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I still remember the serial number inscribed on the side of the M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) I carried during my second deployment: 102143. When I think of war, I feel it in my hands: roughly fifteen pounds, a weight that pulls on in my left shoulder blade as my body recalls carrying it on every mission I ever went on in Iraq's Al Anbar province. Mostly, I remember its feel: the cool of its steel barrel under the desert sun, the carrying strap cutting into my neck as I hiked the half-mile trek to the chow hall, the exhilaration of pulling back the charging handle and hearing the metal symphony of springs and levers working together at my command. Beyond remembrances are pangs and longings still with me eight years after taking off the uniform. I've seldom felt secure without it next to me when I sleep. The shotgun I keep in my house is a poor substitute for the weapon that kept me alive; no matter how close I put it to the bed, it's just not the same. It felt as if an appendage was ripped from my body when I turned it in at the armory at the end of the deployment. I do not feel whole. I suspect I never will (Fig. 1).
In this essay I will isolate a symptom particular to those who have served in modern combat. In my experience as a veteran of the Iraq War, as well as in my work as editor-in-chief for the non-profit organization Military Experience and the Arts, I have repeatedly encountered a nostalgic pang, a longing for the rifle or primary weapon carried into battle. The veterans I work with in online support groups use words like “lost,” “helpless,” “empty,” or “naked” to describe this longing. Many express symptoms of paranoia and hypervigilance in relation to their missing weapons. One even compared it to “losing a stuffed animal that you slept with for a long time,” and two