Jonas Agonistes

Corporal Bronstein: "Sir, about a third. But we've seen NO combatants, no weapons, nothing. No one left in the buildings as we reach them. Just noncombatants hiding or running away. A lot of them."

I said, "Alright, First Squad, stay on the west side of the village, gather as many noncombatants and protect them at this end. Put them in the nearest buildings and protect them! Do it."

Sergeant Lynch: "Yes, Sir." I assumed he went to his task then. I did not see him until after I was relieved.

"Second Squad," I said, "Proceed along the south ridge to the east side of the village and take a position to protect any non-combatants we can. Try to keep them in the village. Do you understand me, Corporal Williams? On line, down the ridge side, facing First Platoon, but not too close. Do not fire unless you are fired upon, is that clear?" Healy was looking at me like the world was ending. Mine was.

"Oh my fu..." Williams started to say, and I cut him off.

"Do you all hear me? This is on me. I am giving you lawful orders, do you understand? We control our fire, we are Marines. Corporal Williams, do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good man. Carry them out. Semper Fi."

"Bronstein, I am coming to join you. As soon as I am there I want Turbish, Summersill, and Paritzki, whoever else is in that fire team, and we'll be running to the far end. Hell or high water, we're cutting through. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir. They will be ready. I'll have the others attempt to cover you." From Taliban or Marines? I thought.

I looked at Healy. "If I'm killed, explain what happened here. If I live, come explain it to me, please."

"Good luck, Mr. Simms."

I took off. I was a good but not great runner, but considering the heat, the weapons and equipment we were carrying, boots, helmet, light pack-we did what we could. I ran right down the middle of the road, past noncombatants huddled in houses and some in doorways, I yelled and pointed for them to go to the west but I kept running. I reached Bronstein's position and Silly, Turbo, Lyninger, and Paritzki joined up with me, keeping as far apart as possible. We had another 250 yards to go, so I found myself wondering about inconsequentials like why Paritzki had no nickname and I could never remember Lyninger-but then I forced myself back on task. We ran, perspiration soaking our clothes and dripping from noses and chins and hands. Machine gun fire was ripping across the open space beyond the last houses-I saw the occasional tracer. Villagers were everywhere huddled in groups behind building walls, dark eyes filled with fear and wonder. There were few men. Mostly they were old or women with children, trying to save themselves.

I looked out beyond the final houses. In a field were bodies. Women, some children. I saw no men but there must have been some. There was a line of noncombatants along the last building wall on the side facing First Platoon. Somehow they had lined up over there; then they were pounded by 7.62 rounds from a light machine gun, the wall was smoking, and they were down. I did not count or estimate. Rounds were firing into the houses from up on the hillside. Two hundred yards away. Kelley's platoon was firing at anyone leaving the village, and at anyone near the buildings on this side. There was a young guy missing a foot from an old injury or operation, leaning against a wall staying out of sight from the hill. Some old guy was sitting next to him with his back to a building wall, staring at me, holding a cane or stick.

"Oh my God sir they killed them all..." I think that came from Williams up the hill, who would have had a good view of the whole thing.

Captain Messina cut into my comm. "Simms, there are people in that village and they are no longer moving east. Now what is going on?"

"Sir," I said, "They don't want to get murdered by First Platoon so they refuse to leave. I am moving them back to a safe location with my platoon." I heard him start to say something when I put him out of my mind.

I said, "Summersill, clear anyone out of these buildings on that side, don't let First Platoon see you if you can help it..." when the game went to final shit.

First Platoon repositioned a machine gun team. They began firing plunging fire from the ridgeside into the village buildings.

I opened comm to Kelley and perhaps his platoon. "Kelley, I have men in those buildings! Cease your fire, cease your fire!" But it kept on, chewing up the building with the crippled kid and ending his hard life. Summersill escaped injury by luck. I lost sight of the old man.

I called Williams: "Do you see the machine guns firing at us?"

"Yes, Sir, my God sir, those two are about 200 yards from us. My guys on the right can see them clearly."

"Williams, who's on the right?"

"I am, so is Tomilo, uh, and Allen."

"We need covering fire." I wished I had smoke. I didn't.

The guns switched to the house on the far side of the street.

