(no subject)
*
Outside a bridge to Al Muwaffaqiyah, Brad learns that their LT, the LT whose command he has come to rest his understanding of the invasion on, is just as capable of betraying them as everyone else.
They’ve driven through a few more ambushes, watched a few more people die, made a couple more mistakes. It’s the first night in days that Brad gets to sleep. Fifty-six minutes later, Ray is waking him up for a team leader meeting. He thinks he remembers dreaming, but if he was, the dream was about Iraq. Maybe, he hasn’t slept at all.
In the darkness, Fick’s eyes are too alert. He tells them they will be heading across the bridge that’s sent LAVs back with causalities. He says, “Frankly, gentlemen, I’m not hearing the aggressiveness I would like.”
When Brad watches him, Fick’s mouth is hard. His eyes have no problem meeting their own.
In his mind, Brad thinks he must still be asleep because only in dreams could his LT sound this command.
And while he knows that it’s not the LTs decision, it’s not Fick’s decision, that maybe he’s being unfair to Fick, but Fick is being unfair to him. Because with each unrelenting syllable, Nate Fick is quietly stealing Brad’s last unblemished illusion of their leadership.
It’s too sudden, this knowledge that their LT is not above the dirtiness and imprecision of this war. Brad wants to go back to his ranger grave and wake up to find that their next mission has nothing to do with being bait for sniper shots. He wants to wake up and see their LT’s boyish grin and smile back.
Instead, he goes to brief his team.
*
They don’t tell you this in basic training, but a firefight’s the easiest part of a Marine’s job. If a Marine is going to panic, freak out, lose control, he will do so regardless of the scale and harshness of his indoctrination.
Brad doesn’t panic, doesn’t freak out, doesn’t lose control.
They drive into a kill zone. They get stuck. They are about to be shot at.
War is a messy, ambiguous beast, but combat, actual face-to-face combat, is simple. In this moment, Brad’s understanding is as clear as the sky above them. There is only the enemy and the necessity of action.
He fires. The world explodes. The trees are no longer dark.
They need to get out of here, but their exit route is fucked. Next to him, Ray is trying to get the other vehicles to back up, but the artillery is too loud for him to be heard. Brad adjusts his aim, concentrates on the rhythm of his breathing.
Along the road, Fick has left the relative protection of his vehicle to direct their retreat in the open. He’s shot at but isn’t shot. It’s necessary; it works.
Brad sees him and thinks, Nate.
He pauses, grips his gun tighter. Now’s not the time, he knows. He keeps firing.
*
The next day is clear and beautiful.
There are dead enemy soldiers lining the side of the road. Pappy’s absence is a conscious gap at their morning meeting.
Nate tells them, “Last night, we pet a burning dog.” It’s close to an apology. He sounds tired. Brad thinks he almost prefers the optimistic, bloodthirsty command line to this impenetrable resignation.
He could have died on that bridge, Brad thinks. They all could have, but it’s Nate’s prone form that he thinks of. He doesn’t remember why he was angry with Nate at all. He wishes he could take it back.
In the pause between breaths, Brad is keenly aware that there is no line between Nate Fick the LT and Nate Fick the guy who laughs with his whole body, whose worst habit is chewing pen tops, who's two years younger than Brad is but looks more like five, who came out of the ivy tower to carry the weight of their lives and their souls upon his shoulders. Nate who fights for them and who breathes for them.
Brad knows that even as he asked himself to be the extraordinary, he has asked Nate to be the impossible: to be exactly as Brad wanted him to be. That even as the solidity of Nate’s determination is flaking away in the bitter, bombed out air, he is quietly surpassing all of Brad’s expectations.
That even if he wanted to, he can’t fit Nate into a carefully labeled box; that it’s insulting to try when Nate has never promised to be anything but completely, wonderfully human.
That he can’t remember the last time he truly admired someone, but he respects and admires Nate. That above all, Nate is a good and decent man.
That even though Brad can’t call Nate “friend”, he’s long ago come to call Nate his.
Against the cloudless Iraqi ski, the bulk of Nate’s gear engulfs his face in shadow. He looks sad.
If Brad were a better person, a kinder one, he’d say, “Sir, what you did for us last night, what you do for us everyday, it’s the only thing keeping us alive.” He would mean it. He owes Nate Fick a thank you letter a mile long. He owes him more than that.
