What Does it All Mean in the End?

President Obama announced that all American troops
will be withdrawn from Iraq by the end of the year. After close to nine years
in the Fertile Crescent, America’s armies are coming home. Contractors and
“military advisors” will remain, but our military adventures in Iraq will
officially come to a close. What does it all mean?

Everyone likes body counts, so simple and neat. I’ll paraphrase Stalin; a single death
is a tragedy, a million a statistic. Almost 4,500 of my brothers and sisters
have died in Mesopotamia, over 100,000 Iraqis, most of them civilians. And
money, money matters. The total cost of the war has been tagged at around $700
billion dollars. Millions of Iraqis have been displaced from their homes,
thousands of American families have lost a son or daughter or father or wife,
thousands and thousands of veterans are “fucked-up” in the head . . . but these
numbers tell us nothing. What does it all mean?

I’m not qualified to speak for the nation, for the world, or for history; I can
only speak for myself. I flew out of the Middle East on Valentine’s Day 2009. I
haven’t been back since, but I took a part of it with me. Not a single day goes
by I don’t think about the people, experiences, and lessons I learned in that
ancient country. Did I have to go over there? Did I have to enlist myself in
the Army at nineteen and spend two years in a hostile combat zone? Absolutely
not, I made a choice.

I made a choice, a leap into the Army and into war-torn Iraq. I was young and
optimistic and strong. Our country made a choice, and by extension all of us.
America leaped into the war, proud and optimistic and strong. In the Army I
experienced triumph and struggle and regret. In Iraq our country experienced
triumph and struggle and regret. I have blood on my hands; my country has blood
on its hands. We’ve all made choices.

And we continue to make choices, each and every one of us. I can choose to feel
sorry for myself, demand things as a veteran, and keep my mouth shut like most
of you want me to, but I don’t. I know that my experiences in the Army and Iraq
have me a stronger, better, wiser person; I have no apologies. America can
leave Iraq and feel sorry for itself. We can bitch and moan about “China” and
the “Economy” and sink helplessly into mediocrity; but it’s not inevitable,
that too is a choice. So why not make better choices, harder choices, choices
worthy of a country I fought for called “America.” No apologies.

I’m proud to have participated in America’s last imperialist war. Barring some
future surge of national strength or militaristic right-wing government, future
conflicts will be humanitarian in nature, us coming to the aid of an ally,
precision retaliatory strikes, or defense against foreign armies. We won’t have
the luxury of choice. War will be demanded of us, war will overtake us. In a
time of strength, which many now argue has past, the best defense was a good
offense. We’ll never know how many people may have suffered and died in our own
country were it not for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. If we stood by and
did nothing, how many more planes would have flown into our towers? What if
they just kept coming? How many of our own children would have died in their
homes not knowing life? Soldiers are strong and we know the game. We choose to
fight the enemies of America on their soil, on our terms, and if there isn’t
something to be admired in this I don’t know what is. We bleed and suffer and
live with the consequences of our actions for the rest of our lives so that the
rest of you can plead innocence and go on with “normal” life. We can’t hate you
for it, as long as you recognize what we’ve done.

The Iraq War is over, but don’t let it be forgotten. There’s a war still going on,
it’s in a country called Afghanistan, and it’s more important than anyone
realizes. Don’t forget about the soldiers who gave their lives, their limbs,
and their sanity to the cause. Don’t forget the dead Iraqis, good people who
only wanted to live their lives in peace with their families. Don’t forget how
strong of a people we are, how much we have to offer this world. Forget and you
admit defeat, forget and it was all for nothing.

Don’t forget us.

Bush Life

Sevilla, Spain 2010

“Bumba! You souljah?”

“Yeah, I was a soldier.”

“When I yout’ I went to military
school.”

“Really John? You were in the…”

“I was in the Navy. Ees fun, but ees
crazy. Ya know?

John was in the Jamaican Navy
and speaks in reggae verse. I’m not sure when he is speaking and when he is
singing. He’s smoking a porro, a hashish and tobacco spliff. The sun is
setting in Sevilla and the air is getting cold.

