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