Maybe it would help, maybe not.
But Brad is Brad. He says, “I think we can take it from here, sir.”
*
Brad doesn't tell Nate this, but back at Pendleton, he heard about him before Nate was ever introduced as their new platoon leader.
In the military, reputations accumulate. The stories about Nate were mostly positive, general. He went to Dartmouth but wanted to prove himself when he graduated. He was a good officer, a nice guy. He had a good stint in Afghanistan, brought all his men home. His CO recommended him for Recon. He’s one of the top guys in his class.
It was the kind of bland praise that made Brad think of those guys that got their bodies co-captaining the crew team and, after surviving recon’s fitness test, thought of themselves as true, hotshot warriors. Fick probably had a dash of moral righteousness that allowed him to insist he was here to change the world and a big enough ego to believe it. Most likely, he’d wipe out, get himself a cushy desk job, and go back to his six-figure civilian world with just enough street cred to pull some pussy.
But when Brad meets him, he knows Nate is none of the above.
It’s the morning after Nate is assigned to their platoon. There was a barbecue on the beach to meet the new LT, but Brad hadn’t gone.
They’re at the mess hall, Brad half-listening to Poke tell an old story about growing up in L.A. Nate gets in the line behind them. The utensils on his tray are arranged in perfect parallel lines.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he says. “Hope your training’s going well.”
They nod a “yessir”. Nate smiles brightly but doesn’t try to sit with them.
It was the smile that said it, that somewhere behind the fresh face and wide eyes was solid sincerity. That Nate wasn’t here for the rep, probably didn’t even want it. That he was going to try.
It would have been almost admirable, Brad thinks, except cheerful optimism has never been a quality he’s found particularly useful.
Next to him, Poke says, “Man, I do not want to be there when that dog crashes and motherfucking burns."
"Probably in combat too," Brad agrees. It’s a valid assessment. The idealists didn't last long in the military. Give them a few failed missions here, a couple of dead civilians there, and they'd be crying themselves to sleep.
Four months later, they were shipping out.
*
The Nate Fick that Brad remembers from Pendleton is not the Nate that Brad finds in Iraq. Here, he wouldn't trade Nate for the world.
*
Outside a bridge to Al Muwaffaqiyah, Brad learns that their LT, the LT whose command he has come to rest his understanding of the invasion on, is just as capable of betraying them as everyone else.
They’ve driven through a few more ambushes, watched a few more people die, made a couple more mistakes. It’s the first night in days that Brad gets to sleep. Fifty-six minutes later, Ray is waking him up for a team leader meeting. He thinks he remembers dreaming, but if he was, the dream was about Iraq. Maybe, he hasn’t slept at all.
In the darkness, Fick’s eyes are too alert. He tells them they will be heading across the bridge that’s sent LAVs back with causalities. He says, “Frankly, gentlemen, I’m not hearing the aggressiveness I would like.”
When Brad watches him, Fick’s mouth is hard. His eyes have no problem meeting their own.
In his mind, Brad thinks he must still be asleep because only in dreams could his LT sound this command.
And while he knows that it’s not the LTs decision, it’s not Fick’s decision, that maybe he’s being unfair to Fick, but Fick is being unfair to him. Because with each unrelenting syllable, Nate Fick is quietly stealing Brad’s last unblemished illusion of their leadership.
It’s too sudden, this knowledge that their LT is not above the dirtiness and imprecision of this war. Brad wants to go back to his ranger grave and wake up to find that their next mission has nothing to do with being bait for sniper shots. He wants to wake up and see their LT’s boyish grin and smile back.
Instead, he goes to brief his team.
*
They don’t tell you this in basic training, but a firefight’s the easiest part of a Marine’s job. If a Marine is going to panic, freak out, lose control, he will do so regardless of the scale and harshness of his indoctrination.
Brad doesn’t panic, doesn’t freak out, doesn’t lose control.
They drive into a kill zone. They get stuck. They are about to be shot at.
War is a messy, ambiguous beast, but combat, actual face-to-face combat, is simple. In this moment, Brad’s understanding is as clear as the sky above them. There is only the enemy and the necessity of action.
He fires. The world explodes. The trees are no longer dark.
They need to get out of here, but their exit route is fucked. Next to him, Ray is trying to get the other vehicles to back up, but the artillery is too loud for him to be heard. Brad adjusts his aim, concentrates on the rhythm of his breathing.
