The Real War Heroes
From
the Book, RADICAL
PEACE: People
Refusing War
by
William T. Hathaway
Published
by Trine Day 2010
To
read another chapter,
click: HERE
"That
must be them."
Petra took one
hand off the steering
wheel and pointed
to a group of
soldiers about
two hundred meters
away, standing
along our road
next to a high
chainlink fence
topped with barbed
wire.
Traffic was light,
but Petra said,
"I don't
want any other
cars around."
She pulled off
the road and stopped.
"Get everything
ready."
I crawled into
the back of the
car and opened
the rear hatch
to give access
to the interior
and to raise the
license plate
out of sight.
We wore caps and
sunglasses to
be less recognizable.
When the road
was empty, she
started driving
again. We approached
the soldiers,
who were walking
in the grass,
stopping often
to pick things
off the ground
and put them in
sacks they were
dragging.
"There's
Rick." Petra
slowed and drove
along the shoulder.
A man turned his
head at the sound
of our car crunching
gravel, dropped
his bag, and ran
towards us with
a slight limp.
While the guards
shouted for him
to stop, I thrust
my arm out, grabbed
Rick's hand, and
pulled. He lunged
forward and dived
into the open
hatch, banging
his leg on the
edge. A guard
was swearing and
groping at the
holster on his
belt. Rick scrambled
in, knocking off
his glasses, and
Petra floored
the gas. Our spinning
tires hurled gravel
behind us then
squealed over
the pavement.
The car slid halfway
across the road
before Petra brought
it under control,
and we sped away.
One guard was
waving his pistol
at us but not
aiming it, and
the other was
punching buttons
on a cell phone.
Some of the detention
soldiers were
clapping and shouting
in envious congratulations,
others just stood
staring.
I closed the hatch
as Petra rounded
a corner and headed
for the autobahn.
Rick lay on the
floor trembling
and gasping, holding
his leg in pain.
I gripped him
on the shoulder
to steady him.
"Way to go!
You're on your
way out of the
army."
His tension exploded
into laughter,
then tears. "Thanks,
thanks,"
he spluttered.
"It's
not over yet,"
Petra said.
Rick breathed
deeply, scrinched
his eyes to block
the tears, and
clenched his fists.
"Not going
back."
I tried to calm
my own tremors.
Petra drove away
from the base
through a section
of fast-food franchises
and striptease
bars that bordered
it. Rick put his
glasses back on;
bent at the bow,
they sat crookedly
on his nose. We
put up the rear
seat so we could
sit without attracting
attention, then
waited at the
stoplight by the
autobahn entrance
for thirty seconds
that seemed like
ten minutes, surrounded
by other cars
full of American
soldiers and German
civilians, none
of whom noticed
us. Finally Petra
roared up the
onramp. German
autobahns have
no speed limits,
and soon the Volkswagen
was going flat
out at 160 kilometers
per hour.
From a small suitcase
I pulled out civilian
clothes for Rick,
and he started
stripping off
his uniform. "Last
time I'll ever
wear this thing."
As he took off
his shirt, I got
a whiff of the
sour stench of
fear, which I
knew well from
my own time in
the military.
He stuffed the
fatigues into
a trash bag, then
put on corduroy
pants and a cotton
sweater. Now he
looked like a
young German,
but with the buzz
cut hair, almost
like a neo-Nazi.
I set my cap on
his head.
At the first rest
stop we pulled
in and parked
beside a van.
I gave him the
suitcase and a
wallet with a
thousand euros
in it. We shook
hands, then hugged.
I clapped him
on the back. He
got out of the
car and kissed
Petra on the cheek,
crying again as
he thanked us.
With a combination
of a glare and
a grin, he pushed
the bag with his
uniform into a
garbage can. I
got into the front
seat of the VW;
Rick got into
the back of the
van, giving us
a V sign. The
van pulled away,
headed for Sweden,
where Rick would
apply for asylum.
Petra re-entered
the autobahn,
much slower now
because she too
was crying, quietly,
on a resolute
face. "He's
out of the war,"
she said in her
throaty German
accent. "No
one's going to
kill him, and
he's not going
to kill anybody."
She took the next
exit, then wended
back over country
roads towards
her home. "Now
I'm exhausted."
