Focusing on the Wrong Things
It's a truism of war that combat is mostly tedious and boring,
except when interrupted by moments of sheer terror and frenzied
activity. In the tenacious pursuit of mind-numbing routine, where
exhausted concentration has subordinated the threat
profile and relegated the danger index into
hypothetical probabilities so as to function, it is easy to focus
on the wrong things. The intimacies of field existence makes the
artificiality of the military rank structure obvious; since no
one will obey a stupid order from an untrustworthy superior, and
any tactically essential chores will be done as a matter of self-preservation. There is no privacy in the field, so everyone
learns more about each other than they ever wanted to know, and
respect is a relationship more than an imposition. Habits become
commonplace, and character is exposed. Just as no one can hide
their hygiene, aptitude, or integrity, so no one can hide their
timidity, sloth, or unreliability. The unit shares mess, mail,
and misery. To relieve the monotony, there are macho matches and
cool coteries, pissing contests and indolent games, Dear
John letters from Susie Rottencrotch and Dear
Jane letters from Jody Diddlemaster. A defensive
perimeter may be populated by sleepers and readers, sun-bathers
and card-players, musicians and catchers ... sometimes tossing
stuffed socks or rocks, and occasionally lobbing a smoke-grenade.
It would've been easy to criticize these troopers. The manual
says that a defensive position can always be
improved, and that's probably true for conventional warfare, but
it didn't apply to the constabulary patrolling mandated as the
doctrinaire methodology to counter the enemy's irregular strategy
... and every grunt knew it, even if the brass couldn't figure it
out. The enemy knew where our unit was, knew our strength, and
would hit us when they were ready. We were under no illusion that
we were invisible, even though some of our tactics could be
stealthy. The poncho shading a fighting-pit offered no overhead
protection against indirect fire, and the occupants would remove
it as a marker as soon as contact was made, or as soon as we
departed. Trying not to be distracted by irrelevancies, by
personalities, or by routine was sometimes too much to expect.
The trash-burning fire, located near the center of our perimeter,
usually attracted a crowd ... there's something hypnotically
alluring about dancing flames that beckons the primordial spirit
in most of us. One quiet evening, as many of us took silent
communion around the fire, with our thoughts wandering in
eternity, one of the endemic grab-ass pranksters included an
unvented can of C-ration jelly in the disposal, and when ruptured
by the heat, the sealed container exploded its contents into the
assemblage. I glared around the arena until the grumbled
complaints and moronic titters died ... the spell was broken.
Knowing it was wrong to inflate mischief into a contretemps, to
force an indiscriminate challenge, and to needlessly risk
alienation or injury, I angrily told them that they'd forgotten
why they were there, and I alleged that they did not have enough
peril to restrain their buffoonish antics. These indictment were
unfair, and the declarations were untrue, but I was angry about
our violated solidarity ... so I would compound the error.
Scanning their countenances, I withdrew a magazine from my pouch,
and began to deliberately strip rounds off into the fire. They
tumbled and fell every-which-way, so I was as liable to be shot
as anyone else. Astonishment and anger ranged their faces, and a
couple of them left the arena. I'd escalated a practical joke
into a deadly duel, not unlike so-called Russian Roulette, except
they had not been consulted. Without their consent, I'd made them
players in a deadly game of chance that we all might lose. When
the first bullet popped, the rest of them left, some more hastily
than others, and I stayed for two more cook-off
discharges before ruefully turning, and slowly walking away. The
gossip was that I'd gone bush crazy, and they avoided me
whenever possible. I would later read of a similar incident
involving a hand bomb tossed into a fire by a prankster
in the Spanish Civil War, but there's nowhere to hide from each
other at the front. Like the time I awakened my replacement
guard, and he'd stuck his muzzle in my throat ... things were
awkward for awhile before adjustments were made, before everyone
accommodated to the new stress. But after such an encounter,
nothing is ever the same again. It's very easy, in fact, too
damned easy to focus on the wrong things in combat.
by Pan Perdu
... who is a former soldier and VA counselor; this work has been
excerpted from Fragmentations, a book in progress.
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