Along the road, Fick has left the relative protection of his vehicle to direct their retreat in the open. He’s shot at but isn’t shot. It’s necessary; it works.
Brad sees him and thinks, Nate.
He pauses, grips his gun tighter. Now’s not the time, he knows. He keeps firing.
*
The next day is clear and beautiful.
There are dead enemy soldiers lining the side of the road. Pappy’s absence is a conscious gap at their morning meeting.
Nate tells them, “Last night, we pet a burning dog.” It’s close to an apology. He sounds tired. Brad thinks he almost prefers the optimistic, bloodthirsty command line to this impenetrable resignation.
He could have died on that bridge, Brad thinks. They all could have, but it’s Nate’s prone form that he thinks of. He doesn’t remember why he was angry with Nate at all. He wishes he could take it back.
In the pause between breaths, Brad is keenly aware that there is no line between Nate Fick the LT and Nate Fick the guy who laughs with his whole body, whose worst habit is chewing pen tops, who's two years younger than Brad is but looks more like five, who came out of the ivy tower to carry the weight of their lives and their souls upon his shoulders. Nate who fights for them and who breathes for them.
Brad knows that even as he asked himself to be the extraordinary, he has asked Nate to be the impossible: to be exactly as Brad wanted him to be. That even as the solidity of Nate’s determination is flaking away in the bitter, bombed out air, he is quietly surpassing all of Brad’s expectations.
That even if he wanted to, he can’t fit Nate into a carefully labeled box; that it’s insulting to try when Nate has never promised to be anything but completely, wonderfully human.
That he can’t remember the last time he truly admired someone, but he respects and admires Nate. That above all, Nate is a good and decent man.
That even though Brad can’t call Nate “friend”, he’s long ago come to call Nate his.
Against the cloudless Iraqi ski, the bulk of Nate’s gear engulfs his face in shadow. He looks sad.
If Brad were a better person, a kinder one, he’d say, “Sir, what you did for us last night, what you do for us everyday, it’s the only thing keeping us alive.” He would mean it. He owes Nate Fick a thank you letter a mile long. He owes him more than that.
Maybe it would help, maybe not.
But Brad is Brad. He says, “I think we can take it from here, sir.”
*
Brad doesn't tell Nate this, but back at Pendleton, he heard about him before Nate was ever introduced as their new platoon leader.
In the military, reputations accumulate. The stories about Nate were mostly positive, general. He went to Dartmouth but wanted to prove himself when he graduated. He was a good officer, a nice guy. He had a good stint in Afghanistan, brought all his men home. His CO recommended him for Recon. He’s one of the top guys in his class.
It was the kind of bland praise that made Brad think of those guys that got their bodies co-captaining the crew team and, after surviving recon’s fitness test, thought of themselves as true, hotshot warriors. Fick probably had a dash of moral righteousness that allowed him to insist he was here to change the world and a big enough ego to believe it. Most likely, he’d wipe out, get himself a cushy desk job, and go back to his six-figure civilian world with just enough street cred to pull some pussy.
But when Brad meets him, he knows Nate is none of the above.
It’s the morning after Nate is assigned to their platoon. There was a barbecue on the beach to meet the new LT, but Brad hadn’t gone.
They’re at the mess hall, Brad half-listening to Poke tell an old story about growing up in L.A. Nate gets in the line behind them. The utensils on his tray are arranged in perfect parallel lines.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he says. “Hope your training’s going well.”
They nod a “yessir”. Nate smiles brightly but doesn’t try to sit with them.
It was the smile that said it, that somewhere behind the fresh face and wide eyes was solid sincerity. That Nate wasn’t here for the rep, probably didn’t even want it. That he was going to try.
It would have been almost admirable, Brad thinks, except cheerful optimism has never been a quality he’s found particularly useful.
Next to him, Poke says, “Man, I do not want to be there when that dog crashes and motherfucking burns."
"Probably in combat too," Brad agrees. It’s a valid assessment. The idealists didn't last long in the military. Give them a few failed missions here, a couple of dead civilians there, and they'd be crying themselves to sleep.
Four months later, they were shipping out.
*
The Nate Fick that Brad remembers from Pendleton is not the Nate that Brad finds in Iraq. Here, he wouldn't trade Nate for the world.
*