War Heroes Need No Mirrors

I’m hiding in the living room of Banjo Bill’s place in Trout Lake Washington just to the south of Mt. Adams.  Both Nathanael and my mom are outside socializing, probably agreeing with my decision to stay out of site.  I blew it up.  Any hope I may have had about having a smooth comfortable social interaction is gone.  I swallowed the Koolaid of, “These people have something in common with me—life and the social structures which they were formerly tied to have betrayed them, and they feel on the outside, no longer wanting to come, or even look in.”  Well this may have been true about the church they were in and the church I was in, there was still something they were deeply connected to: Serving this great country.

                My bad.  And it was bad.  I suppose it might have been Nathanael’s barley wine, and a bit of Bill’s 12 year old scotch.  Add to that a fine blend of tobacco smoked out of a clay pipe, and the general gestalt of the conversations we had been having, full of wistful yet cynical witicism.  Bill was talking about Native American’s and their spirituality.  I knew he had been formerly a Protestant Christian, but I didn’t know that a life time ago when he had set traveling, hitch hiking through the country, he had been on a spiritual quest and was looking for a place within the Native American tribes, specifically the Crow.  His quest for knowledge reminded me of my own.

                His wife had asked about my life in the monastery, and they had heard and seemed to sympathize with my sentiments.  The abbot of St. Anthony’s had told me I had been deluded by the Devil when I had had a beautiful experience that I still consider to have been of a divine nature.  Now I really didn’t have much of a chance of holding my tongue… I should have just listened to the other stories—Bill definitely had an earful—but encouraged, I added some of my own.  If our conversation was a soup, at this point the words of ingredients would have blended nicely.

                I forget how we had come upon the subject, but I brought up the name Bradley Manning, and tested the waters.  Bill smiled and told me that it was a good story and encouraged me to tell it.  So I explained how the underling in the military, Bradley Manning, had wondered about what he was doing, arresting seemingly innocent people, but following the instructions of his commanding officer, he turned them over to the Iraqi police.   It didn’t feel right, so he did some research and found that the people he had been arresting had done nothing more than protest the war in writing, and after being turned over to the Iraqi police, they were being tortured.  When he told his commanding officer what was happening, his commanding officer told him to follow his instructions—it wasn’t his place to second guess.  This was the military, and much like the monastery I was in, obedience was the most important rule—the prime directive.  Bradley became angry and released the trove of documents of top secret cables over to wikileaks and is now being held, without charge in a very bad situation in a US holding facility in Quantico. 

                “Well someone has to be the fall guy,” Bill said.  I was a bit relieved that he had basically agreed, or at least I thought he did, with me.  But did he?  Perhaps Bill had meant that someone had to go down for the heinous crime, whereas I had meant that it was a shame Bradley wasn’t honored for exposing a war crime… for a trove of unthinkable US decisions that had never before been released to the public. As the night progressed it became clear that we were not on the same page.  I wished I would have heard the red white and blue colors flapping in the night breeze.

                At this point, I should have thought about his daughter who is in the military, I should have considered Bill’s PTSD… I should have taken a hard look around and noticed the warning glance and caution in mom’s eyes.  But I didn’t. 

                I continued in the same vein.  Bill had made a comment about the US government having made some very bad decisions for the military, and this brought to mind a story I had heard from a man who I considered to have been forced to murder.  I told a story I had heard about the guy that had sold me my car.  He had kicked some ass in the Middle East and had no respect for any rag-head sand nigger.  They were all chicken shit and not brave enough to face the brave American soldiers who were both morally and technologically superior.  When he and his crew were attacked at their post, they were more than ready.  They went underground and had their guns controlled remotely with cameras.  After the insurgence retreated, they had a quiet unmanned drone follow them, videoing their route, then it marked their hideout with a GPS marker.  They walked through the town following the GPS and kicked open the door and slaughtered them all.  I told this story as if it was ordinary duty—something that gave the US troops the edge.  It was my next story that crossed a line.

