by R. Passov
Sometimes, when you least expect to, you learn something about your country and the toll it has imposed on certain of its citizens. In ancient times these learnings weren’t so serendipitous. During WWII, for example, you would have known folks on your block who served and came back. And some who didn’t come back.
Even in that near-ancient time of the Vietnam War, likely you would have known folks in both classes. That war, or at least the US involvement, officially lasted about eight years. Over three hundred thousand US service personnel were injured and approximately 50,000 US lives were lost (and countless others.)
The Iraq war also lasted, by some measure, eight years – 2003 to 2011. Over that stretch, about 4,500 US service members made the ultimate sacrifice. Another 45,000 were wounded. (These figures are purposely misleading as they omit approximately the same number of deaths and injuries suffered by ‘contractors.’ I’ll leave this bit of Orwellian misdirection to another day.)
The US involvement in Afghanistan lasted about twenty years. Approximately 2,500 service members gave their lives while ten times that number were injured.
Judging by the ratio of wounded to dead, one was more likely to survive in Afghanistan than in Vietnam, and even more likely than in WWII. This is understandable; we’ve had over fifty years to improve our medical capabilities. But one consequence of advances in medical technology is the violence in war, when measured in such a narrow way, seems less so.
*
“They divorced when I was six,” our Uber drive offered.
“We were so poor,” he said, “we had chickens because they could feed themselves; what you’d call free range now.” This tinge of snark caused me to look afresh at a big man in a little car, taking us to the airport near Charleston.
“Well we had them for the eggs. And every once in a while we had to eat one. When you’re that poor you figure things out, like how to cook.”
He knew he was a sight and knew, in one way or another, we were going to delve. Like a good Uber driver, he was ready to share his origin story.
Having not specified a particular kind of car, Uber sent the closest – a little car. Maybe a Mitsubishi? An off brand made for smaller roads filled with smaller people. While I struggled with how I, my travel companion and our luggage were to fit, the driver exited the car. When he reached his full height and girth, I thought it would be impossible for him to squeeze back in.
He made his way to the back of his tiny car, opened the hatchback, bent to retrieve our bags, lifted them, bent back toward the little car only to crash his forehead into the open hatchback.
We stepped back and watched as a giant hand rubbed a large forehead. “I’m a bear of man, I know that,” he said. “Don’t you worry. Bump my head all the time. My family calls it a DR – a day ruiner.” I suppose that’s what broke the ice.
We watched the back of his giant head as he made his way toward the outskirts of town, all the while rubbing his forehead. He hunched to look at us in the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry,” he said again, “this ‘ell go away in a bit.”
To express concern but also to elicit information that would be telling in one direction or another, I began the conversation. “Are you from around here?” I asked.
“Yes sir,” he said, “born and raised. We’ve lived down here since the Scottish and Irish first found this place. Got an old relative a street’s named after. Pretty boring guy actually.”
“Now,” he went on, “I don’t live in town. Not since I came back.”
Before we had a chance to ask from where, he offered, “I hunt. Living out where I live, that’s something you need to know how to do. The nearest gas station’s 15 miles and I walk there.”
My travel companion, trying to establish a connection, spoke up. “I grew up far from town. We’d walk to the gas station too, just for something to do.”
“Anyway,” our driver went on, “I like living out there because I don’t see the crazy stuff you see in the city.”
He turned to the talk about the free range chickens, followed by a non-sequitur. “This morning, makin’ my breakfast, got burnt butter on my shirt. Burned all the way through. Made me wonder why I’m sentient if I couldn’t feel that. Why’d God make me that way?”
There was a certain whiplash to this comment, bringing me one way as I listened to a giant-of-a-man tell me he splashed hot butter on his chest while cooking breakfast, then another way when he used sentient in a sentence that questioned God.
“I hunt no more than a few times per year. Some for me but mostly it’s what I use to feed my dogs, make all their food that way.” The caveat – hunting for need – I’m sure he knew, helped.
“I like living where I can leave the doors open. I leave ‘em open. All day. I have cameras hooked up and can see whose coming and going. Never had a problem.”
“Sounds like that’s the right place for you,” my companion said.
“We’ll my dad was right,” he said, “and I’ve tried to do as he said.” I found it hard to imagine a man of his size feeling compelled to listen to anyone.
“Well,” he said again, “my dad’s always said ‘if you talk like an idiot you sound like an idiot’ so I put some effort into the way I talk and that’s what got me into that place in the army.”
“Well since I could talk,” he went on, “‘cause that’s what my Dad taught me: Know your words and use ‘em. Well, since I could do that, that’s what got me alongside the CG as his spokesman.”
“And,” he went on, “the CG would always start off by saying you sound just like Seth Rogan.”
At that very moment, everything about his mannerisms collapsed into an oversized Seth Rogan. But something else would ride alongside that vision. Knowing that he looked and sounded like a popular actor evinced a self-awareness that was somehow both bitter and sweet.
“Took that Staff Sargent twelve years to hit that girl.” Before we could be surprised about where he was taking us, he continued. “Wondered why it took him so long. First he asked her to marry him then he hit her. I had to explain to the CG – the Commanding General – what happened, and what we were going to do about it. That was the first time I became a spokesperson.”
“Mostly I had to be there because my company commander couldn’t get through those situations by himself. He’d wait to hear what I had to say then say it again.”
“Well that Staff Sergeant got locked up in a civilian jail. Then, when he got out he had to go right back into the military prison where he belongs. That’s where he needs to be, no one ever doubted that.”
This odd interspersion had the effect of letting us know that, though he might be somewhat crazy, he’s still in touch with right and wrong.
“I worked my way up to an NDI Inspector.” (I asked him to repeat this and was never sure that I got the acronym right.)
“Got me to Afghanistan first, then back home, then to Iraq, then back home again, only to go back to Iraq, then back here for good.” He let these comments float a bit before he went on. “Why I like to stay away from some of the crazy stuff you can see in the city, fifty miles away.”
Then said fifty miles away again, as though that were a distance he had discovered through empiricism.
We reached the end of our ride. He got out of the car, told us not to worry about him hitting his head again but that if we didn’t mind he’d like to get our bags and not have us do it ourselves. “My Dad’s teachings,” he said. I got the impression, in a loving way, he was mocking not only his father but all those who had told him everything would be ok.
With a certain folksy care, our Uber driver let me know that the army had fulfilled its promise, and more. He joined with a young man’s dreams of adventure. He saw parts of our world he had not imagined, came home and decided for his own good, as well as for the good of those he once tried to protect, it’s best to live ‘fifty miles away.’ He wanted me to know this.