Enduring Freedom, page 7
“Hey.” Joe rose from the couch and joined his mother in the kitchen. If she started to break down, he was going to lose it, too. You’re a soldier, Joe. Act like one. He swallowed and blinked. “Hey, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“No. I’m not going to be one of those hysterical mothers.” She wiped her eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”
Joe put his arms around her. She hugged him back. They weren’t usually a huggy family.
“It’s just hard to think my boy is going—” Mom stopped herself and backed away from him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m here to help you in any way I can. You just focus on getting back here safely.”
“I will,” Joe said. “I promise.”
Through the next two weeks, Krista and Mom helped him prepare. Krista insisted on making sure he had music. She couldn’t afford one of these new iPods that could store a thousand songs, but she bought him a smaller, less expensive MP3 player. He’d be taking about two hundred songs to the war. Mom had been more practical, emailing him an article from the Des Moines Register’s online edition about how Iowa colleges and universities were adjusting their policies to help their deploying students. She’d also connected him to her attorney, the same lawyer who had handled her interest in the divorce, so that he could prepare a will.
“Mom, I don’t need a will. I don’t own anything,” Joe protested. “Anyway, I’m going to make it back fine, so all of this is just a waste of time.”
“You have a car, your books, a bunch of CDs, and the Army will pay you while you’re over there,” Mom said. “You need to decide who will get it all. Only a fool goes to war without planning for the possibility that the worst may happen.”
Joe looked at her in awe as they climbed the few steps to the entrance of the lawyer’s office. This wonderful woman, who had worked so hard all her life, especially since Dad left. Apart from the initial threat of tears when he’d first told her about his activation, she hadn’t wavered, but had remained a focused source of help and encouragement. In the difficult year ahead Joe would model his determination upon her, and even if he fell short of his goal, mustering only a fraction of her strength, he’d be doing pretty great.
Someone must have told Dad about the deployment, because he called. Joe wished he’d checked Caller ID before picking up. He found himself stuck in the last conversation he was interested in having. “I hear they’re sending you overseas,” Dad said. He kept talking, but Joe’s thoughts wandered. You’re the one who decided you’d changed, that you no longer loved Mom, and that it was time to move out. Dating that woman—what’s her name? Crystal?—after only six months? They’d had a house, a family, and everything, and Dad had ruined it all. “. . . I’m proud of you. Keep your head down over there, OK? I’d like to see you before you go. Take you to lunch or—”
“I’m really busy getting ready to ship out,” Joe cut in. That was a lie. He had time for lunch. He didn’t want to lie when he could die in a war. Best to be clear in case I don’t make it home. It was a time for truth. “I don’t want to talk to you. You wanted out of the family. You’re out.”
“Your mother and I got divorced, but I didn’t—”
“It’s too late to play happy family now. I’ll be fine. Goodbye.”
“Son, I just wish—”
Joe jabbed the OFF button and put the phone back on its charger. One more step of war preparation done.
Mobilization prep in Iowa had been a tedious affair, standing in lines for hours waiting to clear dental, legal, and records.
And they were forced to study the Soldier’s Manual of Common Tasks, Skill Level 1, constantly. Finish chow early? Study your soldier manual! Quickly clean up after morning physical training? Study your soldier manual!
Joe hated it. The book included instructions for nearly every combat situation a soldier might encounter, up to and including “React to Nuclear Attack.”
Conditions: You are in a tactical situation or an area where nuclear weapons have been (or may have been) used. May have been used? Joe laughed. How was there ever uncertainty about whether or not nuclear weapons had been used? Wouldn’t the fact that everything had been blown up be a clue?
You are given load-bearing equipment (LBE), a piece of cloth or protective mask, a brush or a broom, shielding material, FM3-11.3, and one of the following situations:
1. You see a brilliant flash of light . . .
“Be the last thing you ever see,” Joe muttered as he read.
