Meeting a President in the Wasteland

“Meeting a President in the Wasteland”

By J.A. Miller

It’s not every day you meet a President. Typically something to remember fondly. My memory of the whole year bleeds together now. I do remember that day. Exhausted from a long night’s shift that stretched into morning, then afternoon. Enemy attacks, injured soldiers, missions gone to pieces.

I remember because of how tired I was. Nerves raw. Every sideways comment from someone I deemed less competent garnered a dismissive scowl as I shoved my angry verbal rebuttals deep inside my already bursting psyche.

And then everyone was on their toes, another VIP. Not the President then, just a Senator. He arrived, was ushered to the brass’s command center, a collection of metal containers stacked on metal containers, and was presumably indoctrinated with the latest and greatest from military intelligence. I’m sure he was told we were winning. Was told how high morale was. I can’t imagine the privates and specialists that had to attend the meeting, pampering him like courtesans, prostituting themselves, trained killers, experts in fields of war, fetching coffee, smiling, asserting that what their bosses fed him was most definitely true.

I’m probably all wrong. I know our soldiers were thrilled to be called in to try to rid our battle stations of the ever-present dust. While I was calling in Medevac missions for dying soldiers, they were spit polishing the plywood desks. We were all choking on the clouds of dust stirred up as the NCOs forced soldiers to sweep and resweep the floors, seemingly creating more dust with each pass.

Afghanistan was different than Iraq. I never once left the base in Afghanistan. A couple of acres ringed with barriers and strand after strand of coiled concertina wire was my prison for sixteen months. In Iraq, I felt my mission more keenly. I patrolled with the infantry, kicked doors in, seized weapons, caught bad guys. My days in Afghanistan were spent trying to help soldiers I would never see. I felt lesser in Afghanistan. My only respite was weekly meals with a local rug maker I had come to regard as a friend, Haji Gul Jan. The only thing that was the same, from Iraq, was the dust. The taste, feel, and weight of the constant dust.

It was about once a month, a celebrity would come in, usually with the USO. NCOs I never saw crawled out of the woodwork to show up when the Cowboy cheerleaders graced us with their charms. A UFC fighter meant a couple extra hours of work, covering sensitive information like maps with trash bags, blanketing the command center in black plastic.

Often, they never showed up at our little ops center. Aviation, the lifeblood, the rescue, was not as sexy as an infantry operations center. To be fair, we relished our stepchild relationship with the higher ups. “Away from the flagpole” meant slightly less of the nonsense that comes from too much Army. Anyway, like the others, the future President never came.

When the hoopla was over, and I had passed my baton to my just as weary replacement, I picked up my rifle, my body armor, my helmet, and headed to my refuge, a six by four box of plywood and a mattress.

Meeting a President in the Wasteland

To get there, I had to cross an active flightline. This often meant waiting for helicopters to finish dropping off supplies, or wounded, or a C-130 taking off, sending the Air Force back home after their three month deployments.

I had to wait, as usual at the base of the tower, for a helicopter, one I wasn’t familiar with, a black unmarked aircraft, to clear the runway.

That’s when I met the President (to be), there on that dusty airfield.

I didn’t notice him at first. What I did notice was the two men in black polo shirts, carrying FN P90 bullpup submachine guns, all kitted out with the nonsense gear, like they were posing for Soldier of Fortune Magazine. I also noticed they were pointing those weapons right at me.

I bristled, like a stray dog about to get into it with a raccoon. I swear my hand moved to my weapon. For some reason I always slung my weapon in front of me, instead of the way most carried it on the FOB, over their shoulder. These guys were on my turf. It probably registered who they were, what they were doing, and I’m sure I noticed the skinny guy in the windbreaker hunched between them. But, who did they think they were, pointing those things at me? I don’t know if they sensed some aggression, or if he told them to stand down, but they both lowered their weapons, still at the ready, and what bothered me most was how those two Secret Service agents had their fingers in the trigger guard, like some LT fresh out of the academy.

Well, he walked over to me, a big grin on his face. He asked me my name. I remember being so torn, seething with a lot of different emotions, but I don’t remember answering him. He stuck out his hand, and I released my hold on my M4 and took it. I remember it being particularly fragile, like a baby bird in my hand. I wondered if he was as tired as I was.

“Specialist Miller, I just want to say, when I’m President, I’ll make sure this is you and your friends’ last trip here.”

A tumult of words formed in my brain, made their way down to my mouth, but then stopped, at my tongue. I hated being there, but what he said sounded like surrender. Was the blood and sweat worth nothing? Maybe giving up was the only way. At that moment, I would have stayed there forever. I still feel the knots of confusion when I think about it. I croaked out some response. Maybe a “hooah.” Then he was on the helicopter.

That was my last trip there, but not my friends. Some are still there, fighting, and some are still there, no longer fighting.