I said, "Silly, Turboboost, Lyninger, as soon as we open fire, take those people and your own ass back down that road. And get all the people down that road to First Squad on your right in that direction. Don't miss any but get going. Got me?"

"Ready, Sir."

"Sir."

Nods. I imagined nods if I didn't see them.

"Paritzki, you and I are last. Covering fire!" I aimed and fired where I thought the guns were. Paritzki poked his SAW around a corner and fired up the hill; Tomillo and Allen fired in front of the offending guns, but were hesitant. They did fire. One of the guns on the hill ceased fire.

"Alright, we've done enough here. Go! Go! Go! Williams get your men out and back to the west end of the village. Protect our noncombatants and yourselves. Now get your asses moving!"

Soon up on the hillside and down in the village there was a population shift to the west. Marines picked up kids by the backs of their shirts and ran from the fire. Mothers in burkas jogged along with babes in their arms, sometimes. I kept the last of them in front of me, and I looked back trying to see if anyone was coming.

I thought of all the rules I'd broken, ignoring IED possibilities, booby-trapped homes, suicidal enemies, and I was now herding a hundred or so noncombatants down a road. There was Turbo with a woman carried under his left arm and a rifle in his right, Silly with two kids crying but moving along the right side houses ready to duck into doorways. Paritzki covered us; he aimed and fired bursts, aimed and burst, aimed and burst. He may have saved a lot of lives. I saw him kick some kid because he didn't have a free hand and the kid was just crying, frightened to move. It did get him moving. Bunches of people crawled, hobbled, cried, and ran down the street toward the west and safety. I was firing to the east to slow any pursuing fire. As we reached Bronstein and his other fireteam I signalled him to move back to the west side. His Marines dispersed among the non-combatant groups and encouraged them to move faster. One Marine had a guy over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. We withdrew. Fire from First Platoon finally withered and ended, as we were beyond their effective range and view halfway down the village. At the west end there were some buildings Marines pointed the noncombatants into, but basically everyone just huddled together and cried.

I contacted Healy and he gave me some numbers: no casualties for my platoon, some among the noncombatants, a bunch of people under our protection in the first houses. Marines were helping those who were bleeding. We had no corpsman.

Captain Messina was screaming into my ear when I decided I could pay attention to him, the first part of his yelling about disobeying orders was all jumbled up but the second was clear.

"Simms, what the hell was that? Were you firing on First Platoon? Oh my God, you must have gone crazy. You killed a Marine! I'm relieving you, Lieutenant. Healy should take over immediately."

"Very well, Sir. We have taken no casualties. We have 132 noncombatants safe at the west end of the village. We are consolidating a defensive perimeter there. Simms standing down."

Healy was then in contact with the captain. I watched him speaking into his mike but rarely. I think he was getting an earful from the captain.

I looked about. Sunny, hot, relentless and oppressive brightness and heat. Old, old buildings, broken pavement, glass, rubble. Marines consolidating, preparing for a counterattack from the enemy. Perhaps First Platoon, with Captain Messina leading the way with guns ablazin'.

But the intel-it was solid.

*

It was silent. Marx hesitated. He looked directly at Mom and Dad. "Actually, two Marines died. When they moved their machine gun to fire down on the buildings they didn't expect to take fire and took an exposed position. Some of 2d Platoon's covering fire killed them. This whole thing is classified as a friendly fire incident."

Jonas said, "Ray Zumwalt and Shannon Smith."

Mom had tears streaming down her face, Dad was unwilling to talk. Mom got up and walked over to me, put her arms around me, and hugged. She whispered, "I have never been so proud of anyone in my life. I am so glad I am your mother."

It was quiet while she hugged Jonas.

"Your report was almost perfect, Jonas," said Marx, quietly. "Every Marine in your platoon, every one of their statements, corroborated yours almost word for word. I didn't tell Healy you mentioned his OCD. I didn't tell a few others about other little comments-you called Healy strange, said Bronstein was Catholic, things like that."

"Bronstein says everyone assumes he's Jewish, so I used to mock him calling him the Catholic."

"But for things like that, they all heard what you said."

Dad spoke, "You saved 132 people."

Marx said, "Actually it was more like 158 but his numbers at the time were confused."

Dad said, "It was the deaths of the two Marines that led to an investigation for murder? Why was it secret, why is there anything to worry about?"

