Ryan Smithson Read online

  Anticipating what new things he has to tell me, I sit holding his latest letter. It is in a thick envelope, and after opening it I see it comes with pictures: two digital pictures printed off a computer.

  Dad tells me that the pictures are from Drake Island in Follensby Clear Pond, New York. My parents and a bunch of their friends camped out on a small state-owned island. They had bonfires and ate baked beans, hot dogs, and s’mores. They played cards and swam and swapped stories. All the real good stuff. The stuff fathers and sons do together to learn about each other.

  Wish you could’ve been there, Ryan, he writes.

  Me too, Dad.

  The second half of the letter is about the hard reality of the trip, how afterward my parents put their dog, Haley, to sleep.

  Haley had regained most of her control after being paralyzed, but her bowels never fully recovered. For two years she’d been crapping without control. She wore a doggy diaper with a hole cut for the tail, but she hated it. My parents hated it, too. It wasn’t fair to keep her alive like that.

  I look at the two pictures. One is of all the guys gathered around a hand-built table made of logs. The table is covered with liquor bottles. The men are smiling and bonding. Think of EQ platoon.

  The other picture is of Haley and Dad. Haley sleeps underneath a collapsible chair, the kind that litters the sidewalk during a Fourth of July fireworks show. My father sits in the chair above her. His shirt is off and a beer is in his hand: the Dad pose. He’s wearing a bathing suit that is too high on his thighs—Dad shorts—and a cowboy hat rests in his lap.

  We got to the boat launch, my dad writes (the boat launch is the only way to the island.) I loaded the canoe with all my gear and tied Haley to the front seat. We headed into a ten mile-an-hour wind. She did okay until she saw a loon fifty feet away. She wanted to play, but tying her down worked well.

  All Haley ever wanted to do was play. Back half working or not, she wanted to chase sticks, my sister and me, the cat, Frisbees, or loons on a lake. On land she could hardly walk. If she got too excited over food or playtime, her back half collapsed and she dragged it behind her like a collapsible chair after the Fourth of July grand finale.

  In the water, though, where she’d always been a natural, Haley was her old self. The rules of gravity were suspended and Haley pumped her back legs like she used to. She could play fetch again. She could run again. No weight on her legs. No pain. No puppy-dog-eye shame because she crapped on the kitchen floor again. Haley’s mouth always formed a natural smile when she panted. Her smile in the water was ear to ear.

  My father sits frozen in time in my hands. His best friend lies underneath his chair with her eyes closed and mouth in the dirt. Only my father knows it’s her last outing.

  My father has complete control over Haley’s life. He has to play God, but he hates having to do so. He decides that she’s had a good life. Her grand finale is the best it can possibly be. She swims just like she used to, plays like a puppy again, smiling from floppy ear to floppy ear.

  I guess that’s one good thing about dying young: you’re remembered for your purity, vigor, and spontaneity. Dying young, you’re remembered for your youth.

  Still doesn’t make it fair.

  I took Haley to the vet in the morning…

  Haley loved the vet. She loved the smell of other dogs. She loved to be social. She would bark at a lamppost if she thought it would listen.

  …and buried her soon thereafter.

  Something in that sentence reeks of regret. My father doesn’t fully believe it was the best option. He hates having to play God.

  She sat with me in the front seat on the way home.

  Haley was never allowed in the front seat. She got too excited, too happy, and Dad yelled at her.

  I cried like a baby the whole way back.

  She is dead. My father’s best friend is dead. I look at the picture again. Haley’s grand finale. She looks happy and peaceful, collapsed there underneath the Fourth of July chair.

  I put her in the grave with your “Who’s your doggy?” bandanna still on her.

  Heather and I had given Haley the bright blue bandanna. Haley loved it because we loved it.

  I thought of all the good times I had with Haley. All the times I chased her in the snow or in a lake. All the times I tackled her and then she stood up ready for more. All the times I slept next to her on the floor. All her panting smiles. The way she used to lie on the floor, take a deep breath, and exhale deeply before her eyes closed.

