Fearlessness is a very dangerous thing
The night in the plywood hooch was dark and, for the most part, quiet. Occasionally, mortars came in and we would try to gauge their distance from us. When they landed very close, you wondered if, perhaps, someone had been killed or hurt. Maj. Johns had moved to a cot away from the wall, after reasoning that it might be better for him were a mortar to land just outside the walls of the hooch. Two of the four air conditioners, which were built into cut holes in the walls, worked and, while they could only dull the heat of the day, at night they were sufficient to keep the space cool. When the lights were on I would lay in the cot and stare at the ceiling. One of the privates I had known since last September commented that I stared at the ceiling for over an hour one night.
Sgt. Standish was a medic with one of the infantry companies who lived and operated out of one of the worst areas in the battalion AO, another great man who had seen too much. A rocket had been fired through the window of a house that is now used as a patrol base there. One man was killed and Sgt. Standish had suffered minor injuries. So while he was being pulled back for his injuries, the medics at the aid station recommended he see us as well. He was the sort of guy that took guard shifts from other guys so they could sleep, forgoing his own needs.
He told me of his platoon leader and how he was fearless. "Ranger tab, you know?" He told me that he often found himself hiding behind a palm tree when the lieutenant walked up to look at a suspected IED. Sometimes the lieutenant would pull the thin copper wire up out of the dirt with his hand. EOD had shown the lieutenant pictures of his own footprints taken by their robot as it fixed explosives on the IEDs for controlled detonations. They had repeatedly warned him that he was taking too many chances and had, more than once, stepped within inches of pressure plates. I told Sgt. Standish that fearlessness was a very dangerous thing where he lived and that his lieutenant would unfortunately probably pay a high price for it eventually, and that when it happened, it wouldn't be Sgt. Standish's fault.
In the course of our conversation, Sgt. Standish opened up about everything he had seen and he systematically recalled every death or serious casualty he had seen or treated. I told Sgt. Standish how much I admired troops like him and that he needed to take care of himself too. I told him to protect himself from fearlessness, to make sure he made it home.
When we were done speaking I walked over to the chow hall for a drink. It was about 10 p.m. When I walked back a figure was standing in the shadows between two of the tents.
"Sir?" the voice said quietly as I passed.
"Yes?" I answered and stopped, looking back in the dark, still not seeing a face.
"Thanks a lot for talking to me. It helped a lot."
"Oh, you're welcome Standish. Take care of yourself, okay? Don't forget what I said. You need to go home, marry that fiancé of yours."
"I won't forget, sir," he answered quietly. "I won't forget."
When I got back to the tent the other soldiers told me the news. Sgt. Standish's lieutenant had been blown up in an IED blast and was still alive, at this point, but was injured severely enough to ensure he would not be back whether he survived or not. For him, the war was over, either way.
It gave me an eerie feeling to think that he was blown up within minutes of our discussing it. But I did not feel that my prediction of it somehow willed it. I wondered if Sgt. Standish had found out about the lieutenant before he thanked me from the shadows in between the tents. I wondered if I would have known, had I seen his face. Sgt. Standish spent the night in our hooch on one of the empty cots and we didn't speak of the lieutenant. No one did. We turned out the lights.
Comments
I knew an amazingly strong man, a Catholic priest, who spent three years at a very busy hospital. He spent all his time at the ER and just outside the surgical suites. He shepherded among the casualties, and tried to console families. Before that, he'd spent about 14 months at a maximum security prison. I met him at an alumni dinner - we'd gone to the same high school - and he told me that the hospital position was a breeze compared to the prison work.
How are you doing? Every time I read one of your columns I don't think of my time in combat; I remember that priest and his eyes.
Take care of yourself, please.
Posted by: Lurch | May 25, 2007 11:30 AM
Thank you, Lurch.
Posted by: Jeff Leonard | June 1, 2007 10:22 AM