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NATIONAL    ENDOWMENT    FOR    THE     ARTS 


OPERATION 
HOMECOMING 

Iraq,  Afghanistan,  and  the  Home  Front, 
in  the  Words  of  U.S.  Troops  and  Their  Families 


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Eyewitness  accounts,  private  journals,  short  stories,  and  other  writings 


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EDITED      BY 


ANDREW  CARROLL 

BESTSELLING   EDITOR   OF    War  Letters 


U.S.A.  $26.95 

Canada  $35.95 

"Here  is  what  you  will  not  find  in  the  news — the 

personal  cost  of  war  written  as  clearly  and  beautifully 

as  literature  worthy  of  the  name  is.  These  stories  are 

the  real  thing:  passionate,  imaginative,  searing." 

— RICHARD  BAUSCH,  author  of  Wives  &  Lovers 

THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  ITS  KIND,  Operation  Homecoming 
is  the  result  of  a  major  initiative  launched  by  the 
National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  to  bring  distin- 
guished writers  to  military  bases  and  inspire  U.S.  sol- 
diers, sailors,  Marines,  and  airmen  and  their  families 
to  record  their  wartime  experiences.  Encouraged  by 
such  authors  as  Tom  Clancy,  Mark  Bowden,  Bobbie 
Ann  Mason,  Tobias  Wolff,  Jeff  Shaara,  and  Marilyn 
Nelson,  American  military  personnel  and  their  loved 
ones  wrote  candidly  about  what  they  saw,  heard,  and 
felt  while  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq,  as  well  as  on  the 
home  front.  Taken  together,  these  eyewitness  accounts, 
private  journals,  short  stories,  letters,  and  other  per- 
sonal writings  become  a  dramatic  narrative  that  shows 
the  human  side  of  warfare: 

•  the  fear  and  exhilaration  of  heading  into  battle 

•  the  interactions  between  U.S.  forces  and  Afghans 
and  Iraqis,  both  as  enemies  and  friends 

•  the  boredom,  gripes,  and  humorous  incidents  of 
day-to-day  life  on  the  front  lines 

•  the  anxiety  and  heartache  of  worried  spouses, 
parents,  and  other  loved  ones  on  the  home  front 

•  the  sheer  brutality  of  warfare  and  the  physical  and 
emotional  toll  it  takes  on  those  who  fight 

•  the  tearful  homecomings  for  those  who  returned 
to  the  States  alive — and  the  somber  ceremonies 
for  those  who  made  the  ultimate  sacrifice  for  their 
nation 

From  riveting  combat  accounts  to  profound 
reflections  on  warfare  and  the  pride  these  troops  feel 
for  one  another,  Operation  Homecoming  offers  an  un- 
flinching and  intensely  revealing  look  into  the  lives  of 
extraordinary  men  and  women.  What  they  have 
written  is  without  question  some  of  the  greatest 
wartime  literature  ever  published. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Boston  Library  Consortium  Member  Libraries 


http://archive.org/details/operationhomecom2006carr 


ALSO    EDITED    BY    ANDREW    CARROLL 

Letters  of  a  Nation:  A  Collection  of  Extraordinary  American  Letters 

101  Great  American  Poems 

Songs  for  the  Open  Road:  Poems  of  Travel  and  Adventure 

War  Letters:  Extraordinary  Correspondence  from  American  Wars 

Behind  the  Lines:  Powerful  and  Revealing  American  and 
Foreign  War  Letters— and  One  Man's  Search  to  Find  Them 


OPE  RAT  I  O  N 

HOMI  COMING 


NATIONAL    ENDOWMENT    FOR    THE    ARTS 


OPE  RAT  I O  N 

HOMECOMING 


RAQ,  AFGHANISTAN,  AND  THE  HOME  FRONT, 

IN  THE  WORDS  OF  U.S.  TROOPS 

AND  THEIR  FAMILIES 


PREFACE     BY 

Dana  Gioia 


EDITED     BY 

Andrew  Carroll 


RANDOM     HOUSE    /     NEW     YORK 


Copyright  ©  2006  by  Southern  Arts  Federation 

Preface  copyright  ©  2006  by  Dana  Gioia 

Introduction  and  headnotes  cop\Tight  ©  2006  by  Andrew  Carroll 

.All  rights  reserved. 

Published  in  the  United  States  by  Random  House,  an  imprint 
of  The  Random  House  Publishing  Group,  a  division  of  Random  House,  Inc.,  New  York. 

Random  House  and  colophon  are  registered  trademarks  of  Random  House,  Inc. 

The  copyright  to  each  individual  contribution  in  this  work  is  owned  by  its  author. 
The  full  list  of  copyrights  is  on  page  381. 

The  Operation  Homecoming:  Writing  the  Wartime  Experience  program 

was  created  by  the  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  and  is  presented 

in  partnership  with  the  Southern  Arts  Federation. 

The  Operation  Homecoming  program  is  funded  by  The  Boeing  Company. 

The  contents  of  Operation  Homecoming  do  not  reflect  the  opinions  of  the  National  Endowment 
for  the  Arts,  the  Department  of  Defense,  or  The  Boeing  Company. 

Proceeds  from  this  book  will  be  used  to  provide  arts  and  cultural  programming  to  U.S.  military 
communities.  For  more  information,  please  go  to  www.OperationHomecoming.gov. 

LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS  CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION  DATA 

Operation  homecoming  :  Iraq,  Afghanistan,  and  the  Home  Front,  in  the  words  of 

U.S.  troops  and  their  families  /  edited  by. Andrew  Carroll. 

p.     cm. 

ISBN-10:  1-4000-6562-3 

1.  Iraq  War,  2003-  Personal  narratives,  American.  2.  Afghan  War,  2001-  Personal  narratives, 

American.  3.  Families  of  military  personnel  —  United  States.  I.  Carroll,  .Andrew. 

DS79.76.O634  2006 
956.7044092'273— dc22      2006045838 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  .America  on  acid-free  paper 

www.atrandom.com 
246897531 

FIRST  EDITION 

Book  design  by  Casey  Hampton 


To  our  nations  troops  and  their  families- 
and  to  all  who  went  before  them 


OPERATION  HOMECOMING 


PARTICIPATING   WRITERS 


Operation  Homecoming  Director 

Jon  Parrish  Peede 


Editorial  Panel 

Donald  Anderson 
John  Ban- 
Andrew  Carroll 
Richard  Currey 
Joe  Haldeman 
Barry  Hannah 
Andrew  Hudgins 


McKay  Jenkins 
Stephen  Lang 
Erin  McGraw 
E.  Ethelbert  Miller 
Marilyn  Nelson 
Kathleen  Norris 
Quang  Pham 


Dan  Rifenburgh 

Jeff  Shaara 

Cindy  Simmons 

Larry  Smith 

Karen  Spears  Zacharias 


Workshop  Teachers 

Richard  Bausch 
Mark  Bowden 
Andrew  Carroll 
Lawrence  Christon 
Tom  Clancy 
Judith  Ortiz  Cofer 
Richard  Currey 
Joe  Haldeman 


Barry  Hannah 
Victor  Davis  Hanson 
Andrew  Hudgins 
McKay  Jenkins 
Stephen  Lang 
Bobbie  Ann  Mason 
Erin  McGraw 
E.  Ethelbert  Miller 


Marilyn  Nelson 
Wyatt  Prunty 
Dan  Rifenburgh 
Jeff  Shaara 
Larry  Smith 
Evan  J.  Wallach 
Tobias  Wolff 


Audio  CD  Participants 

Will  D.  Campbell 
Shelby  Foote 
Barry  Hannah 
Victor  Davis  Hanson 


Bobbie  Ann  Mason 
Marilyn  Nelson 
James  Salter 
Louis  Simpson 


Richard  Wilbur 
Tobias  Wolff 


PREFACE 

Dana  Gioia 

Chairman,  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts 


Inhere  are  countless  books  of  military  history  and  wartime  reminiscence, 
but  I  don't  believe  that  there  ever  has  been  a  collection  quite  like 
Operation  Homecoming.  This  volume  contains  writing  by  members  of  the 
U.S.  military  who  have  been  involved  in  the  war  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq.  It 
is  not  an  official  publication.  The  writing  did  not  emerge  from  an  armed 
forces  or  congressional  history  project  but  grew  out  of  a  series  of  workshops 
sponsored  by  the  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  and  conducted  by  a  group 
of  distinguished  American  writers.  The  volume  was  edited  by  a  civilian  panel 
of  writers,  editors,  and  historians.  Most  important,  the  writing  was  not  com- 
posed after  the  conflicts  it  describes  had  concluded.  It  was  created  in  the 
midst  of  the  war,  sometimes  even  on  the  front  lines.  Finally,  as  Operation 
Homecoming  is  published,  the  war  it  discusses  is  still  under  way. 

