Midnight Cargo: an Interview with Kevin Basl

Larry Abbott talks to author and Veteran Kevin Basl about Kevin's new book, Midnight Cargo, but also about trash pits, fake bugling, and being a radar-less radar operator.

Illuminated Press 2023

Midnight Cargo is a collection of three stories and eighteen poems, many of which derive from specific events during Basl’s two deployments to Iraq.  Although trained to be a radar operator (14J) Basl was re-classed, at various times, as a cavalry scout, security escort driver, laborer guard, and, less excitingly, deliverer of trash to a burn pit. The book’s title references another one of his jobs in Iraq, that of the nighttime loading of the remains of deceased service members onto C-130 cargo planes.

Basl holds a Master of Fine Arts in fiction writing from Temple University. He has worked with Warrior Writers and Frontline Arts to conduct art workshops and is an accomplished paper-maker and musician. He was featured in Talia Lugacy’s 2021 film This Is Not a War Story. He has written numerous essays and articles about various aspects of the veteran experience. He and Iraq War vet Nathan Lewis collaborated on a 2021 chapbook of poems, Corn, Coal, and Yellow Ribbons (Out of Step Press, 2021).

LA: Midnight Cargo opens with a poem, “The Red Keffiyeh,” and a story, “Occupations.” In the poem the keffiyeh is frayed, suggesting that your memories of Iraq are frayed. The story focuses on your relationship to the Iraqi boy Gabir but the keffiyeh also figures as a motif. What is the symbolic value of the keffiyeh?

KB: The story “Occupations” was inspired by a work detail I did for a couple of months during my 2005 Iraq deployment. The characters Gabir and Muhammad are based on real people. Many of the episodes in the story are things that happened during that detail—the mortar attacks, the charades game, Muhammad being a talented welder, the jokes and conversations in broken English.The boys, however, didn’t disappear like they did in the story; rather, the detail just ended—project unfinished—and I never saw them again. I’ve thought a lot over the years about what happened to them, and I’ve also felt guilty about not staying in touch or trying to help them in some way. But I guarded them with a loaded rifle while they did menial labor for dirt pay, so the idea of being friends with them is fraught to say the least. Writing that story, I think, was my attempt to work through some of the complications of our brief time together. Rendering the story in fiction allowed me to change some of the details to give it more poignancy, while perhaps making readers question did this really happen?—a question I sometimes find myself asking when reflecting on my time in Iraq.

Keffiyehs, also called shemaghs, are practical garments worn throughout the Middle East. The scarf has held different meanings to different cultures over the centuries. US service members started wearing them in the early 2000s, and controversially they’ve become something of a fashion trend in the US and Europe, which some critics see as an act of cultural appropriation. I’ve seen them advertised on fashion websites as “tactical desert scarfs,” alongside trendy camo gear, so it’s a valid criticism. Recently, I've learned that they're selling faster than anyone can make them, because as a symbol of solidarity with the people of Palestine, more activists are wearing them. Point being, it’s an object that contains layers of significance and meaning. In reality, Gabir did give me a red keffiyeh before the work detail ended. I complimented him on the one he wore, and a couple days later he brought me one. Some years ago, I lost the keffiyeh in a move, which made me realize how much it meant to me. I have since purchased a replacement, and taking it out always makes me reflect on Gabir, Muhammad, their father, and all the other kind Iraqi people I’ve met over the years.

LA: How did the book’s title come about?

KB: The title Midnight Cargo, in its most literal meaning, refers to the transport of casualties. It’s not military slang, but a term I had written in a journal I kept while deployed. My poem “Sacrifice” used to be called “Midnight Cargo.” In 2005, I was an unemployed radar operator at Camp Anaconda in Iraq. What I mean by “unemployed” is that I was a radar operator, 14J, who got assigned to work at a camp where there was there no radar emplaced. The Army was on its way toward phasing out my job, so us radar operators seemed always to be an afterthought. I got re-classed as a cavalry scout at one point, did the cav scout training, then got re-re-classed as a radar operator a few months later—the Army just didn’t know what to do with us. So, throughout my year-long first deployment, I didn’t know what I’d be doing from day to day. Command knew us radar operators didn’t have a dedicated role at the camp, so they would call us when they needed workers for random jobs. Like loading the remains of deceased service members on cargo planes. For a period of about two months in 2005, that was my job. I loaded about twenty-five service members onto C-130s, always late at night, with a handful of service members present and a short ceremony led by a chaplain. It became frighteningly routine in a very short time, and I got desensitized to it. At some point I wrote “loading the night cargo” when writing about the job in my journal. On a few occasions, I’d be eating dinner at the DEFAC and see on the TV news that three soldiers had been killed north of Baghdad, and I knew I’d probably be loading their caskets that night or the next. You may recall that at the time there was a national debate going on about whether DOD should release photos of service members’ caskets to the public. They didn’t want to, of course—bad PR—so my title also refers to the cloaked nature of the ceremony and the job. Ironically, after I returned to the US, I got assigned to a funeral team to operate the digital bugle—that’s a real thing—and that’s what inspired my story “The Bugler.”

