Furious Angel

In late winter 2007, I was a in charge of several human intelligence elements, which were comprised of 3–5 person teams who sallied forth to collect rumors. The practice provides a relatively good idea of the local vibe, motivations, and perhaps even a heads up to potential upcoming threats. One of my buddies who was in charge of ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance) was on mid-tour leave, so I shifted my schedule to cover down her shift, which was the night shift. As I was the highest ranking person during that shift, I became the TOC (tactical operations center) commander. This was my first deployment, and I was a shiny new 2LT. Basically - I was Jon Snow and I knew nothing.

To paint a picture, and maybe to garner empathy for the spectacular fucked up situation I was facing, our operations area was a section of Baghdad otherwise known as the Triangle of Death. 2008 was the year of the surge BECAUSE of the sheer number of deaths our unit suffered in the later months of 2007……

One particular night, there was a supply convoy getting sent up to one of our units for resupply, as they hadn’t had ANYTHING sent up for weeks. This was an area we had neglected for almost a month because of aggressive resistance. Their orders had been to dig in and stand by. At the time those orders were given, resupply was expected in 3–4 days… not nearly a month later. Why was the supply so late in going? The idea had been to let the insurgent groups bury whatever IEDs (improvised explosive devices) they wanted and later clear them all out in one fell swoop rather than fight the insurgents as those IEDs were getting placed - followed by the necessity of clearing the ground afterwards, anyways. It was well intentioned idea. It didn’t work.

The insurgent groups had never left, but no one knew that because our unit was dug in. What can you report when you're distracted by keeping your head down low? Our people hadn’t been hit in days and nothing was coming up on the rumor vine, so everyone thought it was clear. We were cautiously optimistic.

Our resupply convoy was allowed in - and an avalanche of terrorists closed in behind them. There were dozens and dozens of deeply buried bombs to the front, and hundreds of fighters to their rear. This was a convoy of resupply conducted by a support unit with just a few gun trucks for cover. There was absolutely no competition and our people were slaughtered.

I heard it on the radio from the TOC. Gun fire, explosions, panicked people screaming for help.

There was this one Soldier, A SPC. He was a 22 year old happy go lucky bone head who liked to crack inappropriate jokes that always made you want to laugh louder the harder you tried to keep a straight face. I never met him personally, but I knew his company commander. This kid was always a topic of discussion.. Apparently he was a pain in the ass and half the time his leadership wanted to send him to the sand pits and the other half they wanted to give him an award for brightening an otherwise shitty day.

He had been so excited to do this job and he took it very seriously. He felt it was his personal life’s mission to protect the convoy, as one of only 3 gun trucks. He likely would have carried those supplies by hand - all of it - if he had been able.

His truck rolled over a 400 pound deep buried bomb which lifted it into the air. It landed, an upside down fireball, in a ravine about 30 yards away from the initial explosion. The ravine had about 3 feet of water which meant half the truck was on fire and the other half was under water. He had been in the turret. Instead of being thrown clear, he had somehow managed to wedge himself inside the tube where it protected him from the blast. The problem now was he couldn’t get out because the truck was upside down and the turret exit hole was blocked. He managed to reach the radio, which is where I could hear him screaming for help. He was stuck. The straps that had kept him from getting ejected were now preventing him from reaching the only two doors which could open and allow him to get out.

Soldiers were issued seatbelt cutters at that time (I don’t know if those are still issued or not..) I told him to use his to cut the straps. I then had to brow beat him into putting his head underwater to look and see what was trapping his feet. It was one of his dead buddies, horribly mutilated. In the initial blast, the dead Soldier had started to melt, but the water had put out the fire before things became unrecognizable.

At this point, the SPC caught on fire himself. There was nothing I could do but listen to him screaming. I tried everything. Finally, some sort of enraged fury made me snap. I started yelling at him like I was a possessed demon. I would have surged through that radio and torn myself a hole inside his brain to get him to MOVE if I could have. I don’t remember a single word I said. I was later told that I sounded like pure evil, callously ordering him like he was an imbecile hardly worth my time, step by step what to do to cut himself free. This included hacking off a charred part of his own arm. This included pushing his dead friend out of the way. This also included pulling himself out of the gun truck through a door weighted down by 3 feet of water. On a good day, it takes a LOT of strength to open one of those doors, as they are up-armored.

Whatever I said, he got out of that fucking truck with only one arm, upside down, half submerged in water, and half on fire.

