Outside the Wire: American Soldiers' Voices from Afghanistan

SPECIALIST ANDREW STOCK

116 SPECIALIST ANDREW STOCK ON THE SHOULDERS OF DEAD MEN I want to be a tanker. I want to be the tank, a depleted, uranium-infused, steelplated titan of war. To crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and to hear the lamentations of the women. A tracked terminator in which the lords of battle would command me to leave kingdoms and republics both under my treads, to deliver resounding glory with menace, to instill such trepidation in the foes destined to cross my path that they would spew shit from their loins and quake in fantastical epilepsies. Alas, you don’t always get what you want. My recruiter, Sergeant Archer, says to me, “You’re too tall for an Abrams (M1 tank).” I take his word, as he is a short man. He shows me pictures of his days in the tanking field. “See, those things are not made for your height. Trust me on this. You don’t want to be a tall man in one of those beasts.” A day later I’m in MEPS (military entrance processing), San Antonio. With dreams of plated fury dashed, other options are revealed to me. “Mechanized infantry,” says the balding staff sergeant at the guidance counselor desk. “Mechanized, you say?” A decade and a half of Robotech and Ultraman flash before my eyes. “Like, robots?” “Ummm, no. Not like robots.” The desk-absorbed NCO is obviously very tired of dealing with potential Army recruits today. “Mechanized infantry utilize Bradley fighting vehicles. You would either operate a vehicle or be a dismount.” Moving down the list of possibilities, he hits upon another option . “How ’bout airborne infantry? Paratrooper stuff. I could get you a contract for Vicenza, Italy. And a $20,000 sign-on bonus.” Cha-ching. “Sold.” Outside, I’m as straight-faced as they come. Inside, my Spidey sense is tingling. I could settle on being a winged angel of death, leaping heroically from planes behind enemy lines. Yes, I could be an airborne something or other. ON THE SHOULDERS OF DEAD MEN 117 Three days before graduation from basic training, we’re preparing for the battalion sergeant major to inspect the barracks, our gear, and our uniforms. “Parade rest,” the recruit near the door bellows. “At ease! Men, listen up.” The drill sergeant takes an uncharacteristic pause. “Someone flew commercial airliners into the World Trade Center.” He stops, scans the rows of faces along both sides of the room before taking a breath. “We’re going to war! Inspection is canceled.” I find myself sent to Fort Drum, New York. Never mind about all that airborne nonsense. Some things are not meant to be. After a few days I am assigned to a unit that already has a company deployed in the newly established War on Terror. Weeks later, after many eons of QRF (quick reaction force) training and convoy security training, as well as tons of ammunition expended against foam and ballooned aggressors, we get word that our sister company, C, has seen action and taken casualties in Afghanistan . Our company commander, Captain Johnny “The Hand” Stevens, does the military unthinkable and jumps several chains of command to get us into the Afghanistan theater. A Company, Predators, contains some severely bored and well-trained units of light infantrymen. Discipline is tight, and the commander’s creed is shooting bullets equals better soldiers. So within forty-eight hours we are soaring through the night over the Persian Gulf and into the heart of Afghanistan. Landing at Bagram Air Base under the cover of night, all I see through my NVGs is a green sky above black mountains. First Lieutenant Andrew “Weapon X” Exum leads us by cracking a ChemLight, a glow stick that can only be seen through our NVGs. We follow him to our new home, a tent complete with cots sinking into muddy floors and a stovepipe heater. After a little training, we’re sent to a place called the Whaleback near the Shah-i-Kot Valley. I’m on the side of a mountain, a night sentry waiting for the cold to pass. Although more numerous in the sky than sand on an obsidian beach, the stars offer little comfort . Down in the black valley a firefight erupts. Rockets and tracer rounds fly in all directions, creating that Star Wars effect. It’s the 118 ON THE SHOULDERS OF DEAD MEN Alliance...