the Machine
In an earlier post, I referenced something called "the Machine". A reader asked me to talk about it, and out of respect for them, and because I had promised to help them in any way I could, I shall now do so. Before I do, There are some things that you must be made aware of first. I do not know where this post will end up; I am just going to go in a direction. I am going to have to chip away at the subject matter over time, so you should be seeing by now the completed version. I am opening a window into a part of my psyche. A window into a place that I do not like to go. It is not a very pretty place. It's the kind of place that you wander into late at night when the TV channels are carrying infommercials and test patterns only. When the sentries of your mind are lax at their vigil. If you have some daemons in your past, proceed at your own risk. If you are repulsed by things that one does not mention in polite company, then go no further. I do not know if anyone else harbors what I do, but I think that some do.
Okay, there will be time for muttering madness later. For those of you willing to, allow me to introduce you to the Machine....
I don't know where it came from. Maybe I had it in me all along, maybe I acquired it in basic training; some sort of side-effect of being a Marine. I don't know. I remember the first time it came to my aid. It was on the fourteenth of February, 1994 at about 2030 hrs., eastern time. That was the first time it was turned on.
You see, I was in love. I was in love with my high school sweetheart. I was in love and a long way from home. 35 days earlier, I had left for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. My girlfriend had been very upset that I was leaving, and looking back, I think she had secretly hoped that I would refuse my orders and stay with her. I had considered it. The conclusion I came to though, was that she deserved a man who would do his duty even when it was unpleasant. Especially when it was unpleasant. So, in the depth of winter, I chose Duty over Love, and left her behind, to be sent to the oppresive heat and Hell of Cuba. Cuba was worse than anything I imagined. Even now, ten years later, I can say beyond doubt that it was the worst year of my life. Cuba was a little forgotten slice of Hell that had slipped under the radar. Cuba would require a novel to explain, and even then it would not be sufficient.
Suffice it to say that I was living an existence of misery. My girlfriend was my link to sanity. As long as I had her, I had hope that there would be a day that would make it all worth it. She was what I was fighting for. You can guess what happened next. For valentines day, I had sent an order through the PX and FTD to have a bunch of roses delivered to her with a teddy bear. It was a lot of money for a Marine PFC, but I didn't care; Cuba is great for having nothing to spend money on. I called her up that night after returning from "work," wished her a happy Valentine's day, and told her again how I loved her. She wasn't as thrilled as I thought she would be. I thought she was a little saddened that I was not there. I was wrong. She said she had to talk to me about something. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach. I do not remember the whole exchange, but I remember some things she said:
"you have me on this pedastal"
"it's really hard for me"
"I'm not the great person you think I am"
"you're really sweet, but...."
"...and I don't think we are right for each other"
The rest of it was pretty much just filler. I begged and pleaded with her. I told her that I needed her. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I didn't know if I could make it without her. She said "goodbye", which summed up the whole of the conversation and our future in a single world. I told her that I loved her, but the only response from her end was that unique click and silence of the line going dead. I dropped the phone, and slid down the cinderblock wall, collapsing into a heap on the ground. I lay there, looking up at the flourescent light as it blurred with tears. I closed my eyes listening to it hum. Everything was impossibly quiet. It was hard for me to breathe, my chest was heavy and my throat was closing up, so I just stopped. My heart felt like it was breaking, like the very blood in it was clotting even as it beat; like it was struggling to go on, but it seemed to grow tired, and was slowing down. I was broken. A priest once told me that despair was the death throes of hope. I was beyond despair. It was over.
That is when the machine turned on. My eyes snapped open, and my lungs sucked in air. I stood up, stronger lighter and faster than the weak man who had just imploded. I went outside, and walked onto the corner ledge of the building. I lit a marlboro and just stood there, toes of my combat boots peeking over the edge and down onto the conrete below. The wind gently tried to sway me off of my perch, but only took the smoke from the cigarrette with it out into the darkness. There was no fear. There was no worry. There was no hope. The machine was doing all of this. The Machine was doing what I could not.
Since then, especially in Guantanamo, I had use of the Machine. Whenever things got too tough for me, I let the Machine do it. When I was too cold to keep marching through the blizzards of mountain warfare training, the machine carried on. I was one of 12 Marines out of 60 that did not fall out. During scout/sniper indoc, when only 18 out of 112 Marines lasted through the first six hours, it was the machine that kept going, even as I became delirious from the jungle heat. When my fingers were dislocated during physical training, it was the Machine that snapped them back into place without even a wince of pain before the eyes of my squad. Whenever I was too tired, too hungry, or too emotionally burned out to do whatever the task at hand was, the Machine was there for me. It exists somewhere in my mind, on a plane too subtle, primitive and complex to fit within the constructs of Jeung or Freud.