Performance Steps:
1. React to a nuclear attack without warning.
a. Close your eyes immediately.
b. Drop to the ground in a prone position, facing the blast.
c. Keep your head and face down and your helmet on.
d. Stay down until the blast wave passes and debris stops falling.
e. Cover your mouth with a cloth or similar item to protect against inhaling dust particles.
f. Notify your first line supervisor of nuclear attack.
Joe threw the manual at the wall and pressed his fists to his temples. He couldn’t handle the stupidity. The Army was actually telling him that, in the immediate aftermath of a nuclear blast, he should turn to his team leader Sergeant Paulsen and say, “Excuse me, Sergeant. Sorry to bother you, but I believe that blindingly bright flash and ear-splitting roar of explosion, that massively destructive shockwave, was the result of a nuclear attack. Just FYI. I’ll go back to studying my Common Tasks manual now.”
It was so dumb he wanted to punch something. Every moment of this mindless training felt years long. And the clock didn’t start on his deployment until he reached Afghanistan.
Finally, after two weeks, every soldier had been given all the examinations he needed, answered all the common soldier task questions that could be asked, and had packed and repacked and repacked and repacked his gear.
Nothing remained but the goodbyes.
The farewell ceremony at the armory was open to family, friends, and pretty much anyone else. The company stood at attention, enduring a speech from the Iowa City mayor until they were finally released.
Joe weaved his way through the crowd of wives and children saying goodbye to soldier husbands or fathers. Local news cameras pounced on any crying children or emotional soldiers. Joe avoided them.
“Is that what you want to do?” Joe’s mother asked, nodding toward the TV reporters.
“I’m hoping to write for newspapers or magazines. Maybe books.” Joe shrugged. “Gotta get back from war first.”
It was impossible to say goodbye to a lifetime of love with a half-hour reception.
Mom must have felt the awkwardness, too. “I don’t know what . . . I guess, be careful.”
Joe laughed, grateful to his mom for her strength. “You’re pretty cool, Mom.”
Mom looked away a moment. “Well, you’re a cool kid.”
“Sometimes.” Krista hugged him. “Write to us? Tell us what war is like?”
“Oh, gosh. Not for me,” Mom said. “Just tell me it’s all great. Boring even.”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” Joe said. Maybe not the whole truth. She would worry enough.
“Still writing?” Mr. Kane’s lanky form snaked through the crowd, his ever-present satchel on his hip. He smiled warmly and offered a handshake.
“Mr. Kane!” Joe shook the man’s bony hand. “It’s great to see you.”
“I won’t bother you too much. I know the last thing you want is to lose precious time with your family talking to your old high school teacher. Only I . . .” He adjusted his glasses, quiet for a long moment. “You remember during your senior year, right before 9/11? You were writing a story about a fight between two students . . .” He shrugged. “Can’t remember their names. Doesn’t matter.”
“I remember the superintendent wouldn’t allow you to print my story.”
Mr. Kane slapped his bag. “That’s the one. What I couldn’t tell you, back then, is that I admired how writing the unbiased truth of that fight, the truth as best your sources could tell it, was important to you. America needs those kinds of writers, Joe. Not these cable news people spouting propaganda for one party or another, but real journalists who work to tell the truth.”
“I’m not really a journalist,” Joe said. “I didn’t even get to finish my first year of college.”
“But you will be a great journalist,” said Mr. Kane. “You can be a great writer if you choose to be, and the thing is, whether you realize it or not, whether it feels like it or not, you’re about to step into history. You are about to participate in events that will be recorded in one way or another in our history books.”
“I don’t know about that,” Joe said.
“I do,” said Mr. Kane. He flipped up the flap on his satchel. “Here. Didn’t have time to wrap it.”
He handed Joe a worn hardcover book. Brave Men by Ernie Pyle.
“Thanks, Mr. Kane,” Joe said.
His old teacher tapped the cover with a big grin. “Ernie Pyle, a columnist and probably the most famous World War II correspondent. Now there was a man who turned writing the truth about war into an art form.” His face fell serious. “You be careful over there. But also, take a lot of notes. You have a camera?”