“I always be getting in trouble with
the ganja. Late, never on time. The Bossman, he always be saying, ‘Hey Rudeboy…
why you come late?’” John hands me the porro.

“Ees hard to be Rastafari ‘n the
Navy. Ees not easy wear helmet over dread.” John laughs as he palms his dreads.
“The helmet, you know, they always be falling off I head when I run. Hey
Souljah, you shivering. You want jacket?”

“No thanks, I’m not cold.”

“I see Souljah…Always I irie, always
I in trouble. They say, ‘Hey rude boy! Why you so irie eye?’ In Navy, you need
be there when Bossman say. But Rasta no say, ‘Need be here’,
Rasta no care.”

“Working for the Man.”

“Always I in trouble… sometimes we
guard ship.” John gestures at a passing ship on the Guadalquivir river. “Why we
guard ship? Why this ship! Isn’t no one on ship. Why you tell me to guard ship?
You guard ship!”

“No one likes guard.”

“So we sleep, the Bossman, he sleep.
When Bossman no sleep he catch us, ‘Hey boy… do ten pushup.’”

“That’s his way.”

“Why I do ten pushup? You sleeping,
I sleeping. I no slave, youse big man, youse in charge. I know. Youse lion,
O.K. Why make me do pushup? It no prove nothing”

I can only nod.

“Ees crazy. Ees fun, but ees crazy”

An icy wind comes off the river.
Time for me to go.

“I miss it. ” John takes a final
drag of the porro, “I miss the bush life. Ees simple, ees hard, but ees
fun. It make a Rasta feel like a real lion. You know?” John flicks the roach
into the river.

A real lion, I miss that feeling.

“I love bush life. If no discover
Rastafari, no discover Jah I may still be Navy. But Jah no about taking life.
Jah no like Bossman tell what do. Rastafari ees simple, ees love. Rastafari, it
save me… you cold Souljah, why you no put jacket on?”

“I’m not cold.”

“Ees fun, but ees crazy. The bush
life. I miss it.”

Everyday.

“Lion be home in the bush.”

Always.

Sober Sleepless Nights

It seems like forever since I’ve had a good night’s
sleep. I stay up at all hours of the night alone and read book after book after
book. My tears well up and I am crying as I read about war. I miss being a
warrior. I read books about Vietnam and think, “I didn’t have it so bad.” And
deep down I wish I did. It all seems so far away and yet it’s all I can think
about.

I can’t be around people. There’s nothing in common.
They don’t like me, it’s plain to see, why are they even pretending. I see
pretty girls and see openings to talk to them. I don’t. It’s not that I’m
scared, I just don’t care. I know nothing will happen. I don’t want to invest
the time. I’d rather be alone.

Alone and I miss people. But there are no people. I
talked to Hunter today, he sounds happy again and I’m glad. He had another baby
girl. We laughed as he talked about ‘Hell House’. He wants to go back to Iraq
one day. Tourist visit, we’ll sleep in the IRAM holes. I do too.

Crushing solititude. I didn’t leave the apartment
all day today. Besides the phone call with Hunter I didn’t utter a single word.
I thought about how easy this was.

I sent Facebook messages to one hundred and
fifty people I grew up with. I went to school with these people. Along the way
I picked up and lost friends, not too many with bad feelings. Mostly we drifted
away and life moved on. Schoolboy crushes, smoking partners, acquaintences, legends,

nerds, jocks, people I sat next to in elementary school, people who attended my
parties in high school. I sent out one hundred and fifty messages. I asked how
they were, I asked them to check out the book. One hundred and fifty, maybe
twenty responded.

They said, congratulations. They said they’d check
it out. They said they’d buy it. Why do people say things they’re not going to
do? At least that twenty didn’t ignore me. One hundred and fifty people, not
one new reader. Not one.

I have too much faith in people, somehow this surprised
me. It shouldn’t have. I’ll see many of these people in the next few years.
Home is a small place indeed. The guys will probably shake or slap my hand,
some of the girls may hug me. I should refuse, but I won’t. I’ll smile and nod
my head and say it was great to see you.

