What have I learned?

The biggest thing that I have learned since Sept, is that I am heavily influenced to write more, efficiently and dramatically. Both of the novels, Percepolis and in Dubious Battle, were excellent reads. I found certain points in both books to relate to, the loss of religion that Marjane experienced and when Jim Nolan starts to display a change in his personality during a very stressful ending of the book.

I have enjoyed the structure of the class and the way I was engaged by our instructor into realizing my potential. I wish I had more time in class to hone my skills as a writer.

But I digress, I have learned that I do love writing, it is an avenue that I can take to express my thoughts, and a way of refreshing my soul by releasing my fears and allowing my imagination and emotions to flow. Thank you to our instructor and to some of my class mates for pushing me to become a better writer.

Evolution of a Soul

David Bethune

English 1B/Mrs. Knapp

November 25, 2011

The air was hot and still. The only noise was the constant hum of the generators and the air units.

You get used to those, you never get used to the faces.

I looked down at my boots, no longer tan, but blackened from the blood of countless wounds.

A grim reminder of why, why I am here, and what can happen.

This is what keeps me awake.

This will never leave my memory bank.

This will be forever defined as the nightmare of my life.

I try to forget. I try in vain.

For this haunting time, is forever a part of my soul.

Evolution of a Soul

Or

The Death of Innocence

                When I finished the book, “In Dubious Battle” by John Steinbeck, I thought two thoughts ran through my head.  What a depressing, yet thoroughly perfect ending to a dramatic piece of literature. And second, Jim Nolan and I have something in common. We both went through traumatic experiences that forced change in our way of dealing with that experience. Jim’s, although a fictional character, I’m positive that his story was inspired from an actual account, maybe someone that Steinbeck had interviewed, or knew personally, but relative and believable nonetheless. I found this to be extremely fascinating because there was a time in my life that I became a change due to extreme circumstances, and the decisions and actions that I took came from a strength I never knew existed in myself. After reading this book, I wanted to try and figure out why, two seemingly ordinary, unassuming men, suddenly, as if a switch had been pressed, became above their perceived selves.

                In the last sixty or so pages of “In Dubious Battle,” the reader is treated to a transformation of Jim Nolan assistant to Mac the Red, to being the driving force of a resurgence in the will of the strikers, the new voice behind London, and the leader that Mac wished he could be. Jim showed spots of brilliance early on in the book, in fact several times he would either help redirect Mac from making a mistake, or he complimented Mac’s plans, or schemes, to manipulate the workers into action, or sometimes, in-action. But nothing prepared one for the absolute metamorphosis of Jim’s personality.

                Moments after Mac interrogates the young kid, Jim reminds Mac that he must continue a hard line approach to their methods of pushing the strikers.

“He stood still, smiling his cold smile, until London went out of the tent; and then he walked to the mattress and sat down and clutched his knees. All over his body the muscles shuddered. His face was pale and grey. Jim Put his good hand over and took him by the wrist. Mac said wearily, ‘I couldn’t of done it if you weren’t here, Jim.  Oh Jesus, you’re hard-boiled. You just looked. You didn’t give a damn.’ Jim tightened his grip on Mac’s wrist. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said quietly. ‘It wasn’t a scared kid, it was a danger to the cause. It had to be done, and you did it right. No hate, no feeling, just a job. Don’t worry.’” (279-280)

This is one of several instances that Jim displays he has a harsh side, more so than Mac. When Mac says, “I’m a sharpshooter. You feeling sorry for the kid, Jim?” And Jim replies, “No, he’s not a kid, he’s an example.” (278) Jim’s persona continues to build stem towards the point where he morphs into the main power figure. I too have experienced a dramatic change occur in me, to my way of reacting to a stressful situation. It happened in my time in the Military. In a time of war. A time when I was unsure of my role in it.

                I had been stationed Balad Air Force Base (AFB) in Iraq.  While there, I ran the medical supply function for the hospital.  My rotation had arrived the first week of January from Lackland AFB, and that was when I first heard of the base’s nickname “Mortarittaville.”  The base earned this handle due to the large number of mortar and rocket attacks that it had endured over the years.   I was well aware of the inherent danger even prior to my arrival.  So I was not surprised that the base had received this moniker, but I was stunned at how the majority of the military personnel spoke of the name.  Where I did not find the idea of being in a place whose name implied that it had an inordinate amount of bombs lobbed at it as funny, it seemed to me that most others found the name amusing.  I felt that they spoke it, “Mortarittaville,” without fear of reprisal from some angry terrorist that had gotten wind of their mockery.

                The majority of the rocket attacks were: random, timed, blind fire events and all came from about two or five kilometers beyond the fence surrounding the base.  The first thing an insurgent would do is to construct a make-shift launch pad – they might use a sheet of tin siding or something similar – and then lay the surface on an incline, place the rocket at the best angle towards the target, and then wire the rocket to a timer, and leave.  The timing devices responsible for firing the rockets would fail a large number of times, and even the ones that did make it to the air would not have enough fuel to reach their targets.  Of the ones that did make it that far, over half would not detonate.  So the actual probability that you would be anywhere near an exploding rocket was highly unlikely.  But that did not stop me from obsessing about them.

