.Revelations of a Mere Mortal
“That’s strange. It looks like a sprinkler is shooting dirt everywhere. How in the world did someone rig a sprinkler to shoot dirt, and why…”
This was my thought in the microseconds before I recognized the dirt sprinkler as machine gun fire raking the ground a few feet in front of my Humvee. I had just exited the Humvee to check out an abandoned house with a platoon from First Recon Battalion, whom we were attached to for this mission in Zaydan, Iraq, a farming community and insurgent extravaganza southeast of Falluja. I took two strides of a run and dove behind a tree into the prone. One of my Marines did the same, finding shelter behind the rear of our Humvee. Rain had muddied the ground near the tree, and in the next microseconds as my knees and thighs slid into the mud I mockingly thought, “Great! First I get shot at and now I’ve got mud all over me. This just keeps getting worse.” Apparently I even make time for sarcasm while under fire.
I flipped the selector switch on my M-4 rifle from SAFE past FIRE to BURST. I had never been allowed to use BURST mode during training. This seemed like an appropriate time to start. I peered through my EOTECH optical sight, looking for the source of the fire. I heard a Marine from First Recon open fire with his M-249 SAWmachine gun from the roof of the house, applying 800 rounds per minute of crunchy 5.56-millimeter goodness to some unknown target. From my vantage point I could only see some houses about 300 meters distant, but no muzzle flashes or indications of the gunfire. I considered putting suppressive fire on the rooftops of the buildings, which was the most likely location of our assailants. However, I could not positively identify my target, and our rules of engagement required that before I opened fire.
One of my Marines asked if he and the remaining Marine inside our armored Humvee should exit and help return fire. I replied, “No! For God’s sake, stay in the truck. I can’t see anything out here.” Until we identified the target their presence would be of little value, but would unnecessarily expose them, especially the driver, who was closest to gunfire.
I moved to the hood of the Humvee and used it as a rest for my rifle. I was slightly more exposed, but the better vantage point was worth it. I still couldn’t find a target. I desperately wanted to neutralize our aggressor, or at least suppress his efforts at attack, but I was clueless. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire ceased.
Strangely, I still can’t remember hearing the machine gun. I experienced something I later learned is called “auditory exclusion,” where your mind focuses so intensely on something that it selectively excludes information deemed less important. Little did I know that this experience and others like it would go on to affect the way I perceive and process all information.
The entire preceding event took place in only 10 to 15 seconds. I recount it here to illustrate the types of situations, experiences, and decisions faced by veterans of our current conflicts. I could go on about taking R.P.G. fire in the city of Falluja with Second Battalion/Sixth Marines, finding an Iraqi man who had been tied to a pole and shot through the neck by insurgents for joining the Iraqi Army, or the time my Humvee was struck by an I.E.D. while supporting Second Recon Battalion in Zaydan. In short, veterans often face extreme circumstances, many involving life and death. This has changed my outlook on life in two ways that seem to be at odds. In one respect it has driven me to connect more deeply with others and in another respect it has distanced me from them.
First, no matter how trite it may seem, exposure to near-death scenarios has given me a greater appreciation for life. Before I experienced Iraq and reflected on those experiences, I felt somewhat immortal. Bulletproof. I had been stronger and more resilient than any challenge life had yet thrown at me, and my life had not been without challenges. After two artillery shells detonated six feet from my Humvee I thought, “I’m lucky to be alive … because I almost died … Wait, I can die?” The other experiences I mentioned further reinforced my awareness of my mortality, as did reading the daily significant events that reported those wounded and killed in action.
Before my deployment I was disposed to always be active. Whether it was with work, hobbies, reading, social activities, or other things, I did not like to be idle. Now I am sometimes content to sit idle with only my thoughts. Watching the ocean, sitting in my front yard with my dog, driving at night: moments when I can contentedly reflect on life alone. Adding a few friends and a pleasant discussion to this activity is now probably my favorite pastime. I now place a much greater value on experiences, while before I almost exclusively valued achievement. And I don’t necessarily mean grand, individual achievements, but also group achievements through things like playing poker or gaming with friends.
