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From: T. Leyton, PFC
To: Father Steven Sok owski
Date: 10 Feb. 0000
Subject: Confession


Fathe r,

I know that email isnít the confessional, but I donít know what else I can do. Iíve tried going to the company chaplain, but w
talk to him, my throat closes up. I donít mean that I feel like t
me at chow, too. Iím hungry but when I sit down to try to eat, I canít swallow.

Right now weíre at YŁksekova on the e
Urmia in post-Iran is pretty much normalóit doesnít get radioactive until you go farther south. The place is full of mercenaries and
crazies and criminals. But there are other people living in the town. People who were too poor to leave, refu
the camps. We fly over and do patro
green. I asked if it was because of the nukes but some guy who had been in Africa said the Sahara looks like that, too. Itís beautiful.

Urmia is like Detroit or New Orleans or St. Louis. Abandoned.
Kalishnakovs. The people here are mostly Kurds. They hate us. We nuked their country. You donít know what its like when everyone
who looks at you hates you an
pills so youíre hopped up. We were on patrol for two weeks and sometime in the second week we were patrolling the bazaar. Weíd
been pinned down in firefights twice the day before. We have real problems keeping com guys. They target them. And medics. They
target them, too.

There are no straight lines in the bazaar and Iím gett
comes by on a bicycle and I watch him go past and then I see him flip back the blanket on the back of his bike and he has a GPS and
he establishes our positi on.

I shot him. The thing is, I donít remember it. I mean, I remember it like I remember seeing it. But I didnít decide to do it. Someone
else shot him. I mean, I shot him, I know. B
what I can do if I shot him without even knowing about it.

I donít know if I can come home. Iím not me anymore, not the guy who shipped out. I know it will kill my mom if anything happens to
me, but what if I come home andÖwhat if I canít ever be safe around my family again?

From: T. Leyton, PFC
To: Father Steven Sokowski
Date: 10 Feb. 0000
Subject: Confession


Father,

I know that email isnít the confessional, but I donít know what else I can do. Iíve tried going to the company chaplain, but when I try to
talk to him, my throat closes up. I donít mean that I feel like that. I mean that it closes up and I canít swallow. Itís been happening to
me at chow, too. Iím hungry but when I sit down to try to eat, I canít swallow.

Right now weíre at YŁksekova on the edge of the ice doing patrol duty. Ice is what everybody calls that slag after the nukes but actually,
Urmia in post-Iran is pretty much normalóit doesnít get radioactive until you go farther south. The place is full of mercenaries and
crazies and criminals. But there are other people living in the town. People who were too poor to leave, refugees who were afraid of
the camps. We fly over and do patrols sometimes. Sometimes when we fly at night, the whole desert looks this strange beautiful
green. I asked if it was because of the nukes but some guy who had been in Africa said the Sahara looks like that, too. Itís beautiful.

Urmia is like Detroit or New Orleans or St. Louis. Abandoned. Only with more guns and less nice stuff. Itís the middle ages with
Kalishnakovs. The people here are mostly Kurds. They hate us. We nuked their country. You donít know what its like when everyone
who looks at you hates you and wants to kill you and some of them have the means to do so. When we go on patrol the army gives us
pills so youíre hopped up. We were on patrol for two weeks and sometime in the second week we were patrolling the bazaar. Weíd
been pinned down in firefights twice the day before. We have real problems keeping com guys. They target them. And medics. They
target them, too.

There are no straight lines in the bazaar and Iím getting crazier and crazier the longer weíre in there. This little Kurdish kid, maybe ten,
comes by on a bicycle and I watch him go past and then I see him flip back the blanket on the back of his bike and he has a GPS and
he establishes our position.

I shot him. The thing is, I donít remember it. I mean, I remember it like I remember seeing it. But I didnít decide to do it. Someone
else shot him. I mean, I shot him, I know. But the pills shot him. I swear to God. I feel responsible for shooting him, but I donít know
what I can do if I shot him without even knowing about it.

I donít know if I can come home. Iím not me anymore, not the guy who shipped out. I know it will kill my mom if anything happens to
me, but what if I come home andÖwhat if I canít ever be safe around my family again?