Front Toward Enemy

The corpsman whispered, “One of those terrorists is here.”

I rounded the corner, expecting to see the face of evil.

Young enough to be my son, you lay shackled on a gurney.

Face ashen, body not yet man-sized, you looked like one of us.

How had you become a threat?

Had an elder seen you as an asset to be exploited?

Had your gang’s misdeeds become lethal?

Or had you been a bystander, caught in the fray?

Armed guards stood at your head and feet, waiting for the elevator.

Waiting to return you to your cell where there would be no answers, no trial, no verdict,

no sentence other than to grow old.

+ + +

The guard whispered, “That terrorist wants to kill himself.”

And I should stop him?

How many people died in the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania?

Confused, depressed, homesick, weak, in that moment, you couldn’t even master your own mind.

Putting feelings aside, I helped you through it.

Why?

I am not a judge.

I am not an executioner.

I am not you.

+ + +

The International Red Cross worker said, “They’re going to amputate his foot tomorrow.”

Shackled on your mattress, you sat upright, caressing your instep.

Your chart said you’d slid a thin blade under the skin from heel to ball so you could slit an American’s throat if captured.

Infection had turned gangrenous, just as stupidity turned deadly.

Young now, you’ll never forget your choice.

I’m sorry you thought it a good one.

+ + +

The Marine said, “One of Saddam’s relatives is here.”

Fat, you resembled your infamous relation.

Republican Guard, you arrived with full gear and a gas mask.

Prepared for the chemical and biological weapons you reportedly didn’t have?

What horrors had you perpetrated before your arrival in our field hospital?

Mass murder, torture, Kurdish genocide, conscriptions?

Your countenance should manifest your deeds.

But, carried on a canvas litter, blanket to your chin,

you resembled an ill-tempered old man in need of a nap.

+ + +

The nurse whispered, “There’s an Iraqi regular Army soldier in triage.”

Gaunt and parched.

I brought you water.

“I’m sorry,” you said in English.

“I didn’t want this. I was farmer. Republican Guard came. Told me I was in Army.

I said I had to take care of wife and children.

He shot them.

Then I was in Army.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said.

+ + +

The doctor shouted, “I need help.”

Lying before her, unrestrained and bleeding, you writhed and pushed.

Without examination for shrapnel wounds, you could die from one unseen.

A Muslim, you refused care from a woman.

A Jain corpsman, devoted to non-violence, placed the tip of his M16 to your temple.

Your choice: patient or combatant.

You complied.

He saved your life with his weapon.

+ + +

These battles are not between you and us.

They are between us and who we believe we are.

They are between us and God.

Chaplain Laura Bender worked with detainees in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba in 2002 and with enemy prisoners of war in a field hospital in Iraq in 2003.

Copyright © 2025 bendertales.com