We were able to recover the other 2 gun trucks from the convoy in the next 6 hours, but the other vehicles were quite large and needed more support. The sun was coming up and I knew that the 2 surviving trucks would have to go back out to help the remaining recovery and finish the resupply to our abandoned unit, which was now under fire from the same guys who had ambushed the first convoy. I personally went through those two gun trucks, washing out blood and removing body parts so that the next Soldiers wouldn’t have to see what just happened to their friends. I can't say I'm overtly proud of that kindness - but I absolutely will say I'd do it again a thousand times without question for the same exact reason.

I didn’t see the SPC as he was medivacked. I had no idea what happened to him until a year later in a complete, cosmic coincidence the universe gifted to me. Maybe karma does exist.

I left that unit - along with every other officer in the intel section. That was 22 officers… Gone. I guess we just couldn’t look at each other anymore. Instead, I went to a unit in a far away state. There, I received space operations training which included travel to both coasts over a 2 week period. During a lunch break on a post in Vandenberg, CA, there was a scrawny kid with a hook for a hand and a haunted look on his face who started following me while I was gathering lasagna and salad at the food court. He was like a lost puppy and I literally kept bumping into and tripping over him as I was collecting my tray. It went so far as him taking the seat right next to me while my classmates looked at me with amused confusion, silently asking me, “who’s this kid and why’s he following you?”

Something in me wouldn’t let me turn on him and ask him what the fuck.. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. I knew this base was one of the Wounded Warrior rehabilitation sites, and I assumed he was a part of the program. Maybe it was the awkward way he tried to cut his hot dog with one hand and a hook that he clearly hadn’t yet had time to adjust to that clued me in. It didn't matter and I didn’t say a word. I reached over and cut his hot dog into bite sized pieces. It was then he leaned over and smelled my hair. I froze. That was… a bit much. I looked at him. He looked at me.

“I recognized your voice when I heard you talking,” he almost whispered just so only I could hear it. I had no idea what he was talking about so I frowned at him. In answer, he held up his hook. The movement caught my eye, but it didn’t register any meaning. Not at first. But, anyone in the Army knows the eye-dart game. Everyone’s eyes flick to a person’s chest to see their rank, but everyone pretends not to see it because it’s sort of awkward (especially for females who now can’t yell at people for staring at their boobs - I mean.. it must have been a dude’s idea to put rank in the middle of someone’s rack…) It’s a habit, that eye-flick thing. All of us do it without conscious will. So, when he moved his hook-hand in front of his chest, my eyes quickly darted to his rank. I also saw HIS NAME.

And we both fell apart right there at that table. We had never seen each other. I was headquarters and he was a line unit. We didn’t know each other outside of that one terrible night when he was dying and I was screaming at him like a crazed monster to not fucking quit and to live.

We hugged and we cried and we didn’t speak for a good 15 minutes. I did ask him if he wanted to exchange information, in case he ever wanted to talk. He told me no.

At first I was a bit hurt, but then he said something I’ll never forget.

He told me that he was still fighting to live and that he needed me to be the guardian angel in his head, screaming at him to man the fuck up and do what he had to do to survive.

I hadn’t remembered saying that to him. It seemed harsh and cold… but I guess not all angels have halos and glow. Some angels have fury and bleed rage. That’s what he needed, so that’s what I’d be. The voice in his head, telling him step by step what to do to keep going. Though it killed me to let go of him that day, it's the kindest thing I've ever done. I let him keep me as an apparition - a not-quite-real figment of his imagination. I silently gave him permission that day to transform me into whatever he needed to keep surviving, and promised I wouldn't interfere no matter how desperately I would want to over the years. I made a deal with the devil that if he stayed ok - and could maybe even be happy - I'd be content to wonder about him for the rest of my life but never know.

I hugged him one last time, knowing I’d never see him again but also knowing he was going to survive and get strong again. No one said a damn word. Not while we were hugging it out at the table. Not afterwards. Not ever. They gave me my space and didn’t intrude. I think had I wanted to say something, they’d have listened. I told that story to my mom, years later. Maybe to explain why sometimes I get a distant look on my face and why the sounds of (even playful) screaming makes me outrageously uncomfortable.

I got up from that table to go to class with my classmates because I had to.. but I left a piece of me at that table with him. I will always wonder, but somehow I know. He’s probably cracking stupid jokes, using that damn hook as a prop to make people laugh. Only now, maybe he’s doing it with a sad look in his eyes and the sound of an angry voice in his head telling him that he has to live.