  I know now that when she was put to sleep, Haley didn’t take a final, deep breath of air. She went to sleep out of her routine, because she didn’t really go to sleep at all.

  I laid her on her pad with all her stuffed animals around her.

  The image sticks in my head as if I were there: Dad tossing Haley’s toys, one by one into a shallow grave in the backyard: the squeaky bear with dried spit that caked its hair together, the yellow duck out of which she used to eat the stuffing, the stuffed hot dog with red ketchup and yellow mustard fabric sticking out of the top. And Haley…

  She looked peaceful.…wearing the faded blue bandanna we loved, she loved. Her distinguished white snout and golden fur. No pain. No puppy-dog-eye shame. She was finally resting. At peace.

  Then I added another headstone to our pet cemetery.

  Let’s try and keep that a pet only cemetery, Dad.

  Keep your head down over there, Ryan.

  I wish it was that simple.

  I miss you.

  I miss you too, Dad.

  I love you.

  I love you too, Dad.

  Slumped over my army bunk, I cry.

  BAZOONA CAT

  A group of kids surround us. Our convoy is stopped momentarily, and the dirt is flying through the air. Not a sandstorm, just the wind blowing dirt in the desert. As always the sun is out and I hold a semiautomatic rifle as I talk to the local kids. They are telling us about their lives. Their innocent lives.

  “Farm,” one says, pointing to the vast desert.

  “You live on a farm over there?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “There. We…” He makes a shoveling motion.

  “Shovel?”

  He shakes his head. He gets on his knees and pats the ground.

  “You grow plants?”

  “Yes.”

  “What types of plants?”

  He shapes his hands into a ball about the size of a basketball.

  “Water…?” he says.

  “Watermelon?”

  “Yes!” he says, excited. “Watermelon! Very good, yes?”

  “Yeah, I love watermelons.”

  The boy, his brothers, and his friends are so excited to hear this. We, the American GIs, might as well be from a different planet. The Iraqi kids look up to us in a way I can’t describe. They understand how lucky we are to be from America. They understand better than we do. Still, they try to give us anything they have. It’s appreciation. It’s their culture.

  “You want watermelon?”

  “No.” I laugh. “No, thank you.”

  “I run…” he says, pointing toward his farm. “I run. Get melon.”

  “No thanks. Maybe tomorrow,” I offer. “Tomorrow…if we’re here.”

  I know we won’t be.

  He nods his head with enthusiasm. I know he’ll be standing here tomorrow holding a watermelon, probably a dozen watermelons. Our convoy isn’t running this way tomorrow. But he’ll be standing there, waiting, holding watermelons for the Americans.

  Another boy rushes to the front of the group. He has no shoes and he looks as if he’s been learning the backstroke in a pile of dust. He wipes the sweat off his face with his dirty white robe and motions to his mouth.

  “Water?” he asks.

  I know he’s been working in the fields all day. All of these kids have been. I remember being their age: nine or ten. Work was a distant concept, something moms and dads did to pay for drum lessons, cable television, and
summer camp. These children work because their families can’t survive without it.

  They work because the top 5 percent of Iraq’s population—those who have money, land, and power—don’t have a reason to care about the other 95 percent.

  I grab the kid a Gatorade from the cooler in our Humvee. It’s dripping water, and just the feel of its cold plastic is a relief from the 120-degree sun.

  The boy holds up the orange sports drink proudly, like a trophy, his smile wider than his face. His friends look at him as though he’d made the venture into manhood. They look at him like American boys look at the kid with the newest video game system.

  Before the Americans came to Iraq Gatorade for these boys was unheard of, a dream, nonexistent. Water that tastes like flavored sugar? Juice that doesn’t come from a fruit and made from water not pulled from the Tigris River? It was unreal and unobtainable.

  This American Schmo pulls it from his Humvee like pocket lint. I hand out a half dozen Gatorades and water to the kids, who are trying to sneak peeks inside the Humvee.

