Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters (25 page)

One of the senior advisors, an Aussie general, said he didn’t think I should help. “No, mate, we need to get the Iraqi J4”—logistics—“involved in this. Just stay out of it.” Though I fully agreed, it was 5:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and this was a personal request from the top regarding a coalition checkpoint issue.

I walked over and explained the situation to the officer who advised the Iraqi Ministry of Defense on logistics issues. Instead of helping, he vented his frustration about working with the Iraqis, then offered this useless advice: “I think this is a prime example of
where we need to let them fail.” Besides, he explained, there were no real procedures to deal with this.

“Wow, that’s brilliant,” I said. “So that’ll teach them not to use procedures that don’t exist.”

I had no idea how I was going to accomplish the task, but doing nothing was not an option. Knowing Kurdo was already en route, I broke into a trot across the rooftop where we were gathered, stepped through the door, and bounded down the narrow staircase.

BAM!
The sound of a bat hitting a ball.

My lower body shot forward, and I did a backflip as everything in my hands flew across the room and I landed on the cement floor below.

I had failed to clear the available headroom, and my forehead had struck the landing above.

I immediately heard two officers standing just a few steps away yell out, “Ohhhhh!” They rushed over to me as I tried to sit up. “You better take a moment,” one of them said.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “I just need a minute here—I know that must have looked bad, but my pride is hurt more than anything else.” The knot on my forehead and the dripping blood didn’t make me very convincing.

“You don’t know that, bud. You may need to see someone for that,” he replied. I sat there patiently, but my focus was still on the checkpoint. I sat a few minutes to humor my Good Samaritan friends, then jumped up, thanked the officers for their assistance, and bolted out the door.

When I arrived at Checkpoint 18 on the far west side of the Green Zone, it felt like I’d stepped into another dimension. The checkpoint was run by Russian-Georgian troops co-located with Iraqi soldiers and a hodgepodge of interpreters who could speak Russian and Arabic, but not English. Kurdo could speak English and Kurdish, but not Arabic. So none of us could communicate
with one another outside of frantic hand gestures and furrowed facial expressions.

Pointing to the weapons trucks was all I needed to clarify our purpose for being there.

The trucks were parked out past the checkpoint blast walls. Kurdo nervously tugged at my jacket, begging me to stay behind for safety. His anxiety was understandable. Just a few months earlier, a large supply truck had tried to enter through a checkpoint and blew up as it was searched.

Of course I was anxious, but I did not intend to stand behind blast walls, shouting out orders to people, even if that was possible. I looked in the back of the trucks and dropped my head into my hands. There were at least a thousand weapons just tossed into the bed of the truck in a massive heap. I figured this haphazard arrangement was what was making the guards nervous, so we made our way back to the checkpoint.

The Georgians called for their chain of command, and ten minutes later a Georgian captain and a lieutenant showed up. The lieutenant was at least six foot four, spoke no English, and looked and sounded like Dolph Lundgren from
Rocky IV
. He wore a crisp uniform and sported a pair of sleek sunglasses.

Standing next to this giant was a Georgian captain of five foot four with workable English. He seemed competent, but he looked as if he had just been pulled out of a duffel bag. His uniform was incomplete, his equipment unsnapped, his helmet band pulled away from his chin, and a cigarette dangled from his lips.

The Georgians were all new to the job, so the captain didn’t even know the source of the problem. He finally came to me and said in a thick Russian accent, “All amunicion trooks mus goo to Chackpont 2, ser.” My mind flashed. Checkpoint 2 was the same place that truck exploded a few months ago. Kurdo explained that the drivers had come instead to this checkpoint because they were terrified of being hijacked with the same result as the other truck.

In my most polite voice, I told the Georgian captain I worked
for the Iraqi chief of defense and begged his help just this once. He nodded with his eyes closed, as if he were willing to help, but was not all that happy about doing it.

