"Untold Stories from Iraq & Afghanistan" A Graphic Novel

HOW TO LOSE YOUR SOUL

written by Tomm Gabbard

based on an True story from  Sgt First class CJ Grisham

page #1

splash page

we see an old car smashing into the side of a tank

the glass windows shatter as bullets riddle the vehicle.

smoke and steam billow from under the hood and out from the undercarraige.

no fire or explosion is visible

(helpful photo reference should be found on the web, for what make and model of car is common in irak)

caption #1 - i believe that war is an inhumane act.

it forces people to become animals.

caption #2 - don't get me wrong, i'm no pacifist.

unfortunately, war is sometimes necessary.

caption #3 - this story isn't pretty, it doesn't have a hero,

just a human being forced to make a difficult decision...

caption #4 - but i'm afraid that i made the wrong choice.

page #2

panel #1

we see a young soldier firing his weapon from a foxhole he shares with two other men.

caption #1 - march 26 2003 : the day i lost my soul

caption #2 - we were fighting a poorly trained, though very determined enemy.

my ears rang with the whistling sound that precedes the thunderous boom of an artillary shell nearby.

panel #2

the three soldiers duck down into thier foxhole as an explosion rocks the ground near them

caption #1 - the concussion literally steals the very breath from your lungs.

caption #2 - the stale odor of smoke and explosives fills your nose and throat.

panel #3

a ground level view of the top of the young soldiers head (helmet and eyes) peering out over the edge of the foxhole.

caption #1 - the fight had only just begun.

caption #2 - before the day had ended, i would abandone my values, and lose my soul.

panel #4

a view from behind the three soldiers as they raise thier heads up out of the hole,

a smoking crater can be seen not too far away.

off in the distance, a small flash can be seen. bullets still fly everywhere.

caption #1 - the air was thick with bullets

caption #2 - in the distance was a flash of light.

panel #5

a mortar shell spirals towards the men, a trail of smoke outlining its path

caption #1 - whistling as it tore through the air, another mortar seemed to have our names on it.

panel #6

the three men drop back down into the hole, as our main character shouts

grisham - INCOMING!!!

caption - we covered our faces with our hands, in moments like this, instinct is to minimize one's presence. and fetal position seems to achieve this goal most effectively.

sound fx - KATINK TINK TINK!

page #3

panel #1

the men rise once again to thier feet, and find a smoking mortar shell lying just a few feet from the mouth of thier foxhole

caption - a dud.

panel #2

the men climb out of thier foxhole, men are running everywhere, shouting, confused, scared.

caption #1 - a loud crash rang out in the distance, and our radios came to life.

caption #2 - everyone shouted over each other, trying to sort out what was happening.

panel #3

we see an older more seasoned soldier (the commander) taking charge, shouting orders to the other men.

caption - the commander ordered everyone to shut up, and calm down.

being good soldiers, we followed our orders.

panel #4

(a worms eye view)

we see the men flinch back, and or glance upward as a mortar shell flashes past, just over head

SOUND FX - WHOOOOOOSHHHH!!

caption #1 - a blur flashed past, just over our heads, leaving a black trail of smoke in its wake.

caption #2 - the rpg had come and gone before we could even react, the shooter was quickly eliminated.

caption #3 - i was getting sick of these close calls.

panel #5

we are looking over the shoulder of grisham as he looks forward into the clouds of dust and sand,

at three small figures (in sillouette) stumble towards them.

caption #1 - we had been told that a car had slammed into one of our tanks, beginning this latest fire fight.

caption #2 - the car had failed to detonate on impact, and had quickly been shoved to the side of the road, where it exploded without casualties.

panel #6

as the three figures draw closer, we see that two of the men carry the third, propped on thier shoulders, they appear to be insurgants, two are younger men, one is bleeding from the shoulder,

the third man (the figure in the center) is older, and seems the most badly injured. his left hand is all but gone, and is bleeding badly. his legs are bloody, and his pants are shredded.

caption - the three former occupants of the car, stumbled towards my position.

page #4

panel #1

we get a full view of the three men, as they reach grisham.

caption #1 - i stared down the barrel of my weapon at the the three men.

