Staff Sergeant Boondock (left) and I join a group of local teenagers and their donkey for a much-deserved break. Though many citizens of Saba al-Bor owned motor vehicles, farm animals being used for manual labor was not an uncommon sight.
I told Captain Whiteback that I'd be the best damn XO I could beâif it came to thatâbut that I still planned on leaving the army, and thus I would be denying another lieutenant who planned on staying in an important opportunity. I also told him how I felt about this reactionary method to filling officer slots, describing it as “self-important chimpanzees making a square peg go into a round hole, logic be damned.” He said that he understood but also knew I was really only saying those things because I wanted to stay with my platoon. This was true, I admitted, although it didn't detract from the validity of my other points. I asked if I could speak with the field grades to elucidate my position. Captain Whiteback sighed and agreed, but he warned me that they wouldn't be as sympathetic as he had been. His words proved both understated and prophetic.
Over the ensuing days, I talked with Major Moe and with Lieutenant Colonel Larry. I explained my points succinctly, then patiently listened to recruiting pitches for re-upping. I thanked them but restated that my future lay elsewhere. Then I patiently listened to speeches about times for questions and times for shutting up and executing and how this moment fell into the latter category. I nodded and said I understood their point but respectfully disagreed as it applied to my current station, and I kept my thoughts about the fatalistic subordination of a professional officer to myself. Major Moe left it at that. Lieutenant Colonel Larry did not. In Captain Whiteback's office at the combat outpost, he first told me that he wouldn't move me or anyone else leaving the army to the XO position. He also informed me, in the vintage nasal whine that served as his ass-chewing voice, “You're not going to stay a platoon leader either. The next bullshit tasking that comes down the pipeline has your fucking name on it.”
Rage quickly replaced Rip-It juice as the primary sustenance of life in my body, but I bit my tongue, said “Yes, sir,” and waited to be dismissed from the office. Then I went to my computer and banged out a short piece about the experience in an attempt to calm down. It didn't help very much. I posted it to my blog that night, without sleeping on the matter and without consulting Captain Whiteback, as per the army's published blogging policy, which stated pieces needed to be vetted by the writer's chain of command. I simply didn't care anymore. I was tired, I was angry, and I had just been threatened for doing nothing more than telling the truth about my plans and wanting to stay with my men. I felt constrained by institutional middle management more interested in career progression than leading soldiers and who wanted yes-men in their ranks more than they did independent thinkers. Perhaps irrationally, I believed that a small act of defiance, like posting an unvetted blog piece, would help me regain control of the situation. I also still believed in truth. Looking back on it, it was really all I had anymore.
Were my actions recklessly immature? Yes, I figured out later that they were, but only after I returned home and regained some safety and perspective. I had neither of those comforts at the time. These actions were also undeniably genuine. And after six soul-draining months in Iraq, authenticity meant far more to me at the time than maturity did.
The original blog piece, titled “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage,” significantly changed the course of the remainder of my deployment and, for at least a day or two, caused quite a ripple
around the army. It follows in italics. It is, and was, a rambling collection of my thoughts during this process juxtaposed with the various conversations I'd had with Captain Whiteback and the field-grade officers about the potential promotion to XO. The title came from a line in a Chuck Palahniuk novel, and it was also the name of a popular song by the rock band Panic! At the Disco.
I'd brushed aside the informal inquiries for months now. No, not me. Not interested. Keep me on the line. I want nothing to do with a lateral promotion to XO that involves becoming a logistical whipping boy and terminal scapegoat for all things NOTGOODENOUGH. I've been out here in the wilds too long, dealing with matters of life and death, to go back to Little America for PowerPoint pissing matches. Not me. I'm that too-skinny, crazy-eyed mustang who drives a hippie van with a McGovern bumper sticker and keeps his hair long and actually read the counterinsurgency manual rather than pretending he did, even quoting it during meetings and out in sector in this era of recentralized warfare, remember? You aren't gonna break me, no matter how enticing the fires of the FOB are.
