Читать книгу One September Morning - Rosalind Noonan - Страница 18

Iraq

Lt. Peter Chenowith

The procedure is clear: the possessions of a soldier killed in the line of duty are to be secured and inventoried by his superior officer and transported home along with the remains. So technically, Peter Chenowith has every right to go through John Stanton’s belongings. Maybe it just feels wrong because Chenowith knows Stanton would have hated having his lieutenant go through his things.

Chenowith can almost hear Stanton grousing about invasion of privacy as he dumps the black plastic bag onto the table of the airless briefing room and starts making a list in his notebook. A wristwatch. One wallet with one hundred and ten dollars cash, one Amex card, a Washington State driver’s license, and assorted photos.

Whoa—apparently Stanton went for the dark, intellectual type. The brunette has to be Stanton’s wife, and though Peter figured a football star like Stanton could have done better, the Mrs. is tight. He’d definitely do her, though after a few weeks in Iraq, most guys would do just about anything on two legs. But the little blonde, there’s a hottie. She looks a lot younger than Stanton, and chummy in the photos. Probably the sister. He’s read that Stanton has a younger sister.

There isn’t much here, as Stanton’s stash of PowerBars was left in the bungalow for the other men. There is a homemade name tag with macaroni letters, and a bottle opener that had been decorated with glittery stars. A football, a bunch of books, letters from home, a box of pens, a framed photo of the wife. For such a superstar, Stanton didn’t own much.

Chenowith regrets the death of any soldier, but honestly, his job will be easier without Stanton in his platoon. This is Chenowith’s first combat assignment out of West Point, and it hasn’t been easy having the media breathing down his neck, always watching because he had a celebrity soldier in his ranks.

He tosses the books to see what Stanton was reading and notices that some of them are journals—those blank bound books you fill in. Stanton had written in two and a half of them.

Peter pulls out a chair and cracks open one of the journals, starting in the middle.

Many Iraqis don’t understand why American soldiers are still here, and I have to agree with them. We’ve overstayed our welcome. Saddam has been dethroned, and Operation Iraqi Freedom should now be called Operation Colonization.

Chenowith’s lip curls as he remembers the way Stanton always used to talk to the locals. What a schmoozer. You’d think the guy signed up for the United Nations instead of the U.S. Army. Stanton argued that it was good to let people vent, but Chenowith knows no good will come of stirring the pot, whipping these people into a political frenzy.

The more Chenowith reads, the more his teeth grind against each other.

Soldiers are programmed to follow orders without question. But I believe that if a soldier is given an order that he knows is not only illegal but immoral as well, it is his responsibility to refuse that order.

It’s this sort of philosophical bullshit that cripples the U.S. Army, Chenowith thinks, stewing over the pages. Peter Chenowith grew up wanting to serve his country, just as his father had done, and his grandfather before that. He was the third generation of Chenowiths to attend West Point, and he sees this deployment in Iraq as his opportunity to prove himself as a man, as a soldier, as a leader.

Unlike whiners like Stanton, he can handle the pressure. He follows orders, and he has the mettle to push his soldiers to make sure they follow, too. His company has suffered some casualties here—every unit has been hit—but that sort of loss is a fact of war, and a good soldier eventually learns that you carry on no matter what the adversity.

His eyes alight on another entry…his name.

The army wants “yes” men like Lt. Chenowith who do not question the legality of the policies of the administration. These warmongers will have the lifelong guilt of murdering innocent Iraqis on their conscience and the indelible images of seeing their friends blown up in a war whose purpose is illegal.

And if I stay, what am I? No better or worse than these warmongers.

Canada looks better and better every day.

A burn rises and blossoms in Chenowith’s head. So the bigshot hero was thinking of leaving. A sissy. How he’d love to give this to the media. But how can he, when the disparaging remarks about him are laced in those pages.

Goddamned Stanton.

No one is going to see these journals. No one.

This is one time when a rule needs to be broken.

He grabs a few pages and tears them out, cracking the first journal in the seams. The pages fit into the shredder without a problem. It will take a little while, but once he rips these journals up, everyone will be better off.

Stanton is not going to have the last word here. Let the resistance die with the man.