Dear John (17 page)
We landed in midafternoon under a cloudless sky and found ourselves surrounded by sand on every side. Almost immediately we were loaded on a bus, drove for hours, and ended up in what was essentially the largest tent city I’d ever seen. The army did its best to make it comfortable. The food was good and the PX had everything you might need, but it was boring. Mail delivery was poor—I received no letters at all—and the lines for the phone were always a mile long. In between drills, my men and I either sat around trying to guess when the invasion would start or practiced getting into our chemical suits as quickly as we could. The plan was for my squad to augment other units from different divisions on a hard push to Baghdad. By February, after what already felt like a zillion years in the desert, my squad and I were as ready as we’d ever be.
At that point, a lot of soldiers had been in Kuwait since mid-November, and the rumor mill was in full swing. No one knew what was coming. I heard about biological and chemical weapons; I heard that Saddam had learned his lesson in Desert Storm and was retrenching the Republican Guard around Baghdad, in the hope of making a bloody last stand. On March 17, I knew there would be war. On my last night in Kuwait, I wrote letters to those I loved, in case I didn’t make it: one to my father and one to Savannah. That evening, I found myself part of a convoy that stretched a hundred miles into Iraq.
Fighting was sporadic, at least initially. Because our air force dominated the skies, we had little to fear overhead as we rolled up mainly deserted highways. The Iraqi army, for the most part, was nowhere to be seen, which only increased the tension I felt as I tried to anticipate what my squad would face later in the campaign. Here and there, we’d get word of enemy mortar fire, and we’d scramble into our suits, only to learn it was a false alarm. Soldiers were tense. I didn’t sleep for three days.
Deeper in Iraq, skirmishes began to break out, and it was then I learned the first law associated with Operation Iraqi Freedom: Civilians and enemies often looked exactly alike. Shots would ring out, we’d attack, and there were times we weren’t even sure who we were shooting at. As we reached the Sunni Triangle, the war began to intensify. We heard about battles in Fallujah, Ramadi, and Tikrit, all being fought by other units in other divisions. My squad joined the Eighty-second Airborne in an assault on Samawah, and it was there that my squad and I had our first taste of real combat.
The air force had paved the way. Bombs, missiles, and mortars had been exploding since the day before, and as we crossed the bridge into the city, my first thought was amazement at the stillness. My squad was assigned to an outlying neighborhood, where we were to move from house to house to help clear the area of the enemy. As we moved, images came quickly: the charred remains of a truck, the driver’s lifeless body beside it; a partially demolished building; ruins of cars smoking here and there. Sporadic rifle fire kept us on edge. As we patrolled, civilians occasionally rushed out with their arms up, and we tried our best to save the wounded.
By early afternoon, we were getting ready to head back, but we were assaulted by heavy fire coming from a building up the street. Pinned against a wall, we were in a precarious position. Two men covered while I led the rest of my squad through the shooting gallery to a safer spot on the other side of the street; it struck me as almost miraculous that no one was killed. From there, we sank a thousand rounds into the enemy’s position, laying absolute waste to it. When I thought it was safe, we began our approach to the building, moving cautiously. I used a grenade to blast open the front door. I led my men to the door and poked my head in. Smoke was heavy, and sulfur hung in the air. The interior was destroyed, but at least one Iraqi soldier had survived, and as soon as we were close, he began shooting from the crawl space beneath the floor. Tony got clipped in the hand, and the rest of us responded with hundreds of rounds. The sound was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself screaming, but I kept my finger squeezed, aiming everywhere from the floor to the walls to the ceiling. Chips of plaster and brick and wood were flying as the interior was decimated. When we finally stopped firing, I was sure that no one could have survived, but I threw another grenade into an opening that led to the crawl space just to make sure, and we braced outside for the explosion.
After twenty minutes of the most intense experience of my life, the street was quiet, except for the ringing in my ears and the sounds of my men as they puked or cussed or rehashed the experience. I wrapped Tony’s hand, and when I thought everyone was ready, we began backing out the way we’d come. In time, we made our way to the railroad station, which our troops had secured, and we collapsed. That night, we received our first batch of mail in almost six weeks.
In the mail, there were six letters from my father. But from Savannah there was only one, and in the dim light, I began to read.
Dear John,
I’m writing this letter at the kitchen table, and I’m struggling because I don’t know how to say what I’m about to tell you. Part of me wishes that you were here with me so I could do this in person, but we both know that’s impossible. So here I am, groping for words with tears on my cheeks and hoping that you’ll somehow forgive me for what I’m about to write.
