A Lesson On Life Jacob Shebler Analysis

A Lesson on Life
By Jacob Schebler

“Where the hell is the armor?” I remember asking myself as I lumbered up into the open back of a Humvee with canvas doors. By the looks on the squad and translators’ faces, they were asking themselves the same question. These days we kept our questions to ourselves, asking questions was not in the job description. Our job, at all times, was to do what we were told and do it fast. You see, up until this point we had traveled in the relative safety of our Amphibious Assault Vehicles, AAVs, or tractors as we referred to them. 8 to 10 men with weapons crammed into a space about the size of an average bathroom, an average bathroom packed with crates of thousands of rounds of ammunition, grenades, anti-armor
He spoke perfect English and a number of other languages including French and Arabic. He had studied in Cairo before coming to Iraq to study at the University of Baghdad. He was in his early 20’s and was rail thin, very soft spoken, the furthest thing from a warrior that you could find. He had been with us since before we arrived in Karbala, coming out on patrols, standing guard with Marines, hunkering down with us during the weekly, inaccurate, enemy mortar attacks. He also carried a photograph of Michael Jackson in his wallet, and we took every opportunity presented to us to make fun of him about it. He was not helping us for the money, no amount of money could compensate him for what he was doing, hours of guard, sometimes standing four or more two hour rotations in a row. The patrols he went on unarmed, patrolling more than most Marines in my squad. He did what he did because in his heart he felt it was the right thing to do. He risked his own life on the off chance it would make others lives better. I like to think he succeeded although I am sure there are some who would disagree with me. One thing is certain, when he was around, he saved lives. On either side, sometimes a language barrier is all it takes for someone to not go home. His name was Kafele, but we called him Kafe, pronounced Coffee, like the drink. A number of years later I discovered his name translates into “Would Die For”, ever since I’ve wished I had used his name properly. I considered him to be a good friend, better even next to some of my own comrades. On downtime we would discuss the war, and our fears, we would discuss our plans for if we made it home. He would answer my many questions about Egypt, and I, in turn, would answer his many questions regarding my life in the United States. We shared a form of friendship that can only come from being in a theatre of war. We were all brothers in the same terrible situation. Together in