Warhammer

           Al Diwaniyah, Iraq. I had been in the desert for 16 days. The heat was exhausting, the stress overwhelming, yet the adrenaline pumping through my veins was intoxicating. As my body attempted to adjust to the extreme change in climate, my mind experienced a struggle between the contemplation of an inevitable death and the desire to survive. I was 20-years old. A child in the eyes of some, but a man in the eyes of my country. I was certainly too young to die. On this day I discovered how close I was… how close I was to death.

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            Living comfortably in the desert requires a great deal of ingenuity. Without air conditioning, the inside of a canvas tent was bound to cook a man. I spent most of this particular morning fine-tuning an air-induction system to my “jack-shack” (which is simply a vulgar way of describing my partitioned section of the tent). Let me tell you, if you think living in the desert sounds difficult, try living in the desert… in a ten by twenty foot tent… with six other dudes.

            I was forced to abandon my tinkering when I heard Staff Sergeant Jonothan Erich enter the tent. I noticed my comrades eyeing him curiously as he explained the instructions for our mission that evening. Erich had made the unfortunate decision to grow a large mustache during this time away from his wife… the inch-long, reddish-blonde sprigs jutted straight out of his face. This, coupled with his rather large body size, made him look like a walrus. Everyone thought so, but nobody told him. We needed something to laugh at. “Alright guys…” he said, looking slightly confused by the awkward expressions of his fellow soldiers. “This evening we’re doing convoy security. We’ll be escorting thirty-one semi-trucks loaded with supplies to Baghdad International Airport.”

            The transition from the cool tent to the burning air outside was breathtaking. It was 110 degrees. Sweat trickled down my face as I lugged my Kevlar vest, helmet bag, backpack (containing 800 rounds of ammo), and my M249 SAW to the Humvee… which was about a half a mile away. Our company was called “Warhammer.” We were the 3^rd team in the 2^nd squad of the 4^th platoon. There were eleven soldiers in this particular group; three per Humvee… except for mine, which was the Lead Team – there were four soldiers in Charlie.

            Erich was Squad Leader. His love for power was always at odds with his general cluelessness. Specialist Richard “the Dick” Mays was our driver. He thought he knew everything about everything because he grew up in a military family. He constantly tried to control our team, but the truck commander, Sergeant Michael Dement, wouldn’t have it. Dement was the most professional of us all… and very religious. I, as I already stated, was the gunner. Just a young, country boy from a small farm in the middle of nowhere. We all got along great: I would play guitar and sing with Dement, work out with Mays, and play tricks on Erich. But there was no fun to be had this day.

After preparing the Humvee, we headed out to bully the TCN’s into doing their jobs. A TCN is a third-country national. The majority of them were to be found sitting outside their trucks, usually in a group, smoking hashish out of hookahs and drinking chai. Most were from Egypt and none spoke English – until you pointed a 9 mm. at them. It generally happened like this:

I would say, “Get in the truck and let’s go.”

The TCN would wave his arms and say, “Ah, no English, no English…”

I would continue, somewhat slower and louder, “Get… in… the… truck… and… let’s… go!”

The TCN would continue, waving his arms even more frantically, “No English, no English!”

I would next draw my 9 mm. from its holster, point it at the TCN’s face and say, “Get in the truck and let’s go.”

He would immediately rise, hold his arms up with his palms facing me and say, “Okay! Okay!” When I turned to walk away, I would immediately hear a door slam and the roar of an engine.

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            I stood in the gunner’s turret, enjoying the warm breeze and despising the dry, brown landscape, as we headed toward the north checkpoint. Too soon, however, I was required to keep my head down. As we approached an overpass, I grabbed Mays’ M-4 and prepared to fire on any enemy attempting to attack. Although the imagination often portrays such events in a comical way, a large rock falling from an overpass onto a Humvee can cause a concerning amount of damage – and injury… and there were quite a few crazy Haji’s who tried it. Thankfully, none on this day. The relief of not having to open fire on the enemy didn’t last long. My first kills would happen within a few short miles.

