I seem to spend a lot of time thinking about war, even when I don’t want to. The reality of war. The horror of war. What does winning a war really look like? Are war and terrorism even related or is one a symptom of the other?
Following is an article in today’s Denver Post which provides a perspective…
-Tony Seahorn
Fool’s game: A soldier’s lament
By Megan Nix
Posted: 01/03/2010
My friend from Denver, a thirtysomething with a full red beard, a plaid shirt, and a loud, choppy laugh, looks like any guy you might have a drink with to talk about girls or music or the work week.
The last time I hung out with him, we shared a beer stein on Larimer Street during Oktoberfest and talked about Halloween costumes. During a more recent happy hour, we talked about the summons he received to deploy to Afghanistan.
Because of the Army’s Uniform Code, I can’t name him. Suffice it to say he’s the one person in the 30,000 who got that call to whom I can give a voice.
It was Nov. 11, 2009, Veterans Day, when my friend was called back to war. His friends had taken him out to shoot clay pigeons in honor of his being a veteran in Iraq, and when he went to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner, a big envelope was waiting for him. He went down into the basement where his father, a potter, was shaping clay. “I just walked up to him and gave him a hug,” he says, smiling from above the amber glow of his draft beer. Hugs are not something he regularly does. “Then I stepped back, and I said, ‘Dad, I’m going to Afghanistan.’ ”
Like most soldiers, he’s dealing with some of the same symptoms as one of his heroes, Audie Murphy, a World War II vet who publicized the unseen wounds of war. Fear, insomnia, depression, a loss of faith in our country’s leaders, and a nightmarish reluctance to re-enter the world “outside the wire.” Like any young man who’s already been to war once, my friend is doing everything he can in order to not be deployed twice.
When he served in Baghdad, there were four to five American deaths a day, the city was a “cesspool,” and “generals were being moved around like playing cards. People don’t realize how much worse it is than what you see on TV. In a city that goes to war, services stop - sewage, water - there’s very limited law and order. You can’t even imagine how awful the world is when a war is happening there.”
Despite his hearty laugh and recurring shrugs, he exudes disillusionment. We’re nestled in a leather booth, and at the bar, two toothless men start to shove each other against the stools and shout obscenities.
“I bet you,” my war-bound buddy says, “at least one of them is a vet.” It doesn’t matter if they’re vets or not, at least one person here is, and those unseen wounds of war? I can see them in this bar.
“My job in Iraq as a public affairs specialist was to prove, ‘What’s the good here? What’s the silver lining? How can I slant this to look good?’” my friend explains. “If you’re very honest,” he says, with signature honesty and one hack of a laugh, “you could never do it.”
One of the reasons he has agreed to talk to me is so that he can be honest, albeit anonymously. The namelessness seems to fit: Both Iraq and Afghanistan are wars largely stocked with low- to mid-level soldiers on repeated deployment. Soldiers from Nowhereville, U.S.A., young men and women who will die largely unrecognized for being, as my friend says, “some sort of hero.”
He’s not in the business of sugar-coating. Bombs are the best way to kill because no one has to be there, he tells me. He recounts how the fluids on the floor of a walk-in freezer stacked with car bomb victims flowed, tar-black, to a drain under his feet. “Beyond capacity,” is how he describes the scene of the nameless corpses. “Innocent victims of roadside bombs gone wrong. The unwanted. Victims that will never ever be identified.”
My friend’s insights increase with the drinks. He points out that while what we have is called a “volunteer army,” life circumstances are what dictate if enlisting is in a kid’s future. “See those guys?” he points to the two men who have stopped fighting and are staring blankly at their sentinel of empty shot glasses. “If they did serve, I can almost guarantee they came from little money. No Haliburton sons and daughters are dying in Iraq or going to Afghanistan,” he says, pushing his finger into the beer-stained table. “I can’t even tell you how many Army leaders I’ve seen without a combat patch (signaling they’ve been deployed) on their right arm. It just shows you how many people aren’t bearing the weight of this war.”
The weight of his story accumulates like a collection of heavy fragments.
A break for a granola bar on the back of Vehicle 2. A deafening explosion. A puff of smoke where Vehicle 4 had been.
Like many young men who enlist, my friend wanted to be independent of his parents and the military was the best possible solution, so he enlisted five years ago. “I thought if I don’t find anything I’m passionate about, I should go,” he says.
By now, he’s gathered plenty of things to be passionate about. One of them is not returning to Afghanistan. As a technically disabled vet who already did five years, was honorably discharged, and “did everything I was ever asked,” he received the news of his “involuntary mobilization” with reluctance and disbelief. He knew he was subject to recall until June 2012, but opening the envelope was one of those times when you say, “Seriously? I mean, seriously?”
Really, he did more than he was asked to do: He volunteered to fight at a time when he knew he’d likely be deployed. He was stationed in Iraq during one of its bloodiest summers. And, most importantly, he came back.
He also has simpler reasons for not wanting to return: He doesn’t know if he can pick up a 200-plus-pound person. He doesn’t want to carry a weapon. And he doesn’t want to be a pawn in a game of politics if part of the reason the withdrawal is scheduled for 2011 is because President Obama is up for re-election in 2012.
After opening his Afghanistan envelope, my friend immediately called his superior to appeal. “What’s the deal?” he asked. “I cannot do this again.” And the noncommissioned officer on the phone replied: “Look, we are scrounging the bottom of the barrel right now. The bottom of the barrel.”
One of the two men at the bar says he doesn’t have the money to pay for his drinks tonight, stands up from his tattered stool to leave, then sits back down. Someone puts a coin in the jukebox and I’m hoping the song will be happy, but it’s not. Bonnie Tyler’s voice starts in on “Nothing but a Heartache.”
“I only saw the effects of war, not the worst of it,” my quieted friend admits as the song reaches its refrain. “For every war story, there’s a better story not being told. Those go to the grave. Or they’re stories that the people holding them can never begin to relive.”
Tyler croons, “It’s a fool’s game,” while I work on my next beer.
I’m not sure what I should tell this young, smiling and wounded man in front of me. That he’ll be fine and somehow his appeal will be granted, and if not, he’ll come back and we’ll have beers and it will be over. We both know that soon he’ll probably be on a plane with his 60 pounds of gear, looking for silver-lined stories to send back to middle American about the benefits of being at war.
“It’s a heartache,” she sings: “Nothing but a heartache. Hits you when it’s too late. Hits you when you’re down.”
There are many things to thank my friend for, but the only thing I thank him for at the end of the night is his time, and at least that feels like a little bit of sincerity in the midst of everything we’ve both heard and read about our reasons for sending him to Afghanistan. “I’ll see you soon,” I tell him, and the last thing I say - my minuscule gift of acknowledgment - is his name.
The silver lining in this story? I’m still looking for it.
Battered & Tattered, Yet, How 