The  idea  for  Operation  Homecoming  emerged  — oddly  enough  — in  a  tav- 
ern full  of  poets.  In  April  2003,  at  the  first  gathering  of  the  nation's  state  poet 
laureates,  the  conversation  turned  to  the  war  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan.  Mari- 
lyn Nelson,  poet  laureate  of  Connecticut,  talked  about  the  stress  and  uncer- 
tainty faced  by  the  troops  being  mobilized  for  combat.  The  daughter  of  a 
Tuskegee  Airman,  Nelson  knew  the  pressures  on  military  families.  Having  re- 


xii  PREFACE 


cently  taught  as  a  visiting  writer  at  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at 
West  Point,  she  suggested  that  the  enlisted  men  and  women  might  benefit 
from  the  opportunity  to  write  about  their  experiences.  We  spoke  about  how 
separate  the  worlds  of  literature  and  the  military  are  in  our  society,  and  how 
crucially  important  the  art  of  literature  might  be  to  military  personnel  under- 
going huge  changes  in  their  lives.  What  would  happen  if  the  nation  fostered 
a  conversation  between  its  writers  and  its  troops? 

The  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  exists  to  bring  the  best  of  the  arts  to 
all  Americans,  but  up  to  this  point,  the  agency  had  never  done  anything  to 
serve  the  more  than  three  million  Americans  in  the  military  or  military  fam- 
ilies. Perhaps  this  omission  reflected  a  sort  of  unexamined  cultural  snobbism. 
At  the  very  least,  it  reflected  a  failure  of  imagination  on  the  agency's  part.  The 
new  project,  which  was  soon  named  Operation  Homecoming,  allowed  us  to 
both  democratize  and  extend  the  reach  of  the  agency's  programs. 

Operation  Homecoming  is  a  unique  program  in  American  literary  his- 
tory. It  invited  troops  and  their  families  to  discuss  and  write  about  their 
wartime  experiences  while  the  events  were  still  happening,  rather  than  years 
later.  Participants  were  encouraged  to  write  in  any  form— fiction,  poetry, 
drama,  memoir,  journal,  or  letters.  Most  of  the  workshops  were  conducted 
among  troops  who  had  just  been  rotated  out  of  frontline  combat.  These  ses- 
sions were  also  open  to  spouses,  to  discuss  their  experience  on  the  home 
front.  (This  may  be  the  first  American  war  in  which  many  of  those  spouses 
are  male.)  In  some  cases,  workshops  were  held  with  military  personnel  still 
serving  in  combat  zones,  such  as  the  sessions  on  the  aircraft  carrier  USS  Carl 
Vinson  in  the  Persian  Gulf.  The  writings  contained  in  this  book  are  not  ret- 
rospective accounts  of  a  completed  conflict,  but  rather  episodes  from  a  war 
still  unfolding  and  unfinished.  Furthermore,  these  accounts  did  not  emerge 
from  a  traditional  military  history  program  but  grew  out  of  a  unique  series  of 
lectures,  seminars,  and  workshops  conducted  by  a  distinguished  group  of 
American  writers  — nearly  three  dozen  novelists,  historians,  poets,  dramatists, 
and  journalists— who  operated  free  from  any  official  constraints  other  than 
basic  security  guidelines. 

There  seemed  many  good  reasons  to  create  Operation  Homecoming. 
First,  the  program  met  genuine  human  needs  by  providing  people  facing 
enormous  challenges  with  the  opportunity  for  reflection  and  clarity  that  the 
reading  and  writing  of  literature  afford.  Second,  the  program  had  historic  im- 
portance, creating  personal  accounts  of  the  war— from  the  combat  zone  to 


PREFACE  xiii 


the  home  front— by  individuals  who  would  not  normally  be  heard.  The  re- 
ports on  the  war  from  politicians  and  journalists  were  printed  and  broadcast 
daily.  Now  there  would  be  an  opportunity  to  give  voice  to  the  troops  them- 
selves. Third,  the  project  had  literary  potential:  Some  new  literary  talent 
would  almost  certainly  emerge  from  the  hundreds  of  novice  writers  engaged 
in  the  NEA  workshops.  Finally,  the  workshops  themselves  had  a  social  and 
cultural  importance  by  bringing  together  writers  and  military  personnel  — 
two  groups  who  do  not  customarily  mix  in  contemporary  America. 

The  original  plan  for  Operation  Homecoming  was  to  offer  ten  workshops 
on  five  bases.  Each  base  would  host  two  visiting  writers,  who  would  teach  and 
lecture.  To  prepare  for  the  workshops,  each  base  would  receive  copies  of 
books  by  visiting  writers  and  a  CD  audiobook  featuring  selections  of  Ameri- 
can war  literature  from  the  Civil  War  through  the  Vietnam  era.  So  that  this 
new  program  would  not  divert  funds  from  other  Arts  Endowment  grants,  we 
secured  private  support  from  The  Boeing  Company.  We  then  chose  one  of 
the  agency's  regional  partners,  the  Southern  Arts  Federation,  to  help  admin- 
ister the  program. 

Assembling  the  writers  to  conduct  the  workshops,  the  Arts  Endowment 
consciously  sought  a  faculty  of  distinction  and  diversity.  We  wanted  writers 
who  represented  a  variety  of  literary-  genres  and  who  spanned  the  political 
spectrum.  Virtually  everyone  we  invited  agreed  to  participate.  Our  initial  fac- 
ulty represented  an  impressive  sampling  of  America's  finest  writers,  including 
Richard  Bausch,  Mark  Bowden,  Tom  Clancy,  Judith  Ortiz  Cofer,  Barry  Han- 
nah, Victor  Davis  Hanson,  Bobbie  Ann  Mason,  Marilyn  Nelson,  Jeff  Shaara, 
and  Tobias  Wolff.  Meanwhile,  a  number  of  other  writers  were  interviewed 
and  recorded  for  the  audiobook,  including  Shelby  Foote,  James  Salter,  Louis 
Simpson,  and  Richard  Wilbur.  Since  we  planned  to  publish  the  best  of  the 
writing  in  an  anthology,  the  project  also  needed  an  editor.  Once  again  we 
were  fortunate  to  secure  our  first  choice— Andrew-  Carroll,  editor  of  War  Let- 
ters and  Letters  of  a  Nation.  Neither  we  nor  Carroll,  however,  yet  realized  the 
ultimate  scope  of  the  burgeoning  project  we  had  initiated. 

As  it  turned  out,  our  original  plan  proved  utterly  inadequate.  We  an- 
nounced the  program  to  the  public  on  April  20,  2004.  When  news  of  Opera- 
tion Homecoming  appeared  in  the  media  the  next  day,  NEA  phones  began 
ringing,  fax  machines  whirred,  and  e-mails  poured  into  our  headquarters  at 
the  Old  Post  Office  in  Washington,  D.C.,  as  military  personnel  and  their 
families  asked  to  participate.  Some  soldiers  even  called  from  Baghdad  and 


PREFACE 


Kabul  on  their  satellite  phones,  eager  to  sign  up  for  workshops.  For  weeks,  let- 
ters and  manuscripts  continued  to  arrive,  including  several  powerful  testi- 
monies by  Vietnam  War  veterans  who  wished  they  had  been  offered  a  similar 
chance  to  come  to  terms  with  their  difficult  wartime  experiences.  All  of  this 
happened  before  the  program  had  even  begun.  We  realized  that  our  initial 
plan  would  need  to  be  expanded.  The  Boeing  Company  graciously  agreed  to 
increase  its  support,  and  several  new  faculty  were  recruited,  including  actor- 
playwright  Stephen  Lang,  who  agreed  to  visit  bases  abroad. 

The  Arts  Endowment  gave  the  visiting  writers  total  freedom  in  conduct- 
ing their  workshops.  They  were  not  told  what  to  teach,  and  they  in  turn  gave 
their  participants  complete  freedom  on  how  and  what  to  write.  The  objective 
of  the  program  was  to  give  voice  to  the  American  troops  and  their  families. 
There  was  no  way  to  accomplish  this  mission  except  by  allowing  them  com- 
plete liberty. 

Eventually,  the  Arts  Endowment  conducted  not  ten  but  fifty  writing  work- 
shops, which  reached  twenty-five  bases  in  five  countries,  as  well  as  an  aircraft 
carrier  and  fleet  ship  in  the  Persian  Gulf.  More  than  6,000  troops  and  spouses 
attended  small-group  writing  workshops.  Another  25,000  troops  received  our 
audiobooks.  Nearly  2,000  manuscripts  were  submitted  for  the  anthology,  total- 
ing well  over  10,000  pages.  (The  staff  eventually  stopped  counting.)  Two 
independent  editorial  panels  of  writers,  historians,  journalists,  and  editors 
sifted  through  the  copious  material  to  make  the  final  selection  — ultimately 
only  5  percent  of  the  total  submissions.  Once  again,  the  editorial  panel  had 
no  mandate  except  to  find  the  best  writing  possible,  without  reference  to 
point  of  view  or  political  content.  The  Department  of  Defense  played  no  role 
in  selecting  the  contents  of  the  book. 

There  is  something  in  Operation  Homecoming  to  support  every  viewpoint 
on  the  war— whatever  the  political  stance.  There  is  also  something  to  con- 
tradict every  viewpoint  on  the  war.  I  have  no  doubt  that  certain  readers  (or  re- 
viewers) will  quote  some  individual  passage  to  prove  or  disprove  some 
political  theory.  But  such  selective  reading  misses  the  true  character  of  this 
volume.  Operation  Homecoming  has  no  single  author  or  common  point  of 
view.  The  volume  comprises  a  chorus  of  one  hundred  voices  heard  as  much 
in  counterpoint  as  in  harmony.  These  independent-minded  people  have 
earned  their  right  to  speak,  and  they  do  so  candidly. 

