The Last Time We Ever Met Pt. 5

"All men return to dust. The manner of a man's living and dying is of paramount importance." -John W. Powers

(Damon and I discussing Iraq. This was the first time we saw each other since he returned from combat .
These conversations were extremely somber. The look on our faces is still chilling. Photo rosey lakos.)

  

  The closet was a walk in but it was narrow with racks of vintage clothing hanging on either side. A small window that looked out onto the steel staircase was closed and the air inside was stale and quiet. It was a rage beyond rage. A sadness built over the course of a year had finally broken through the sediments of denial. A final obstacle lay before me. I had lost it completely and I was totally out of control.


  In the madness of my pain I set out to escape. Blind with anger I began to scream as loud as I ever had and I dug furiously through the clothing looking for a way out. It was so desperate of an attempt that I thought for a moment that if I dug deep enough like a rabbit I could find my way to another side. So I dug and dug into the corner of the floor with my bare hands until the paint stuck to my fingernails. No one heard me scream. No one came. 


  I breathed deeply tangled in piles of clothing and I saw my surroundings clearly for the first time. I ached and lay defeated upon the floor. Sitting in the dark closet starring across at the wall that I had destroyed I watched as bits of concrete and chips of vanilla colored paint crumbled to the floor and the stuck to the wooden stock of my carbine. My elbow began swelling with bitter pain I realized that I was alone in a closet with a rifle. My hands shook slightly and then my eyes closed. I breathed and slumped into a tearless no-zone of thought. The time had come to decide where and how my life would end or begin. 
  
  I don’t remember what happened next. I don’t remember the rest of the day except that for the first time in over a year I had accepted that Damon was dead. The war In Iraq had invaded my life and robbed my friend from me. I could see his face, a concern spread across his gentle eyes. He'd been to this nightmare universe. Was he with me in this closet? I think I fell asleep but I’ll never know for sure. The carbine’s 15-round magazine remained cold and empty. I was alive. 

To be continued..

The Last Time We Ever Met pt. 4

  “In their search for happiness and a better way of life I believe the Iraqis are no different than Americans. I could not ultimately control the actions of fellow Marines, but I did my best to respect the lives and property of the Iraqis I came across as I hope they would do under similar circumstances.” –Damon Fawcett

  Six months have passed since I began to write about Damon’s death. I completed the first three parts of the blog then I realized I could not bring the story to a close. Everything had been left open ended and although the process of writing had been healing, I continued to be the keeper of unanswerable questions. I began to realize that the rest of the story belongs to me.

  In 2007 Rosey and I lived in Seattle. We had moved away from California the year before. We left everything that we knew; family, friends and the comforts of home to explore ourselves and our world. Being away from old friends was tough and being away from family was even tougher. Damon’s suicide had created an unpleasant void in my life. The series of events that were set in motion as a result of his death cast a blanket of depression upon me that I was not prepared for.

   In the weeks that followed Damon’s passing I became increasingly despondent. I could not wrap my mind around the circumstances. Macabre images of his suffering plagued my thoughts. I began to weigh heavily about the futility of life. It infected every aspect of my being. Everything that meant anything to me fell further and further behind. I had no useful means in which I could express my sadness and like Damon I quickly became a lost soul, unrecognizable to even myself.

  It was 2008 and we were living back in California. We had moved to Alameda so Rosey could fulfill her dream of going to art school. This half-lived life I was experiencing progressively became worse. The depression that I was living with created a cloud that never left me. I was perpetually angry and would explode at seemingly nothing. I became very aggressive and cried most everyday. I tried in vain to write but words continued to escape me, I was going further and further down the hole. I knew what was coming but in my denial I charged head-on into the void not giving a shit.

  Shortly after New Year’s Eve 2008 I approached the end of the tunnel. My spirit had taken all it could take and an end of some sort was near. What happened that day was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life. I could feel the rancid breath of death upon me and I welcomed it. Nothing mattered. No amount of love or understanding could stop what was going to happen, this was my battle and mine alone. I had no hope of survival. I wanted to die. 

