Memoirs written in prose of Sergeant Robertson, Damon M. USMC while in Iraq | ...with frequent appearances of King Hammurabi.
If you are new to this journal, make sure to start reading in chronological order by scrolling down to the bottom of the oldest post in October 2004. Damon's letters from August 20th, 2004 - October 23rd, 2004 were all added to this blog on Oct. 23rd, 2004. All subsequent letters are posted in real time.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: ... There it is. The body. Torn up very badly. His face is frozen in a grimace of pain. Splattered, dried blood covers his limbs. His face is ripped, burnt. He doesn't even smell yet. I peer at him, swallowing the urge to be afraid of this spectacle. Breathe easy, :D It's just a dead body. Land mine casualty. Nothing supernaturally frightening. Just a lump of carbon, now. Hammurabi reaches down and takes the dog tag from around his neck and reads. "..." but his mouth won't sound out the name. I take the tag myself, subconciously terrified of hazardous bacteria or residual chemicals from the explosion, consciously derisive of myself for such a petty fear. "Truth," I read. ... 'rabbi and I sip our "coffee." "You know," he says at long last, "we had better stuff when I was in charge." I don't argue. The instant Yuban we have tastes like... iraq. Or "butt crack," whichever term suffices to communicate the level of cullinary incivility I'm willing to tolerate to get my fix. All the same, we made a third cup and placed it by the litter next to us. For the dead guy. His is getting cold and he hasn't touched it. I sip mine and don't blame him for not doing the same. Where he's going, they've *got* to have better stuff than this. "You keep promising me the real thing," Hammurabi says. "Yeah, I know," I respond. "The packages aren't here yet. My friend is sending me starbucks..." "Yes," he interrupts, "Tell me more about this 'Siren' you keep referring to. Is she a god?" "Nah, man. Just an icon." "But you worship her?" The wind is rippling through the cammy netting above us. The perforated shadows dance at our feet, accross our bench, over us and everything. "Not so much," I say, wondering in my heart how much I rely on the cup of muddy water in my hands to keep my blood sugar levels between "Manic" and "Depressed," hopefully in the range we call "sane." I look at 'Rabbi. He isn't convinced. "I don't, but a lot of people do. You know how it is. With one part of a tree-- the beans in this case-- a man fashions a thing he worships, the coffee. With the other part of the tree, he makes fuel for a fire, and never stops to consider that the ultimate substance of the one is no greater than the other, apart from the question of utility, of course." He looks at me with an arched eyebrow. "You know you talk with big words when you've had too much of this stuff, right?" I sigh. It almost creeps me out that we're keeping this body company, but it seems right. Truth was a good man brought down by the ingenious subterfuge of the land mine. In my heart I am sad, because now the relativists are right. No more Truth. Just small, multiple "truths," the sort that pass for "Truth" when/if your friends will let you get away with calling a truth the Truth. I'm angry because I know when he's burried, the man won't have many medals on his chest, either. Seems that it takes a lot of self-glorifying to get those nowadays, and Truth would have none of it. He even lost rank once, having stood up for what was right, and calling out our leaders with the sort of honesty we'd come to expect from him. Now we really do have to rely on what people write down. I look at Hammurabi, hoping he doesn't know how irritated I am that he's right. ,,, It's been a stressful week. Thank you all for your prayers and your love. ... :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:45 PM 