No  one  who  reads  the  entire  book  will  emerge  with  his  or  her  views  on 
the  war  unchanged  — no  matter  what  those  initial  views  may  be.  Operation 


PREFACE 


Homecoming  is  a  book  about  a  war,  America's  current  war  in  Iraq  and 
Afghanistan.  The  book  presents  a  stark  and  powerful  composite,  full  of  pas- 
sionate, diverging  individual  accounts.  It's  a  book  not  about  politics  but  about 
particulars.  Someone  suggested  the  book  be  marketed  as  the  first  "official"  ac- 
count of  the  war,  but  "official"  is  exactly  what  Operation  Homecoming  is  not. 
The  book  presents  some  one  hundred  unofficial  accounts  of  the  war— from 
the  battleground  to  the  home  base.  Official  language  strives  for  objectivity, 
scope,  and  balance.  These  stories  are  personal,  emotional,  and  focused. 
These  testimonies  seem  precise  because  they  are  individual  and  authentic. 

One  cannot  tell  the  story  of  a  nation  without  telling  the  story  of  its  wars, 
and  these  often  harrowing  tales  are  most  vividly  told  by  the  men  and  women 
who  lived  them.  Today's  American  military  is  the  best  trained  and  best  edu- 
cated in  our  nation's  history.  They  have  witnessed  events  that  are  changing 
both  our  nation  and  the  world.  Their  perspectives  enlarge  and  refine  our 
sense  of  current  history.  It  is  time  to  let  them  speak. 


CONTENTS 


Preface  by  Dana  Gioia xi 

Introduction  by  Andrew  Carroll xix 

1.  And  Now  It  Begins 2 

Heading  into  Combat 

2.  Hearts  and  Minds    66 

Interactions  with  Afghans  and  Iraqis 

3.  Stuck  in  This  Sandbox 132 

Gripes,  Humor,  Boredom,  and  the  Daily  Grind 

4.  Worlds  Apart  190 

Life  on  the  Home  Front 

5.  This  Is  Not  a  Game   250 

The  Physical  and  Emotional  Toll  of  War 

6.  Home 312 

Returning  to  the  United  States 

Acknowledgments 375 

Glossary   379 

Credits  and  Permissions  381 

Index  of  Contributors 383 

Index  of  Titles 385 


INTRODUCTION 


Andrew  Carroll 


Emotionally,"  U.S.  Navy  Captain  William  J.  Toti  writes  of  those  who 
serve  in  the  American  armed  forces,  "we  pretend  we're  bulletproof." 

Toti  was  at  the  Pentagon  on  the  morning  of  September  n  when  a  commer- 
cial airliner  carrying  fifty-nine  innocent  civilians  slammed  into  the  building  at 
more  than  five  hundred  miles  an  hour.  It  would  be  months  before  he  could 
speak  about  the  carnage  he  had  seen,  and  he  did  not  express  how  fully  trauma- 
tized he  was  by  the  terrorist  attack  until  he  began  putting  his  feelings  down  on 
paper.  Some  veterans,  particularly  those  who  have  witnessed  firsthand  the  hor- 
rors of  war,  go  their  entire  lives  without  ever  discussing  their  experiences. 

Their  reluctance  is  understandable.  Many  do  not  want  to  burden  friends 
or  relatives  with  their  memories,  and  others  question  whether  their  loved 
ones  would  even  be  able  to  comprehend  the  harsh  realities  of  life  on  the  front 
lines.  Some  are  also  unwilling  to  confide  in  their  fellow  troops  for  fear  of  ap- 
pearing weak  or  unstable.  Despite  increased  efforts  by  the  government  to  pro- 
mote counseling  for  servicemen  and  women,  military  traditions  and  training 
have  fostered  a  culture  that  ultimately  values  silent  forbearance  — not  indi- 
vidual self-expression  — in  the  face  of  adversity. 

Which  is  why,  when  the  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  first  ap- 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

proached  me  about  editing  an  anthology  based  on  their  Operation  Home- 
coming initiative,  my  immediate  reaction  was  to  say  no.  Sending  prominent 
novelists,  poets,  and  historians  to  lead  workshops  on  military  bases  was,  I 
thought,  an  inspired  and  truly  commendable  idea.  But  I  doubted  much  would 
come  of  it.  Expecting  active-duty  personnel  and  their  families  to  divulge  their 
most  private  thoughts  in  stories,  poems,  memoirs,  and  other  writings  and  then 
forward  these  submissions  to  an  agency  within  the  executive  branch  of  the  U.S. 
government  seemed  unrealistic,  to  say  the  least. 

Though  past  generations  of  troops  have  produced  their  share  of  authors, 
the  percentage  is  minuscule  compared  to  the  number  who  served.  And  most 
of  the  veterans  who  became  literary  giants— Ambrose  Bierce,  E.  E.  Cummings, 
Kurt  Vonnegut,  Joseph  Heller,  Norman  Mailer,  Tim  O'Brien,  Tobias  Wolff- 
were  published  years,  if  not  decades,  after  they  returned  home.  This  distance 
not  only  gave  them  the  opportunity  to  process  their  thoughts,  it  enabled  them 
to  write  freely,  unconstrained  by  military  censorship  or  oversight.  The  official 
language  of  war  tends  to  downplay  and  sanitize  combat  through  euphemisms 
and  slang,  covering  it  with  layers  of  verbal  camouflage;  dead  civilians  are  "col- 
lateral damage,"  the  accidental  killing  of  a  comrade  is  "friendly  fire,"  the  in- 
tentional killing  of  one  is  "fragging,"  and  a  GI  who  steps  on  a  land  mine  and 
explodes  in  a  shower  of  flesh  and  blood  is  "pink  mist."  Would  men  and  women 
in  uniform  today  reveal  the  true  brutality  of  warfare  in  any  of  their  writings? 
And  if  so,  would  the  NEA  allow  them  to  be  published? 

Less  than  twenty-four  hours  after  the  launch  of  Operation  Homecoming, 
service  members  and  their  families  began  inundating  the  agency  with  diaries, 
essays,  song  lyrics,  haikus,  eulogies,  sketches,  self-published  newsletters, 
e-mails,  letters,  short  fiction,  and  full-length  novels  and  autobiographies.  Al- 
though the  submissions  centered  primarily  on  life  in  the  military,  the  con- 
tributors displayed  a  knowledge  of  and  passion  for  literature,  religion, 
geography,  and  culture.  One  soldier  paid  homage  to  Thornton  Wilder  by 
composing  a  humorous,  sharply  written  play  titled  "Our  Post."  Kathy  Roth- 
Douquet,  the  wife  of  a  Marine  Corps  officer  commanding  a  helicopter 
squadron  in  Iraq,  alluded  to  Emily  Dickinson's  "Hope  Is  the  Thing  with 
Feathers"  in  her  more  contemporary  version,  "Emily,  Updated": 

Helicopters 
fly  without 
feathers 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 


Hope 

is  the  thing 
with  armor. 

In  an  e-mail  to  his  two  young  boys,  Cavan  and  Crew,  an  Air  Force  lieutenant 
colonel  named  Chris  Cohoes  marveled  at  the  ancient  history  of  the  land  that 
passed  below  him  as  he  flew  across  Iraq.  "Have  you  ever  heard  of  Meso- 
potamia?" he  asked  his  sons.  "This  is  where  civilization  began  on  earth  (the 
Sumarians)!"  "Heard  of  Babylon?"  Cohoes  continued: 

The  city  was  built  about  3,800  years  ago  by  King  Hammurabi.  King 
Nebuchadnezzar  (I  can't  say  it  either)  built  the  Hanging  Gardens  of 
Babylon  about  2,600  years  ago.  It  is  one  of  the  Seven  Ancient  Wonders 
of  the  World.  This  is  where  many  great  battles  took  place.  The  Romans 
fought  here.  One  of  the  Egyptian  Pharaohs  fought  here.  Now  I'm  fight- 
ing here. 

Contributors  also  related  stories  about  the  wars  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan 
that  had  yet  to  be  told.  Army  Sergeant  Clint  Douglas  recounted  the  surreal 
experience  of  dining  with  an  Afghan  warlord  and  his  band  of  thugs  in  a  di- 
lapidated castle.  Dr.  Edward  Jewell,  a  commander  in  the  Navy  Reserve, 
chronicled  life  aboard  the  hospital  ship  USNS  Comfort  in  the  early  weeks  of 
Operation  Iraqi  Freedom  (OIF)  and  the  medical  team's  exhausting  efforts  to 
treat  the  wounded  — even  though  their  patients  were  not  the  people  they 
were  expecting.  Several  U.S.  soldiers,  including  a  twenty-four-year-old  first 
lieutenant  named  Sangjoon  Han,  portrayed  the  fighting  in  Iraq  through  the 
eyes  of  innocent  civilians  caught  in  the  crossfire.  And  Marine  Corps  Lieu- 
tenant Colonel  John  Berens  reflected  on  a  mission  he  was  assigned  to  carry 
out  in  Al  Kut,  Iraq,  involving  British  troops  who  had  marched  through  and 
died  in  the  same  region.  During  World  War  I. 

