My War
						It was another beautiful day in southern Lebanon. The Commander 'Range two two seven five,' He yelled as he felt the transfer of information from the range finder to the firing computer make the necessary changes in the angle of the main gun. From the left he heard the metal click and the Loader shouted 'loaded' so hard he didn't even need the earphones in his helmet. He stuck his head out the hatch and held the black binoculars up to his eyes Finally we've got a target to shoot at. After so much sweat during training and so much fear during the three days we've been in this war, we've finally got a chance to do something useful. So far everything's gone all right. Wonder if the crew will workout OK. Wonder if I will. Why am I doing this? Why am I here at all? I should be at home watching this stupid war on CNN. We all should be. Is everything ready? I didn't forget to do anything. No, everything is ready. This time it really is for real. After bracing himself and making sure he could see the target in the binoculars he yelled 'Fire'. 'Firing . . . now!' Said the Gunner quietly. "Ten seconds" said the Driver. The world exploded, as it always does. Although he'd been doing this for more then a year and a half now he never seemed to get over the terror of having fifteen kilos of high explosives blowing up twenty centimeters from his left foot. It always made him jump. Through the binoculars he saw the yellow orange ball of fire erupt at the long end of the barrel, felt the heat on his face as the concussion rippled through him. Then the sound registered, and the aftersounds. He heard the hiss of the recoil pistons and the ringing bell sound of the hot brass casing falling to the floor of the turret. The fifty-three and a half ton tank he was standing in rocked twice and settled. He could hear the Loader making loading noises as he searched for the bright red tracer on the back of the speeding shell he had just fired against the brown background of a tiny country he had hoped never to visit. Shit! I hate that, always have. Steady now, I've got to find that tracer before it reaches the target. I've got to see where it hits otherwise I won't be able to give The Gunner the right correction. This is war, not training. I've got to get my act together! There is no one in a gray metal tower watching, waiting, making sure I don't fuck up. No one to tell me where it fell. If I make a wrong correction this time I won't just get laughed at by the rest of the company, I'll get killed. What's even more terrifying then that is that I won't be the only one to die. My mistake could take the lives of the three other people with me, lives I'm responsible for as much as my own. He found the green-gray shape of the Syrian T-62 first. It was standing in the hollow depression on one of the shoulders above the river that thread through the valley below. It hadn't moved. Even though it seemed as if it was trying to hide from something, at this angle it was completely exposed. Enlarged ten times in the binoculars he could even pick out the duffel bags tied with rope to the side of the iron dome that covered the four people he had decided to kill. I've got to find that tracer! The red tracer dot was still way over the target when he finally spotted it and for a split second he wasn't sure it would even come close. Then it dove, drawing a blood red line down the front of the target, smashing into the ground one meter in front of the fourth wheel from the back. Shit! We missed. The dust cloud engulfed the lucky T-62. The black hole of the 120 mm smoothbore main gun was the only part of the target still visible in the dirty cloud. Then the huge gun turned slowly until it was pointed directly at him. Oh no! They've seen us! They must have seen the dust cloud we made. They're aiming at us! We shouldn't have missed. I've got to give the right correction and destroy them before they fire at us. It hit below the target so I'll tell the Gunner to raise his aim. That should do it. I hope that does it. We can't miss again. A few seconds, no more, before they fire at us and then we'll all die. 'Fifteen seconds' said the Driver over the intercom. Spelling out how long they had been exposed to the enemy. 'Self correction' yelled the Gunner into the intercom, 'I can do it on my own, I saw where it hit'. He felt and heard the thunk and click again and The Loader yelled 'loaded' into his earphones. What the Loader meant was that another armor piercing round had been shoved into the rifled barrel and the breach had closed automatically, (that was the thunk). It also meant that The Loader had pulled out another armor piercing shell and was cradling it like a baby in his arms as he stood as far to the side as possible so not to be plastered by the recoiling main gun in the tiny crew compartment then he pushed the hand sized safety lever forward (that was the click). 'Twenty one seconds' the Driver said. He decided. 