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)