Now, I certainly enjoyed experiences before Iraq. Going to the movies to see the latest Will Ferrell film was just as gratifying then as it is now. However, my perspective on activity has changed, and now I am content to relax and just let things happen rather than relentlessly steer every activity towards an ultimate goal. I still steer towards goals, and be sure that I am still relentless, but I now have a far more balanced desire for simple experiences. This has given me a much deeper appreciation for my experiences and those who share them with me, because I know they are just as mortal as I am.
The second change runs slightly counter to the first, causing disconnect with others: After experiencing real chaotic violence and seeing how ugly humanity can be it’s difficult to get excited about some things the rest of the world views as important. For example, about a year after I returned from Iraq a new video game was released and heavily criticized in the media for brief scenes of semi-nudity, I remember feeling frustrated that some of my friends were deployed at that time and probably facing worse circumstances than I had, yet America was in a tizzy over whether its children should be exposed to alien buttocks. At the end of the day, after you’ve seen school children walk in a single-file line past the dead body of a man executed at gunpoint, it’s difficult to care about the social degradation caused by bare buttocks in a video game.
I can apply this to many social issues and common complaints, and I know that isn’t always healthy. If someone hasn’t been slapped in the face with mortality then it’s perfectly reasonable that he would apply high priority to problems of lesser consequence. To be fair, when I catch myself worrying about issues of little consequence I often remind myself that nobody will die because of it, so I should probably chill out. I have no delusions that I am perfect or that I apply my own rules perfectly, but I do seek to hold myself to the same standard.
My point is somewhat embodied in a radio transmission I made to our headquarters when they requested some routine information during the R.P.G. fire incident. “Let me get back to you. I’ve got more pressing issues right now.” After experiencing scenarios with the gravest consequences, I find myself filtering most other issues through that sieve. And while that may make me seem a little high-strung, I am also much more open to experiencing life in small tranquil sips. This theme has followed many of my post-deployment changes. Some are neither clearly good nor clearly bad, just different.
Home Fires
This was my thought in the microseconds before I recognized the dirt sprinkler as machine gun fire raking the ground a few feet in front of my Humvee. I had just exited the Humvee to check out an abandoned house with a platoon from First Recon Battalion, whom we were attached to for this mission in Zaydan, Iraq, a farming community and insurgent extravaganza southeast of Falluja. I took two strides of a run and dove behind a tree into the prone. One of my Marines did the same, finding shelter behind the rear of our Humvee. Rain had muddied the ground near the tree, and in the next microseconds as my knees and thighs slid into the mud I mockingly thought, “Great! First I get shot at and now I’ve got mud all over me. This just keeps getting worse.” Apparently I even make time for sarcasm while under fire.
I flipped the selector switch on my M-4 rifle from SAFE past FIRE to BURST. I had never been allowed to use BURST mode during training. This seemed like an appropriate time to start. I peered through my EOTECH optical sight, looking for the source of the fire. I heard a Marine from First Recon open fire with his M-249 SAWmachine gun from the roof of the house, applying 800 rounds per minute of crunchy 5.56-millimeter goodness to some unknown target. From my vantage point I could only see some houses about 300 meters distant, but no muzzle flashes or indications of the gunfire. I considered putting suppressive fire on the rooftops of the buildings, which was the most likely location of our assailants. However, I could not positively identify my target, and our rules of engagement required that before I opened fire.
One of my Marines asked if he and the remaining Marine inside our armored Humvee should exit and help return fire. I replied, “No! For God’s sake, stay in the truck. I can’t see anything out here.” Until we identified the target their presence would be of little value, but would unnecessarily expose them, especially the driver, who was closest to gunfire.
I moved to the hood of the Humvee and used it as a rest for my rifle. I was slightly more exposed, but the better vantage point was worth it. I still couldn’t find a target. I desperately wanted to neutralize our aggressor, or at least suppress his efforts at attack, but I was clueless. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire ceased.
