FUBAR: A Collection of War Stories
“Weston is one of the best authors of our generation.”
—Brian Keene, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Rising
“Weston Ochse is to horror what Bradbury is to science fiction — an artist whose craft, stories and voice are so distinct and mesmerizing that you can’t help but be enthralled.”
—Dani Kollin, Prometheus Award-winning author of The Unincorporated Man
“SEAL Team 666 is like X-Files and Torchwood written by Tom Clancy: ingenious, creepy, and entertaining.”
—Kevin J. Anderson, #1 international bestselling-author of Death Warmed Over
“Weston Ochse is a mercurial writer, one of those depressingly talented people who are good at whatever they turn their hand to.”
—Conrad Williams, August Derleth and International Horror Guild Award-winner
“Weston Ochse has always been a wised-up, clued-in, completely trustworthy writer of high-action fiction that deserved a wider audience, and SEAL Team 666 is his breakthrough book. Here, every story-line is as taut as a gunfighter’s nerves, and individual scenes pop like firecrackers. I raced through this novel and when it ended, I wanted more.”
—Peter Straub, New York Times bestselling-author of In the Night Room
“Weston Ochse is perhaps the fiercest and most direct of the latest generation of dark fiction writers. I watched awestruck year by year as the bright candle of his talent grew into a roaring bonfire of brutally honest output, matched only by his deep empathy for the human condition.”
—Rocky Wood, author of Stephen King: A Literary Companion
“A wild blend of nail-biting thriller action and out-of-the shadows horror. This is the supernatural thriller at its most dynamic. Perfect!”
—Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling-author of Dead of Night and The King of Plagues
FUBAR
A Collection of War Stories
By Weston Ochse
Also From Cohesion Press
Military Horror:
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Heroes
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Hunters
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
SNAFU: Future Warfare
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
SNAFU: Unnatural Selection
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
Blurring the Line – Marty Young (ed)
American Nocturne – Hank Schwaeble
Jade Gods – Patrick Freivald
The Angel of the Abyss – Hank Schwaeble
Military Sci-Fi/Thriller:
Valkeryn 2 – Greig Beck
Cry Havoc – Jack Hanson
Forlorn Hope – Jack Hanson
Creature Thrillers
Into the Mist – Lee Murray
Fathomless – Greig Beck
Coming Soon
Primordial – David Wood & Alan Baxter
Congregation of the Damned
– James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge
A Hell Within – James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge
Snaked – Duncan McGeary
The Man with the Iron Heart – Mat Nastos
FUBAR by Weston Ochse
Stories: Weston Ochse © 2015
Welcome to the Warzone ©2013 Living Dangerously
When I Knew Baseball ©2013 Cubicle 7 Entertainment Ltd.
Family Man © 1999 At the Brink of Madness
We All Wanted to Be Heroes When We Were Young © 2012 Soldier of Fortune Magazine
The Last Kobyashi Maru © 2010 Crossroads Press (Originally titled Butterfly Winter)
Fugue on the Sea of Cortez © 2010 Multiplex Fandango
Rhythm © 1997 Cochise College Literary Magazine
PTSD in Fiction ©2014 Living Dangerously
Righteous © 2012 Psychos: Serial Killers, Depraved Madmen, and the Criminally Insane
Tarzan Doesn’t Live Here Anymore © 2010 Multiplex Fandango
My Daddy’s Private Things © 2015
Every War Has A Signature Sound © 2015
On Tranquility Tides I Ride © 2015
The Importance of Building Your Own Shadow © 2013 Living Dangerously
The Road to Painted Rock © 2015
Hiroshima Falling © 2007 A Dark and Deadly Valley
Doctor Doom © 2015
Finishing School © 2014 Living Dangerously
Dedication
For the Mothers and Fathers of all whom have served
Introduction
Welcome to FUBAR. As most of you know, FUBAR stands for Fouled1 Up Beyond All Recognition and is one of those military terms which has invaded common speech. Like the acronyms SNAFU2 and REMF3, FUBAR finds the most use when bad things happen. And in the military, bad things are always happening. We’re ether doing bad things to other people or planning to do bad things to other people, or other people are doing and planning to do bad things to us. We often find that it’s our own kind. I can’t tell you how many times a drill sergeant or platoon sergeant has exclaimed that either me or my kit was FUBAR. There were times when the word was used so often I considered changing my name to FUBAR.
It certainly would have made things more interesting.
I can see it now.
“Who’s that over there?”
“That’s Private Fubar, sir.”
“Ah, finally a fitting name.”
