You Never Forget...

There’s an old credo I read about once upon a time. I’ve always thought it would serve well for any soldier willing to take it to heart:

I do not aim with my arm. A soldier who aims with his arm has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my finger. A soldier who shoots with his finger has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my hand. I do not kill with my gun. A soldier who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.

It was a day like any other in Dispatch that morning, phones ringing, Nextels singing, problems popping up and beaten down like Hell’s crazy version of Whackamole; an eternally churning juggernaut of chaos being hammered into order, blow by vicious blow.

And as chaos was pounded on the inside, the rain pounded off the roof outside as a reminder that our quest is never finished- CAN never be finished – that we must derive our fulfillment from the journey, for there will be no destination. No matter how many things are made right and just and ordered and square, the sound and the fury rage on, bigger than ourselves, larger than life, so easily able to make our strongest efforts futile, held back not by our efforts but by One far greater than ourselves.

But you don’t think these thoughts in the thick of it, not consciously at least. The hammering, the pounding, it all becomes a background as constant as our heartbeats, required but not noticed or acknowledged. Every venue offers its own version of the same: the drum beat in the dance hall, the machine pulse in the factory, and the materiel detonations in battle, a sporadic, haphazard, choking and often abruptly ending sort of heartbeat, engineered ironically to cause exactly the same thing.

If he’s been at war long enough, a soldier no longer hears the sound of conflict around him, not directly. He can sleep through it, have a casual conversation in the midst of it, even play a game. When he dives into a foxhole for an incoming, it becomes an event as everyday as starting the car in the morning; no big deal, just something that needs doing. Get up, shower, shave, get dressed, kill, avoid getting killed, back to base, grab dinner, off to bed, maybe catch some TV.

But still, when Dispatch became a killing field this morning, it surprises me now how unsurprising it was then as events actually transpired.

It was a day like any other in Dispatch; until Charlie made his presence known. It was just a flash at first; just a blur, really. He came from Schedules. Silent, and fast, his motives and objective unknown. He used ground cover to his advantage, making his advances sporadically but persistently, pausing each time behind a tote, a tower, or a box.

It became clear very soon that Charlie knew where he was going. Indeed, Charlie had been here before. This was all just another day for him, just another rodeo. But in the end, Charlie’s strength became his weakness, and his victory his downfall.

The front line steadily advanced: The Schedules doorway. The small space between the dispatch counter and the doorwell. Joe’s tower. Joe’s wastebasket. My tower. My wastebasket. Through broom thrusts and stompings and kickings, the enemy steadily advanced until his goal was revealed. The little space between my file cabinet and the wall. Charlie’s home. Charlie’s tomb.

I do not aim with my leg. A soldier who aims with his leg has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not crush with my foot. A soldier who crushes with his foot has forgotten the face of his father. I crush with my file cabinet. I do not kill with my file cabinet. A soldier who kills with his file cabinet has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.