Mortality

Confronting your own mortality at any time is hard... at age 20 in the form of 2000 +/- lbs. of C4 in a yellow dump truck is impossible to fathom for the uninitiated and the unbelievers... but you are forced to look at the inevitable by the force of the blast... and again moments later -- after someone has dragged you from under the rubble that used to be the outer wall and ceiling of the room you were in... and again as your cheek is burned by an RPG as it races by and slams into the wall immediately behind you... and for a second time you have been dragged from under concrete chunks and blocks and you have a fleeting thought about feeling like being hit by a truck...

and your mortality at 20 is all too real as you pick up the weapon at your feet and take up position as Tangos appear on the rooftops all around your outpost... but you cannot hear through the screaming ring in your ears... and you fire and fire and fire again in response to the muzzle fire on the other rooftops... and you see bodies fall and shit! shit! is that more Tangos on the street below??? Shit! Shit!! even in your 10th month here, the slot machine thoughts that occur to you in the midst of a firefight when your training... and the experience of the past 10 months... kick in...

but the gun jams and when you look you see that blood has soaked the weapon and you're not sure whether it's your blood or someone else's because you know this is not your weapon... your weapon and one boot and your other things are somewhere under the rubble of the room you last remember being in but now you're in what was the hallway... there's another gun... and you still cannot hear a damn thing but you can see your brothers who have sought cover in the stairway just to your right... and they all look a bit dazed... and the thought flashes by that they... we... you... them... could be over run at any time and screaming to them to get the 50 up... for you are standing in the doorway of the crushed room that now lacks most of the outer wall... and they are below the sight line and they cannot see what you can see... you cannot hear what they are saying... and not sure they can hear you either but you're sure you are telling them at the top of your voice in no uncertain terms and in language even a Longshoreman has not yet heard that you are not dying in this fucking stairwell today... that you are not fucking dying here today...

and you and Tim Watkins are now firing... and at some point others join you... and it seems like hours have passed but it really has been minutes... and now you and Watkins and others are dragging the .240 (machine gun) to a position on the upper reaches of the building although you do not remember how you got there or where you were just minutes -- was it hours -- ago... and then there are your brothers from the combat outpost...

and people think there are soldiers in the rubble and people are digging with bare hands... but that's about all you remember until Matt is standing over you and you're in a Humvee with Dave M. beside you... and Matt is saying something about you and him and a trip to Alaska... but you still cannot hear much over the damn buzz and bells of Notre Dame slamming in your ears... and there is blood on your chest... on your hands... running off your head... Dave is looking bad... there is blood all over him... Doc is there and he's telling you that you're going to be OK... is he talking to Dave or you? and doesn't he say that to everyone... and when Doc asks you cannot squeeze his hand... and you can barely move your head and there's something wrong with your neck and you cannot feel your hands or your legs... everything moves in slow motion... and then you're in Balad...