"Me
too, all of a
sudden,"
I said. "This
one was hairy.
We broke more
laws than usual."
"Good.
Such laws need
to be broken.
I'll make us some
coffee."
Petra had been
the first of our
group to meet
with Rick. She
worked in Caritas,
the German Catholic
social agency,
and a priest had
brought him to
her office. Rick
was absent without
leave, AWOL, from
the army, determined
not to go back,
but didn't know
what to do. He'd
heard from another
soldier that the
Catholic Church
sometimes helped,
so he went there.
The priest was
in too public
a position to
personally do
much, but he introduced
him to Petra because
she was active
in Pax Christi,
the Catholic peace
movement. The
priest and the
social worker
had a tacit "don't
ask, don't tell"
agreement about
her counseling
work with soldiers.
She didn't volunteer
information, and
he didn't pry.
Petra had various
approaches to
freeing soldiers.
She could help
them apply for
conscientious
objector status,
but these days
CO applications
were usually turned
down by the military.
She had a degree
in clinical psychology
and was skilled
at teaching GIs
how to get psychological
discharges, to
act the right
amount of crazy
and handle the
trick questions
the military shrinks
would throw at
them. But now
those too were
usually denied.
The military needed
bodies —
didn't care if
they were crazy.
If neither of
these methods
worked, and if
the soldiers were
desperate to get
out, she would
help them desert,
a drastic step
because it risked
years in prison
for them and major
hassles for her.
Petra has never
been arrested,
but based on experiences
of others in our
group, she could
expect to be charged
with accessory
to military desertion
and with aiding
and abetting a
fugitive. The
court process
would be a severe
drain on the energy
and finances of
both her and our
group, but it
was unlikely that
she'd actually
go to prison.
With public opinion
already so opposed
to this war, the
German government
wouldn't want
to risk the protests.
But she'd probably
get a year on
probation, lose
her job, and have
trouble finding
another one.
Why did she take
the risk? Petra's
grandfather had
been an SS trooper,
the kind of Christian
who unquestioningly
supports authority.
His children reacted
by becoming atheists.
Petra became the
kind of Christian
who opposed authority,
including the
church hierarchy.
She felt stopping
war was more important
than her personal
security.
When she met Rick,
she was impressed
by his sincerity
and also his desperation.
He told her he'd
got married after
high school to
a co-worker at
a restaurant,
an illegal immigrant
from El Salvador
who was a few
years older. They
wanted to have
children but couldn't
raise them on
minimum wage.
He wanted to become
an electrical
engineer but couldn't
afford college.
The army's offer
of tuition aid
and electronics
training was better
than life at Pizza
Hut, so he enlisted
in 2001.
The plan was that
she'd work in
the towns where
he was stationed.
After his four-year
hitch, he'd go
to college while
she continued
to work, and after
college when he
had a good job,
they'd have kids.
Eight years seemed
like a long time
to get started
in life, but by
then he'd have
a real career.
After 9-11, the
army needed infantry
troops more than
electronic specialists,
so they took away
his needle-nosed
pliers, gave him
an M-16, and flew
him to Afghanistan.
First they made
him excavate corpses
from the collapsed
caves of Tora
Bora, full of
the reek of rotting
meat, hoping to
find bin Laden's.
Then they sent
him on night ambush
missions along
the Pakistan border:
staring out from
a machine gun
bunker with goggles
that made everything
glow green and
yellow, shooting
anything that
moved after dark,
shipping the bodies
out in the morning
on the supply
helicopter, still
hoping to find
bin Laden. Finally
he was assigned
to round up men
from the villages
around Kandahar
and send them
to interrogation
camps. But there
weren't many men
in the villages.
They were either
dead or in the
mountains, and
the army didn't
have enough troops
to comb the mountains.
After eight months
his wife divorced
him.
In one of the
villages an old
woman walked by
them with her
goat. The goat
wore a pack basket.
The woman reached
down, patted the
goat, and blew
them all up.
Rick woke up lying
in a helicopter
surrounded by
dead and wounded
friends. He felt
he'd become one
of his ambush
victims being
shipped out. The
army would be
disappointed to
find out he wasn't
bin Laden.
It turned out
later the woman
was the mother
of two sons who
had been killed
by the Americans.