caption #2 - dressed in common iraqi clothing, baggy tan pants, dirty brown shoes,

one seemed unhurt, the second had taken a few shots to his shoulder,

panel #2

we close in to a shot of the older mans face, blood spattered, with an expression of fear, and pain.

caption - the third man seemed to be the oldest, and was in the worse shape.

panel #3

one of the younger men, cradles the old mans injured arm, a makeshift tourniqet has been placed around his forearm, but blood still flows from his ruined left hand.

bones jut from it like the quills of a porcupine. only two fingers remain. the rest is mangled and bloody.

caption - propped between the two younger men, he was barely able to keep his head up.

knees buckling beneath his bloody shredded pants.

panel #4

close up of the man's pained wrinkled face,

caption #1 - his leathery face attempted a weak smile, his defeated brown eye's, wordlessly calling out to me for help

caption #2 - my training was very specific, i was to provide first aid and or assistance to anyone that needed it.

caption #3 - and this old man needed it!

panel #5

grisham, still aiming his weapon at the three men, shouts angrily at them.

soldiers run arount in the background, still firing at the enemy, explosions go off in the distance.

caption #1 - bullets whizzed back and forth all around us,

the old man begged for help. they claimed no knowledge of where the attack was originating.

page #5

panel #1

the three insurgants and grisham all duck as another rpg blurs past them.

caption #1 - i was greeted with silence upon asking , why they had rammed our tank?

SOUND FX - whoooooshhhh!

caption #2 - then another near miss, from an rpg

panel #2

the young soldier (grisham) grabs the injured old man by his shirt, hate and anger in his eyes,

fear and pain in the old mans expression.

caption - my face reddened, my pulse quickened, blood pressure climbed.

i didn't care if this old man bled out, right then and there!

panel #3

pointing his weapon at the three men with one hand, the young soldier points down a nearby road with his other hand.

caption #1 - for the first time in this war, i refused medical care to an injured man.

caption #2 - i ordered the men to keep moving down the road, find help elsewhere.

panel #4

grisham turns away, a look of disgust on his face, as the men stumble off into the distance

caption #1 - a decision, i believe i paid for, with my soul.

caption #2 - my body, now a hollow shell, returned to it's position, emptying my weapon in the direction of the enemy fire.

panel #5

a close up view of grisham's angry face, as he fires his weapon. a single tear is visible in the corner of one eye.

caption #1 - for the remainder of my time in irak, i thought about that old man.

had he made it to safety? or was his blood on my hands?

panel #6

we see the same young man (grisham)

no longer in uniform.

now out of the military, he sits at home writing in his journal.

caption #1 - my parents had raised me to think of others, before myself.

caption #2 - my faith teaches me to love everyone. even those that would rather see me dead.

panel #7

a close up of the young man looking up from his journal, a tear is once again in his eye

caption - to this day, i think of that old man, and wonder....

the end

SFC CJ Grisham's Story as he wrote it. See Below:

How to Lose Your Soul
October 2nd, 2006 by CJ

I've been debating sharing this story here for a LONG time. Even when
I sort of wrote about it when I shared my journal a few years ago, I
glossed over this episode. I've been ignoring it for a long time
publicly, while battling it daily privately.

I recently started back to school in a difficult step towards getting
a degree. One of my assignments for my English class was to write
about an event that shaped my life. Before I even finished reading the
assignment, this story popped into my head. I don't share it in an
attempt to gain sympathy or cry for help. To me, it's just therapy;
one of the reasons I began this blog to begin with.

I believe that war is an inhumane act. It forces people to become
animals. Now, that doesn't mean that I'm a pacifist or that war isn't
necessary. On the contrary, it is unfortunately. However, I can't help
but feel like war took me a few steps back in an evolutionary sense.
Survival tends to tap an instinct most of us suppress until called
upon. The story I'm about to tell isn't pretty. You won't find a hero
in this story. You won't even find a noble soldier. You'll find a
human who was required to make a difficult decision…and made the wrong
one.

March 26, 2003: The day I lost my soul.