The first couple of weeks there, I lived in a revolving shroud of fear.  It would come and go depending on the situation.  If I was walking anywhere alone, I would nervously look at the sky and be wary of my surroundings. I kept a mental note of the nearest bunker or sturdy looking building.  When I was at work alone, a rare occasion, I would not be able to concentrate on the task at hand due to the nagging feeling of impending doom.  It was during one of these times alone in my office that I was forced to face this unseen terror.

I had just stepped outside to smoke a Newport, not my brand of choice, but the only cigarettes that did not taste like they were rolled fifty years ago.  As I did many of the times that I was alone, I began to contemplate my approaching death.   As I put out my smoke, I heard a familiar sound, the noise that one might hear on New Year’s or the Fourth of July, but this wasn’t December thirty first and I wasn’t in America.  The rocket flew right over my head and landed near the emergency room entrance, about one hundred yards from me.  I caught a glimpse of it, as I heard it, and froze momentarily, waiting for the coming blast.  After a few moments of internal panic I moved.  It did not explode, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t.  I went inside my office, which was on the east wall of the hospital compound, to get my gear and to call the command section to report the location of the missile. 

                I grabbed my body armor and a pack of smokes and high tailed it to the concrete bunker fifty yards to the north.   I crammed in there with about twenty others including one of my troops, who had been driving around the hospital delivering supplies when the attack occurred.  As I gave him an update as to what had happened, I noticed the relative calm of the other shelter-seekers.  That was when I had a revelation.  I was no longer scared.  What is the point of worrying about something that one has no control over?  This question carried me through my time over there. 

                This brief experience had helped me to understand my fear of the unknown and how I might change for the better and overcome it.  In “Season of Change and Loss” by Jane Kenyon, she writes of how change, expected or not, needs to be either confronted or in some cases, ignored.  She wrote, “Another defense against reality is to confront it—to admit the pervasiveness of change and loss and replacement.  We are in fact like the grass that flourishes and withers (342).  She also noted her own preparation for change “My plan is to live like the bears—to sleep until the white-throated sparrow. . .  calls me out of the dark.” (343)  I now realize that even the best laid plans or efforts to resist change are usually met with indifference.  I had been dealing with my fear by trying to hide from it or hoping that if I slept, it might go away.  I decided that I won’t run for the cave and bury my fear.  I would need to confront and accept it.

                At one point in the book, Jim and Mac are sitting in London’s tent during a heavy rain storm, and Mac is being negative about the effect of the rain on the strikers, he says, “Jesus, why can’t we get a break without getting it cancelled out? Why do we always have to take it in the neck—always?” To which Jim states, “Don’t worry about it, Mac. Sometimes, when a guy gets miserable enough, he’ll fight all the harder. That’s the way it is with me…Don’t you worry about it.” It is at this part of the story that you get the idea that Jim is the stronger of the two. He just needs to be pushed just a bit further.

                When I was still in Iraq, a week after their first elections, I found myself in a situation that required me to rise above my normal personality to ensure that the events unfolding around me did not cause me to fail at the task at hand. It was without a doubt, the most intensely stressful situation of my life. The hospital was starting to receive massive amounts of civilian casualties. There were several car bombings that occurred all around Iraq, as well as minor skirmishes in the outlying areas around Baghdad and Balad. The first of the helicopters carrying wounded started to show up near dusk. The night was hot and dry.

                 The moment that I had my troops organized and ready to go, my squadron commander walked into our office and told me that we were now expecting a large number of Marine and Army injured as well.  As he and I walked to the emergency room, we started to hear the familiar sound of helicopters approaching.   As I neared my assigned area, which was the ER, the helicopters started their landings.  Within minutes there were two lines forming: one in the air as the helicopters ran out of landing zones, and another leading to the ER entrance made up of mix of civilian and soldier casualties. 

                The line going into the hospital was a process in its-self.  The patients were assessed in the field before they got on the heli’s, but they were now receiving additional triage.  This was causing a line of approximately ten or more stretchers.  As I turned towards the side entrance to the ER, I heard my name called.  A Lieutenant (Lt) was at the end of the shout.  He was the greenest officer I had ever worked with. We came from the same area of the hospital back home.  Months of dealing with the injured and also the dead, had begun to take its toll on him in a most regrettable way. 

                He told me that he needed help off-loading patients from the helicopters.  I followed him to the furthest Marine Sea Knight, a smaller version of the Army’s Chinook chopper.  As we approached, the wind from the props slammed into me and knocked the wind out of my chest.  I thought the air would have been cooler around the pad thanks to the three choppers that had landed, but it was hot, dry and smelled like burnt dirt.  They kept their rotors going for a quick off load and then back to the air and most likely headed back to the battlefield.  As we reached the back of the Sea Knight, I noticed that these casualties were U.S. soldiers.  A two man team wheeled a stretcher with a person in a body bag on it.  I looked at Lt. as it passed, he told me that the field medics put the wounded in body bags sometimes to help keep them warm to prevent shock, or sometimes to hide how badly wounded they actually were from the other injured passengers.  The Lt directed to offloading as I assist a Marine who was able to walk; he had his arm in a sling and a bandage covering most of the right side of his face.  I put my arm around his waist and led him off. 

As we got to the triage line, I noticed my guy was talking, not to me but to the stretcher with the body bag in front of us.  He continued to talk as the stretcher stopped at the doc in charge.  When the triage personnel opened the bag, I noticed the soldier inside.  His right leg was heavily bandaged around his knee and blood was seeping through. I saw something lying between his legs, that was when I realized that the lower part of his leg was not attached and that it was the object that was in between.  My charge stopped speaking.  His chest started to heave and he had tears streaming down the left side of his face. I assisted him inside the ER and went to look for the Lt. He was nowhere to be seen.