You see, because although I was athletic, I was also prone to accidents. I didn’t pay attention to things and in the military, it’s all about paying attention. Just look at the claymore mine. It was architecturally engineered for people who don’t pay attention. It has the words FRONT TOWARD ENEMY emblazoned on the deadly side for a reason. If one were to ignore that specific guidance and place, arm, and fire their claymore, they’d be FUBAR’d for one brief magnificent second, right before seven hundred ball bearings flew through them at twenty-six hundred miles an hour.
Thus the idea of creating a collection of war stories called FUBAR was born.
As I searched for pieces to curate for this collection, I struggled to find a theme. I didn’t want the works placed randomly. I wanted them to mean something. My desire was for you the reader to experience this in a way that would give you the most benefit. For those of you with little or no military experience, it was to give you a little insight, a peephole, if I may, into the life of a warrior. For those of you with experience, I wanted to provide stories that I know will resonate. In a crazy trick of Schrödinger time, I can see you in the future, nodding and chuckling as you read, acknowledging and recognizing something I’ve written, while remembering in your own past, how it had been for you in a similar situation.
Then when I saw Welcome to the War Zone, I knew that it had to be the first story. I wrote that within hours of landing in Kabul, Afghanistan. I wrote it in such a way to get your adrenaline up, to demonstrate the immediacy of the danger, and to raise you pucker factor to eleven. The essay fittingly sets the stage for the rest of the book.
Then I set about trying to curate pieces that would represent me as a lifetime warrior. Long ago, I set out to determine what type of warrior I wanted to be and what kind I refused to be. Looking
at my history, I can trace my warrior lineage in every American conflict and war dating back to the Revolutionary War where Captain Michael Motz of the Northumberland Militia attached his men to the 3rd Pennsylvania Regiment, Continental Line in order to fight for the independence of a new nation. We’ve had all sorts of warriors in my family. Soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines, Indian scouts, Indian fighters, cavalry officers, WWI grunts who were mustard-gassed in the trenches, Civil War regulars who fought against each other, infantry men who fought island to island in the Pacific, and sailors aboard the USS Arizona, now resting beneath the azure waters of Pearl Harbor. As I learned of them, I also learned about what sort of persons they were. When I could, I sleuthed what they believed in.
The one continual theme I encountered as I searched my own past was that they were all humanists.
So what is humanism? Humanism is a philosophical and ethical stance that emphasizes the value and agency of human beings, individually and collectively, and generally prefers critical thinking and evidence over established doctrine or faith (Wikipedia).
…the value and agency of human beings…
Yes, I sang cadence about nuking people until they glowed.
Yes, I dehumanized my country’s enemies by calling them names.
Yes, I played the Us vs Them game.
And of course I inculcated a hatred for those who would do despicable things to my fellow warriors.
But I never ceased realizing that these enemies of mine were once children with their own dreams, born from mothers and fathers with their own dreams, and with families who had their own dreams.
I never ceased believing that these enemies of mine weren’t as deep and thoughtful and as intelligent as myself. In some cases this task was extraordinarily difficult, but I strained to be the humanist I was determined to be.
I felt the same way about the minority groups within my own military. Part of being from a family of humanists, I was raised to treat everyone with respect. Black, white, brown or yellow, Jewish, Muslim, Christian or Atheist, straight, gay, bisexual or transgender. Everyone. Respect. All the time.
So this idea of humanism and respect was front and center as I curated these stories, because I believe that a keen-eyed, blood-covered warrior can be a humanist at the same time they’re fighting for those guys and gals in the foxhole next to them. Not only are there blood, guts and bravado war stories in this collection, but we also have thoughtful pieces about PTSD. You’ll find works about gay soldiers and about spousal abuse. You’ll find stories about the ultimate cost of responsibility and the terrible toll of war. I included a broad spectrum of my works because if you’re going to read a collection about me, I want you to understand me. This collection you’re holding in your hands or listening to, for all intents and purposes, it is me.
I’ve even included a piece I originally created as performance art on the web. Inspired by the inestimable Coeur D’Alene American Indian poet and story teller Sherman Alexie, I created a twenty minute piece that has never been in print until now, but has been viewed hundreds of times on military holidays. I wonder if those who saw it got that it is meant to be both patriotic and protest. Just as Welcome to the Warzone was meant to get your heart kicking and your blood pumping, Doctor Doom’s Guide to the Universe and Special Rules for the Burial of Christian Insects is meant to show you the complete immersion and indoctrination basic training can be.
Which is sort of what this collection is.
So welcome to FUBAR.
This is my journey.
And now it’s yours.
1 – Alternative word for Fucked
2 – Situation Normal All Fucked Up
3 – Rear Echelon Mother Fucker
Welcome to the War Zone
“PUT YOUR gear on. We’re heading out,” Scott says. He wears fatigues with body armor and a P229 pistol on his hip, looking 100% badass in his six foot two inch U.S. Army Command sergeant major body.
