CLOY RICHARDS

©Cloy Richards

©Aaron Hughes

THAT DAMN TRUCK (excerpts)

It was just a truck.  A big, green truck.  Not a pickup or a big-rig, but a big, green, seven-ton military truck.  A big, green truck in a barren, desert wasteland that stuck out like a sore thumb.   The cab held 2 Marines and mounted above the cab, was a gunner armed with a Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun, just like the ones you see pointed out of the sides of helicopters in the popular movie, Black Hawk Down.  In the bed of the truck were 10 severely uncomfortable and easily irritable Marines, seated upon 3,000 pounds of explosives and ammunition; the last place you'd want to be if a rocket-propelled grenade happened to come whistling your way. Fist fights would break out over elbow space and legroom.  That truck was a cramped death trap where sleep was impossible and comfort was a wish no genie could grant.  However, to the boys of 1st squad, Alpha Company, it was so much more than a truck. Everyone had "their spot" in the back of that truck.  Sergeants and corporals got first pick of their spots, while privates and lance corporals got last pick...  I carried a heavy machine gun so I was blessed with being stuck on the port (left) side in the back of the bed.  My staff sergeant's reasoning for that splendid move was so that I could lay down suppressing fire while everyone else dismounted the truck in case of an attack...
  
The weather was unusually mild on March 25th, 2003 in south-central Iraq.  There was a cool breeze that made our nuclear, biological, chemical protective suits actually a bit manageable in that miserable desert.  We had been stuck in that truck for three days straight and were growing irritable, but that breeze was just the reprieve we needed to stop our bitter grumbling.  It was just a calm before the storm.  The rain clouds rolled in so fast it was like God had dimmed the lights in Iraq.  As the first raindrops bounced off the barrel of my machine gun I heard thunder clap nearby and searched the sky for lightning.  I looked out the back of the truck and saw the truck behind us explode and realized that wasn't thunder I was hearing.

"Fall out, Fall out" our Staff Sergeant screamed as my squad poured out of the truck. Some snipers were taking potshots at my boys while they were jumping out of the truck so I laid down suppressing fire.  I was in the perfect spot in the back of the truck to mow every sniper down.  "Thanks a lot staff sergeant" I thought to myself.  I still hate that spot in the truck.

After I jumped out of the truck I could see what was in front of us, even though I didn't want to.  The vehicles in front of us had been blown apart, including the captain's vehicle.  Before I ran to my position on the perimeter I tried to catch a glimpse of the damage but could only focus on the captain and the bloody stump where his arm used to be.  I was stunned by this gruesome sight but quickly regained a grasp on the situation after I watched my captain tie a dressing around his own wound, pull out his pistol and scream "Let's get these sons of bitches!" I lay in the mud for 18 hours shooting whoever dare breach my section of the perimeter...  Thirteen of us had jumped off that truck earlier that morning.  Eight of us climbed back in that night.

To this day, I can't put my finger on what was so special about that truck.  It was so cramped, so uncomfortable.  I wouldn't get back into that truck for a million dollars.  After that rainy day in the desert I had never been happier to get in that truck.  I prayed I would never have to get out ever again.  Unfortunately there were a lot more days like March 25th, 2003 and every time we climbed back into that truck there were fewer of us.  That never made it more comfortable.  Those of us who were left would stuff ourselves into our old positions so as not to interfere with the space a fallen comrade had once taken.  That truck offered so much pain, so much grief and yet, so much comfort.  No one ever died inside that truck.  It was only when we got out of the truck, it seemed, was when our brothers would die.  I miss that truck.

MORE CREATIVE WRITING: Page 1 | Page 3 | Page 4

CLOY RICHARDS