The Storyteller
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Four years ago I tried my hand at some creative writing to help process some of my experiences while deployed to Iraq. This is one of those stories. Our lives are a moment away from being turned upside down. This event still sticks its ugly head up in my memories every now and again over a decade since it happened. Someone witnessing this scene would have seen a Marine patrol crossing the road and a vehicle which had trouble stopping. For me, a jammed weaponed prevented a lifetime of nightmares and torment.
Four years after writing this, and over a decade since it happened, it is finally time to let my creation enter the world. It is not an action-packed or heroic war story, but for this old Marine, it has been a therapeutic story to write.
Enjoy!
The boy leaned against the concrete barrier by gate two, smoking a cigarette. His free hand in his pocket with his weapon slung to the side. The throat protector for his flak jacket hung to the left side of his neck from the two buttons that secured half of it in place. His gloves and hearing protection hung from velcro and clips on the front of his body armor. As he brought the cigarette back up to his mouth to take another drag, his cuffed sleeve caught the unfastened chin strap of his helmet.
Continuing to inhale the smoke from the cheap Iraqi cigarette, the boy noticed the red ember glowing and reflecting off of the lens from his eye protection which hung from the looping on the chest of his flak. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other under the black spray painted letters on the concrete barrier that reminded all Marines that "COMPLACENCY KILLS!", the boy couldn't help but think of the freedom he had at that moment.
The "Standard Operating Procedures (SOPs)" required all Marines that were going on patrol to be outfitted in a way to protect life and limb. As a result, Marines on patrol were to have their gloves on, eye protection covering their eyes, all parts of their body armor correctly and securely buttoned or velcroed up, shirt sleeves un-cuffed and buttoned around their wrists, and hearing protection in their ears and under a helmet with a securely fastened chin strap.
With the squad still waiting on Gman, their patrol leader, to step out on yet another patrol, the boy noticed that many of the Marines chose to ignore some of the rules as well. For every little rule ignored, the boy felt freer. More independent. For rules meant conformity. Rules meant confinement. Rules meant giving up part of yourself. Rules meant self-sacrifice, and he was sacrificing enough already. Some Marines chose to enslave themselves more than others, but for every little infraction the boy had, the freer he felt.
The boy noticed the dirt under and around the nail of his thumb as he tapped the butt of his cigarette to knock off the building ash. The creases of the knuckle, darkened, gave the illusion of age. As if he were aging faster than he should. No matter what the boy did in an attempt to stay independent, certain things were continually taken from him. Age. Happiness. Pieces of his soul.
Dusk was rapidly approaching, chasing the sun over the western horizon. The time to step off on another long and boring walk was also quickly approaching, chasing away the Marine's comfort and safety.
As the boy was finishing up his cigarette Gman was walking up to the gate and eyed the boy first.
"Tiny, get your hand out of your pocket and strap up your fuckin' brain bucket", Gman ordered, stealing freedom from the boy.
Bending down, the boy snuffed out the remaining life of the cigarette on the ground. The tar stained filter tossed into the butt can that was close by. Fully erecting himself under the weight of his gear, he strapped up his helmet and noticed others doing the same before Gman's orders stole from them as well. The boy willing gave of himself a little more by putting on his eye protection and his gloves. It was starting to get cold anyway, he lied. A lie told to one's self to give the perception of choice.
Gman reviewed the patrol order that had been given earlier. Another security patrol which entailed walking many miles to “win the hearts and minds” of the Iraqi people.
The boy would play "Tail End Charlie" in this little masquerade that was called a patrol. This meant it was his responsibility to walk at the end of the patrol, looking behind the squad every few steps to keep their six, or rear, secure.
Like students lining up to walk to the bathroom, the squad began to form up in their patrolling order. Gman called out for one last gear check. In front of him, the boy inspected Ebay, who returned the favor. This happened up and down the line. A few of the Marines willing enslaving themselves even more to their gear.
Without prompting, the first Marine stepped out of the exit to gate two and into the serpentine walkway formed by concertina wire. Concertina wire looked like an oversized steel slinky with thousands of razor blades protruding off of the wire. In this case, it was staked on its side in a zig-zag pattern to prevent someone from easily coming on to the base.
"Shit!", "Fuck!", or "Motherfucker!" were a few of the ghostly cries that would frequently reach the ears of the Marines standing guard in the nearby posts in the middle of the night. Squads returning from night patrols would often catch their boots, trousers, or gear in the menacing slinky.
While doing his zig-zag dance off the base and under the retreating sun, the boy noticed plastic bags, paper, and other trash that would get blown and catch in the coiled razors. It was as if Iraq, in all its broken glory, was slowly moving up to the safety of the American base. A different kind of enemy looking to penetrate the safety of its walls. The evil of war, like a rash spreading on the skin, was slowly trying to move into the sanctuary of the boy's safety, which was the base. Which was home.
"Fuck", the boy thought as a different kind of razor wire began to tighten itself around his heart and soul.
