Ryan Smithson Read online

  People die.

  Insensitive. True.

  This is a war. We forget that sometimes. A hundred successful convoys and you tend to forget. Before I left the States a thousand and one people told me to avoid getting complacent, especially those who served in Vietnam. We never really become complacent. Our eyes are always open, always ready, but sometimes we do forget that we’re in a combat zone.

  B company lives in old airplane hangars. Cots and wall lockers are scattered across the hangar’s concrete floor. Some have towels or ponchos strung up with 550 cord to provide privacy. Some have stuffed animals from girlfriends and wives. Some have TVs. Some have laptops. Some have pictures and birthday cards and nonperishable food.

  And everything is needlessly camouflaged. The army-issue brown towels, the army green cots and socks and ponchos, the tan wall lockers and desert boots and desert uniforms. The place is decorated in the classic style that is the army. It’s ugly. It’s beautiful.

  Hernandez points to a locker that looks like all the rest and says, “That’s his.”

  I can’t remember who Conklin is. I can’t put a face to the name, so Hernandez shows me. Conklin’s tan wall locker is covered with pictures. Most are of his family. Some are of him and his B company friends. I study the pictures carefully, trying to hear his voice in my head, trying to remember a conversation we had.

  In his pictures Jim Conklin is young and full of life. He smiles in every one. Pictures of soldiers in a combat zone rarely have people smiling. But Jim seemed to be a genuinely happy person, and now I remember what he looked like. But there’s still a problem. I can’t remember who he was.

  Conklin’s bed is made. It’s a cot with a sleeping bag on top, so maybe “made” is an overstatement. His bed is neat. The brown T-shirt he used as a pillowcase is covered in drool stains. Some of his friends have placed his rosary neatly on his army brown pillow. Conklin was a devout Catholic.

  One of his friends, the guy on the cot next to him, takes a break from a PlayStation game. The screen is temporarily frozen, and the level is loading. He looks down toward the neatly displayed rosary and stares. He stares at Jim Conklin’s empty cot.

  What is he thinking about?

  He’s remembering the smell of Conklin’s aftershave, the sound of Conklin’s voice, maybe a conversation they had. A philosophical conversation about life and death because that’s how soldiers sometimes talk to each other.

  He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t even really look sad. He looks thoughtful. He just stares, in an unguarded moment, as if nothing else in the world matters. Not the hangar, not the video game, not the heat, not the war, not anything.

  He’s wondering where Jim Conklin is now, how he can just be…gone. He’s wondering what Jim’s parents are like and how his mom will carry on after she gets the news. He’s wondering how his mom would carry on if she heard similar news. He’s wondering why it hurts so much.

  He learns things while staring at his dead friend’s empty cot. He learns that life is not everything he thought it was. He learns what war means. He learns what peace means. He learns that death is nondiscriminatory. He learns that after ten solid months, James H. Conklin will not walk through the hangar door later tonight. He will not stow his gear and share a meaningful conversation while he unlaces his boots. He will not rub foot powder into his cracked feet, read a chapter in a book, and then drool on the brown T-shirt he used as a pillowcase.

  Not tonight, not ever again.

  A week later, we make another LOGPAC up to Q-West. For supplies, sure. But mostly we go for Jim Conklin’s funeral. A hundred people sit in fold-out chairs.

  They start with a slideshow full of pictures of Conklin. It’s to the song “Forever Young.” Jim Conklin was twenty-two when he was blown up. “Forever Young,” indeed. A piece of shrapnel from an IED is what did him in. It was on August 21, nine days before my birthday, fifteen after his. Jim hardly knew what hit him. He died of shock, says the medic from B company.

  I say he died from joining the army.

  A guy who was twenty-two, liked by everyone, smart, athletic, funny, charming, hard working, and whose voice I can’t hear in my head, has died. And I was on the road forty-five minutes ahead of him, pissing into a bottle when he was killed.

  Here I am at a man’s funeral and I hardly knew him. Why didn’t I get to know him better? What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I should have seen it coming. How could I have seen this coming? Ten months into the tour and we haven’t lost a single person. Then we lose Jim Conklin.

