beforeâscarecrow tourists with cameras and smiles and perfect white teeth didnât penetrate into the seedy backwaters of Dublin unless they wanted trouble. Have you ever knifed another man just to feel his very essence pour out of him in pools of running red and guts of unidentifiable slop onto the sidewalk?
Umm. Yes, we did. And no, no I have not.
Still, though. This was different. The flowers and hugs and cheers from the liberation only lasted for a few months before one stare became ten stares became one hundred stares. Suddenly the stare was the norm, house by house, block by block, and town by town, and all of the flower petals dried up, and we suddenly recognized that those cheers of gratitude were actually pleas for salvation. There were thousands of them, and they were everywhere. This pattern of starbursting degeneration, roughly translated from Arabic, meant occupation.
They told me, Lieutenant, you canât change a culture overnight. I knew that. I wasnât trying to change a culture. I was trying to defy the laws of existence.
I hated being hated. Strength and hardness didnât necessarily have to intertwine. But it sure was simpler that way.
The Iraqis might no longer have believed our black-as-the-abyss sunglasses could see through walls, like they did back in 2003, but I still felt better when I put them on. It made it a lot fucking easier to keep walking past the hollow stares of people when I thought that they thought I wasnât looking into their eyes. They wanted me to escape their pain without effect or a spare thought. They needed to believe I was that callous, and that was the reason I walked past them.
I later wondered if such was ever even an option. We tucked away what hopes we could, tried to ignore the moment, and hardened our souls for the strong duration. We knew that no flowers or hugs or cheers awaited us on the far end. All we had was this spring, searing in climate but cold in nature. At least it was ours and ours alone.
JUST ANOTHER FRONT
This today was just like any other except for the todays that were different.
A giant alarm clock rang with acrimony, bringing in the day far more brusquely than God intended when He designed the sluggish rising of the sun. I yawned loudly, slapped myself in the face, hopped off of the top bunk, and sauntered toward the TOC for intel updates, while SFC Big Country turned on the coffeemaker and went to the soldiersâ rooms to wake them up. When I returned from the TOC, SFC Big Country handed me a fresh cup of coffee, Staff Sergeant Boondock was staring at the wall cursing to himself, and Staff Sergeant Bulldogâa notoriously slow mover in the morningâgrunted from somewhere deep underneath his blankets.
âTime to get up, sheik,â I told him. âYour doting followers await.â
Some mixture of profanity-laced grogginess and Southern slurring usually let me know that he was awake. Then I joined my men at the gear racks just outside of our rooms, where we donned layers and layers of cumbersome body armor, swelling in mass and bulk like the knights of yore. The three newest GravediggersâSpecialist Tunnel, Private Hot Wheels, and Private Stove Top, fresh arrivals from Hawaiiâwatched in confusion as Private Van Wilder emerged from his room dressed only in his underwear, rubbing his rather sizable belly.
âDonât act like youâre not impressed,â he cracked. And then, to a laughing Private Smitty, he said, âThe FNGs [fucking new guys] keep staring at my balls. . . . They must want me. Can you really blame them?â
All of our new soldiers qualified as certified good ole boys from the American South, and all were proud infantrymen. Specialist Tunnel, from Arkansas, arrived eager to match his twin brother, who had already earned his combat patch in theater and survived an IED-strike. Private Stove Top, a native of the North Carolinian coast, and Private Hot Wheels, from the
Umm. Yes, we did. And no, no I have not.
Still, though. This was different. The flowers and hugs and cheers from the liberation only lasted for a few months before one stare became ten stares became one hundred stares. Suddenly the stare was the norm, house by house, block by block, and town by town, and all of the flower petals dried up, and we suddenly recognized that those cheers of gratitude were actually pleas for salvation. There were thousands of them, and they were everywhere. This pattern of starbursting degeneration, roughly translated from Arabic, meant occupation.
They told me, Lieutenant, you canât change a culture overnight. I knew that. I wasnât trying to change a culture. I was trying to defy the laws of existence.
I hated being hated. Strength and hardness didnât necessarily have to intertwine. But it sure was simpler that way.
The Iraqis might no longer have believed our black-as-the-abyss sunglasses could see through walls, like they did back in 2003, but I still felt better when I put them on. It made it a lot fucking easier to keep walking past the hollow stares of people when I thought that they thought I wasnât looking into their eyes. They wanted me to escape their pain without effect or a spare thought. They needed to believe I was that callous, and that was the reason I walked past them.
I later wondered if such was ever even an option. We tucked away what hopes we could, tried to ignore the moment, and hardened our souls for the strong duration. We knew that no flowers or hugs or cheers awaited us on the far end. All we had was this spring, searing in climate but cold in nature. At least it was ours and ours alone.
JUST ANOTHER FRONT
This today was just like any other except for the todays that were different.
A giant alarm clock rang with acrimony, bringing in the day far more brusquely than God intended when He designed the sluggish rising of the sun. I yawned loudly, slapped myself in the face, hopped off of the top bunk, and sauntered toward the TOC for intel updates, while SFC Big Country turned on the coffeemaker and went to the soldiersâ rooms to wake them up. When I returned from the TOC, SFC Big Country handed me a fresh cup of coffee, Staff Sergeant Boondock was staring at the wall cursing to himself, and Staff Sergeant Bulldogâa notoriously slow mover in the morningâgrunted from somewhere deep underneath his blankets.
âTime to get up, sheik,â I told him. âYour doting followers await.â
Some mixture of profanity-laced grogginess and Southern slurring usually let me know that he was awake. Then I joined my men at the gear racks just outside of our rooms, where we donned layers and layers of cumbersome body armor, swelling in mass and bulk like the knights of yore. The three newest GravediggersâSpecialist Tunnel, Private Hot Wheels, and Private Stove Top, fresh arrivals from Hawaiiâwatched in confusion as Private Van Wilder emerged from his room dressed only in his underwear, rubbing his rather sizable belly.
âDonât act like youâre not impressed,â he cracked. And then, to a laughing Private Smitty, he said, âThe FNGs [fucking new guys] keep staring at my balls. . . . They must want me. Can you really blame them?â
All of our new soldiers qualified as certified good ole boys from the American South, and all were proud infantrymen. Specialist Tunnel, from Arkansas, arrived eager to match his twin brother, who had already earned his combat patch in theater and survived an IED-strike. Private Stove Top, a native of the North Carolinian coast, and Private Hot Wheels, from the
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