Terrible and crushing loneliness. I’ve given up
smoking and embraced reality again. It’s hard to deal with the existential
pain, but I know it’s good for me. I go to school and get inspired and speak
out and stutter and then I am ashamed. Even when I don’t stutter the others
make me shamed at enthusiasm, at passion, and knowledge. I’m a good student this
semester. Nothing but time.

I remember not being able to sleep at Warhorse, at
KBS, in Baghdad. This was a reflective sleeplessness, an exuberance, an energy.
I embraced the loneliness then, only rarely was it painful. I had too many
brothers around. Too many, now there are none.

Holding here in Hawaii. I’m sick of being a haole
and seeing the hate in people’s eyes. I’ve done nothing to offend them. They hate
because I’m big and strong and confident and bright. So much hating because of
this. Hatred because I’m awake. Hatred because I cannot sleep.

And itching. Residual itching from the bed bugs from
New Orleans. The worst part is, I don’t know if they’ll be waiting for me back
home. Maybe they’re here. So much to do and yet nothing to do.

Five years as a warrior. Two years in the desert
wasteland. One year in my writer’s cave. Two months on the road. Now all the
energy is gone. Idealism is dead and I confront failure. You didn’t send me
letters in Iraq. You didn’t buy a drink when I made it home. I bought the
drinks. I sent out the letters. I read alone. I read about war and about
warriors and I am crying.

Sober sleepness nights. And I dream of war.

Back in Paradise

 “Back there I could fly a gunship, I could drive a tank, I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can’t even hold a job parking cars.” – John Rambo, First Blood

I’m realizing that perhaps the hardest part about being a veteran is remembering all the amazing, monumental, and terrible things that happened in the past. All the struggle, pain, and remarkable overcoming; all in my past. The veteran has done extraordinary things, but his doubt is whether he can ever do it again. If the best is behind us why go forward?

How can I do great things in this mundane new life? Where is the real struggle in sitting in class for three or four hours a day or working in front of a computer or holding a nine to five? How do I make friendships based on substance abuse and debauchery? How can anyone respect me when they’ve never seen the best of me?  

So the veteran withdraws into himself. He is suspicious, aloof, and always alone. Maybe he’s proud of his accomplishments; wears a piece of camo or mentions his service offhand in a college class. It doesn’t last long. The apathy, the disinterest, the total lack of empathy, the accusations, feigned acknowledgment; it beats him down until he’s almost ashamed of his service.

Theory, it’s all theory in this “normal life”. No one does anything, no one knows anything, they just talk about how “it should work” and everyone has the answer. College professors dismiss the veteran and think that their studies in books mean something, that they know something about the real world. They talk about good philosophy, religion, and culture; but the veteran has seen these “good” theories lead to mangled bodies, orphaned children, and disabled soldiers. I have nothing in common with my fellow college students who see a college education as punishment rather than an exceptional privilege.

And now I’m back in paradise, back to the islands of Hawaii after touring the country and living rough and seeing all my former brothers in arms. I should be happy, but am I? It’s my own damn fault, no one’s but my own. I should be putting myself out there, making friends, womanizing, but I can’t do it. Everyone is soaked in substance abuse and I can’t do that any longer. The isolation is my PTSD, I cannot rejoin the herd.

“It was a bad time for everyone, Rambo. It’s all in the past now.”

“For you! For me civilian life is nothing! In the field we had a code of honor, you watch my back, I watch yours. Back here there’s nothing!”

I know there’s something out there, I can be real again. The problem is finding it.

Thoughts from the Road – Minnesota

Fourth of July—Independence Day—a uniquely American holiday, and Veteran Van is heading west towards Minnesota. Wrapping up visits with two old LTs, now Commanders—great leaders, patriots, and mentors—who remind us of why our Armed Forces, and especially the infantry, are such bastions of courage, intelligence, and strength.

Independence: It’s a word many Americans have forgotten, and some may never know.