  I sit in my fold-out chair. One of Conklin’s buddies goes onstage. He has a guitar, and another guy holds up a microphone so we can all hear the words to the song he wrote. The guy singing, he’s holding back tears because he’s not vulnerable.

  It dawns on me that Conklin died five days ago. This guy wrote this song in less than a week. That’s pretty impressive, and I respect it. It doesn’t draw tears, really. It’s not that good. But it’s a song about a fallen soldier. It’s exceptional.

  He leaves and a couple soldiers who were closest to Conklin say a few words. But I don’t know them. I know their names; throughout the tour, I’ve worked with all of them, but I don’t know them. They know Jim Conklin like a brother. Their speeches draw tears.

  But I don’t cry. The crowd is sniffling, but I hold mine back. Vulnerability, sure. Detachment, sure. But it’s more than that.

  I hardly knew Jim Conklin. I worked with him, yes, for two weeks in February, but I don’t really remember him. I am ashamed, and this is why I hold back tears. I feel like crying, but I feel like it’s not my place to cry.

  Jim Conklin’s real friends have gone through hell since he died. This hell will always be a part of them, and I don’t share that. I’m not entitled to share tears. I told my friends from Bravo company, I told Jim Conklin, that I’d come back.

  “It was great to work with you,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  They truly are an exceptional group of people. I told them I’d volunteer to come back for another rotation at Q-West, but I never did. There were a lot of other missions going on, and I got lost in the mess. I could’ve told Renninger to send me back, but I didn’t. I betrayed them. I betrayed Jim. Now he is dead, and I’m not entitled to tears.

  His best friend is done talking, and the whole room sniffles.

  I stare at the M16 up onstage. Jim Conklin’s rifle, upside down and wearing his Kevlar and dog tags, standing alone onstage. A small box sits beside it on the ground. It has a clear face, and inside, arranged neatly, are all of his medals and awards. An eleven by fourteen framed portrait of Conklin in his dress greens sits on a stand.

  Bravo company’s first sergeant, the enlisted soldier who works directly with the commander, takes the stand and does what’s called the “Last Call.”

  “Staff Sergeant Holmes,” he says, reading the names off a paper.

  Somewhere in the crowd: “Here, First Sergeant.”

  “Specialist Carlton.”

  “Here, First Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant First Class Blake.”

  “Here, First Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Conklin.”

  And the whole room is silent.

  “Sergeant Jim Conklin,” the First Sergeant says again.

  No one says a word.

  “Sergeant James Henry Conklin.”

  Nothing.

  And then he tells us to stand for the twenty-one-gun salute. Seven people stand at attention off to the left. Someone standing beside them gives orders, and they each fire three synchronized, blank rounds at the ceiling.

  Jim Conklin did not die in my arms. I didn’t witness his death. I didn’t call in the “nine line” report to have him medevaced out of the kill zone. I didn’t know him. I forgot who he was, and I can’t hear his voice in my head. I told him I’d volunteer for another rotation and I didn’t. Maybe I would remember him better if I’d come up a second or third time, but I didn’t.

  We stay standi
ng while someone plays taps.

  The first set of three notes is played. They’re slow, precise, and perfect. My bottom lip quivers, but I am not entitled to tears.

  The second set of three notes is played. My eyes water, and the room turns blurry.

  I didn’t know him, this true GI Joe Schmo, this hero. He is not my family or close friend. I cannot picture a moment of interaction between the two of us. I know who he is, but I don’t know him. His existence meant nothing to me. And at this moment his existence means everything to me.

  Picture a fence in New York City. Picture being stuck in it.

  My eyes are blurry, and I choke on my own tears. I feel as if I’m trapped in rubble, and the weight of James H. Conklin’s last good-bye is overwhelming.

  I shed tears I don’t deserve to shed. I’m not entitled to tears, but they come nonetheless. They are not quiet, respectful, funeral tears. They are tears for a fellow soldier, a brother I hardly knew, and I sob like a baby. I bury my face in my hands like a mother who puts flowers by her dead son’s picture, like Jim Conklin’s mother.