There were people starting to mill around waiting for someone to instruct them as to what to do. I was at first, one of them. I then noticed one of the helicopter crews shouting and waving at me. I walked over to the marine at the ramp, he shouted at me to start getting the patients off the choppers. I immediately, turned and started to organize the people on the pad. I had six folks grab litters and walking wounded off the first one. I then had the rest unload the second one. I radioed in to the control center and sent a message to my own troops to meet me at the pad. I then proceeded to coordinate each helicopter’s offloading in less than 5 minutes. I had around thirty people organized and working proficiently to expedite this process. Which lasted another six hours.  In all, we processed over one hundred and seventy patients off the choppers, through the triage lines, into the ER, then into surgery, or the wards.

To this day, I do not know how I made it through with my sanity intact. Even though, I think I was the only one who questioned the possibility of losing it. Both Mac and London questioned if Jim were, “losing it.” At one point, Mac asks Jim, “I don’t know what’s happened to you.” To which Jim replies, “It’s something that grows out of a fight like this. Suddenly you feel the great forces at work that create little troubles like this strike of ours. And the sight of those forces does something to you, picks you up and makes you act. I guess that’s where authority comes from.” (285) this is where we hear from Jim as to when the switch occurred in him. A switch that was gradual, yet certain. Like an engine droning on a highway, hearing it minutely at first, then as it approaches, it grows in volume until it passes by with wind and heat. Leaving you as fast as it came. For Jim, his left him with his death. (348) My change happened so fast that I didn’t realize it was even on until hours later, when it turned off.

Jim Nolan was as unassuming about his initial position in the grand scheme of things, as I started out to be.  Yet, as though some innate button had been pushed, we were ascended above our expectations for ourselves. Jim pushed the buttons of others to re-ignite the strike just when it seemed finished. And his death was in itself his final action in his story. According to Warren French who wrote the Introduction for, “In Dubious Battle,” he remarks, that, In Dubious Battle is not an anatomy of a 1930’s strike, nor a metaphysical exploration of an individual’s relationship to a group, it is, rather, a Bildungsroman, a term borrowed from the German which translates to a, “novel of education,” or---a philosophy of life. He continues, “The process of maturing usually takes years, but Jim Nolan is on a crash course. (XXV) In essence, Jim is forced to change, or adapt, in order to survive, or in his case, to super charge the strike. And too, behind the scenes, reinforce all that he and Mac, and their party have stood for. Fight for your fucking rights to live and to earn what is fair.

In the waning hours of the night, hours after the helicopters ceased transporting wounded, I found the Lt. He tried to apologize for disappearing, he tried to tell me something, maybe an excuse, I’ll never know, but I cut him short and asked, “what’s next?” He told me that he had to process some soldiers that had died, and that I should go to sleep. I told him no. I would help him. He had no others helping him. He was on his own. But with my help we processed them all. Let me tell you, there is nothing more finite than identifying and accounting for dead bodies. Taking their rings off their fingers and placing them in small envelopes for their loved ones. Especially the bodies of someone so young, they could be your child. I finally went to my bed later that morning, after thirty six or so hours later, and I attempted to sleep.  I remember staring blankly up at my roof for what seemed like hours. Processing all that had occurred. Sometimes silently crying, other times I remember being amazed at what I had accomplished. When sleep did come, I did not dream. I woke ten hours later to a knock at my door. Apparently I overslept.

My actions indirectly led to many wounded to receiving prompt treatment for their wounds. I also took charge of a situation that was way above my pay grade. Yet the people out there did not hesitate in undertaking my orders, nor did anyone higher ranking than me, once question the validity of what I was coordinating. And after it was all said and done, my commanding officer, who took notice of my actions, submitted and presented me with a medal of commendation.  But prior to receiving that, award, and prior to the massive amounts of casualties that we helped, I was just doing my job, my routine in supplying the treatment sections their materials for saving limbs and lives. I was so out of my element on that helicopter pad that if I tried to do it over again, I’m sure I would falter. Not that I don’t lack confidence, I don’t, I just do not recall how the internal switch happened. It just did.  But, the one thing I wish I could forget was the moments after the helicopters stopped, and all the wounded were treated, and all of the dead cared for, then the grim reality set in. My overall state of mind is best described in this poem I wrote last year, in an attempt to explain this, feeling, to my Michelle, my love and soul mate.

“The Nightmare”

The air was hot and still.

The only noise was

the constant hum of the generators

and the air units.

You get used to those

you never get used to the faces.

I looked down at my boots,

no longer tan, but blackened

from the blood of countless wounds.

A grim reminder of why,

why I am here, and

what can happen.

I arrive back to my tent in a daze,

not realizing that I was walking.

A cigarette glowing in my mouth

and I try to unlock my door.

I drop my keys, and

I drop to my knees, and

I start to weep.

My tears mix with dry sweat and sand.

I sit down, and pull my knees to my chest

and there I am, a heaving shell, covered with

sand, blood, tears, sweat and fear.

And the number 9 appears in my head,

the number won't go away.

I helped send 9 men home today.

I helped sort their belongings.

I helped to clean them up.

