Incrusted
War is a filthy undertaking. No one ever leaves combat with clean
hands and shining armor. The military mind is preoccupied with
spit-and-polish, which is anathema to operational camouflage; and
both are indifferent to the basic premise of field hygiene ... to
wit, a clean machine performs optimally. Officialdom deludes
itself with unrealistic rationales about preventing disease,
maintaining military order, and sustaining morale, under some
vague notion of preserving government property. But that's not
the root cause for good hygiene, and any soldier in field
operations knows the real reason. Any improvised bivouac lasting
more than a week inspires the true impulse for hygiene. Many men
have kept a sense of identity with attentive personal care. The
inner-breast-pocket for pens on most fatigue uniforms contained
spoons, toothbrushes, and combs. Many men have kept a sense of
personal discipline with regular shaving or routine bathing. One
of my patrol comrades insisted that stealth was impossible if
body-odor wasn't obliterated by daily sponge-baths. A replacement
uniform that's been freshly laundered in a muddy flow,
and donned over a sweaty body, can restore pride and purpose. The
essential complement to physical hygiene is mental hygiene. A
clean body evokes a clear mind, and together they serve to keep
the soldier alive. Violent death, which is inherently messy and
unclean, was all around us, and we didn't become inured or
disregarding as much as vacant and eviscerated. We noticed, and
we would long remember, but there wasn't enough time to care;
there wasn't any acceptable way to express our feelings. This
poignant fact became obvious to me when, after breaking contact
and attempting to treat a mortally wounded enemy soldier, I
realized that I would never know his name, could never explain
anything to his family, and would probably never forget him. He'd
been so young, so irreparable, and so stalwart in the face of
imminent death. We continued toward our Remain Over-Night site,
and prepared for rotating assignments. When I joined the others
for a meal, I noticed that I still had the dead soldier's dried
blood on my hands ... I couldn't eat with these hands. Because
water was scarce, I left our perimeter, pissed on my hands to
wash them, and dried them on my dirty pants. I then returned to
the dinner circle, and no one spoke of my acts. Days later, when
we were exfiltrated, the team dispersed. I marched directly into
the basecamp's shower-room, disrobing in the soapy spray. The
blood stains had changed my priorities. The debriefing to accrete
more documentation, and the subsequent filing of Intel-Reps and
After Action Reports would have to wait for me to restore my
composure, to reconstruct my facade, to reinvent my impersonal
shell. A new man would emerge from the crust ... someone I did
not want to know.
by Pan Perdu
... who is a former soldier and VA counselor; this work has been
excerpted from Fragmentations, a book in progress.
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