“About half a dozen disposable ones. I’ll just mail them home to get them developed.”
Mr. Kane nodded. “Good man. Do your best to record this experience. It will make it so much easier to write about someday.”
“I will,” Joe promised. “I’ll write the truth about this war.”
“I know you will.” He shook Joe’s hand again and patted him on the shoulder. “Goodbye for now, Joe. And good luck. Come see us in Riverside on the other side of all this.”
“I will,” Joe said again.
Mr. Kane took a deep breath and gave a half salute before turning away.
“Your attention, please,” the company commander, Captain Higgins, said over a loudspeaker. “I must ask friends and families to depart. In fifteen minutes all Delta Company soldiers will be aboard the bus to conduct movement to Fort Hood, Texas, to begin training for our deployment. Thank you for supporting your soldier, but it’s time to leave.”
“This is it.” Joe hugged Krista and then Mom. “See you in a year.” He waved and then headed toward the bus out front. He didn’t look back. Goodbyes were harder the longer they lasted.
Their bags were already loaded in the luggage compartment of the charter bus. Joe boarded and flopped down next to PFC Zimmerman from the other team in his squad.
“Hey, man. You ready for this?”
“I guess,” Zimmerman said.
As First Sergeant Dalton took a head count, Joe pulled his pen and blue notebook from his BDU, battle dress uniform, cargo pocket.
March 1, 2003
A somber crowd gathered on a cold gray early afternoon to say goodbye to friends and family at the Delta Company Army National Guard armory in Iowa City. About forty soldiers saluted and boarded a bus bound to link up with the rest of the task force, soldiers from other infantry and support companies, before conducting movement to Fort Hood, Texas, and thence to Afghanistan, where they will fight to make America and the world safe from terrorism.
Aboard the bus, the mood among soldiers ranged from jocular to optimistic, but all were strong and determined, ready to face the
In the seat next to Joe, PFC Zimmerman sniffed and wiped his eyes. His cheeks were red, and Joe saw him struggle to decide whether to turn away from the guys and look out the window, or turn away from the crowd outside and toward the guys. Eventually he looked down at his lap.
Joe put his pen and notebook away. He wouldn’t write about this anymore today. And like the rest of the guys, he did the best he could for Z by pretending he hadn’t noticed his tears.
Fort Hood, Texas, United States of America
March 4, 2003
Mornings in the Army come early, and a week after arriving at Fort Hood, D Company was up, showered, shaved, and back from the dining facility by 0630, ready for another day of training. Specialist Quinn, a huge machine gunner from the other four-man fireteam in Joe’s nine-man squad, performed a functions check on his M240B machine gun, a belt of blank ammunition draped over his shoulders. “When I’m getting up. Before I can even make it up.” He sang a messed-up version of an old song. Badly. He slammed the weapon’s feed-tray cover down hard. “I’ll say a prayer for youuuuuuu.”
Corporal MacDonald was the most senior soldier in Joe’s fireteam besides the team leader, Sergeant Paulsen. Mac sighed, slinging his rifle and cramming two thirty-round magazines full of blanks into his ammo pouch. “I say a little prayer for my discharge papers,” he continued. Mac was about twenty-five and in the last year of his enlistment contract. He followed orders and did his duty, but in his heart, he was done with the Guard.
Joe was in the first of four squads in First Platoon, and they were heading out for squad-level dismounted infantry drills. React to ambush. React to indirect fire. Assault a fixed position. They’d been living in old barracks from the Vietnam era, two-story open-bay buildings rumored to have been condemned and scheduled for demolition until they were suddenly needed for troops training to go to war after 9/11. The latrines were rusty and dusty. Many of the mattresses on the bunks bore strange stains. Water leaked through the flat roof on rainy days. The different companies of the battalion occupied over a dozen of these buildings in addition to smaller one-story barracks for officers and senior enlisted. Almost a thousand soldiers and literally tons of gear had arrived in North Fort Hood.
