A young former Marine artilleryman came to a meeting of the Jefferson Literary and Debating Society last Friday night to promote a screening of the The War Tapes, a documentary about the year-long deployment of three New Hampshire guardsmen. Coincidentally, I planned to present a poem about Iraq to the Society that evening. I looked around the room as the man spoke, wondering if the members of the Society were listening patiently, interestedly, or if they were just appearing to do so in the interest of decorum. I wondered if perhaps they were thinking, “who the hell is this guy and what is he doing at our meeting.” The young man told a brief story about the IED blasts that left him partially deaf and a victim of PTSD. “What happens to me,” he said, “is that I have trouble falling asleep.” He stood awkwardly at the back of the hall after presenting his speech, handing out flyers and nervously accepting the “thanks” of several Society members. “It always makes me feel weird when people say thank you,” I told him. He smiled, “yeah man, I mean, it’s just a job.” I wanted to tell him no, it’s much more than a job. But I stuck to my original sympathy: I don’t like to be thanked either. Acknowledged, yes. Thanked, no.
I walked toward the screening room tonight running late and feeling slightly apprehensive. I had a pocketful of flyers advertising the blog and the documentary-in-process. What would these people think of my dedication if I showed up late? Not to worry: only three people showed up for the screening. There were about thirty chairs lined up before a projection screen. The Marine – Matt’s his name – was showing pictures from his deployment to a lone attendee. Well, I thought, at least this guy’s here. When Matt left the room to set up the DVD player the other gentleman extended a hand across the aisle to me. I don’t remember his name. Somehow the name Jefferson entered our chat. “Jefferson was a good man,” the guy said. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m glad he founded my university anyway.” The guy replied, “Jefferson was an early enemy of central banking, and that’s what got us into Iraq and every other war for that matter.” “I don’t know what got us there,” I responded – choosing to hold off further commentary until I had a good picture of where this guy was coming from – “but I’m sure I have no idea what we should do now.” The guy had answers for me. “You know what I think?” “No, I don’t,” I replied. “It’s the illuminati. Ever since 1913. The Rothschilds and the Rockefellers. Central bankers, the Federal Reserve. They got their hands in everything, like 9/11, it was a total inside job.” Then he asked me, “do you believe that?” I said, “not exactly, no,” wondering if he was watching me write down everything he said.
“We’ll just give it a few more minutes, a few of my people had labs to turn in and stuff.” I could tell Matt was disappointed that only two people showed up. I thought of all the people Friday night taking his flyers with such gratitude. “I don’t even know how to say thank you for what you’ve done for us man. I’m just so grateful to all of you guys.” To their credit, four o’clock on Monday isn’t the most opportune time to get out of the office or the library. “My heart just goes out to all of you guys.” I’ve heard that one before. Sometimes older women say, “you’re all my sons.” One woman whose son died in a car accident told me, “you’re all my sons, and everytime one of you gets hurt or dies I feel like my own son is dying all over again.” I felt like she meant it. I could tell by the way her eyes drifted far away from anything in the room. Oddly enough, she was selling me a hand-blown glass lamp made by a PTSD counselor. I think that’s what got us on the topic of Iraq.
After the film, Matt asked, “any thoughts?” The conspiracy theorist and I both shrugged. Matt’s flyer had advertised, “Do You Have an Opinion on the Iraq War? Voice it! Watch the screening . . . Discussions following.” I looked forward to voicing my opinion all weekend, but didn’t feel much like discussing Pentagon—al-Qaeda symbiosis with my new friend. Thankfully, the guy split as soon as he could. I helped Matt stack the chairs. “Whatja think?” he asked. “Well, it may as well have been a documentary about my unit,” I said, “we trained at Ft. Dix, we were there at exactly the same time, everything was the same.” I sort of hoped he’d ask me more about my tour. After all, I’d already listened to his story on Friday night. But he had no further questions for me. I plugged my documentary again and asked him if he knew anyone who might be interested in participating. “It’s mostly about homecoming,” I told him. But he was reserved. “I’m not interested in stuff like that,” he said, looking away from me, “you can do a lot of good doing stuff like that, but you can get people in a lot of trouble with UCMJ.” Matt and I separated without shaking hands. I got the feeling I was making him uncomfortable.
I noticed Matt’s desert combat boots as he walked away. Riding my bike home in the blustery cold, I thought about Sergeant Pink, a soldier from The War Tapes. His wife cannot understand why he continues to wear his dog tags in civilian life. I thought about how much Matt must love those old boots. I wore my Iraq boots at drill for two years after I returned, sentimentally passing up several new issues. But I couldn’t imagine myself wearing boots with blue jeans. Sometimes I sport my desert camo “boonie hat” –Woods scrawled across the back in English and Arabic – but most of the time I’m too embarrassed. Later, as my roommate and I chatted in our kitchen, he said, “I really like that belt.” I looked down, taking note of the faded green Army utility belt holding up my jeans. “Thanks,” I said. I like it too. A lot. And I guess I like the green Army socks I wear almost everyday too. A lot. I have my trinkets too, I realized. We all need some connection. Something that ties us to that place, something physical, something more than just memory and pain. Don’t ask me why.
Sergeant Pink doesn't like to be thanked either. He says the best thing someone can say is, "good to have you back." Specialist Moriarty - another soldier from The War Tapes - says of homecoming, "the biggest frustration . . . is that they don't care." The most patriotic of the three soldiers under the spotlight, Moriarty re-enlisted in the National Guard after a decade-long break in service with the express intent of going to Iraq. A self-proclaimed "deeply patriotic man" and unflinching Bush supporter prior to deployment, Moriarty returns deeply alienated by what he experienced as a war in which the "priority of KBR making money (Kellogg Brown & Root, primary Halliburton subcontractor) outweighs our safety." "They could offer me $500,000 and I wouldn't go back," Moriarty says, "I feel like it's someone else's turn." Back at work, where his boss had promised a year earlier "when you come back it'll be just like you never left," Moriarty finds his boss's promise a bit too true. Co-workers ask to hear war stories but don't listen. They ask to see his pictures but don't look. Moriarty's frustration comes across as the most tragic emotional moment in The War Tapes. "You will look at my goddamn pictures," Moriarity fumes, "you asked me to show them to you, I'm not flashing them around, and now you will do me the respect of looking at them."
Good to have you back, they say. Thank you. My heart goes out to you. Words cannot express my gratitude to you and your buddies for what you did over there. Now be quiet, please.
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