Memoirs From the Edge of Chaos

These writings represent events actually experienced during a combat tour. No real names are used.

Day 75.  A spring day in May brings warmer weather to central Baghdad. 100 degree temps are simply comfortable, not near the 135 degrees I plan to suffer through in the summer. I can still enjoy a coffee and cigar, and not sweat…such the result of desert conditioning. I’m taking a minor break from admin work, sitting under a protect patio at a square metal table, with four chars. Typical Army comfort. Across from me, a Marine officer who’s coming to my staff. I’m in relaxed dress, no body armor, simply my M9 Beretta in a tactical Serpa III level leg holster and two magazines of 15 rounds each. Odd that my Marine is in full "battle rattle" dress. I know I have a tough reputation and can no doubt be an a$$ho!e, but come on.

"All I could think of was my wife and kids," Capt Jones, USMC, tells me. Slowly…solemnly. "With each round of impact, I felt their loss."

I take a sip of coffee. Starbucks brewed strong, with a hint of hazelnut. Still hot.

"Is that why you react so angrily near the Iraqi’s you were assigned to?" I inquire.

"Sir, we’re here to help them…all of them," he responds. I see him going back in his mind, reliving the moment of conflict, of pain. A faint shiver. "I feel almost like a volcano around them. Sir, I feel like…" His voice trails off.

"…lashing out, " I utter…finishing his thoughts. Capt Jones eyes become rimmed with red and I just nod.

It was the near impact that he survived. The near impact at a recreation gym that killed two of my comrades, and wounded 17 others. 4 of the wounded were part of my staff. As I look at my future staff Marine, I sense his turmoil. It is classic combat stress, where the body and mind are at extremes in order to cope with the environment. Capt Jones is sitting at my table with his Marine issued tan body vest, kevlar helmet, gloves and ballistic goggles. He also has at the ready his M9 Beretta in on his front breast armor in Serpa II quick release holster, as well as his Colt M4 auto rifle, and a close quarters combat folding blade. Despite that a 122 mm mortar from a Katushya rocket makes all that ineffective, the mind seeks a means to cope…a sanctuary of solace.

Capt Jones eyes me, somewhat wearily, in my relaxed state. I know what he is thinking…that how he so trained in professional warfare could be so dressed at the ready, while I, a Sailor no less, could be so calm. It didn’t make sense to his heightened mind.

"Yes, I’m scared of dying too," I answer slowly…clearly. "And this is not my only tour in a combat zone. We are professionals and leaders…by example and by action. When others see me, it’s effectively my duty to indicate that despite death being near, we should not be paralyzed, and can be normal and find time to for ourselves. I accept death."

"Sir?"

"We can never control when we may die, but to me, facing it responsibly is a professional duty. Just like you can’t lash out and injure the Iraqi’s you help and mentor. You’re a Marine and brother with a professional mission. That’s what separate us from so-called ’street soldiers’ and wanna-be’s."

"I see, " Capt Jones whispers.

"Yeah, that’s us…those junior soldiers, airmen, sailors and Marines require no less from us."

A pause. I take another sip of coffee…mmm, still good. I take a drag on my Cohiba robusto and let the smoke ride on my exhale.

Capt Jones is in reflection. Then he unhooks his helmet, and removes it. He takes off his ballistic googles and gloves, placing them in the helmet. I see the racing mind begin to ease.

"Would you mind if I just sit and have a coffee with you?" Capt Jones asks.

"My treat…and welcome to my team."

Harris

Impact from a rocket is quite dramatic.  The rocket motor propelling the warhead goes silent.  Then the pulsation of the concussion is distributed immediately.  Lastly, the sound of the explosion follows.  In succession, the minuet of kinetic energy plays throughout our area.  I count ten direct impacts, not counting the secondary explosions hitting helicopters at the nearby landing zone, and fuel tanks roughly 500 meters away.  As the roar of rocket motors reach crescendo, then ebb, my thoughts run uncorraled.  Oddly, I wonder who would drive my just paid off BMW, and whether I should’ve bought the new 5-series.  They have that new I-drive system and with the top open, I could go to La Jolla Cove Beach and…..

