Through the Darkest of Nights: Testament XXI

( – promoted by buhdydharma )

Every few days over the next several months I will be posting installments of a novel about life, death, war and politics in America since 9/11.  Through the Darkest of Nights is a story of hope, reflection, determination, and redemption.  It is a testament to the progressive values we all believe in, have always defended, and always will defend no matter how long this darkness lasts.  But most of all, it is a search for identity and meaning in an empty world.

Naked and alone we came into exile.  In her dark womb, we did not know our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth. Which of us has known his brother?  Which of us has looked into his father’s heart?  Which of us has not remained prison-pent?  Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?      ~Thomas Wolfe

All installments are available for reading here on Docudharma’s Series page, and also here on Docudharma’s Fiction Page, where refuge from politicians, blogging overload, and one BushCo outrage after another can always be found.

    Feeling vulnerable and exposed, Travis trudged down the dusty street in the brutal summer heat.  Like everyone else in the platoon, he resented patrolling on foot, maintaining the high level of alertness necessary for patrol effectiveness was impossible in 120 degree heat, but orders had come down to minimize the use of armored vehicles, and orders were orders.   Everyone understood that huge Abrams tanks and Bradleys rumbling through Iraqi neighborhoods frightened Iraqi civilians, they realized that foot patrols were more tolerable to the average Iraqi, but they also knew how much more vulnerable foot patrols are to IED’s and sniper fire.    

   Travis tried to ignore the stench of rotting garbage and raw sewage, but it was impossible.  The reek was overwhelming.  CENTCOM and the Pentagon were emphasizing the importance of winning the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people by providing better security, but restoring basic sanitation services and getting their electricity back up and running would win more hearts and minds than a thousand foot patrols.  Meanwhile, the hearts and minds of Sunni insurgents and Mahdi Army fighters no doubt welcomed the sight of such easy targets.

    There were no civilians in sight, it was not a good sign.  Behind Travis, sweating in the scorching heat, his soldiers were tolerating the patrol duty in silent frustration. Patrolling Iraqi streets is a tense ordeal from beginning to end, it’s physically and psychologically exhausting, but over the past several days everyone had been even more on edge. The sectarian tensions simmering in Najaf could erupt into violence at any time, and everyone knew it, from the lowest ranking foot soldiers out on patrol in the sweltering heat to the highest ranking generals in their air-conditioned Green Zone offices.

    Travis glanced at Chiles.  “It’s too quiet.”

    Chiles shrugged.  “I’ll take quiet any time.”

    An Iraqi approached them on the narrow street, trailed by several frightened women and children.  He stopped when he reached Travis and Chiles.  Agitated, he pointed a trembling finger at Travis.  “Stay out of Najaf.”

    “If the Mahdi Army stays out of Najaf, we’ll stay out of Najaf.”

    “Don’t provoke them . . .”  

    Taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Travis offered the man one.  “You’ve seen Mahdi Army fighters in Najaf?”

    The Iraqi nodded as he took the cigarette with trembling fingers.

    “You’ve seen them yourself?”  Travis flicked his lighter and held it out.

    The Iraqi leaned forward, the tip of his cigarette glowed cherry red in the flame.  He exhaled, the smoke swirled away on the wind.  “Al Sadr is stirring them up, he’s inciting them, he wants a confrontation.”

    “Well, he’s going to get one if he tries to take over Najaf.  Are there al Qaeda fighters there too?”

    “Al Qaeda?  In Najaf?”  The Iraqi stared at him, started to reply, then just walked away in disgust.  

    “Hey!  Come back here!”  

    The Iraqi spun around.  “Al Qaeda in Najaf!  You stupid Americans . . . you come here . . . you attack us . . . you say you want to help us, but your ignorance and blundering just make everything worse.”

    Travis glared back.  “Al Qaeda, the insurgents, and the Mahdi Army are the ones making everything worse.”

    “You started this war.  What did you think would–”

    “Al Qaeda started this war.  On 9/11.”

    “Go home, get out of Iraq, pack up your stupidity and your guns and your blundering and go back where you came from.”