The infantry are independent. We hold down entire cities and provinces in hostile territories half-way around the world. We live in abject squalor and yet maintain the professionalism and will to survive and accomplish impossible missions under impossible circumstances.

Independence is strapping on a heavy rucksack and walking out with your brothers in arms to distant outposts. Independence is leaving the comforts of hometown life at an early age to confront the harsh realities of the real world. Independence is casting off the shackles of colonial masters back in the day, in good old 1776, and teaching the world, for the first time, what a free society can become. Independence is heading out in a van, loaded down with books, and seeing what kind of adventures one can stir up.

Two days before arriving in Detroit, we try to schedule a police ride-along.

“Hello. Is this ___________ Police Precinct?”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“I’m an author and Iraqi War Vet looking to do a police ride-along with your department.”

“Oh. . . just show up at any precinct a few hours before you want to go out. They’ll accommodate you.”

“Thank you, that’s too easy. . .”

Except it isn’t. We get shuffled from one station to another before being politely told that we should really only go out on Friday or Saturday (it’s Sunday); otherwise, nothing will happen.

But that’s okay, because our old LT is now a recruiting Commander and veritable Duke of Detroit, who gives us an infantry-style patrol of the once great American city. It’s better this way.

We drive along 7 Mile Road, through back streets, commercial roads, and rows of houses. An endless urban sprawl of decrepit, abandoned America stretches out before us; miles and miles and miles. Traffic lights at four way intersections aren’t working, burnt out and collapsed houses are everywhere, the only businesses are Coney Island hotdog shacks, cell phone providers, and liquor stores. Cut off the sewage, let the black water run loose through the streets, and this is isn’t America: this is Iraq.

What happened to the American Dream in Detroit? How can a child who only knows 7 Mile Road hear those words and not laugh in unknowing bewilderment? What’s happening to all of America?

Everywhere we go there’s this defeatist attitude. People cannot seem to talk enough about how America has lost its way, how the politicians have led us astray, and that we’re doomed to reenter some kind of dark age. There’s recession, China’s on the rise, perpetual threats of terrorism and endless war, and even 2012 doomsday prophecies. When did this country of optimists get so jaded?

Perhaps if we recaptured the spirit of the Fourth of July, maybe if we re-learned independence, we as a people and a country could break through this losing streak. Independence requires discipline, non-entanglement in the affairs of others, and the courage, intelligence, and will to stand alone. There are no easy answers, no simple solutions; only challenges and how we meet them. We need to remember that we’re not entitled to anything, that greatness, like respect, is not given, but only earned. It’s going to be a lot of work, but that’s what Americans do best.

Thoughts from the Road – New Jersey Campsite

Nearing the halfway mark of the tour, about to spend a week in the Big City—New York—the mission is in full swing.

And it’s definitely a mission. This is not a get-rich-quick scheme; in fact, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted and it weighs heavy on my soul.

It’s heavy when you sit in front of your display for hours, in front of the US flag I fought under, in front of a banner urging people to hear veterans stories, and not even a single person stops to give you the time of day. It’s hard to sell a book, a story I’ve pored years of sweat and tears into, and get little response from people on the street, in the bookstores, and even my own friends and supporters.

“Hey sir, do you know anyone who served in the military?”

“Yeah! And they’re all dead!”

“Ma’am. Do you like to read?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Want to check out this book I wrote? It’s about the War in Iraq?”

“Oh. . . I think I know enough about what’s going on over there.”

A group of cute women my age.

“Excuse me ladies? Do you support your soldiers?”

Nothing. Not even a response.

One of the greatest parts about this tour is talking to vets: Iraq, Afghanistan, Gulf War I, Vietnam, Korea, and even a few World War II. They stop and shake my hand, we share stories, but most of all we share knowing looks. They might be too broke to buy a book, but they check it out, and tell me I’m doing good things.

Older hobos and vagrants frequently stop and talk, more often than not, they’re Vietnam vets. They may be panhandling from other people, but they’re not looking for handouts from me.

“You a veteran?”

“Yes sir. And you?”

