A Hard and Heavy Thing (23 page)

Levi passed the lieutenant's room on the way to his own. The officer sat on an ammo box. He had his head down, his eyes closed, and his hands folded. His closed mouth twitched furiously, praying silently to an unseen God. Levi paused and hovered at the doorway. He wanted to say something, to offer some comfort, but he didn't know how to offer comfort for something that had been all his fault. He dropped his vest and helmet on the ground.

He knocked on the frame to the LT's cubicle. Lieutenant Michaels didn't move. Levi waited. After what felt like forever, the LT took a deep breath and, without opening his eyes, he said, “What can I do for you, Sergeant Hartwig?”

Levi put his feet together, his fists at his side, and he stood at the position of attention. Standing in this manner, which he thought absurd under most conditions, was his personal act of humility, and it was the only way he could think to outwardly signify his submission. “Sir,” he said, his voice quivering.

The lieutenant opened his eyes. “Why are you standing like that? Knock it off. Stand at ease.”

Levi moved to a stiff parade rest. “Sir, I just wanted to,” he paused and looked down. “I want to say I'm sorry. For hitting you.”

Lieutenant Michaels took another deep breath and his mouth turned up in a placid smile. “You hit me?”

“Sir?”

He lifted a hand and gave a little wave. “It's fine. Whatever. That was retarded out there—what you did. Running down there, that is. But it's fine. Whatever. I get it.”

The lieutenant closed his eyes and folded his hands again. He took a deep breath.

Levi hovered in the doorway.

“You're still here.”

“Sir.” Levi's voice broke and he took two deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, to keep himself from crying as he spoke. “You should be able to trust your NCOs. I—” He paused to breathe again. “If I wouldn't have suggested going to Boa—” He stopped short before he broke completely. “I failed you today.”

Lieutenant Michaels had begun shaking his head as soon as Levi apologized and he continued shaking his head until Levi had finished speaking. “No, no, no, no,” he said. “Let's get one thing straight. We were all out there and we're a team. But that was my mission. I'm the platoon leader. Ultimately, I'm in charge.” He stood up. “Don't you dare try to take this yourself. Don't you dare.” He turned his back to Levi and folded his arms. “Now get out.”

Levi retreated into his own room and sat on the collapsible camp chair. He stared at his tan boots. Three broad and distinct droplets of blood stained his left toe. He thought there would have been more. There had been so much blood out there. His knees and arms were now crusting with the dried brown of it all. He could hear others taking apart their weapons, running bore snakes through their barrels, working the carbon off their bolts with Leathermans and steel brushes, but there was none of the usual foul talk, foul boasting, or foul insults common among men returning from a successful battle. Instead of the usual banter, he only heard the clack, clack, clack of thumbs sliding 5.56 millimeter rounds into magazines, replenishing their stores in case they had to roll out into the night, in case they once more needed to go black on ammo, in case they once more needed to unleash hell on another round of invisible enemies. Levi looked at his own weapon. It was covered in its own blanket of caliche dust, now silent and cold. He felt revulsion. He didn't want to clean it. Didn't even want to touch it.

“Archers tench-hut,” he heard Sergeant Miller yell. He looked up at his green camouflaged woobie to make sure no one could see him as he remained seated. He didn't move as he heard the wooden door to the bunker slam shut.

He heard Lieutenant Colonel Bradford's deep baritone voice yell, “As you were, gentlemen.”

The LT called from the common area in the center of the shelter, “Huddle up, gentlemen.”

Levi heard a few assorted mumbles and a bit of shuffling, but none of the frantic hustle that would normally accompany an order in the old man's presence.

He, too, was slow to get up, but he emerged from the cave as ordered. He saw only a few privates had massed in the center near the LT while Staff Sergeant Havens quietly moved from booth to booth, telling people in a low voice that it was time to huddle up because the battalion commander was there. As if they hadn't heard.