            The sky was beginning to darken. I got more nervous as it became harder to see into the distance. I sat, on a horribly uncomfortable 3-inch strap, waiting. Waiting for what, I didn’t know. I hadn’t yet experienced true combat. There was silence within the Humvee and I could tell that everyone felt as I did. It was easy, really, to laugh and carry on while the sun was glaring and spotting the enemy was easy… but the dark changed everything. The anxiety filling the Humvee was tangible.

            I saw a bright flash about ten yards in front of us and heard a ricochet of bullets on the metal. I spotted two black figures, lying in the high grass, continuing to open fire on the convoy with some sort of small arms – possibly AK-47’s – though, it was hard to be certain. The sun was near setting by this time. I exhibited utter disbelief as I ducked into the truck and anxiously exclaimed, “Those motherfuckers are shooting at me.”

            Dement, Mays, and Erich spoke in unison: “Well, shoot back!” From the moment my tracers hit the two attackers, it was as if I was watching the incident from the back passenger seat. In this dreamlike state, I watched myself fire on them. I saw the bullets make contact and I saw the silhouettes collapse. I had no time to feel anything, besides the confusion of an atmosphere riddled with blinding flashes and booming noises. Suddenly, there were fifty or more additional enemies firing small arms at the convoy. As we gained speed I continued to fire in the direction of the enemy. Bullets were hungry for flesh, the noise aimed to confuse and disorient, and it was all I could do to hold the .50 cal. steady and focus on surviving the attack.

            I suffered a moment of terror when a ricochet made contact with the top of my hand. I saw myself, moving in slow-motion from a vantage point outside of my own body and I felt a rage mixed with pity as I opened fire on them again. There was no time to dawdle over the possibility of having been shot. The pain was severe, yet I continued to shoot. The noise was suddenly muffled and behind the slow, softened gunfire, I heard Dement holler a contact report over the radio and request assistance. The Humvee was slowing down… I looked toward the end of the convoy and saw that a semi had been hit. We were forced to stop – in the middle of a darkened highway – in the middle of a furious firefight.

            Mays jumped out of the truck to launch an illumination round. The slow-moving fireball landed in the dry field, instantaneously consuming it with flames. As Dement called for fire support, the rest of us continued our attack on the enemy, who were now much more visible. Those who had been lying down, attempting to hide among the tall grass, were forced to abandon their positions as the fire assaulted them. Mays, armed with an M-4, patiently waited for dark figures to rise from the burning grass. Each person who popped up was immediately struck and fell, somewhat comically, to the ground.

            Suddenly, I saw massive flashes of light and heard deafening booms as two Bradley Tanks unloaded their guns on the enemy. During this moment of admiration for the assistance, I noticed that a TCN toward the end of the convoy had been shot and was attempting to escape the cab of his truck. A moment later, I witnessed Corporal Eric Martin abandon his truck and sprint toward the injured truck driver. As Martin ran, I envisioned an action movie. There were bullets flying between his legs and above his head. I had no idea how he managed to survive, let alone make it without a scratch… but he did. Martin grabbed the mortally-wounded man, and dragged him behind the axle of the truck and out of the way of gunfire.

As I stood in the turret watching this scene unfold, a bullet flew close by my right ear. My heart was beating frantically as I hastily ducked into the turret, peering through the slim open space. I saw no one. There was silence. The tanks had ceased fire, as had my comrades. The enemy was extinguished, yet the flames continued to burn. I exited the truck and rushed to assist the injured TCN. After receiving a GSW to the hip, he acquired additional injuries when he fell from the cab of the truck onto the blacktop. He was bleeding profusely. The man was barely breathing and quickly losing consciousness. As I attempted to apply pressure to the wound his bones crunched under my hand until I could feel the flatness of the road beneath him. We got him bandaged up and started an IV. He was flown out a short while later. And died a short while after that.