I helped to remove their bloody clothes.

I helped to hide their wounds.

I helped 9 men go home today.

This is what keeps me awake.

This will never leave my memory bank.

This will forever be defined,

as the nightmare of my life.

I try to forget.

I try in vain.

For this nightmare,

Is a part of my life.

               

Works Cited

Steinbeck, John “In Dubious Battle.” Penguin Books, 1992

French, Warren. Introduction. “In Dubious Battle.” By John Steinbeck. Penguin Books, 1992.

Kenyon, Jane “Season of Change and Loss.”  A Writer’s Reader.  Ed. Donald Hall and D.L. Emblen.  9th ed.                                        

                New York:  Longman, 2002.  341-43.                                              

Jim Nolan

Throughout the book, "In Dubious Battle," we see Jim Nolan's transformation from a man without a true identity, to someone in a support role to Mac, to a wounded soldier, and to ultimately a man who is briefly the driving force behind the strikers. And it is in this near final transformation of Jim, that he becomes closely tied to the growers in their own way of using the pickers/strikers, for their/his gain. Jim assumes a hidden role behind Mac and London, as the true brains behind the strike. But, in a way, his abuse of morality, leads him to being responsible of a power that closely resembles that of the tyrannical growers. It is displayed in his total disregard for a moral and humane way of motivating the strikers, similar to the growers who cut the pickers wages, and giving them the choice to either accept the pay, or starve.

The aftershock

David Bethune

English 1B/Mrs. Knapp

November 25, 2011

The air was hot and still. The only noise was the constant hum of the generators and the air units.

You get used to those, you never get used to the faces.

I looked down at my boots, no longer tan, but blackened from the blood of countless wounds.

A grim reminder of why, why I am here, and what can happen.

This is what keeps me awake.

This will never leave my memory bank.

This will be forever defined as the nightmare of my life.

I try to forget. I try in vain.

For this haunting time, is forever a part of my soul.

Evolution of a Soul

Or

The Death of Innocence

                When I finished the book, “In Dubious Battle” by John Steinbeck, I thought two thoughts ran through my head.  What a depressing, yet thoroughly perfect ending to a dramatic piece of literature. And second, Jim Nolan and I have something in common. We both went through traumatic experiences that forced change in our way of dealing with that experience. Jim’s, although a fictional character, I’m positive that his story was inspired from an actual account, maybe someone that Steinbeck had interviewed, or knew personally, but relative and believable nonetheless. I found this to be extremely fascinating because there was a time in my life that I became a change due to extreme circumstances, and the decisions and actions that I took came from a strength I never knew existed in myself. After reading this book, I wanted to try and figure out why, two seemingly ordinary, unassuming men, suddenly, as if a switch had been pressed, became above their perceived selves.

                In the last sixty or so pages of “In Dubious Battle,” the reader is treated to a transformation of Jim Nolan assistant to Mac the Red, to being the driving force of a resurgence in the will of the strikers, the new voice behind London, and the leader that Mac wished he could be. Jim showed spots of brilliance early on in the book, in fact several times he would either help redirect Mac from making a mistake, or he complimented Mac’s plans, or schemes, to manipulate the workers into action, or sometimes, in-action. But nothing prepared one for the absolute metamorphosis of Jim’s personality.

                Moments after Mac interrogates the young kid, Jim reminds Mac that he must continue a hard line approach to their methods of pushing the strikers.

“He stood still, smiling his cold smile, until London went out of the tent; and then he walked to the mattress and sat down and clutched his knees. All over his body the muscles shuddered. His face was pale and grey. Jim Put his good hand over and took him by the wrist. Mac said wearily, ‘I couldn’t of done it if you weren’t here, Jim.  Oh Jesus, you’re hard-boiled. You just looked. You didn’t give a damn.’ Jim tightened his grip on Mac’s wrist. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said quietly. ‘It wasn’t a scared kid, it was a danger to the cause. It had to be done, and you did it right. No hate, no feeling, just a job. Don’t worry.’” (279-280)

This is one of several instances that Jim displays he has a harsh side, more so than Mac. When Mac says, “I’m a sharpshooter. You feeling sorry for the kid, Jim?” And Jim replies, “No, he’s not a kid, he’s an example.” (278) Jim’s persona continues to build stem towards the point where he morphs into the main power figure. I too have experienced a dramatic change occur in me, to my way of reacting to a stressful situation. It happened in my time in the Military. In a time of war. A time when I was unsure of my role in it.

                I had been stationed Balad Air Force Base (AFB) in Iraq.  While there, I ran the medical supply function for the hospital.  My rotation had arrived the first week of January from Lackland AFB, and that was when I first heard of the base’s nickname “Mortarittaville.”  The base earned this handle due to the large number of mortar and rocket attacks that it had endured over the years.   I was well aware of the inherent danger even prior to my arrival.  So I was not surprised that the base had received this moniker, but I was stunned at how the majority of the military personnel spoke of the name.  Where I did not find the idea of being in a place whose name implied that it had an inordinate amount of bombs lobbed at it as funny, it seemed to me that most others found the name amusing.  I felt that they spoke it, “Mortarittaville,” without fear of reprisal from some angry terrorist that had gotten wind of their mockery.