On  the  home  front,  a  helicopter  pilot  named  Peter  Madsen,  who  had 
trained  as  both  a  soldier  and  a  Marine,  admitted  how  difficult  it  was  to  say 
goodbye  to  his  wife  — as  she  headed  off  to  Iraq.  Another  Army  spouse,  Billie 
Hill-Hunt,  wrote  in  verse  about  her  rather  ingenious  solution  to  dealing 
with  the  emptiness  of  a  lonely  bedroom  while  her  husband  was  deployed. 
In  a  poignant  letter  to  her  soon-to-be-born  baby,  Staff  Sergeant  Sharon 
McBride  explained  the  challenges  that  awaited  them  because  of  her  deci- 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

sion  to  stay  in  the  military.  "I  can  see  why  some  single  mommies  choose  to 
get  out  of  the  Army,"  McBride  acknowledged,  "but  my  resolve  is  true." 

Not  all  of  the  submissions  were  somber  or  full  of  anguish.  There  is  levity 
even  in  wartime,  and  servicemen  and  women  used  humor  to  help  break  the 
monotony  of  daily  routines  and,  most  important,  cope  with  unrelenting  stress 
and  anxiety.  They  readily  poked  fun  at  their  superiors,  recalled  with  satisfac- 
tion the  practical  jokes  they  played  on  one  another,  and  laced  their  journals 
with  sarcastic  commentary  about  their  love  of  everything  from  port-o- Johns 
and  MREs  (prepackaged  "meals,  ready  to  eat")  to  the  scorpions  and  hand- 
sized  camel  spiders  that  frequently  crept  into  their  tents  and  gear. 

Troops  wrote  as  well  about  the  thrill  of  combat.  "There  is  nothing  so  ex- 
hilarating as  being  shot  at  and  missed,"  Winston  Churchill  famously  re- 
marked, and  generations  of  warriors  have  described  the  electric  surge  of 
adrenaline  that  rushes  through  the  veins  when  bombs  and  bullets  start 
to  fly.  The  men  and  women  in  today's  armed  forces  are  no  different.  "As 
long  as  I  can  remember,  I've  wanted  to  fight  in  a  war,"  the  main  character 
in  Paul  Stieglitz's  story  "Get  Some"  states  unabashedly.  Based  on  Lieu- 
tenant Stieglitz's  own  thoughts  in  the  first  days  of  OIF,  the  semifictional  ac- 
count underscored  how  eager  he  and  his  fellow  Marines  were  to  see  action 
and,  they  hoped,  to  kill.  What  made  the  narrative  especially  compelling, 
however,  was  the  revelation  that  their  bravado  was  not  impenetrable.  After 
confronting  a  sight  he  literally  found  sickening,  the  protagonist  could 
barely  keep  himself  together.  This  was  the  first  combat-related  story  I  read, 
and  I  was  stunned  by  its  emotional  intensity.  There  were  many  more  like  it 
to  come. 

One  after  another,  the  submissions  depicted  the  barbarity7  of  combat  in 
explicit  and  unflinching  detail.  "The  ambulance  in  the  middle  of  my  six- 
vehicle  column  pulls  forward,  and  I  get  out  to  find  where  the  casualties  are," 
Captain  Brian  Humphreys  recorded  in  his  journal  about  the  aftermath  of  an 
insurgent  attack. 

"What  the  hell  is  that?"  I  ask  a  Marine.  Perhaps  the  explosion  had  some- 
how killed  a  farm  animal  of  some  sort  who  wandered  out  on  the  road.  A 
sheep  maybe?  Or  a  cow.  No,  not  big  enough.  Well,  what  is  that  and  how 
did  it  happen?  The  Marine  gives  his  buddy's  name  and  asks  me  to  help 
find  his  head. 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 


The  troops  were  also  open  about  the  degree  to  which  the  incessant  blood- 
shed was  affecting  them  psychologically.  "We  are  dying,"  Sergeant  John 
McCary  wrote  bluntly  at  the  beginning  of  an  e-mail  to  his  family  after  his  unit 
lost  several  soldiers.  "Not  in  some  philosophical,  chronological,  'the  end  comes 
for  all  of  us  sooner  or  later'  sense.  Just  dying."  McCary  knew  how  worried  his 
mother  was  about  his  well-being,  and  he  assured  her  that  he  was  physically  un- 
harmed. Emotionally,  however,  he  was  not  unscathed. 

I'm  ok,  Mom.  I'm  just  a  little  .  .  .  shaken,  a  little  sad.  I  know  this  isn't  any 
Divine  mission.  No  God,  Allah,  Jesus,  Buddha  or  other  divinity  ever  de- 
creed "Go  get  your  body  ripped  to  shreds,  it's  for  the  better."  This  is  Man's 
doing.  This  is  Man's  War.  And  War  it  is. 

Whether  they  were  Air  Force  nurses  describing  wave  after  wave  of  critically 
wounded  young  troops  being  loaded  onto  medevac  flights  or  frontline  military 
psychiatrists  observing  the  toughest,  most  battle-hardened  grunts  suddenly 
break  down  sobbing  after  a  firefight,  contributors  did  not  hold  back  in  reporting 
the  full  damage  of  combat  to  body  and  soul.  And  in  doing  so  they  were  not 
looking  for  pity  or  a  pat  on  the  back,  and  they  certainly  did  not  mean  to  frighten 
their  loved  ones  on  the  home  front.  They  only  wished  to  ensure  that  the  sacri- 
fices made  by  their  brothers  and  sisters  in  arms  are  never  forgotten,  and  they 
know  that  words  like  courage  and  honor  are  hollow  without  an  understanding 
of  the  horrific  conditions  in  which  they  are  forged. 

Within  a  year  of  announcing  Operation  Homecoming,  the  NEA  had  ac- 
cumulated a  towering,  ten-thousand-page  stack  of  submissions,  and  by  this 
time  I  had  enthusiastically  signed  on  to  help  edit  the  book.  (In  retrospect,  I 
could  not  have  been  more  wrong  about  the  influence  of  the  project  or  the  re- 
action it  would  trigger.)  The  question  was  no  longer  whether  there  would  be 
enough  material  to  produce  an  anthology,  but  how  to  distill  into  a  single  col- 
lection the  richness  and  scope  of  these  writings,  which  ranged  from  long,  riv- 
eting accounts  of  massive  ground  assaults  and  air  rescue  missions  to  short, 
contemplative  poems  about  Afghan  poppies  and  the  beauty  of  a  nighttime 
Iraqi  desert  illuminated  by  lightning. 

Novels  and  other  literary  works  rarely  begin  with  an  introduction  ex- 
plaining how  the  book  was  created,  but  anthologies  are  different;  they— or,  at 
least,  their  editors— are  obliged  to  elaborate  on  how  the  volume  is  structured 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

and  why  certain  pieces  were  chosen  over  others.  A  collection  such  as  this 
one,  which  is  the  result  of  a  government  effort,  requires  perhaps  even  greater 
transparency. 

Before  immersing  myself  in  the  editing  process,  I  served  on  a  panel  of  pro- 
fessional writers  (selected  by  the  NEA),  several  of  whom  are  veterans  them- 
selves. For  three  months  we  carefully  read  every  submission,  and  then,  after 
scoring  each  piece,  we  convened  for  two  intense  days  to  discuss  and  debate 
how  we  envisioned  the  book  and  which  submissions  merited  inclusion. 

Our  first  challenge  concerned  the  architecture  of  the  anthology  and 
whether  it  should  be  constructed  by  war,  genre,  military  branch,  or  some 
other  criterion.  We  decided  that  organizing  by  literary  type  or  military  branch 
might  result  in  a  lopsided  book  that  lacked  cohesiveness,  as  there  are  signifi- 
cantly more  submissions  by  soldiers,  airmen,  and  Marines  than  by  sailors.  We 
were  tempted  to  arrange  the  writings  sequentially  by  date,  but,  with  the  wars 
still  unfolding,  the  book  would  abruptly  conclude  with  whatever  the  last  Op- 
eration Homecoming  submission  happened  to  be. 

There  was  strong  consensus  in  the  end  that  the  anthology  was  not  in- 
tended to  be  a  chronology  of  the  fighting  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq  or  an  analy- 
sis of  why  or  how  these  campaigns  were  being  waged.  Like  the  project  that 
inspired  it,  the  book  was  about  the  troops  and  their  loved  ones,  and  it  should 
convey  the  personal  perspective  of  going  to  war— packing  up  and  heading 
into  a  combat  zone,  interacting  with  local  civilians,  enduring  the  daily  grind 
of  life  "in  the  sandbox,"  longing  for  family  and  friends  back  home,  facing  the 
very  real  possibility  of  being  killed,  and,  finally,  returning  to  the  States— alive, 
wounded,  or  dead.  Within  this  narrative  arc,  the  chapters  and  submissions 
would  emphasize  the  individual  human  experience,  as  opposed  to  the  sweep- 
ing history,  of  the  wars  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq. 

