I LIKE TO think of myself as a lucky guy. Not too lucky, of course. I feel like someone living a charmed life might not ever have a gun pointed at him. That sounds nice. That sounds lucky.
But bullet wounds and concussions aside, I think I’ve been pretty fortunate. Again, not fortunate enough to have a lot of money, or even success. Though, that may be less a symptom of luck than it is a direct result of many years of bad life choices. I make a lot of those. Where I get lucky is when things don’t end up any worse for me, given the sheer number of poor decisions I make. And sometimes I make those bad decisions on purpose, for reasons I don’t think about at the time. Principles, maybe. Or perhaps to buck authority. I feel like if I’d made a few different choices, or maybe acted a few seconds earlier (or later) … well, maybe I’d be more successful in life.
But how do you know when you’ve made the right choice? And I’m not just talking about ordering the ceviche when the chef hasn’t washed his hands. I’m talking about big life choices. It’s often difficult to tell if it’s the right decision you’re making, even after the decision is made. Sometimes, it’s months or years before you realize what a huge mistake it was.
And sometimes, no one notices the mistake you made, and everything turns out okay. In those situations, it’s only you who’s left with those nagging thoughts. The ones that wake you up in the middle of the night, making it impossible to fall back asleep. Because, of course, someone may one day discover that mistake, and then everyone will know.
When you immerse yourself in the perspective of a killer while watching a true crime documentary, that’s what I envision stays with you after you leave the crime scene. You wonder if maybe you’ve forgotten something. A small fragment of evidence: a fingerprint, a strand of hair, a drop of DNA-rich blood which will lead back to you.
And then you’ll be held to account.
This story is nothing so serious, but it still haunts me to this day, persistently nudging at the corners of my consciousness, and serving as a reminder of a well-intentioned but regrettable decision I made.
And yes, I still wake up at night and think about it.
While on exchange with the U.S. military, I was assigned to a team of specialists who maintained and calibrated portable missile systems in Iraq. It seemed like an easy gig, and the Gulf War invasion was going to be quick and painless.
Hindsight, of course, is 20/20.
I’m an artist, ostensibly. Also fancied myself a bit of a funny guy. At least, my inner monologue told me I was funny. Sometimes when I observe people and events, I try to come up with the most abstract and outlandish comparisons to make it all a little less intimidating. I’ve occasionally been called out for smiling during serious, sometimes tense, exchanges.
Here’s an example: sending me into a war zone is a little like … well, nothing comes to mind right now. Something about taking a completely unprepared man-child and dropping him headfirst into a punji stake pit smeared with 7-layer burritos or something. As I said, my inner monologue tells me I’m funny. But that guy is also a bit of an asshole, so don’t listen to him.
Military humor is generally neither wholesome nor funny. It’s often equal parts racist, sexist, jingoist propaganda, or it’s boring old dad jokes, like this gem:
What do you call someone who joined the military out of spite? A PETTY officer!
So during one of the long treks in the stale cab of a missile tractor—basically a short-haul tractor trailer cab—I started laughing to myself. The soldier I was with looked at me funny and I immediately told him this dad joke I was working on, and he turned back to the road without comment.
I figured despite this unenthusiastic reaction, my story was good enough to send to the Humor in the Field guys. They publish a newsletter for deployed soldiers. It’s no Stars and Stripes, but it’s got about 20,000 subscribers and it improves morale. I wrote down the joke and sent it in an email message, not really thinking about if it would get published or anything. Worst case, they did nothing with it, or it went into a spam folder. Best case, they laughed and published it.
The next day, the squad was ambushed, and everyone died. Except me.
I spent the next three months recovering in a field hospital. They would eventually transfer me to another post, something cushy and out of the way, before sending me back to Canada. But during this time, I noticed the newsletter had published my joke.
Oh good.
And they didn’t bother changing the name of the soldier who died in the attack.
So, here it is, in all its glory. About 20,000 people subscribe to this newsletter. So far, no one has ever commented on it.
Excerpt from Humor in the Field — Author, Lieutenant Zack Virtue, Canadian Forces:
We were on deployment in Iraq, transporting a missile tractor to a post outside of Fallujah. During the trip, Pvt. John Wayne Johnston, who was driving the tractor, kept staring uneasily out the windshield. He was just a kid, a quiet Christian boy from Texas, and as his senior officer, it was my duty to put him at ease.
“What’s up, soldier?” I asked.
“It’s my girl back home, sir,” he said unsteadily.
“Can’t wait to get back to her? Don’t worry, kid. They said we’d be out of here in three weeks, tops.”
“It’s not that, sir,” he said. “I’m a little worried she might be a … terrorist.”
“What?” I looked at him sideways. “What are you talking about? Why would she be a terrorist?”
“It’s just …” he said, pausing. “It’s just that she said when I get home, she was getting a new IED.”
I laughed out loud. “Soldier, I think she meant an IUD.”
Editor’s Note: Pvt. John Wayne Johnston died two days later in an insurgent attack. He was walking point, and tripped an IED.