The closest explosion occurs less than 150 meters away.  Then, silence…finally. 

"All clear, All clear.  Personnel make accountability reports to…"  the C-RAM voices states unenthusiastically.

The MSG, my roomie, and I leave the D&C.  Then anguished shouts fill the air.  Above the din I make out cries for "get help" and "need medic."  I grab my roomie.

"Go to the trailer and bring my keys to the gym," I order.

I pull my cell phone from my vest pocket and depart for my muster point.   There are 12 other enlisted and officers I’m responsible for that live on the same compound.  Whenever there is an impact, standard procedures dictate we all muster so I can make the call to Ops center that all are "present and accounted for."  One soldier is missing.

"Where is Sergeant Ruiz?"  I inquire.

"Sir, he never arrived," was the reply.

"Damn.  He knows the procedure.  You’re all accounted.  Let’s break and see where help is needed," I say.  After calling the Ops Center to make my initial report, I place the phone back in my body armor pouch, and lead my personnel to the gym.

We quickly move toward the casualty collection point, or CCP, near the compound gym in less than a minute.  Despite not being in uniform under the body armor, I perspire noticeably.  My roomie comes up to me, handing me the keys to my SUV.  Looking around, I note fellow soldiers and civilians moving about, some helping others move to the CCP.  Many seem dazed, their eyes open, yet unseeing.  The result of near impact injuries.  But I didn’t see any damage as I walked toward the CCP.  Airborne dust commingling with explosive residue sting my nose and give me pause for breath.  I collect myself then turn away from the CCP, doing an almost about face.

"Oh my f*cking God," I mutter.

In front of me were two rows of trailers with roofs fallen in, the sides peeled away like labels from a can.  Shrapnel holes were evident, like the holes in a slice of swiss cheese.  It must have been the last explosion I heard.  And in front of me, stiffly staggering toward my group, a soot-darkened male figure with obvious injuries, and Sgt Ruiz helping him along.

"Help me…please," whispers forcefully the injured man, in agony.

A combat medic runs in front of me.  The medic and Sgt Ruiz lay the man down on the dusty concrete.  I recognize Major Lee as the fallen man.  Then it dawns on me…that’s not soot, that’s blood covering his tattered clothing and body.  I observe this with awestruck wonder.  Intellectually, I know the human body only contains 8 to 10 pints of blood.  However, as it seemingly pours from the head and arms, it visually feels like much more.  The medic turns to me.

"Sir, may I have your IFAK?"

"Yes, go ahead," I reply, handing my individual first aid kit. 

Turning to my roomie, I request, "Bring the SUV around to medevac Lee to the Combat Hospital."  My roomie departs.

The medic deftly wraps Lee’s head with the Israeli Battle Field dressing to turn off the faucet of red fluid.  Using the "t-bar", the medic wraps the bands around Lee’s arm above the arterial wound.  Securing the bands onto the "t-bar", he twists four turns until tightened, then secures the "t-bar" in place with Velcro straps.  The rate of blood flow drops instantaneously.  Others bring additional kits, wrapping and cleansing some of the major shrapnel wounds under the medic’s supervision.  Within myself, I feel a sense of pride.  Though this young medic may have had no idea whom Major Lee was prior to the attack, his professionalism and initiative may just have saved his life.  This was the highest example of how combat fosters the greatest of brotherhood.

After Major Lee is loaded into my SUV and driven away, I walk toward Sgt Ruiz. 

"Sir, I’m sorry I missed muster, " he says, unsteadily.

"No worries.  You had a good reason,"  I reply.  I see the slightly dazed expression and grab his right hand and wrist with my right hand.

"I couldn’t leave a brother when he needed help.  I just couldn’t…" he stammers.  His shaking increases, and I recognize his near-impact concussion symptoms.  I pull Ruiz closer to me.

"I know."

The medic approaches us both.  Another SUV parks nearby.  Still holding Ruiz’ right wrist, I place my left arm around his right side.  I’m braced to accept his weight.