“Vietnam.”

“Thank you for your service sir.”

“No. . . thank you, son.” A handshake, some human acknowledgment, that’s all they want from me, and I’m more than happy to give it. We owe them, but America hung them out to dry. We demanded that the soldiers, marines, airmen, and sailors of that generation go over to a jungle halfway around the world and kill for the sake of “American ideals.” They came back, many fucked in the head for what they had to do to survive, what they thought they were doing for all their loved ones and communities and nation. America called them “baby-killers” and now watch in disgust as many of them age away, take to the streets, and survive in a new jungle: an indifferent homeland.

One thing that’s been continuously reinforced throughout this entire trip is that the younger generation as a whole, my generation, does not care about the wars going on or the veterans who fought in them. If you don’t have some kind of human connection to the fight—a brother, a mother, a nephew, or cousin—then you don’t know and you don’t care. I’ve about ceased trying to sell books to people between the ages of 18 and 30—the young crowd, the hip crowd, the college crowd. These are the future leaders of America, who don’t know shit about what it really means to go to war, and you know what’s going to happen when they in turn become businessmen and lawyers and politicians and educators? They’re just going to send off the next generation to the slaughter, to kill more people halfway around the world who just want to survive and feed their own families.

But I can’t just disparage the youth, because that’s too easy. An Army buddy of mine, a brother-in-arms, who showed me a great time in his hometown and always treats me like family, is in the doghouse with his wife and in-laws because of Zarqawi’s Ice Cream.

“You did that? I can’t believe you!”

“I can’t believe I let him sleep in my house!”

“He makes the Army look bad, like you guys were a bunch of savages.”

We were a bunch of savages. You send off a bunch of teenagers to kill people halfway across the world and expect us to act like missionaries? We were just tools, so you didn’t have to get your hands bloody, so you could sleep at night and tell yourself that you’re a good person.

All the time I hear it. “I didn’t support the war.” I guess the insinuation is that you don’t have to hear about it or deal with the consequences, or even give a moment of your time to the veterans who volunteered to fight and bleed and risk insanity and give years away to a cause they can’t define or benefit from.

But you did support the war. In 2003 your Congress, your Senate, and your President decided to invade Iraq…and by overwhelming majorities. And it’s still going on. People are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, soldiers and civilians. Death is death is death.

If you want sanitized stories, if you want to keep living in a false reality and pretend like you know what’s going on, then don’t buy my book, don’t listen to the vets of Korea and Vietnam and Iraq and Afghanistan who did inhumane things to fellow human beings so that fat Americans can keep eating cheeseburgers and driving luxury cars. Know the consequences of going to war, what putting a machine gun in the hands of a teenager is going to do him and the society he lives in.

Don’t judge us, because you don’t know.

Listen to our stories.

“Zarqawi’s Ice Cream”: One Vet’s Tales on His Time in Iraq

From Associated Content…

‘Zarqawi’s Ice Cream’: One Vet’s Tales on His Time in Iraq

Andrew Goldsmith Relives the Iraq War

By Amy and Nancy Harrington, Pop Culture Passionistas, Yahoo! Contributor Network

May 6, 2011

In 2004, 19-year-old Andrew Goldsmith was bored. So he did what any red-blooded American boy would do. He joined the Army. He served two tours in Iraq — the first in 2006 and the second in 2008. He climbed the ranks from private to sergeant and then left the military in 2009. He’s now written a book about his experiences. “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” is a personal account about the effects of modern day war and his changed perception of the world.

In a recent interview, Goldsmith revealed that he thought joining the army would be “a little bit more action, more combat, a little more danger, more romance.” But that is not what he experienced. He divulged, “There was that element of danger and bravery and explosions, but like anything in life it tends to be 90% drudgery for all the excitement and danger that you face — a lot of hard work, a lot of bureaucracy, a lot of menial labor. That’s kind of the source of a lot of my stories is that aspect of the un-military life, that aspect of the Iraq life. And I don’t think it’s covered in too many other places, but it’s a very important part of it.”