Semper Gumby. Always flexible.
I guess they forgot, and instead focused on matters of competency. Cue outright offer.
Cue Lieutenant G “thanks but no thanks” response.
Cue illogical backlash from Higher, acting like a spurned teenage blonde whose dreamboat crush tells her point-blank that he prefers brunettes.
Cue finding myself on the literal and metaphorical carpet of multiple field grades, sometimes explaining, sometimes listening.
Mostly listening.
Yes, sir. I'm getting out. No, I'm sure. Definitely sure. Surer than sure. What am I going to do? Don't tell him Option A; he'll scoff at Option A. He believes dreams are only for children. Option B will suffice. Well, sir, I'm going to go back to school, somewhere on the East Coast. Haven't decided if I'll focus on the Spanish Civil War or Irish history yet, though. I think I'd be a pretty good wacky professor. I already like to ramble, and I look good in banana-yellow clip-on ties. Sir.
No, sir. I'm not saying that at all. I would absolutely bust my ass as an XO and perform the job to the best of my ability. I'm just saying I'd be screwing a peer of mine, who is staying in and could use this professional development, benefiting both him and the big army in the long run. Uncle Sam agrees with me.
No, sir, I don't think I'm selling myself short. Recognizing one's own weaknesses isn't a weakness in and of itself. Crushing balls is only my thing with people who aren't wearing an American uniform.
If I throw enough clutter in the way, something will stick.
This is the army, son. Your opinion doesn't matter.
Roger. Acknowledged. I'd
figure I
'd proffer it, just in case.
You need to start thinking big picture, Lieutenant. That's what officers do.
I roll out of the wire everyday to bask in a Third-World cesspool craving my attention for nothing more than the most basic human needâhope. Is there a bigger picture than that, or just different vantage points from safer distances?
Yes, sir, I will remember to think things out more rationally next time. (Pause long enough to make the point that this was already a well-thought out decision.) Of course. Sir.
No, sir, this isn't just because I want to stay with my platoon. (Maintain eye contact so he doesn't think you're lying, for the love of God, maintain eye contact!) I won't lie though, sirâit was a factor. Just not my motivation.
Nice work, liar.
Another reason? Well, sir, two of my best friends in the world are Lieutenant Virginia Slim and Lieutenant Demolition.
[Note: Both of their platoons fell under the operational control of the other troop at this point in the deployment.]
If I were to become their XO, I would be extremely uncomfortable with possibly having to order them and their men to their deaths. As their peer, I should be right there next to them. Hell, I probably would insist on it.
Yes, I know that was a good point. Don't say that out loud. Don't say that out loud. Phew. That was a close one. I almost out-louded rather than in-loaded.
Yes, sir, I have full confidence in my platoon to be able to succeed without me. SFC Big Country would be more than capable of performing the job of a platoon leader. But he's an NCO. He shouldn't have to deal with lieutenant bullshit. That's my bullshit to deal with. I'm the soldier's buffer. (Cough. From you. Cough.) If a butterbar
[new lieutenant]
were here, I'd understand. That's the natural order of things. But since an opening occurred without a backlog, I really strongly really definitely really definitively believe that it should go to a lieutenant who wants it. Hell, there are some of them out there who NEED it. Aren't I being a team player here?
The ballad of a thin man walking a thin rope. Moonwalking a thinly veiled rejection of his superiors' life decisions. Wondering why they are taking it personally. People are different. They want different things out of existence. Let's
not act like I'm a ring of Saturn stating the case that Pluto's planet status should be reconfirmed.
Don't fall on your sword, Lieutenant. No one likes a martyr.
Can't help it, I'm Irish. And. Yes. They do.
Fine, I'm not going to make you do it. (Even though I spent three days trying to do so.) But you are now on my shit list, and I want to fuck you over for daring to defy and defying to dare. A bullshit tasking will eventually come down the pipeline, and I got a rubber stamp with your name on it. And, yes, I know your performance has been outstanding, and we have consistently rated you above your peers, at the top echelon. Doesn't matter now.