                “He was going through a town with his men when they were ambushed on the other side of town, caught off guard and outnumbered.  Forced to retreat back through the town, they killed anyone—any head that popped up was blown away.  He told me it didn’t matter if they were man woman or child, they were told to treat anyone as a hostile.”  I shook my head, “Now that’s just adding fuel to the fire.   These people might have been curious, but now their entire family will hate the US presence.”

                “I don’t want to talk about politics anymore,” my mom said.  It was her tone that made me realize I made a serious blunder.  But it was too late.  I didn’t realize how much I had offended the host, tweaking a sensitive nerve.  This, apparently, wasn’t the place to state opinions openly.  My comment was meant to reveal an unfortunate position where innocent people might have been killed—had to have been killed.  I realized the US troops didn’t have time to assess the situation; I understood that they had to kill, but my point was that it was unfortunate and would only escalate the war and anti-US sentiments if innocent people were killed… how could it not?

                “No, I’m sorry, but anyone in that area would know that it was a war zone, and anyone that wasn’t an enemy wouldn’t be there,” Karen said.  She was Bill’s wife, and before this statement, I thought her to be a rational person.  But in truthe, I really didn’t know these people.  My mom did, and I could see her look of uh-oh.  I was too shocked to reply. 

                Two seconds later Bill came out of the house, he had been inside for a moment bringing in his prized scotch served to us a half hour earlier. 

                “So what do you do when a man is holding his wife and child in front of himself and has just killed two of your buddies, and he has a gun?  What do you do?”  I was still too stunned to speak about this hypothetical situation which I suspected happened often.  But I also suspected that some people in the houses along the soldiers rout weren’t enemies.  Perhaps I was wrong—Karen surely thought I was grievously mistaken.  They were without a doubt all enemies. 

                This was a story I had heard from a man who neither Bill nor Karen knew.  Though Bill may have been familiar with similar scenarios, I thought it odd that he immediately envisioned the worst case scenario.  If I would have agreed to shoot the man holding his wife and child as a human shield, this was a different scenario from what I had laid out.  Perhaps it included “man, woman, and child” all in one little group, and perhaps this was along the route of retreat, but I found it odd that they had inserted some definite detail into a scenario that neither they nor I had seen.   The way the story had been told to me did not include such details.  The soldier only told me that their instructions were to shoot every person they saw.  Ninety-nine or even one hundred percent could have been insurgence, but the opposite could have been also been true.

                Now I haven’t been to war, but I’ve seen public outcries podcasted across the internet.  I know innocent people die, and although I do not know it for a fact to be true, I suspect that a family would be against the American troops if their child or relative had been murdered without an apology.  But in war shit happens.  Bill hat quoted Forrest Gump earlier, but the result of shit happening wasn’t discussed.  I felt trapped.  Apparently shooting everyone in sight wasn’t shit.  It wasn’t even wrong, and certainly it could only help the US.  I couldn’t help but think of Bill’s quote earlier in the evening:

                “Koolaid comes in all colors and flavors.”  He was referring to the different institutions where people were convinced to swallow poisonous doctrines that were detrimental to their own well being.  There were a variety of ideologies where logic and rationality were thrown out the door for the emotional driven faith.  Faith in the rapture and second coming of Christ is a common kool aid flavor that we were all familiar, but Bill still had faith in the horrific militaristic system of violence to achieve American goals.  He was on antidepressant medication and struggled to maintain his sanity, yet to undermine or suggest that killing every man, woman and child in a retreat through a town could add fuel to the fire of the insurgency was beyond Bill’s tolerance

                I was kicking myself internally, and I wasn’t about to defend my position.  I had stated my opinion without knowing how much it rubbed Bill and Karen the wrong way.  Maybe it was the scotch, or my comfortable feeling of being among friends.  Bill had given me a clay pipe that I had smoked out of after enjoying the scotch and some of Nathanael’s  Barley wine, but I was stone cold sober and gripping the pipe in my palm.  The sand churning in my stomach indicated that the former peace and camaraderie had been killed like a curious Iraqi in a window looking out at the wrong time, unfortunate enough to be living in the wrong place. 

