To Kill, or Not to Kill, That is Death's Question
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Dmitry Kostyukov/AFP/Getty Images
The air was crisp and the sky clear. It was early in the morning and the surrounding homes were still stirring to consciousness. The birds and gentle winter breeze were all that could be heard, as they did their dance through trees and blades of grass. The boy took slow and controlled breaths as he leveled the shotgun.
The boy inhaled, and his thumb pressed the safety of the shotgun off. Exhaling, he zeroed the shotgun sights onto the brown fur; the beating heart right behind. Inhaling again, he moved his index finger onto the trigger. Exhaling, he tracked his target. The boy inhaled one last time and held the breath. He then squeezed the trigger.
"All I'm saying is that death is a tease," Webb told the few Marines that had gathered around Deyoung and him.
"What the fuck are you talking about? 'Death is a tease'?" responded Deyoung. "It sounds like you want to die, and death is just toying with you."
"I don't want to die - at least not now - but death is toying with all of us isn't it? Every patrol we go on, death is hiding, just around the corner, or in the next house," continued Webb.
"What's your fuckin' point?" exclaimed Deyoung. "Even back home death is always ‘hiding just around the corner’ as well,” he went on, making air quotes. “When I get into my car, death is waiting for my breaks to go out, or for a drunk driver to swerve into my lane. It is waiting in the form of cancer or disease. It isn't teasing us, it is patiently waiting for all of us. If not in the form of a bullet here in Iraq, then decades from now when we are old."
"Ah! It waits patiently for us, you are correct, but it teases us when we embody it, and it embodies us," said Webb with a slight grin.
"Now I know you really are batshit crazy! When we embody it, and it us!" mocked Deyoung. "That has to be one of the craziest fucking nuggets of philosophical mumbo-jumbo I have ever heard!"
"Just hear me out,” continued Webb. “Every patrol we go on, there is always the chance of being blown up or having our brains blown out by a sniper, right?"
"Right. We already clarified that. Death is always waiting for us," said Deyoung.
"But are we also not poised to kill others?” questioned Webb. “Don’t we carry rifles and other tools whose main purpose is to take someone's life?"
Deyoung and the other Marines looked at him sideways, intrigued.
"How many patrols have you been on where someone gives you a funny look or turns right when you expect them to go left, or doesn't stop their car when you want them to?" said Webb.
"Nearly every single patrol,” answered Deyoung. “What's your point?"
"My point is: over here when someone doesn't do what we expect we prepare to kill them, right? At least get into the mental mindset to snuff out their life if we feel our lives are threatened?" argued Webb.
"Sure," answered Deyoung.
"So, death is always waiting for us, but we are also carrying death around. We are always on the verge of using it. We walk around and when our spidey senses go off we prepare to use death,” Webb continued arguing. “Almost every patrol I have been on in the short time we have been here this has happened to me. Almost every time we leave the wire death teases me with the opportunity to use it."
"Webb," piped up Sandoval, "you make it sound like death is the girl at the high school dance that will let you grind up against her, maybe even let you grab her ass, but then leaves you with your dick in your hand when you want to fuck her."
"That's exactly what I'm saying!" exclaimed Webb.
"I don't know about you", said Deyoung, "but when a girl gets my pecker hard and won't let me fuck her I rub one out. What are you saying I should do when I grind up against death and it leaves me with my cock in my hand? Where do I find my release from death's tease?"
"The dogs," said Webb smiling.
The boy knew exactly what Webb meant in his exchange with Deyoung. From the moment every Marine stands on the yellow footprints at boot camp, they have it drilled into their head that they will be called upon to kill or be killed. Chants of "blood makes the grass grow" were one of the many morbid verses that were sung on hikes and runs. It was a reminder that death was always waiting for them.
Now that he was deployed in combat, the boy understood what Webb meant more than ever before. During the first month of deployment, the Marines had experienced little combat. Yet, it was enough for them to know that the question was less about if they would kill someone, and more about when they would kill someone.
As time ticked on killing someone would become a tease. Death would empower each Marine to the point of climax and then leave them standing unfulfilled.
