381 lines
21 KiB
Markdown
381 lines
21 KiB
Markdown
---
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created_at: '2012-02-02T02:53:00.000Z'
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title: I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War. (2007)
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url: http://www.esquire.com/features/essay/ESQ0307ESSAY
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author: staunch
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points: 61
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story_text: ''
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comment_text:
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num_comments: 12
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story_id:
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story_title:
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story_url:
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parent_id:
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created_at_i: 1328151180
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_tags:
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- story
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- author_staunch
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- story_3541223
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objectID: '3541223'
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year: 2007
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---
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**A few months ago,** I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos
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from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news. I watched
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insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate
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markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the
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soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty
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stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and
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the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of
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metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed
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insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in
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firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not
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meant to be seen, no longer whole. The images sickened me, but their
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familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked
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through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope
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feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and
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colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my
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stomach ached, hollow. I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen
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to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and
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watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I
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drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this
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house, in America, my life felt very foreign.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time
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there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day
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that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could
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continue, with futures not so uncertain. But in quiet moments, their
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relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home
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as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I
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never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I
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miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.
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I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my
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wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I
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wish they weren't. Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and
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lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I
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questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it.
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I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and
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ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by
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which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for
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many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces
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are lit, they become part of us. At a party several years ago, long
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before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in
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the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just
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tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She
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would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She
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disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just
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offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's
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just the beginning.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching
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life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a
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hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've
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watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had
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made their lives better, a redemption of sorts. But I also peered
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through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could
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shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you
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step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning
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someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they
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are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty;
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that's just the trade you've learned. And as an American soldier, you
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have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a
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grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or
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jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the
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market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred
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scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and
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helpless.
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That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they
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turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they
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love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and
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explosions and manliness and courage. When my neighbors and I played war
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as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary,
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usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game.
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We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly
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older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped
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up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons.
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In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find
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that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really
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no freedom at all, but a lonely burden. Yet even at its lowest points,
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war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is
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war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of
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nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems
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all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then
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you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking
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death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear
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them all the same. Something's going down.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes
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I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it,
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but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter,
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louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of
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everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so
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strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and
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somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.
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On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead
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the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the
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town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed,
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or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into
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courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes
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dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in
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the street, creeping. We stop at intersections, peek around corners,
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training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We
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move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter.
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Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where
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it's safe. Safer. The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out,
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cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool
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night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a
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panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a
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greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.
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Another night we're lost in a dust storm. I'm in the passenger seat,
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trying to guide my driver and the three trucks behind us through this
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brown maelstrom. The headlights show nothing but swirling dirt. We've
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driven these roads for months, we know them well, but we see nothing. So
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we drive slow, trying to stay out of canals and people's kitchens. We
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curse and we laugh. This is bizarre but a great deal of fun.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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Another night my platoon sergeant's truck is swallowed in flames, a
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terrible, beautiful, boiling bloom of red and orange and yellow,
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lighting the darkness for a moment. Somehow we don't die, one more time.
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Another night, there's McCarthy bitching, the cherry of his cigarette
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bobbing in the dark, bitching that he won't be on the assault team, that
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he's stuck as a turret gunner for the night. We'd been out since early
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that morning, came back for dinner, and are preparing to raid a weapons
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dealer. Our first real raid. I heave my body armor onto my shoulders,
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settling its too-familiar weight. Then the helmet and first-aid kit and
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maps and radio and ammunition and rifle and all the rest. Now I look
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like everyone else, an arm of this strange and destructive organism,
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covered in armor and guns. We crowd around a satellite map spread across
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a Humvee hood and trace our route. Wells, my squad leader, rehearses our
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movements. Get in quick. Watch the danger zones. If he has a gun, kill
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him. I look around the group, at these faces I know so well, and feel
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the collective strength, this ridiculous power. The camaraderie of men
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in arms plays a part, for sure. The shared misery and euphoria and
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threat of death. But there is something more: the surrender of self,
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voluntary or not, to the machine. Do I believe in the war? Not
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important. Put that away and live in the moment, where little is
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knowable and even less is controllable, when my world narrows to one
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street, one house, one room, one door.
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We pack into the trucks after midnight, and the convoy snakes out of
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camp and speeds toward the target house. I sit in a backseat and the
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fear settles in, a sharp burning in my stomach, same as the knot from
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hard liquor gulped too fast. I think about the knot. I'll be the first
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through the door. What if he starts shooting, hits me right in the face
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before I'm even through the doorway? What if there's two, or three? What
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if he pitches a grenade at us? And I think about it more and run through
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the scenarios, planning my movements, imagining myself clearing through
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the rooms, firing two rounds into the chest, and the knot fades.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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The trucks drop us off several blocks from the target house and we slip
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into the night. As always, the dogs bark. We gather against the high
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wall outside the house and call in the trucks to block the streets. The
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action will pass in a flash. But here, before the chaos starts, when
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we're stacked against the wall, my friends' bodies pressed against me,
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hearing their quick breaths and my own, there's a moment to appreciate
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the gravity, the absurdity, the novelty, the joy of the moment. Is this
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real? Hearts beat strong. Hands grip tight on weapons. Reassurance. The
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rest of the world falls away. Who knows what's on the other side?