Out in the field behind the barracks, First Squad’s squad leader, Staff Sergeant Cavanaugh, wanted to “get in a little hip-pocket training” before Staff Sergeant Connors, the official training noncommissioned officer (NCO) that Fort Hood had assigned to train Joe’s platoon, showed up to start the real drill.
“Man, we’ve been over this stuff a million times,” Mac said quietly. “Six years in the Guard practicing this crap, and now we work on this every spare second Sergeant Cavanaugh can fit in.”
“Maybe it will help us when we get over there,” said PFC Baccam.
Baccam was a cool guy and a solid soldier, and Joe admired his optimism. But like Corporal MacDonald, he wished their squad leader would give them a break. Why did they have to train more than other squads? The rest of the platoon wasn’t due on the field for another half hour. He would have liked a little time to read Ernie Pyle’s Brave Men or to write news stories of his own. Instead they were practicing the same drills for the millionth time. Even if he wrote his best material possible, nobody would be interested in reading solely about repetitive basic combat drills.
“Now, I know we have practiced this before, but I want to make darn sure we know it and can do it in our sleep,” said Sergeant Cavanaugh.
“We do this instead of sleeping,” Mac whispered.
If Cavanaugh heard, he made no indication. “Right. Now, I want a squad column formation, Bravo Team up front. Keep it snappy.”
Joe’s team leader, Sergeant Paulsen, moved to point and held out his right arm. “Corporal MacDonald, then PFC Killian, in a line back and to my right. PFC Baccam, take that SAW back to my left.”
“Roger, Sergeant!” Baccam shouted before running to his position with the M249 squad automatic weapon light machine gun.
Everyone in the squad was in formation before the rest of the instructions were finished. The squad column formation stacked the fireteams, making a sort of diamond around the squad leader.
“Right,” said Sergeant Cavanaugh. “Now spread out. Keep your intervals. Let’s move.” They walked along the open field. In the distance, the backup bell sounded from over by the dining facility, or DFAC, where a garbage truck collected the refuse from the dumpsters.
Joe carried his M16, trying hard to imagine himself in Afghanistan, in the middle of the war. He wanted this training to count as if his life depended on it, and for all he knew, it did.
“Contact! Three o’clock!” Sergeant Cavanaugh shouted. “Get online!” Everyone in the squad rushed to their new positions in a line formation, both wedges turning to the right and straightening out to face the direction from which the imaginary attack was coming. They threw themselves down on the cold, wet ground. Sergeant Cavanaugh called out again. “Bravo Team! Suppressive fire! Alpha Team! Bound up!”
“Bang!Bang!Bang!” Joe yelled with the rest of B Team. They had to save their blank rounds for the day’s official training, so like little kids, they were supposed to make gun noises.
Mac went all in on this, shouting out a weird “Uh-huh-huh-huh-huh! Pew! Pew! Blammo! Ka-POW!”
“Move it, Shockley!” A-Team leader Sergeant Hart yelled. Specialist Shockley was a big guy, and not in the muscular way like Specialist Quinn.
After a few seconds A Team dropped to the ground and B Team was ordered to bound forward, Cavanaugh moving with them, while A Team laid down suppressive fire. Joe sprang to his feet and sprinted forward with his M16. “I’m up!He sees me!I’m down!” He and his fireteam threw themselves back to the ground. Joe slid down in a patch of mud, smearing his knees, elbows, belly, and chest. Oh man. I just washed this uniform. He didn’t mind getting dirty. That was part of the Army and especially part of the infantry. But now he’d lose even more of his limited free time to laundry.
First Squad continued, providing cover fire and bounding until Sergeant Cavanaugh called out Limit of Advance. “LOA! LOA! Gather round.” He looked the squad over. “Right. That was good. Just remember when you’re bounding, move ahead fast, but don’t stay up long. You don’t want to give the enemy time to aim at you. So ‘I’m up. He sees me. I’m down.’ Now, we have a few minutes before the rest of the platoon gets out here. Let’s run it again.”