'Self correct... fire' he said into the mike "make sure you do it right" he added and waited with eyes on the T which was completely visible now that the cool wind had blown all the dust away. The Gunner After waiting for the picture in the main-battle-sight to settle, The Gunner had immediately found the target and watched the tracer miss. He'd seen the point of impact only because they were firing from a rocky position. The usual dust cloud that engulfs their tank every time it fires, blotting out his sights and making the target invisible for those few crucial seconds, got blown away before the round impacted. It's so much easier then in training. Because we're not in the desert like we usually are I can see where it hit. All I have to do is put the point of impact on the exact center of the target and fire, like I've done so many times before. I can do this. I can really do this. This time I'll hit it for sure. This time I'll finally see what it looks like when a shell penetrates a real enemy tank, maybe even see it explode like in the movies. Using the two handed 'joystick' that controls the main gun's elevation and direction (up down and sideways) the Gunner had placed the center of the small lighted cross back on the dark shadow directly under the black hole of the T's 120 mm main gun. The shadow marked the new center of the target that he was trained to spot and center in on. He mentally marked the place of impact as opposed to the center of the crosshairs and then as accurately and as quickly as possible he placed that mark back on the shadow, on the enemy. He had listened for, and heard, both the 'loaded' from the Loader the 'fire' command from The Commander and pulled the tiny red trigger for the second time. The Commander This time it was easier. He didn't jump as hard as the first time and managed to zero in on the tracer much earlier then before. In the pale light (everything looks so much brighter through the binoculars) he watched the burning red dot get smaller and smaller. The foot long-arrow shaped-projectile, they had just fired, impacted the right side of the domed turret just above the right fender creating a bright white flash that looks exactly like a camera flash in the daylight from far off. By shear energy the ultra hard tungsten warhead drilled a three-centimeter hole through the iron armor making the whole right side of the tank glow red hot. What was left of the penetrating round then burst into the tiny crew compartment of the T-62, at twice the speed of sound, wreaking destruction on anyone or thing that crossed its path as it ricocheted back and forth in the tiny crew compartment. First the Gunner (the enemy?) on the left side of the crew compartment was cut in half. Then the young tank Commander, standing in the cupola, lost most of his right leg when the super hot piece of modern technology bounced off the gun block he was standing right next to. The dancing projectile cut hydraulic lines, power cables and shattered optics then smashed through the little canvas bag with the holy Koran that the Gunner, who was the most religious of the crew, had put next to his seat for good luck and missed the, thirty two year old, Loader's head by mere inches. But he wasn't lucky. Neither was the Driver of the tank who was, as were so many warriors on battle fields all down through history, only seventeen years old. In other types of more modern tanks that would have been the extent of the damage, devastating though it was. Usually the Driver, who's compartment is separated from the turret, manages to climb out relatively unscathed. But since the T-62 was made to be small and compact, part of the forty three 120 mm rounds of ammunition the tank carries were arranged in metal clamps around the inner wall of the turret. And so, when what was left of the tungsten core of the armor piercing round smashed into one of the hollow charge shells hooked to the wall in back of the Loader's seat, the end result was inescapable. With his binoculars glued to his eyes the Commander saw the flash and even noted the small puff of white smoke that is the second indication of a direct hit. For a fraction of a second nothing occurred. It was like the world had stopped, and was waiting for someone or something to come to a decision. When it finally happened it happened in slow motion, real slow motion, like when someone is playing with the 'pause' button on the VCR. First the left top hatch flew straight up into the air. Then the T-62 main-battle-tank, pride of a now obsolete soviet technology, blew apart in a immense upward directed fire ball. The twenty three and a half ton turret shot straight up into the blue sky spewing out debris in all directions. After two slow somersaults and what seemed like a lifetime the huge piece of iron fell heavily to the ground, bounced once and came to rest upside-down amid a cloud of dirty smoke, dust and debris. The jagged hole, in the hull were the turret once sat proudly, started discharging red fire and black smoke together with insignificant explosions of small caliber rounds 'cooking off' in a blaze that was to last till late the