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One, two, three, go. We push past the gate and across the courtyard and
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toward the house, barrels locked on the windows and roof. Wells runs up
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with the battering ram, a short, heavy pipe with handles, and launches
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it toward the massive wood door. The lock explodes, the splintered door
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flies open, and we rush through, just the way we've practiced hundreds
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of times. No one shoots me in the face. No grenades roll to my feet. I
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kick open doors. We scan darkened bedrooms with the flashlights on our
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rifles and move on to the next and the next.
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He's gone, of course. We ransack his house, dumping drawers, flipping
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mattresses, punching holes in the ceiling. We find rifles and grenades
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and hundreds of pounds of gunpowder. And then, near dawn, we lie down on
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the thick carpets in his living room and sleep, exhausted and
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untroubled.
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Many, many raids followed. We often raided houses late at night, so
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people awakened to soldiers bursting through their bedroom doors. Women
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and children wailed, terrified. Taking this in, I imagined what it would
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feel like if soldiers kicked down my door at midnight, if I could do
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nothing to protect my family. I would hate those soldiers. Yet I still
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reveled in the raids, their intensity and uncertainty. The emotions
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collided, without resolution.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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My wife moved to Iraq partway through my second deployment to live in
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the north and train Iraqi journalists. She spent her evenings at
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restaurants and tea shops with her Iraqi friends. We spoke by cell
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phone, when the spotty network allowed, and she told me about this life
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I couldn't imagine, celebrating holidays with her colleagues and being
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invited into their homes. I didn't have any Iraqi friends, save for our
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few translators, and I'd rarely been invited into anyone's home. I told
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her of my life, the tedious days and frightful seconds, and she worried
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that in all of this I would lose my thoughtfulness and might stop
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questioning and just accept. But she didn't judge the work that I did,
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and I didn't tell her that I sometimes enjoyed it, that for stretches of
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time I didn't think about the greater implications, that it sometimes
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seemed like a game. I didn't tell her that death felt ever present and
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far away, and that either way, it didn't really seem to matter.
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We both came back from Iraq, luckier than many. Two of my wife's
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students have been killed, among the scores of journalists to die in
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Iraq, and guys I served with are still dying, too. One came home from
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the war and shot himself on Thanksgiving. Another was blown up on
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Christmas in Baghdad.
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Thinking of them, I felt disgusted with myself for missing the war and
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wondered if I was alone in this.
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I don't think I am.
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After watching the Internet videos, I called some of my friends who are
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out of the Army now, and they miss the war, too. Wells very nearly died
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in Iraq. A sniper shot him in the head, surgeons cut out half of his
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skull—a story told in this magazine last April—and he spent months
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in therapy, working back to his old self. Now he misses the high. "I
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don't want to sound like a psychopath, but you're like a god over
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there," he says. "It might not be the best kind of adrenaline for you,
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but it's a rush." Before Iraq, he didn't care for horror movies, and now
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he's drawn to them. He watches them for the little thrill, the rush of
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being startled, if just for a moment.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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McCarthy misses the war just the same. He saved Wells's life, pressing a
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bandage over the hole in his head. Now he's delivering construction
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materials to big hotel projects along the beach in South Carolina,
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waiting for a police department to process his application. "The
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monotony is killing me," he told me, en route to deliver some rebar. "I
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want to go on a raid. I want something to blow up. I want something to
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change today." He wants the unknown. "Anything can happen, and it does
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happen. And all of the sudden your world is shattered, and everything
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has changed. It's living dangerously. You're living on the edge. And
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you're the baddest motherfucker around."
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Mortal danger heightens the senses. That is simple animal instinct.
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We're more aware of how our world smells and sounds and tastes. This
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distorts and enriches experiences. Now I can have everything, but it's
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not as good as when I could have none of it. McCarthy and I stood on a
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rooftop one afternoon in Iraq running through a long list of the food we
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wanted. We made it to homemade pizza and icy beer when someone loosed a
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long burst of gunfire that cracked over our heads. We ran to the other
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side of the rooftop, but the gunman had disappeared down a long
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alleyway. Today my memory of that pizza and beer is stronger than if
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McCarthy and I had sat down together with the real thing before us.