                “In the military, I had to carry a card and swear to abide by the law stated on the card,” Bill explained.  He wasn’t yelling, but was obviously upset.  “We were forbidden to shoot anyone that did not have a gun, and then even if they shot at us, we were told to shoot not at them, but near them.”  I shook my head at the ridiculous rule Bill was describing, hoping to rebuild lost rapport with the soldier—perhaps out of understanding, but more because his Charisma was larger than life and I was nothing but a shy, slow witted coward.

                 “We had to carry this card at all times,” Bill added and paused for emphasis.  “My buddy had his legs blown off, and a dog found the man with his clothes still reeking of the explosive material in the bomb, but he got away because it wasn’t proven.”  Bills eyes were glistening with strong emotion.

                I could see where he was going with his point of view, but I didn’t like it.  The government was interfering with the war in a way that was endangering the soldiers.  Shoot first and ask questions later, right Bill?  If shots are fired, anyone who isn’t on the ground is the enemy—even the seemingly innocent can have bombs strapped under their clothes.  I get that.  I do. 

                It was obvious my point of view was mistaken for an ignorant humanitarian that doesn’t know shit about the war… but as I look back, perhaps I can see that I am nothing but a person outside looking in through distorted glimpses of the anti-war enthusiasts.  I suppose I am guilty.  I don’t think the soldiers could do anything but kill any and everyone as they fled.  I understand that they were under attack.  It was truly an “us or them” type of situation.  So what would I have them do?  And this is where I really should have thought before I spoke.  Why would I ever bring up anything about a war which I am against in a household where two children are in the military and the host is retired after serving 30 years?  It was stupid.  I suppose my point was that patrolling through a town without foreknowledge of an ambush was a stupid idea.  Couldn’t a plane fly over head and scout out the area before foot soldiers go on a walk-about?  Perhaps not—perhaps our 10 billion dollar monthly allotment to this war isn’t enough—but this really wasn’t my point. 

                Why are we there, and what is our goal?  Are we really going to try and kill every Taliban or terrorist organization and member?  Is this a war we can win? 

                Bill calls it “serving our country” and the very words make me shiver.  He believes in America with all his front yard flag flapping.  He has PTSD from the horrific slaughter, and perhaps the idea that slaughters of this kind may be having the opposite effect than he would hope for is too much a blasphemy. 

                Whether it’s about oil or the twin towers, does joining the army to fight the terrorists across the ocean serve God and country?  Is it one or the other or both?  Maybe… I don’t know.

                Bill apologized for raising his voice, but Nathanael supported him by saying, “Well you were provoked.”  I cringed at the disrespectful comment—it was true, but wasn’t it also true that his retaliation provoked me?  But that wasn’t of his concern.  I was out of line.  We don’t wear arm badges or have official ranks, but I’m nothing but a tag-along punk who was out of line.  And if I wasn’t, no one indicated otherwise other than Bill who apologized.  Perhaps he was less offended by my comment then Nathanael.  Perhaps Nathanael was trying to save face and disassociate himself from me who he had brought along. 

                There was a moment of silence, then Nathanael said something very vague, but philosophically acceptable.  “It’s just such a shame that people kill each other trying to solve their problems.  Killing never solves anything.”  It was almost something a pastor or priest would say, and everyone nodded in solemnity. 

                But then he said something that seemed to contradict what he had just spoken.  “Looking back, even knowing that we lost in Viet Nam, I would have still of done the exact same thing.”  He was talking about joining the Navy.  Bill lifted his hand up as if to hi-five him across the 15 foot span that separated them.  Nathanael lifted his hand up.  It was a bonding of military men—brothers who were proud to have served. 