                The majority of the rocket attacks were: random, timed, blind fire events and all came from about two or five kilometers beyond the fence surrounding the base.  The first thing an insurgent would do is to construct a make-shift launch pad – they might use a sheet of tin siding or something similar – and then lay the surface on an incline, place the rocket at the best angle towards the target, and then wire the rocket to a timer, and leave.  The timing devices responsible for firing the rockets would fail a large number of times, and even the ones that did make it to the air would not have enough fuel to reach their targets.  Of the ones that did make it that far, over half would not detonate.  So the actual probability that you would be anywhere near an exploding rocket was highly unlikely.  But that did not stop me from obsessing about them.

The first couple of weeks there, I lived in a revolving shroud of fear.  It would come and go depending on the situation.  If I was walking anywhere alone, I would nervously look at the sky and be wary of my surroundings. I kept a mental note of the nearest bunker or sturdy looking building.  When I was at work alone, a rare occasion, I would not be able to concentrate on the task at hand due to the nagging feeling of impending doom.  It was during one of these times alone in my office that I was forced to face this unseen terror.

I had just stepped outside to smoke a Newport, not my brand of choice, but the only cigarettes that did not taste like they were rolled fifty years ago.  As I did many of the times that I was alone, I began to contemplate my approaching death.   As I put out my smoke, I heard a familiar sound, the noise that one might hear on New Year’s or the Fourth of July, but this wasn’t December thirty first and I wasn’t in America.  The rocket flew right over my head and landed near the emergency room entrance, about one hundred yards from me.  I caught a glimpse of it, as I heard it, and froze momentarily, waiting for the coming blast.  After a few moments of internal panic I moved.  It did not explode, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t.  I went inside my office, which was on the east wall of the hospital compound, to get my gear and to call the command section to report the location of the missile. 

                I grabbed my body armor and a pack of smokes and high tailed it to the concrete bunker fifty yards to the north.   I crammed in there with about twenty others including one of my troops, who had been driving around the hospital delivering supplies when the attack occurred.  As I gave him an update as to what had happened, I noticed the relative calm of the other shelter-seekers.  That was when I had a revelation.  I was no longer scared.  What is the point of worrying about something that one has no control over?  This question carried me through my time over there. 

                This brief experience had helped me to understand my fear of the unknown and how I might change for the better and overcome it.  In “Season of Change and Loss” by Jane Kenyon, she writes of how change, expected or not, needs to be either confronted or in some cases, ignored.  She wrote, “Another defense against reality is to confront it—to admit the pervasiveness of change and loss and replacement.  We are in fact like the grass that flourishes and withers (342).  She also noted her own preparation for change “My plan is to live like the bears—to sleep until the white-throated sparrow. . .  calls me out of the dark.” (343)  I now realize that even the best laid plans or efforts to resist change are usually met with indifference.  I had been dealing with my fear by trying to hide from it or hoping that if I slept, it might go away.  I decided that I won’t run for the cave and bury my fear.  I would need to confront and accept it.

                At one point in the book, Jim and Mac are sitting in London’s tent during a heavy rain storm, and Mac is being negative about the effect of the rain on the strikers, he says, “Jesus, why can’t we get a break without getting it cancelled out? Why do we always have to take it in the neck—always?” To which Jim states, “Don’t worry about it, Mac. Sometimes, when a guy gets miserable enough, he’ll fight all the harder. That’s the way it is with me…Don’t you worry about it.” It is at this part of the story that you get the idea that Jim is the stronger of the two. He just needs to be pushed just a bit further.

                When I was still in Iraq, a week after their first elections, I found myself in a situation that required me to rise above my normal personality to ensure that the events unfolding around me did not cause me to fail at the task at hand. It was without a doubt, the most intensely stressful situation of my life. The hospital was starting to receive massive amounts of civilian casualties. There were several car bombings that occurred all around Iraq, as well as minor skirmishes in the outlying areas around Baghdad and Balad. The first of the helicopters carrying wounded started to show up near dusk. The night was hot and dry.

                 The moment that I had my troops organized and ready to go, my squadron commander walked into our office and told me that we were now expecting a large number of Marine and Army injured as well.  As he and I walked to the emergency room, we started to hear the familiar sound of helicopters approaching.   As I neared my assigned area, which was the ER, the helicopters started their landings.  Within minutes there were two lines forming: one in the air as the helicopters ran out of landing zones, and another leading to the ER entrance made up of mix of civilian and soldier casualties. 

                The line going into the hospital was a process in its-self.  The patients were assessed in the field before they got on the heli’s, but they were now receiving additional triage.  This was causing a line of approximately ten or more stretchers.  As I turned towards the side entrance to the ER, I heard my name called.  A Lieutenant (Lt) was at the end of the shout.  He was the greenest officer I had ever worked with. We came from the same area of the hospital back home.  Months of dealing with the injured and also the dead, had begun to take its toll on him in a most regrettable way. 

                He told me that he needed help off-loading patients from the helicopters.  I followed him to the furthest Marine Sea Knight, a smaller version of the Army’s Chinook chopper.  As we approached, the wind from the props slammed into me and knocked the wind out of my chest.  I thought the air would have been cooler around the pad thanks to the three choppers that had landed, but it was hot, dry and smelled like burnt dirt.  They kept their rotors going for a quick off load and then back to the air and most likely headed back to the battlefield.  As we reached the back of the Sea Knight, I noticed that these casualties were U.S. soldiers.  A two man team wheeled a stretcher with a person in a body bag on it.  I looked at Lt. as it passed, he told me that the field medics put the wounded in body bags sometimes to help keep them warm to prevent shock, or sometimes to hide how badly wounded they actually were from the other injured passengers.  The Lt directed to offloading as I assist a Marine who was able to walk; he had his arm in a sling and a bandage covering most of the right side of his face.  I put my arm around his waist and led him off. 