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And today we even speak with affection of wrestling a dead man into a
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body bag, because that was then. The bullet had laid his thigh wide
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open, shattered the femur, and shredded the artery, so he'd bled out
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fast, pumping much of his blood onto the sidewalk. We unfolded and
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unzipped the nylon sack and laid it alongside him. And then we stared
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for a moment, none of us ready to close that distance. I grabbed his
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forearm and dropped it, maybe instinct, maybe revulsion. He hovered so
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near this world, having just passed over, that he seemed to be sucking
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life from me, pulling himself back or taking me with him. He peeked at
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us through a half-opened eye. I stared down on him, his massive dead
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body, and again wrapped a hand around his wrist, thick and warm. The man
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was huge, taller than six feet and close to 250 pounds. We strained with
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the awkward weight, rolled him into the bag, and zipped him out of
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sight. My platoon sergeant gave two neighborhood kids five dollars to
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wash away the congealing puddle of blood. But the red handprint stayed
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on the wall, where the man had tried to brace himself before he fell. I
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think about him sometimes, splayed out on the sidewalk, and I think of
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how lucky I was never to have put a friend in one of those bags. Or be
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put in one myself.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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But the memories, good and bad, are only part of the reason war holds
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its grip long after soldiers have come home. The war was urgent and
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intense and the biggest story going, always on the news stations and
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magazine covers. At home, though, relearning everyday life, the sense of
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mission can be hard to find. And this is not just about dim prospects
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and low-paying jobs in small towns. Leaving the war behind can be a
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letdown, regardless of opportunity or education or the luxuries waiting
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at home. People I'd never met sent me boxes of cookies and candy
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throughout my tours. When I left for two weeks of leave, I was cheered
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at airports and hugged by strangers. At dinner with my family one night,
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a man from the next table bought me a $400 bottle of wine. I was never
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quite comfortable with any of this, but they were heady moments
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nonetheless.For my friends who are going back to Iraq or are there
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already, there is little enthusiasm. Any fondness for war is tainted by
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the practicalities of operating and surviving in combat. Wells and
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McCarthy and I can speak of the war with nostalgia because we belong to
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a different world now. And yet there is little to say, because we are
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scattered, far from those who understand.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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When I came home, people often asked me about Iraq, and mostly I told
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them it wasn't so bad. The first few times, my wife asked me why I had
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been so blithe. Why didn't I tell them what Iraq was really like? I
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didn't know how to explain myself to them. The war really wasn't so bad.
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Yes, there were bombs and shootings and nervous times, but that was just
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the job. In fact, going to war is rather easy. You react to situations
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around you and try not to die. There are no electric bills or car
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payments or chores around the house. Just go to work, come home alive,
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and do it again tomorrow. McCarthy calls it pure and serene. Indeed.
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Life at home can be much more trying. But I didn't imagine the people
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asking would understand that. I didn't care much if they did, and often
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it seemed they just wanted a war story, a bit of grit and gore. If they
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really want to know, they can always find out for themselves. But they
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don't, they just want a taste of the thrill. We all do. We covet life
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outside our bubble. That's why we love tragedy, why we love hearing
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about war and death on the television, drawn to it in spite of
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ourselves. We gawk at accident scenes and watch people humiliate
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themselves on reality shows and can't wait to replay the events for
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friends, as though in retelling the story we make it our own, if just
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for a moment.
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We live easy third-person lives but want a bit of the darkness. War
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fascinates because we live so far from its realities. Maybe we'd feel
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differently about watching bombs blow up on TV if we saw them up close,
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if we knew how explosions rip the air, throttle your brain, and make
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your ears ring, if we knew the strain of wondering whether the car next
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to you at a traffic light would explode or a bomb would land on your
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house as you sleep. I don't expect Iraqi soldiers would ever miss war. I
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have that luxury. I came home to peace, to a country that hasn't seen
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war within its borders for nearly 150 years. Yes, some boys come home
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dead. But we live here without the other terrors and tragedies of
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war—cities flattened and riven with chaos and fear, neighbors killing
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one another, a people made forever weary by the violence.
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Advertisement - Continue Reading Below
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And so I miss it.
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Every day in Iraq, if you have a job that takes you outside the wire,
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you stop just before the gate and make your final preparation for war.
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You pull out a magazine stacked with thirty rounds of ammunition,
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weighing just over a pound. You slide it into the magazine well of your
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rifle and smack it with the heel of your hand, driving it up. You pull
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the rifle's charging handle, draw the bolt back, and release. The bolt
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slides forward with a metallic snap, catching the top round and shoving
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it into the barrel. Chak-chuk. If I hear that a half century from now, I
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will know it in an instant. Unmistakable, and pregnant with possibility.
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On top of a diving board, as the grade-school-science explanation goes,
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you are potential energy. On the way down, you are kinetic energy. So I
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leave the gate and step off the diving board, my energy transformed.
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