The Last True War Story I’ll Ever Tell

What one veteran remembers on Memorial Day

Photos courtesy of Ben Sledge

A true war story is never moral… If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. — Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

“Would you do it? I mean, kiss Brad Pitt’s dick on national television for a hundred grand?”

I stare at a small figure a ways off as he bends to dig in the sand. Where the sky meets the horizon is nothing more than an endless sea of bleached earth; an old pumping station is all that haunts the landscape. It’s the only building we’ve seen for miles. The interior appears to have been looted several years ago, and old drapes snag on broken window shards. Someone finds a dusty lawn chair and kicks a hole through it, turning the building into a community “shitter.”

The man on the horizon continues to dig in the sand until something startles him. He stumbles backward, yelling a string of frantic curse words. I assume he unearthed a scorpion or some other insect that can kill you — just like anything can — when you’re living in Iraq. It’s not the worst way to go given the alternatives, an IED or suicide bomber.

The soldier in the distance composes himself, but it’s clear that whatever he’s uncovered has him spooked. Reaching into the hole, he hoists up his prize and chants “TWO MEN ENTER, ONE MAN LEAVES!”

“So would you do it, Sergeant? On national… what the hell is he yelling?”

A few weeks earlier, my team spent an evening powering through all the Mad Max movies, laughing at the absurdity of Tina Turner in a post-apocalyptic Fight Club. Thunderdome is where all the matches take place, and Iraq bears an eerie resemblance to the movies’ desert landscapes.

“It’s from Thunderdome. The Mad Max movie with Tina Turner in it,” I tell the young solider who’s seemingly obsessed with whether I’d kiss Brad Pitt’s dick on TV for six figures. He’s confused by my answer, so I expand. “Before your time. Old movie with Mel Gibson in it.”

He nods, then kicks open his door and rushes out to meet his friend. I hear him mutter, “No fuckin’ way…”

The soldier who’d been digging is holding a human skull.

Homecoming, 2003

“So did you kill anyone?”

The posters bleed patriotism and the cheers are almost obnoxious as I exit airport security. One sign decorated in red, white, and blue reads “Our Hero.” I wonder if this is how all those vets who fought at Normandy felt when they stepped off the boat to cheering crowds in Times Square. A grin breaks across my face as I walk toward friends and family I haven’t seen in almost a year. My dominant hand is still sensitive from the break, so I rotate it a few times, then jam it in my pocket. I’ll hug everyone with the left hand, I figure.

But the grin is replaced by the solemn air of a disciplined soldier when I spot a camera and boom mic. The media decided to crash the party. My mom — or one of her friends—must have invited them.

“Sir! Sir! Can you tell us a little bit about your time in Afghanistan?”

One of the soldiers I’m with pats me on the back. “All yours, hero.”

The camera light blinds me and a microphone hovers inches away from my face. They ask about 9/11, the war effort, combat, and then the kicker:

“Did you take out any terrorists over there?”

The question catches me off guard and I stutter a few moments before asking, “Excuse me?” The reporter changes the subject and asks what I plan to do now that I’m home.

“I have to bury my best friend.” The reporter shifts her eyes to the floor as I begin to walk off. “Then maybe I’ll go to college.”

The Iraqi Desert, 2007

My helmet lies in the sand as I wipe sweat from my forehead. Now that the digging is complete, I loosen the notch on my entrenching tool and twist the shovel head to the side to create an L-shape. I turn it upside down and sit on the makeshift chair, peering into the hole. There’s a few more human skulls and ribcages.

Brad Pitt’s Dick is on the radio. A lieutenant is talking to Skull Boy. They’ve placed the bleached head on the front of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. The whole day is looking more and more like Mad Max: The Road Warrior.

I finger the sand from my chair. Months ago I had cut the index and middle fingers off my gloves for better weapons accuracy, so nothing is standing between me and the bone when my fingers brush against it. I draw back, making wide sweeping gestures until a femur appears.

Brad Pitt’s Dick finishes on the radio and walks over to the lieutenant, gesturing toward me. The lieutenant nods, motioning to the other soldiers to head back to their vehicles and defensive positions. I stand and collapse my black entrenching tool, staring at the bones.

“Insurgents or Saddam.” Brad Pitt’s Dick pauses. We both peer into the void. “One of the other platoons questioned the locals. A couple claimed this is where some of Saddam’s regime made people disappear.” He fumbles in his pocket, continues to stare into the abyss. “Others say the insurgents use it to dispose of local dissent. Probably a shitload of these poor bastards buried out here.” He lights a cigarette and breaths deep. “Fucking mass graveyard.”

We re-bury the bones and then get in a Humvee, leaving the doors open so that we might catch a breeze amid the wasteland of Thunderdome.

“How ‘bout for a million?”

“Christ!” the driver exclaims. “You’re still on kissing Brad Pitt’s dick?” There’s a beat before he continues. “You know damn well everyone would do it for under ten grand cause you can buy toothpaste and $500 in mouthwash and still have plenty left over. Plus it’s Brad Pitt!” The driver turns less graciously than intended, keeping him more or less locked in place. “Wait… are we talking Legends of the Fall Brad Pitt or Interview with the Vampire Brad Pitt?”

The two soldiers decide everyone would kiss Legends of the Fall Brad Pitt, and for just $500, because you’d become known as the guy who kissed Brad Pitt’s dick. Their logic was that this would increase their own stock, since “bitches love Brad Pitt.”

The issue now settled, we sit in silence for minutes, or hours. Then the radio squawks to life. The voice on the other end says, “This is boring. Let’s toilet paper the other Bradley.”

Two soldiers toilet paper the Bradley, running and laughing like school children playing “Ring Around the Rosie.” This mission is a wash. The High Value Targets are long gone and all we’re getting is tan. Amused, I snap a photo of the toilet papered Bradley and return to the Humvee.