Don't panic. As the DShK Mortars and the RPG's whistle over and around you. Don't panic. As your squad runs out of ammo thirty minutes into what would turn out to be a three hour firefight. Don't panic. When your AG gets hit with a DShK round in the hand and bicep and people around you take shrapnel. The only time you're allowed to shit your pants is in a mounted firefight because you have dysentery from the food you had to eat while on sphere of influence missions. People back home often ask, "What was your most intense combat experience?", "Do you support Bush's "war of terror"?", "What are you fighting for?" My answers in order are, "All of them", "Dont care", "My ETS date. Either that, or the puppy that got thrown off the bridge".
General Petraeus himself recently ordered all gear to be taken off during sphere of influence missions; he wants us to show them we aren't afraid so they shouldn't be. Personally I don't have a problem with the hearts and minds mission objective, but putting my heart and mind at risk to 7.62 rounds puts me on edge. Fuck that, I once took a bullet to my chest with my gear on. I didn't panic, but it's never happening in a million years with it off. People here say we wouldn't have to wear the shit if the hostiles weren't retarded cave people. Thing is, Afghanistan isn't even a shitty country, the locals are some of the most moral and loyal people I've ever met. If you "prove yourself" to them they will literally die for you, the local elder walks with us on presence patrols with the children because he's confident we can protect them. That's like mad respect in Afghan terms.
8 more motherfucking days, drunk for the fifth night in a row. 8 more motherfucking days till I don my gear and shoulder my rifle, humping out on patrol for the umpteenth time, the same damn dubstep mix pumping the same damn beats from my iPod. The shit never gets old. I meant dubstep, not the patrols. I know what you've heard about how no two patrols are ever the same. But you can scratch that and chuck it in the pile with all the other military horseshit you've probably never bothered to listen to. Truth is there are only two types of patrol. Good patrols and bad patrols. If you really push it (like how those faggots pushed that puppy off the bridge) you could probably form a third category. The kind of patrol that gets fucked up on so high a level that if you were to recount it, you could get unanimous agreement from die hard Christians that your story would be beyond motherfucking redemption by anyone except Jesus Christ Himself. You tell it to someone who's been there though, and their eyes would glaze over for just a second as they relive their private nightmares, and they'd say simply "Shit happens bro".
This is my story of shit happening, of my own little private nightmare. This is the one that's got a special place in my heart, right up there with the memories of my first kiss and best fucks. This is the one that keeps me up at night. After extended time spent on the front, you begin to develop a reverence for these things. They stick to you, and you hold them close. Heck, before long if you aren't careful, soon enough they grow to define your very soul. They say that through the act of telling, you can set the memories to rest, that you can chase the ghosts away. I don't believe it. Some shit never leaves you, some shit never goes away. But what else can I to do with it, I might as well tell it anyway. And who better to tell it to. You've probably never been to Afghanistan, and with shit this bad, it doesn't matter if you believe in Christ.
The night before we went out Kyle my?? AG took part in a chess tournament held by our CO to keep the men entertained and boost morale. The flyer for the miniature event went something like "Put your battlefield strategies to the test and win a GREAT REWARD." Kyle never knew what the reward was when he signed up for it, just that it would be great. He was determined to win it from the get go, and he was beaming during his prize presentation by the CO. It didn't matter that it was just some poorly gift wrapped standard issue rations made to look like a hamper and a print-out certificate signed by the CO. Kyle was ecstatic and I'll never forget that look of pure joy on his face that night. That's how I choose to remember him.
When I think about Afghanistan, I'm reminded of death. Death is the great leveler. The giant, abrupt full stop when you had instead been expecting a comma. Death is beautiful because it forces us all to be honest with ourselves. Most people do not have this privilege. Many of us go through life as if it were a long, run on, never-ending sentence, punctuated excessively with commas, very much like this one, with complete and utter disregard for the eventual certainty of the full stop. Knowing that every moment could be your last however, brings about a drastic change in perspective. let me rephrase that for you. Every. Fucking. Moment. Could. Be. Your. Last. If you live expecting the full stop, you make every single word count. You are fully and lucidly honest with yourself. There is no space for pretention. Do not kid yourself, death is certain, and death is coming. Given this knowledge, what would you change about your life? In Afghanistan, death gave us all a brand spanking new take on perspective.
When I think of perspective, I'm reminded of Drill Sergeant Matthews. Drill Sergeant Matthews carved into our heads from day one the creed that we were going to be Fighting the Good Fight. I will also always remember his impeccably charming introduction on our first day of boot camp. Standing in single file in front of our bunk mirrors, we were told to look at ourselves down the wrong end of our binoculars. Those tiny, minuscule excuses for recruits, we were told, was us until the day that we earned our stripes. Till then, we were sorry little shit stains on the pride of the US Army and we were to buckle down, suck it up, and get our heads into learning to properly Fight the Good Fight.
A year later in Afghanistan, while clearing an area of the corpses of children killed by a homemade explosive intended for us, I realised the irony. In our tiny little heads, from our narrow limited personal perspectives, whether, Afghan or American, Insurgent or Marine, we all think we are fighting the good fight. The sad and ironic truth is, the majority of conflicts that exist between any of us can be summarised in the same way Drill Sergeant Matthews cut us all down to size; by looking down the wrong end of our binoculars.
