Crossing the Tigris Book 1, Book 2, Book 3

Crossing the Tigris, Book 1

Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer

Draw close, but speak not.

from Ashes Of Soldiers

Walt Whitman

It’s New Year’s Eve and who do I have a date with? He’s a 5’ 4” Iraqi soldier who weighs all of 124 pounds. And who am I? I’m a 6’ 2”, 190 American Marine. I’m the few, the proud, the young, the dumb, the hung, the full of cum. It’s late and I’m kicking my feet into the sand as I walk to my post for guard duty. I’m kicking at the sand fleas and about to go on sentry duty with one. Fallujah, Fuckayoua, Fuckamea. I smile.

Who could ever love this shithole? Two of my buddies were just shot by sniper fire and I’m here to defend and protect the bastards who probably shot them. No one knows what it’s like to live with this pressure. Damn it, Jim! I’m a machine gunner not a doctor. I’m part of a quick-reaction team, not a sit-in-a-fucking- confined-space-with-some-foreigner who can’t even speak English type of guy. And New Year’s Eve means getting laid, not getting played.

To top it off, this is the first time that I have had to pull guard duty. You’d think that maybe they would give me a bit of training first. Train. Wait. Train. Wait. Now go do something that you weren’t trained to do, with someone that you don’t know or trust, in the wet, hairy armpit of the world. Happy New Year! (At the trial, another lance corporal testifies that he had pulled guard duty with the same Iraqi and had no problems. Let’s not talk about the trial yet.)

I’ve threatened suicide and been hospitalized. I’ve been accused of assault, disorderly conduct, trespassing and have been connected to drug stuff. But the Marines seemed glad to have me. What did they say, “We’re kind-of short of bodies.” I’m a body. And this body is standing on an elevated platform at the perimeter of the base. Bullet-made pockmarks surround me and I guess I’m waiting to get hit. And standing next to me is this stinking little flea who thinks that he is like me because he’s in a uniform and has a weapon. This is my weapon, this is my gun. Want to see my gun, you little fuck? Want to touch my gun, you little fuck? Careful, it might shoot off. I smile.

Hey, flea, get off the phone. Hey, flea, put out that cigarette. Hey, flea, get off the phone. Hey, flea, put out that cigarette. Hey, flea, get off the phone. Hey, flea, put out that cigarette. Hey, flea, get off the phone. Hey, flea, put out that cigarette. Hey, flea, get off the phone. Hey, flea, put out that cigarette. If I told him once, I told him ten times.

So, what is a fair fight any way? I stab him seventeen times. I cut him twenty-six times. I chop at him. I nearly sever his spine and chop off his nose. Once it starts, the smells change and evolve. I smell the sweat as he senses that I’m going to kill him.

Isn’t it interesting that sweat and sweet are almost spelled the same? Christ, he pisses himself and that mingles with the stew of odors. The smell of blood cuts through first like a spice and then like the main ingredient. Christ, he shits himself. Has he no dignity? Oh, yeah, people do that when they’re dead. Sweat, piss, blood, shit, but there are no flies on me and there are no bruises, not a mark. I’m a good fighter. Train and wait. Train and wait. Train and wait. React. Do your job. It’s just a job. Yeah, I like my job, but that’ll never come up at the trial.

I reach over and fire off the flea’s AK-47. This is my weapon, this is my gun. And your gun’s drained, buddy. Say bye bye to that little thing. It probably is the size of a pin. After all, the flea was a really little guy. But my story is going to be that he tried to kill me. First, he was obviously signaling a sniper with the cell phone and cigarette. When that failed, he attacked me and I swatted at him like the flea that he is, correction, was. So, all I have is my bayonet and I use it. Train, train, train. That’s my story. Bring on the trial. Oh, yeah, I was really scared. Does that count for anything? I plead not guilty.

Oh, well, I guess I’m guilty of negligent homicide. Doesn’t that mean that I didn’t do a good job? Train, train, train. Wait, wait, wait. I should take offense though because I was negligent of nothing. Up to eight years of confinement, a reduction in rank, forfeiture of pay, dishonorable discharge. Now that’s just crazy talk.