"For some reason, some higher ups rewarded Captain now Major Messina and 1st Lieutenant Kelley for their victory, within hours of the incident. 29 dead Taliban were reported, most in that field at the end of the village. They mowed down the first wave of non-combatants without bothering to identify them. They followed Messina's "guns ablazin'" principle that Jonas was so skeptical of. Some of those dead Taliban were under two years old."

"Is there proof?"

Jonas stood up. "No."

Marx looked at Jonas and shook his head. Then he said, "I wouldn't say that. Why don't we go to the kitchen table? I have some things to show you."

At the table, Marx got out a large manila folder. "I had these enlarged. This may be gruesome, you may want to look away. Some of Jonas's platoon had cell phones with them, against regulations, but they pulled them out and took some quick pictures during the battle." He pulled out a picture, pointed to various parts as he talked. "In this one, you see the field at the end of the village. If you look closely, you can see women in burkas and over here is a child. Also in this one you see this kid huddling against the building, here. That is an old man next to him. And this one taken a minute later is blurry but the same kid dead and that is what is left of the building. It is clear in the first picture the kid is a cripple with a stick, not a combatant. There are one or two others from the field, but the rest are of the noncombatants huddled together under the watch of the Marines at the west end of the village."

Mom asked, "Are there any pictures of Jonas?"

Marx smiled. "Two. Here he is running down the center of the road with a kid in his arms." In the background you could see Turbo carrying a sack under his left arm, that in reality was a woman.

Jonas said, "I don't remember doing that." Marx said, "I know. But that is you and you did it."

Marx continued, "And here he is just after he was relieved, helping wrap a kid's foot. I can't tell if he was bleeding or just turned his ankle."

"Silly had his phone, didn't he?" Jonas asked. "Disobeyed my orders. Standing orders."

"Yup. He said he'd have taken more but he was busy."

Mom and Dad were poring over the pictures, so strangely far away, with their son doing things they had not suspected.

Marx said, "I think it was the picture of you carrying the kid, with Turbish carrying the woman, that got the charges pushed aside. It's hard to see American heroism in the face of American atrocity and reward those responsible for the latter. Oh, I've made about 100 copies of these pictures."

It was quiet. Mom would make a statement or observation of the pictures: "I've never seen Jonas in his combat get-up" or "look over at this" or just "oh my." Dad would say, "Is this him?" or "what is this guy doing?" or things of that nature. They studied those 9 pictures.

"Now I am almost afraid to tell you the next. I am not here because of any of this. I could have sent the pictures. And while a pleasant evening with friends is always good, I came because I want Jonas's approval of something I am doing." Marx actually looked awkward, as if he had committed a transgression and wanted forgiveness.

Marx continued on after a deep breath. "I have written a novel based on the al Gatar massacre. I can't think of what else to call it. I wrote it as a novel because I thought it would increase readership and perhaps protect Jonas from everyday scrutiny. But I can account for every sentence in the book except for the names of the participants. Every word is true, to my knowledge. It took me over a year to write, and I'd like Jonas's approval before it hits the bookstores. I don't want your approval because it will change whether or not it is published. Sooner or later, al Gatar is going to come out. I mean, Kelley's dad is in the Senate. Sooner or later someone will look into his career in the war. I want your approval, your criticism, your thoughts on the book. You and I probably know more about al Gatar than anyone."

Marx opened his case one more time and took out three hardbound copies of his new novel. He gave one to each of the family.

Jeremiah in Agony

by Tom Marx

Based on an Incident in the War in Afghanistan

The cover pictured a soldier or Marine with haunted eyes kneeling beside a child on the ground. He was dirty and unshaven and it reminded me of a movie poster for "The Thin Red Line." The book was about 300 pages, hardback, and the print was not large. Production values were first rate, he thought. It was very well done. The publisher was NovelAmerica.

"Well, Tom," Jonas thought aloud, "you must know someone in the publishing industry."

"Actually, my sister is the editor," he said. "We had the whole thing written except for the classified chapters. I wrote those three chapters a thousand times in my head, but until they declassified a few months ago, I put nothing to paper. Then I wrote for two weeks, draft after draft. I think it came out well. My sister is pleased, which means her boss is pleased too. They want to send it to stores shortly. I asked them to delay until you had a chance to read it."