To  maximize  the  number  of  writers  featured  in  the  book,  we  also  agreed 
that  certain  submissions— with  the  permission  of  their  authors— should  be 
edited  for  length  and  clarity.  Most  contributors  wanted  to  hone  and  polish 
their  works,  and  we  encouraged  this  in  all  cases  except  one:  correspondence. 
There  is  a  raw  immediacy  to  letters  and  e-mails  sent  from  the  front  lines,  and 
they  lose  their  potency,  I  think,  if  the  words  are  tidied  up  later.  (We  did  cut 
some  down  for  space  reasons,  adding  an  ellipsis  with  four  periods  to  indicate 
where  deletions  were  made.  Any  other  ellipses  were  in  the  original.)  I  knew 
the  contributors  would  not  be  thrilWl  that  their  typos  and  misspellings  would 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

remain  uncorrected,  but  I  believe  that  their  letters  and  e-mails,  because  of 
the  rough  spontaneity  of  the  prose,  are  among  the  most  powerful  writings  in 
the  entire  Operation  Homecoming  collection. 

As  the  panel  reviewed  the  specific  pieces  to  be  considered  for  publication, 
the  NEA  offered  four  criteria  to  guide  us  in  our  deliberations:  the  work's  artis- 
tic quality,  its  historical  significance,  and  its  contribution  to  the  book's  overall 
diversity  in  terms  of  genre  — for  instance,  poetry,  fiction,  personal  narrative  — 
and  life  experience.  By  the  end  of  our  two-day  meeting,  we  had  whittled  the 
initially  overwhelming  pile  of  submissions  down  to  a  manageable  but  still  for- 
midable one  thousand  pages.  I  had  asked  the  other  panel  members  to  leave 
me  with  an  abundance  of  material  so  that  I  would  have  some  flexibility  in 
crafting  the  manuscript,  and  they  kindly  obliged. 

Over  the  next  eight  months  I  collaborated  with  Nancy  Miller  at  Random 
House  and  Jon  Peede  at  the  NEA  to  shape  the  chapters  and  edit  the  final  sub- 
missions line  by  line.  (After  the  poet  Marilyn  Nelson  and  NEA  Chairman 
Dana  Gioia  proposed  the  idea  for  Operation  Homecoming,  Jon  spearheaded 
the  project  as  a  whole  and  worked  tirelessly— including  weekends,  evenings, 
and  vacations— to  oversee  its  success.)  Whatever  concerns  I  had  that  the 
NEA  might  try  to  exert  control  over  the  manuscript,  censor  any  of  the  mater- 
ial, or  advance  a  political  cause  proved  completely  unfounded.  At  no  time 
did  I  feel  even  a  hint  of  pressure. 

The  only  "agenda"  I  could  detect,  and  I  supported  it  wholeheartedly,  was 
for  the  book  to  be  as  faithful  as  possible  to  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  writings 
themselves,  regardless  of  how  jarring  or  potentially  upsetting  they  might  be. 
There  are  contributors  who  voice  staunchly  antiwar  opinions  and  accentuate 
in  their  writings  the  pain  and  destruction  the  hostilities  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan 
have  inflicted,  while  others  express  a  strong  sense  of  pride  about  going  off  to 
serve  and  focus  on  the  positive  achievements  made  in  both  countries  over  the 
past  few  years.  Many  contributors  lash  out  at  the  media  for  only  reporting  when 
a  bomb  is  detonated  and  not  when  a  school  or  water  treatment  plant  has  been 
rebuilt,  while  others  blame  politicians  in  the  United  States  for  not  calling  on 
the  nation  to  sacrifice  more,  as  government  leaders  have  done  in  past  con- 
flicts. And  some,  in  words  that  are  more  pained  than  angry,  cannot  believe  that 
as  two  major  wars  rage  overseas,  claiming  the  lives  of  American  men  and 
women  on  an  almost  daily  basis,  the  conflicts  are  often  overshadowed  by  the 
latest  movie-star  gossip,  celebrity  wedding,  or  reality-show  winner.  Instead  of 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

diluting  these  impassioned  and  disparate  sentiments,  I  felt  the  anthology  would 
have  more  integrity  and  authenticity  if  it  featured  a  full  spectrum  of  viewpoints 
and  experiences. 

Most  of  all,  the  book  had  to  make  the  conflicts— and  the  people  fighting 
them  — real.  Even  in  an  age  of  twenty-four-hour  cable  news,  Internet  blogs, 
and  live  webcasts,  war  can  seem  abstract  and  remote.  Its  true  impact  cannot 
be  communicated  through  third-person  reports  or  the  latest  casualty  statistics, 
no  matter  how  staggering  in  size.  It  is  best  captured  viscerally  in  the  first- 
person  words  of  those  who  have  lived  it.  For  Captain  Robert  W.  Schaefer,  the 
reality  of  war  is  watching  helplessly  from  afar  as  two  soldiers  find  themselves 
in  a  minefield  and,  after  a  split-second  mistake,  essentially  vanish  into  thin 
air.  For  Myrna  Bein,  the  mother  of  a  soldier  who  lost  part  of  his  leg  in  Iraq,  it's 
walking  the  halls  of  Walter  Reed  Army  Medical  Center  as  her  son  recuper- 
ates and  catching  glimpses  of  teenage  troops  maimed  and  disfigured  for  life. 
For  Major  Theodore  Granger,  it's  the  fear  of  coming  home  after  a  six-month 
deployment  and  finding  that  his  infant  son  has  no  memory  of  his  father.  For 
Captain  William  J.  Toti,  it's  observing  a  chaplain  rush  from  one  burn  victim 
to  the  next  outside  the  Pentagon  and  administer  last  rites  over  their  bodies. 

As  I  worked  with  the  contributors  on  the  final  edits  of  their  submissions  and 
wrote  the  short  biographical  introductions  to  each  piece,  one  question  kept 
coming  to  mind:  What  compelled  these  men  and  women  to  share  their  writ- 
ings? This  could  be  asked  of  any  author,  I  suppose,  but  the  response  to  this  pro- 
ject has  been  so  enormous  that  it  has  clearly  touched  a  nerve  within  the 
military.  What  was  prompting  veterans  and  troops  to  let  their  guard  down  and 
be  so  forthcoming?  Not  everything  that  they  sent  in,  of  course,  was  provocative 
or  outspoken,  and  some  potentially  incendiary  issues  like  desertion,  infidelity, 
suicide,  and  substance  abuse  were  addressed  only  peripherally.  (Ideally,  as  the 
Operation  Homecoming  archive  continues  to  grow,  these  and  other  relevant 
topics  will  be  represented.)  But  the  vast  majority  of  the  material  submitted  to 
date  is  remarkably  intimate  and  candid,  especially  for  members  of  a  commu- 
nity renowned  for  its  reticence  and  stoicism. 

When  I  asked  the  troops  about  their  motives  for  writing,  the  responses 
were  as  diverse  as  the  individuals  themselves.  Some  explained  that  they  do  so 
purely  for  enjoyment:  It's  a  hobby,  a  way  to  pass  the  time.  Others  consider  it 
a  necessity.  They  find  the  act  of  writing  to  be  cathartic,  enabling  them  to  gain 
a  measure  of  control  over  their  feelings  as  they  unravel  tangled  knots  of  emo- 
tions, one  thread  after  another. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

Time  and  time  again,  I  also  heard  contributors  lament  how  little  civilians 
know  about  the  armed  forces,  and  they  hoped  that  these  writings  would  fos- 
ter a  greater  understanding  of  the  military.  "Until  I  married  my  husband,"  the 
wife  of  a  National  Guardsman  said  to  me,  "I  had  no  idea  how  demanding  the 
life  of  a  soldier  is.  He  almost  never  talks  about  it,  but  it's  harder  than  anyone 
can  imagine." 

Many  veterans  told  me  as  well  that  they  decided  to  share  their  words  so  that 
troops  overcome  with  grief,  anger,  or  depression  after  being  deployed  would  re- 
alize that  they  weren't  alone.  For  a  young  combatant  suffering  from  post- 
traumatic stress  disorder,  alcoholism,  or  persistent  nightmares,  there  can  be 
solace  in  knowing  that  others  have  struggled  with  these  problems,  too— and 
gotten  through  them. 

The  answer  that  proved  to  be  the  most  memorable,  however,  was  actually 
the  first  I  was  given.  It  came  from  a  noncommissioned  officer  in  the  Army's 
Special  Forces  during  an  Operation  Homecoming  workshop  at  Fort  Bragg, 
North  Carolina.  After  I  posed  the  question  about  what  inspired  him  to  par- 
ticipate, he  said  quietly:  "This  is  the  first  time  anyone's  asked  us  to  write  about 
what  we  think  of  all  that's  going  on."  The  small  semicircle  of  soldiers  around 
him  nodded  in  agreement. 

