Major Conflict (15 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

War for Love

By the time my birthday rolled around in November, the stress of anticipating our departure was beginning to take its toll. The flow of troops into the theater was a twenty-four/seven operation, but it was constantly changing as new information became available to airlift command and priorities and strategies were suddenly reshuffled and shifted. We were given departure dates and times only to have them changed at the last minute. Wives and children, having made their tearful good-byes, would be told suddenly that the soldier would have another three days, or a week. I'm sure that everyone was relived to have a little more time, but it was also emotionally wrenching to have the departure date shift so arbitrarily.

The initial rush over the news had slowly been replaced by a kind of measured anxiety, as—in our minds—the war became less like a state championship game or the Super Bowl and more of a reality. We were going to war. None of us had done that before. Feelings of invincibility had gradually given way to an anxious confidence that tried to take into account all possibilities. And there were so many— so many more contingencies, it seemed to us—that soldiers in previous wars hadn't had to consider, most notably the threat of chemical warfare.

Indeed, this question of the chemical-weapons threat posed by the Iraqis was the main source of the anxiety many of us were feeling. It seemed that no matter how much training we endured, how many contingencies we planned for, it would never be enough. Like I said before, the threat of chemical attack produced a level of dread in us that I think was simply of a whole different degree from the kind of anxiety caused by old-fashioned bullets and artillery. We tried our best, however, to keep that anxiety under control and to bear in mind the fact that we were still the most advanced and powerful army in history.

As the day of my own departure drew near, the swelling numbers in the desert became increasingly impressive. This would be, we knew, a major conflict. Some in the unit were predicting that we'd see epic battles on the level of Kursk in World War II.

Weekends it was the four of us, mostly—Lostrapo, Barigilia, Brooks, and me—Friday nights at Der Speckmaus, and Saturdays at some place in Alt-Sachsenhausen, maybe, or in the city center. We'd all become very close, like brothers, really, and the Iraq situation had only intensified our bond. I was certain that I'd do anything for those guys, no matter what.

The weekend after Thanksgiving I got a call from Paul. I was overjoyed. Just hearing his voice again sent my morale totally through the roof. He filled me in on what he'd been doing over the summer and then let me know that his unit would be deploying a few days before mine, supposedly in the next few days. He suggested we get together before he got the word to report for departure, and I said yes without even thinking. We agreed to meet at Kyalami's since it was the place we'd first met. When I let the guys know that I wouldn't be around for our usual Friday-night session at Der Speckmaus, I caught a rash of shit for it but was able to get away nonetheless.

I was so excited about seeing Paul that I drove to Frankfurt directly from work to make sure I wouldn't be late. As a result, I found myself in Frankfurt two hours early, unsure how to pass the time. The waiting was excruciating. I figured I should put something in my stomach, so I went to a café and tried to enjoy a
pilzraum schnitzel
and Weizen beer. But I couldn't stop thinking about him, couldn't stop hearing his voice on the phone, imagining his face and body in front of me at the bar. But he has a girlfriend, an accusing voice would suddenly pop into my head, and then I'd measure this against the look I'd seen in his eyes, the feel of his handshake, a particular turn of phrase he'd used, and I'd find myself flummoxed once again, right back where I'd started from, that is, as confused as ever, and if not in love, then, at the very least, immensely infatuated.

Leaving the café, walking out into the brisk Frankfurt evening, the accusing voice would morph from pointing out Paul's supposed girlfriend to pointing out the threat our relationship posed to our respective careers as army officers. It was so doomed, I thought, trying to walk off the heavy German beer and failing to be inspired by the high Christmas spirit filling the narrow streets.

And then, all at once, the streets came alive; they'd sparkle and shine with silver bulbs and bright-colored lights, with the smiles of happy Germans strolling arm in arm—a Christmas card, honestly— as all my feelings for Paul would erupt unbounded by the lies of imaginary girlfriends and by the threat of expulsion and ruin. Love triumphant buoyed me up and carried me in its arms, stupid with desire, all the way to Kyalamis.