    “We’ll leave when this war is won and not until then.  There are hundreds of Mahdi Army fighters in Najaf?  You’re sure of that?”

    “How many times do I have to tell you?  Are you deaf?”  

    Travis laughed, he couldn’t help it.

    “Go ahead and laugh, but you won’t be laughing in Najaf.  You’ll be too busy dying to laugh.”

    “You saw them.”

    “I saw them.  My family saw them.  They swagger through the streets with their guns, just like you do.”

    Travis watched the Iraqi and his family hurry away, then looked at Chiles. “So what do you think, sergeant, is he bullshitting us?”

    “I don’t think so, sir.  So what do we do?”

    “We keep patrolling, orders are orders.  I don’t like the looks of this, but we’ve got a job to do.”  

    “Yeah, like trying to stay alive.  That’s a full time job around here, if you ask me.”

    “Full time job . . . running your mouth is your full time job, Chiles.  We have a few dead enders and terrorists to deal with yet, but we’re dealing with them, we’re making progress.”

    “Yeah.  We’re making progress, except for market bombings, suicide drivers, and IED’s all over the place.”

    “The insurgency is in it’s last throes.”  

    “I don’t think so, sir.  We don’t belong here.  If foreign soldiers were patrolling through my hometown, I wouldn’t like it much.  And the longer they stayed, the more pissed off I’d get. ”

    “We’re fighting the enemy here so we won’t have to fight them back home, sergeant.  In your hometown.  Or mine.”

    “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s the strategy.”

    A black dog limped across the street ahead of them, paused at a bullet-riddled wall stained with faded blood, raised a hind leg, marked its territory with a stream of piss, then barked at an old woman watching it from a doorway.

    “That’s what this war’s about, sir.  That’s the only thing it’s about.  The oil companies are marking their territory.  They’re the black dog and we’re the piss.”

    “You have a crude imagination, sergeant.”

    “I have eyes, that’s what I have.  And what I’ve seen here isn’t liberation.”

    Travis thought of Shannon, as he often did in moments of uncertainty.  He’d made mistakes, going to Kansas City had been a big one.  He’d made a lot of mistakes, and no one knew that better than she did.  But if he made a mistake on a foot patrol in Iraq, it could be his last mistake.  This second tour would test him to the limit, the mission had changed, the challenges were far more complex than they’d been last year.  

   The 3rd ID had trained for rapid maneuver warfare and that training had paid off, the lightning thrust to Baghdad had proven it.  But providing security was the mission now, and that meant dealing with the unknown, it meant dealing with the pressure of being targeted by unseen enemies, it meant death could strike at any time, from anywhere, on any patrol.

    Travis checked his map.  “We’re about a klick away from that mosque we’re supposed to check out for weapons.  When we get that done, I’ll call in and see if there’ve been any reports confirming what that Iraqi told us.”

     He was folding the map when it happened. There was no warning.  The bullet slammed into his chest before he heard the shot, knocking him flat on his back.  Looking up at the blinding sun, unable to breathe, stunned and disoriented, he rolled onto his side, fighting to stay conscious, fighting the urge to panic as shouts and the thunder of gunfire erupted all around him.

    An IED exploded somewhere behind him.  Cursing, Chiles grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the cover of the doorway where the old woman stood.  He saw her hesitate, heard her say “Inshallah”, and then she rushed towards them to help.  The sniper fired again, she sagged to her knees, then collapsed face down in the street, blood spurting from the bullet hole in her neck.    

    Travis struggled to breathe, but he couldn’t breathe.  Chiles let go of his arm, crouched in front of him and fired a burst of M-16 rounds at the sniper.  Dazed, clinging to consciousness, he finally managed to draw a ragged breath.  He saw the old woman lying in a pool of blood a couple of meters away, and dragged himself towards her.  

   He never got there.  

  Awareness faded, the sound of gunfire faded along with it, everything seemed to recede, the heat, the pain, the fear, the weariness, none of it seemed real anymore.  Fighting the relentless onset of darkness, fighting it until the end, he struggled for one last look at the world he was leaving behind, and saw the black dog standing over him, looking down at him with cold, empty eyes.