When I read it now, I barely recognize myself as the author. I’d need to have a serious talking-to with the young man who wrote that article. I’d tell him that just because an endeavor is sprinkled with the blood of good people, that doesn’t make it just, or noble, or even worthwhile. He should not have so quickly abrogated the responsibility of answering the question: “What are we fighting for?”

To me, now, “Email from Iraq” reads like war propaganda—an illustration of the energy and character and goodwill of its participants, while beckoning the reader to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

I think I recognize the lens through which he saw the conflict: “Look, Ma. I’m at war!” After all the hype and fear associated with armed conflict, it’s difficult to get over the reality of participating in it.

The theses of the contemporary military biographies I’ve read seem invariably to be: “Look what a bad-ass I am.” This is understandable, as war presents problems which are both interesting and important—fatally important. They create geniuses in solving those problems. It is easy to so thoroughly absorb yourself in their solutions that you never think about, say, the Constitution—which, on a completely unrelated note, military officers have sworn to support and defend against all enemies foreign and domestic.

I guess I believed a little, too. Upon redeploying from Iraq, an influential friend of a friend of a friend got me an interview, which might have resulted in me returning to Iraq as a civilian. I was absorbed in the problems I’d worked on there, and unwilling abandon them. I bought a suit. When the White House Liaison to the State Department told me these types of jobs generally go to people who’ve “proven their loyalty to the president by working on his campaign,” I could have pointed out that I’d been off fighting his war for the duration of the re-election campaign. I could have said one of many things, but instead produced a noise indicative of a peach pit stuck in one’s throat.

In Iraq, I was making a first impression with the locals. I believed I would bring them a good future, and so did they. The United States has been in Afghanistan seven years, a Provincial Reconstruction Team has been in Kunar for three. The locals have seen us come and go, and it’s difficult to tell what they believe. One local made my interpreter laugh during a visit to the governor’s compound. “He asked if you guys are the new PRT,” my interpreter explained, “then he asked if this cow has a lot of milk.”

IV.

It turned out only 25% of inactive reserve call-ups report for duty. I’m still trying to decide whether I’m a sucker. Probably not. I’ve emerged unscathed with nearly a year’s worth of tax-free income in the bank and a few stories to tell. I also anticipate enjoying the free respect and credibility given to all veterans regardless of whether or not they were complete shit-bags. Of course, my answer would be different if I’d been, say, on the wrong convoy up the Deywagal Valley.

Driving up a capillary valley





It was hard preparing to risk your life for something you don’t believe. It eats away your soul. Or maybe it was just fear.