For the boy, the question of "when will I kill" turned into "could I even kill". A person had been in the boy's sights many times. He stood ready to snuff out their life before divine intervention prevented him from carrying out the act. Death would take the boy as far as he could go without giving him a release.
The boy would have been justified in his killing. He always felt threatened, and if not he could say he was. A story could be spun that would justify his use of deadly force.
A catch-22 was being created for the boy: he would carry the weight of killing someone, or he would carry the doubt of whether he could even kill. Death was a tease. Death stole a man's confidence. Death was the schoolyard bully. Death robbed manhood.
The boy needed a release from this dilemma. He needed to know if he could kill without the weight of a human soul chained to him the rest of his life.
The boy understood what Webb meant about finding a release in the dogs.
Iraq was the land of the dogs. Everywhere the Marines went the dogs would be there. During the night, no matter how quiet the Marines were, the dog's barks would signal their location. They were Iraq's version of the neighborhood watch.
The dogs drove the Marines crazy. In a country filled with death and destruction, dogs were one more thing the men would have to guard against. Dogs soon became a scapegoat. Killing a human would carry consequences. Killing a dog would make things quieter. Dogs would become death's masturbatory release.
BANG!
The boy was farther back in the patrol, but he could see Reagan aiming his rifle into the canal running alongside the road. No one spoke a word as the patrol continued. Eggers stopped in the same spot Reagan had and took aim into the canal.
BANG!
One shot. No words. The patrol continued again.
Without seeing the target, the boy knew what the Marines had shot. As he neared the spot the other two had fired from, he looked into the canal.
Stuck in the canal was a dog with blood covering its fur, but it was still twitching and moving as if alive. The boy imagined the dog in a battle to keep its soul, even though he knew this was the involuntary firing of neurons. The boy would help the soul win this battle.
Taking aim with his SAW - an automatic rifle - the boy fired.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Water, mud, and blood sprayed the boy's cammies and face.
"WHAT THE FUCK!", Gantt, the patrol leader, screamed at the boy.
The boy faced Gantt. Death's dark spittle dotting his face.
“You like to fucking kill what is already fucking dead, you fucking fucktard?!” yelled Gantt, stepping toward the boy. “You might as well call every shitty haji in the area and let them know where the fuck we are!”
Gantt turned around and the patrol continued. The conversation was over.
Hammond walked up and slapped the boy on the back. “He’s just pissed he didn’t get to kill it either”, he said with a grin and continued walking.
This was not the boy’s kill. This was not his release.
The boy had been on patrol with other squads and saw the effects of not having a release. They would come across dogs and ask - even beg - their patrol leader if they could kill one. The patrol leader - not able to kill an innocent creature themselves - would hide behind strategy and tactics.
Dead dogs peppered the Iraqi roads where Marines had spotted and killed them. Because of this, the boy knew the patrol leaders of these squads were finding excuses not to kill dogs rather than tactical reasons.
This created a weird dynamic within these squads. It was death's version of sexual frustration. Virgins to using death as a tool would question - if only in their mind - if they could kill. Like the boy, they had been trained to. It was drilled into their minds that they could. Yet they questioned whether they could perform when the moment arose. Like a high school locker room, young men would make up stories about sexual encounters they had, or almost had. Young men would expose their thoughts about what they would do to a girl given the chance and how it would feel.
Death's version was more morbid.
The conversation within these squads always revolved around death and killing. Instead of dreaming up sexual encounters, these men would fantasize about what they would do if given the chance to kill. They would talk about how they would feel. How they would celebrate death.
The boy squeezed the trigger of the shotgun. The crisp morning air filled with noise and the smell of gunpowder. The buckshot caught the dog in the hindquarters, spinning the tail away from the boy and dropping the dog. The puppies retreated a few steps away before returning to their mother. In silent dignity, the mother attempted to lead her pups to safety without the use of her hind legs. The world was left in eerie silence as the echo of the shot dissipated. The boy watched the dog drag herself down the hill, the pups following. The dog stumbled and fell a few times before falling one last time. From a distance, the boy could see her chest heaving as her breathing became more labored. Her breath slowed until it was no more. The pup’s whimpering filled the eerie silence. They were now orphaned, like many of the children in this land God had forgotten.
Death had granted the boy his climax. But at what cost?