Transitioning to Civilian LifeScott Smith
Fri, 11/17/2006 - 8:14pm
At seven in the morning you can find me plopped down on the couch eating cereal and watching television. I used to watch the news but I swore not to anymore. It’s too violent, and I don’t need a daily reminder about the war I fought. I stop at the Discovery Channel to watch some planet being discovered. I keep telling myself, “hang in there man, it’s going to get better, you’re a civilian now bro.” Instead of my usual three to five mile run, I grab my coffee mug and dash into my truck before I hit the morning traffic on Burbank. The road is busy and I cut off three cars and run two red lights. I don’t feel bad because cops aren’t nearly as strict as MPs and they wont notify my chain of command, not in this world. While walking to class I get stared down by four students who think they’re in a gang, probably boots, new to the campus. As much as I’d like to go up and make ‘em all do pushups, clean their rooms, clean my room, I can’t; this is the civilian world and things like that don’t work here. I can’t pull rank anymore or take away weekends. Finally I get to class on time, five minutes early. As I’m waiting the teacher enters with stragglers still squeezing in, one by one, trickling to their seats like a drippy faucet.
During the lecture, students start to talk, something about last weekend, last night, I don’t know, I don’t care. I wish it were two years ago where I would have turned around and slammed my fist on their desks, grabbing one of them by his collar while barking orders in his face. Forcing the both of them to realize their mistake of disrespecting the educators in our free society they so take for granted. Then I snap out of it and remember where I am and how if I did do that I might be expelled. Instead, in a calm and civilized tone someone says, “Do you mind being quiet?” Then the teacher asks a question and I know the answer. Without raising my hand I belt out, “ERRRRR!” but I stop myself half way and only get out a, “Ehh…” In the Marines we say Err to demonstrate our understanding of something, easier than saying yes sir or no sir. I feel embarrassed, ashamed, and humiliated that I nearly let everyone know my secret, but it shouldn’t be a secret because talking to someone doesn’t sound that bad. Does it? But then again, who am I kidding, they wouldn’t understand, they’re civilians.
The hardest part is trying to relate. I suppose I wear normal enough clothes, but what’s most difficult is trying to clear your head of what you remember, especially during those lectures: In Anthropology I’m learning about chimpanzees hunting monkeys. At the same time I’m thinking about when we used to run through alleys, rifles at the ready looking for the enemy. Reading The Iliad in Humanities was great! I appreciate Achilles for having the guts to stand up and say no, I’m not fighting this war for you! Most of the class thought he was arrogant, couldn’t understand how he could sit back and watch his friends die. I could. I could totally understand not wanting to fight a war that makes no sense, where greedy politicians tell troops where and when to die like pawns on a chessboard, a war that sucks out whatever faith or religion you had because it sure as hell wasn’t working its magic our way. As horrible as it was, I miss it. I miss it because I was good at it and now I’m nothing but a student who puts in his 9 to 5. I miss having my 16 slung around my back, magazine inserted, single shot selected, or burst, but a 3-shot burst was never that accurate. I miss the zero-dark-thirty-wake ups, libo briefs, gun drills, and battalion hikes. I miss it all, but then I don’t because my life’s worth more than that. Nowadays I sling my backpack, fill out bluebooks, and study for exams. There’s also the PTSD, which sometimes rears its ugly head in class, over dinner, or in your dreams. But, understanding it early on is better than later, especially with this new lifestyle.
It’s been exactly two years since I took my twenty days of terminal leave from the Marine Corps. Three weeks later I was enrolled at Valley. Fours years earlier I’d been sleeping in the fields of Camp Pendleton California; hiking mountains and cleaning guns, shooting missiles and collecting ammo. I was responsible for the lives of ten young men thrown in the middle of a governmental fuck up eleven thousand miles away from home. Clearing houses and patrolling streets took place as often as the sun rose. I was responsible for thousands of dollars worth of weaponry, which was responsible for thousands of Marines’ lives. The first seven months were okay: Doc Johnson, Maj. Nave, Pfc. Owens, and other Marines’ names and faces I can’t remember were killed in combat by enemy fire; except for Major Nave who was run over by one of our own tanks in his sleep; his screams were muffled by the tank’s engine. Coming home was nice, thought I was home free until five months before our contracts ended we were sent back as combat replacements. During a fourth of July picnic an IED went off and decapitated a Marine’s head and arms, the rest who’d been injured were sent home. I was lucky and got to leave after three months. When I got home I found out another friend of mine was killed: he was blown up by an IED next to the Euphrates river. So far I’ve lost seven friends. It used to take a toll on me emotionally, wouldn’t want to talk to anyone, I even felt like reenlisting at some points, still do. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about my missions, my buddies, if my boots are dead or alive, the life I want to go back to but don’t. Being a civilian isn’t all that bad though, except when someone asks you, “Did you…KILL anyone?” Why do you want to know? I have a hard enough time writing this down and trying to understand everything I went through. So have some respect and keep your suk shut. Other than that, civilians aren’t so bad. I’d say I’m halfway to being one myself. Sort of.
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