This  anthology  marks  not  the  completion  of  the  Operation  Homecoming 
mission,  but  its  expansion.  And  there  is,  on  a  personal  level,  a  kind  of  heart- 
break and  joy  to  working  on  a  project  like  this.  Not  all  of  the  writings  for- 
warded to  the  NEA  are  literary  masterpieces,  and  many— especially  the 
private  e-mails,  letters,  and  journals— were  not,  it  seems  evident,  originally 
produced  with  any  intention  of  later  being  published.  But  in  even  the  most 
hastily  dashed-off  messages,  there  are  flashes  of  poetry  and  wisdom.  These  au- 
thors demonstrate  in  submission  after  submission  that  they  are  more  than  just 
stenographers  mechanically  recording  history.  They  are  true  artists  crafting 
works  of  profound  beauty,  depth,  and  imagination.  They  have  exceptional 
eyes  for  detail,  for  the  small,  searing  images  that  infuse  characters  and  mo- 
ments with  drama  and  vitality.  And  although  composed  in  the  context  of  war, 
their  pieces  transcend  the  subject.  They  are  about  resilience,  faith,  loss,  ter- 
ror, heroism,  despair,  hope,  camaraderie,  and  the  extremes  of  human  nature, 
from  its  astonishing  capacity  for  destruction  to  its  limitless  potential  for  com- 
passion and  mercy.  The  value  of  these  insights  lies  in  what  they  reveal  to  us 
not  only  about  warfare,  but  about  ourselves. 

The  excitement  of  seeing  a  new  generation  of  extraordinary  writers 


xxviii  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

receive  the  attention  they  deserve  is  tempered  only  by  the  realization  that  so 
many  others,  before  this  effort  was  launched,  were  never  encouraged  to  put 
their  wartime  experiences  down  on  paper  or  preserve  their  correspondences 
and  journals.  But  as  discouraging  as  it  is  to  consider  what  has  been  lost  or 
gone  unrecognized  before  this  initiative  began,  now  that  the  idea  of  seeking 
out  the  undiscovered  literature  of  our  nation's  troops  and  their  loved  ones  has 
taken  hold,  it  is  exhilarating  to  think  of  all  that  is  yet  to  be  found  and  of  every- 
thing, ultimately,  that  is  still  to  be  written. 

—Andrew  Carroll 
Washington,  D.C. 


OPE  RAT  I  O  N 

OM1  COMING 


CHAPTER    ONE 


OW  IT  BEGINS 


HEADING   INTO   COMBAT 


The  World  Trade  Center's  North  Tower  and  the  Empire  State  Building,  as  seen 
from  the  South  Tower,  c.  1987.  Photo  by  Gregory  S.  Cleghorne;  used  by  permission. 


I  remember  the  golden  globe  in  the  vast  courtyard  between  the  two  buildings 
and  a  spattering  fountain  next  to  cold  stone  benches.  Inside,  I  would  look 
up  in  awe  at  the  cathedral-like  glass,  the  suspended  walkways,  and  the 
grand,  vaulted  ceilings  rising  ten  stories,  crowned  with  a  diadem  of  crystal 
chandeliers.  I  remember  the  large  fabric  hanging  artwork.  I  can  still  smell 
the  concourse  level's  red  carpets  when  they  were  new.  I  was  eleven.  I 
remember  sitting  on  those  red  carpets  with  my  schoolbooks,  imagining  I 
was  in  the  city's  most  elegant  reading  room. 

Now,  up  there  on  floors  so  high  no  hook  and  ladder  could  ever  reach,  a 
man  in  a  tattered  and  burned  white  business  shirt  stands  in  a  broken 
window  with  flames  licking  at  him  and  smoke  billowing  around  him.  I 
see  someone  let  go,  briefly  flying.  I  read  later  hundreds  did  the  same. 
Hundreds. 

I  remember  spending  many  summer  afternoons  and  twilights  as  a  teenager 
sitting  on  top  of  the  South  Tower,  sometimes  reading  poetry  or  a  book, 
the  raucous  sound  of  the  city  muted  and  far  below.  I  was  listening  only 
to  the  air  passing  by  me,  my  mind  wandering. 

A  second  plane  slams  into  the  South  Tower.  The  explosion  sounds  like 
thunder. 

I  remember  closing  my  eyes  outside  in  the  open  air  up  there  and  feeling  the 
sun's  warmth  on  my  face.  No  matter  how  hot  it  was  on  those  city  streets 
below,  there  were  always  cool  breezes  at  more  than  a  thousand  feet  up. 
The  Tower  would  gently  sway  from  the  wind.  It  was  unnerving  at  first, 
but  after  a  while,  I  remember  feeling  comforted  like  a  child  being 
rocked  back  and  forth.  I  wasn't  worried  she'd  tip  over.  Ever. 

The  president  addresses  the  nation  and  the  world.  He  says  to  us,  the  armed 
forces,  "Be  ready." 

I  am. 

—  Forty-four-year-old  Petty  Officer  First  Class  Gregory  S. 
Cleghorne,  born  and  raised  in  Brooklyn,  New  York. 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


ANTOINETTE 

Personal  Narrative 
Captain  William  J.  Toti 


Just  before  9:00  a.m.,  as  word  spread  rapidly  throughout  the  Pentagon,  mil- 
itary and  civilian  personnel  alike  began  huddling  around  television  sets  to 
watch  breaking  news  about  a  plane  crashing  into  one  of  the  World  Trade 
Center  towers  in  New  York  City.  "I  am  sitting  at  my  desk  when  I  hear  some- 
one yell,  (Oh  my  God!'"  forty-four-year-old  Captain  William  J.  Toti  wrote 
in  a  detailed,  present-tense  account  of  what  he  was  doing  on  September  11, 
2001.  Toti  had  enlisted  in  the  U.S.  Navy  at  age  seventeen,  while  he  was  still 
in  high  school,  and  eventually  became  a  career  submariner.  In  1997,  he  was 
given  command  of  the  nuclear  fast-attack  submarine  USS  Indianapolis, 
which  was  based  in  Pearl  Harbor,  Hawaii,  and  named  after  the  legendary 
World  War  II  cruiser.  On  the  morning  of  September  11,  Toti  was  in  the  Pen- 
tagon, sewing  as  the  special  assistant  to  the  vice  chief  of  naval  operations. 
"I  glance  up  at  the  television  to  see  the  World  Trade  Center  on  fire,"  he  con- 
tinued in  his  narrative. 

I  walk  into  my  outer  office,  turn  up  the  volume,  and  hear  the  anchor 
theorize  that  the  cause  of  impact  is  some  sort  of  technological  mal- 
function. We  know  immediately  that  there  is  no  way  navigational 
failure  could  cause  an  airliner  to  fly  accidentally  into  a  building  on  a 
bright  clear  day.  By  the  time  the  second  plane  hits  the  Trade  Centers 
South  Tower,  we  all  realize  this  is  a  major  terrorist  attack. 

What  Toti  and  his  colleagues  did  not  know  was  that  a  third  plane, 
American  Airlines  flight  jj,  was  heading  straight  for  them. 


I  quickly  go  back  to  my  desk  to  call  my  wife,  but  nobody  is  there.  I  leave  a 
voice  message,  telling  her  to  take  the  kids  out  of  school,  stay  home,  and 
keep  the  telephone  lines  open. 

As  I  hang  up  the  phone  and  walk  back  to  the  outer  office,  I  hear  the  sound 
of  an  approaching  airplane,  the  whine  of  the  engines  growing  louder  and 
louder.  And  then  impact— a  massive  earthquake-like  jolt.  There  is  screaming 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS 


everywhere,  and  the  halls  immediately  fill  with  dust  and  smoke.  There  is  no 
time  to  think.  I  sprint  down  the  hall  behind  two  other  Navy  officers  toward 
the  point  of  impact. 

My  office  is  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  E-ring,  which  is  between  the  fifth 
and  sixth  corridors  of  the  Pentagon.  The  plane  has  hit  between  the  third  and 
fourth  corridors.  We  run  through  a  brown  haze  that  I  learn  weeks  later  was  a 
combination  of  vaporized  aviation  fuel  and  particle  asbestos  that  had  been 
shaken  loose  from  the  ceiling.  We  pass  through  an  area  that  recently  had 
been  abandoned  for  renovation  and  into  a  newly  renovated,  fully  occupied 
area  containing  our  operations  center. 

I  finally  reach  the  fissure— a  gaping  hole  of  sunlight  where  there  should 
be  building.  The  floor  simply  has  dropped  out,  and  parts  of  the  airplane  are 
visible,  burning  not  fifty  feet  below  us.  It  does  not  take  us  long  to  figure  out 
that  everybody  on  our  floor  who  is  still  alive  has  evacuated,  and  that  there  is 
nothing  we  can  do  for  anybody  in  the  pit. 

I  run  outside  to  the  point  of  impact,  and  I  encounter  total  devastation. 
Aircraft  parts,  most  no  larger  than  a  sheet  of  paper,  litter  the  field.  I  can  make 
out,  on  one  of  the  larger  pieces  of  aluminum,  a  red  A  from  American  air- 
lines. A  column  of  black  smoke  rises  into  the  air,  bending  toward  the  Po- 
tomac over  the  top  of  the  building. 

