into those countries to protect the freedoms we had. But though that might have been why we came in, it is not why we stayed. We could have eliminated the threat, then skipped out of town. But that’s not how we work. We stay to protect the freedoms of those left behind. We stay to help them build a government that will keep them free.
“Now think about that, Sergeant Brighton. I believe it is true. We don’t fight for our freedoms. We fight for much more than that. We fight for the freedom of others. We fight to free other men.”
Sam shifted on his chair, adjusting the sidearm in the leather holster that was strapped to his side. “I guess that makes us the good guys,” he said.
“Which is what makes it so hard.”
Sam looked confused. “I don’t get it,” he said.
Bono looked away, then rolled his neck to crunch out the kinks. “Going home,” he answered. “I mean, I want to see my family in the very worst way. I want to hold my daughter. I know that she needs me, and I want to be there for her. But I can’t reconcile the way I feel at home with the way I feel about being here too. This mission. My comrades. The thrill of the fight.” Bono leaned forward awkwardly and looked into Sam’s eyes. Sam could see that this was his confession, he was getting it out, and Sam let him talk. “I would give anything in the world to be home right now. But when I get there, I know I’m going to miss being here. I’m going to miss the battles. I’m going to miss the thrill. But mostly, I’m going to miss the feeling of doing something right, something that helps another. I’m rock-solid on that, Sam. I know what we’re doing here is part of God’s work. And I’m going to miss it. Now tell me, is that wrong?”
Sam thought a moment, then raised his head. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I think maybe you’re asking the wrong guy.”
Bono sat back and waited, and so Sam went on. “Is it wrong to be a warrior? Maybe it is. We are so steeped in violence, it can be offensive sometimes. Americans like their heroes soft now, you know, soft and cute. I don’t know, but it seems there’s almost a victim mentality in our heroes today: A POW who was taken captive and suffered, a soldier who died for his friends—these are the heroes Americans are most comfortable with. They don’t like their warriors too battle hardened. That scares them now. But that’s you and me. That’s what you and I are. We find and kill the enemy. That is a day’s work to us. Is that evil? It can’t be. Not when it’s for the right cause. Was Captain Moroni a hero? Darn straight he was. So you want to go home, but you want to stay in the fight. You feel the claws of this calling because they have latched into you.
“I don’t know, Bono, but this much I believe. There aren’t many people in the world who get to do somethi
ng like this. Most will miss it. Most are never given the chance. But you and I and a few others, we’ve been given this opportunity to do something for others that they can’t do for themselves. Are you wrong to appreciate that? I don’t think you are. Sometime you’ll go home to your family and hold each of them close. And you’ll know you did your duty. How many people can say that?”
The two men fell into silence, listening to the wind blow. “You know what I look forward to more than anything else?” Bono said after they had sat for a while.
“What’s that?”
“There are a thousand things I miss: my wife, my own bed, watching the Yankees on TV, getting up in the morning without having sand fleas in my hair. But there’s nothing I miss more than holding my little girl. More than anything else, I miss picking her up and holding her in my arms. She lays her head on your shoulder. She clings to your arms. She has a way of molding to my body, like she was meant to be there. That’s what I look forward to more than anything else, when I step off that airplane and she runs to my arms. When that happens, I will feel like the luckiest man in the world.”
Sam took a drink of his soda, which had grown warm and a little flat. “You are lucky,” he answered.
Bono nodded and smiled.
“Fifty-two days,” Sam muttered.
“And counting,” Bono said.
The men stared at the floor. A convoy was just loading up, engines rumbling outside, and the wind howled like a monster trying to rip through the tent.
Sam thought awhile, then said, “You know, Lieutenant, the other night I came to your tent and told you what I was planning to do.”
“Yeah,” Bono answered.
“Are you going to help me?”
“Of course. Was there any doubt in your mind?”
The Great and Terrible Page 62
