Jackson Free Press

I started to post this a few weeks ago, but something in me paused. My brother is flying to see me tomorrow, though, and I thought of it again. It's from my own journal, so I'm taking parts out (not sure what's allowed and not with the US Army):

"I keep thinking this is a dream, like it shouldn't be happening," my brother says. He's driving down a dark road at 20 mph. It is his first day home from Iraq.

From the backseat, his roommate says, "No, dude. I feel like I haven't missed a beat, like the last year was just a horrible nightmare."

When my brother first got his license four years ago, he drove fast with loud music. He danced in his seat at red lights. Now he drives under the speed limit. He can't help looking for IEDs in the road, he says.

There are things that are the same about him: a grin he tries to suppress for fear that his crooked teeth will show, the voice he uses when he is excited or cold and jumping around, his insistance that someone try a bite of his meal. I even recognize the 21-year-old look in his eye when he is about to cry. His eyes swell and shift. He has never been able to talk for too long in a fight without crying. I had wondered if he would lose that after a year of suped-up masculinity.

The thing is, he is in there somewhere.

That first day home, I worried he might not be. I spotted him in his formation, sober-faced and hard-bodied. I rushed to hug him, tears already coming before I touched him. I grabbed him. My face reaches his chest. He's so skinny, and my arms go all the way around him.

The first days he was home were so strange. But I remember coming home from Africa and not wanting to see anyone other than Naka, our cameraman, and Nick because they had been with me for two weeks already, seeing what I had seen. How could I talk to my friends in New York about random parts of life? How could I try to say - live, in person - what I had seen?

I know it was worse for my brother.

When Dustin told me about the memorial services they had in Iraq for killed soldiers, I saw his eyes swelling like they do when he is going to cry.

They call roll, he told me, and when they get to the killed soldier's name, no one says here. They call for him again: silence. Then they fire the 21-gun salute.

"It sent chills through my spine," he said. "Chills."

What an eerie way to say goodbye.

Last week, a guy working at a gas station heard my brother had been in Iraq.

"Did you kill anyone?" he asked.

What kind of person asks a complete stranger that, not knowing what nightmares are lurking everywhere?

Previous Comments

ID

108617

Comment

Let's hope they don't get branded like the Vietnam vets did.

Author

Ironghost

Date

2006-11-29T20:30:55-06:00

ID

108618

Comment

only a F'n idiot would ask that question. One thing about combat vets. They don't talk about that stuff unless thaey have to, EVER!!!

Author

Kingfish

Date

2006-11-29T23:06:23-06:00

ID

108619

Comment

Gee, Kingfish. I thought we were on the same side. I'm just hoping these people get help with treating the stress. That's all.

Author

Ironghost

Date

2006-11-29T23:41:07-06:00

ID

108620

Comment

I had the honor of being permitted to stand and watch a memorial service for a soldier who had been killed, and I listened to the roll call. They called his name 3 times.

Author

GLB

Date

2006-11-30T00:55:49-06:00

ID

108621

Comment

I meant the guy who asked if he had killed anyone, not you.

Author

Kingfish

Date

2006-11-30T08:11:04-06:00