The Wild Wild West

By Jevir Gray

The story of a young soldier's deployment to Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom during the 2003 American invasion. The untamed desert of the Middle East was dubbed "The Wild Wild West" by the troops because of the resemblance to the "Cowboys and Indians" era of the American frontier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jevir Gray
• Release date: Apr 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301792078

Jevir Gray

Jevir Gray now lives in San Francisco with his wife and two cats. He has graduated from San Francisco City College with an AA in Drafting and is currently studying Product Design at the Academy of Art. He enjoys writing, drawing, designing, cooking, and is an avid San Francisco Giants fan!

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This is for Lee

Acknowledgments

I am thankful for everyone who has aided and inspired me to write this book.

To Christina- Your loving embrace and passion has indeed saved my life. Thank you for all the long hours of sustenance, support, and encouragement. My wife, my one and only, I will forever love you with all of my heart.

To my mom- Without your love and constant support, this book, and every other achievement of my life would never have been possible. Thank you for saving all my letters, without which I never would have had the aptitude to piece together my choppy memories.

And to Lee Viller’s mom- Thank you for being so kind and gracious to me. Thank you for trusting me with your son’s story. And most of all, thank you for raising Lee to be the man that he was. He will always be remembered as a true hero.

Intruder

Thirsty. So thirsty that it’s hard to suck a full breathe of air through his parched, leathery throat. His eyes open slowly and take in his surroundings. It is dark; so dark that normal vision is impossible. His disorientation is brief, almost non-existent, because he already knows the layout of his small studio apartment. Eyes or no eyes, he knows his small room is L shaped with his bed in one corner, and a sink containing life-giving water on the other end. At the foot of the bed, a cramped love seat is nestled tightly into the corner. Opposite the couch, there is a small analog television from the nineties that is perched on top of an old card table. The single window offers no light as it gives an inane view of a brick wall belonging to the house next-door. The apartment has no heat and it is deathly cold inside. So cold, that getting out from under his thick blanket is even less an inviting task. He tries to ignore his thirst and go back to sleep, but after several uncomfortable minutes, his resistance proves to be in vain. Sleep will not come. He shivers as he slides slowly out of bed. His eyes have not yet fully awakened from their groggy disposition. The darkness hanging over him like a sheet transforms his trip across the room into a blind shuffle. Upon arriving at the sink, (or where he was sure the sink was to be) he reaches for the plastic drinking cup where his meager assembly of dishes lies on the counter.

A sound!

A sound from across the room interferes his sleep-deprived body from movement as his sightless eyes jerk open. He stairs into the darkness in the direction of the unwelcomed sound as his heart beats in his chest like a great propeller that has just come to life. ..Fwump.. ..FwUMP.. ..FWUMP.. The sound of breathing that is not his own echoes eerily from the corner of the apartment where the love seat is half-hidden behind the TV. He is unable to make out more than a silhouette among a mass of shadows. As his eyes begin to slowly grow accustom to their murky environment, he can verify that one thing is clear. There is someone in the room with him. Someone is sitting on his love seat.

You should have known you could never leave. the strangers voice breaks the silence like a switchblade, sharp, and cold as ice. It becomes clear that a response is necessary, so he speaks the first thought that comes to his mind. Who are you? he exclaims, with a palpable uncertainty suspended in his voice. Before he can decide what exactly is taking place, the silence explodes as the shadowy figure erupts from his seated position. The stranger leaps over the TV, which catches his left foot in the air and collapses to the floor with a crash. You’re going to die here! screams the unknown figure as he rapidly approaches. The sudden movement of the unexpected intruder takes him by surprise, and his heart abruptly comes to a halt, frozen with fear. Before he can react, before he mentally takes control of the situation, before he can think at all, his instincts kick in and his body lurches upward. What would be expected of gravity is that what goes up, must in turn, come back down, but this time is different. His body hurdles in shock, and then, to his astonishment, he feels a power take hold of him, as if a giant has grasped his whole body and lifted him off the ground. Utterly disregarding the laws of physics, his body springs upward. Void of all mechanical apparatus, he floats higher, and higher, until he can feel the cold ceiling against his back. His lungs feel like balloons filled with helium and a queer energy pulses through his limbs with every heartbeat. The physical feeling of taking flight is so incredible that he barely notices the unwelcome intruder beneath him, grasping at his feet, leaping just out of reach. He is filled with terror and exhilarating ecstasy at the same time, but before he can wrap his mind around the state of things, the stranger has seized his ankle and is pulling him back down into the darkness in spastic jerks. Back down, into the horrible darkness…

