A soldier's story

I write another letter, another happy face sent home. Another lie. Another tear in the fabric of my conscience. But the truth would be worse. The truth would shatter the carefully maintained glassy surface of the lake of family feeling. The truth would start a war, and God knows, I have my hands full with this one. I tell them that everything is all right, not to believe the papers, no I’m not doing anything dangerous. How far that all seems from my lonely vulnerability in a tent on hard packed sand in the middle of the desert. I’m not alone, but I’m lonely. I never thought in my wildest dreams that my life would be like this.

****
“But I want to join the defence force!!” I scream, my face is red, I can’t believe the blatant sexist attitude of my family. I’m a girl, I know that. War is dangerous, I know that. But it’s not as if there is a war on at the moment anyway, what could happen? The world isn’t that sort of place anymore. We won’t let another war take place, no more senseless waste of life, in this day and age we are educated and civilised. Why can’t they see that? I just want to be a soldier, finally break the carefully crafted mould my family have created for me and do something worthwhile with my life. Plus, I would be good at it. I’m that sort of person, this is what I want to be and I won’t let anyone get in my road.
****

I toss the addressed envelope into the mail pile and pick up a newspaper, about a week old. My eyes scan the article about the conflict in Iraq, its always interesting to see what the rest of the world is being told. A phrase jumps out at me,
“8 soldiers were amongst 60 fatalities after another suicide bombing yesterday. Casualty figures for militants are often hard to establish.”
I snort, so ambiguous, such a nice way to say that the pieces of the bomber’s body were scattered so far that it was impossible to tell how many people the body parts belonged to. With blood raining down on the streets and the smell of incinerated flesh making wide eyed passer-bys retch. I wait for the corresponding roll in my own stomach to echo the memory… yet I find that somehow in the last 2 years in Iraq I have become desensitised to death and carnage.

****
We were on down time from training, just bumming around in the mess room. Suddenly, the TV came to life with images of the twin towers burning, screams cutting through the panicked reporter’s garbled speech. In the background you can see people jumping from the windows. I sit with the rest of my unit, transfixed upon the horrifying images. I can’t believe it. I know this will mean war. To my own disgust, within my churning emotions of anger and sadness I can sense excitement. Deep down, I’m glad, I can prove myself, this will happen. But even more degrading… I can feel fear gnawing at the lining of my stomach. I quietly leave and go to the toilets where I throw up. Over and over again, my body convulses, the tiles cold on my knees, blinding white light pounding on my closed eyes. I lie down on the comforting, impersonal coldness of the floor, curled up in the foetal position I wonder if I am ready for this. The answer comes. I am a soldier. I am empty of everything except a quiet purpose. We will avenge this.
****

I hate the papers. I don’t know why I read them. They never get anything right and are only happy if they can accuse someone, usually us, the dumb grunts on the front line. The day I see a reporter spilling his blood to protect his country, I’ll revise my opinion. The day I see a reporter stop whining and accusing long enough to try and bring Australian troops home, then I’ll revise my opinion. But I don’t see that happening any time in the near future. People don’t believe the defence force’s carefully prepared statements. They believe the clean cut, serious young man or woman on their TV screen, not the hard eyed witness to suffering. The Australian mentality doesn’t allow for sympathy with anyone but the underdog. The reporters make the situation sound so easy, so calculated. They don’t understand the absolute chaos over here. They think we’re trigger happy. Bored soldiers firing on unarmed civilians to get a kick. They are so far removed from waking in the middle of the night screaming as they see the faces of the people they have shot and killed bearing down on them. So far from finding themselves diving under a table in the mess hall when they hear someone dropping trays which sound like clattering gunfire.

****
It’s dark; I am one of five soldiers on a routine patrol around the perimeter of this district. The street lights that haven’t been shattered by bombings or street gangs are few and far between. Broken glass crunches underfoot, there was a suicide bombing here recently, hence the patrol. Dark stains on the sidewalk might be oil or scorch marks… then again they might not be. When it’s three in the morning, I’m tired. My senses are on high alert but my body seems to float. I see everything around me with razor sharpness. I imagine in a deep corner of my mind that the souls of the innocents killed by fanatics are sliding up behind me. Ready to blow their cold breath on my neck and steal my warmth, leaving me a cold and stiffening corpse lying on the side of the road.
****

I know I have changed, I have been turned into a cynical, bitter person. I remember with nostalgia how naïve I was when the September 11 attacks happened. I thought this war was about keeping our allied nations safe. Yeah right. It’s about oil, money, power… all those things supposedly out of reach and understanding for the average person, left to our world leaders. Small men with big egos, squabbling over scraps, sacrificing human life for their own pathetic goals. That’s what this war is about, that’s why I have taken lives, lost friends. As an ego boost for a small man.

****
As a car comes up behind me, it’s a relief to have a physical threat rather than be left to the terrors of my imagination. The car comes behind us and suddenly, shockingly, swerves, it’s directly behind us and accelerating fast. We dive in different directions, taking refuge behind whatever piles of rubbish are in the street. Dave peppers the tail of the vehicle with his semi-automatic and it swerves before coming to a stop. Curses and yells split the night. I start to rise but a knife lodges itself in the brickwork beside my ear. One of the occupants of the car is running towards me. Although I am numb, my movements are automatic, my training is kicking in, I am a credit to the armed services, I am a machine. I draw a bead on him and pull the trigger.
****

Since then I’ve been moved out of the city, into the desert. Keep up the search for Osama. In reality it gets me out of the public eye for a while, gives me some downtime to get over the incident. At least the army understands, my family wouldn’t… couldn’t, understand. Killing your own species is unnatural. Everyone knows that. Everyone has some sort of reaction. I function. Everything is normal on the outside, I have mates, I do my duties. I am a good soldier, just like I knew I would be. But at night, alone in my tent, it’s just me and the ghosts, I lie and shiver as screams and gunfire rent the cool night air around me. And I relive that night.

The smell of refuse is in my nostrils, and the scent of petrol dripping from the car burns my throat. Over and over I see the young man, he is barely as old as I am, he is running towards me, he reaches to his pocket. I don’t know what he is carrying, I evaluate the threat, I take action. And in my dreams he is mowed down by the devastating burst of gunfire I direct into his body. His form stays upright in a macabre dance, held there by the force of my fire. His blood spatters the pavement and his face shows only vague surprise. I can see his face in every detail, his eyes are glazed over and lifeless, yet still volleys of bullets slam into his body, it isn’t me, it can’t be me. I scream and am unable to release the trigger. The gunfire rattles in my ears, relentless, hammering, pounding. The sparks from my bullets ignite the petrol dripping from the vehicle and I am consumed by the fires of hell. I burn. Yet I am the only one who hears. I am the only one who knows. But I don’t fear. I’m a soldier.