were considered liberty. I had a cousin, William, who lived two hours away in Lubbock. That summer Texas Monthly ran an article detailing the top fifty things to do in the state. William and I figured we’d try them all. We road tripped to Luckenbach, ate at Cooper’s in Llano, and swam in the Colorado. We sang “The Eyes of Texas are Upon You” in the state capital. We visited our grandparents in Hillsboro. We even touched Willie Nelson. Well, not really. But almost. The summer sped by, and, with it, so did my MOS training.
Every so often the Air Force would hold an all-schoolhouse briefing. One hundred and fifty of us would cram into a small conference room and listen to our captain wax on about the need for intelligence in a twenty-first-century military. During one such meeting, the captain showed us a video of Marines bombing insurgents in Afghanistan. It was a grainy video taken from an unmanned aerial vehicle being flown remotely via laptop. We heard the radio conversation of the intelligence analyst who was flying the UAV
“Fuckers, I see ’em,” the radio cut out to static, qushhh. On frame, six or seven individuals were moving from a truck to a building. The color was washed out; the camera was bouncing. This particular UAV had the capability of firepower. The intelligence analyst flying it would pull the trigger.
Qushhh. “You have the go ahead,” qushhh, a disembodied voice said to the pilot.
Qushhh, “Targets locked,” qushhh.
UAVs are not quiet planes. The targeted Afghanis took notice and ran for cover.
Qushhh, “Fire,” qushhh. The screen erupted. Fire engulfed the Afghanis.
Qushhh, “I hit ’em! Fuck, I hit ’em!” The pilot was chanting over and over.
One of us laughed.
“Excuse me?” the captain said as he turned off the video. “Do you find this funny?” He was asking this to the whole room rather than one derelict service member. “Please, enlighten me, what’s so funny about what we do?”
Silence.
“What we do, professionally, is terrible. What we do is a horrendous necessity. But what we do is never funny.” He paused. “Are we justified in this war? I’d like to think so. We were provoked and we have the proper intentions in fighting Al-Qaeda. We will win this war, and we will help the people of Afghanistan rebuild. It’s who we are; it’s what we do. Before that, however, we will conduct ourselves with honor. Jus in bello. Justice, even in war, is necessary. To laugh cheapens our role; it cheapens our justice. I expect you, all of you, to act with a certain measure of professionalism, especially when both the power and responsibility to destroy is only a keystroke away.” He scanned the room before continuing. “If I hear another laugh, then the offending service member will be dismissed.” He turned back to the screen and pressed play.
16. Wilberson’s War
Before our final exam, Staff Sergeant Wilberson talked with each of us in regard to our progress. I walked into his office and stood at attention. “At ease,” he said. “For the last time, this is the Air Force. Relax. Sit.” I sat. “One week left until your final exam. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I responded. “There’s a lot to study, but I feel prepared.”
“And after?”
“I’ll report to my unit in Denver. I’m a reserve, though. I think I’ll go back to school.”
He smiled. “School, huh?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant. I plan on majoring in Communications.”
“Not the Middle East?” We stared at each other. “You’re a relatively new Marine, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you’ve never been to war?”
“No.”
“How are feeling about that? Dealing death from a computer?” I didn’t have an answer. “Wars happen, Peters. You’re a war fighter now. It’s best that you start thinking about yourself that way.”
For a moment, I was honest: “I don’t want to, staff sergeant.” The moment I said it, I regretted it.
He laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “No one does, Peters. No one does.”
I passed my final exam and graduated. During 070502’s graduation, Staff Sergeant Wilberson spoke on our behalf. “I have never,” he began, “seen a class with so much drive and willpower. I attribute this to 070502’s fine leader, Sergeant Indiana. Not all of you who started together finished together, but those of you who leave this place today, leave it proudly. Though, often times, we leave this schoolhouse and never meet again, I believe this will no longer be the case. When we meet upon the sands of the Middle East, may we remember our common bond: 070502.”
Later that night, as I finished packing my car, I shook Mexico’s hand and told him I’d see him in February. We had a month leave before we had to report to our new unit at Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, Colorado, after which I would make the long, solitary drive to Kansas and Bethany College.
“Alright,” he said, “take care.”
“I will. You got plans?”
“You know me, Peters. I always got plans.”
“Well, use protection.”
I drove home to Portland. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family. It was cold and rainy. My dad and stepmom had their three-foot, fiber optic Christmas tree on display. My mom was busy with school, as she had recently decided to return to college. My brothers and sisters were growing up. We spent what time we could together before I packed up my 1990 red Dodge Dakota and made the twenty-two-hour drive to Lindsborg, Kansas. Like my mother, I was returning to college.
It was snowing when I arrived at Bethany. I moved into the dormitory alone. Most of the students were absent because it was January and between school sessions. I hadn’t been on Bethany’s campus since I’d decided to drop out two years previous. I had originally chosen Bethany for two reasons: one, they offered me a football scholarship; and two, it was the farthest school from the Northwest offering said scholarship. I had wanted a fresh, new experience, free to learn and make mistakes. Bethany was a small, Lutheran liberal-arts college. I had signed my letter of intent with the delusional hopes of becoming a football star. Two years in, however, I was a tired and beat up third-string fullback. Where one dream died, another was birthed. Amidst Bethany’s echoing halls ringing with choral melodies, I discovered learning and books and that pre-made molds were lies. I had dropped out and moved to Colorado frustrated with a broken football career, but had returned—after my hiatus in both Recruit Training and Imagery Analysis School—for the ingrained memories of passionate professors willing to invest in their students’ growth. At Bethany I wasn’t fitted; I was asked to become.
The spring term would start in February, which was about four weeks away. I wanted an early start, however, and so I enrolled in Bethany’s January term, which, in my case, was a three-week crash course in advanced public speaking. Before my first class, I flipped on CNN while I dressed. The news was ominous.
“All signs point to an American troop buildup in Iraq by March,” the reporter said in her British accent. She was wearing a drab-safari outfit. “The American Secretary of Defense is presenting his case to the UN Security Counsel by