Goldsmith said the title, “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream,” came from one of the signature stories in the book, which took place during his first tour of duty in 2006. He explained, “It’s basically the mission that we all thought would be super cool, super cool infantry mission, but it ended up being a worse mission than some of the worst ones we’ve ever been on. I guess it’s a story of irony, twist of fate.”

Goldsmith described his time in Iraq, saying, “The impact made me less of an idealist, more of a realist. I saw that things in the real world are never black and white. It’s always shade of grey. No one’s ever wholly evil. No one’s ever wholly good. We all have our personal battles. And I’m just really glad I was able to get the perspective on the world and on the way it actually is by going to another country, a war torn country like Iraq and it’s really helped me understand my own country and my own people a little bit better as well.”

The veteran came back home with a new point of view, but was challenged by how to fit in to this now mundane, every day life. He started college in Hawaii and began to attempt reintegration. His biggest difficulty was finding commonalities with civilians, admitting, “Sometimes I have this alienation, this feeling that we don’t really have any shared experiences, any common history. So that’s been a big problem.” He added, “I don’t have any major PTSD events. Loud explosions don’t really spook me too much. They do sometimes but I deserve it, it means I’ve been staying up too late or something. But that’s about the extent of it. I think it’s mostly just social relationships, finding friends again. Trust is an issue a lot.”

Trying to find his way, Goldsmith spent a semester abroad in Europe — a period that would open the floodgates for the first-time author. He recalled, “That’s were the creative tendencies of this book really happened. That’s when I was reliving a lot of this stuff. The stories just kept coming into my head and that’s when I first stared writing it down and the idea for a book gradually formed.”

He noted, “This whole writing project was not something I really wanted to do… it’s always been something that I have to do. Something has been compelling me to write this. Whether that’s for catharsis, peace of mind. Whether it’s just that when we tell our stories, it lets us live with who we are, what we’ve done.”

And so “Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” was born. Goldsmith admits there is content that non-military readers may not relate to, but he also pointed out, “It’s for anybody. It’s for my mother, my father. But there’s some hidden stuff that Iraqi veterans, Afghanistan veterans, are really going to like. They’re really going to understand more than anybody.”

He has shown the book to some of his war buddies from Iraq and remarked, “They’ve all loved it. Positive responses.” He got a lot of support from his fellow vets during the process of writing the book.

“When this project was in its early stages, my ego wasn’t too built up yet, and I wasn’t really confident in my work. Whenever [the editors] would redo it and [my friends would] respond positively to it, that would give me a little more impetus to keep going, check it out.”

After he finishes his current semester at school, Goldsmith will embark on a two-month cross-country tour to promote the book. He’ll be traveling with Bob Harrington, an army buddy who has started a charity called AspiringWarrior.org to raise money for higher education scholarships for vets. The duo will stop at military bases, bookstores and country fairs. Goldsmith stated, “It’s going to be a mixture of selling books out of the trunk of the car and professional PR work.”

After the tour, the author will return to school but hopes to pen another work. He reflected, “This process of writing has been awesome. It’s been real natural. So I definitely see some more in the future.”

For now he hopes people walk away from reading this book with a new understanding of the military. He commented, “First off, they’re going to like the story. It’s a great story. Secondly, they get to follow the hero in a modern era. This is how our generation goes to war. So anybody who wants to experience that is going to enjoy this book. This book is going to enlighten a lot of people as to how war is these days. What it does to people, the consequences of it. Who the enemy is… It’s good stories. Everyone’s going to laugh. There are some parts where you’re going to want to cry.”

“Zarqawi’s Ice Cream” goes on sale in May 2011.

The Story Behind the Name

“Tomorrow morning at dawn, we’re going after Zarqawi.”

Zarqawi! Everyone is abuzz. The most wanted man in Iraq, the very face of evil—no way. This is something big.

_________________________________________________________________

Much like life itself, many of my missions in Iraq didn’t turn out quite the way I’d expected or planned. Sent to capture Zarqawi, we missed him by mere hours…but we got his ice cream.