We had been fighting a very determined, though ill-trained, enemy. The
smell of moisture mixed with dust and sand was in the air, forcing its
way into our lungs. The blistering sound silence resonated into the
core of our ears, it threatened to drive us mad. In the distance, the
howl of a mangy dog sounded the attack. The silence was broken by the
unmistakable whistling sound that precedes the thunderous boom of an
artillery shell landing nearby. The concussion literally steals the
very breath from your lungs. The air turned into the stale odor of
explosives. The air seemed to thicken around us in a hail of bullets.
The fight had only just begun. Before it was all over, I would abandon
my personal values and lose my soul.

In the distance I could make out a flash. At first it appeared as if
it could have been lightning. However, lightning does not whistle
after it flashes, and it doesn't get louder and closer.

"INCOMING!!" I shouted. My team hit the ground. We covered our faces
with our hands as if that would save us. At such a moment, one tries
to minimize his presence and the fetal position seems to be the best
way to hide. Katink, tink, tink….

The round is a dud and lands within several feet from our position. In
the distance, I heard a loud boom and instantly the radios came to
life.

Everyone was talking over everyone else trying to find out what had
happened. A familiar voice finally waded through all the static and
fuss and the commander told everyone to shut up. A few minutes
earlier, we were told that a car slammed into one our tanks.

Shortly after the loud boom, a blur moved past us just a few inches
above our truck. It was followed by a whoosh and left a smoke cloud in
its wake. It had come and gone before we even had a chance to react to
the RPG being fired at us. The shooter was taken down. I was getting
angry at all these close calls.

The occupants of the car arrived at my position. The loud boom I heard
two minutes earlier was their car exploding in a huge ball of fire and
debris. After it crashed into the tank it was pushed off to the side
of road. It had failed to detonate when it crashed, but was obviously
still armed. No one was hurt in the explosion.

Through the thick sand I could make out the three silhouettes moving
towards us. One of the men was dressed in common Iraqi clothing – tan,
baggy pants, a plain white t-shirt with a few splotches of blood on
it, and some generic brown tennis shoes. The second man had been shot
a few times. His upper, left shoulder looked like it had been hit
twice and a trail of blood dripping down his right arm most likely hid
the evidence of a third shot. He wore a tan, short sleeve, button-up
shirt that was tarnished with sparkling red blood oozing from the
bullet wounds. He wore a greasy mop of dark hair that appeared to have
a mind of its own, collecting as much mud, blood, and dirt as
possible. The last individual appeared to be the oldest and most in
trouble. He was propped between the shoulders of the other two men,
hunched over and barely able to keep his head up. As he approached us,
his knobby knees, covered with tattered material from what used to be
his jeans, buckled twice. His leathery face attempted an awkward smile
as his defeated brown eyes met mine. Without saying a word, every
expression called out for my help.

My training was very specific in times like this: I was to provide
first aid to anyone that needed it. This old man needed it. His left
hand was all but nonexistent. He had maybe two fingers left. The
brilliant white bone what once connected fingers jutted out like
quills of a porcupine. One of his bloody, mangled fingers simply hung
from his hand, swinging from side to side freely with each movement. A
skeletal pinky bone was all that remained of the last finger. It had
been stripped of its meat and muscle. Someone had placed a tourniquet
around his lower arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It wasn't
working. The stench of iron permeated my nasal cavities as we seated
the bloodied men next to our truck.

We were still getting shot at and he kept asking for help. I asked him
where the soldiers were coming from. They claimed to have no idea. I
asked him why he rammed into one our tanks. Silence. Swooooosh….

Another near miss from an RPG, though not as close as the last one.

My face turned red. My pulse quickened. My blood pressure shot up. I
decided I didn't care if this old man died right then and there. We
stopped trying to stem the flow of blood and forced him to keep
walking. For the first time in this war, I refused medical care to
someone in need and I paid for that decision with my soul. The shell
of my body returned to its position, unloading my weapon into the
forest.

For the remainder of my time in Iraq, I thought about this one event.
What became of that old man? Did he make it over the bridge behind us?
Did I now have blood on my hands, both literally and metaphorically
speaking? My parents always raised me to think of others before
myself. My faith teaches me to love everyone, even those would rather
see me mangled and lifeless. To this day, I think about that man and
wonder…