Wake up

I woke up abruptly to Sergeant Alvarez pulling on my ankle. GRAY! GRAY! WAKE UP! Get dressed and go wait on the road! before his words took form in my sleepy cognizance, he was gone. Sergeant Alvarez was a short, dark-skinned Venezuelan who had the mentality of a drill sergeant and would jump down your throat if you crossed him. He was First Sergeant Purdue’s right hand man and I knew that if he was in my camp, Purdue probably wasn’t far. Alvarez was moving down the line to wake up the soldiers next to me, Specialist Velasquez and Sergeant Mendoza. I looked at my travel-sized alarm clock and saw that it was five thirty seven in the morning. The sun would not rise for another hour and I was still unclear on why I was being woken early. It was not uncommon for me to be roused in the middle of the night for missions, but this was unusual. Sergeant Alvarez did not frequently appear on my side of camp, and this was a strange hour; too early for a normal day, but too late for a nighttime guard duty. For the past two months (give or take a week) I’ve slipped into the routine of waking at seven every morning. My section NCO (Non-Commission Officer), Staff Sergeant Delacroix, usually rouses me. On a standard day, I would quickly get dressed and head across the camp on foot to the chow hall where I would eat breakfast before beginning work. Being woken at five thirtyish was in no way in my mind ordinary. Sergeant Alvarez, being the rarity that he was on my side of the camp, only added to my insecurities. These thoughts were fleeting however, I knew full well that as usual, none of my questions would be answered. This being the state of things, I silently stood up and began a hurried version of my morning routine. My uniform was on before my eyes were even open all the way, and I sat back down on my cot while I reached for my boots. I had worn this uniform so many times that putting it on required less thought process than spreading butter on bread. I had it down to a science.

First the trousers already suited with a belt. Affixed to this were a pocketknife and a small pair of foldable pliers; both in black canvas sheathes. The knife was a CRKT, which stood for Columbia River Knife and Tool. I often thought of my knife fondly as my CRICKET, as I suppose my mind must have automatically inserted the vowels that were not there. The foldable plier set was not a Leatherman, but a GERBER. Which I found to be far superior due to it’s sliding mechanism rather than a folding one. Nine tools were included in my Gerber, while only six were included in the Leatherman. The Gerber, notwithstanding it’s sleek design and attractive sliding function, was equipped with a small blade, a large blade, a saw, a nail file, flat-head screwdriver, a bottle opener, Phillips-head screwdriver, a scissor, and the pliers themselves, of course. These tools were affixed to my black canvas belt, which held up my light sandy brown cargo pants. A greyish brown t-shirt was tucked into this, followed by a quick shave. I shaved dry. Not completely dry, as I used a bottle of water for lubrication, but I never used shaving cream. The PX didn’t sell it all the time, and I found it better to train my face for constant torment than for temporary torture. I used a Gillette three-blade razor, a bottle of water, and some face lotion my mom had sent me. It hurt like hell, but I managed. I moved on to the next step, my boots. I pulled the seams tight on either side of the leg to the back of the ankle, wrapped a black boot blazer around the base of my trousers, and laced the boots up, tucking the laces into the boot to finish. All this was done while my M-16 rested next to me on my rigid Army cot. I threw on my dusty, camo-brown BDU jacket, (Battle Dress Uniform) and strapped on my Kevlar. This all usually took me about five minutes regardless of my level of consciousness. Today, Sergeant Alvarez interrupted me in his broken English accent after step two. Don’t get all the way dressed, you don’t need your whole uniform on for this, just go downstairs! NOW! I was even more confused after this outburst, but Sergeant Alvarez had already moved on so an explanation was not likely. I slid my feet into my cheap rubber shower flip-flops and stood up. This had better be good, I thought quietly to myself as I made my way down the old steel ladder from the roof where I slept. The sun was not yet above the horizon, but instead was hiding just below, turning the sky a dark grayish blue, highlighted by a brilliant pink-tangerine hue that tingled, dazzlingly, through the million specks of sand that hover always in the air. It was light enough for me to see without the help of a flashlight, which is rare in the dessert, so it must have been nearly daylight. This fact reminded me of how, not moments before, Alvarez had held a bright white light unnecessarily into my eyes, rudely awakening me. This practice, among many other disagreeable tactics, was not uncommon in my unit’s upper command. As I got to the bottom of the ladder, I had only to pass the rubble of an ancient barracks before I arrived at the edge of my building. My squad had been assigned to live in this; the half bombed out remains of an old Dessert Storm Iraqi Air force barracks. As I turned the corner of the building I came into view of Alvarez’ Humvee parked in the middle of the road. Its lights were turned on, and there, huddled around his vehicle, were the rest of the soldiers in my squad. I felt at that moment, like I was a prisoner in a concentration camp. How did I get here? I wondered. The story went back all the way to when I was getting ready to graduate from high school in a tiny town called Lafayette near Denver Colorado.