Lieutenant Michaels stood at parade rest in front of the commander. Without his body armor or uniform top, without his helmet, patrol cap, or any insignia to display his rank, he looked like any of them. His hair was plastered to his head from wearing his helmet all day. A crust of salt made a line down his temple where his helmet strap had been. His right cheek was black and blue, and it was undeniably bruised, not simply dirty. He wore a tan T-shirt, which was soaked through with sweat. It clung to his frame, a frame that was thin, almost frail looking. It was a frame that had not yet begun to absorb the thick mass of a grown man in his prime. It was the frame of a boy. The young lieutenant's thin shoulders slumped with the weight of all sixty men in the platoon, if you counted medics, terps, and other support personnel. Now, fifty-five.

By Levi's count, forty-seven of them now chose to disobey the orders of the young man charged with their care by not huddling up. To make matters worse, they were doing it in front of his own boss while the ranking NCOs in the platoon gave them all a free pass. Levi stormed out into the common area in disgust and walked up and down the row of sleeping areas. He banged on the plywood walls and ripped the blankets from the parachute cords that held them over the entrances. “The lieutenant told you to huddle up,” he shouted. “Get your asses out here now.” By the time he got to the end of the row, he didn't have to yell anymore; they had all understood his point. Some of the men met Levi with dirty looks that screamed, “Who made you king?” but most trudged out with weary indifference.

Lieutenant Colonel Bradford stood with the company commander and command sergeant major in the middle of the open bay. The tired men formed a horseshoe around their three senior leaders. Bradford was tall and lean with silver hair parted at the side. He was a wealthy insurance executive in his civilian life with enough money to shame the generals he worked for in his National Guard life. Even in the desert uniform, he looked every bit the part. When everyone had stopped moving and whispering, the commander began his speech. “Men,” he said. “I know you've had a rough day, but I don't even have words to express how proud I am of you all. Even after you got hit, you kept pressing. When you got hit again, you didn't give up. You fought a battle for the books. For the history books, gentlemen.”

Levi tried hardening his heart to what the man said. He didn't want to be congratulated or comforted or motivated. In his head, he argued with every word that came out of the old man's mouth.
Normandy was a battle for the books,
he thought. We got hit by a glorified booby trap and then exchanged some shots with no more than half a dozen kids for all of twelve minutes. Levi put his hands behind his back and looked up at the fluorescent bulbs they had rigged overhead.

“We watched your battle as it was happening and we tried––oh, did we ever try––to get you some fixed-wing air support. I'm told that at Balad, they got so far as to get the engines fired up, but even though the bullets and RPGs were flying, they said it was too dusty. The dust storm was too bad.” He paced in the small space in front of the men.

We probably killed them all by the time they dragged the pilots out of bingo night at the USO,
Levi thought.

Colonel Bradford shook his head and laughed in that derisive manner that showed he was reliving the experience he had gone through, independent yet entirely connected to what they had gone through. “The dust storm was too bad?” he shouted. “That didn't stop you now. Did it?” He looked around. Dead eyes stared back at him. “Did it stop you?” he shouted.

“No, sir,” the fifty-five enlisted men shouted back in unison. The lieutenant wiped at his eyes.

At first, Levi had resented the commander's presence, had despised even the idea of someone coming in to pretend he was one of them. He saw that the old man was different from them, no doubt, but he was also a part of their family in ways neither Levi nor anyone else could entirely understand. Like a father feels for his children, whom he can neither control nor shield in every situation, so a commander feels for his men.

“This man,” the commander said as he put a hand on the LT's shoulder. “This man in front of you. You could not ask for a better platoon leader. You could not ask for a better warrior to lead you into battle and bring you back again.”

The lieutenant sucked in his breath, frowned, and nodded his head twice in appreciation.