I know this is a terrible time for you. I try not to think about the war, but I can’t escape the images, and I’m scared all the time. I watch the news and scour newspapers, knowing you’re in the midst of all of it, trying to find out where you are and what you’re going through. I pray every night that you’ll make it home safely, and I always will. You and I shared something wonderful, and I never want you to forget that. Nor do I want you to believe that you didn’t mean as much to me as I did to you. You’re rare and beautiful, John. I fell in love with you, but more than that, meeting you made me realize what true love really means. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been staring at every full moon and remembering everything we’ve been through together. I remember how talking to you that first night felt like coming home, and I remember the night we made love. I’ll always be glad that you and I shared ourselves like that. To me, it means that our souls will be linked together forever.
There’s so much more, too. When I close my eyes, I see your face; when I walk, it’s almost as if I can feel your hand in mine. Those things are still real to me, but where they once brought comfort, now they leave me with an ache. I understood your reason for staying in the army, and I respected your decision. I still do, but we both know our relationship changed after that. We changed, and in your heart, I think you realized it, too. Maybe the time apart was too much, maybe it was just our different worlds. I don’t know. Every time we fought I hated myself for it. Somehow, even though we still loved each other, we lost that magical bond that kept us together.
I know that sounds like an excuse, but please believe me when I say that I didn’t mean to fall in love with someone else. If I don’t really understand how it happened, how can you? I don’t expect you to, but because of all we’ve been through, I just can’t continue lying to you. Lying would diminish everything we’ve shared, and I don’t want to do that, even though I know you will feel betrayed.
I’ll understand if you never want to talk to me again, just as I’ll understand if you tell me that you hate me. Part of me hates me, too. Writing this letter forces me to acknowledge that, and when I look in the mirror, I know I’m looking at someone who isn’t sure she deserves to be loved at all. I mean that.
Even though you may not want to hear it, I want you to know that you’ll always be a part of me. In our time together, you claimed a special place in my heart, one I’ll carry with me forever and that no one can ever replace. You’re a hero and a gentleman, you’re kind and honest, but more than that, you’re the first man I ever truly loved. And no matter what the future brings, you always will be, and I know that my life is better for it.
I’m so sorry—
Savannah
S
he was in love with someone else.
I knew that even before I finished reading the letter, and all at once the world seemed to slow down. My first instinct was to ram my fist into a wall, but instead I crumpled up the letter and threw it aside. I was incredibly angry then; more than feeling betrayed, I felt as if she’d crushed everything that had any meaning in the world. I hated her, and I hated the nameless, faceless man who’d stolen her from me. I fantasized what I would do to him if he ever crossed my path, and the picture wasn’t pretty.
At the same time, I longed to talk to her. I wanted to fly home immediately, or at least call her. Part of me didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t believe it. Not now, not after everything we’d been through. We had only nine more months left—after almost three years, was that so impossible?
But I didn’t go home, and I didn’t call. I didn’t write her back, nor did I hear from her again. My only action was to retrieve the letter I’d crumpled. I straightened it as best I could, stuffed it back in the envelope, and decided to carry it with me like a wound I’d received in battle. Over the next few weeks, I became the consummate soldier, escaping into the only world that still seemed real to me. I volunteered for any mission regarded as dangerous, I barely spoke to anyone in my unit, and for a while it took everything I had not to be too quick with the trigger while out on patrol. I trusted no one in the cities, and although there were no unfortunate “incidents”—as the army likes to call civilian deaths—I’d be lying if I claimed to have been patient and understanding while dealing with Iraqis of any kind. Though I barely slept, my senses were heightened as we continued our spearhead to Baghdad. Ironically, only while risking my life did I find relief from Savannah’s image and the reality that our relationship had ended.
My life followed the shifting fortunes of the war. Less than a month after I received the letter, Baghdad fell, and despite a brief period of initial promise, things got worse and more complicated as the weeks and months wore on. In the end, I figured, this war was no different from any other. Wars always come back to the quest for power among the competing interests, but this understanding didn’t make life on the ground any easier. In the aftermath of Baghdad’s fall, every soldier in my squad was thrust into the roles of policeman and judge. As soldiers, we weren’t trained for that.
From the outside and with hindsight, it was easy to second-guess our activities, but in the real world, in real time, decisions weren’t always easy. More than once, I was approached by Iraqi civilians and told that a certain individual had stolen this or that item, or committed this or that crime, and was asked to do something about it. That wasn’t our job. We were there to keep some semblance of order—which basically meant killing insurgents who were trying to kill us or other civilians—until the locals could take over and handle it themselves. That particular process was neither quick nor easy, even in places where calm was more frequent than chaos. In the meantime, other cities were disintegrating into chaos, and we were sent in to restore order. We’d clear a city of insurgents, but because there weren’t enough troops to hold the city and keep it safe, the insurgents would occupy it again soon after we cleared out. There were days when all of my men wondered at the futility of that particular exercise, even if they didn’t question it openly.
