by Benjamin S. Duncan

People often ask me when I’m going to write about the war. I could tell them I have been writing about the war but I doubt they would understand. What they’re really asking is for me to pick a topic that vilifies someone so I can cement myself on their side of things. “That darn Rumsfeld,” or “that darn Cindy Sheehan,” or “that darn Mtv.” The idea that we control our own lives is too boring I suppose. No one wants to hear “that darn you,” or “that darn me,” and when they do hear it, they just pretend they didn’t.

Anyway, here is what I have to say about the war.

One of my better friends growing up was a lanky kid named Mike Lindemuth. We attended the Christian school together and our families went to the same church so naturally we were friends. Mike wore his hair in a flat top, fixed to an Astroturf like hardness with a handful of hair gel. He walked with a storky gait. His clothes never matched. He cracked his knuckles constantly and he would bat his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx manner whenever he eyed the derrière of a “hot chick.” Needless to say, we teased the heck out of him.

Mike told stories of his crazy uncle who blew up his glove compartment with firecrackers. About his brother, who according to Mike, stocked a toy chest with drugs. He told Penthouse magazine tales of rolling in fields with some girl. Regardless if any of it was true, Mike held the normal world around him in a mysterious and interesting light that I envied. He lived in a simple family but he talked as if they were the most interesting people in the world. Other kids talked about everything except their families.

Mike’s room was filled with model cars. Corvettes and Lamborghini’s and U.S. 747’s. They were quite good. The end-products looked better than the box cover photos. When I ogled over them Mike would just shrug. When it came to his own qualities, he inflated nothing.

On Wednesdays he arrived to first period in his Awana uniform (Awana is like boy scouts for Christian kids) and would request permission to salute the flags instead of place his hand on his heart during pledge of allegiance. It was always a big deal to him.

Mike got more flak than most kids and although I failed to see it at the time, he was one of the rare types who never absorbed it to dump on someone else. Mike would shake his fist, grind his teeth or retort from a clever, side-splitting insult with an ancient chestnut like “did you get the license plate number?” but he never turned around and hurt someone weaker than him. Most of the time he just took it. I recall many an occasion where an insult barrage with Mike ended with me holding him on the cheap, mildew ridden, yellow and green classroom carpet in a headlock. Mike was as big as me but he didn’t have the same mean streak.

However, one time at church we tried to arrange a sleep over and Mike told me his parents said “no.” When I replied with “dude, your parents are crazy,” Mike became possessed with the strength of a grown man. Before I could think, I found myself slammed against the bathroom mirror. He pointed a finger of utmost seriousness in my face and said, “Don’t. you. ever say my parents are crazy!”

Needless to say, I had been a horrible friend to Mike. We were cool with one another but when other guys entered the picture I turned into an ass. We were both dorks, but Mike was a slightly bigger dork, so I could advance my standing with other guys by being cruel to him. As stupid as it sounds, I was trying to improve my world.

I left that school and didn’t see Mike again for years. I matured with age, as some people do. I wished I could apologize for the way I treated him. Some years later I worked at a Dairy Queen and Mike stopped in for a blizzard. He was shirtless with a pair of shades on but otherwise, looked no different than he did at fourteen. I asked him what he was up to and he said he just joined the Marines. I nodded in that false way people nod to seem impressed with something they aren’t. I tried to talk to him further but he gave me the Joe Cool act. I decided to let it go. A final memory of his childhood nemesis in a pink apron, reeking of stale peanuts while he had his muscular Marine pecks blazing was a better gift than an apology.

I never saw Mike again but some years later I heard they stationed him in Iraq. I thought it interesting- that I knew someone in the war- but thought no more of it than that. Mike served as squad leader of some combat team, a javelin gunman, trained to shoot down enemy tanks with huge sophisticated shoulder weapons. It surprised me little. Mike always had a cool head on his shoulders and had all the characteristics of a leader. Also, when we played Nintendo he used to kick my butt at Duck Hunt. He also turned into a skilled carpenter, which surprised me even less.

April 13th, 2005, shortly after he signed for another tour of duty, Mike was stationed in Camp Hit, in the Al Anbar province where some anonymous stranger, for some political reason I don’t pretend to understand, shot a mortar into the motor pool where he and some other guys were working. I’ve been told no one can tell where a mortar is shot from. It makes this loud, bottle rocket noise and it’s impossible to anticipate where it will land, so there’s no point trying to hide. Mike got hit with shrapnel from the blast and died. He was 27 years old.

I’ve visited the fallen soldier websites and take great comfort to know Mike found so many friends as an adult. I certainly can’t say the same for myself.

I often wonder about his assailant: that anonymous stranger in that country tens of thousands of miles from the playground where Mike and I would play kick ball and trade basketball cards. I wonder how this person spends his days. I wonder if he feels the murder of my childhood friend improved his world in some way. I wonder how much flak one would have to absorb to do what this person did.

I blame war on everyone, because everyone wars. War exists because life rewards the bold and nine times out of ten, the boldest people are also the least civilized and the least thinking. The few among us with principles end up on a cheap carpet in a headlock. They end up in a grave. And jerks like me who give the flak are the ones who get to write about it.