Bradford continued. “Some things are beyond our control and no amount of tactical skill, no amount of leadership, and no amount of training and professionalism can change the fact that we are in a dangerous business, and when people are in a dangerous business, people get hurt and die. You also have to remember that no amount of intelligence and no amount of cunning can change the fact that we're fighting cowards who don't play by the rules. These bombs,” he said. He pronounced each letter distinctly as he slowly spit out, “These I-E-Ds.” He shook his head. “Nothing you can do about that, gentlemen. Not a thing. But the things you could control, things like your actions after the fact, your willingness to put yourself in harm's way for your brothers, your skill in administering first aid to the wounded, your courage in laying down covering fire so your brothers could maneuver to the enemy, flank them, take the fight to them with superior firepower and guts. Superior guts, men. Yes, the things you could control,” and here he shook his head again. “My God, you controlled them. And you controlled them better and with more violence than I ever could have asked for.”

Levi looked around the room. The lifeless eyes of the platoon members, most of which had been fixed on the floor, were now fixed on the proud and stoic paternal leader in front of them. Some of their heads were nodding in agreement and some, almost in pride.

“Now down to business. Your company commander here is going to brief you on the nuts and bolts of the next few days.”

He took a step back, and their captain continued where he had left off. “Some of you are going to be just fine. I know that. Some of you are going to have a hard time getting over this. Some of you are going to have some complex feelings you need to work through, and that's okay, and that's normal.” He scanned the room and made eye contact with as many men as he could. “But we'll make every resource available to you. Both the chaplain and a representative from mental health will be here from Anaconda in the morning. I want you to know that we are here to support you in any way possible. Wolfpack will do your patrols tomorrow. I want you to take the day to yourselves. Get your gear squared away. Get your minds squared away. Talk it out if you need to. No QRF, no guard duty, no details, no nothing. You have the entire day off.”

He folded his arms and looked around the room, satisfied as the men let out a collective and audible sigh of relief.

“But that's it,” he said. “After that, after you get yourselves right tomorrow, I need you back out there. I need you to once again take this fight to the enemy. Hooah?”

A few men murmured back to him, crushed by the mere thought of leaving the base again.

“The best way to get over a fall is to get back on the horse, right? The best way to honor the guys we lost is to get back out there, do our duty, and crush the head of this snake. Hooah?”

The men dutifully yelled their hooah back to him.

He crescendoed, “The best thing for us to do is clean our weapons, load 'em up, and get out there and unload 'em again. Hooah?”

“Hooah,” the men roared back at him.

The old man nodded in approval, spun on his heel, and walked toward the door.

“Archers tench-hut,” yelled the lieutenant.

“As you were,” came the call. The commander didn't bother to glance back.

As the men milled about after the door slammed shut, the command sergeant major whispered in the lieutenant's ear. The lieutenant turned pale, nodded, and followed him out the door.

Alone in his cubby, Levi placed his M4 on his lap. With one hand, he extended the butt stock. He closed the butt stock. In his other hand, he rolled a small stone between his fingers, the stone that Nick had placed in his hand after he had been hit the first time. He covered it and clenched it in his palm and clasped his hands over his rifle. He dropped his head and closed his eyes. He tried doing what he had refused to do with Nick and his contingent before missions, no matter how many times he had been asked. He remembered the prayers of his youth and he tried to bring a proper petition before his maker.

His fifth grade teacher in parochial school used the mnemonic device ACTS to teach them the structure of prayer. It stood for acknowledgment, confession, thanksgiving, supplication. Levi repeated the word in his head like a mantra, as though the words themselves were a prayer: ACTS, Acts, acts, acks, ax. If you don't know you better ax somebody. I've axed somebody. I've axed five bodies and three of them died. Plus I axed that bad guy.

You're doing it wrong.

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes to try again. It had been a very long time since he had gone to church, prayed, or done anything that was in any way spiritual. ACTS, ACTS, ACTS. Acknowledge. Dear God, I acknowledge that you're God. Can't we just move right into this with the presumption of acknowledgment? It would make sense to cut to the chase considering the following syllogism: When people pray, they pray to God; to pray to God is to acknowledge that God exists; I'm praying; ergo, I've already taken care of the acknowledgment part.