As we got to the triage line, I noticed my guy was talking, not to me but to the stretcher with the body bag in front of us.  He continued to talk as the stretcher stopped at the doc in charge.  When the triage personnel opened the bag, I noticed the soldier inside.  His right leg was heavily bandaged around his knee and blood was seeping through. I saw something lying between his legs, that was when I realized that the lower part of his leg was not attached and that it was the object that was in between.  My charge stopped speaking.  His chest started to heave and he had tears streaming down the left side of his face. I assisted him inside the ER and went to look for the Lt. He was nowhere to be seen.

There were people starting to mill around waiting for someone to instruct them as to what to do. I was at first, one of them. I then noticed one of the helicopter crews shouting and waving at me. I walked over to the marine at the ramp, he shouted at me to start getting the patients off the choppers. I immediately, turned and started to organize the people on the pad. I had six folks grab litters and walking wounded off the first one. I then had the rest unload the second one. I radioed in to the control center and sent a message to my own troops to meet me at the pad. I then proceeded to coordinate each helicopter’s offloading in less than 5 minutes. I had around thirty people organized and working proficiently to expedite this process. Which lasted another six hours.  In all, we processed over one hundred and seventy patients off the choppers, through the triage lines, into the ER, then into surgery, or the wards.

To this day, I do not know how I made it through with my sanity intact. Even though, I think I was the only one who questioned the possibility of losing it. Both Mac and London questioned if Jim were, “losing it.” At one point, Mac asks Jim, “I don’t know what’s happened to you.” To which Jim replies, “It’s something that grows out of a fight like this. Suddenly you feel the great forces at work that create little troubles like this strike of ours. And the sight of those forces does something to you, picks you up and makes you act. I guess that’s where authority comes from.” (285) this is where we hear from Jim as to when the switch occurred in him. A switch that was gradual, yet certain. Like an engine droning on a highway, hearing it minutely at first, then as it approaches, it grows in volume until it passes by with wind and heat. Leaving you as fast as it came. For Jim, his left him with his death. (348) My change happened so fast that I didn’t realize it was even on until hours later, when it turned off.

Jim Nolan was as unassuming about his initial position in the grand scheme of things, as I started out to be.  Yet, as though some innate button had been pushed, we were ascended above our expectations for ourselves. Jim pushed the buttons of others to re-ignite the strike just when it seemed finished. And his death was in itself his final action in his story. According to Warren French who wrote the Introduction for, “In Dubious Battle,” he remarks, that, In Dubious Battle is not an anatomy of a 1930’s strike, nor a metaphysical exploration of an individual’s relationship to a group, it is, rather, a Bildungsroman, a term borrowed from the German which translates to a, “novel of education,” or---a philosophy of life. He continues, “The process of maturing usually takes years, but Jim Nolan is on a crash course. (XXV) In essence, Jim is forced to change, or adapt, in order to survive, or in his case, to super charge the strike. And too, behind the scenes, reinforce all that he and Mac, and their party have stood for. Fight for your fucking rights to live and to earn what is fair.

In the waning hours of the night, hours after the helicopters ceased transporting wounded, I found the Lt. He tried to apologize for disappearing, he tried to tell me something, maybe an excuse, I’ll never know, but I cut him short and asked, “what’s next?” He told me that he had to process some soldiers that had died, and that I should go to sleep. I told him no. I would help him. He had no others helping him. He was on his own. But with my help we processed them all. Let me tell you, there is nothing more finite than identifying and accounting for dead bodies. Taking their rings off their fingers and placing them in small envelopes for their loved ones. Especially the bodies of someone so young, they could be your child. I finally went to my bed later that morning, after thirty six or so hours later, and I attempted to sleep.  I remember staring blankly up at my roof for what seemed like hours. Processing all that had occurred. Sometimes silently crying, other times I remember being amazed at what I had accomplished. When sleep did come, I did not dream. I woke ten hours later to a knock at my door. Apparently I overslept.

My actions indirectly led to many wounded to receiving prompt treatment for their wounds. I also took charge of a situation that was way above my pay grade. Yet the people out there did not hesitate in undertaking my orders, nor did anyone higher ranking than me, once question the validity of what I was coordinating. And after it was all said and done, my commanding officer, who took notice of my actions, submitted and presented me with a medal of commendation.  But prior to receiving that, award, and prior to the massive amounts of casualties that we helped, I was just doing my job, my routine in supplying the treatment sections their materials for saving limbs and lives. I was so out of my element on that helicopter pad that if I tried to do it over again, I’m sure I would falter. Not that I don’t lack confidence, I don’t, I just do not recall how the internal switch happened. It just did.  But, the one thing I wish I could forget was the moments after the helicopters stopped, and all the wounded were treated, and all of the dead cared for, then the grim reality set in. My overall state of mind is best described in this poem I wrote last year, in an attempt to explain this, feeling, to my Michelle, my love and soul mate.

“The Nightmare”

The air was hot and still.

The only noise was

the constant hum of the generators

and the air units.

