The Bridge

People like to ask me, "Hey, you were in the Army, right? What was Iraq like? Ya ever shoot anybody?"

Yeah, I was in the Army. Yes, I went to Iraq. I was even on the front lines. I shot my rifle plenty but I have no idea where every bullet went. The army spent over $500,000 and 15 months preparing me for Iraq. They taught me how to shoot, move, communicate, kill, and survive on three continents but every time people ask me about Iraq, I tell them that it's a horrible place. They say, "Is it really that bad over there?" I always tell them the same story.

The Army is a great place to find out who you are but the lessons can be painful. From the moment you get off the bus, someone starts yelling at you and they do not stop until you retire or die. The drill sergeants do their best to teach you how to follow orders; in fact they like to tell you all the terrible things that can happen if you don’t. Then they tell you about “illegal orders.” That’s when someone who outranks you orders you to break the law or commit a war crime. They like to tell you about all the terrible things that can happen if you follow an illegal order. I remember getting frustrated.

“They can arrest me for doing what they told me to do! If I refuse to follow an order and it turns out to be legit, they can arrest me for that too!”

What they are preparing you for are the times when there is no right thing to do. They are preparing you for a place that constantly challenges the neat black and white of right and wrong; a place where human life is worth only slightly more than gasoline and less than a gun. You have to do what you’re told; even if it makes you a bad person. That's what it was like in Iraq.

After my unit had some success in Balad, we were redeployed to Samarra. Samarra was a particularly seweresque city. The riots had just been subdued and the people were now under U.S. military control. I'm using the word "control" loosely. Basically, there was no control. It just meant a curfew. Every man, woman, and child had to be inside their homes by 6pm, or 1800 military time. Anyone found outside of their home or attempting to enter or leave the city could be shot on sight. Shoot first; ask questions in the daylight.

Our job, aside from patrolling the city, was to guard the 3 roads into town. I was in charge of guarding the road to the west which led to a bridge. The Samarra Bridge, despite being only 2 lanes wide, was very long. On the far side was a desert wasteland. On my side was a short road leading to the city only bending around my Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle, or "Brad" for short. The Brad is a bit like a small tank and routinely carries enough firepower to level a neighborhood.

Usually, there would be 3 of us: Staff Sergeant Buchan, the Bradley Commander, Specialist Soto, the Gunner, and me, Private First Class Taillefer, the driver. Due to the fact that we were on 12-hour guard duty instead of running missions, Sergeant Buchan stayed at the base making life terrible for the guys who had to clean. Two soldiers are the minimum for such a long shift, so Soto and I were on our own.

We walk through deep mud and thick smoke until we reached our post, a lone Brad in the middle of the desert facing a bridge to nowhere. When we arrive, I take off my helmet and use it to knock loudly on the troop door in the back. Two of my friends have been waiting for us. They drop the loading ramp on the back of the vehicle and climb out.

“You’re late,” Engleman complains.

“You should be watching the bridge instead of the clock,” I shoot back.

Up 'till now, the works been easy. All we had to do was sit around and watch people drive over a bridge. Then, at 1730, half an hour before curfew, we would announce that we were closing the bridge. At 1800, we moved barbed wire into the road. Then, we'd just kick back until dawn when our relief would show up. Every few hours I would take a turn watching the bridge and let Soto take a break. Normally during our respective breaks, I would be reading cheap donated paperbacks, and Soto would sleep. Every so often Soto would interrupt my novel to tell me a story or talk about life back home. Every so often I would start the engine to keep the batteries charged and count the hours before we could head back. We take our positions and prepare for a long night.

1630… My eyes are blurry and tired. I need a break from my romance novel. I tell Soto that I'm going to take a shift for awhile. Cars race across the bridge; especially military vehicles which don't have to obey any kind of speed limit. Civilians slow down to navigate the serpentine roadblock in front of the Brad's main gun. Adults stare straight ahead unblinking. Small, smiling faces would wave and inside my hatch, under ten inches of armor, looking through bulletproof periscopes, I would smile and wave back.