My point is, I don’t know how to describe the stress and boredom and confusion of those next nine months, except to say that there was a lot of sand. Yeah, I know it’s a desert, and yeah, I spent a lot of time at the beach so I should have been used to it, but the sand was different over there. It got in your clothes, in your gun, in locked boxes, in your food, in your ears and up your nose and between your teeth, and when I spat, I always felt the grit in my mouth. People can at least relate to that, and I’ve learned that they don’t want to hear the real truth, which is that most of the time Iraq wasn’t so bad but sometimes it was worse than hell. Did people really want to hear that I watched a guy in my unit accidentally shoot a little kid who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or that I’d seen soldiers get torn into pieces when they hit an IED—improvised explosive device—on the roads near Baghdad? Or that I’d seen blood pooling in the streets like rain, flowing past body parts? No, people would rather hear about sand, because it kept the war at a safe distance.
I did my duty as best I knew how, reupped again, and stayed in Iraq until February 2004, when I was finally sent back to Germany. As soon as I got back, I bought a Harley and tried to pretend that I’d left the war unscarred; but the nightmares were endless, and I woke most mornings drenched in sweat. During the day I was often on edge, and I got angry at the slightest things. When I walked the streets in Germany, I found it impossible not to carefully survey groups of people loitering near buildings, and I found myself scanning windows in the business district, watching for snipers. The psychologist—everyone had to see one—told me that what I was going through was normal and that in time these things would pass, but I sometimes wondered whether they ever would.
After I left Iraq, my time in Germany felt almost meaningless. Sure, I worked out in the morning and I took classes on weapons and navigation, but things had changed. Because of the hand wound, Tony was given a discharge along with his Purple Heart, and he was sent back to Brooklyn right after Baghdad fell. Four more of my guys were honorably discharged in late 2003 when their time was up; in their minds—and mine—they’d done their duty, and it was time for them to get on with the rest of their lives. I, on the other hand, had reupped again. I wasn’t sure it was the right decision, but I didn’t know what else to do.
But now, looking at my squad, I realized that I suddenly felt out of place. My squad was full of newbies, and though they were great kids, it wasn’t the same. They weren’t the friends I’d lived with through boot camp and the Balkans, I hadn’t gone to war with them, and deep down, I knew I’d never be as close to them as I’d been to my former squad. For the most part, I was a stranger, and I kept it that way. I worked out alone and avoided personal contact as much as possible, and I knew what my squad thought of me when I walked past them: I was the crusty old sergeant, the one who claimed to want nothing more than to ensure that they got back to their moms in one piece. I told my squad that all the time while we drilled, and I meant it. I would do what it took to keep them safe. But like I said, it wasn’t the same.
With my friends gone, I devoted myself to my dad as best I could. After my tour of combat, I spent an extended leave with him in spring 2004, then another leave with him later that summer. We spent more time together in those four weeks than we had in the previous ten years. Because he was retired, we were free to spend the day however we wished. I fell easily into his routines. We had breakfast, went for our three walks, and had dinner together. In between, we talked about coins and even bought a couple while I was in town. The Internet made that far easier than it had once been, and though the search wasn’t quite as exciting, I don’t know that it made any difference to my dad. I found myself talking to dealers I hadn’t spoken with in over fifteen years, but they were as friendly and informative as they’d ever been and remembered me with pleasure. The coin world, I realized, was a small one, and when our order arrived—they were always shipped via overnight delivery—my dad and I would take turns examining the coins, pointing out any existing flaws, and usually agreeing with the grade that they had been assigned by the Professional Coin Grading Service, a company that evaluates the quality of any coin submitted. Though my mind would eventually wander to other things, my dad could stare at a single coin for hours, as if it held the secret of life.
We didn’t talk about much else, but then, we didn’t really need to. He had no desire to talk about Iraq, and I had no desire to talk about it, either. Neither of us had a social life to speak of—Iraq hadn’t been conducive to that—and my dad . . . well, he was my dad, and I didn’t even bother asking.
Nonetheless, I was worried about him. On his walks, his breathing was labored. When I suggested that twenty minutes was perhaps too long, even at his slow pace, he said that the doctor had told him that twenty minutes was just what he needed, and I knew there was nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. Afterward, he was far more tired than he should have been, and it usually took an hour for the deep color in his cheeks to fade. I spoke to the doctor, and the news wasn’t what I had hoped. My dad’s heart, I was told, had sustained major damage, and—in the doctor’s opinion—it was pretty much a miracle that he was moving as well as he was. Lack of exercise would be even worse for him.