  One of them comes to me and holds out a small fuzzy object. It’s white and appears homemade. He holds it up, showing it off.

  “Can I see?” I ask.

  He places it in my hand. It looks like a rabbit’s foot but slightly modified. The top of its hide is pulled into two pointy ears and small beads are glued to the front for eyes. It even has pink stitching that makes a triangular nose. The baby soft, white fur extends from the bottom, creating a sort of fluffy dress.

  It reminds me of the tissue-and-string ghosts I used to make in elementary school around Halloween. In an ugly sort of way, like a baby pug, it’s remarkably cute. I can’t tell if the little craft is designed to be a cat or an owl.

  “Is it a cat?” I ask.

  “Bazoona,” the boy replies.

  “Bazoona?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean cat?”

  “Bazoona.”

  “Owl?”

  “Bazoona.”

  “Like hooo-hooo.” I mock an owl.

  “Mreeow, mreeow,” he says, and claws the air.

  “A cat,” I conclude.

  “Bazoona,” he corrects.

  “Bazoona?”

  “Yes.”

  “In English: cat.”

  “Cut,” he repeats. I smile at him.

  “Mreeow, mreeow,” I say. “Cat.”

  “Cut.”

  “You got it.”

  “In Arabic: Bazoona,” he says.

  “Bazoona.”

  “Yes,” he says, smiling. “You got it.”

  He gives me the Bazoona Cat in exchange for a Gatorade. The other kids admire their friend for learning some English from the American.

  In all honesty, these kids shouldn’t be this close to us and our Humvee. Our higher-ups would throw a hissy fit if they knew how we acted out on the road.

  “Keep the kids away from you,” the commander tells us at every briefing he attends. “The insurgents use them for attacks, and they are not to be trusted. And do not throw them water or MREs from your vehicles. I don’t want any kids getting run over on one of my convoys.”

  We glare at him.

  “I know. It breaks my heart, too.” He tries to reason with us. “I want to give those kids as much water as I can spare. But that’s not the SOP.”

  The thing about the commander is he doesn’t convoy around with us enough to know what’s going on in this war. He gets intelligence reports and memorandums, and as far as he’s concerned, the words they contain are sacred. To him rules are rules, because that’s his job.

  But it’s not ours. We GI Joe Schmos, we’re used to breaking rules. We’ve seen the human side of this war. We’ve seen enough hate and ignorance in this country to look past memorandums and standard operating procedures. And we understand a thing or two about psychology.

  These kids are the future of Iraq. They’re the ones who’ll decide whether or not this war means anything. Not the commander. Not American politicians or the press. It’s the children who will always remember the Americans who stopped by their farm and handed out Gatorade. And they will remember that they weren’t just Americans. They were American soldiers.

  At the end of the day it’s our job to make sure there are more kids who identify us as the soldiers who are generous as opposed to the soldiers who destroy villages. One day at a time, one child at a time, that’s how we make a difference. That’s the only way we can come out of this mess feeling like it’s worth something.

  Preserve the innocent. Protect those who deserve it most.

  Sometimes I get out the fuzzy little rabbit foot. For a minute or two I sit smelling it, remembering the dirty farmland kids and the boy who taught me some Arabic. I taught him some English and we called it even.

  TEARS

  We convoy to Q-West one perfectly normal day. Bravo Company has its own convoy trailing behind us about forty-five minutes.

  The thing that sucks about convoying for five straight hours is the padding in military vehicles might as well be plywood. And the small cabins packed full of basic necessities, coupled with the uncomfortable and heavy body armor, provide little room to shift weight. We try anyway but to no avail. Our asses go numb after the first hour.

  And the second worst part is we drink gallons of water every day, not to mention Red Bull and coffee. So five hours with no pee breaks is impossible. We piss into empty bottles and toss them out of the truck.

  But it’s August. We’re so used to this lifestyle we could do it in our sleep.

  Upon arrival at Q-West we drive our convoy straight to the chow hall. There I see some of the Bravo guys who weren’t on Bravo’s convoy. Since February most of us have been rotated to Q-West. For a while we rotated a few guys up here every couple of weeks.