Colophon

Caren, Brian and I have worked together for years but have not collaborated on a book project before. We’ve been talking about this particular project for years, haranguing one another to get to work on his or her part done. We’ve gotten together to make components that have sat on the shelf waiting for the final combination/culmination. We’ve sat on planes talking about this thing while flying off to Greece, England and Italy.

We make paper ever summer, usually with Lisa Beth Robinson, and we have gotten together to dye commercially made paper. When we dye paper, it looks like we are taking in laundry because we stretch lines across the backyard and hang the wet sheets of paper with clothespins. There can be a hundred sheets swaying in the breeze, dripping onto the lawn, and attracting the bees.

The paper used most commonly in this book is from a private stash of Barcham Green, which was purchased years ago and salted away for just the right project. There is something almost spiritual about working with this type of paper because of its history and role in art making. Collage elements have been gathered from around the world on our many trips. We’ve haggled in a Greek flea market, scoured for multiple copies of editionable items, and have embraced our packrat nature.

This is from the edition of 60.

Jeffrey Morin

Crossing the Tigris, Book 2

They broke down the door just as the family was having dinner. They rushed in, weapons in their hands. Her father raised his hands, her mother collapsed on the floor weeping. Her brother flew into grandmother’s embrace. They prodded her mother to her feet with their rifles and herded them to the back room. As she began to follow, one held his rifle in front of her, holding her in place. They stank, of unwashed male, of gun oil and of what must be liquor that she had heard that they all drank. She had smelled them from afar but never so close as now. Did all barbarians smell she wondered, unable to control her thoughts. They shut the door on her family as one of the men began to tear off her clothes. A second joined in while another quietly opened the door again and went in to join her family. She was on the floor, on her back, the first one inside of her when there were shots. She was writhing with pain and howling. They laughed as she howled and the one on top of her thrust harder. She could feel her body rip and the warmth of her blood. With the shots there was a moment of quiet and stillness. There was a pause, the door opened. He said, “They won’t be a problem.” The agony began again.

She was floating near the ceiling, looking down at her ruined, bloody naked body. They were doing awful things to it. She knew that her family was dead, she could see them from where she was, so much blood. It had been really awful at first, they hurt her and hurt her. She had screamed and fought but they were so much stronger, laughing as they ripped her clothes off and subdued her. The pain was almost unbearable. But then she was floating above the room, at peace, the pain gone. She was back in her body for a moment when they poured that cold liquid over her and lit it. Then the pain intensified, unbearable. She screamed until suddenly she was above the room again, drifting.

Six American military men raped her. She was 14. One of the soldiers took her family to another room and shot them all, her mother, her father, her small brother and her beloved grandmother. When they had all raped her, they doused her with gasoline and set her on fire. She was still alive when they did that, but soon the flames seared and cleansed her bloody body.

They had scouted the family, saw the teenager, learned that there was only one adult man in the household. They were playing cards one night when one of them reminded the others of the girl. They thought about it while they drank and then went prowling.

Her extended family mourns their dead and loathes the American military and the American people.

The men were tried in American Military courts. They were sentenced to long prison terms.

Their families, still stunned, weep and rage. Their children hear whispers and sudden silences and visit their fathers in prison. At some point the children will learn horrific things. They will wonder, as do we all, how presumably decent young men became animals one night. Was it the long boredom of the war, interspersed with terrifying moments? Was it the game playing during training when they learned to react quickly, efficiently killing before they could be killed. Was it the sight of their friends, blown to pieces by IEDs, burned, deaf, brain damaged, some limbs just gone, barely alive when they were air lifted out.

One stone, dropped in a river, makes many ripples.

Colophon

For those of us who teach in universities, surrounded by young people, the horror stories that emerge from Iraq and Afghanistan about the excesses practiced by young people in the military are stunning. How do soldiers transition from the students we know, for the most part moral, ethical and kind, to people who commit these atrocities. How can it ever be acceptable to rape a child? Jeff and I had done a collaborative book together several years ago. It was such a success, on many levels, including working well together, that we decided to repeat the experience and to include Brian. The three of us decided that as each had strong feelings about stories from the Iraq war that it would be our focus. We found the boxes, altered them together, made some of the papers, decided on the type and other common elements for the books and printed them.

The type is Plantin, cast and set by Michael and Winifred Bixler’s Press and Letterfoundry.

This is from the edition of 60.