It might have been that conversation with the doctor, or maybe it was just that I wanted an improved relationship with my dad, but we got along better on those two visits than we ever had. Instead of pressing him for constant conversation, I’d simply sit with him in his den, reading a book or doing crossword puzzles while he looked at coins. There was something peaceful and honest about my lack of expectation, and I think my dad was slowly coming to grips with the newfound change between us. Occasionally I caught him peeking at me in a way that seemed almost foreign. We would spend hours together, most of the time saying nothing at all, and it was in this quiet, unassuming way that we finally became friends. I often found myself wishing that my dad hadn’t thrown away the photograph of us, and when it was time for me to return to Germany, I knew that I would miss him in a way I never had before.
Autumn of 2004 passed slowly, as did the winter and spring of 2005. Life dragged on uneventfully. Occasionally, rumors of my eventual return to Iraq would interrupt the monotony of my days, but since I’d been there before, the thought of my return affected me little. If I stayed in Germany, that was fine. If I went back to Iraq, that was fine as well. I kept up with what was going on in the Middle East like everyone else, but as soon as I put down the newspaper or turned off the television, my mind wandered to other things.
I was twenty-eight by then, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that even though I’d experienced more than most people my age, my life was still on hold. I’d joined the army to grow up, and although a case could be made that I had, I sometimes wondered whether it was true. I owned neither a house nor a car, and aside from my dad, I was completely alone in the world. While my peers stuffed their wallets with photographs of their children and their wives, my wallet held a single fading snapshot of a woman I’d loved and lost. I heard soldiers talking of their hopes for the future, while I was making no plans at all. Sometimes I wondered what my men thought of my life, for there were times I caught them staring at me curiously. I never told them about my past or shared personal information. They knew nothing of Savannah or my dad or my friendship with Tony. Those memories were mine and mine alone, for I’d learned that some things are best kept secret.
In March 2005, my dad had a second heart attack, which led to pneumonia and another stint in the ICU. Once he was released, the medication he was on prohibited driving, but the hospital social worker helped me find someone to pick up the groceries he needed. In April, he went back to the hospital, where he learned he’d have to give up his daily walks as well. By May, he was taking a dozen different pills a day, and I knew he was spending most of his time in bed. The letters he wrote became almost illegible, not only because he was weak, but because his hands had begun to tremble. After a bit of prodding and begging on the phone, I persuaded a neighbor of my dad’s—a nurse who worked at the local hospital—to look in on him regularly, and I breathed a sigh of relief while counting down the days until my leave in June.
But my dad’s condition continued to worsen over the next few weeks, and on the phone I could hear a weariness that seemed to deepen every time I spoke with him. For the second time in my life, I asked for a transfer back home. My commanding officer was more sympathetic than he had been before. We researched it—even got as far as filing the papers to get me posted at Fort Bragg for airborne training—but when I spoke to the doctor again, I was told that my proximity wouldn’t do much to help my dad and that I should consider placing him in an extended care facility. My dad needed more care than could be provided at home, he assured me. He’d been trying to convince my father of that for some time—he was eating only soup by then—but my father refused to consider it until I returned for my leave. For whatever reason, the doctor explained, my dad was determined to have me visit him at home one last time.
The realization was crushing, and in the cab from the airport, I tried to convince myself that the doctor was exaggerating. But he wasn’t. My father was unable to rise from the couch when I pushed open the door, and I was struck by the thought that in the single year since I’d seen him last, he seemed to have aged thirty years. His skin was almost gray, and I was shocked by how much weight he’d lost. With a hard knot in my throat, I put down my bag just inside the door.
“Hey, Dad,” I said.
At first, I wondered whether he even recognized me, but eventually I heard a ragged whisper. “Hey, John.”
I went to the couch and sat beside him. “You okay?”
“Okay,” was all he said, and for a long time we sat together without saying anything.
Eventually I rose to inspect the kitchen but found myself blinking when I got there. Empty soup cans were stacked everywhere. There were stains on the stove, the garbage was overflowing, and moldy dishes were piled in the sink. Stacks of unopened mail flooded the small kitchen table. It was obvious that the house hadn’t been cleaned in days. My first impulse was to storm over to confront the neighbor who’d agreed to look in on him. But that would have to wait.
Instead, I located a can of chicken noodle soup and heated it up on the filthy stove. After filling a bowl, I brought it to my father on a tray. He smiled weakly, and I could see his gratitude. He finished the bowl, scraped at the sides for every morsel, and I filled another bowl, growing even angrier and wondering how long it had been since he’d eaten. When he polished off that bowl, I helped him lie back on the couch, where he fell asleep within minutes.