You get used to those

you never get used to the faces.

I looked down at my boots,

no longer tan, but blackened

from the blood of countless wounds.

A grim reminder of why,

why I am here, and

what can happen.

I arrive back to my tent in a daze,

not realizing that I was walking.

A cigarette glowing in my mouth

and I try to unlock my door.

I drop my keys, and

I drop to my knees, and

I start to weep.

My tears mix with dry sweat and sand.

I sit down, and pull my knees to my chest

and there I am, a heaving shell, covered with

sand, blood, tears, sweat and fear.

And the number 9 appears in my head,

the number won't go away.

I helped send 9 men home today.

I helped sort their belongings.

I helped to clean them up.

I helped to remove their bloody clothes.

I helped to hide their wounds.

I helped 9 men go home today.

This is what keeps me awake.

This will never leave my memory bank.

This will forever be defined,

as the nightmare of my life.

I try to forget.

I try in vain.

For this nightmare,

Is a part of my life.

               

Works Cited

Steinbeck, John “In Dubious Battle.” Penguin Books, 1992

French, Warren. Introduction. “In Dubious Battle.” By John Steinbeck. Penguin Books, 1992.

Kenyon, Jane “Season of Change and Loss.”  A Writer’s Reader.  Ed. Donald Hall and D.L. Emblen.  9th ed.                                        

                New York:  Longman, 2002.  341-43.                                              

Losing our religion

The Death of a Hero

                In her book, “Persepolis,” Marjane Satrapi writes of various events during her childhood. Events ranging from an internal revolution, a war with Iraq; or her rebellious beginnings, to her leaving Iran to live with her mother’s best friend in Austria. And in the book we learn of the various relatives and friends that are instrumental in her development as a person, and as a storyteller. Of these individuals, one stands above all others, her uncle Anoosh. His influence is felt throughout the book. Even after his execution (70), his role in shaping Marjane had only just begun.

                There are many instances in their relationship that can be analyzed, yet there is one in particular that I found very relevant in my own life, which was when Anoosh is killed, and Marjane loses her relationship with God. The reason I want to write about this, simply put, I have experienced the same reaction to the death of some one very dear to me, when I was young. This person had a huge impact on my life growing up, and his death affected me for decades. The man was, is, my grandfather.

                Marjane’s uncle filled her head and imagination, with romantic stories of revolution and personal struggle. One in which he spent years in prison, and another about the time his own uncle was executed for attempting to free Iran from oppression (55). She was smitten by his actions, the actions of a hero for the people of Iran. And now she had someone to compare to all others who come into her life.

                When I turned sixteen, my younger brother and I went to live with our grandparents, on my mother’s side, for a year or so. At this time, my grandfather had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was dying. They lived on a farm in the central valley and it was my mother’s idea that we go live with them so we could help my grandmother out with running the farm. Which was a good idea during the summer, but not so much when it turned autumn and my brother and I had to go to school. In fact I believe we became more of a burden than help. 

                It had been over a year since I last saw my granddad. In his prime he was a tall, robust man, full of pride and a passion for work. I remember just being in awe of him. When I was younger, around twelve, my brother and usually some of my cousins, would all come out to the farm for the summer. And I remember my grandparents would wake up early, maybe four or five in the morning, to start the day’s chores. And I loved to wake up with them. It was usually the smell of the breakfast my grandma was cooking that would stir me from my sleep. I can still smell the coffee and bacon. The scent of an early morning breakfast out on a farm in the early morning hours, mixed in with the morning breeze from the alfalfa crops, the moisture in the air from the irrigation ditches. The ditches divided my grandparent’s property from their neighbors. With the muddy waters gurgling in the distance, I would hear a car’s engine drone down a highway that was a mile away. The land was so flat that sounds would travel great lengths to arrive in your ear. But above all else, I would hear the scrapping of a spatula on an iron griddle, announcing the birth of a homemade pancake. I would be dressed and downstairs in a flash. After eating, he would take me with him to tend to the chores. He was big and strong, and never once did I see him act weak or unsure of himself. He always seemed to know what he was doing or what it was he needed to do, always so confident, so sure. I remember just being so in love with him. This man, my ideal father figure, was who I would try to measure up to over the years since, failing miserably, yet I would try.

                This summer was different. He was but a shell of the man I once knew. His body ravaged from the cancer and the radiation treatments. His once tall frame, full of life, was now skeletal, skin hanging weakly onto his bones. He was bed ridden, he could not walk. It was as if all of his muscles had disappeared, along with his hair. I would have to help my grandmother get him up to bath him, or to help place him on his mobile toilet. He slept on a hospital bed downstairs, and my grandmother would sleep on the couch near him.

                When we first arrived for this summer I recall being very positive and always spending time with him. I would sit next to the bed and he would read one of his Louis L’Amour books to me. I would read the newspaper to him, and I acted out the comic strips, he loved that. I could make him laugh, and that was nice, that would make my grandmother happy. That summer was full of hope and possibilities. I fully believed that he would beat his cancer and that he would again someday wake up at five in the morning to go and let the cattle out to their feeding range. He and I would make the walk to the ditch and turn the crank to allow his allotted water to rush over the burgeoning crops. He would live to see me become a man and I would make him proud.