The Last Time We Ever Met Pt. 3

   

“But I know the reason why you keep your silence up, no you don’t fool me. But the hurt doesn’t show and the pain still grows so stranger to you and me” –Phil Collins

  I don’t know what time it was but it was in the afternoon, late spring maybe? The town clock stood brightly, a symbol of Santa Cruz’s community where people have traditionally gathered to voice opinions and celebrate the new year. The traffic was nasty and it was hot outside. People were stressed; the war was in full swing. Lives were being lost everyday and nothing pointed to an end. Rosey and I sat for what seemed like an eternity and nothing moved. My thoughts drifted to Damon in the 130 degree weather of the Iraqi desert. I wondered what he was seeing with his eyes at that moment. As we waited I began to realize that the entire intersection was blocked by a large group of protesters. I had proudly protested during the Gulf War in both Santa Cruz and San Francisco. I had even helped block streets and stop traffic. I had carried a burning flare in my hand, screaming and yelling “1,2,3,4 WE DON’T WANT YOUR FUC…” I understood the purpose and meaning of protest very well. I was glad that someone was saying no but this time something different stirred deep inside.

  I had the window rolled down in a poor attempt to cool off. For some reason she chose me and approached the truck. With a bitter rage she screamed “If you were really against the war you’d get out of your truck right now and stand with us!!” I sat looking at her in disbelief. I was anti-war. I clenched the steering wheel a little and replied “Hey my friend is in Iraq, I am anti-war and what if an ambulance needs to get through here?” In a fury of angry emotion she went on to shout telling me that by not getting out of the truck I was supporting the war. I imagined Damon in his humvee rolling through a dirty village. Buildings were on fire. An air deathly smoke curled among burnt bodies. Black faces and blood stained lips on exhausted Marines collected brown desert dust. I imagined displaced toddlers and mothers of the dead wailing under the blazing sun. Burned out Iraqi tanks dotted the horizon. A crusty hand grasped the grip of an M-203 grenade launcher. The same hand that touched Kate's tears so gently before he was deployed. This was Damon’s world at this very moment. He did not want to be in Iraq, he was in Iraq. The war was going and there was nothing I could do about it. Blocking traffic might have satisfied my desire to express my anger that my friend was stuck in a bullshit war that I opposed but it would not prevent him from losing his innocence. 

  A year or so later at the grandparent’s house on Christmas Eve, Damon and I found ourselves trying to talk in the crowded hallway. It was a scattered conversation that was constantly interrupted by drunken family members. In one very serious moment Damon told me that Iraq was worse than I could possibly imagine. He said that if I were to take the worst of what he told me and times it by ten it wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface. He said that the other platoons had seen much worse than he had. Still he insisted that he was doing fine. I looked deep into his eyes, he looked away and I politely nodded. I didn’t know what to say. Later that night as he and Kate were leaving we said our goodbyes. I gave Damon a hug and watched the door close. A feeling of something terrible came over me, it was a sick feeling of regret and I ran outside to say goodbye again. It was a strange moment. I told Damon that I wish we had more time to talk. I wanted to tell him something but that I didn’t know what it was. He smiled and said he felt the same way. The car disappeared  around the corner into a fog. The city was quiet. That was the last time we ever met.

A Co. 3rd Plt 1st Recon March 2003 in Kwuait. Damon is the 3rd from 

the right in the humvee. Note the pile of cameras in the foreground. Damon 

sent me these photographs when he came home. (photographer unknown)

The Last Time We Ever Met Pt. 2

 "Well I was there and I saw what you did. I saw it with my own two eyes. So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been, it's all been a pack of lies" -Phil Collins

  I sat on the couch in the dim-lit still of the house. The fireplace was cold and empty. An oppressive silence weighed in the air. I sank into the cushions and disappeared into a tunnel of thought, the book sat in my lap. Months before, while Damon was still fighting in Iraq, Kate told me that he was interviewed by a reporter from Rolling Stone. His name was Evan Wright and he had been imbedded with the 1^st Marine Recon Battalion during the first month of the invasion. She said that Rolling Stone was going to do a three part article on Damon’s unit.

  I tried to keep up with events of the invasion. I looked for Damon’s picture in every newspaper and magazine. I actually thought I might see a photograph of him so when Kate told me about Rolling Stone I was very excited. I remember the day that the first article appeared. I was working at the record store one afternoon and as I walked in there it was on the rack; Rolling Stone “The Killer Elite” by Evan Wright. I grabbed it quickly and thumbed through the pages looking for Damon’s name. The title of the article stirred a hidden moment of angst.  