"I would want the same done forrrr…." mutters Ruiz, then quietly slumps forward into me.  I bring him into a soldier’s embrace.

The medic rushes forward.  "Sir, let me take him."

"No," I state firmly.  "I got him."

——————————–

Harris

Mmmm, yes.  The day is sunny and warm, a humid 85 degrees.  As I look upon the emerald Atlantic Ocean from the silky white sands of South Miami Beach, I can’t help but smile.  The glass of mojito in my right hand is satisfyingly cold, sweating droplets of condensation onto the beach.  As I ease back onto my lounge chair, ensuring coverage from the sun by the beach umbrella, I feel a soft touch on my right shoulder.  I look over and meet the gaze of my beautiful mahogany skinned companion.  The turquoise two piece bikini complements the lean and seductive lines of her toned, lithe body.  She leans in towards me.  Her voice is as soft as a breeze flowing from a butterfly’s wings.

"You have some mint leaves on your lips," she purrs.

"I would enjoy it if you remove them," I replied.

She leans further, and the anticipation of a electrically charged kiss ignites my soul.  I feel my eyes closing.  A distant sound emerges, similar to a horn.  I continue my lean in towards my lover.  Closer, ever closer.  The sound, the horn…it’s more intruding now, becoming more impertinent.  I open my eyes just for a moment and…

Darkness…all around me.  I blink quickly, adjusting my eyes to the the inky blackness.  I’m prone, lying on my right side in a twin bed.  The familiarization start to creep in as I lean toward my left.  There they are, vaguely visible on a maple wood night stand…my alarm clock, my Bible and my Beretta M9 pistol.  It’s 3:23 am, and like a thunderbolt, the realization impacts me.

"F*ck me!  I’m still in Iraq, " I violently whisper.  It’s day 262.

I roll over onto my back and stare upward.  I have a new roommate, as my Special Forces friend has redeployed home.  Unlike my "sanded and tested" prior roomie, this is my new roomie’s first war zone deployment, what we call "a pup."  By now, with four combat deployments, I’m referred to as an "old hound."  Have I really been here almost nine months?  Then, a tingling sense stirs within.  A three toned alarm from the outside blares, and I instinctively move before the announcement.

"Incoming, incoming, incoming," speaks the dispassionate voice.

It reperesents the Counter Rocket, Artillery & Mortar (C-RAM) system, alerting all within my area of inbound enemy rounds.  I hit my light switch, roll onto the floor, pull my body armor toward me and grab the M9 from the night stand.  I look toward my still sleeping roommate.

"Incoming, incoming, incoming," the C-RAM intones.

"Yo, man!  Incoming!" I yell.

"Huh," comes the sleepy reply.

"Incoming, dammit! Get the f*ck on the floor!"

He sits up wide eyed and unbelieving.  I guess the Air Force didn’t give him combat awareness simulation training.  I pull him to the floor, facedown.  I place his hands on his neck in the protective position.  Then we wait.  So many thoughts intrude as we await the first salvo.  Are my affairs in order?  Is this how I will die…be found on the floor, like a discarded rat?  Who will carry my coffin from Dover AFB to Arlington National Cemetary?  I hear the distintive "woosh" of passing fire.  After 10 seconds, no explosion is heard. 

"Come on, let’s get to the D&C."  I instruct.

He moves quickly, gathering his body armor.  The Duck and Cover, D&C, is a concrete reinforced barrier & shelter, able to withstand the explosive impact of mortars and rockets.  Normally it can hold up to ten people standing.  The nearest one is ten meters outside my trailer, a simple four second jaunt.  Though already sheltered, the aluminum constructed trailer is no match for a 5.56mm NATO round, much less a match for a Russian Katushyan rocket-launched 107mm round.   Until the "all clear" is sounded, we should get to hardened shelter.

"Incoming, incoming, incoming."