The little, rumpled captain then turned to Dolph and gave a casual instruction. The lieutenant nodded with an intense gaze, then swung his radio off his back like a broadsword. He spoke into the radio with a tone and volume that made it sound as if he were ordering an airstrike on our position: “Alpa ex-rey, alpa ex-rey, slokem yak solum snowdney, glock snukem sleepney gope, jeneraley Iraqi mit,” he paused to look at my name tag, “Mayore Waberi … jeneraley Iraqi mit, Mayore Wa-beri.”

(I paraphrase, with apologies to Russian-speaking people everywhere.)

After some discussion and disagreements, approval was granted for the trucks to be searched at that checkpoint and allowed to pass. It was a small victory, and I really wondered what I had achieved. Had I just taught Kurdo and the Georgians that rules were meant to be broken?

While the trucks were being scanned, I hung out with the drivers behind a blast wall. Through gestures and smiles, they tried to explain how thirsty and hungry they were and showed me their Iraqi money, as if I were a snack vendor; they had been too scared to stop anywhere for any reason.

When their trucks cleared, I told them to follow me through the city to the defense ministry. Out of ignorance or complete disregard, they bolted out ahead of me as if someone had dropped a green flag on race day. They drove like sixteen-year-olds on a go-cart track, passing each other on corners and driving their trucks, teetering with weapons, as hard as they could.

As we sped through the city, my head still throbbed from the fall, and the dried blood on my forehead stuck to the inner band of my Kevlar helmet like glue. But I was fine. Everything was fine. And this perspective helped me separate the danger of the situation from the humor of the outcome.

If Nietzsche had had a better sense of humor, he would have said, “Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you funnier.”

*   *   *

Joseph Heller never wrote another great comic novel after
Catch-22
. Maybe that’s because he didn’t have cancer.

Six years after my day as a gunrunner, I found myself in Rosemount, Minnesota, in December. Matthew, you had a swim meet, Kristin was already there, and I was running late. I texted Kristin for a reminder on the location. “Lakeville South High School.” I Googled the directions, grabbed something to eat, then darted out the door.

Thirty minutes into the thirty-five-minute drive, the massive wad of bandages covering the deep incision in my abdomen sprang a leak, and I could feel warm bile and pancreatic fluid dripping down my belly and into my pants. (These fluids are caustic and were responsible for “eating” the hole in my abdomen since the surgery a year prior.)

Cursing myself for not having changed the bandages before I left, I reached over in the dark to the passenger seat for my “travel bag” of bandages, but nothing was there. I pictured them right where I left them at the back door.

Adjust fire!

I remembered there was a Target store in nearby Lakeville, so I altered course. I cursed myself while grabbing every fast-food napkin I could find in my glove box in an attempt to control the growing mess in my waistband. (Just to give you some perspective, I would go through about 24 four-by-four bandages per day. But on “heavy days”—yes, ladies, this guy can relate—it would be double that number. That day … was a
heavy
day.)

The idea of buying some diapers crossed my mind when I saw they sold only individually packaged bandages, ten to a box. And there were only two boxes left on the shelf. That would never
carry me for the next four hours. (Yes, the “lady products” aisle is now part of my emergency response plan for future incidents, but I was still learning then.)

Disgusted with my circumstances, and feeling pressure to make it to Matthew’s meet on time, I snatched the boxes from the shelf, made my way through checkout, and then ducked into the store bathroom. I lifted my shirt and just let the two dozen bright yellow, bile-soaked napkins drop into the sink. Then I peeled off the mass of tape and soaked bandages and let that fall into the sink as well.

I needed something to wipe the acidic bile off my skin, so I went into a stall for some toilet paper, still holding my shirt up to my chin to keep it from getting any more soiled.

As I turned to go back to the sink, an employee walked in. His eyes got as big as saucers as he took in the scene:
Man standing in the middle of the bathroom with one hand holding a massive wad of toilet paper, his other hand holding his shirt up to his chin; standing next to a stinky, yellow, bandage-and-napkin-filled sink; sporting an exposed gut with a highly visible seventeen-inch-wide scar, a bullet-hole-looking open wound with yellow ooze coming out of it, and tubing with a big drainage bag hanging in full view
.

I saw an imaginary cartoon bubble appear above his head with the words “What kind of freak show we got goin’ on in here?”