  I have lost nothing in Jim Conklin’s death, but in a way I have lost everything.

  These tears for injustice, for impurity, for virtue, for love, for hate, for misunderstanding, for innocence, for guilt, for nothing, and for everything.

  PART III

  BLUE PHASE

  BASIC TRAINING PART III

  Only after we have been completely destroyed can we begin to find ourselves.

  The drill sergeants do it like this: they break us down, build us up, break us down again, and then build us back up. The first breakdown is the hardest part. It’s the first three weeks, and they call it Red Phase. The second three weeks is called White Phase. And this is when they build us up.

  The third three weeks, that’s Blue Phase. It’s nearing the end, but there’s always one more trick up their sleeve, one more breakdown before we can be built into soldiers.

  During the second to last week of blue phase there’s an FTX. The first field training exercise we’ll ever conduct in the military. The whole company camps out in the Missouri woods. It’s December, and we pull security shifts at all hours of the night. There’s a select group of privates called OPFOR (Opposing Force) who try to enter our perimeter. So we have to be aware.

  The whole time we wear laser gear: a bunch of sensors attached to our chests, shoulders, and helmet. If they get hit by an opponent’s laser, they chirp loudly until a drill sergeant finds us and sticks a yellow key into the box on our chests.

  There’s another box on the end of our weapon. This is how we shoot a laser. The way it works is off of blank rounds: simply gunpowder without a bullet. And the way M16s work is with direct impingement. This means that there’s a tube in the barrel to collect the high pressure gas expelled from a detonated round. The gas is then used to push the hammer back down, thus recharging the weapon. What you get from direct impingement is semiautomatic gunfire.

  The box sitting on the muzzle of our M16 needs some of that expelled gas in order to fire. When the trigger is pulled, the box shoots a laser wherever the rifle is aimed. And since it can work only when a blank round actually goes off, this army laser gear is about as real as it gets.

  Within the platoon we pair off in battle buddy teams. Each battle buddy watches the other’s back. Each battle buddy team sleeps in two-person tents called pup tents. And our pup tents line the edge of the section of perimeter for which fourth platoon is responsible. The only other tents on the FTX are a warming tent and a chow tent.

  Upon arrival at the site we dig “haste” fighting positions using our E-tools. A haste is a little burrow in the ground, just a spot to lie down and be concealed from the enemy. Then we plant sticks in the ground to mark our “sectors of fire.” At the forefront of my haste, facing outside the perimeter, there’s one stick on the left and one on the right. Picture a 7-10 split in bowling. Picture a rifle between the two pins. The pins, or sticks, keep me from firing too far left or right. This way, we don’t shoot into each other’s sectors and possibly each other’s positions.

  My battle buddy and I, we’re smart. We find leaves and fill our hastes with them. Then we lay our ponchos on top of the leaves. See, air is an insulator, and a pile of leaves has a lot of air in it. During the FTX we’ll have to lie for hours in our hastes. So a pile of leaves protects us from the frozen December ground. After all, that’s how we’d do it in war.

  Also like in a real combat zone, we don’t just sleep in tents and pull security shifts. A large part of the FTX is running missions.

  “B team, bounce forward!” I yell. I am the B team leader for this mission. Our five-man group jumps up from their prone positions and hauls ass for five seconds.

  I’m up…. You see me…. I’m down.

  Fifteen meters from where we started, we all drop to our knees to our hands to our stomachs. All of this at the same time, dress, right, dressed, and no less than ten meters apart. Ten meters is the proper distancing between soldiers.

  In my head the drill sergeant corrects me. There are no soldiers here. Only lousy privates.

  Ten meters because that’s the effective range of a grenade. If we’re too close together when a grenade falls, the private next to me gets wasted, too.

  So we’re ten meters apart from each other, and a sniper is taking shots from the other side of the valley. He’s already taken out one guy from A team, who fight from the other side of the shallow ravine. They’re closer to the sniper than we are.