Inside the D&C, it’s me, my roomie, and another Army Master Sergeant, or MSG.  He and I acknowledge each other…we’ve been here before.  We’re all wearing our body armor, with Kevlar helmets.  A funny sight it is, since we’re basically wearing different levels of bed dress…shorts, t-shirts, sandals…and bullet resistant armor.  I holster my Beretta M9 on my body armor vest.  My roomie is still shaking.  The experience of waking from a sound sleep, then moving into a fully active "fight or flight" mode has temporarily taxed him.  He sits on the warm rocky sand and leans against the concrete sidewall.  The MSG and I exchange glances.  I mouth the words, "I got him."

"Incoming, incoming, incoming."

"Uhh, roomie.  Move away from the wall.  Put on your body armor and stand center or get in a crouch position," I instruct.  "If an impact occurs, the kinetic energy of the explosion will transfer from the concrete to you.  You’ll break."

"Thanks," says my still dazed roomie.  He stands and moves away from the concrete wall.  In the distance, I hear a sound familiar to a jet.  I look at the Sergeant.  He nods in return.

"Yeah," is the MSG’s response.

The jet sound approaches closer.  I look at my roomie.

"Open your mouth and cover your ears," I advise.

"Why?" he asks.

"The concussion wave.  If there’s an explosion, you’ll relieve the pressure build-up in your body.  And keep from going deaf."

He opens his mouth, while covering his ears.  The jet sound is roaring.   I look at the MSG.  He covers his ears.

"Open, wider.  Now, " I utter coolly.  My mind and body prepares for the shock.  Am I ready for this?  Am I ready to die?

"Incoming, incoming, incoming."  "Incoming, incoming, incoming."

——————– 

Next - Installment 6: Concussion Wave…(finem)

Harris

Day 170…late evening, 93 degrees.  Another 14 hour day ends.  With a workout, shower and de-stressing period, another 3 hours until bed.  In six hours, another "groundhog" day begins.  I show my badge and pass by the armed guards into the compound…200 meters until my trailer.  In the distance, an eruption of small arms gunfire echoes.  I know the sounds…clattering hammer means AK-47, counterfire pop means M-16, staccato booms indicate either SAW-240 or 50 cal…depending on tempo.  I look up and see red tracer fire illuminating the darkened and dusty sky.  Just another quiet night.  At least its a dry heat. 

"What’s going on?!" asks a male compound resident as I pass.

"I think Iraq won its World Cup soccer tune-up…celebratory fire," I mutter.

"You sure? It’s pretty close."

"Yeah.  Don’t worry, it’s not the revolution.  I’ll knock when it happens.  You should go inside before the rounds come down."

He obeys and retreats to his trailer.  Several others overhearing do the same.  I’m at my trailer, and amazed at the heat generated within my body armor in such a short walk.  The sweat forms on my brow under my hat, as I check the handle to go inside.  Unlocked?!  Hmmm, my roommate is in.  Cool, no digging for keys under my body armor and shirt.

I enter and close the door.  I see him to my right across the room, sitting on the bottom bunk of his two stack.  "Whew, long day, long night,"  I say, expecting a response.  I set down my briefcase and look at my roommate, still quiet.  Still motionless.  I’m instantly alerted to the Beretta M9 standard issue in his hand.  My eyes do a quick scan…by the safety latch, a clearly distinct red dot.  Safety is off.  "Be calm," my inner monologue whispers.  Intuitively, my hand floats across my own Beretta, stowed in my attached tactical leg holster. 

On my body armor and belt I carry five M9 magazines, 15 rounds per mag.  So does he.  I only see four of his mags.  My mind ponders in milliseconds, "Where’s the last one?" Oh yeah, right there, conveniently in the M9.  But is the weapon "amber" hot status (mag in, round not chambered) or "red" hot status (mag in, round chambered)?  Sweeet.  Well, this’ll make one interesting night.

