In these seconds before we're pushed into battle, masculinity is a mask we wear so we do not have to see ourselves as human. Those of us who have been here for a longer time are luckier: our morality has been worn down enough, we have learned to stop thinking. Steeliness coats us like armor. You stay here long enough, you're numb to anything. You start to even blame the villagers for the death of your buddy. This place does weird things to you. One minute, you're pulling shrapnel from your own leg; the next, you're drinking beer and messing around with your buddies. In those peaceful waiting moments, these guys will do anything to break the tension, they'll give anything to shoot off a couple rounds.
In these moments when I feel like I'm leaving everything I ever thought was right, I think about the things that stay. I feel the plane dropping beneath me and wonder if across the ocean, maybe we're at the same height as the treehouse back home. I think about my sister sitting in that treehouse with Rachel and Julie, and I know they're all there now, and they'll be there when I get home. I feel closer to home than I have felt since I got here
& I sleep fitfully that night. I dream of witches' hands, summoning bone from my shoulder blades. Bone grows upwards and outwards like tree branches, sprouting leaves that pulse open and closed, as though waiting, expectant
& this isn't hacking through elephant grass, searching for something that may or may not be there. This isn't trying to pick out the enemy from among the villagers. This, what I'm hearing through the airwaves, this is something different. This is something that's starting to sound like my dad's war. Something is different now, something has changed
24 | Psychopomp Magazine