by James Gould
“When someone in our unit dies, we can just look at him and say, ‘well, he’s dead. That’s OK. It is what it is.’ But when someone is badly wounded, like in the face, it’s really hard to deal with. We have to see him until he is evacuated, then visit in the hospital if we can.”
The tall black soldier in desert camo in the plane seat next to me paused with the thousand-yard stare hidden behind his dark sunglasses. This was his fifth day in transit from Afghanistan to his home in New York, but he was still wired from daily brushes with death and the responsibility he felt for the safety of all his men.
“Every morning, I tell them, ‘stay focused, keep your eyes open, don’t let down your guard. This is your job, the real job; training is done. Make every day like the first day on a new job. Give 110% today. Then tomorrow, give 125%. First, look out for your safety, then the safety of your team, then the mission.’ The new ones are so young, out of high school. I have to find out what drives them, what will make them listen and focus and work so they will survive. “
He looked sideways at me, a nervous tic in one side of his mouth. “I tell them to look out for anything out of the ordinary, like a man standing alone in the middle of a field with no hoe or shovel. Likely, he has a weapon laying on the ground at his feet. The moment you stop paying attention to him, he will grab the weapon and shoot. I tell them to keep a scope on a guy like that at all times. The new ones especially, I tell to trust their instincts. If something looks wrong, if they feel threatened, DO something. Don’t wait to tell me or ask. Just act. The one time you delay acting may be your last. We are all there with you. Don’t worry about it.”
While he paused again, reliving his daily speech, I noticed his unit patch that looked like the view through a telescopic sight. I asked what it was.
“We are the Rapid Force Group. When a convoy or other group gets in trouble, they call us. We have the equipment and weapons and can call on more to help them out. Other times, we have our own missions. I like to talk with the Afghan people, but I always let them talk first. I read their body language before they put up a wall. I tell my men to do the same. Trust your instincts, don’t overthink.”
Suddenly, a wry smile. “You know in Afghanistan, every day you come back covered with dust. When I was first there, I kept feeling like I had allergies. Finally, they figured out that I was allergic to dust. In a country that is full of dust, is dust. Finally, they gave me a face mask to wear. Then one day an RPG exploded nearby. It ripped up the face of a man close to me but the mask protected me. You never know. You never know.”
All of this conversation, or rather machine gun speed monolog, took place during a ground delay due to a faulty microswitch that signals the airplane’s tail cone is attached tightly. This is the same type of cone that a hijacker jettisoned years ago to parachute out with ransom money. Neither man nor money were ever found.
I asked how long he had been in the Army. He explained his 8 years of service, in Iraq, then Japan. He transferred back to a unit in the States to get home, but then his unit was deployed to Afghanistan. He and his whole unit had re-upped for a second tour, “to finish the job we started.”
“You must have a very tight team.”
He smiled, “Yes, we are very tight. We have all trained together, look out for each other, like brothers.”
He said he had started college, but dropped out for the military. He said the recruiter (like all recruiters) answered his questions by going all around the answer. But he praised the Army for the opportunity it gave to constantly learn new things. He also pushed his men to cross train and go outside their boxes so they could all fix their vehicles (“Human Preservation Vehicles”, designed for protection against mines and roadside bombs) and do anything else that might arise on a mission.
I asked if he planned to go the full 20 years until military retirement. He shook his head no. “I think it is enough. I have been lucky so far. My tour is done in December, and that will be it. But during my two- week leave I have to be careful not to let my guard down too much, because I have to be ready to go back. And I can’t think too much about the last day in Afghanistan because that can cause me to lose focus.” I talked about how runners look at a point beyond the finish line to keep pushing. And how mountain climbers more often die on the way down when they are past the high of the summit and lose focus by starting to think of the warm room and meal awaiting. “Exactly,” he said. “Every day you have to do the job. The last day is like the first day. You let down your guard, you can die.”
“Once you get out, do you plan to use the GI bill like I did?”
“Yes, it is very good.”
“What do you plan to study?”
He laughed. “I want to be a dietician.”
About then, the switch was repaired and we taxied out and took off. He finally stopped talking and fell asleep, his right hand pinching his nose and pushing up his sunglasses. Even in sleep, his body was still tense, taut.
He woke up as we were landing in JFK. We talked a bit. I left the plane before he did, but waited outside the gate.
“It has been good talking to you. I hope you have a good leave, and that your last 6 months are safe for you and your men.”
I shook his hand. “Speaking as an old vet, you are serving your country with honor.”
He straightened a bit and we parted.
The next day I read about a founder of Facebook who is renouncing his American citizenship just to evade taxes on his IPO windfall.
James Gould: With a degree in Chemical Engineering, he became an Army researcher; then with a law degree, a patent litigator. Since retiring, he has pursued various genres of non-legal writing; for the last 6 years, screenplays for features and TV pilots.