Something Wicked

February 16, 2008

We all know fear. Most of us have been scared of the dark or of the boogie man, or scared at the thought of loss. Maybe we’ve been given a good start during a spooky movie or when someone’s made our heart jump via a practical joke. But it’s hard to explain fear like I’ve come to understand it here in Iraq. Believe me; I know that I do not have the market cornered on this subject over here. What I do pales in comparison to what these soldiers face every single day. But this feeling is foreign to me so I want to understand it, and hopefully by doing so I’ll be able to exist here on its terms.

2 days ago a EFP, (Explosively Formed Projectile), hit a contractor’s vehicle right outside the prison gates. It was a big armored mutha, but the shaped copper projectile cut right through it. (It wasn’t one of our vehicles) Thankfully no one was killed. I went to the motor pool to see the vehicle and get my first glimpse of what an EFP could do. My first reaction was, “Well, this isn’t so bad.” But that was because I was seeing the truck as a whole from the outside. Once I got up close and saw the real damage I got spooked. The outer shells of these trucks are a good ½ inch thick of solid steel. The projectile ripped through it and almost punched an exit hole out the other side. The inside of the truck was black and torn to shreds, there were cuts in the plastic and upholstery as well as in the metal walls marking everywhere shrapnel hit. The exposed hoses that ran throughout the interior were severed in the blast and now it looked like someone had turned loose a sack full of black twisted snakes, and the whole thing stunk of burnt oil and hydraulic fluid. And then, of course, there were stains where men had spilled out. But then the oddest scene caught my eye. Under a jump seat that was in the line of fire were several hot dog buns. The entire interior of the truck was oil spewed black, but these little pieces of bread still held their color. They were undisturbed and still in the spot where someone placed them to consume later. As I stared at them I wondered if the man sitting in that seat had placed them there, and what was going through his mind when he did it. Those stupid little buns made me think about the simplest thing…a man and his lunch, contrasted by his unsuspecting doom. Poor bastard. I hope he is OK.

As I walked away from the vehicle and headed out of the motor pool I looked back over my shoulder and the view made me shutter and I got angry. I got mad at the thought of the man who placed that bomb on the road. Someone was supposed to die. Someone went out in the dark of night and laid that bomb in the hopes it would kill a man in a horrific manner. Who thinks like that? Two men can line up across a battlefield from each other and take aim, and I get that. But the ways and means of these people makes a man stop and take stock, and it strikes fear deep in places not talked about. It’s something wicked that’s uncharted for me.

-Jim Franks