My driver is a U.S. Air Force tech sergeant who wears crazy eyes above a winning boy-next-door sort of smile. As I struggle into my body armor, trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the Velcro and buckles, they shut the substantial back door of the up-armored SUV. I finally climb in and begin fighting with the seat belt.
“Don’t worry about that. It’ll just get caught up on something if we get in the shit,” says Crazy Eyes.
I muse about telling them about the training I’d just gone through. I think maybe I might be able to get out if we were in the shit, as he said, but that one second of self-doubt makes me listen to him. After all, he’s the professional. I’m just along for the ride. I’m the package that Scott has promised the U.S. government and my wife that he’ll deliver safely to ISAF HQ.
They switch their weapon status from amber to green, and we begin moving away from the airport around a dozen hair pin turns bound by concrete barriers designed specifically to keep the great unwashed and explodable masses away from those landing at the airfield. Just last year an SUV similar to the one I was in was almost destroyed when a truck pulled up behind it and detonated as a hapless crew waited to enter through security so they could leave this forsaken country. The nature of the entrance changed since then, as has surveillance on the lone road leading to the airport.
Coming into the airport was supposed to be safe.
And it probably was now.
But here’s the thing – we were going out.
I’d been both dreading and looking forward to this moment for two years, ever since I was voluntold I was going to Afghanistan. Let’s face it, I’d been dreading and looking forward to this moment the first time I picked up a book and there was a warrior in there and I had a desire to be that person. But I hate rollercoasters. I hate fast rides. I hate twists and turns. I hate it when someone else drives. With all of them it’s a lack of control. I understand the psychology of it but I still hate it.
So if I hate it so much, please explain to me this psychology: I was about to be driven from point A to point B along a route with known terrorists who have proven they can blow vehicles up with improvised explosive devices, vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices, and suicide bombers, and I wasn’t remotely scared. I was actually freaking excited and a small part of me in the back of my mind told me that I really should be a little more worried. But I wasn’t. You see, I’d decided sometime in the last several months that I wasn’t going to be scared. That’s right, I decided. And how does one just decide to not be scared you ask? I was trained and I know my job. These people were trained and they know their jobs. Why should I ever be scared around people who know their jobs and how to keep people safe? One thing I wasn’t going to be in fear of was blind bad luck. So here I was in an up-armored SUV, my crazy tech sergeant knew how to drive, and my sergeant major knew how to guide.
So I let them do their jobs.
Let me set the scene.
You exit the airport sitting in the backseat of an up-armored SUV. You’re wearing a helmet strapped to your head and body armor that barely lets you breathe. You’re hyper-aware that only a few inches of bulletproof glass and steel separate you from life and death. Four-lane streets containing parked cars along the sides line the road. Potholes pit the street in front of you like acne on a teenager. The streets are sometimes separated by a thin median, but not always. One-story buildings and hovels line the sidewalks, teeming with people shopping, talking, going about their everyday business. Like the signs to the businesses themselves, they are multi-colored, sometimes garish like confetti eye candy to the watchful eye, distracting from possible threats. Some of them sit. Some of them stand. Others break into a run. Most don’t even notice you, but you can’t help but stand out. You’re in an up-armored white SUV with tinted windows and antennas jutting like an Armageddon porcupine among a country full of Datsuns, Nissans, and cyborg Toyotas.
So they stare. Are they curious? Do th
ey wonder who you are? Do they realize you’re the great evil American, here to eat their children and make the populace the next MTV generation? Are they about to report you to someone down the road for your red, white and blue soul? Look, one has a phone. Are they calling ahead, activating an IED, or checking if the wife wants milk and eggs?
Crazy-eyed driver keys up playlist on the radio.
Heavy metal slams inside the vehicle drowning out every other sound. Every one that is except a command from the sergeant major – “Drive!”
We accelerate to fifty and begin to weave through slower traffic down the Great Massoud Road.
Left side, car pulls in front, we swerve and don’t stop.
“Car. Right side. Parked.”
“Got it,” says Crazy Eyes.
We zoom past.
No boom.
Good thing.
Two cars come in from the right at high speed. Looks like they might be trying to perform a blocking maneuver, or just maybe trying to hurry across in order to get home. Does it really matter?
Nope!
“Juke right.”
You grab onto something as the SUV’s tires bite into the Soviet-era concrete on the road, we swerve right, then left, then straight. Whatever the cars are doing, they’re now in our dust.
You notice you’ve been holding your breath.
I thought you weren’t supposed to be scared?
You breathe.
Mussah.
Serenity Now.
You can’t help but smile.
The brakes lock for a moment and we all jerk forward as a child crosses before us. We’re stopped. Sitting ducks. On the left squats an Afghani man, wearing black. His body is turned away from us, but his eyes are watching carefully as he talks into a phone.