My team returned to our truck at the front of the convoy, scarcely breathing a word, where the tank operators were shining a spotlight on the flaming field. The only bodies visible were the two I had killed at the beginning of the incident. The others were either engulfed by flames or had fled. The tank operators offered to take care of the bodies, for which I was incredibly thankful. I had no interest in a closer inspection of those dead by my hand. There was no time to reflect; no time to feel. We were instructed to return to order and continue our mission.

I was wide awake as we flew down the highway. My faculties were operating more strongly than they ever had. Then I felt a bump. Mays stopped the Humvee, claiming that we must have had a flat tire. We blacked out (so as not to be seen), then I checked the surrounding fields with night-vision goggles to make sure that it was safe to exit the vehicle and check the tire. After an all-clear, Mays decided to perform the repair. “Dement,” I whispered, “I’ve – got – to – pee.” Dement shrugged at me as if to say, “Whatever.”

I climbed onto the roof of the Humvee and maneuvered to the front, right side of the vehicle. As I was peeing off the edge, I reflected on the incident and silently let out a sigh of relief that I had survived. Or perhaps it was a sigh of relief that I could finally empty my bladder. Whatever I was thinking about, I definitely didn’t notice that Dement had opened his door to exit the vehicle. He stepped out into a strong stream of urine and I was immediately subject to a torrent of undistinguishable curses. When he had escaped the contents of my bladder, he turned away from me and mumbled, “Bowman, if you hadn’t just saved our lives back there, I would kick your ass.”

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           Finally, we arrived at our destination: Baghdad International Airport. The surviving TCN’s inspected their trucks and Kevlar, excitedly showing us just how close they had come to death. The semi-trucks were perforated with bullet holes. I felt no need to brag about how close I was to death. I still felt as if I was there, amongst the gunfire. Bullets all around me, wanting nothing more than to pierce my skin, break my bones, and send me home to my family.

Critical Analysis -- "Alone with Everybody" by Charles Bukowsky

Emotional Void

Click to Read "Alone with Everybody"

            “Alone with Everybody” by Charles Bukowsky dramatizes the conflict between physical and emotional relationships. The speaker is a lonely, troubled person with a bleak impression of emotional love. Therefore, it is appropriate that this poem begins by making use of American slang to convey an underlying meaning. The first line, “the flesh covers the bone,” is slang for a penis, resulting in an unexpected meaning of the next three lines, “and they put a mind / in there and / sometimes a soul.” This use of double meaning reveals that the poem is about sex and how easy it is for people to have a physical relationship, while finding “the one” (a soul mate) is impossible.

            The speaker connects the poem with the title at the end of the second stanza by stating, “we are all trapped / by a singular / fate.” At first, the title seems to imply a feeling of isolation in a crowd of people, but the title actually means everyone is alone in love. The metaphorical meaning of these lines, however, is that there is no escape from the loneliness triggered by the absence of love.

            Lines nine through nineteen highlight the myriad of physical relationships people have in hopes of finding a soul mate: “and nobody finds the / one / but keep / looking / crawling in and out / of beds. / flesh covers / the bone and the / flesh searches / for more than / flesh.” The personification of flesh creates a symbol for people having sex with various people in hopes of uncovering something more meaningful than a physical relationship.

            The author uses enjambment to rush the reader to the end of the poem, just as people rush to find “the one.” On the surface, the poem may seem unorganized or random. Its lack of capitalization, sparse punctuation, and absence of set meter and rhyme scheme, however, serve to reinforce the theme. It seems as if something is missing from the poem, just as people feel like something is missing from life when they cannot find “the one.”