1730… I radio the TOC, or tactical operations center, and tell them that the bridge will be closing soon. I radio observation post “blue” and describe the last vehicle in line to cross the bridge, a little light blue sedan.

The cars cross the bridge and he radios back, “Roger that O.P. Green, I've got a big yellow bongo truck followed by a little blue sedan. Last vehicle received. Bridge is closed, out.” I open a bag of chips and relax a bit knowing that the worst part of the shift is over; nothing to do now but sit tight and wait for our replacements.

1750… I’m seeing things. I must be seeing things because there's a car approaching the bridge from the far side. This shouldn't be happening. It shouldn't even be possible. The only cars on the road should be military. Why didn't the last checkpoint stop them? Unless they avoided the checkpoint altogether.

I start yelling at my gunner, “Soto! Soto, you up?”

Soto sounds sleepy, “Tally, what’s going on?”

The great thing about the U.S. military is, when something goes wrong, everyone turns in to an alert, level headed professional.

“I've got a vehicle headed toward the bridge.”

Soto doesn't hesitate for a second. The main gun whirs to life and trains the barrel on the little car tracking it automatically with a press of a button while Soto calls the TOC in his usual swarthy Puerto Rican accent,

“Roughrider TOC, this is O.P. Green, over.”

A second later, the radio crackles to life spraying some loud mouth radio operator all over the inside of our headsets, “O.P. Green, this is Roughrider TOC. Go ahead, over.” I turn down my volume.

Soto explains the situation to the radio operator as quickly, calmly, and specifically as he can so that no time is wasted. As he speaks, I watch the rising plume of dust that follows the little car to our position. I'm not listening to the radio. I'm trying to see how many people are in the car but it's still so far away.

The voice on the other end is no longer the radio operator, but the Lieutenant himself, “DO NOT LET THAT VEHICLE PAST YOU, OVER!” The order is spoken so loudly and clearly that there is no mistaking it and there is no arguing.

Soto replies, “Request permission for a warning shot, over.” A tense moment passes...

“O.P. Green, request denied, over.”

Soto keys the internal vehicle radio and asks, "Well, Tally, what should I do?"

I was always the safe one. I was the one that kept us out of trouble. I wanted to go home. But I didn't know what to say at first.

“We’ll light him up 100 meters before he touches the bridge; that way we don’t accidentally blow it up, that should give us enough time to score a hit.”

We both know that a single round from the main gun will turn that car into an empty taco shell. I watch the tiny car grow larger. Soto dials up a high explosive round and trains the gun between the car and the bridge. My eyes stop blinking. I take a long breath and hold it.

The car stops just before Soto squeezes the trigger. A man gets out of the driver’s seat with his hands so high above his head; he looks like a child asking his mother to pick him up. He walks this way, with his hands up, taking giant awkward steps toward the bridge. I get my binoculars and begin a visual inspection for weapons while Soto Radios the TOC again. The man wears the basic Iraqi man's uniform. A man dress, brown flip-flops, and darkly tanned skin. He starts walking over the bridge. By now, Soto has explained everything to the TOC, and we're waiting for a response.

“O.P. Green, find out what he wants and send him away. He is not to enter this city. Is that understood? Over.”

“Roger that, over.” Soto sounds pleased to receive an order that doesn't include shooting the man.

We both sit and stare at him as he makes his way over the bridge. It seems to take hours to get halfway. As he walks, arms still pressed to the clear desert sky, we take a few minutes to come up with a plan. We agree that I should be the one to engage him. Soto would keep the main gun trained on his car and operate the radio. I load my rifle, turn off the engine and open my hatch.

The sun and wind and sand blasts my eyes and for a moment, it feels as if I have been asleep for a very long time. My eyes gradually adjust, I carefully lower my boots to the ground, and compose myself. I wait for the man to enter earshot before I raise my weapon. I tell him to stop.

“AWGFU!” I yelled. The man, hands still high above his head, stops so suddenly he almost falls over. I take a step forward and ask, “Aan-dek Is-lah?”

He responds in English, “No! No weapons!”

I lower my rifle and verify, “You speak English?”

Sweat pours from the man's face and he says, “Yes, English- no weapon!”