next morning. "Thirty five seconds" said The Driver. "Wow! We did it, we got him, did you see how he blew up" he yelled into the comm. "It worked just like in the books, like in the movies". The relief was unbelievable, literally washing over him in waves and feeling of achievement blowing through his brain like a hurricane. We did it! After so much sweat during training and so much fear during the three days we've been in this war, we've finally gone and done it. I'm finally part of that very small group of elite that have actually done it. Have actually killed the enemy. I did OK, so did the whole crew, like a well oiled machine, every one working together with each other and with the tank to actually destroy an enemy tank. Wow! And did we destroy it, no doubt about that. No doubt that we made the "kill". I'll be able to say that I destroyed an enemy tank, to paint the silhouette of a T on the side of our turret so every will know that we really did do it. The Commander was crazy with joy… jumping up and down in the hatch making stupid noises. He'd trained for this, dreamt of this and waited for this ever since he was a kid watching B movies of the second world war in open air cinemas. He feels like he has accomplished something. Pride in himself, in his crew, in his unit, in his branch, in his tank, in his army, in his country. "Forty seconds" said The Driver then shifted into reverse ready to let the huge killing machine roll back down the little hill in southern Lebanon. The Gunner After the round impacted and he watched the devastation he automatically brought the crosshairs back to the center of the target in order to put another round into the target as he had been trained to do. He was waiting for the Commander to settle down and give the "fire" order when he realized that there was no need. Another round wouldn't do any more destruction then had already been done. For a second or two he searched for the surviving tank crew then realized that an explosion like that would leave no one alive. He'd seen the inside of a burnt out T before… they used them as targets on the gunnery ranges during training. A few months ago he'd peeked inside one of the hollowed out tanks and had been appalled by the total devastation inside the burnt out hull. He'd even imagined that some of the white powder in one of the corners was what was left of one of the original crew. The empathy broke through and the questions too. So that’s what it looks like. What would happen if my tank took a round? What would the explosion feel like? Who would be the first one to be hit? Would we all die? Would I? What does it feel like to die? How will my family take my being killed? Will my father cry too or just my mother and brothers? Something snapped. I don't believe it I've just killed four people". A tank crew just like mine, a Gunner just like I am, a Commander, a Loader and a Driver. Tank jocks like me. Probably been eating the same crummy combat rations I have for the week and drinking too many cups of thick black coffee. I wonder if they had to pee in a can, inside the tank, like we have been doing for the last three days. Four people with mothers and fathers just like mine, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, friends and acquaintances… just like me. I'm responsible… I pulled the little red trigger and killed them all. I've changed the lives of all those people for the worse and I don't even know them. I've never even seen them. I'm a murderer and now with blood on my hands…I'm responsible for the deaths of those four people. I'm a murderer. The Gunner was crouched down in his seat, holding his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. It was like his whole world had exploded together with the Syrian tank. He had considered himself a civilized human being, until now that is. He was now a killer and every thing he had been taught about the sanctity of human life came crashing down on his head. It was just too much to bear. He knew there were things that he was supposed to be doing, switches to turn on and off and things to watch for through the scope. He just couldn't. All he wanted to do was just to curl up, to shut out the terrible picture, to forget this ever happened. The Commander He was still acting crazy when he heard the Gunner mumbling over the comm. He couldn't hear what he was going on about but it worried him so he told the Driver not to move and the Loader to stick his head out the hatch and keep an eye on things outside. The Commander then lowered himself back down through the hatch making sure the comm line hooking him to the intercom and to the radio didn't get snagged and even blowing into the mike to make sure he was still connected. He stood on the floor of the crew compartment and let his eyes get accustomed to the dark. He glanced at the Loader's legs and up to make sure he's alert then glances into the Driver's compartment which looks quiet. The sweet gunpowder smell that is a fringe benefit of firing the main gun in the tiny crew compartment washes