recall the sound, but if asked to recount the story of being blown up, all that comes back is a kind of mental static, as if my ears are still waiting for the noise to arrive. My first stable memory of âmyâ IED is of Vollmer in the front passenger seat, snapping his head back and yelling stupidly âWhat was that?â as if it werenât obvious. We were on terrorâs clock now. Disoriented by the smoke from the burning homes and trapped in a cul-de-sac, we had backed over an IED hidden in the trash on the side of the road.
The force of the blast rocketed past Reaperâs right ear, buckling the metal behind his head. I looked at him, his head wreathed in smoke, and felt alien and empty inside. When I turned my head back, it was like I wasnât there anymore. I suddenly saw myself as if from behind, floating above the whole scene. There I was, sitting motionless in my seat, my black digital camera resting on my leg. The ghost-me hovered there, unable to move or to speak, unable to connect with that other person, as if an invisible wall had been thrown up between us. In the air behind my head there was no sound, just an underwater rush, like I was swimming inside the explosion, holding my breath and waiting to come out the other side. In later years, I would come to see that there were two of me created in this moment: the one who heard the explosion and knows it fully, and the other, more slippery one, harder to make out, who did not hear. Which one was the real me, which one the imposter?
The moment passed, and when it was over, I was back in my seat again, just as before. Time hadnât slowed down so much as it had become denser, richer in detail. I sat up and looked around. I could see that we were on fire and that thick smoke was pouring into the cabin from a gash in the metal behind Reaperâs head. He appeared to be okay, and looking past him, I could see the smoke moving in a thick current, like a wide mountain stream, the edges curling, the center continually flowing. Segments seemed to break off and reach out toward the front of the cabin in long articulated arms. Elaborate curls were born like small galaxies in the darkening air, thickening and stealing light as they turned.
My eyes adjusting, I looked through the window and saw that the homes to our left were still burning, the smoke migrating over the blacktop. It occurred to me that someone ought to be shooting at us from behind the wall of smoke. This thought began to irritate me. We were off the script, somehow. This was supposed to be an ambush, so why wasnât the enemy playing its part and finishing us off? With all of our attention focused inward, on the bomb that had just gone off, we were in perfect position, practically begging to be annihilated. As if by magic, just then a line of muzzle flashes began winking at us through the smoke almost whimsically, like carnival sparklers. I sat there for a moment, bracing for the bulletsâ impact. My ass welded to the seat, I was trying to believe in what was happening: any moment now and it would be over. The agony of the end, it seemed to go on forever. There was a moment of regret, clouds of dust billowing from the houses.
Blinking, suddenly I felt different, as if a long moment had passed in my head. I looked over at the houses, and I realized that no one was shooting at us. We were safe and yet all was profane, all was going and coming at the same instant.
And just like that, I got pissed. Here I was, trapped in a Humvee full of buffoons who were practically begging to be murdered by a bunch of half-assed insurgents. Was there ever a bigger ship of fools?
âWhy the fuck isnât someone busting down doors, looking for the trigger man? Where the fuck is the Bradley? Why hasnât someone launched the QRF?â I yelled at no one in particular, using the military term for the rescue squad that every unit kept on standby in case of attack.
Vollmer turned his
The force of the blast rocketed past Reaperâs right ear, buckling the metal behind his head. I looked at him, his head wreathed in smoke, and felt alien and empty inside. When I turned my head back, it was like I wasnât there anymore. I suddenly saw myself as if from behind, floating above the whole scene. There I was, sitting motionless in my seat, my black digital camera resting on my leg. The ghost-me hovered there, unable to move or to speak, unable to connect with that other person, as if an invisible wall had been thrown up between us. In the air behind my head there was no sound, just an underwater rush, like I was swimming inside the explosion, holding my breath and waiting to come out the other side. In later years, I would come to see that there were two of me created in this moment: the one who heard the explosion and knows it fully, and the other, more slippery one, harder to make out, who did not hear. Which one was the real me, which one the imposter?
The moment passed, and when it was over, I was back in my seat again, just as before. Time hadnât slowed down so much as it had become denser, richer in detail. I sat up and looked around. I could see that we were on fire and that thick smoke was pouring into the cabin from a gash in the metal behind Reaperâs head. He appeared to be okay, and looking past him, I could see the smoke moving in a thick current, like a wide mountain stream, the edges curling, the center continually flowing. Segments seemed to break off and reach out toward the front of the cabin in long articulated arms. Elaborate curls were born like small galaxies in the darkening air, thickening and stealing light as they turned.
My eyes adjusting, I looked through the window and saw that the homes to our left were still burning, the smoke migrating over the blacktop. It occurred to me that someone ought to be shooting at us from behind the wall of smoke. This thought began to irritate me. We were off the script, somehow. This was supposed to be an ambush, so why wasnât the enemy playing its part and finishing us off? With all of our attention focused inward, on the bomb that had just gone off, we were in perfect position, practically begging to be annihilated. As if by magic, just then a line of muzzle flashes began winking at us through the smoke almost whimsically, like carnival sparklers. I sat there for a moment, bracing for the bulletsâ impact. My ass welded to the seat, I was trying to believe in what was happening: any moment now and it would be over. The agony of the end, it seemed to go on forever. There was a moment of regret, clouds of dust billowing from the houses.
Blinking, suddenly I felt different, as if a long moment had passed in my head. I looked over at the houses, and I realized that no one was shooting at us. We were safe and yet all was profane, all was going and coming at the same instant.
And just like that, I got pissed. Here I was, trapped in a Humvee full of buffoons who were practically begging to be murdered by a bunch of half-assed insurgents. Was there ever a bigger ship of fools?
âWhy the fuck isnât someone busting down doors, looking for the trigger man? Where the fuck is the Bradley? Why hasnât someone launched the QRF?â I yelled at no one in particular, using the military term for the rescue squad that every unit kept on standby in case of attack.
Vollmer turned his
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