More Than A Marine

Came to me and screamed to be written.

 

MILITARY JOURNAL OF LCpl John Jennings

 

JULY 12, 2008

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

 

 

 

            Today I witnessed something I never thought I would witness, an occurrence that has had me puzzled since it happened this afternoon. I witnessed a battle-hardened, perfectly sane, dutiful Marine put his gun aside and walk away from combat. Now, before you get it in your mind that he was deserting, I should tell you a little about him, for his actions are far from that act of cowardice and disrespect. I don’t know why he did what he did, but maybe writing it down will help me to understand it.

            Eric Johnson, USMC Sergeant and recipient of the Purple Heart twice and a Bronze Star, was definitely not a man to be messed with. He stood at around six feet tall, and was a little stocky; nothing special from a first glance. It was his eyes, the way they bore into you, that really showed his ferocity. They were a deep amber, never shifting quickly but drifting slowly, surely. Every part of his body was under his command, and he exerted it readily. When it came to doing anything, he always excelled. He held the record in our battalion for assembling and reassembling his arms, and was one of the best marksmen among us. He also had a reputation of keeping his head in tough situations. Nothing seemed to phase the man, if he was getting shot at he would stand steady until he had a good shot back, and he took it. He rarely missed. He led our charges often, you could see him feet ahead of the rest of us, ducking for cover behind whatever was available, and on several an occasion he managed to prevent civilian casualties, grabbing people in the firing zone and slipping them to areas of cover. After battles he would walk off on his own, returning after an hour or so. Nobody questioned him for a second. The moment he told you to do something, whether you were of higher rank or not, you obeyed, assuming that your life was at stake. Of course, it was because of his ordering the higher ranked officers that he was held back from advancing to further ranks.

            This was one of the men I was lucky enough to be around on this, my second tour of Iraq. His squad saved ours from a very rough situation with a suicide bomber. This was the instance where he won his Bronze Star. We of course had no desire to shoot, for fear we would miss and get him to trigger the bomb. Sgt Johnson and his squad were close, and they saw what was happening. Johnson ran to the guy, held him with one arm and shot a nerve in his arm that caused him to drop the detonator, which rolled harmlessly on the ground. The bomber became a POW, and no civilian casualties were caused at all. It was a miraculous happening, something wished for but never seeming to happen. He had angels with him.

            I pray to God, and ask him what his purpose for Sgt Johnson is. Surely the good Lord holds some cause for him, because he is nothing short of a perfect Marine. He is a warrior, and a savior. He gives as much of his rations to families he sees around the city that are starving, gives water to the injured, regardless of the sides they are on. When the cease-fire is called he is a just and caring man. We all look up to him, we all respect him, and we all hope to be like him.

            Which is why we were so surprised when he did what he did today.

            We had been called as backup for a pinned unit trying to capture some terrorist or another. They were stuck on a business street, and a stray bullet had killed the target. Our squads made it there during the thick of the fight, with bullets whizzing past every which way. Advancing fearlessly as ever, was Sgt Johnson, his M-16 pouring out carefully aimed bullets and his hands pulling men aside to cover. A grenade rolled over towards him, and he punted it effortlessly right back in the direction it had been thrown. I made my way towards him, providing cover fire for him as he crawled towards an injured man. A chunk of what used to be a car obscured me from the enemy fire for the most part, and to the side was a Marine who was shot through the stomach. Blood was slickening the ground around him, and he had a rosary pulled out. His cries to the heavens were about to be answered, just as Johnson reached him. I stepped slightly out of the cover of the car to provide some cover shooting, until I saw Johnson motion for me to get back behind the vehicle. I did as he said, peeking my gun over the top to shoot blindly at the enemy.

            After what seemed like both hours and seconds, I helped Johnson to pull the man behind the car. I shouted for a medic while Johnson continued firing, and we waited for the medic to start working on the injured warrior before we moved on. Minutes later we were close enough to see the outlines of our enemies through the smoke of gunfire and kicked up dust. We dropped to our bellies, crawling forward inch by inch, glancing both ways for grenades tossed our way. That’s when we saw her.

            She was a young girl, aged about eight or nine, holding tightly to a bag of groceries. The dust had caked onto her face where the tears had soaked her face, and her glances kept moving towards an apartment across the street from her. She looked at the gunfire, seeming to calculate it, the dangers caused by adults killing blindly. I heard Johnson yell to her to stay back, to get down. I wonder if that man of steel’s gut dropped like mine when I saw her step out into the street. Time stopped while she ran. Bullets zinged past her, and she still ran crying, eyes closed. Her pigtails trailed behind her in the air. The scent of fresh baked bread filled the air around her. Johnson started to rise from his laying position, shouldering his gun as he rose. Then, he stopped in mid-kneel, his jaw barely perceptibly dropping. The girl jerked roughly once, twice, three times. Small spurts of blood followed the bullets out of her body, and she fell to the ground very gracefully for one that was quite apparently dead.

            Sgt Johnson stared at the falling girl in complete disbelief. He fell back to the ground, tears starting to show in his eyes. He looked at me, and mouthed one single word: How? We stared at each other for a long moment, and then the ricochet of a bullet off of the asphalt between us woke me back up. I grabbed the shaken man by the shoulder and dragged him for a second back to cover. He got up and followed, leaping behind the chunk of car with me. We sat and looked around while bullets still zipped through the air around us, gasping for air. I looked to him, wondering what we should do. He was the one who always knew. Instead of resolve in his eyes, for once I saw distance. He was thinking, seeing. Slowly, a light of realization illuminated those amber orbs, and without a word, he rose from our cover. I grabbed my rifle and peeked around the corner of the car, expecting him to make some kind of mad dash. But no. He walked very slowly towards the body of the girl, holding his M-16 at his side. He knelt at her, and held her head up. He gazed into her face for a long moment, staring into those dead eyes. He let her back to the ground elegantly, and placed his rifle beside her body. He took out his 9mm and put it beside the rifle, and slipped out his knife and put it by the weapons. He pulled out all of his magazines of ammo, and placed his grenades on the ground as well. He removed his helmet, and placed it over the girl’s face. And then, with the same definition of his every move, he strode forth, unarmed. He was done with war. The last we saw of Sgt Johnson was of him disappearing in the smoke, striding toward the gunfire of the enemy. He is listed as MIA, but I doubt he could have survived that walk. We have no way of knowing, for we were forced to retreat minutes later.

            I wonder if he decided that it was simply too much to be asked to kill another human. A man as caring as himself can only do that for so long, right? Surely he was driven past the point. I can’t help but wonder… Was he right to walk out on combat, on killing people who we don’t even know? With each minute of reflection on his actions, I am sure he knew what he was doing. His every action was measured. He was more than a Marine. He was a man.

Author's Note

It is what it is.

Reviews

[Larissa G.]

It was beautiful. I saw a few grammar errors here and there, but overall the flow was not choppy. I loved the style, how it was written as a memoir in the way men and humans talk. It helped that it wasn't overly lavish in vocabulary. The theme, the idea, was a lovely one. I wish it was expanded upon, kinda. Thank you for sharing. I'm sorry it took so long to read, but it was worth marking this on my list. I look forward to more, as always. :) Keep writing and keep thinking of great ideas to share with us.

[[untitled]]

Maybe he walked away because he finally found out that "they lied". A very interesting write.

[Laura Sparkle]

hmmmmmm..... interesting :)

[.::Cup^E^Cake*RaWr!*::.]

Damn!!!!!!
This is amazing!!
I love it!!
Great Write!!