I  start  to  wonder,  Where  is  everybody?  Thousands  of  people  work  in  that 
building,  there  should  be  hundreds  streaming  out  of  the  emergency  exits  right 
now.  But  at  first  I  see  no  evacuees.  Then  as  I  round  the  corner  of  the  heliport 
utility  building,  I  notice  a  very  small  number  of  walking  wounded,  and  then, 
on  the  ground  before  me,  one  gravely  injured  man.  He  is  a  Pentagon  main- 
tenance worker  who  is  burned  so  badly  that  I  can't  tell  whether  he  is  white  or 
black.  Amazingly,  he  is  still  conscious.  An  Army  officer  is  kneeling  beside 
him,  and  since  we  are  just  a  few  feet  from  the  still-burning  building,  the  sol- 
dier says,  "Let's  get  him  out  of  here."  A  few  more  military  men  gather,  and  we 
carry  him  away  from  the  building  to  the  edge  of  Route  27,  where  the  first  am- 
bulance has  just  pulled  up. 

As  the  EMTs  tend  to  him,  I  look  back  down  toward  the  building  and  see 
an  open  emergency  exit,  thick  black  smoke  billowing  out.  There's  some  sort 
of  movement  inside  the  doorway,  and  it  appears  as  if  someone  has  fallen,  so  I 
run  back  down  the  hill  and  into  the  building. 

Just  a  few  feet  inside  I  almost  stumble  over  a  lady  crawling  toward  the 
door.  She  can't  stand  up,  and  I  try  to  lift  her,  but  I'm  having  trouble  because 


6  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

sheets  of  her  skin  are  coming  off  in  my  hands.  I  call  for  help,  and  two  Army 
officers  respond  immediately.  Then,  as  we  hear— and  feel— a  series  of  sec- 
ondary explosions  just  a  few  yards  away,  the  three  of  us  half-carry,  half-drag 
the  woman  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  we  place  her  by  the  maintenance 
worker  as  a  second  ambulance  arrives. 

Third-degree  burns  cover  her.  But  she  is  conscious  and  lucid,  and  a  man 
with  a  blue  traffic  vest  proclaiming  pentagon  physician  stops  to  examine 
her.  So  I  leave,  confident  that  she  is  in  good  hands,  and  run  back  down  the 
hill  to  help  evacuate  another  of  the  wounded. 

When  we  attempt  to  lift  a  badly  burned  man,  he  screams  out,  "Let  go! 
Don't  touch  me!"  Just  then  we  hear  more  explosions  coming  from  the  fis- 
sure which  we  fear  are  bombs  (but  later  learn  are  the  airliner's  oxygen  tanks 
cooking  off),  so  we  carry  this  man  out  of  there  with  him  screaming  the 
whole  way. 

When  we  arrive  at  the  top  of  the  hill  with  the  second  man,  I  notice  that 
the  woman  we  had  just  carried  up  the  hill  is  becoming  agitated,  saying,  "I 
can't  breathe."  I  call  over  to  an  EMT,  "Do  you  have  any  oxygen?"  He  runs  to 
the  back  of  his  rig,  pulls  out  a  bottle,  and  puts  it  on  her.  As  the  flow  begins  and 
she  starts  to  calm  down,  she  looks  at  me  like  she  wants  to  say  something.  I 
kneel  down  beside  her  and  ask,  "Is  that  better,  are  you  all  right?" 

And  then  comes  the  moment  I'll  never  forget.  She  blinks  and  asks,  "Doc- 
tor, am  I  going  to  die?"  Wham.  Just  like  that.  That  is  a  question  that  I  never 
imagined  myself  having  to  answer.  I  look  around  our  little  triage  area  on  the 
side  of  the  road  — 

The  first  injured  man  I  had  come  across  is  no  longer  conscious  and  is 
doing  poorly. 

Another  young  lady  is  standing  nearby  with  severely  burned  hands, 
screaming  hysterically. 

A  soldier  is  trying  to  chase  down  a  fire  truck  that  has  become  lost  in  the 
maze  of  roads  surrounding  the  Pentagon. 

Other  officers  are  attending  to  the  walking  wounded,  and  someone  is 
pouring  water  from  a  five-gallon  cooler  bottle  onto  people  as  they  exit  the 
building  to  extinguish  the  small  fires  on  their  clothing. 

—And  here  lies  this  woman,  with  no  one  to  attend  to  her  but  me.  What 
should  I  say?  Should  I  tell  her  I  am  not  a  doctor?  But  there  are  no  answers  to 
be  found,  so  I  lean  over  the  lady  and  ask,  "What's  your  name?" 

"Antoinette,"  she  says. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS 


"No,  Antoinette,  you're  not  going  to  die.  We  have  a  helicopter  coming  for 
you.  I'm  going  to  stay  with  you  until  you're  on  it." 

She  nods,  and  I  feel  relieved  for  having  said  this. 

The  medevac  helicopter  arrives  a  few  minutes  later.  Since  the  Pentagon's 
heliport  is  in  the  middle  of  the  attack  area,  the  helo  has  to  land  up  the  hill 
toward  the  Navy  Annex,  on  the  other  side  of  Route  27.  The  trek  up  the  hill  is 
surprisingly  long  and  difficult.  When  we  finally  get  her  to  the  helicopter  I  yell 
out  over  the  noise,  "I'll  visit  you  in  the  hospital!"  Then  I  turn  and  run  down 
the  hill  without  looking  back. 

When  I  arrive,  the  "Pentagon  Physician"  (who,  it  turns  out,  is  actually  a 
dentist)  asks  me  to  take  charge  of  establishing  a  station  to  receive  the  "expec- 
tants," which  means  I  am  in  charge  of  caring  for  those  who  are  not  expected 
to  live.  Just  then  one  of  the  Defense  Protective  Service  police  shouts,  "Clear 
the  area!  Another  plane  is  coming  in!"  So  we  cram  the  rest  of  the  wounded 
into  the  few  ambulances  present  and  they  drive  away.  We  move  farther  from 
the  building  to  wait  for  a  second  attack,  which  never  happens.  This  is  the  first 
of  many  false  alarms  that  day. 

I  try  several  times  during  the  morning  to  call  my  wife,  but  the  cell  phone 
circuits  are  jammed,  and  eventually  I  kill  my  battery  trying  to  get  through. 
Hence,  it  is  several  hours  before  she  knows  I  am  still  alive. 

The  day  is  full  of  vivid  images.  At  one  point,  a  group  of  firefighters  is  in- 
side the  building,  knocking  out  windows  to  vent  the  heat,  when  they  come 
across  a  Marine  Corps  flag.  They  extend  the  bright  red  flag  out  the  window 
to  a  wave  of  cheers. 

Another  time,  I  am  going  to  the  fissure  to  help  an  FBI  agent  plan  his  evi- 
dence walk-down.  As  I  approach  the  burning  core,  I  see  a  single  yellow  flower 
in  a  clay  pot,  miraculously  sitting  untouched  amid  smoldering  embers  and  soot. 

I  also  watch  as  a  Catholic  priest,  who  I  later  find  out  had  walked  three 
miles  to  the  Pentagon  from  his  parish  in  Arlington,  stands  over  a  dying  man 
to  give  him  his  last  rites.  The  priest  then  moves  to  another  man,  who  is  se- 
verely burned  but  still  lucid  enough  to  be  screaming,  and  he  repeats  the 
sacrament.  Overwhelmed  by  the  enormity  of  the  event,  the  priest  walks  up  to 
the  gaping  hole  in  the  building  and  gives  absolution  to  all  of  the  dead  at  once. 

One  of  the  great  ironies  of  the  day  is  that  earlier,  when  we  were  saturated 
by  wounded,  there  was  almost  no  medical  help  available.  Then  later,  when 
we  had  hundreds  of  doctors,  nurses,  and  paramedics  on  the  scene,  we  had  a 
profound  shortage  of  injuries  that  needed  treatment.  Those  who  were  res- 


8  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

cued  were  saved  not  by  trained  first  responders,  but  by  people  who  were  on 
the  scene  at  the  moment  of  impact. 

At  about  2100,  almost  eleven  hours  after  the  Pentagon  attack,  a  wave  of  ex- 
haustion hits  me,  and  I  decide  there  is  nothing  more  I  can  do.  I  need  my  wife 
to  come  for  me,  but  I  realize  she  will  be  unable  to  get  anywhere  near  us.  So 
I  borrow  a  cell  phone  and  tell  her  to  start  driving  north  on  Interstate  395.  I 
start  walking  south,  and  after  about  fifteen  minutes  a  state  trooper  pulls  over 
beside  me  and  asks  me  if  I  want  a  ride.  I  tell  him  that  if  I  get  into  his  car  I  am 
afraid  that  my  wife  will  never  find  me,  so  I  continue  walking  for  almost  a 
mile,  with  him  creeping  along  behind  me  in  his  patrol  car,  both  of  us  travel- 
ing south  in  the  northbound  lane,  until  I  arrive  at  the  barricade  and  see  my 
wife. 

Not  surprisingly,  I  have  trouble  sleeping  that  night.  I  receive  calls  from 
some  friends  who,  during  World  War  II,  survived  the  sinking  of  the  cruiser 
USS  Indianapolis.  One  says,  "You  got  hit  by  a  kamikaze  just  like  us/'  Another 
remarks,  "You  got  too  close  to  us,  now  you  have  to  share  our  fate."  And 
through  it  all,  I  keep  thinking  about  things  we  might  have  done  better,  the 
possibility  that  we  might  have  been  able  to  save  more  people.  I  am  com- 
forted, however,  by  the  thought  that  at  least  we  saved  one  individual:  An- 
toinette. 