You're right. It doesn't. Doesn't matter at all. Even if I've only haggled a few more months with the Gravediggers, it was worth it; I came here to fight a war, not to build a resume. My men need me. And. I need them. It would have been worth it for a few more days.
Victory.
Mustangs don't blink.
You know where we learned how not to?
It wasn't behind a desk.
Every day of free roaming makes it worth it.
I initially gave no second thought to posting the piece. I had a vague understanding that my blog had become relatively popular in certain e-circles, but I still didn't fully appreciate the power of the Internet. Two days later, I left for leave and for Europe, where I gallivanted across the continent with Lieutenant Demolition, my girlfriend, and her roommate on a much-needed break. By the time I returned to Iraq and to the Suck eighteen days later, the details of “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage” were a distant memory. Well, for me, at least. Not so much for the rest of the squadron.
Captain Whiteback later explained to me the series of events that led to that posting's gaining a readership following on Camp Taji. Arnon Grunberg, a writer who'd been embedded in Saba al-Bor for three days the month before with one of our troop's other platoons, linked to my blog on his blog site. I spoke with Grunberg briefly during his time in Saba al-Bor, mainly about the organizational structure of the army, but a bit about my blog site as well. When he wrote an article about the state of the Iraq War for the online political magazine
Salon
, a link to his blog site was included in the byline, which in turn contained a positive blurb about my site and me. Unbeknownst to
me,
Salon
published Grunberg's article only a couple days after I posted “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage.” According to Captain Whiteback, Lieutenant Colonel Larry read the article, subsequently referring to Grunberg's blog and then to mine. Even though I had registered my blog with my unit prior to the deployment, and Captain Whiteback had mentioned the website to the field-grade officers on multiple occasions in a positive fashion, only with Grunberg's mention did my writings become worthy of interest to my chain of command. And in a twist of fate far too poetic to be coincidence, the first piece they read centered on their attempted professional bullying of me in the past week.
Back from leave, I walked into a tempest of fury.
According to the staff officers, Lieutenant Colonel Larry forced some of them to comb through my blogâall six months' worthâto search for any hint of an OPSEC violation. They were unable to find any because I had taken great care with this matter, although not for this purpose. However, because I posted the piece in question without showing it to Captain Whiteback first, my squadron commander ordered me to shut down my blog, effective immediately, under the pretext of “conduct counter to good order and discipline.” My grandfather, a career navy officer and retired two-star admiral, later told me that citing this regulation was a commander's ultimate cop out in lieu of actual substance.
I did as ordered and posted one final piece explaining the situation, taking full responsibility for my actions. Other than getting yelled at for having “an authority problem” and “a persecution complex,” I received no punishment. I wasn't counseled on paper or removed from my platoon leader position, mainly because there wasn't anyone they were willing to replace me with. They even promoted me to captain the next month, right on time with my peer group, because my blog drama had nothing to do with job performance. As he put on my captain's bars, Lieutenant Colonel Larry muttered snidely about wanting to punch me through the wall. I smirked and saluted.
The passing of time did not yield bygones. I had committed heresy against the church of the officer corps by airing my grievances publicly. Some careerists gave me a very open and a very personal cold shoulder, although most of my friends and fellow junior officers found the whole thing hilarious, as it reinforced our contempt for the Cold Warrior mentality of fraudulent pseudostoicism. Lieutenant Colonel Larry told me I had discredited the unit. After much internal deliberation and self-examination, I eventually interpreted that to mean that I had discredited him, as all he ever
seemed to care about was how many people had read the piece and who they were. At no point was I ever asked, “Why did you write this?” Higher seemed interested only in treating the symptom, me, not the problem itself, the state of the unit. Perhaps the unit's leaders didn't want to hear the response. They must have known how unhealthy our squadron was.