Bombs away

Camp Striker, Bahgdad. Somewhere beyond the perimeter defenses, surrounded by the low hum of generators and fog swirling round my feet, someone is trying to kill me.

The first mortar round hit while I was watching Spy Game, starring Robert Redford and Brad Pitt, approximately two-thirds of the way through it. The Lebanese militia was prepping a Chevy Suburban full of explosives in order to assassinate a well known terrorist. The original plan had gone awry, and Brad Pitt was looking helplessly on as the Chevy raced toward the terrorist’s hideout. I was leaning on the edge of my chair, watching the action unfold when a dull thud echoed through the room and the ground shook. I cocked my head to the right a bit, processing the noise, when SSgt Stevens grabbed his rifle and got out of his chair.

“Dammit! We need to get back to the hooch and get accountability.” SSgt Stevens had been in Baghdad only months before, and I took his word as gospel. I collected my things as the Chevy Suburban roared into the hotel lobby, detonated the explosives, and leveled a city block. Brad Pitt was knocked off his feet.

We were in the front row of the Moral, Welfare, and Recreation television room watching the movie, surrounded by over a dozen Army personnel. In the time it took SSgt Stevens to mutter those twelve words, most had cleared the area like rats from a sinking ship. Only two Army Majors remained, those we knew from Camp Virginia who had been going through the same Advisory Support Team processing. They watched us closely.

“Do you think that’s really necessary, Sergeant?” one piped up. He was fishing for an answer he liked.

“It was standard operating procedure my last tour,” SSgt Stevens answered. “But we haven’t really established anything like that yet.”

I threw in my two cents. “Well shit! Let’s finish watching the movie!” Major #1 raised an eyebrow at me as SSgt Stevens chewed on the idea.

“I guess we could. It’s didn’t sound very close.”

“Awesome!” I was thrilled because the movie was getting good. “You want me to rewind it where the truck explodes so you can see it all?” I was a kid showing my dad the new model airplane just built.

“No. I bet the thing explodes and kills the terrorist, right?”

“Well, yeah, but it looks cooler from the beginning of the sequence.” I felt dejected. The Majors glanced around nervously and regained their seats as the other soldiers continued their exodus.

Another mortar resonated throughout the camp.

“That’s two!” SSgt Stevens seemed to be having a good time. “We used to get them in threes. There should be another one coming soon enough.” Seconds later the sound of helicopters filled the air, but the mortars fell no longer. The insurgents had been hitting quick and fast, staying just ahead of the quick reaction force that predictably followed every attack. They were learning fast.

My reaction to my first mortar attack, if it could really be classified as such, did not surprise me. I’ve imagined moments like that so many times, in so many ways, there is little I expect will unnerve me. Even as I sat there in the relative silence after the second round struck earth, I envisioned a direct hit to the building I was in. I pictured the wall on my left imploding inward in a hail of splintered wood, steel support beams, and maybe assorted body parts. I rationalized my resulting actions if I still had mobility. I analyzed my personal vulnerabilities to shrapnel. I had no helmet or fragmentation vest. Only my M16 assault rifle, M9 service pistol, and one magazine with ammunition for each. If insurgents came blazing through that hole, I’d have enough ammo to put forty-five rounds of assorted caliber in as many a number of bodies with extreme prejudice.

But what of its likeliness? Truthfully almost none, but the fact of the matter is I’ve got a plan if such an event would take place and I had the physical capability to take action. Complacency kills. It’s a proven fact. When I man walks into a 7-11 for a pack of smokes and fails to notice an argument escalating at the counter, he could wind up shot dead. But he could simply end up standing in line behind an unhappy customer having difficulty understanding the clerk’s broken English.

Paranoia isn’t a byproduct of situational awareness or anticipating cause and effect. How many potentially dangerous, or even deadly, situations have I avoided because of my second guessing? I can’t tell. That’s the good thing. The fact I’ve possibly escaped one or even one hundred is irrelevant. But asking yourself the what-ifs of everyday life keeps you sharp. And when a snake bites you on the ass the next time you’re crapping in the woods, you can rest assured you’ve considered all logical courses of action as you crawl for help with your pants around your ankles.

The tricky part is envisioning which one of your buddies gets to suck the poison out.

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