Mom and Dad were paging through. Jonas was also. "Can you keep my name out of it? I mean, can you just refuse to say who I am?"

"I can. I will, if you want me to. I think it is a mistake."

"Why?" asked Mom.

"Anyone doing a cursory examination of the JAG files will see the summary page. That page mentions that 1st Lt. Jonas Simms was investigated for possible charges of mutiny, disobedience, murder, and several other things. It says no charges were finally brought. It makes no mention of what he actually did. For that, you'd have to go to the pages of his recorded statements, the 29 page narrative of actions at al Gatar, and find the occasional statements of his actions and put them together. It would take someone who wanted an in-depth story-or a book."

"Then, Tom, I ask you to protect me. Protect my integrity. My privacy, too. If you feel my name should come out, choose the proper time and release it. Until then, just tell people that I'd prefer to finish school, teach, maybe coach the baseball team or girls basketball or something."

Marx noticed that Jonas had called him Tom.

Marx said, "Then that is how I will do it. I can keep the secret for quite a while, but it is a quick search to find the al Gatar incident file, and your name is on the front."

It was 11:30. Marx stood. "Mr. and Mrs. Simms, it has been a genuine pleasure to meet you. I've wanted to meet Jonas's parents for some time." He hesitated, then held his hand out to Dad. "Your son is a hero in the middle of a tragedy. He was faced with Calley's decision and he made the right one, without any pause." They shook.

"Yes," Mom said, "we have always been proud of him. Now we know."

Jonas said, "Mom, enough. Tom, I'll read the book as soon as I can. Thanks for coming." Marx led the way to the door, said goodnight, and left. Mom came up behind Jonas and hugged him and cried, remembering all those sleepless nights worrying that something might be happening to Jonas at that very instant on the other side of the world.

Jonas Agonistes Chapter 3: The Honour in Humility

I opened "Jeremiah" after school the next day. I opened it to the beginning. I did not have class this night, thank goodness.

It was 3:30 in the morning when I closed the book. A few thoughts had come to me as I read. Tom Marx was a writer, and not just a good one; I wondered if he was misguided going into the law. I was amazed at the depth of the characters, the clarity of the action. Chapter 16, describing the actual incident, was a masterpiece describing the actions of dozens of Americans in two small units, confronting one another over the lives of noncombatants trapped on a battlefield. Chapter 15 had made me question my perspective, if not my decisions. Chapter 17 justified me, and made me wonder at the motives of the Marine Corps. More than that: the motives of the United States. I sat and thought about the book.

I called Tom. He answered, at 4 am.

"Hello?"

"Tom, Jonas Simms. Finished the book."

"Yeah?"

I could tell he was waking up, his voice foggy.

"Gonna change my life, you know," I said.

Pause.

"Yeah. It may take them a while to figure out the real case. A little longer to read the general officer's report on the incident," he said.

"No, Tom, I mean the book. The book will change my life. I'm still ticked at you for writing it, though."

Pause.

"Thanks, Jonas. I'm sorry it will all come out. Soon, too, maybe."

It was a slow conversation. 4:00 am.

"Maybe for the best. When's it in the bookstores?"

"Soon. It's ready to ship now, printed and boxed, and the publisher knew the incident was being declassified. They are advertising now, and the tour is growing daily. Maybe a month before it's in the stores." He paused. "They want it out soon."

"It's scary how good your writing is, Tom. Why'd you become a lawyer?"

He said wryly, "I wanted to keep good guys out of the brig."

Pause.

"Thanks. I need to get to sleep. Doubt if I can. Probably show a movie in class today," I said.

"Jonas, really, thanks for calling. I thought you might not forgive me," he said.

"Nah, that book is...well, I know who my friends are. I gotta go. Talk to you later. Good night."

*

Mom and Dad finished the book over the next few days and had many questions and comments. Mom even wrote a letter to Tom, thanking him for giving them a better insight into their son's life. Dad, who I think has read two books in his life-one being a guide to home plumbing-kept asking me about this incident and this guy and that gun and what Afghanistan was like. He was underlining things in the book, writing notes in the margin. Whenever I was home, he'd bring something up. It was a side of him I'd never seen.