Robert Randall
3rd Place Winner: 2006 Curios Nonfiction Contest
To Hell and Back
I was once lost in a land far away—a land within a mixture of desert and sparse oases, not too far from the Euphrates River. Seldom was this desert green; rather, it was colored red with hatred and the skies were brown with sand, whipping and thrashing around and around. Husaybah, Iraq, was, to me, a wasteland. Debris lay everywhere; the streets smelled of burning trash. The homes all seemed only three-quarters finished; it was almost as if they were supposed to be primitive.
Most of the people in Husaybah wanted nothing to do with us, never helping us or even saying hello, offering only empty stares of hatred or regret. Only the children would smile, showing no fear, and it was when they were out playing in the streets that we knew we would be okay. Everyone believed they would be killed if they helped us, and, unfortunately, this was the known truth of the matter. As we patrolled the streets, we found graffiti on the walls saying “slow death to America.” I couldn’t stand it. Husaybah was my living version of hell.
As we patrolled, I couldn’t help but think of this place as a concrete jungle. Piles of rubble alongside the buildings hid potential bombs just waiting to rip us into pieces. We would patrol right into these bombs day in and day out, and, most of the time, the enemy would get one or more of our guys with the shrapnel, taking chunks of flesh right off of their bodies or burying itself deep into their flesh. Most of the time, it took their lives. It was devastating. Those of us who remained physically unscathed found it hard to continue; we were so shell shocked from the blasts.
When I walked those streets, I felt that it must be this way for death row inmates walking the green mile. But, unlike them, I carried these emotions every day; I walked many miles. I thought about death and the fact that my last meal may be an M.R.E. (Meal Ready to Eat). After a while it’s just the same, old, flavorless menu.
Though my faith in God made me stronger and more confident that I would make it back home to the ones that I loved, it didn’t stop the fear that I felt when I thought of my wife as a widow and my unborn child as fatherless. These were only a few of the fearful thoughts that riddled my mind every day and night as I patrolled the streets of Husaybah.
I lost a lot of good buddies over there, buddies who had wives and kids, buddies who had family or girlfriends. Every day there was the possibility of being the next one flown back to the States in a pine box draped with the American flag. Every day. It was a living nightmare from which I could never awake to find myself somewhere safe, somewhere like home. Death was always lurking nearby, sharpening his sickle for the harvest that was to come.
The image, the harsh reality, of having a good friend folded backwards, folded in half, by an I.E.D. (Innovative Explosive Device) was paralyzing. I was a Marine though, and I had to do my duties. Our duty was to keep the peace and fight off an enemy we could not see. Paralysis was not an option. I forced myself to do what some would consider the impossible. I walked those streets, knowing bombs were right around the corner, at every turn, in every step that I made in that city.
Many of my brothers are gone, but their faces and personalities will forever be etched into my mind. Never will I forget the times that we all shared together. Hate fills my heart. It fills the void my buddies have left. I hate that their lives were taken in that Godforsaken place walking the green mile. But, unlike them, I carried these emotions every day; I walked many miles. I thought about death and the fact that my last meal may be an M.R.E. (Meal Ready to Eat). After a while it’s just the same, old, flavorless menu.
Though my faith in God made me stronger and more confident that I would make it back home to the ones that I loved, it didn’t stop the fear that I felt when I thought of my wife as a widow and my unborn child as fatherless. These were only a few of the fearful thoughts that riddled my mind every day and night as I patrolled the streets of Husaybah.
I lost a lot of good buddies over there, buddies who had wives and kids, buddies who had family or girlfriends. Every day there was the possibility of being the next one flown back to the States in a pine box draped with the American flag. Every day. It was a living nightmare from which I could never awake to find myself somewhere safe, somewhere like home. Death was always lurking nearby, sharpening his sickle for the harvest that was to come.
The image, the harsh reality, of having a good friend folded backwards, folded in half, by an I.E.D. (Innovative Explosive Device) was paralyzing. I was a Marine though, and I had to do my duties. Our duty was to keep the peace and fight off an enemy we could not see. Paralysis was not an option. I forced myself to do what some would consider the impossible. I walked those streets, knowing bombs were right around the corner, at every turn, in every step that I made in that city.
Many of my brothers are gone, but their faces and personalities will forever be etched into my mind. Never will I forget the times that we all shared together. Hate fills my heart. It fills the void my buddies have left. I hate that their lives were taken in that Godforsaken place called Husaybah.
I’ve laid my eyes upon death. I’ve seen Van, in the back of that Hummer, making his last stand against death, struggling for one last breath. A cool kid, with few worries about life, he had been pierced by a bullet that flew right through his heart and lungs. He was the joker of the platoon, always messing around, never really serious about anything.
I’ve said my goodbyes to a close friend by laying my hand upon his head, riddled with bullets. I wiped his blood and brains upon my blouse and said a prayer to God: “Father, be with them and comfort them, please welcome them into your home, O’ Lord. Amen.” I said these words as my captain, Richard Gannon; Section Leader Chris Gibson; and my close buddies Reuben Valdez, Michael Smith and Gary Vanleuven, took their places in the back of the Hummer, their lives ripped from their bodies. Their blood flowed out of the back of the tail gate, falling to the soil that I would patrol time and time again in the months that followed.
My best friend, Jake, was taken as well. I was on my way back home with the advanced party, trying to make it back in time to see my child born. That was when I was given the news. Jake was only three weeks away from returning back home to the States when he was killed by an I.E.D. shallowly buried at the base of a wall. One of his hips was ripped off of his body by the blast and a small piece of shrapnel flew right through his Kevlar helmet and cut into the back of his head. I was told that he had been stabilized after four hours of surgery but then just slipped away.
Jake and I had a lot of good times together. We were always joking around and talking about what we were going to do together when we made it back to the States. We had big plans to take our wives out together for a good time, to be best friends forever. “One day,” I said to him, “you and I are going to be sitting on a front porch in Texas smoking and joking about these days and telling old war stories to our children.” He laughed and said, “I know, buddy, I can’t wait for those days to come.”
I miss them all. I will forever embrace the good times we shared together. Those friends I lost – that is what I remember the most about Husaybah. But the death I saw, that I witnessed – that is what haunts me every time I close my eyes. To hell and back I believe I have been; never do I want to experience that pain again. May you all rest forever in peace. Amen.