Archives » Friday, February 22, 2008
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David Botti
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Feb 22, 2008 08:04 AM
Usually about this time every year my occasional moments of personal
reflection begin to ramp up as the war's anniversary draws closer. Back
then, in 2003, it seemed we were about to embark on the defining
moment of our generation. Five years later, those few months leading
up to the invasion seem to be diluted by time. They were not
singular months that would become labeled by history as the "War in
Iraq"--they would simply mark the starting point. Through the
distance of five years, it is difficult to remember what it felt
like for the United States to actually go to war.
Around
this time my reserve rifle company, having just come off of a year of
active duty in December, got the call for all Marines to show up for
anthrax shots. It came unexpectedly and without explanation. No one
said we were going to Iraq, but in his silence it was almost as if our
company commander was winking his eye and nodding his head. The
prospect of once again leaving our home so soon, left many of the
Marines bitter and brooding. Emotions were running so high
from our possible deployment and our recent return home that I barely
remember even watching the news. I have no recollection of following
the various UN resolutions and posturing by the U.S. and Iraq. I do
not remember hearing of other military units being deployed to Kuwait,
or the comments made by Secretary of State Powell at the UN regarding
Iraq's weapons program. The only news we waited for, or cared about,
was whether the phone call to mobilize came again.
If a moment
from that time can sum up the mood among my fellow Marines, it came
during a three-hour long car ride from our company HQ to my house near
Boston. My good friend was dropping me off on this way to Maine where
his young wife and two dogs lived. When we first got in the car I
remember him dropping into the driver's seat without a word, starting
the car, and turning on the radio--all the while staring straight
ahead. I know that his perceived unfairness of our situation--that we'd
just spent one year mobilized already--was grinding away
at any kind of happiness our recent homecoming had given him: he'd been
screwed by the military again.
We did not speak for a good
long while. Interstate 90 stretched before us into the night, visible
only in the car's headlights as occasional rest-areas flashed past. At
one point he asked, substituting his brooding expression with one of
hopefulness: "You don't think they'll really activate us again, do you?"
I
had no answer, and that seemed to make him more frustrated. A few
minutes later we had a burst of arguing over what radio station to
listen to. He wanted to change it, I wanted to keep it. I was
surprised how angry I was at him for such a stupid thing. He probably felt the same way about me. After we compromised I felt
better, and we barely talked for the rest of the drive. He dropped me
off at my parents' house, said goodbye, and two months later we were in
Iraq.
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