August 15th, 2026
I was sitting on the back porch of Hans’ double wide, soaking up the Texas heat and listening to Hans talk about his time in Iraq. Hans had a Lime-A-Rita in one hand and a Pall Mall in the other. As his wont, my son started telling a tale about his deployment. It went like this:
Once upon a time, a group of British soldiers were attached to Hans’ unit. The reasons for this are obscure. However, Hans became friendly with the Brits, possibly because they always had a sufficient supply of alcohol. In any case, there was an officer among the Brits who was a sniper. He used a Bartlett 50 Cal rifle in his work. He took a liking to Hans and insisted on having Hans accompany him on a couple missions. Hans is a gun enthusiast, and at that time he was an excellent shot.
On one outing, the lieutenant set up his 50 Cal and told Hans,
“See that camel? Shoot it.”
Hans protested, “Why? It’s somebody’s camel.”
The officer blandly told Hans, “Just shoot the camel”.
Hans did. He damn near vaporized the animal.
On another excursion, Hans was supposed to be the lieutenant’s radio man. The Brit told Hans to let him handle the radio. He had a different task for my son.
Once again, the sniper set up his rifle. He asked Hans to look through the scope. He told him, “Adjust the magnification to 3x.”
Then he asked Hans, “Do you see that black dot on the horizon?”
Hans did, and the Brit told him, “Adjust it to 8x.”
Then he asked Hans, “Do you see the SUV?”
Hans did. The sniper told him, “Shoot it. Aim for the hood.”
Hans fired. The round hit the driver’s door and the car exploded.
The lieutenant called back to the FOB to tell them they were coming back.
At the base, Hans got chewed out for letting the sniper make the calls. Hans replied, “He’s a lieutenant! I’m a PFC!”
I was lying awake last night thinking about Hans’ story. His tales often disturb me. I sometimes wonder if things really occurred the way he said. If his narrative was a work of fiction, any editor worth his salt would reject it out of hand. Hans’ stories are rife with plot holes, inconsistencies, and numerous loose ends. Oddly enough, it’s those very things that make me believe Hans, because many events in my life are just as messy and confusing. A good novel or short story has internal consistency. Real life usually does not.
Another reason that I find Hans’ narrative plausible is that he is never the hero in his stories. He doesn’t come across like a whiskey warrior. He describes himself mostly as an unlucky mensch who has found himself in a situation involving intense heat. sand, and seemingly endless stupidity.
His stories often leave a bad taste in my mouth. My reaction is typically, “That is fucked up”. When Hans tells me about his life in Iraq, the episodes are always, at best, morally ambiguous. There nothing uplifting, or even logical about his experiences, but apparently these things happened.
I am grateful that Hans talk to me about Iraq. It seems to help him. He needs to tell somebody about what happened there. It might as well be me.
Hans came back damaged. I don’t say that he came home, because I don’t think he really ever did. Part of him is still in Iraq, and that part will never come home.
Frank is Emptiness 