  But I see him, that sniper, that single OPFOR guy crouching, taking shots at us. He’s just another private from basic training, but right now he’s the enemy.

  There’s a log lying a little ways ahead of me. I can get to it. I can use it for protection. I crawl on my stomach just like we did across The Pit, my belly dragging on the ground, my muzzle out of the dirt and leaves.

  I get behind the log. Safe. The other four members of my team are lying on their stomachs, ready for the chance to take this guy out. I see him pointing his weapon at them. I make my move.

  I crouch behind the log and take a kneeling position.

  He sees me.

  I point my weapon at him. He points his at me.

  BRASS. It stands for Breathe, Relax, Aim, Sight picture, Squeeze. And it’s the only army acronym that matters right now.

  Breathe.

  Breathe methodically. Time the breaths. Figure them out. This is harder than it sounds. Ever consciously think about blinking? Drives you crazy trying to control it. You can hardly tell when it needs to be done. Too much? Too little? Too automatic. There’s a natural pause at the end of an exhale. That’s when you shoot.

  Relax.

  Muscles fatigue quickly in one position. Rest the back of the elbow on the knee. A pointy elbow can’t balance on the point of a knee without wiggling around. And more important, pull the weapon into the shoulder. Don’t try to hold it in the air. Pulling the weapon snug is easier than trying to fight gravity. Fight gravity and you’ll lose every time.

  Aim.

  Aim low. Keep the sides of the front sight post flush with his body. Bullets arch like baseballs. The round will climb for the first hundred or so meters. Put the front sight post where the target meets the dirt. Even if the bullet skims the ground in front of him, it’ll bounce upward.

  Sight picture.

  Put the front sight post in the middle of the rear aperture. The black circular opening of the rear aperture is fuzzy, because the focus is on the target. Then it’s on the front sight post. When they’re lined up, move the back of the weapon so the front sight post sits in the center of the fuzzy hole. Smack dab in the center.

  Squeeze.

  Don’t pull the trigger. If the penny falls, it’s ten push-ups. Squeeze, control the trigger, and feel the hammer fall. The hammer should surprise you every time. Shouldn’t know it’s coming. Neither should the bad guy.

  BANG

  The hammer should surprise me. It does.
But not my hammer.

  His hammer.

  The bad guy, OPFOR, has a better shot, a faster shot than me. I am hit, and B team has no leader. There’s a loud chirping noise to remind me.

  “Fall down,” says the drill sergeant, sticking a yellow key into my chest. “You’re dead.”

  My laser gear stops chirping, and I lie in the leaves. I shouldn’t have kneeled. I was fine behind the log. I was safe. I should have stayed in the prone and aimed over the log. I exposed too much by kneeling.

  The drill sergeant looks at me, pulls out a CS gas grenade, tear gas, and winks as he pulls the pin.

  “Your team is screwed, private,” he tells me.

  He throws the canister next to the private who’s taken over my command. The private rolls to his right, yells “Gas! Gas! Gas!” to his teammates, and undoes the protective mask carrier on his hip. He tries with shaky hands to get the mask on before the gas hits him. He’s coughing as he puts it on.

  “You’re dead,” the drill sergeant tells him.

  I put my mask on. Then I sigh. I watch the losing battle continue like a spirit would after leaving its body.

  Another one of us gets shot. And another.

  Laser gear chirping all over the place. It fills the once-quiet woods.

  “You’re all dead,” says the drill sergeant. He cuts the exercise short. “Friggin’ embarrassment.”

  He keys the rest of the dead privates and the chirping stops. The Missouri woods go quiet again, and he rallies us together for an AAR (After Action Review). We sit in a semicircle facing him. These Missouri leaves we sit in, they’re not orange and yellow like New York leaves. They’re ugly and brown. The trees look down on us. Our whole squad was taken out by one guy. One guy and a “mustard gas” mortar round.

  The drill sergeant kicks the CS canister toward the edge of the woods, and the OPFOR member who was shooting at us runs the other way, getting ready for another bunch of privates to come strolling through. Getting ready to show them just how underprepared for war they are.