I am relieved because that's all the Arabic I know. I calmly insist, “The city is closed. You can’t come here. You have to go back.”

The man begins to explain, “We come from hospital in next town. Americans shoot my daughter. She dies today. I go home now.” He points to the city behind me. Soto has started calling the TOC as a woman holding a small child gets out of the car and starts walking across the bridge.

I nervously wait for Soto to finish talking on the radio. I keep a tight grip on my rifle and shift my gaze so that I can keep an eye on the man and his wife and the baby in her arms. The woman crosses the bridge in what seems like seconds and now I hold the entire family at gunpoint as I wait for Soto to receive further instructions. The man explains the situation to his wife in Arabic. She starts to sob uncontrollably. She hands him the child just in time to fall to the ground screaming and begging in my general direction in a language I do not understand. I’m getting anxious.

I start to speak loudly to the man, practically yelling over the sobs of his wife, "You should go back to your car and drive back to the hospital. They will let you sleep there. You can come back tomorrow. If you try to enter the city tonight, we will shoot you."

The man is shaking his head before I'm finished talking, "We cannot! If we return to the hospital, the guards there will shoot us!" I know the man is right. Soto is still on the radio negotiating an escort to take them home. My eyes meet Soto's but they're filled with sorrow. He lowers the radio and shakes his head. The man begs me, "We sleep in the car?" Soto relays the question on to the radio.

He shakes his head and looks back at me, “TOC says if they park on the side of a road, they’ll be blown up by any convoy that passes.” The baby in the man's arms begins to cry.

I remember a story that I had heard about an American tourist that gave a family twenty American dollars to sleep in their house overnight until U.S. forces could arrive. I think to myself that there’s a nearby village where they may be able to hide and an idea starts to form. I check my pockets, but it's been months since I've needed money. I ask Soto if he has any money, but he only shakes his head once more.

I tell the man, “Here’s what you’re gonna do: You’re gonna get in your car and drive to the nearest village and you’re gonna tell them that you need to stay with them tonight or the Americans are gonna kill you. Do you understand?”

Over his crying wife, and the screaming child in his arms, the man says, “They are not my tribe; they will kill us or American soldiers will shoot us as we drive.” I look at Soto for help, but he looks back with a lost look in his eyes and closes himself in to his hatch. The TOC had given up. Soto had given up... I gave up.

I point my rifle at the family and yell as ferociously as I can, “Walk away! Get outta here!” The woman begins to howl in anguish as if someone has stabbed her in the back. “Walk Away!” I shout again, but it's not the roar I wanted. The words catch in my throat and I fight back tears as I make my way around the track to my hatch. The man walks back to his wife, still in a heap on the hot sand in the twilight sun. He helps her to her feet and without looking back, they make their way across the bridge once more, weeping the entire way.

I drop into the driver's seat and slam my hatch closed. It's now 1830, if they tried to drive anywhere their car would be destroyed. If they tried to walk they would be shot. Even the baby knew that much. Through my periscope I watch the man start his car, turn around, and drive away. I turn off my reading light and watch the sunset.

Soto and I spent the rest of that guard shift in silence. I did not read. He did not sleep. We looked out into the darkness hoping for a sign that they were okay, but it never came. Soto and I sat together on guard shift numerous times. We were always waiting for the day when the Fedayeen would try to take back the city, or the day when we would have to protect each other from some crazed Jihadi with with a suicide bomb, or the day when we'd meet our first real Taliban, but it never came. Just a mourning family trying to get home.

Soto and I never talked about what happened. We were just being good soldiers. We did as we were told. Not long after that, I left the military. I swore I would never have to carry out orders like that again. Soto died during his second tour of Iraq. Sometimes I still think about him and whether he would have handled it differently if he had been the one on the ground. I still have nightmares about that family. I never asked any of their names but I remember their faces so clearly.

They try to prepare you as best they can. The drill sergeants did their best to teach me how to follow orders; in fact they liked to tell me all the terrible things that could happen if I didn’t. But they never mentioned the terrible things that could happen if I did. I learned a lot about myself in the Army. I just wish the lessons hadn't been so painful.