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No Heroes in DirtThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Timmy Dee | |
| Monday, 17 March 2008 | |
Several billion people, and I just happened to be right here. That’s not science. I wasn’t here because my stars were that horrific. This was just bad luck. I think only Gregor Samsa had a worse day then I did. Waking up as a great big slug would be the only thing more terrible than the hack 24 hours I got to look forward to. It came to mind that I didn’t even know where I was. From what I gathered, that didn’t matter; I could have been in a really sandy island in the Pacific, and I wouldn’t have recognized it. I had to go by what the officers said, and they said I was in Afghanistan. One big lie. If the Army were in Afghanistan, which is a huge ******* desert, we would have taken it over by now. That’s generally what happens. Supposedly, we were somewhere near Khost, which was a deceptively cool name for such a rotten of a city. Everything was a wreck: The University had become a military base, there were cars on the street with rotting corpses in them, **** like that. Messed up, disgusting **** people shouldn’t be subjected to see. I was told it was something you got used to, and in all honestly, I adapted. The bodies didn’t scare me anymore; Khost eventually became my second home, just a place where I had to live for a while. Maravar pass became my office. Maravar was somewhere near Khost, and Kabul, and Jalalabad, and every other insignificant little city in the tiny speck of a godforsaken country that Afghanistan was turning out to be. It was a hilly valley that we took from the Mujahideen, not without some trouble though. 16 plus dead. 50 plus fatally injured. The dead wasn’t the scary part though. The city was the thing that weirded us all out. Like I said, people lying dead in the road. Troops running through the streets. The deathly chatter of machine guns, calling to one another like lovers who couldn’t stand being apart. The walking wounded moving in long lines through the alleys like rats to receive medical attention. Dogs barking at envoys while citizens stood in a long row, heads bowed down in shame and grief for their sacred land. If you never seen a city turned war zone, you’re in luck, because you aren’t supposed to. The first night we flew into the city, we were told to review our wills. A few of the guys sat on their helmets looking but not reading at their paper. Some frowned of furrowed their brow as they went over their death documents. I didn’t bother changing anything in mine; if I did, I’d end up regretting it when it was done. We had dinner later, which turned out to be a sad state of affairs. As it turns out, cheap vodka and mashed potatoes can’t fill all the emptiness in your stomach. The feeling that tomorrow, you might be like of the countless morose shells that were left of past people. Shells who had their face blown inwards and arms cut off. Those types of shells. The next morning, we got up and experienced “the marching of the gauntlet.” All we were doing was hoofing it the one or two miles to the frontline, but our hike was filled with the jeers and ridicule of all the veteran soldiers whose position we were going to fill. “Hey new guys, make sure you don’t **** yourself when they attack.” “Don’t worry, I here the Arabs kill the callow guys the quickest.” “Why don’t you give us your ammo? It’s not like you’ll be needing it.” Like I said, several billion people in the world, and there I was, getting verbally assaulted by a group of dick veterans. I began to envy those people who complain about their boring, monotonous lives. I wanted to warn them to keep their mouths shut. I used to be one of those people. Look where it got me. When we got to the line, we were surprised at how serine and quiet it was. The field was like the town that a tornado just ripped through; completely obliterated and eerily quiet, but peaceful, the first bit of quiet I had seen since I arrived. Almost beautiful, if you’re into destruction. There were only about five Soviets guarding the position, something that made no sense to me. It was clear that they were completely confused about what to do next. They just kept looking at us, and you could see the gears moving around in their heads: stay here and make sure the green don’t get killed, or just leave them to their own devices. They left after a few minutes. The first few hours were the worst. Our entire company was completely new to war; even our lieutenant didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and he was supposed to be the smart one. We pretty much just obeyed our most primal instincts; dig in and find food. The pass had been taken a few days earlier be some special operations guys. They had done a most rikki-tik job, so there were still pockets of scared Mujahideen in the mountains. If they solidified, they would make a strong force, which could overrun our position again. Then