Phil Klay - Redeployment

Two years later,Alexander Newberry, formerly of Charlie Company, appeared in an event called Winter Soldier, organized by the protest group Iraq Veterans Against the War. The event was supposed to prove the illegality of the war, and since a Marine from my old battalion was taking part, I watched most of it on YouTube. The panel of veterans was of varied quality. Many were vague and unconvincing, and what they complained about seemed more like the standard horror of war than any particular pattern of misconduct. Newberry, however, had brought a camera to Iraq and used photos and video to accompany his testimony. He claimed to have abused Iraqis and shot some just to take out aggression. He claimed Captain Boden congratulated every Marine on their first kill and told everyone that if a Marine got their first kill by stabbing someone to death, they’d get a ninety-six-hour pass when they got back. It sounded right.

Newberry had a series of slides he flipped through that were projected behind him, and he brought up pictures of two people he had killed, both of whom he claimed were innocent. He showed a video of Marines firing on mosques and talked about conducting “recon by fire,” where he said they would shoot up a neighborhood in order to start a firefight.

The comments section beneath the video was a mess of antiwar and human rights folks either congratulating Newberry or calling him scum. A few posts seemed to be from Marines, and even Marines from the battalion. “I was there. Alex no telling the whole story.” “This guy was the biggest shit bag ever.” “boohoo they had to kill some people. what did he think was gonna happen when he became a MACHINE GUNNER IN THE MARINE INFANTRY.” “It’s the commanders fault don’t feel bad Alex.” “No one told him to kill innocent people he did it himself and blames the Corps he committed war crimes what a nut and its not true this happens often i know im a Marine.”

At this time, I was still serving as a chaplain at Camp Lejeune. I’d done a stint at Base and then ended up transferred to a new battalion. While there, I’d occasionally run into Staff Sergeant Haupert, who’d been transferred to the same unit and whose Ramadi days were clearly still with him. He’d tattooed the name of every Marine from his company who’d died on his right arm. Combat deaths and suicides. He was widely respected in the unit.

The one time we discussed Winter Soldier, Haupert spoke of Newberry with intense hatred. “It’s not whether it happened or not. You don’t talk about some of the shit that happened. We lived in a place that was totally different from anything those hippies in that audience could possibly understand. All those jerks who think they’re so good ’cause they’ve never had to go out on a street in Ramadi and weigh your life against the lives of the people in the building you’re taking fire from. You can’t describe it to someone who wasn’t there, you can hardly remember how it was yourself because it makes so little sense. And to act like somebody could live and fight for months in that shit and not go insane, well, that’s what’s really crazy. And then Alex is gonna go and act like a big hero, telling everybody how bad we were. We weren’t bad. I wanted to shoot every Iraqi I saw, every day. And I never did. Fuck him.”

The next suicidewas Rodriguez’s old squad leader, Sergeant Ditoro. He did it around the time Lieutenant Colonel Fehr was promoted and made a regimental commander. Not long after, Rodriguez showed up at the base chapel. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was pacing up and down the walkway to the chapel, and when I stepped outside to speak with him, he looked up, startled, looking lost and childlike. So different from before.

Haupert had already told me a little of Ditoro’s story. In the last month of the deployment, an IED had blown Ditoro’s arm off. Though he’d intended to be a career Marine, after a year in the Wounded Warrior Regiment he’d gotten out of the Corps and gone on to live in New Jersey for a few years. And then he’d shot himself, left-handed, in the head.

What I didn’t know was that he’d e-mailed Rodriguez a suicide note right before he did it. That night, on the walkway outside the chapel, Rodriguez was holding it, a well-creased printout of Ditoro’s last recorded words. When I walked up to him, he handed it to me without explanation, and I didn’t even read it at first.

“It’s Ramiro, right?” I said. “Ramiro Rodriguez. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

He shrugged. His face was softer, more resigned than I’d ever seen it. I could smell alcohol on him. “I don’t know if I did good or not,” Rodriguez said. He rubbed his face with his hands. “They say Ramadi’s quiet now. You can walk down the streets no problem.”

I nodded. “Violence dropped in that city like ninety-something percent,” I said. “That’s where the Awakening started.”

“You think we contributed to that?” he said. “You think what we did mattered?”

“Maybe. I’m not a tactics guy, I’m a chaplain.”

“We killed a lot of hajjis,” he said.

“Yes.”

We stood in silence for a while. He looked down at the e-mail in my hands and I scanned it quickly.

i keep remembering where i was when i lost my arm. i wanted to die very fast because i was in ramadi and ramadi was the miserablest part of the world and i was in so much pain. did you see alex saying they were killing civilian? his platoon was fucked like ours but lets be honest that place was all war. remember that little kid planting ieds. i dont feel bad about shooting mosques and never will they were insurgent ratholes every fucking one. i hit sammie pretty bad and she left and could have threw me in jail if she wanted. i feel bad about that but most I feel bad about fuji who you said was my fault and there youre right. i was his squad leader and i sent him up there i dont think anything i can do would make up for that even if i got killed rescuing someone plus theres what you said about bicycle man. remember him. remember what acosta did after levin. i believe in god i believe in hell. id like to tell fujis family that the guy who got his son killed is facing judgment and hes scared but happy. judgement isnt hanging over his head anymore and now hell get what he deserves and maybe even mercy. maybe you could tell them. you were a good saw gunner and you did right. im glad you were in my squad.

When I finished I looked up at Rodriguez. My hands were shaking. His weren’t.

“Do you blame yourself?” I said.

He looked out at the St. Francis Xavier Chapel, a small building ringed by trees.

“A bit,” he said. He looked at me sidelong. “I blame you a bit, too. For not doing anything. But I blame myself more.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“You didn’t want forgiveness when we were over there,” I said. “Do you want it now?”

“From you?”

I had to smile at that. “No,” I said. “That I’m worthless is well established. God’s forgiveness might be different.”

He scowled. I think I wanted him to confess as much for my good as for his. It didn’t really matter to me if he didn’t think he believed anymore. Belief can come through process.

I grabbed hold of the small cross on my collar. “You know this was a torture device, right?”

At that he laughed. I didn’t mind. I knew Rodriguez hadn’t come here just to laugh at me.

“Twenty centuries of Christianity,” I said. “You’d think we’d learn.” I fingered the small cross. “In this world, He only promises we don’t suffer alone.”

Rodriguez turned and spat into the grass. “Great,” he said.