The Machine is not anger or rage. It does not interfere with my intellectual capabilities. It does not preclude thought. It is not some form of shock, and does not cloud my mind; if anything, my cognitive abilities are heightened because the emotions are cut out of the loop. It is also not some adrenaline rush. Adrenaline will numb pain, and narrow awareness. The Machine does not do this. You still hurt, and you are very aware of your surroundings.
The Machine is a great and hideous strength. It is a place in the mind that seperates you from what you are doing, while leaving your mental faculties engaged and active. The Machine is unaffected by hunger, pain, or pity.
But there is a danger, and a very real price to be paid. The Machine will do not only what you cannot, but it will also do what you should not. When your job is to "subdue and detain" there is only so much force and violence which is required; anything beyond is cruelty. The Machine does not recognize this. It will do what must be done, and will not differentiate between enough and too much; it just does it. Sometimes, even with a steady hand, and unflinching eyes, I could almost hear myself screaming inside. And there is where you get into trouble; because after the Machine is off, and the moment of action has passed, you must reconcile yourself with the fact that you are responsible for what the Machine did. You gave it power, and that power was used. This is how you wake up one morning, and in shock realize who it is exactly that is staring back at you from the other side of the mirror in the morning. And every morning after that, recorded in that countanence are the actions that you took. I spent years picking up the pieces of myself on three continents. I remember weeping in front of my father, drunk and ashamed. I remember the look on his face as I told him about what had happened what I had done. I didn't shoot innocent civilians, and I didn't leave Marines to die or anything like that, but there are some things I am unwilling to talk about in civil company. I don't know; maybe I am just some sort of panty-waist who got zapped in the head by some extreme situations. Maybe this regret is all in my head.
Maybe I should tell you about how I figured out that there was something wrong.
It was after I had returned from Cuba. It was January 5th, 1995. I was in McLean, Virginia with a couple of my high school friends. Most of them had decided it was late, and called it quits for the night. One guy wanted to go meet up with some people he knew at a nearby Denny's. I opted to go with him, being too excited by the thrill of riding in a car again, cold air, and most of all- girls. There were about a ten of us sitting in a corner circular booth at Denny's. The girls were lovely, and they giggled and flirted with me. They complimented me on my tan (I had spent 357 days in Cuba under the sun, and was a shade darker than my hispanic friends in the Virginia winter), and my arms (I had started lifting weights, and the effects were minor, but noticeable). I was eating it up. The conversation had turned to the violence on the street, and what people were being killed over.
"I can't imagine killing somebody for a pair of shoes" one girl said.
"I mean, that's like killing someone over a hundred dollars" she continued.
" I couldn't even imagine killing someone over a thousand dollars" some guy said.
"For a thousand dollars," I said, " I would drop everyone at this table" .... and I meant it.
The table was suddenly quiet, and I saw some of these girls visibly shiver at my words. I do not know what it was about the way that I had said it, but they knew it was true.
An awkward silence ensued. I left. I went home, with this unpleasant nagging feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
In time I realised how far I had gone. Eventually, I made peace with myself, but it took time.
The Machine is still within me. There is still a place in my mind where I can go to when unpleasant things must be done. It is somewhere back in the darkness, where your thoughts will wander when left unsupervised.
I refuse to go back and edit what I have written for fear that it would erode my sincerity. Looking back now at what I have written over the weeks, and there is still so much to be said about what I have mentioned. I was asked to write about the Machine after I made mention of it in a previous post. I am dedicating it to the Marines of 3/4. Right now, they are in harm's way. I have no doubts that there will be times when their mission is difficult. There will be many times when fear, despair, exhaustion, hunger, pain and grief will lay seige to them. However, I have absolute faith in their abilities to carry on, one way or another. Somehow, these Marines at one time or another found something in themselves that would enable them to perservere in the face of hardship. I have exposed this part of myself to illuminate what I had at my disposal for such times. These Marines are tougher than they know. I am not trying to tell them how to think or what to do. All I am attempting to do is let them know that they are capable of incredible things.
In closing, I would like to address those Marines, and tell them that I am incredibly humbled and proud to lay claim to the same title that they carry. I worry about you and the dangers you will surely face. In the words of a Marine from wars past: "The outcome was never in doubt, only the price." I pray to God that every last one of you will come back home safely. Fortunately, I am unconcerned about how you will conduct yourselves; for there is no question in my mind that the United States Marines will serve with distinction and valor. Someday, your grandchildren will brag about you, and what you have done.
Semper Fi.
Respectfully Submitted,
doc Russia