we would be right back to square one. The lieutenant, having nothing else better to do, led a patrol into the mountains. They were hoping to deflate any of the Afghani cavities still hidden in caves. We prayed they didn’t stir up any hornet nests. Turns out the lieutenant managed to tread lightly. He came back completely unscathed, reporting that they saw nothing. We all were absolved of our fear. Not wanting to be bit in the ass, however, we kept watch of the line. The entire day, all we saw was the infinite void of space created by our minds in the hot desert sun. Day one, and no attack. We were off to a good start. The next day, I was woken up by two things. One was the hot, arid wind that rose from the ground like a phoenix does from its ashes. It was something about the desert you could never shake off; the dry breeze that whispered promises of another terrible and burning day. You got used to it, sure, but it stuck with you like a malignant tumor. Once you grown accustom to it, you weren’t sure if it was your enemy or just another part of life. The other was the dull exploding sound of artillery hitting Khost. It was coming from over the pass, and we could watch as desert metal hurled through the sky to our reserve line. The whole thing only lasted about five minutes before the bombs stopped dropping and was replaced with the sound of trucks moving wounded and angry shouts from commanders clearly surprised by the rude awakening. Breakfast was a new experience. I had expected food on the line to be fairly good, given the chance that we were the ones in danger. Not the case; we got burnt toast and creamed chipped beef. **** on a shingle. “How do you eat this?” was the general conversation at the table. “Maybe you’re supposed to lose your eyes or something,” said a guy as he used his fork to toy with the beef. “Just gut it down, it’s probably all we’re getting.” He was already done with his share. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it. I’m still hungry.” For the entire breakfast hour, we grumbled and complained about the food. Yet, when we left the table, none of us were hungry. Just a little disgusted with ourselves. We spent the rest of the day watching the line. It had grown hotter from the day before, if that was even possible. I kept on having to push on my clothing just to get the heat moving through the fabric. The heat made me tired too. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and there was nothing to look at on the line, just the endless desert. I fell asleep. When, I woke up, I wasn’t sure what time of day it was; it seemed like it was night, but it looked like the relentless sun was rising over the baked desert clay. The only way I could tell that it wasn’t the sun was the fact that the air was colder than a witch’s tit. It wasn’t the sun. It was flairs fired from the Mujahideen, the ones that were supposed to be scattered on the mountains. Of course, they probably weren’t as disbanded now. Breakfast was **** on a shingle again, but today it was different. Today, I was probably going to die in a totally inglorious way. All the sudden, the burnt toast became delicious, fresh-from-the-bakery bread. The chipped beef became steak. It was easily the best breakfast I had ever eaten. The rest of the morning was spent watching the line. Afghanis were going to attack; it was just a question of when. So, there I was, sitting in a pile of dirt with a complete stranger. And what an absolute stranger he was. He said his job was the company’s “heavy mortar spotter.” He had to be lying, because I was almost certain that Maravar, the actual pass, not anything beyond it, was filled to the brim with soldiers. No artillery, no howitzers, no big guns. Just us against them them. It made me think that the guy had something to hide. That maybe, he was the “Ricky Boxer spotter” instead. Not that the army needed someone to spy on terrorists spanking it in the desert. No, that probably wasn’t a job. But it would be funny. So, naturally, while he was off in his own land doing some menial errand that made him feel important, I “scoped the landscape.” It was a tactic veterans used; they would look at and memorize their field of battle before they actually fought, so they would know their salient better than anyone else. Now, I thought it was a load of crap. There was no way remembering that a small cactus was at 10 o’ clock or a rock was at two would ever save someone’s life. Still, it was fun to do; it certainly beat waiting for something to happen. There I was, sorting everything out. Foxholes at six, three, and eight. Craters at 11, one, and two. Mess hall at four. Tiny little black speck slowly traversing across a mountainside? Well, that certainly wasn’t supposed to be there. I persuaded my confident to stop working for a moment and check out the fuzzy dot that was on the mountainside. He lazily aimed his binoculars towards the object, thinking that I was full of crap or seeing things. He targeted