over him. He looks into the Gunner's compartment and sees the Gunner crouching down in the seat, shaking like a leaf. At first he thought something had happened to the him. Accidents inside the crew compartment, especially when firing the main gun were part of a tank crewman's life. Maybe he had caught his hand in the recoil or bumped his head or something like that. So he reached forward and released the lever that allowed him to swivel the Gunner's seat, turning him around, and looked into his face in order to see what was wrong. The Gunner was crying. Deep, uncontrolled, heart wrenching sobs that shook his whole body like spasms. The tears had already made smears all the way down his dirty face and darkened the top of his dusty olive colored coveralls. The kind of weeping that he remembered as a small child but had never seen on an adult. He got scared. It was a completely surrealistic situation. Here he was in the middle of a tank battle with orders from the company commander and reports from the rest of the units crackling on his headset. The enemy had just been hit hard and every one was wondering when they would get around to counter attacking. Here he was, in the dark, trying to figure out what was going on in the mind of a 18-year-old boy who had just killed four people. He'd heard about shell shock before, stories about the ones that couldn't take the mental strain of battle and just snapped. He'd never thought about it of course, never had any reason to but he'd heard about hysteria and seen it in movies, probably in one of the catastrophe movies that were so popular back in the seventies. "Shit, I don't have time for this, not in the middle of a fucking war. I can't allow my Gunner to go crazy on me, not now. What does he think to himself, we have been learning how to do just this, to kill people, for over a year now and when it finally happens, when we finally get to show what we got… he cracks up. What will I do if the company decides to move out? If the Syrians decide to counter attack, to get us back for killing so many of their friends. That's what I would do if I had just seen so many of my friends killed or wounded. I need him in control, not whimpering like a baby who has just finished his bottle and wants to be burped. He decided something needed to be done and like he had seen in the movies so many times before he slapped the Gunner on the side of the head. The stinging pain in his hand reminded him that the helmets they all wore were supposed to guard their heads from miner injury and probably from slaps too. Using his teeth he took off both fireproof gloves and pushed up the Gunner's helmet and looked into the Gunner's bloodshot eyes. Then with a quick movement slapped him sharply on the side of his face. The Gunner "What was that "? He felt like he was waking up from a nightmare and for a second couldn't remember where he was. His face was stinging like when he had really cut himself up shaving for the first time with cold water back in boot camp. He opened his eyes and saw the long face of the Commander staring at him with a strange mixture of anger and worry he had never seen in the Commander before, never seen in anybody before. Then he remembered the white flash and the orange explosion. The destruction he had caused with one little push of a index finger and started sinking back down into the black hole he was hiding in from the pain. "Got to get away from the pain, got to hide." The Commander After watching the Gunner's eyes open and focus he felt the relief wash over him. Then seeing the change in the Gunner's face made him angry again. He grabbed his shoulders and shook him, so hard the helmet fell off the Gunner's head, dropped to the floor and rolled down under the main gun. "Snap out of it" he screamed into the Gunner's face. "We have a war going on, I need you, we need you!" This time something must have gotten through because the Gunner opened his eyes and nodded. "You all right?" he asked watching the Gunner's eyes closely to see what kind of reaction he would get. "sorry, I had to do that, there was no choice, you were completely out of it and I need you to be alert especially now, can you understand me?" The Gunner nodded again. The Commander was getting restless now that he felt that the Gunner was going to be all right and needed to see what was going on outside. He climbed back on the platform that allows him to stand and see out the hatch and motioned the Loader to move back into the crew compartment. He took a look around and asked the Loader to find the Gunner's helmet under the main gun and to make sure he gunner puts it back on and hooks up to the comm system. "Driver forward" he said into mike and started scanning the surrounding countryside, like he had been trained to, trying to spot the enemy before they spot him. "Sixty seconds… Driver away" said the Driver, shifted into forward gear and pushed the pedal to the floor. It was another beautiful day in southern Lebanon.

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