Dating : Stories in Foreign Sands

War is strange. I quietly look out and ponder it as we fly over a strange landscape; arid and desolate, an atmosphere of poverty and violence, something hostile to human life. I can’t hear much over the whirring of the blades above. The door is open due to the heat being especially uncomfortable on this day; I hang a boot out the door and enjoy the cool air on my face.

The Apache reaches its destination and when it lowers onto the tarmac we file out in our uniforms: jacket, pants, boots, armor, weapon, rucksack. The moment I step out into the open air the sensation of a blow-dryer surrounds my face. It recedes when we enter the hangar.

I hustle my gear into a pile and shake off the stress until we’re met by a liaison who tells us where we’ll be staying. We hop on a truck and head down to one corner of the post where we see the wooden sheds we’ll be staying in. I enter the shed, put my things down, and sit on one of the beds. I have a moment to think. This continual process, one that has been going for days, is finally at an end. Welcome to Iraq.

~

I’m part of a four-man squad of soldiers stationed in Marine camp Junction City. Bloody battles were fought here and this place, along with Fallujah and Baghdad, form what is called the Death Triangle. The name alone gives me anxiety. I soon learn that Ramadan is upon us.

Night falls on us and the sandstorm dies down. We step outside to take in the cool air and as our ears slowly adapt to the outside, an odd sound can be heard off in the distance. The sound begins to take shape… a voice. Amplified through loudspeakers, an eerie prayer can be heard in a language we don’t understand. We venture toward the post perimeter and in the dark of night, a darkness only seen in true countryside back home, we see a faint orange glow in the distance. And as our eyes adjust, we see that it’s a large bonfire.

I glance at the guard towers to our left and right and look back to the bonfire. It seems strategically placed, out of accurate rifle range but too close for comfort. This fire, combined with the eerie chanting that echoed out and the perimeter barbed wire that could be jumped over if one gave it a good effort, creates an uneasy atmosphere. Over the next two weeks this occurs, along with ammunition going off day and night.

~

I’m stationed in Forward Operating Base Warhorse now. I made some great friends and do real work, providing communications for various units. However, mortars come down often, blowing holes in the ground and shooting shrapnel in all directions, sometimes breaking holes in shipping containers. Sometimes people are hit. One night, a group of us are sitting in one of the sheds that make up our work area. Suddenly a whistle can be heard as it zips over the roof of our shed before finding its destination and blowing up elsewhere on post. We jumped from our seats and threw on our flak vests and helmets though the explosion had already occurred.

~

Walking back to work one day after lunch the loudspeakers suddenly ring out: “Incoming! Incoming!” I am seemingly in the perfect midpoint between where I was and where I need to be. My stomach drops, and my vision zooms out as the space from here to safety triples in distance. I look behind me to see the same. I’m in a wide-open space and mortars are going to come down. I stop in my tracks and wait for it to come. Cortisol floods my system… and seconds crawl by. But nothing happens. Tempting my luck, I hurry to the worksite to find my friends waiting in a bunker.

~

I will never forget my experiences in that place, and it provided me with an invaluable lesson that I immediately understood after reading Wilfred Owens’ poem, “Dulce et Decorum Est”. If you truly understood the horrors of war:

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.” (25–28)