shame

Lying on my cot, I came to the point that many people reach in a situation where they stop what they’re doing and say, "Wait a second. This is bullshit. This isn’t right." Two guys in our battalion were dead, two families ruined. And try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what the purpose of that was.

Things that had been welling up inside me all summer suddenly exploded in my head like a dozen Roman candles. I hated the president for his ignorance. I hated Donald Rumsfeld for his appalling arrogance and his lack of judgment. I hated their agenda. I hated Colin Powell for abandoning the Army—for not taking care of his soldiers—when he could have done something to stop these people. I hated them because the Army had seen this insurgency coming. I hated them because they didn’t listen to the people who told them this was a bad plan. I hated them because now, it meant that my guys could be next. It meant that I could be next. And I didn’t want to die like this—not in a confusing mishmash of ideologies, purposes, and bullets.

I felt like we had been taken advantage of. We were professionals sent on a wild goose chase using a half-baked plan for political reasons. Lying there restlessly, I was reminded of a Schwarzenegger line in one of his movies—when, after being used and lied to, his muscle-bound character had expressed perfectly what was now on my mind: My men are not expendable. And I don’t do this kind of work.

I longed for the clarity of purpose we’d had in Afghanistan.