I can still feel the warmth that seemed to radiate off the
glow of the late night moon hanging above. A dark, almost lifeless city passing
by. And, so very clear, as if he were standing next to me at this very moment,
I can hear my Sergeant yelling frantically into my headphones, “Shoot him!
McKee, shoot him!” I replay it in my mind like it’s on a constant loop.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I could see and hear all that
was happening, the orders being sent directly to me.
At 23 years old in mid-2005, I found myself barreling 60
miles an hour down a very unfamiliar road in Mosul, Iraq. Perched atop the
turret of an up armored Humvee, tightly clutching the handle of a M240 Bravo
machine gun, my finger firmly, nervously on the trigger. Two words, “shoot him”,
“shoot him”, “shoot him” is all I could hear, all I could feel, like life was
sucked out of every inch of the world around me. Time seemed to stop, with only
my heart beating rapidly. In the few seconds that this all occurred, I fully
understood what was being asked of me, what I was going to have to do.
Up to this point and time, I had been in the middle of it
all for six months, landing in the hot, sandy desert just days after Christmas
in 2004. I signed the dotted line to become a member of the military in early
2002 with a childhood friend of mine, a decision we made while sitting around a
bonfire, drinking beer, laughing. It wasn’t long after September 2001, or 9-11.
It all felt right. Just out of high school, not much going on in life. And, of
course, our country needed us.
Throughout the six months leading up to this very night,
there were constant late night missions. In between work we would play with the
kids in all the different towns we would find ourselves, talk with locals, and
do our best to take it all in. My views on not just the war or our government were
changing, but the very person I was for the previous 23 years of my life were drastically
changing as well. Yes, there were evil people doing awful things, but there
were also very innocent, very loving people losing their lives at the hands of
the United States government. I found it increasingly difficult and
heartbreaking to try and rationalize what exactly I was even doing. But, no
matter what I thought, there I was, pointing my gun at an oncoming truck driven
by an Iraqi civilian.
As I attempted to mentally get my shit together and really
grasp what the hell was going on, I heard it again, “Shoot him”. But, this
time, I could feel a much greater sense of panic in the voice coming through my
headset. All civilian cars are supposed to stop and move to the side of the
road when an American military convoy was coming through, but this guy
continued his trek in our direction. Was he a suicide bomber? Was the truck
full of enemy combatants about to ambush us? There was just no way to know, and
we weren’t about to stop and ask questions first. So, all the training I had
been through kicked into gear. At this point, my Sergeant, who was in the
passenger’s seat of the Humvee, was vigorously tugging on my pant leg, slapping
at me to get my attention as if maybe I hadn’t heard the constant yelling of his
very clear orders. So, I took the deepest breath that had ever filled my lungs,
and I took aim. When all other attempts to get the guy off the road failed, it
was time. I can close my eyes and
literally see myself first aiming at the driver himself, but quickly deciding
to aim for the passenger side and engine compartment. Another deep breath, and
I pulled the trigger. Nothing. My gun had malfunctioned. So I reset myself,
reloaded the ammo, and this time pointed the barrel directly at the man driving
the truck, who was now just a few feet away from us. I can still see his eyes
looking back at me. He seemed just as scared, and just as unsure of life itself
as I did. But, I had orders. Another deep breath, finger on the trigger, aim,
fire.
Nothing.
After a second malfunction, the truck passed us by. No
ambush, no suicide bombing.
The overwhelming feeling of happiness, joy, sadness, guilt, and
just about every emotion I had in my body washed over me. We were fine. He was
fine. I remember the rest of the night being one big blur. All I could think about
was this encounter. All I could think about was what I almost did.
Another grueling six months slowly passed by, and I was
home. Another few months after that, I was out of the military. I remember waking
up the first day of finally getting to put my civilian clothes back on, and
feeling like a completely different human being, in the best way possible. I
survived. It was time to live life.
I sit here today continuing to struggle with that very
night. It’s hard to explain why, though, to be honest. Why would I struggle
with something that ultimately had no consequence? But, when I think about it,
I think about that guy. I think about looking directly into his eyes, knowing
full well that I was about to end his life, and for no reason at all. Sure, he
could have been somebody trying to inflict harm onto us, onto me. But, he wasn't.
He didn't. He was just another guy trying to get home, stuck inside a living
hell. He was a complete stranger to me, somebody I would most likely never meet
in a million lifetimes over. We lived in different worlds.
It’s an extremely minor event considering what other
soldiers faced and will face in the future, but it’s still something that
sticks with me. Something I dream about. It’s just scary to think of having
innocent blood on my hands, because if things had gone differently that night,
I know I wouldn’t have been able to go on with my own life.