  The first person I see is Juan Hernandez. He’s an equipment operator, too, and we worked together back in February. Among other jobs, the biggest one was barricading the ECP (Entry Control Point) that serviced the camp.

  An ECP is simply a gate where convoys or other personnel enter a high-security camp or FOB. Without fighting your way through the perimeter, there’s no other way into a military post. Hernandez, I, and a few other soldiers from B company fortified the main ECP to the camp with Hesco barriers.

  Hesco barriers look like 4x4x6-foot sandbags attached to each other, wrapped in wire mesh. They stand upright, tops open, and engineers use bucket loaders to fill them with dirt. The dirt to catch bullets.

  “Hey, Hernandez!” I yell as I approach him in the chow hall’s gravel parking lot.

  “Hey, Smithson,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Same shit, different day. You?”

  “I’m all right.”

  Hernandez seems distant, but this happens when you’re in a combat zone. A lot of us feel distant. Distant from family. Distant from love. Distant from life.

  So I don’t think anything of it.

  After getting our meals we sit down with a group of Bravo guys.

  “Hey, Smithson,” says Sergeant Stone. “Good to see you. How’ve you been?”

  “Good, Sarge,” I say. “Starving.”

  As I eat, I notice the whole group seems distant.

  “You guys all right?” I ask them.

  “You didn’t hear?” says Hernandez.

  I shake my head.

  “Sergeant Conklin died today,” he says. “He was on the convoy behind you.”

  “Oh, man,” I say. “IED?”

  Hernandez nods his head.

  Ten months into this tour we haven’t lost anyone, and now, out of nowhere…

  “Was he the one who worked out a lot?”

  “Yeah, he was on that ECP mission with us.”

  “And he was a sergeant?” I say.

  I try to picture the sergeants of B company, those with whom I worked back in February. “The only sergeants I remember out on the ECP are Stone and that crazy old guy, what is his name?”

 
“Blake.”

  “Yeah, Blake,” I say.

  I had almost forgotten. Blake was a fanatical old man. Picture Christopher Lloyd wearing a desert Kevlar. Picture him laughing with an unfiltered cigarette in his mouth and jabbing at your ribs. His eyes are decorated with crow’s feet, and his unbuttoned chin strap swings around as he laughs.

  I want to share the memory. I want to tell Juan Hernandez all about it and laugh with him, but the painful look on his face stops me.

  “I think he made sergeant after you left,” says Stone. “You’d know him as a specialist.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember him,” I lie.

  I remember that Jim Conklin worked out a lot, but I don’t remember Jim Conklin. He is these guys’ brother, he died forty-five minutes behind me, and I am ashamed that I can’t recall a single moment with him.

  We sit in silence for a while reflecting, eating, wondering about life and war and peace and death.

  “You guys okay?” I ask Jim Conklin’s brothers. They shrug. Really because they don’t know. Reality hasn’t set in yet. It’s even too early for shock.

  Then Stone says, “People die.”

  He shoves a piece of army steak into his mouth and chews.

  I am shocked at the insensitivity. I try to place myself in their shoes. I picture losing someone like Sebastian Koprowski or Todd Wegner, Scott Moore or Jesse Smith, Josh Roman or…anyone. I almost cry at the mere thought. And this guy shrugs it off with “People die”?

  I mean, for Christ’s sake, show some emotion. Your fellow soldier was just bombed to death. Our fellow soldier. And some ignorant haji flipped the trigger. What happened to vengeance and spitefulness? What happened to hate? What happened to winning the war?

  Then it hits me: Showing emotion shows vulnerability, and vulnerability gives into the fear. It’s not a macho thing. It’s about the need to survive. That’s what terrorism is all about: mortal fear. If we let the fear take over, we lose. We can’t lose. We have to stay strong. There’s a time and place for grieving, and it’s not in the chow hall eating boot leather covered in A.1. steak sauce.