The following is an excerpt from Zarqawi’s Ice Cream, demonstrating how a book of Iraq war stories came to be called something so seemingly random…and how even the most dire of situations have a silver lining.

__________________________________________________________________

Two dozen men, women, and children remain in the house. We bring the prisoners outside, in front of the house, and watch them. Presumably, they’re friends, family, or associates of Zarqawi’s, but they look like typically wretched Iraqis to me. The men are bound and forced to squat. We sit the women and children on the ground, apart from the men. The infantry are tired and hungry. The adrenaline ebbs, and our stomachs growl ravenously. There is nothing to do. We take turns watching prisoners and wandering through the house. Although it looks as if it’s been hit by a missile, I can tell this was once a magnificent Iraqi estate. The spacious house is three stories tall, filled with art, and tastefully decorated. These people may or may not know Zarqawi, but they know somebody.

The bathroom is still a hole in the floor. They’re usually dirt, but this mansion has a porcelain-lined hole. I escort a little Iraqi boy to use his family’s hole in the floor. In a cracked mirror, I stare deep into my bloodshot eyes and find no answers. We bring the women blankets to lie on while scream at their men for struggling against their restraints. The women stare at us with cold, undying hatred, and I don’t blame them. Rangers destroyed their home, we shot at their men, and now I have to escort them to the bathroom. This is bullshit. Where’s Zarqawi?

“Sergeant D, do you know if the Rangers got Zarqawi?”

“No. They didn’t.” I don’t know how he knows these things, but Sergeant D is always right. “He was here, but we waited too long. Zarqawi left a few hours before we got here.

“How much longer are we going to be here?”

“Get comfortable.”

The hours limp by, and the troops are disgruntled. We’re bored, sleep deprived, and above all, hungry. Durk comes downstairs drinking a soda.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Found it in the mini-fridge in the parents’ room. I left a thank-you note.”

“Was there any food in there?”

“Don’t think so—just sodas and ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” Several infantrymen leap up.

Sure enough, there’s a box of chocolate ice-cream bars in the freezer, and Durk’s note: “Dear Zarqawi, thank you for the soda. I’ll get you back one day. Your friend, Durk.” We stuff our pockets full of ice cream and go back outside.

All of a sudden, life isn’t so bad. We’ve been standing in the heat for hours watching a bunch of women and children, that bastard Zarqawi is still free, but at least we have his ice cream. A piece of chocolate flakes off my ice-cream bar and lands on my machine gun, I don’t brush it off. Sergeant Todd looks angry.

“Hey! What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“What, Sergeant?”

“You can’t eat in front of the prisoners.”

Durk and I don’t say anything. We look sheepish and flash our best puppy-dog eyes.

“Ah, hell. Just go around the corner, take turns watching ’em . . . and can I have one?”

Sure, Sergeant.

One of the elderly women looks at us with more hate than before. Durk figures it must be her ice cream. The children look at us with sad, hungry eyes until we give them some bars. Soon we’re all munching Zarqawi’s ice cream together.

The sun is high in the sky. We’ve been here since dawn. It’s been a long day already.  Melted chocolate tastes milky sweet to our impoverished taste buds. The vanilla cream in the middle slides down our parched throats and is a balm to our empty stomachs. I suck the last bits of chocolate off the wooden stick as the Iraqi men look at us with despondent eyes. Not only are their legs on fire, but there isn’t enough ice cream for them. Did the Nazis eat ice cream while their prisoners watched? If they didn’t, they should have. Nothing satisfies like ice cream after destroying someone’s home and shooting at their loved ones.

Then it is time to go. There are only two things on my mind as I climb into the Two Truck for the ride home on Vanessa: a decent meal and a couple of hours’ sleep. Fifteen minutes from the FOB, in the middle of dream, an explosion rocks the right side of the Humvee. Shrapnel peppers the side and sends spider webs through my window. No one is hurt, but we’re awake again.

“God damn it, not another IED!” Sergeant D is incredulous.

“That makes number four.” Vanessa scores another hit on the Two Truck.