Paul was late, forty-five minutes late, in fact, so I had the chance, sitting at the bar, nursing a Weizen beer, to go through this whole process a few more times: up and down, hope then doubt, terror then relief and joy—again and again. What a mess in love I was!

And finally around eight forty-five, just when I was about to give up, not just on seeing him that night but on him completely, his absence the final proof, I was sure, of his straight indifference, there he was, bursting through the door, rushing briskly toward me, looking contrite, eager to explain. His face was flush with exertion, and he was bright-eyed and smiling big, all perfect white teeth ear to ear, as he pushed past my clammy extended hand, to hug me hard, like a long-lost brother.

“Heeeey, buddy, what's up!” he enthused. “Sorry I'm late, but my unit was doing some last-minute stuff before we fly, and we had to work late. I'm so sorry, really, bud,” he went on, pulling out of the hug and backing slightly away and looking into my face intently.

“I'm great,” I said, too loudly I thought. “What about you?”

“Good, good,” he said, still breathing a little hard. He pointed to one of the unoccupied private nooks. “Let's sit down and get a beer.”

We didn't miss a beat. It felt as if we'd seen each other only yesterday. He told me he'd moved up in his unit, having been given an executive officer position, and that a few times, in the absence of his bosses, he'd briefly commanded. Commanding is always an honor and is especially good for your promotion prospects when you're a lieutenant. I was truly happy for him. The conversation came so easily and seemed just so right that I felt completely relaxed and open.

After a few beers it started to feel as if we'd left the army far behind. There was a moment, when he got up to get us the third round and I was left alone at the table, when I felt the whole unwieldy burden of the military just lift from my shoulders, as easily as an overcoat, and suddenly, but only briefly, it was just the two of us, Paul and me, having beers in a bar in Europe, two young Americans far away from home,
on a date,
I thought to myself. How simple it all was when you removed the army from the equation, removed its antiquated bias and all the wasteful and unnecessary hand-wringing and drama that came along with it.

But as Paul loped back toward me, through the smoke and red light of Kyalami's, bearing two fresh Weizen beers, all I could think of was the war. And suddenly, that's all there was. There was only the war. Only the military. And I think in the few seconds it took for him to reach me, as I watched what I couldn't have move closer to me while at the same time receding from possibility, I understood, for the first time in my life, what it might be like to have a broken heart. I think I aged a decade in those few seconds, and I grew up right then and there. I understood that I was, after all, just like everyone else, a man who can be hurt, who can be vulnerable; I understood that I, too, was a man who bleeds.

I almost spoke up at that point. I almost shouted, “Wait, I have to tell you something!” thinking I could save us. I almost told him everything. I almost said it all. But as he put down the two beers and settled himself into the booth, he started talking about his girlfriend for some reason, and the moment was gone. He might as well have slapped me across the face.

All hope wasn't lost, however, because it became plain to me right away that he was talking about the stateside girlfriend out of some sense of obligation, the excitement that had lit up his eyes just a few minutes before disappeared, and his easygoing manner became clipped and a bit curt, as if she was an unwanted, though necessary, intrusion at this point.

For my part, as much to cover my own ass, I think, as to put him at ease, to let him know we were playing the same game, I told him about a girl I'd met through a friend at Speckmaus. Her name was Annette, and she had a huge crush on me. I liked her well enough that I'd decided to date her somewhat casually. Paul reacted to this coolly. He was smooth and noncommittal, though he did seem distant for a moment, and the reaction seemed just a little bit off, as if he'd slightly miscalculated his response and had, as a result, underplayed the role. He was too cool, too indifferent. And I could see this. And to complicate matters even more, I think he saw that I saw.

Suddenly we broke into laughter, sharing the unspoken inside joke, and I think within that laughter and that split second of self-conscious acknowledgment, we inadvertently managed to look at each other with unguarded honesty for the very first time. But neither of us had the courage to make a move, neither of us had the balls to say what needed to be said, so the laughter petered out and the moment vanished.

