My brother Jehad is a photojournalist who has spent time in Iraq since the
war started in 2003. His phone calls and emails from the field are often
harrowing and sometimes deeply saddening. A story he told me recently stands
out for its simplicity and lack of a single bullet fired:
In the winter of 2005 Jehad was embedded with Marines 3rd battalion in the
north of Iraq. This was the push away from the Syrian border cleverly named
"Operation Steel Curtain."
Jehad came to greatly respect the Marines he was with. A decent bunch of
guys for the most part, some of whom he is still in touch with. I was
surprised to hear that many of those who did express political beliefs
weren't in favor of Mr. Bush. This was a job to them and the Sturm und Drang
of Washington was of little concern.
I've read Evan Wright's excellent Generation Kill and remembered the
stories of the Marines in the book who were judged by their peers as
incompetent. I asked Jehad how the Marines he knew to the dealt with such
n'er do wells. "They were ostracized," he said. "They were just kept at
arm's length. No one really dealt with them any more than they had to."
Jehad was reminded of one Marine who, while certainly not a bad soldier,
didn't march to the beat of the same drum as his comrades in arms.
His name was Sam*. A small guy; very unassuming. He wore thick glasses and
when Jehad met him he bore a fresh scar under his chin from an RPG attack.
He pulled his weight and was always in line. A good, solid Marine. But my
brother never heard him speak. He kept to himself and just didn't talk.
Ever. The other Marines would talk to him and he would react accordingly but
not verbally. This went on for two months.
Jehad once watched a Marine set a charge of C4 explosive against a steel
door. The squad had gone through their usual rotation of trying to kick down
the obstacle to no avail. The C4 was brought in, fuse set and everyone
retreated quickly. The explosive failed to detonate though and the squad was
now staring at the mound uncertain of what to do next.
Sam stepped out from the rest of the squad huddled about 40 feet away. He
calmly approached the C4, pulled it off the door and removed the detonator.
If it had exploded in his hands the best he could've hoped for was the loss
of both arms. But in an instant the fuse was tossed away and the threat
neutralized. I'll leave it up to you to decide whether this was an act of
supreme bravery or utter stupidity.
So Sam was a Marine with balls of steel. Albeit one who didn't speak.
A month later Sam's platoon was down by the Euphrates checking boats
unloading food and vegetables. The small town across the river was some kind
of local market and all day boats were driven back and forth. It had been
reported that these same boats ferried weapons to the insurgents ensconced
within Husaybah at night. Today the Marines were putting on a show of force.
Jehad was standing next to Sam keeping an eye on the scene. He chatted to
The Silent One out of habit more than anything else. He paused to light a
cigarette.
"I hate this river."
Sam had spoken.
He spoke without irony, levity or sarcasm. There is something in Sam's
spiteful haiku that reflects the weariness, dread and the "get me the fuck
out of here" toll that war takes on all that participate in, and are the
recipients of, its waging.
Then he walked away. Jehad never heard him speak again.
*I've changed his name.