            The use of dramatic imagery in the poem exposes the frustration that spawns from a long-term lack of emotional intimacy: “and the women break / vases against the walls / and the men drink too / much.” The fourth stanza exposes the outcome of this continued frustration while utilizing regular rhythm, each line beginning with “the” and ending with “fill,” in order to draw attention to its significance: “the city dumps fill / the junkyards fill / the madhouses fill / the hospitals fill / the graveyards fill.” While people waste their lives searching for a true love through numerous sexual encounters, these places become full; some of them full of people who cannot find this love, such as madhouses, hospitals, and graveyards. These three places signify what often happens to those who search too determinedly; they go mad, become ill, or commit suicide… this is a waste, which is what is held in dumps and junkyards.

            “Alone with Everybody” uses repetition of certain ideas in order to support the implied message. In the first stanza it is stated that “nobody finds the one,” then the speaker begins the second stanza with, “there’s no chance / at all,” in order to reiterate the depressing reality that there is no such thing as “the one.” The final stanza, “nothing else / fills,” enforces the theme by stating that while the dumps, junkyards, madhouses, hospitals, and graveyards continue to fill, nothing else does, meaning no one will ever be filled by true love. There will always be a void, an empty space where we believe someone else belongs. This line was a dramatic conclusion to an exceptionally successful poem portraying a bleak outlook on love.

Harry Potter vs. Lord Voldemort

             The best-selling Harry Potter series, written by J.K. Rowling, consists of seven books; all of which focus on a constant struggle between two main characters: Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort. The protagonist of the series, Harry Potter, symbolizes innocence and the power of good, whereas the antagonist, Lord Voldemort, represents the evil that can consume those obsessed with gaining power. Due to significant differences in these characters’ beliefs, Harry Potter continually triumphs over Lord Voldemort, efficiently proving that good is superior to evil. Although Harry Potter was victorious in the battle of good versus evil, it hasn’t yet been determined who prevailed in the clash of the most enjoyable character. An assortment of similarities and differences concerning these characters will help to determine which is more entertaining.

            Harry Potter’s parents, James and Lily, were murdered by Lord Voldemort when he was 1-year-old. He was brought up in a home where he wasn’t welcome, wanted, or understood. Harry was raised by his aunt, Petunia, and uncle, Vernon Dursley, who attempted to hide Harry’s true identity as a wizard from the moment they discovered him on their doorstep. Eleven years later, when it was finally revealed to Harry that he was, indeed, a wizard, his uncle Vernon shouted, “I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?” (Rowling 27). Harry receives little attention from his aunt and uncle, which is entirely negative, while they coddle their son, Dudley (HarryPotter.wikia.com). Harry’s bleak backstory is presented to readers at the beginning of each book, which influences a rather uninteresting opinion of Harry’s character.

            Lord Voldemort was born at an orphanage in London. Although his mother, Merope Gaunt, did not survive more than a few minutes after the birth of her son, she subsisted long enough to give him the name of his estranged father, Tom Riddle. He was a devious child, constantly using his power to harm and influence other children in the orphanage. During a visit from Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the young Lord Voldemort eagerly revealed, “I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to” (Rowling 186). The depth of Lord Voldemort’s character is revealed piece by piece in a slow, puzzling process throughout the series.

            At Hogwarts, Harry was involved with making friends, attending classes, and playing seeker for Gryffindor’s quidditch team. He was happy for first time in his life and quickly came to regard Hogwarts as his true home. Harry had two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, who often helped him through the many struggles he faced. As far as Harry’s scholarly achievements went, he always had the top grades in Defense against the Dark Arts, but otherwise his schoolwork was mediocre.

            When Lord Voldemort arrived at Hogwarts, he was also quick to think of it as a true home; somewhere he belonged. He found making friends to be a difficult task. Instead, he enlisted a group of followers; people who looked up to him because they were less intelligent or handsome. It was revealed later in the series that Voldemort never had true friends; only people who wanted to make use of his power or be protected under his rule. Although it was difficult for Lord Voldemort to make friends, he was brilliant when it came to his studies. He was always at the top of his class in every subject.