He awkwardly offered to help or get help, but I told him I had things under control. “It looks worse than it is … honest … I’m fine.”

When I finally exited the bathroom, it was like hearing one of those record player needles screech off the vinyl. Every employee at those registers glanced my way—I felt like I was a car crash on the freeway. Except my accident was tying up traffic at Target.

The bandage debacle now had me running further behind schedule. As I pulled up to the school, I sighed with frustration;
the place looked like an industrial complex, and there was no external signage. “Just come in the main entrance. You can’t miss it,” Kristin had said. “And hurry, his race is coming up.”

I glanced up at a directional sign in the foyer with arrows on it—no mention of any swimming pool.

There were kids everywhere. “Excuse me,” I asked as one of them scurried past me. “Can you tell me where the swimming pool is?” He looked at me with a blank stare and said nothing. I pressed, “Are you from this school?” He finally mumbled in reply, “Uh, yeah … um, I don’t think we have a swimming pool?”

I called Kristin back. “The people here tell me they don’t have a swimming pool. They said their pool is at a place called Kenwood Middle School.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know what to tell you. I saw the sign, and it said Lakeville South. Better hurry—you’re going to miss Matthew.”

It turned out to be at Kenwood. I was incensed.

Matthew’s race came and went, and as if on cue, my inadequate Target bandages began to leak again. I was partly mad at Kristin for what I thought were wrong directions, but I was madder at myself for being mad at her. I had no one to blame but myself, and I knew it.

I roared home, pissed at the world. Not only did I miss a race Matthew had prepared hard for, but stinky, warm bile continued to leak down into my pants, which were now soaked through to the crotch. It felt as if I were slowly peeing on myself, and there was nothing I could do about it. No more bandages. No more fast-food napkins.

Suddenly … lights. Red and blue, in my rearview mirror.

Think it can’t get worse, Weber? Way to go, idiot
.

“License and registration, please,” the state trooper said politely from out of view on the driver’s side. I handed him my license.

Within a second, noting my Iraq War license plates and the dress uniform in the backseat, he asked, “Are you active duty military?”

“Yes, sir.”

He handed back my ID and stepped into full view. “Forget the registration. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I was speeding … I know I was speeding.” I used a tone that was humble but not pitiful. I had no excuse, and I wasn’t going to offer one.

“Why you in such a hurry?” he asked.

“I’ve just got an awful mess here, and I suppose I just got in a hurry to get home,” I answered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I laughed and said, “Well, this is going to sound shameless since I was speeding, but because you’re asking …” I lifted my shirt to reveal my Frankenstein mess. “It’s this.”

His face looked like that employee’s from Target. “Do you need some help? Can you still drive? Can I get you somewhere?”

“I know it looks bad, but I’m honestly fine … it’s just a mess, and I’m trying to get home.”

He dispensed with the small talk. “Well, you take it easy, and just slow down for me, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And thank you for your service,” he added.

*   *   *

Not all tears are tears of sadness or despair. Sometimes they come from unbounded pride and joy, and I do believe if there is such a thing as a tonic for the soul, it is that feeling.

Matthew, you were a shy and quiet freshman, a personality you’ve carried in the extreme since birth, at least around your parents. Several months after my massive surgery in August 2010,
you said you were trying out for a solo in the school choir. Kristin and I dismissed the idea, thinking you probably just meant a try-out for the choir itself.

After weeks of updates, you came home and yelled to me in the backyard, “Hey, Dad, I got the solo!”

I went to Kristin and said, “He’s serious. What the heck do you think is going on here? Can you see him singing a freakin’ solo?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “This should be interesting.”

Of course we believed you were capable, but this spotlight seeking was completely uncharacteristic.

We went to the choir concert with the expectation of seeing an overambitious freshman get an A for effort, but we were in for a surprise. Your voice boomed, you were in complete harmony with the piano, and we were enlightened.

A few months later, you sang again. We were better prepared this time but still in a state of disbelief. Looking at the program pamphlet, we learned you had earned a varsity letter and were one of three students voted by your peers as Most Valued Choir Member—two distinctions you hadn’t mentioned to us. While we were attempting to process that information, the performance began.