“Damn you, Zarqawi!” Bob shakes his fist in the air.

“Think he did it?”

“Of course he did,” Bob reasons. “We destroyed his house, shot at his family and friends—hell, we even ate his ice cream. This was his revenge.”

Durk just shakes his head. “But I left him a note.”

* * *

Iraq War Stories: A Catharsis

Welcome.

I began to write Zarqawi’s Ice Cream shortly after leaving the army…not because I wanted to, but because I had to. The process hasn’t been easy. Recalling these tales has ensured that my head remained in that world long after returning to civilian life. Is it possible to ever fully reintegrate into civilian life after two tours in Iraq? Maybe not. Nonetheless, purging these war stories from my mind and onto paper has been a much-needed catharsis to putting the past behind me. Those who have served will understand; those who haven’t might not.

The following is a passage from Chapter One: Call to Adventure. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Goldsmith, tell me a story about Iraq.”

“What kind of story do you want to hear?”

“I dunno, a good story.”

“You want a funny story? A sad story? A war story with a lot of action?”

“Any story—your best one.”

My best story—that’s asking a lot. Should I talk about the IRAM attack or Ranger School? Should I depict the nobility of Moneyshot or relive the guilt of blowing that poor lady’s finger off? If I had to tell one story, one epic tale to sum up years of debasement and triumph, of groveling servitude and absolute power, of stagnation and explosive growth, what would it be?

“How about ‘Zarqawi’s Ice Cream’?” I say. “So late one night we—”

“Wait! Zarqawi? Wasn’t he a terrorist or something?”

“Oh, yeah! The evilest guy in Iraq, and that’s saying something. So then the ramp drops and—”

“Did I ever tell you my friend’s sister’s fiancé is going to Afghanistan next week? He’s in the Air Force.”

Nobody likes a war story. It won’t get you laid, convince the cop to give you a warning, or get you a free pint at the bar. The veteran gets excited telling his epic tale. He expects acknowledgment, understanding, love, or something deeper. All he gets is a vacant stare, an abrupt and nervous change of subject, or no response at all. Sometimes his listeners are horrified. This guy’s a monster! He can read it on their faces. Acts of heroism, cowardice, and senseless butchery are seared into a soldier for eternity. Entire lives can revolve endlessly around a single commendable or odious event. Truly lost soldiers are forever in search of the great war story.

“. . . And then Scooter says, ‘How’s it smell, bitch?’”

“Yeah? And then what?”

“That’s it. That’s the end of the story.”

“I don’t get it—why would he do that?”

“The bullets, the explosions . . . they messed with his head.”

“Oh.”

“See, we were all under a lot of stress, and . . . guess you had to be there.”

These tales provide a glimpse into the life of an infantryman, into an existence that is extraordinary yet mediocre—a world most people will never live in or understand. Warning: it is a masculine world devoid of feminine sentiment and solace. It is also a bigoted world, charged with the irrational hatreds of combat. The infantry life is schizophrenic: withering heat and biting cold, sloth and inhuman exertion, exultation and shame. The infantryman loves and hates his life with equal passion, and he is never far from death. There is unique pride in the struggle that forms the core of the infantry experience, boundless love in the brotherhoods cemented in the wilderness.

“Who do you think is the best unit?”

“I don’t know: Rangers, Eighty-second Airborne, maybe Tenth Mountain.”

“You know who I think is the best unit?”
“Who’s that?”

“The men I went to war with.”

The men in these war stories didn’t capture the world’s most wanted terrorist, get in any major battles, or wade waist deep through the enemy dead. They were never seriously wounded, didn’t storm any machine gun nests or win any flashy medals. By anyone’s standards, we were mediocre infantrymen. So what did we do? We managed to survive some of the harshest conditions on earth, suffered bouts of insanity, and weathered the assaults of our enemies. We did what our country asked of us, stayed faithful to each other, and came home again. And through it all, we never lost our humanity.

Were heroic deeds done? Absolutely. Are there heroes in this story? Certainly not. We are your sons and your soldiers. These are our stories.