After another round of beers I was sporting a pretty good buzz and beginning to feel increasingly less guarded about my feelings. I was edging gradually closer to an all-out confession as I became filled with a deep, deep yearning just to stop the bullshit and talk straight. It was the whole, long process at the café and during my walk to Kyalami's to meet him, but speeded up so that it moved through me in miniature waves.

I'd look at his face, hear his voice, sense his body across the table from me, and all the desire would just well up in me; with each successive wave, I felt the barriers in my mind straining hard to hold on, yet beginning to loosen under the pressure. My carefully crafted life plan, my false ideal of what it was to be a soldier, seemed so utterly trivial in the wake of this desire. I kept trying to figure out something to ask, some coded way of inquiry, that would help me determine if there was even the slightest possibility my suspicions and instincts were correct. But then something would pull me back from the brink, fear mostly, I suppose, but common sense as well, since I knew I wasn't prepared to be booted out of the army and forced to build a whole new life in the civilian world.

But then, damn, another wave would come crashing down on me, and I'd think, Maybe, just maybe. His signals were so subtle and guarded that it was hard to tell, but there was something there, I just knew it. How could I figure it out for sure? I couldn't. The risk was too great. And in addition to the big risk of exposure and professional ruin in the army, there was, too, the added normal risk of basic vulnerability, of admitting that you were attracted to someone only to discover he didn't share your feelings. What if Paul was gay but simply not attracted to me? That seemed impossible. I knew it didn't make any sense. But that possibility made it feel as if the cliff I was standing on had suddenly doubled in size: the drop would be twice as long, the impact twice as hard. All at once the risk of admitting my attraction to Paul had been magnified twofold.

But then another wave hit me, a bigger wave, fueled by a slightly higher buzz from the Weizen beer, and I was pushing all that aside again, feeling bold, my heart screaming:
This is it! Take a chance! Trust
your heart!

“Paul,” I said abruptly, interrupting his story about a dog he'd had when he was in grade school, “I need to ask you something.” His face turned a little pale, and there was something close to terror in his eyes, though a terror laced with hope, I'd think later on. He'd seen something in my face. I'd scared him. The look in his eyes was too much for me, and I couldn't bring myself to continue. I hated myself for being so cowardly, but it didn't seem as if I had a choice. It just wasn't in me yet.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said, trying to laugh. “I was just thinking that I should probably get going.” I'd had enough. It was close to one now, and I still had the drive back home to my apartment in Cleeberg.

“What? You gotta be kiddin' me; crash at my place, it's much closer.”

“That's really nice, Paul, but it's, what, almost one now, and I have to work in the morning, so . . .”

Paul looked visibly disappointed, as if his perception of me had suddenly proved unworkable and he'd have to start all over again. I wanted so much to go back to his apartment, to spend the night with him, but I was feeling so frustrated and a little sorry for myself. The thought of being alone with him in his apartment was almost too much to bear. And the idea of being in the apartment and being unable to touch him, to have to sleep on the couch, or on the floor, when he'd be only a few feet away from me, seemed impossible. I decided just to slink home.

“All right, man,” Paul said, a little too casually, I thought, considering the expression that had just been on his face. “Maybe I'll have one more and then head home.” He was again trying too hard to appear indifferent. But then he said, kind of abruptly, “So, when do I see you again? We're going to fly pretty soon. Could be any day now.” This didn't seem indifferent at all, and I started to feel a little bit hopeful and a little less sorry for myself.

“Give me a call later this week,” I said, starting to smile, “and we'll set something up.” I moved to shake his hand, but just like when he arrived he moved right past my outstretched hand and gave me a big hug, even harder and longer this time, now that both of us had had a few beers.

As I walked out into the cold night air, my head began to clear from all the smoke and beer, and I figured I'd be okay for the drive home. I wasn't feeling too bad, all things considered, and when I reached the car I thought about going back and taking Paul up on his offer. I flashed on his face, tried to imagine his fit young body naked beneath the T-shirt and jeans, tried to imagine a kiss, how we'd wrestle and fumble to pull off clothes, frantic to get at each other, but then all the questions and doubts returned, clouding over my fantasy, and I reminded myself that I did have to get up early for work after all, so it really wasn't possible tonight.