Why I’m Here

My name is Jevir Gray and I am a soldier in the United Stated Army. This all started in the February of 2003 when my battalion got mobilized to join the action in the inevitable war against Saddam and his malicious regime. I joined the Army Reserves in the spring of 2001. My parents were going through a divorce and I needed desperately to get away from my broken home anyway that I could. I had no money and no job, so at the time, joining the army seemed like a pretty good idea to me. They would send me away at a moment’s notice, without much question as to why I wanted to go, and if that weren’t good enough, they would pay me to do it! I had seen the boot camp shows on TV, specifically on Maury, when Kid’s go BAD! I wanted to prove to my friends, my brother, and most of all, my parents, that I was tougher than all of them. Not to go on Maury, but to go through REAL Army boot camp in Fort Knox, Kentucky. The school of the hard Knox.

I initially wanted to be an MP (Military Police) because I figured the only way I was ever going to see any action was to be a cop. Of course, this was before 9/11, but I never became an MP, so none of that matters. I found out that my basic training send off date was before I could graduate High School and I had to wait two more weeks. Also, not to mention to my recruiter, I was still hot on a drug test and I knew the army wouldn’t accept me until I could piss clean. I had smoked pot several times directly before walking into my recruiter’s office, so I knew I had to wait at least another month. I broke down and admitted to my mom everything that I had been doing; the partying, drinking, and club drugs. I knew I wanted out of that world, always looking for the next high. I thought that the Army’s basic training could be sort of a rehab for me. By the time I was clean enough for proper enlistment, the MP position had already shipped off. I was left with two options: Stay in my parent’s house and wait for another MP position to appear, or ship out on the day of my high school graduation as a Ninety-Two Golf, a cook. Not only did I dreadfully want to leave shortly, but also the assignment of Army cook earned an extra deposit of six thousand dollars upon completion of basic training. That already sounded lucrative, but the recruiter also sold me on the promise that learning to cook was a timeless knowledge that could offer me profitable practice as a civilian. They would send me to Fort Knox, KY for basic training. Then I would be sent directly to Fort Lee, VA for my on-the-job cooking and nutrition training, AIT. (Advanced Individual Training.)