                I respected the bond, and I suppose Nathanael could have said this to uplift Bill’s spirits.  It certainly seemed to have worked.  Bill has always respected Nathanael for being an O1 officer—captain of a Naval ship during Viet Nam.  Back when mom had introduced Nathanael, Bill had grilled him about his past.  When he found out his military standing, he saluted him and all was well—Nathanael was accepted.  In a way, the connection between Bill and Nathanael was a deepening of the love between mom and Nathanael. 

                I was now on the outside and made up my mind to listen more than talk… listen like the belittled insignificant ignoramus who had committed a serious social crime. 

                Although the topic of discussion had changed, I tried to remain passive, silent and unobtrusive.  It seemed like the conversations lasted much longer as if time was stretched out.  By the time I finally got onto the futon Karen had prepared for me, I couldn’t sleep.  I thought about what had happened over and over in my mind.

                The words of Nathanael echoed in my mind more than those of Bill.  Knowing what I know now—knowing that we would lose, I would still have done what I did.  Wait a minute.  I realized that I truly didn’t understand Nathanael—I didn’t understand the man my mother had been in a relationship for the past 13 years.  My mom had told me that Nathanael stayed in college as long as he could to avoid being drafted by the military.  She told me that he joined the Navy because it was the least likely to be directly involved with the actual fighting in Viet Nam.  Was this true?  He did work his way up the ranks and end up becoming Captain.  He did join the military reserve for another 20 years. 

                I thought about the rare discussions I have had with Nathanael.  I remembered talking to him about the craziness of the war and what I had learned from the podcast Democracy Now.  He seemed to agree.  He seemed to agree with me and oppose the atrocities of war.  Was he placating me?  Was he placating Bill? 

                I have often suspected that Nathanael has no respect for me—an undercurrent of subtle and not so subtle movements and rare outbursts of annoyance.  He loves my mom, so I suspect he tolerates me.  He is not a loner… this I know.  He is selfless and “Born to be Mild.”  But after serving in a war that he rarely talks about, I wonder… I just wonder.

                Banjo Bill is a man who is up front—a man who people never have to wonder about because he is direct, affable and although he doesn’t seem to see humility as a virtue, he is a good man.  A wounded man, but I can understand him.  I didn’t quite get him when we arrived—I suppose the alcohol and my mental image of him as a man who had been mentally scarred was not accurate.  He had been scarred by what he saw, but he was still for the war that had scarred him.   The fact that his children are following in his footsteps should have been an obvious indication, but I had only small fractions of information to glean from.  I was wrong about him, but I believe I might not be so wrong about Nathanael. 

                The next day I woke up in a bleak mood.  Everyone had woken up before me, and it was 9am when I took out the ear plugs.  Around the stairwell that separated the living room futon that I was on from the kitchen, I heard Bill and Nathanael talking in the kitchen around the coffee table. 

                “I want to thank you for what you said last night,” Bill said to Nathanael.  I rolled my eyes.  Of all the times that I could possibly have decided to take out my ear plugs—why now?  I seriously considered plugging them back in, but I couldn’t un-hear what I had heard.  It was obvious that the discussion of the previous night had not been forgotten.

                Bill made a wonderful breakfast of waffles, and I sat silently at the table trying to smile enough to appear amiable—I didn’t want anyone to know how much the dark stirrings within me were still rising.  It felt dark and I sincerely wished I could let the night go—could let bye-gones be bye-gones.  It appeared everyone else was happy and content and they talked about white water rafting and their adventures on the roiling ice cold glacier run-off river. 

                Toward noon, Bill alleviated my anxiety by offering me the pipe I had smoked out of the night before.  I couldn’t help but feel it in my hands as a peace-offering, and I will always refer to it as the peace pipe.  Bill is a big hearted war mongering lovable goon.  He is a wounded, angry, sure-minded oxymoron and I could hold nothing against him.  But something was bothering me… something quiet and unspoken—something that will never be spoken.  Who and what is the true Nathanael, and what does he truly think of me? 