Strangely, I still can’t remember hearing the machine gun. I experienced something I later learned is called “auditory exclusion,” where your mind focuses so intensely on something that it selectively excludes information deemed less important. Little did I know that this experience and others like it would go on to affect the way I perceive and process all information.
The entire preceding event took place in only 10 to 15 seconds. I recount it here to illustrate the types of situations, experiences, and decisions faced by veterans of our current conflicts. I could go on about taking R.P.G. fire in the city of Falluja with Second Battalion/Sixth Marines, finding an Iraqi man who had been tied to a pole and shot through the neck by insurgents for joining the Iraqi Army, or the time my Humvee was struck by an I.E.D. while supporting Second Recon Battalion in Zaydan. In short, veterans often face extreme circumstances, many involving life and death. This has changed my outlook on life in two ways that seem to be at odds. In one respect it has driven me to connect more deeply with others and in another respect it has distanced me from them.
First, no matter how trite it may seem, exposure to near-death scenarios has given me a greater appreciation for life. Before I experienced Iraq and reflected on those experiences, I felt somewhat immortal. Bulletproof. I had been stronger and more resilient than any challenge life had yet thrown at me, and my life had not been without challenges. After two artillery shells detonated six feet from my Humvee I thought, “I’m lucky to be alive … because I almost died … Wait, I can die?” The other experiences I mentioned further reinforced my awareness of my mortality, as did reading the daily significant events that reported those wounded and killed in action.
Before my deployment I was disposed to always be active. Whether it was with work, hobbies, reading, social activities, or other things, I did not like to be idle. Now I am sometimes content to sit idle with only my thoughts. Watching the ocean, sitting in my front yard with my dog, driving at night: moments when I can contentedly reflect on life alone. Adding a few friends and a pleasant discussion to this activity is now probably my favorite pastime. I now place a much greater value on experiences, while before I almost exclusively valued achievement. And I don’t necessarily mean grand, individual achievements, but also group achievements through things like playing poker or gaming with friends.
Now, I certainly enjoyed experiences before Iraq. Going to the movies to see the latest Will Ferrell film was just as gratifying then as it is now. However, my perspective on activity has changed, and now I am content to relax and just let things happen rather than relentlessly steer every activity towards an ultimate goal. I still steer towards goals, and be sure that I am still relentless, but I now have a far more balanced desire for simple experiences. This has given me a much deeper appreciation for my experiences and those who share them with me, because I know they are just as mortal as I am.
The second change runs slightly counter to the first, causing disconnect with others: After experiencing real chaotic violence and seeing how ugly humanity can be it’s difficult to get excited about some things the rest of the world views as important. For example, about a year after I returned from Iraq a new video game was released and heavily criticized in the media for brief scenes of semi-nudity, I remember feeling frustrated that some of my friends were deployed at that time and probably facing worse circumstances than I had, yet America was in a tizzy over whether its children should be exposed to alien buttocks. At the end of the day, after you’ve seen school children walk in a single-file line past the dead body of a man executed at gunpoint, it’s difficult to care about the social degradation caused by bare buttocks in a video game.
I can apply this to many social issues and common complaints, and I know that isn’t always healthy. If someone hasn’t been slapped in the face with mortality then it’s perfectly reasonable that he would apply high priority to problems of lesser consequence. To be fair, when I catch myself worrying about issues of little consequence I often remind myself that nobody will die because of it, so I should probably chill out. I have no delusions that I am perfect or that I apply my own rules perfectly, but I do seek to hold myself to the same standard.
My point is somewhat embodied in a radio transmission I made to our headquarters when they requested some routine information during the R.P.G. fire incident. “Let me get back to you. I’ve got more pressing issues right now.” After experiencing scenarios with the gravest consequences, I find myself filtering most other issues through that sieve. And while that may make me seem a little high-strung, I am also much more open to experiencing life in small tranquil sips. This theme has followed many of my post-deployment changes. Some are neither clearly good nor clearly bad, just different.
Home Fires
posted by madtom at 9:41 PM
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