the figure, then suddenly tensed up. Slowly, he brought the field glasses back down to his chest, then turned to me. “Go. Go talk to the Lieutenant. Tell him what you saw.” While I was walking to the officer’s compound, I realized that I didn’t exactly know what I saw. I didn’t see a rebel or a terrorist or anything like that. I saw a small, black dot. It could have been anything: some defect on the mountain, some animal with black fur, ****, it would have even been a civilian. I had to stop lying to myself. I got to the lieutenant’s complex, I found our leader huddled over a few maps, talking silently to a few of his subordinates. I barely looked up when I entered the room. He just ignored me like I was a fly. It wasn’t until I cleared my throat that he finally recognized the fact that I had something to say. “Spit it out, soldier,” he quietly mumbled. I coughed again, then started. “Sir, I saw something.” The buzzing that had been happening while I talked suddenly stopped. The lieutenant took a deep breath, then signaled me over to the maps. He pointed out the general positions of the foxholes. “Where did you see it?” I thought it was interesting that he asked me “where” as opposed to “what”. To be honest, the map was so confusing that I didn’t know where I spotted the thing. All I was able to decipher from the map were a few hills and the trenches. I bit my lip and pointed out the tallest bluff. The lieutenant grabbed the map and walked over to his radio. He lifted the earphone to his head, dismissed his sergeants, then started jabbering over his line, leaving me standing out of place in his tent. “Fire mission TRP. Coordinates 02-046-38. Fire for effect, over.” He looked back at while someone on the other end of the phone called back. “Private, when **** starts going down, just remember F.E.A.R. It might save your life.” He sent me away, leaving me worried and confused. I walked back to the dugouts, simultaneously enjoying and hating the hot but light wind that mingled with my hair. I realized how much of a curse this world is, despite all of it’s beauty. I started to understand what all those pro-peace hippies were singing about in their ditties. When I got back to my pit, I was greeted by a new occupant; another grunt, just like me. I loved these guys; it was sometimes like looking into a mirror. We had nothing to do for the rest of the day. An hour after I left to my trench, the fire mission the lieutenant called in started to wreck the mountains in the distance, causing the barren dirt to fly into the air, covering up the sun and blocking out our view of where the enemy would be. “Hey, what does F.E.A.R. mean?” I asked my partner as we both watched the ridiculous display of firepower ripping craters in the earth. “Fear or F-E-A-R?” he mumbled back. “The second one.” “Why, who said that?” he questioned, now a bit more interested. “The lieutenant. He said if I remembered it, it could save my life.” “Well that’s distressing. He really said that?” he asked, now fully interested in the conversation. “Yeah, he said F.E.A.R. What’s it mean?” “First tell me the context in which he said it.” “Christ, I dunno. When the **** hit’s the fan, F.E.A.R.” “Hmm,” he verbalized. “It’s an acronym. It means **** everything and run.” I was taken aback for a moment. “That is disconcerning.” Sweat and dirt. Dirt and blood. Blood and bullets. Bullets and heat. Heat and skin. Skin and sweat. It’s amazing what doesn’t mix. I was regretting the cigarette. Sure, it definitely relieved some stress, but just the fact that I was out restored it all. And being stressed was the last thing I needed. To say the least, it’s an experience, getting shot at the first time. I felt like vomiting after the first bullet. All of it: the metallic clicks, the brass hitting rocks, the thuds and clunks, steel barely skipping past your eye. It makes your heart jump into your throat, your eyes water, your ears bleed. The ballet of death, being played out where? In a lot of ways, this is where war should be held. Deserts are geographically logical, easy to clean up, not to mention there’s not much to lose in the desert. Only human life, and, well, let’s be honest. None of that seemed to matter much to us anyways. Volunteering for this? Mass confusion. Maravar pass suddenly became a blender filled with mud, blood, and bullets. In the battle, we were swept up into the killing like a tornado. Something about people screaming and firing weapons makes the fiery machine inside of you start to burn deep inside your stomach, it’s wheels and levers opening the cage that held the most deadly arsenal in the military; yourself. You close your eyes in between shots, and you open them a different person. The person who has to be shot at to wake up. The person who’s sweat burns holes in concrete, and who’s spits up steel. War makes men of metal. The bullets can’t hurt me anymore. I’m Superman. Copyright 2008 Timmy Dee |
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