2008 Woodie Awards
Why do we go to war? One soldier's story
Zach Blom
Issue date: 4/10/07 Section: Editorials
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An orange bottle of prescription anti-depressants sits on a nightstand in the corner of a dark basement. Next to the pills sits a half-full bottle of cheap vodka. And next to the two bottles sits an alarm clock. It is 2:30 a.m.
Jim lies awake in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to look at anything but the nightstand, trying to think of anything but Iraq. Then, like an insurgent uprising, the war takes hold of him, and he finds himself far from the dark confines of his bedroom in Littleton.
Jim is not his real name, but his story is real... and horrifying.
Jim is in Fallujah now, lying in his sweat-soaked Army bunk. The only movement in the hot tent comes from his torso as it gently rises and falls as he breathes in and out. Beads of sweat trickle down his face and neck, catch for a second, and then proceed into his hair and his damp shirt.
"This place is hell," he thinks.
As he finishes his thought, a fellow Army mechanic stomps in to rouse him. Jim's down time is cut short; his commanding officer needs to see him.
"Just perfect," he grunts to himself as he stumbles to his feet and out of the tent.
His CO assigns him and a handful of other mechanics to assist in the clean up of a downed helicopter just outside the violent city.
He doesn't realize it now, but these are the last moments of Jim's waning innocence.
As he and his comrades approach the crash site, it is apparent that something has gone terribly wrong. The helicopter sits on its side in a few large pieces after being hit with some sort of exploding device, possibly a rocket-propelled grenade. There are no survivors; in fact, the ground is littered with dark pools of blood, dead bodies and severed limbs. Jim's stomach hits his throat, he swallows hard, and he proceeds with wide eyes.
But this was not the first time Jim has seen the destruction of the Iraq war. As a mechanic, he mostly has stayed on or near the base, maintaining and fixing various vehicles, but he had helped clean up a similar crash a few weeks before-one with survivors and some relatively minor injuries-and it was not out of his routine as one of the lowest level technicians to perform such services for the Army.
Jim lies awake in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to look at anything but the nightstand, trying to think of anything but Iraq. Then, like an insurgent uprising, the war takes hold of him, and he finds himself far from the dark confines of his bedroom in Littleton.
Jim is not his real name, but his story is real... and horrifying.
Jim is in Fallujah now, lying in his sweat-soaked Army bunk. The only movement in the hot tent comes from his torso as it gently rises and falls as he breathes in and out. Beads of sweat trickle down his face and neck, catch for a second, and then proceed into his hair and his damp shirt.
"This place is hell," he thinks.
As he finishes his thought, a fellow Army mechanic stomps in to rouse him. Jim's down time is cut short; his commanding officer needs to see him.
"Just perfect," he grunts to himself as he stumbles to his feet and out of the tent.
His CO assigns him and a handful of other mechanics to assist in the clean up of a downed helicopter just outside the violent city.
He doesn't realize it now, but these are the last moments of Jim's waning innocence.
As he and his comrades approach the crash site, it is apparent that something has gone terribly wrong. The helicopter sits on its side in a few large pieces after being hit with some sort of exploding device, possibly a rocket-propelled grenade. There are no survivors; in fact, the ground is littered with dark pools of blood, dead bodies and severed limbs. Jim's stomach hits his throat, he swallows hard, and he proceeds with wide eyes.
But this was not the first time Jim has seen the destruction of the Iraq war. As a mechanic, he mostly has stayed on or near the base, maintaining and fixing various vehicles, but he had helped clean up a similar crash a few weeks before-one with survivors and some relatively minor injuries-and it was not out of his routine as one of the lowest level technicians to perform such services for the Army.
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