"Uhhh…long day, buddy?  You just cleaned, Martina," I venture.  Most of us pet name our weapons.   Mine was named "Wheezy,"  after Louise Jeffersons on "The Jeffersons" TV show.  The question really was giving me needed time to assess the environment.  There’s a letter on the floor.  Something says in my mind, "not cool…"

——————— 

Next - Installment 4: Tracer….(benedictum)

Harris

….because I was at a tactical disadvantage if a "blow and go" went down. First, my roommate was an accomplished Special Forces member and one of the President’s 100…an elite shooting team where less than 1% of even the best marksman qualify. Second, unlike my roomie, my weapon was holstered, in a Serpa level 3 tactical leg holster. This provided greatest protection from takeaways and release in a fall, but sucked for fast draws. Drawing a Beretta M9 required a two-step procedure, first to roll forward the levered clasp, then to withdraw the weapon. Third, my M9 was status "green", meaning no magazine inserted and safety on. I "cleared" the weapon prior to entering the compound, as a standard safety procedure. So, even in my body armor, though roomie might hit me center mass the first time, I would not be able to withdraw my M9, pull a magazine from my pouch, insert it, release the safety, aim true and defend myself. Well, sh*t… I’m a much better conversationalist anyway.

"So, what the f*ck you mopin’ about?" I inquire.

A minute passes. The digital clock beside my bible on my nightstand indicates a second minute passing. Almost involuntarily, my thumb depresses the lever clasp and rolls it forward. Draw step one completed.

An almost inaudible mumble, "I f*ckin’ hate it here. Things just not right at home. The kid’s grades suck. Mom is frustrated, and I’m just here, waiting for the next "incoming" alarm. Just like some sheep in a slaughter yard. Just not f*ckin’ right."

I relaxed, and begin to understand. There was no "Dear, John" letter, nor intent to harm himself. His wife simply unloaded her pain and misery in a letter to him, and he was coping. This was about not having control, where he was trained to control and manipulate all aspects of a plan or situation when it arrived. Holding his M9 was merely a unconcious coping action, as he could control the actions of it and direct its consequences better than only a rare few. I had seen it often in the combat zone, where despite the low ratio and odds of conflict, some would elect to carry the heavier Colt M16A4 slung across their shoulders…its weight and 550-meter maximum effective range a comfort. I move the holster lever back into place and move forward.

"Yeah, it’s paradise, ain’t it," I reply low tone. "But you have less than a month here, and doing something stupid will only hurt everyone. You’re gonna make it out of here." The last sentence said as a directive.

"I know. We got any Coors left?"

"Yeah, let me get us both one," I said more audibly and relaxed. I began doffing my gear and removing my holster. "And what the hell was the nonsense with your M9? Are you at ‘red’?"

"Nah, I’m at ‘amber.’ I’m getting ready for a competition after I get back, so I was practicing aim. The magazine gives it the right weight."

"Oh…yeah."

"So that’s why you went quick draw?"  my roomie asked.

"Oh, you saw that?" I responded.

"Yeah.  Too obvious,"  he replied.  After a pause, "Nothing more about this, right?"

"Cool, "  I said, handing over a chilled non-alcoholic Coors.  "I’m going outside."

"Cigar?"

"Nah," I quipped.  "Just going out to enjoy the tracers."

———————

Next - Installment 5: Concussion Wave

Harris

Introspective: Hot day, still air.  Apache AH64’s buzz above, bringing about images of dragonflies back home.  I’m aware of a someone dabbing me with gauze.  Hmmm…my mind begins to focus…   

"Sir, do you need to go to the combat hospital?"

"No," I replied.

"Are you sure, sir?" The medic seemed insistent.

"No, thanks.  I’m fine," I muttered more embarrassed than irritated.

The medic shrugged and walked away.  I went to the nearest HMMWV, to catch a glimpse in the side mirror.  Damn…it looked worse than I thought.  Mingling with my sweat in the 105 degree heat, deep rose colored stains on my front body armor.  Rivulets of dried blood starting from my nose & mouth, and coverging like a river down my throat.  My dogtags were hanging outside my body armor.  Prior to tucking them back in, I looked at my information for blood type…A Pos, meaning type A Positive.

My inner thoughts whispered, "hmmm, no purple heart.  But at least it’s dry heat."