                I respect the man, and anyone I talk to knows that I respect him more than anyone I know.  I call him the living saint.  Any time I upset him, I truly regret it.  Often times I feel justified, but then I realize that although I may be correct in my opinion, my actions and words were not prudent.  If Nathanael, the literal genius, the selfless saint is upset with me… I fucked up. 

                Perhaps he was scolding me as he spoke to Bill last night—indirectly in his unobtrusive style.  So in the car on the way away from Bill’s, I asked Nathanael what he thought.  I admitted that I shouldn’t have said what I had said, but I explained that I felt as if my opinion was not respected. 

                “You can’t know how those people would react to being shot without having been there,” Nathanael said.  He was upset.  “You’ve been raised in the American culture and don’t know what it’s like.”

                This was true, I didn’t know what it was like over there, but I didn’t understand what Nathanael was saying.  “Do you really think everyone in the town that looked out the window was an enemy of the US?  Are you saying that I shouldn’t assume that because an Iraqi’s mother, brother or family member was shot innocently that they wouldn’t be upset and resent the US?”  I asked, then I stated what I had said the night before.  “All I said was that when the soldiers went through the town and shot everyone that if innocent people were killed, it would enflame the situation, adding fuel to the fire.”

                “You don’t know that,” Nathanael debated more heatedly than I suspected.  “You can’t know that without having been immersed in the culture.”  I was glad to be in the back seat and frowned.  What exactly was he saying?  As I replay the conversation in my head, I can’t help but feel that he was defending Bill’s honor.  He had been in the war, knew the people, and had even been respected by many of the Iraqi people.  While this was true, it didn’t make me a complete ignoramus.

                “It’s not like they don’t broadcast their feelings on the internet, I can’t see these people as aliens.  If their family is killed by the US and is innocent, they have made public outcries online.” I said.  I thought I was being rational—it was true that I hadn’t been in Iraq, but more than wondering about the situation in Iraq, I wanted to learn a bit more about Nathanael.

                “Well you should see them as Aliens because you haven’t been there, and you shouldn’t accept what their government says as evidence of what the people over there are really like.  If they can hold up their children and women in front of them, you can’t know how their culture truly is and what the war over there is really like.”

                At this point it sounded like Nathanael agreed that everyone in the middle east was so twisted beyond belief, that their culture was so different from the US that they were all as Karen had said they were: guilty.  Did Nathanael really think that the war was justified?  It is hard for me to tell, but what I was trying to understand wasn’t coming out.  Did he really think that everyone that was shot should be shot?  Did he think no innocent people were killed?  We can never know—I can never know, but I still assume that it is highly likely that innocent people were killed.  But the second part of my opinion is the part that I wonder about.  I think that if an innocent person is killed, their family will be angry at the US… and thus, the war will be escalated, just as my analogy of fuel on a flame was spoken. 

                Now sure—the soldiers had to kill everyone for their own safety.  I’ll nod to that.  It was unfortunate that anyone was looking out at them as they fled.  They were killed.  Not so much nodding going on anymore (other than me).  Maybe my mom would think the killing was wrong, and perhaps Nathanael would nod if my mom was nodding.  If they had guns or were keeping tabs of the number of retreating men, I could understand their justified killing, but I have to strongly disagree with the assumption of guilty by being there.  Guilty by looking… I can see that as a form of reducing the cognitive dissonance associated with killing, and that is why I regret bringing it up. 

                Why add to the guilt, or even suggest guilt to a man struggling to maintain his sanity.  Bill’s on antidepressants…  I don’t want him to suffer anymore than he already is. 

                But to my knowledge, Nathanael hasn’t actually killed anyone.  Perhaps he has, I don’t know.   I wonder if he has friends that died second guessing the enemy.  I don’t know what he saw over there, and I don’t suspect him of being a racist that believes the Iraqi culture has no vengeful feeling for the killing of an innocent.   But he was defending the honor of the host while shutting me down, this is all I know.