            Though Harry Potter is the hero of the series, he is dim in comparison with Lord Voldemort when it comes to evaluating character. Harry Potter is a predictably good person with a bleak past and bright future. Lord Voldemort is a tortured soul who is born into a life of disdain and sorrow. He is constantly on the lookout for any possible way in which to gain power. It is intriguing to readers to be able to delve into Lord Voldemort’s past in order to discover why he became the man he is. The way his story is exposed makes all the difference. Harry Potter’s story is offered to us upfront, which robs us of intrigue. It is obvious that the victor in the battle of the most entertaining character is Lord Voldemort.

Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. 1^st ed. New York: Arthur A Levine Books, 2005. Print.

Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. 1^st ed. New York: Scholastic Press, 1998. Print.

Harrypotter.wikia.com. ‘Harry Potter Wiki.’ N.P. 2014. Web. 10 Oct. 2014.

A Pretend Memory

Something you had that was stolen:         

Where is it!? I frantically rushed about my bedroom tossing objects in every direction; socks, books, videos, clothes, everything you could possibly imagine to be contained in a 16-year-old-girl’s room. It’s not here. Where could it be?? I sunk onto my bare mattress, disappointment washing over me. I had lost it. My most prized possession. How could I have lost it? The one thing… the one thing that means everything to me: my journal. It was beautifully handcrafted, bound in soft, Italian leather. My mother had given it to me a few days before she died. She told me, her voice quivering with tears not yet exposed, to write down every thought, every feeling, and that it would help me through the days ahead. She said I would have to be strong. She told me to never stop believing, never stop trying to be best person I could possibly be.

            That was five years ago. Memories of my mother had faded into near oblivion, yet my journal was the one thing that remembered her clearly. My journal held every feeling I had after she left me. It contained so many of my most precious memories of her. The fact that I had lost it would haunt me forever. I feel as if I have lost her forever… again. There was a sudden knock on my bedroom door. I arose from the bed and pulled it open to reveal my best friend, standing completely still and pale, staring at me with tears rolling down her face. “I’m so sorry, Abby.”

            “Sorry for…?” I replied, confused. She stared at me.

            “Surely, by now, you know what I’ve done.” She stated, staring at her feet. Realization washed over me. I stared at her, angrier than I had ever been in my life.

            “You took my journal.” The tears poured faster down her cheeks.

            “I’m so sorry, Abby. I was just so mad at you. Rebecca told me that she saw you chatting up John the other day after school. I felt so betrayed. I just wanted to find something to embarrass you… to pay you back… but then I began to read it and…”

            She held out my journal, my life, every memory of my mother. I snatched it out of her hands and slammed the door in her face.

Darling Diana, An Incomplete Story

Write a story that begins with a ransom note:

Darling Diana,

You don’t know me. But I know you. I know exactly how you spend every second of every day. I know your favorite restaurants, what perfume you wear, the position in which you sleep, who you sleep with, how many cups of coffee you drink in the morning, and how many glasses of wine you drink at night… I know you better than you know yourself. Are you afraid yet? You should be. I’ve given you various opportunities to know me, yet you never showed the slightest interest. Why? Why!? I can tell you, there are many things to love about me, just as there are many things I love about you. But you will never know. You will never give me the chance. So I have decided to take action. Like I said, I have given you so many opportunities to know me, to love me, yet you STILL do not even recognize me by name! MY NAME DIANIA! WHAT IS MY NAME, DIANA!? You don’t know, do you? DO YOU!? I have your sister. Bethany, isn’t it? She’s a lovely, young woman… we’ve had some very intriguing chats about you, my darling. She has told me many wonderful things… most of which I already knew, yet the confirmation of their truth was somewhat comforting to me… I’m sure you have deducted, by now, that this is no ordinary ransom letter. How would money help me in my endeavor? For, my endeavor is for you to love me, to be with me… No, money is not what I am after… But… if you were to agree to take your sisters place, that would certainly do. Yes… I demand that you take the place of your dear sister as my… lover. I’ll be in touch.