Returning from a conference, the armored non-tactical vehicle I was traveling in received small arms fire along our route.  To me, better that than an IED.  I brought up my Colt M4, weapons status red, 30-round clip inserted.  If you’re in my sector, 72 virgins may receive your soul.  The driver sped up to leave the "kill zone" and enter the safety of the entry control checkpoint ahead.  Of course, he hit the speed bump hard, sending the M4 charging handle into my nose and mouth.  Like a faucet, blood flowed from my nostrils & bitten tongue.  And I was looking forward to a cigar & Coors near-beer tonight.

Returning to my trailer, I doffed my ops gear, body armor & weapons.  My roommate, Dave, was in, relaxing in his favorite canvas chair.  An Army Ranger, and President’s 100 member, he paused upon seeing me.

"Damn! Rough day?"

"I’m alive," I responded.  I placed my Beretta M9 next to my bible on the nightstand.

"No cigar, huh?"

"Not tonight."  Hell, not for at least a week.  If I squeezed with my teeth, I could draw blood from my tongue and cheek.  Mixing with the saliva, it had a slightly metallic taste.  I just wanted to relax, and then head to the gym.  A workout would settle me down from the day’s event.  I changed into my workout clothing and laid down on my bed.

"Here ya go.  No cigar, but it might help," said Dave, as he handed me an orange colored Pop-Ice.

I took it and instantly reflected on my combat tour experiences.  I’m no war hawk, but in each tour, the circumstantial situation and stress allow bonds to form.  No different than steel, which when tempered by heat, becomes molecularly different and bonds stronger.  Whether with Sailors, Solidiers or Marines, I’m never disappointed at how men of vastly different backgrounds can form brotherhoods.  This moment was one of countless.

"Thanks," I said, opening my Pop-Ice.  Squeezing the contents into my mouth, the semi-frozen flavored ice and syrup was soothing and delicious.  After a second taste, I mentioned, "Does this mean we’re going steady?"

"Sorry, ‘Chop," said Dave, smiling.  "I got two rules.  One, to hit whatever I aim at.  Two, Never fall in love in a war zone.  Ain’t no room for you!"

"Fine," I replied.  "Not my type anyway."  With that, we both laughed, and I took another swig of cool icy pleasure.

——————– 

Next - Installment 3: Tracer 

Harris

I celebrated my birthday this past week.  Counting weeks (more uplifting than days), I have under 6 weeks left Boots on the Ground.  Then a vacation in wonderful South Beach.  With visions of models & Cheesecake Factory Old Fashioned Strawberry cheesecake dancing about in my head, I celebrated with a La Gloria Cubana cigar (Dominican w/ Cuban seed – Original Cubans so overrated) and a non-alcoholic Coors (0.5% alcohol…tricks your tongue).  Not exactly a competitive diet…then again, I’m not planning a stage appearance.  The night was quiet & I’m wearing my IBA (Body Armor) amid the muffled pops & bangs of 107mm and 240mm rockets.  Used more for harrassment, yet deadly when one lands near or in your trailer (stackable room).

Eyes look around hoping for quiet.  There’s a certain energy when you feel targeted.  Salsa Nights and Karaoke at the State Department poolsides were cancelled….yes, Virginia, we are in a combat zone.  I don’t dance, I workout.  Anyway, I’d rather get a shower and good night’s sleep in my trailer (with my Beretta M9 and bible bedside).  Weather is reaching 100 degree temps, with 60 degree lows…at least it’s a dry heat.  Now the sun is down & I finished an intensive upper body workout, making the cigar a more satisfying pleasure.  But I’m craving something more.  I stroke the Beretta on my body armor thoughtfully… my craving as light as a whisper, yet its pull as strong as gravity.  After a 1/2 click walk, guards question me, but my mission is clear.  I will have it, I will hold it.  And then, its in my hands.

Love that Starbucks White Chocolate Mocha Latte.  It’s damn good stuff!

——————— 

Next - Installment 2: A Positive 

Harris