  What I saw in the semi-gloss pages was what I had expected. There were images of burly Marines in humvees laden with body armor and Kevlar helmets. Camouflaged, hard looking guys armed to the teeth with M-4s and M-249s. This was a modern war but not much different than any other in human history. These were young men, younger than me, just boys a lot of them. They slept in holes in the ground and fought day and night. I read the captions of the photographs and absorbed the imagery. I wanted to know everything that happened. When I got home I showed it to Rosey and put the magazine away on the shelf. I did not read the article. “The killer elite” I thought. A pang of apprehension pressed a hand on me. I turned, shut off the light and left the room. This happened when the second and third articles came out. Then the book got published.

  Generation Kill. The title was not subtle. Damon had returned and he and I had spoken quietly about what he had seen and experienced. Our conversations were somber and honest. We would often find ourselves away from the rest of the family at gatherings quietly discussing the war. These were serious moments filled with articulate philosophies and honest expressions of fear and excitement. Damon trusted me and I trusted him. He told me everything. He told me about the Recon sniper. He told me about the air strike and the wounded little boy. He told me about the Hajis behind that building at Al Nasiriyah and then he told me quietly about the one he saw collapse. I knew what he had seen; I knew what he had done.

  The contents of the book were brutally honest. This was the war in Iraq as I imagined it. It bared little resemblance to the video games and movies that everyone wanted to compare it to. I read the pages slowly. I tasted the dust; I smelled the cordite and decay. I turned away from the dogs feasting upon the slain in the ruined streets of ancient biblical villages. I could hear the fury of air strikes and the crumbling walls of Babylon. Life took a backseat to death. This was war as I had always understood it with all of its paradoxes and contradictions. There was nothing new here, nothing new except my friend Damon. I suddenly became overwhelmed by an oppressive fear. I closed the cover and wept. I did not stop for many minutes.

                             Sgt. Damon Fawcett en route to Iraq 2003. (photographer unknown)

The Last Time We Ever Met Pt. 1

  "I've seen your face before my friend but I don't know if you know who I am." -Phil Collins

  The boredom was typical. The bus was hot, the seats were cold and the city stood damp in the mid-morning. The droning diesel engine breathed black plumes that followed us through the streets like ghosts. I was on the express line going to the one place I didn’t want to go; my job. My only concern about the next nine hours was the promise of a double latte and the possibility of finding some new records. It was a usual morning that would likely end up with me racing back home after work so I could see Rosey and watch Star Trek with her on the couch.

  I was probably listening to my iPod but I couldn’t say positively. My thoughts drifted from the dirty streets and back to the quiet discomfort of public transportation. I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket. When we lived in Seattle Rosey and I both had phones and we lived on them. We called each other quite often and usually there was no news, just a quick “Hi, I miss you.” or “Damn, my job sucks” so there was nothing unusual about the familiar vibration of the phone in my pocket; in fact I often thought I could feel it buzzing even when I didn’t have it on me.

  Always one to be self-conscious about talking on the phone on the bus I reached for my pocket and was discreet when I opened it. I whispered “Hello?” It was Rosey. Her voice which on these dull bus rides tended to sound otherwise happy had on this particular morning held a deep foreboding. As she spoke clouds of uncertainty gathered in my mind and as I suffocated on tones of language and tears I heard her say “Damon hung himself.”

  Clearly I had misunderstood what she was trying to tell me. Certainly she was calling me to tell me that she could pick me up from work later so I didn’t have to take the bus home, certainly because Damon was very much alive and well. He was my friend, a Marine, a First Recon Marine. The Special Forces of Special Forces, trained as an expert in survival. He had fought and survived twenty something consecutive days of deathly combat in Iraq. He had been back for almost three years. In fact he was going to medical school to become a doctor and Kate was Rosey’s cousin so we would have known if something had happened. An impulse compelled my body to ask her to tell me again, and then my world went quiet and then it went grey.

  The words were not eloquent language, they were not beautiful expressions of communication, they were not even words. They were unfathomable lyrics to an impossibly sad song that someone else was singing. The sun did not come out that day. The spring trees seemed to bare no leaves and loomed spiritless. There was nothing beautiful to behold. There was nothing at all. I crumbled before the dead city and a nightmare of sadness enveloped me. Damon Fawcett my friend who went to war was dead.

Sgt. Damon Fawcett  (2nd from left) A-Co. 3rd Plt 1st Marine Recon Battalion en route to Iraq 2003. I would love to know who these guys are and what they remember about Damon. (photographer unknown)