                Then school started. And I soon started to despise waking up so early to tend to the farm on my own. I hated to pick him up for my grandmother to clean him from his latest accidental bowel movement. I started to avoid looking into his dying eyes anymore. I was unable to find life in them, as if he as if he was already dead, a zombie, lifeless yet moving. Always mumbling it seemed. And he always needed something. I don’t know why I changed. I think about that to this day and can’t find an answer as to why I just found him, repulsive. For his birthday one morning before school, my grandmother, brother and I were to sing happy birthday to him, and all I could do was mouth the words, and look away from him. I could not bring myself to look into his eyes.

                One Friday after school, I was heading out to the bus, and I saw my mother waiting in her car with my brother. I stopped short of her car, knowing full well why she was there. I hadn’t seen her since the beginning of summer. As I slid into the back seat, she reached back to me coldly and told me that he had died on his way to his appointment that morning. When we got back to the farm, I walked into the living room where he had been living for these last months. It was cold and dark. His bed was still in there. It started to rain outside. I ran out the door and into the down pour. I ran out to the fields and started to yell and cry at God. Swearing and denouncing his existence. How could he be dead? Why was he made to suffer so? From that moment on, I swore I would never pray or believe in God again. Because there could be no God, if he let my granddad suffer and then die. Taking him away from me, thereby leaving me alone. The one man, hell, the one person that I could truly say that had loved me without conditions, was gone. Dead for some unknown purpose.

                 

Marjane and change

She goes from a prophet to revolutionist during her childhood. In other words, a little girl with big ideas of how she should be perceived and the influences around her shaping her. Molding her future. Her desire to help the people of her country started at such a young age, and the events around her, occurring in Iran, and all over the world start to have a profound affect on her. When her parents do not allow her, rightfully so, to join her at a demonstration, she becomes quite upset, crying to God.

Another important changing event happened the night her father was out taking photos of the days revolutionary actions. When he did not come home when he was expected to, her family was in a state of worry and confusion. Marjane thought the worst had happened, that he had died. When he eventually came home her determination increased.

One of the most significant events in the book, one that shapes Marjane for years to come, was the day she met her uncle Anoosh (54). His impact as an influence is seen almost immediately. She has found her hero. Someone she may boast about to her friend. Most importantly, someone that implants a deeper feeling of freedom for her country. The romantic idea of doing what is right, against all odds, becomes embedded in her the night Anoosh tells Marjane the story of his escape into Russia (57), and of his friend Fereydoon and his girlfriend. Marjane is indeed changed because it increases her determination, and her rebellious nature.

When Anoosh is captured and then executed, Marjane banishes God from her life, telling him to never return. A huge change in her, losing her faith, and her uncle in one night (70). You never again hear or see any reference to God for the rest of the book.

Another very potent life changing segment in the book is when Marjane plays hooky from school with two older girls. When she returns home, her mother, who is waiting for her, questions her about her school day, and Marjane lies to her mother and gets caught in the lie, her mother verbally chastises her. And soon after she hears on the radio the, about the army retaking a city. Her mother casts doubt upon the significance of that event, saying, "Even if it's true, what difference does it make to us" (114), insinuating that there is nothing to celebrate. So Marjane, heads to her hideaway, the basement. And there she reflects on the war, and in the process, smokes a cigarette for the first time. Thereby losing her innocence as a child, and transforming into an adult. In essence, the war and the cigarette are symbolic of the most significant change any one of us undertakes, the realization that life is incredibly hard, and that we all must grow up and deal with it.

Metacognitive reflection

I am a procrastinator. That said, I do have the best of intentions to, try and be, more proactive, yet it is very easy to find excuses in not being so. When I left class for home on Friday, my intention was to get my reading and journal entry done before having to pick up my two youngest children. Well that didn't happen due to, one, me being extremely hungry, and secondly, my girlfriend wanted to play hooky with me and go eat somewhere at Santana Row.

So as you can see, I can be easily swayed by food and my woman. But, luckily for me, I am really enjoying the assigned reading and can find time throughout my day. Even with four children, who almost always, well at least one, needs my attention. I try to engage them when I have moments. But like everyone, I need time to myself, not to nurture kids, or make dinner, or do homework, or to transport someone from one place to another. At times I will go to pick up my two youngest and will sit outside the daycare in my car for about 30 minutes, and read, or do some type of homework. I also find certain moments in the day or night, when my small condo is jammed with all six of us trying to find a space to chill or do school work. So, yes, at times, I must lock myself in our only bathroom, and, yes, read and take care of business.

But the most convenient time for me to read, is when everyone else is asleep and then I can get some pages turned, but, that tends so induce sleep for yours truly. Well, can you blame me? The place is quiet. No T.V. Nobody asking me for food or to watch them play a video game, or any of the millions of things that can be required of me and any given moment. So, what usually happens, is I fall asleep with book on my chest, and that is how I wake in the morning, usually and hour or more before I really need to arise, and can get some serious reading done.

That is, only if I remembered to have my coffee ready the night before. Which if did, I usually do, I am fully vested in the novel. This seems to be the best time for me to read. If I try while the condo is active, kids home, I tend to drift from what I am doing, therefore, causing me to re-read a passage several times. This is never beneficial, almost a waste of time.

What I need to do is get in a routine during the week, before my herd of kids come home from school, and read and do homework at the library. If I can institute this strategy, soon, I should be able to catch up in my other classes, and to help ensure that I produce my best work as opposed to a rushed product that will embarrass me.