Ultimately, I went with the title Midnight Cargo over “night cargo” because it sounds better to my ear, and also I’m a night owl and often find myself revising my writing around that hour. In a sense, the stories and poems in the book became my midnight cargo, carried around for over a decade in my head and on my computer, which I’d unpack and revisit late at night. I think most veterans have their own midnight cargo, that ammo can or box full of photos, souvenirs, gear, etc. that they pull out late at night and reminisce over, by themselves or with another veteran. Of course, we have our psychological midnight cargo as well, the stuff that rears its head late at night when you’re all alone. The title is kind of a nod to Tim O’Brien too, and the format of the book—stories and poems—is sort of a nod to Hemingway’s first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems.

LA: Many of the works in the book refer to your jobs in Iraq.

KB: A lot of the book could be considered a “shitty job” story. I learned about that genre from Larry Heinemann, who always placed Moby-Dick in that category. I did a lot of random jobs during my 2005 deployment. Security escort missions for our restless colonel. Burning documents for intel—radar operators had secret clearances, so we were authorized to do that. I prepared Power Point slides for officers’ briefings. Guard duty. I picked up trash, made runs to the burn pit. Somehow, I dodged the bullet and never had to burn shit, but the threat was always there. I’ll note that none of this was represented in the flashy recruiting commercials that graced my youth, the ones that showed soldiers doing exciting, high-tech, action-packed jobs. When I deployed to Iraq for my second deployment, in 2007, I rejoiced when I arrived at my assignment at Camp Taji to find a radar in place. I was finally going to get to do the job I had signed up for and had trained for! But the thing was an old clunker and rarely worked, and it wasn’t clear how it fit into the mission at large. The insurgency didn’t have an air force, after all. The majority of our six-person team had already deployed at least once and knew what tasks awaited an unemployed radar team. So, our self-determined mission for that fifteen-month deployment became keeping that radar spinning, even if it wasn’t providing an air picture or doing much of anything. Just keep it spinning. Almost like a form of quiet quitting. It looked like we were staying busy, so command never really bothered us. It was like everyone was just going through the motions at that point anyway. We all knew the war was a lost cause, and everybody just wanted to get out of there in one piece. The idealism was long gone. I often wonder how many other units were doing something similar. Not something that’s often talked about.

LA: “Fog” is about the burn pits. In addition to describing the conditions of the pits it seems you are also criticizing the military’s non-response to the health issues that have emerged. You write: “sorry about/lying/in a bed/of fumes/that stench/spread/over you.”  For the last part of the poem the page actually folds down.

KB: Yeah, the burn pits are my generation’s Agent Orange, as the comparison is often made. All sorts of rare cancers and respiratory illnesses have emerged in veterans and local populations who were exposed. Everything got burned over there, and the smoke blanketed the camps and the surrounding environs. The camps often looked like they were shrouded in fog, and it was hard to breathe at times. The poem has a cynical, bitter tone because the Army did lie to us about the toxicity of the pits. My sergeant during my 2005 deployment was concerned about the health risks of the burn pit at Camp Anaconda, which was notoriously bad. He raised a fuss to our command, but nothing changed. The Army said that they were monitoring the toxicity levels. They said it was similar to breathing Los Angeles air during rush hour. Probably just something they made up. The PACT Act—which offers VA medical care, health screenings, and compensation to veterans who have been affected by the burn pits—represents a step in the right direction. That hard-won legislation represents years of work by activists and advocates. It’s best not to forget that the military denied culpability until they were forced to admit it. But there’s a lot of people the PACT Act doesn’t cover, namely Iraqis and workers from around the world who were exposed but have no recourse. They ought to be recognized and receive care too. The burn pits were a profound environmental and human rights tragedy.

LA: You mentioned the story “The Bugler.” There is a sense of black humor and absurdism in the story, as the main character, Specialist Jenkins, is ordered to play “Taps” at a funeral for a World War II vet. Yet, Jenkins can’t play the bugle, so he is provided with a bugle that plays a digital recording. 

KB: This is actually a common practice these days, honor guards using digital bugles. It’s long been military regulation, as buglers are in short supply. A speaker is stuck inside the bell of a bugle, which someone on the honor guard pretends to play at a service member’s or veteran’s funeral. I performed this duty at multiple funerals in 2006, when the digital bugle was still a new development. I often felt embarrassed doing it, and I felt it cheapened the ceremony. Why not just hide a stereo behind a tree, you know? Once or twice, funeral goers complimented me on my playing. It was a surreal thing. Even back then, in 2006, I knew I was going to write about the experience. I also knew the story was going to get a big dose of black humor. The military runs on it.