By the time the boy exited the razored gauntlet the squad had taken on their patrol formation to the side of the busy road that ran along the base. To the front and back of each Marine, five to ten meters of dispersion would be maintained. This would ensure that if the ground decided to erupt in fire and metal and dirt, that only one family would receive a knock at the door. Only one wife would sob as she clung to the ghost of her husband that took form in letters and pictures and memories. All would fade with time. If only she could hold on tighter to the memories then they wouldn't disappear. The ghost would stay.
By maintaining dispersion only one Marine would leave the world the burden to maintain his legacy. His honor.
With every few steps, each Marine would turn around to make sure the next person in the formation was there and on their invisible five to ten-meter leash. The boy would keep watch for the phantoms and ghosts that would follow them wherever they went. Phantoms that would hide just around the corner ready to ambush. Boxes and trash on the side of the road would conceal the ghosts as they waited to explode. Both would patiently wait for the boy to sleep so they could visit him in his dreams.
Once the formation was well established, the hand signal would come from Gman that they were crossing over the road. Just as the house lights dim to signal the start of a theater show, the patrol leader’s hand signal was one that would signal the start of a different kind of song and dance. A performance which would allow the squad to safely cross the road. A performance devoid of entertainment.
The Marine at the back of the patrol would turn to face the traffic coming from the rear. His hand and arm, which was not poised to pull the trigger on his weapon, would begin to wave at the oncoming traffic in an exaggerated "hello". On this side of the world, however, the hello would be translated by the vehicle's driver as a signal that they better stop as soon, and as far back, as possible. If they didn't want the back seat interior to be reupholstered with brain matter and blood, they would stop quickly.
The boy began his deathly greeting to the oncoming traffic, as would the Marine to traffic coming from the front of the patrol. Almost immediately traffic came to a halt around 100 meters away. The vehicles next to the squad slowly drove past and on their way.
The boy continued his part in the performance by stepping onto the road With both hands on his weapon he attempted to present himself as a wall of lead and steel if a vehicle chose to attack from the rear. Staring down the stopped traffic he noticed a van begin to pull out into the median of the road. An impatient commuter doing a U-turn to find another route - or so the boy thought. But as the van pulled fully into the middle of the road its course was far from U-shaped, and its speed far from slowing.
"What the fuck", the boy muttered under his breath as he raised his arm again and began waving more quickly.
The van continued on course.
His wave became the start of half a jumping jack as he quickly realized that this driver was dumb, blind, or deadly. At this realization, his dance ceased and his feet became rooted to the ground in the same stance a prize fighter would take. Guided by countless hours of training, his weapon raised and the sights fixed themselves on the driver's side window.
The van began to slow slightly but maintained its course. The boy's thumb pushed off the safety of his SAW as he coiled his finger into the trigger housing. A signal to whoever was watching in the world that things were about to get loud. A body would soon be void of its soul.
Fifty meters out the van continued to slow but continued at the boy. For the first time ever the boy was poised to kill another human being. Fear, entangled with empowerment, flowed through the boy and to his trigger finger. Empowerment pulled the trigger.
CLUNK!
“Shit!”, the boy exclaimed as his weapon jammed.
Fear pulled back the charging handle of the weapon and the boy re-sighted on the driver.
As the dissipating empowerment began to squeeze the trigger again, like magic the van came to a screeching stop. Like the hand of God holding it back from the boy.
As his hand relaxed on the weapon’s pistol grip the boy saw the driver and his trembling hands signing to him his fear. His large eyes translating in silent Arabic his words of being sorry and terrified.
Next to the man sat what the boy figured to be his wife Hugging herself as tears flowed from eyes pressed tightly closed.
In the darkened back seat he could see two other women doing their own version of a tear-filled song of prayer to Allah. A teenage boy sat to the side of them unsure whether to cry or cower. And on the lap of the woman in the middle, sat a little girl comfortably curled up as if the cries and prayers and trembling had awakened her from a good dream. A look of fearful curiosity as to why everyone was crying and praying and scared.
Her head was half turned toward the boy and her innocent eyes met his. Confused innocents stared into the depths of his being.
The girl told the boy a story about the things that could have been. She told him about how she had the power to steal a piece of the boy’s soul. She spun a tale about the boy’s own son. A tale that would make the boy see only her as he raised his child. She had the potential to gift his son a mask or costume he would forever wear. As the boy tried to escape the phantoms and ghosts of his dreams, her memory could curl up next to him to provide a haunted comfort. She could create depression and eat happiness.
As his weapon lowered, and his feet became uprooted, Ebay came along beside him.
"Iraqis and their bad brakes, huh?", Ebay jested.
"They are lucky they stopped when they did", the boy responded. "Next time this world will have a few less future terrorists", the boy lied in an attempt to pull back his soul from toppling over into the abyss.
"What a peaceful world that would be", Ebay responded as he turned to resume his place in their song and dance.
The boy waved goodbye to the van with one of his five fingers and turned to continue across the road.
Walking away, the coil around the boy’s soul tightening a little more. A piece of him would be forever there. Rooted in place and staring into the eyes of the girl as she would tell him stories. Promising to visit him in the darkness of night.
As he continued walking the boy removed his eye protection and stuck a hand in his pocket.