Caren Heft

Crossing the Tigris, Book 3

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in the National Guard, don’t want to be in Iraq, don’t want to be in Tikrit. I’m hot, I’m tired, I miss my wife and my kid. I’m bored and I hate the locals.

The guard tower is small and close, a 6’ x 6’ square without enough room to separate from the Iraqi on duty with me. Back home I would never have hung out with this guy. I’m 21 and he’s just 17. I’ve got a family of my own and this kid is just part of someone else’s family, someone else’s son, someone else’s brother, definitely nothing to me.

It’s tough being on guard duty with one of these kids because they just don’t speak English. But I guess that doesn’t matter much since my wife barely speaks English. I’ve been in the US since I was four, so I move between the cultures fluidly. It’s tough being Mexican in a little town in the South, but I have friends and family to rely on. It’s too bad they aren’t here.

I stink. I used to like that hot shower every morning, toweling off alone and not in front of a bunch of other guys. The kid stinks, too. I don’t know what they do to keep clean and I guess I don’t care. He doesn’t smell the same, though. It reminds me of high school, towel snaps in the gym, seeing who was bigger in the locker room, getting off. Maybe he doesn’t smell so bad after all. I guess that it’s kind of sexy. His skin is surprisingly smooth. He’s slight, he’s slim, he’s probably willing.

We’re leaning back on the edge as I grab his hand and put it on my crotch. Who needs to speak English now? He doesn’t pull away but looks a bit scared and confused. Time stops. There is no sound. He reaches for my hand and pulls his zipper down with it. We’re both holding one another and slowly keeping a rhythm with our hands. I want more so I slide my pants down and guide him. Time stops. It smells like a fresh mowed lawn, green, fresh, alive.

After we finish, he makes a sign that he has to go to the latrine. While he’s gone, I chamber one bullet in his AK 47 but pull the magazine. He walks back in, smiles a sheepish smile, hopes that we will pull duty together again. I hand him his rifle, at the same time causing him to discharge his weapon. His fingerprint is in place.

I radio for help because clearly this guy is trying to kill me. After all, he’s just tried to extort money from me for no reason, right? Somehow, without speaking the language, he’s tried to shake me down out of the blue because it’s not like we did anything, right? That was the first story.

I radio for help because clearly this guy is trying to kill me. This slight, sweet 17-year-old boy held me down and sexually assaulted me, right? Sure, we had both reached climax but that’s going to happen to a guy that’s being raped, right? He’s going to get off on the situation, right? That was the second story.

You know the beginning of the third story. I radio for help because clearly this guy is trying to kill me. We had consensual sex. I raised my M-16 and fired into the floor. I then shot the kid in the legs and for some reason he tried to take the weapon from me. So I shot him in the groin. The kid grabbed the rail, where I had grabbed his hand so that he could feel what was on my mind. He fell down the stairs and I kept firing into his body. I fired 11 times, twice after I knew that he was dead. That’s the third story. There are no more. I sign this one.

At the court martial, I plead guilty to murder without premeditation, even though I thought and planned the whole time that he was away at the latrine. My friends and family plead for leniency. You see my wife barely speaks English so she relies on me. You see, I have a very young son who needs me. You see, don’t you? I guess I’m sorry for what I did. I guess this guy was important to his family. I guess killing a guy after sex is wrong, right?.

Colophon

Unlike Caren Heft or Jeff Morin, I do not work at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. I do, however, work with quite a few of the students from the university. We three have often wondered what the difference is between the students that we meet and the ones that inspired the tragic stories offered to you, the reader.

The container for this collaboration is meant to embody the conundrum of the person who transforms into a beast capable of horrendous acts against innocents. The outside of the container is collaged in the same way that a boy might decorate his hiding place for treasures found. The elements, like currency, targets or stamps, are in the realm of childhood valuables.

The inside of the container sets the stage for juvenile battle. These are the props for pretend war. When confronted with the grittiness of war, do these ill-prepared young men simply break with reality? Are they taught that they are above the law? Or do they learn to devalue what is not obviously American?

Neither the container nor the three books answer the questions posed above. We all know young soldiers who have served or those who could serve. This collaboration is intended to catalyze a conversation about the nature of change that allows potentially decent people to commit actual indecent acts.

This is from the edition of 60.

Brian Borchardt