With shrapnel
wounds, a fractured
leg, and a twisted
spine, Rick was
evacuated to the
US hospital in
Landstuhl, Germany,
where after five
months of treatment
he was pronounced
fit for active
duty and given
orders for Iraq.
By then he'd heard
about Iraq from
other patients.
He panicked, went
AWOL, then met
Petra.
She helped him
clarify his options.
He could apply
for conscientious
objector status
or a psychological
discharge, but
with orders into
a combat zone,
his chances of
success were nil.
But if he deserted,
there was a good
chance that Sweden
would accept his
application for
asylum.
Rick told Petra
later that what
finally settled
his decision to
desert was learning
that in Sweden
the state helps
pay college expenses.
You don't have
to join the military
and kill people
just to get an
education.
But before our
group could make
arrangements,
Rick got arrested
for AWOL and assigned
to the detention
barracks. If they'd
known he was planning
to desert, they
would've locked
him in the stockade,
but simple AWOL
has become too
widespread for
that. He was busted
down two ranks
and assigned to
sixty days hard
labor, at the
end of which he'd
be sent to Iraq
still under detention.
After visiting
him in the detention
barracks, Petra
told us he seemed
like a man on
death row. His
psychological
condition was
deteriorating
so rapidly that
she was afraid
he would kill
himself rather
than go back to
war. He begged
her to try to
get him out.
The current work
detail for the
detention soldiers
was twelve hours
a day of picking
up trash along
the fence at the
boundary of the
base. They'd finished
inside the base
and had just started
working on the
outside, a group
of ten detainees
with two guards.
Petra and I wouldn't
have risked the
snatch inside
the base, but
we were pretty
sure the guards
wouldn't fire
their pistols
outside the base
for fear of "collateral
damage."
Shooting the local
population is
bad for public
relations.
I alerted our
sanctuary network
in Germany and
Sweden and arranged
the logistics
to get Rick into
a new life.
Since I'm a US
citizen, if I
got arrested for
helping soldiers
desert, I'd be
sent back to the
homeland for trial
and probably to
prison. It's worth
the risk to me,
though.
I do this work
because my past
is similar to
Petra's grandfather's.
I was in the Special
Forces in Panama
and Vietnam. I'd
joined the Green
Berets to write
a book about war.
During our search
and destroy operations,
I kept telling
myself, "I'm
just here gathering
material for a
novel." But
our deeds have
consequences that
affect us and
others regardless
of why we do them.
I'm still dealing
with the repercussions
from my involvement,
and my work in
the military resistance
movement is a
way of atoning
for it.
I've met many
veterans who never
saw combat but
still feel a burden
of guilt. Just
being part of
an invading force
and abusing another
country pollutes
the soul. Under
the hyperbole,
there's some truth
in Kurt Tucholsky's
statement, "All
soldiers are murderers."
The military exists
to kill people,
and everyone in
it contributes
to that. Even
as civilians,
we finance it.
Having got medals
for combat, I
know that the
real heroes are
the people like
Rick who refuse
to go, who stand
up to the military
and say no. If
they're caught,
the government
punishes them
viciously because
they're such a
threat to its
power. Deserters
and refusers are
choosing peace
at great danger
to themselves.
I wish I'd been
that morally aware
and that brave.
When this book
is published,
I'll have to stop
actively participating
in desertions
and will have
to break off direct
contact with our
group. Once I
go public, my
e-mails and phone
calls will probably
be routed through
Langley, Virginia,
and that would
endanger our whole
operation.
Ironically enough,
when I left the
Special Forces,
the CIA offered
me a job. If I
had accepted it,
I could now be
that G-13 civil
servant who is
perusing the messages
of dissidents,
trying to find
ways to neutralize
us. The road not
taken.
Now living in
Germany, I can
see how important
it is to resist
such things in
their early stages.
In the 1930s many
Germans were afraid
to oppose their
government as
it became increasingly
vicious, hoping
it wouldn't get
too bad, hoping
they'd be spared,
hoping it would
end soon, but
then bitterly
regretted their
passivity after
it was too late.
Better to go down
resisting. Better
yet to change
it while we still
can. It's clear
now that Obama
isn't really going
to change things,
so we have to
do it ourselves.
©
2010 by William
T. Hathaway
|