Micro-Essay-Moral Truth
As I aim down the scope of my 240 Gulf machine gun, my heart races and my cheek rests against the buttstock. I try to steady my hand and place the red arrow on the moving dirt bike in the distance. The scorching heat of the afternoon creates waves of heat rising from the ground, turning the landscape into shades of brown. The clear blue sky provides optimal fighting conditions for the Taliban.
I felt sweat trickling down my forehead and onto the buttstock, providing some relief from the scorching heat. I try to steady my index finger on the metal trigger but it is hard with shaking hands preparing to unleash a barrage of bullets. I take a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate down, keeping my focus on the enemy fighter who wore sandals, a pair of binge pants, a dark top, and a black beard that blended into his dark sun-beaten brown skin with a sturdy stature.
It may surprise many to learn that the Taliban fighters were slightly bigger than the Viet Cong fighters, although still smaller than the average American warfighter. It is true as the saying goes, “Never judge a man by his size, but by his heart,” and these fighters certainly carried a fierce will to live and fight. They fought with their heart and soul and showed bravery and determination, no different from the Recon Marines to my left and right.
My eyes squint as they adjust to the sight before me like I'm in a virtual reality game. I scan the individual in front of me, checking for the telltale sign of a rifle strap to his body before deciding whether to pull the trigger or not. It's a decision that weighs heavily on me, both ethically and morally. My heart is now pounding in my throat, my hands start to become tingly, and waves of electrical snakes crawl throughout my body. It meant he was fair game, and he understood the context of the game we both are partaking in.
Recognizing, I hold the power to allow this man to pass or end his life. It's important to acknowledge that if I choose not to take action, it may lead to increased danger for us and a loss of control over the area. The problem with that is it opens the door to an increase in ambushes and improvised explosive devices. Putting us at risk when trying to remain in control of this area of operations.
During these last couple of summer months in Trek Nawa in 2010, Charlie Company and the other platoons of the 1st Recon Battalion built a reputation based on the approach, “Take No Prisoners Mindset,” cause our rules of engagement left our hands free to do what we needed to survive. The homes and villages we occupied for fighting positions and forward operation bases would leave the villagers hiding women and children getting them out of the area. Due to not wanting to be casualties of a war, yet found themselves in the middle of one of the most hostile areas since the Battle of Marjah a few months earlier.
Maybe it was a good thing, all the men to my left and right knew as a collective we were to bring havoc and chaos and that is it. Nothing more, nothing less, play offense from the get-go and be the aggressors. Each one of us foamed at the mouth, as we knew what needed to be accomplished. As a collective, we sought out violence every chance we got.
I find my heartbeat is back in my chest, after taking a few inhales and exhales, the dirt bike begins to speed up. It is now or never. This machine gun was not only for precision shooting, it was also built for moments like these. When I have a Taliban fighter in my crosshairs, riding across a road within six hundred meters with plenty of range to do damage. Now, all I have to do is place a barrage of bullets a few meters ahead of the moving bike.
Inside my mind, it screams, “Don’t Do It,” but I know deep in my heart what is about to happen. It will protect those to my left and right, and continue to carry the reputation that we are, “The Sons of Satan.”
What no one shares about a war story is that it happens so fast.
My teammate who is holding security with me screams, “You Got’em!!!”
In my mind, DID I? It all happened so fast, no more dirt bike, no more human threat. Just smoke from my barrel, brown dust from the brown rocky road. All I felt is the power of the recoil into my shoulder, my finger squeezing the trigger. Did I close my eyes? All I remember was applying the foundation principles of hitting a moving target by placing the barrage of bullets a few meters ahead of this moving object which will eventually drive directly into the bullets.
Writing this story feels unreal, make-believe, like a dream. One that still raises my heart rate with the same tingly shaking hands I felt before pulling the trigger.