I thought all of this was a great idea. I’d have the ability to prove myself as a man, AND travel. Best of all, when I returned from boot camp, as a reservist/civilian, I’d be revered as a badass! (Or so I thought.) That already sounded great, and what’s more, I’d have bonus money coming in. As my recruiter excitedly reminded me, when you get back, you could buy a car! That’s what most guys do with their money. I was young and gullible; I believed everything my recruiter told me. This led me to make the worst decision of my life thus far: I sold my soul. My life no longer belonged to me. It was the property of the United States Government. Things weren’t so bad at first. I made it through basic training in Fort Knox, Kentucky and shipped directly to my next training facility in Fort Lee, Virginia. It was near the end of the summer in 2001; just in time to begin my advanced individual cooks training in the beginning of September. And so on that fateful day, eleven days into the month, our country was attacked. I will always remember that day. I was in a classroom full of young soldiers, listening to a lecture on some mind-numbing military version of nutrition training when a drill sergeant walked into the room and quietly whispered something in the instructor’s ear. A moment passed, and as will always be typical of adolescent classroom environments, many of my classmates immediately began whispering to one another. It only took several seconds before the noise level in the room had raised enough to snap the instructor out of whatever shock he was in and he called for silence. Hey! pay attention! Yall need to take this instruction seriously and get your shit squared away! You think this is a joke? I’ve just been told that an airplane has flown into the World Trade Center towers! It behooves you to take this seriously! Quiet down now! I immediately assumed that the Sergeant was either lying to keep control of his classroom, or perhaps he was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation. If so, I thought he must have been referring to a small, crop-duster type of bi-plane, and that if it were true, it could not have been a very big deal. My suspicions were snuffed out however, when the room behind us began to fill with drill sergeants and we were given the command of attention. Then, without any more explanation of any kind, we were ordered About Face! and marched out of the room, back to our barracks. In formation outside of our barracks, I knew that something very real was happening. The drill sergeants looked pale and afraid, like they had been shaken badly by something they had seen. Some were angry, and began to take it out on soldiers who stepped out of line or asked questions. After several privates had been dropped and knocked out their push-ups, the head drill sergeant finally addressed our formation. Our country is under attack, she said rather matter-of-factly. A large passenger jet has flown into the world trade center and the city is being evacuated as I speak, she went on, all training has been put on hold, the Fort is under lock down. No passes will be given, not even to NCO’s or Officers. We are staying right here and sitting tight until we get more word of what’s happening. With that brief explanation, she released us into our barracks, reassuring us that we would soon be informed of our next orders. As we shuffled into the old brick building, there was a buzz in the air like electricity. We were all sure what this meant. We were all thinking the same thing: we could forget about going home to see our families. We were going to war! The next three days went by torturously slow. We were held in lockdown and kept in the dark. I didn't find out until the next day that the towers had collapsed, and even then, everything I heard was based on elusive rumors and inner barracks gossip. The upper command never allowed any of us to watch the news; it wasn’t until I was released from training two months later that I finally got to watch the footage of the second plane hitting the south tower. In the aftermath of the attack, Fort Lee eventually calmed down, removed the lock-down, and allowed us to complete our training. I did get to fly back home to see my family, but I could see drastic changes in our airports. Even as a freshly trained soldier, it was a shock for me to see National Guard soldiers armed with M-16’s posted throughout Denver International Airport. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be long until I was called to duty to do my part. After reporting to my unit, things seemed to cool off for a few months and I began to get used to my life as a reservist. Months turned into a year, and then a few more months slid by. I went to my monthly weekend drills, and tried to live my civilian life in between drills the best I could. Of course, my time did eventually come, and so in February of 2003, less than two years after I joined the Army Reserves, two days a month turned into three hundred and sixty five days a year of Active Duty. This is my story.

Kuwait

When we first arrived on the ground in Kuwait, we had been on a commercial Lufthansa flight for twelve hours. We flew from Amsterdam, where I was thrilled to gaze out the airport windows at a city I had longed to explore for as long as I could remember. Alas, I was not allowed to leave the concourse, and we had soon re-boarded our next flight. We had our M-16’s tucked under our seats, where a carryon bag would normally stow. Our firing bolts were removed and secured in our right cargo pockets along with two thirty round magazines full of five point five six millimeter, full metal jackets. It felt so strange to be on a commercial flight carrying my rifle and ammo. I can still see the look on the stewardess’ face when she saw us boarding with all of our firepower. The flight was long, but it was not the first long flight I had been on; I slept through most of it. As soon as we landed and disembarked the plane, we were loaded into busses, which carted all two hundred and eighty-eight of us from the airport to the nearby Army base: Camp Victory. In the general confusion of trying to carry everything I owned in two large duffel bags, plus my rifle, ammo, flak vest, gas mask, and Kevlar helmet, I could barely take note of my environment. It was something of a chaotic jumble trying to squeeze twenty soldiers on each bus, but soon enough, we were off. The busses had shades on the windows, and after I finally settled into my seat, I started to become aware of my surroundings. Everything had a dreary look to it, as if in a cloud of dust. I peered out the windows, and saw bleak dessert outside. It seemed as though we were on the moon. I could see sand blowing about in all directions; hanging in a tumultuous cloud that stretched out forever and blurred along the vista. The sky was washed out by sand, and it was difficult to distinguish horizon from skyline. I heard one of the other soldiers jest It looks just like Mexico! Some of the others chuckled. Most of the rest of us remained silent, and I was one of these, for I was far too lost in my scrutiny of the frightening new world I saw out the window. It was finally hitting home that I was in the Middle East, about to roll into a war zone. This was real, not a dream, but reality. Our training had all come to a head, and we were actually doing this! I was actually part of a real war, loaded head to toe with Army gear, driving through the dessert; it had begun.

I would later learn that we hit the ground right in the middle of a sand storm, and this fun fact sponsored the thorough confusion of the afternoon. Before I knew it, I had fallen into an uneasy, but deep sleep. Something about riding in a vehicle in the hot sun has always knocked me out. When I next awoke, nearly two hours had passed and we were arriving at our camp. I could barely make out guard towers through the window of the bus and the swirls of sand and dirt. I knew this meant we