MOMENT OF TRUTH
Continued

From left: Lance Corporal Coleman, Lance Corporal List, Lance Corporal Sekaquaptiwa, Captain Chris Sheppard, and Corporal Wootton stand on the steps of one of Saddam Hussein's palaces, which overlooks the ruins of Babylon in south-central Iraq. Photo by Carlton Rahmani.

Five years, four months, three days, four continents, 29 countries, five states, six military exercises, eight moves, and a world of life experience later, I got the heads up that I was going to war in the near future. In the previous months, I had been concentrating on graduate school and just going through the motions during my weekend drills. An understandably sober Major Steven Weintraub in an understandably curt email told me that I needed to focus on my commitment to the Marine Corps. If I wasn’t able to do this, I needed to check out of the Reserve unit and pursue my other interests.

I knew where the war would be and what the mission was. I knew Saddam Hussein was probably going to use chemical or biological weapons. I knew we were probably going to face an intense, protracted urban campaign of undetermined length. People I knew were probably going to die. I knew everything else in my life was going to come to a crashing halt for a year or two. I was faced with a dilemma.

On the one hand, I had a clear-cut plan to finish my master’s degree in the summer of 2003 and begin law school that fall. I was in a preparation class for the law school admissions test which I planned to take in December. Everything was falling into place. Plus I had done my time, Goddammit! I had put four years in. I was done.

My naïve idealism and shallow patriotism had given way to a deeper understanding of the gray ambiguities of the real world. I knew the complexities of international relations couldn’t be reduced to sound bites and cowboy bravado. Forget that “show the flag” BS and the immature oohrah mentality I used to be so cheaply and thoroughly seduced by. I thought President Bush was just looking to kick somebody’s ass after not finding Bin Laden. The rest of the world wasn’t biting. The United Nations was pleading with our country to give the inspections a chance. Even Henry Kissinger and Colin Powell didn’t think attacking Iraq was strategically smart. Plus I wasn’t obliged to be in the reserves at all. I was doing it for giggles and a little extra college money.

My pity party had reached a crescendo.

I then remembered the way things used to be. Images and emotions from my past, filed away in atrophied neurons, welled up like a spring tide. My manhood was challenged by all those sea stories I had heard and tried to disregard. The haunting tales whispered in my ears, tickling and pricking them with stories of heroes and history. I could hear the Medal of Honor citations being read to us before classes at the Basic School in Quantico. Once again, I felt the stares of thousands of dead Marines, from the Revolution to Somalia, boring into the back of my neck. Their quiet, judging gazes questioned my manhood and screamed, “Do it! Do it now! You f___ing coward! We did it. Were our lives and futures worth any less than your sorry ass?” Then I thought of Major Weintraub, the company commander of my reserve unit. He had a pregnant wife due in November, and he was going to do his duty.

After about five minutes of this assault on my conscience, I clicked off my email and called the major and told him, “I’m in. I will be there tonight for the secret brief.”

You don’t pick your war. It picks you.

Captain Sheppard taking a quick photo op on a convoy outside Nasariah, Iraq. Photo by Eric Wootton.