Yours.

Hands trembling, Diana lowered the paper. Her face immediately turned to the living room window, thrown open; a cool, autumn breeze ruffling the elegant, ivory curtains. What to do? She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. Diana grabbed the telephone, quickly dialing her sister’s home number… no answer. Could this be true? Or was this merely someone’s idea of a clever joke? Obviously, she was desirable. And the fact that she was an exotic dancer exposed her to the sort of people capable of such atrocities. What to do? Diana loved her sister more than anything. Bethany was seven years younger than Diana. A lovely girl. Diana had spent her childhood caring for her younger sister; protecting her. They hadn’t spoken in months. Bethany was in her final year at Columbia University… studying Philosophy. Although Diana’s career choice was an unusual one, it provided more than enough to take care of Bethany’s tuition.

Diana was sitting completely still, staring blankly out of the open window, wondering… should she allow herself to be kidnapped, help captive, and most likely, regularly raped by a man whom she has met, but cannot possibly place at the time being? Could she escape? Or would he kill her? And if it came down to it, could she kill another human-being to save herself?

Diana jumped as the phone rang. Not bothering to check the caller ID, she immediately answered, “Hello?”

“Oh, my darling. Your voice is so lovely.” A deep, slow voice.

“Who is this?”

“You don’t know.” His tone confessed his disappointment.

“How should I? If you know of my career, then obviously you know that I interact with a large number of people on a daily basis. Is this the person who sent me the ransom letter? The letter about my sister?”

“Oh, darling. Your sister will be just fine as long as you agree to meet me at a place of my choosing at a time of my choosing. I will let her go.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Diana’s voice trembled with fear, for she knew what she had to do.

“I’m going to force you to love me.”

“Love can’t be forced, it just happens. I’m sorry I haven’t paid you enough attention in the past, I promise I will give you a chance! We can even go out, how does that sound? Just please let Bethany go.”

“Graham Lumberyard, 8:00 p.m... don’t inform the police… I’ll be watching.” The line went dead. Tears were streaming down her face as the phone fell to the floor. She would have to take her chances… for Bethany’s sake.

Diana arrived at the lumberyard at 7:45 p.m. As she drove through the gate she noticed a black van parked very close to the main building. Her heart was beating furiously as she approached. She stopped the car directly next to the black van and immediately noticed that there appeared to be no one inside. Concealing a small handgun in the top of her thigh-high stockings, beneath a flouncy, black skirt, she slowly opened her door and stepped out of her vehicle. At that moment, a man turned the corner from behind the van and raced toward her. Diana had only a moment to imprint the man’s appearance before he jumped onto her, slamming her to the ground and covering her face with a moist cloth. Short… balding… chubby, yet obviously strong… Where had she seen this man before? Where? Where?

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Diana awoke, abruptly, being shaken vigorously by her younger sister, Bethany. “What? What!?” She exclaimed. “What, Bethany!?”

“Wake up. It’s time to go. I refuse to be late to my own graduation. I know you worked late last night, sis, and I appreciate everything you do for me so much… I hope you know that. But you BETTER get up and get your beautiful ass in the shower so we can GO!”

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Diana was clapping as Bethany crossed the stage. She had never been more proud of her little sister. The crowd began to clear. As Diana was struggling to escape the insane number of guests now exiting the commencement hall, she noticed a man standing completely still next to the restroom area. His hands were in his pockets and he was examining her with great interest. She turned her face from him and continued forward. As her face was exposed to the cool, evening air, someone grabbed her arm from behind and pulled it, hard. Diana stumbled backward into someone considerably solid. She turned to see the same man she had noticed near the restrooms. “Excuse me,” she said politely, then pulled her arm from his grip and began to walk away. 

“Okay, Diana, darling. I see how it is.” A deep voice mumbled near her right ear. She turned, slowly, facing this man who haunted her nightmares. He smiled as her dark eyes met his light ones. “Miss me?”