The  days  immediately  after  the  attack  are  a  continuous  stream  of  fifteen- 
hour  workdays.  I  never  find  the  time  to  make  good  on  my  promise  to  visit  An- 
toinette. I  know  that  she  is  in  the  Washington  Hospital  Center,  and  I  call  to 
check  up  on  her,  but  then  move  on  to  what  seem  like  more  pressing  matters. 
The  urgent  eclipses  the  important. 

On  September  19, 1  open  The  Washington  Post  and  find  a  story  about  An- 
toinette. Thirty-five  years  old,  budget  analyst,  raising  a  teenage  foster  child  by 
herself.  Two  dogs,  Oreo  and  Rex.  Had  been  on  the  phone  with  a  friend  be- 
fore the  plane  hit  the  Pentagon,  planning  a  cruise  together,  just  a  month 
later.  She  was  wheeled  into  the  emergency  room  fully  conscious.  But  despite 
hours  of  surgery,  she  never  opened  her  eyes  again.  She  had  been  burned  over 
70  percent  of  her  body.  She  died  on  September  18. 

I  had  only  known  Antoinette  for  a  few  moments,  but  I  am  shocked  by  the 
news  and  feel  as  if  I  have  lost  someone  very  close  to  me.  I  will  never  forget 
her. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS 


During  a  memorial  service  near  Ground  Zero  in  New  York,  Rabbi  Marc 
Gellman  said  that  it  is  improper  to  think  that  on  September  11  approximately 
three  thousand  people  died.  To  understand  the  enormity  of  the  loss,  we  have 
to  recognize  that  what  really  happened  was  that  a  single  individual  died  three 
thousand  times. 

There  were  three  thousand  Antoinettes  that  day,  every  one  of  them 
searching  for  a  human  savior  who  never  arrived. 

Toti  was  awarded  the  Legion  of  Merit  for  his  actions  on  September  u  b\  Chief 
of  Naval  Operations  Admiral  Yem  Clark.  In  2003,  he  was  promoted  to  sene 
as  commodore  of  a  squadron  of  nuclear-powered  fast-attack  submarines,  and 
in  2006,  he  retired  from  the  Navy  after  twenty-six  xears  ofsenice. 


IN-COUNTRY 

Personal  Narrative 

Lieutenant  Colonel   Brian  D.   Perry,  Sr. 


In  a  favorite  cafe  on  the  outskirts  of  Sew  Orleans,  Karla  Perry  and  her  chil- 
dren were  enjoying  breakfast  on  September  u,  2001,  when  the  waitress  came 
over  and  asked,  "Your  husband  is  on  militarv  dutv,  isnt  he?"  Mrs.  Perry  an- 
swered that  he  was.  The  waitress  said,  "You  need  to  come  look  at  the  televi- 
sion right  now. "After  seeing  the  images  on  the  screen,  Mrs.  Pern'  turned  to 
her  children  and  remarked,  "Our  whole  life  has  just  changed."  Within 
weeks,  in  fact,  her  husband,  Brian,  would  be  on  a  plane  heading  overseas  to 
hunt  down  the  terrorists  responsible  for  masterminding  the  attacks  on  the 
United  States.  Lieutenant  Colonel  Brian  Pern'  was,  coincidental,  visiting 
CENTCOM  (Central  Command,  which  has  been  responsible  for  U.S.  mil- 
itary operations  in  most  of  the  Middle  East  for  more  than  two  decades  in 
Tampa,  Florida,  on  the  morning  of  September  u.  He  had  just  come  out  of 
one  briefing  and  was  about  to  step  into  another  when  he  heard  the  news.  A 
full-time  attorney  in  New  Orleans,  Pern'  was  one  of  815,000  Americans  sen- 
ing  in  the  resen'e  or  Guard  (another  1.4  million  are  on  active  dutx  ,  and  he 
would  have  to  temporarily  shut  down  his  law  practice  and  help  his  familv 
prepare  for  his  abrupt  departure.  And  because  the  mission  was  classified. 


10  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

he  could  not  tell  them  exactly  what  he  was  doing  or  where  he  was  going. 
Perry  would  later  write  about  certain  aspects  of  his  deployment,  and  in 
the  following  narrative  he  describes  his  first  impressions  of  the  base  where 
he  would  be  stationed  and  what  was  going  through  his  mind  during  the 
seventy-two  hours  it  took  him  to  get  there. 


rom  the  time  I  departed  New  Orleans  to  the  moment  we  landed  in- 
country,  I  had  been  traveling  almost  nonstop  for  three  days.  There  were 
only  two  passengers  on  the  MC-130  taking  us  to  our  final  destination:  me  and 
a  Marine  who  had  recently  retired  but  was  called  back  to  active  duty. 

On  the  last  leg  of  the  journey,  fatigue  was  getting  the  best  of  me.  I  would 
doze  off  and  on,  but  the  web  seats  were  uncomfortable  and  made  sleeping  a 
challenge.  Time  became  difficult  to  track. 

My  mind  drifted  back  to  New  Orleans.  It  was  just  a  few  days  ago  that  I  had 
served  my  last  trial  as  a  judge  ad  hoc.  It  was  a  coveted  position,  but,  unfortu- 
nately, the  appointment  came  just  a  week  before  September  11,  2001.  My 
lovely  wife,  Karla,  and  our  six  children  spent  part  of  the  day  in  the  courtroom 
with  me,  and  it  was  an  emotional  moment  for  all  of  us.  The  youngest,  our 
seven-year-old  son,  had  hidden  behind  the  massive  bench  and  secretly 
handed  me  small  notes  telling  me  how  proud  they  all  were  of  me. 

The  stench  of  diesel  fuel  brought  me  back  to  the  present.  I  set  my  watch 
to  Zulu  (Greenwich  Mean)  time,  which  would  be  my  way  of  keeping  track  of 
operations  no  matter  where  we  were.  The  place  we  were  going  was  one  of  the 
few  countries  in  the  world  to  have  its  time  thirty  minutes  different  from  oth- 
ers in  the  same  longitude. 

The  sluggish  sway  of  the  plane  began  to  lull  me  to  sleep  again.  Not  the 
deep  sleep  my  body  desired,  but  the  type  where  your  mind  is  moving  too 
rapidly  to  unwind. 

I  thought  back  on  my  decision  to  stay  in  Tampa  in  the  days  immediately 
after  9/11. 1  did  not  want  to  leave  headquarters,  as  there  was  so  much  to  do  to 
get  ready  for  war,  and  I  remained  on  duty  until  my  wife  received  my  mobi- 
lization orders.  One  week  was  all  the  time  I  had  to  close  down  my  law  office 
and  return  to  CENTCOM. 

A  sudden  movement  in  front  of  me  brought  me  back  to  the  plane,  to  the 
mission.  The  loadmaster  was  no  longer  asleep.  He  was  aggressively  searching 
through  one  of  the  military  duffel  bags,  from  which  he  pulled  out  a  helmet, 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  11 


flak  vest,  and  what  in  the  darkness  appeared  to  be  a  pistol.  He  opened  his 
hand  and  dropped  the  weapon  onto  the  pallet  beside  him.  The  Marine  and  I 
watched  the  crew  member  retrieve  and  strap  on  the  pistol,  which  we  could 
now  see  was  a  military-issue  9mm.  He  had  already  worked  his  way  into  the 
flak  jacket. 

"We  are  going  in  hot,"  he  shouted  over  the  pulsating  engine  noise.  He 
started  making  movements  with  his  hands  indicating  that,  to  avoid  surface-to- 
air  missile  attack,  we  were  going  to  zigzag  in. 

The  plane  shifted  and  swayed  in  the  air,  jerking  us  back  and  forth  and 
pressing  us  hard  into  the  unforgiving  seats.  This  was  part  of  the  "corkscrew" 
landing  procedure  to  evade  surface-to-air  fire  against  the  unarmed  plane. 

The  plane  then  rose  in  altitude.  We  watched  the  crew  members,  now  in 
full  battle  gear,  pull  their  seat  belts  tighter.  We  did  the  same.  I  heard  the  fa- 
miliar rumbling  of  the  plane's  flaps  extending,  followed  by  the  clamor  of 
the  wheels  extending  beneath  us.  The  engines  were  slowing  and  then  in- 
creasing in  no  discernible  pattern,  as  if  the  plane  were  faltering.  Losing, 
then  gaining  altitude.  Suddenly  I  felt  the  jolt  of  the  wheels  contacting  the 
pavement. 

The  loadmaster  was  out  of  his  chair  in  a  flash.  After  struggling  with  the 
side  door,  he  was  finally  able  to  force  it  open,  and  the  noise  and  rush  of  air 
startled  me.  The  prop  wash  blew  into  the  plane  with  a  deafening  roar.  I  ex- 
pected the  propellers  to  be  slowing  to  a  stop,  but  we  still  seemed  to  be  at  full 
power.  The  Marine  bolted  out  of  his  seat  while  I  fumbled  for  a  second  with 
the  double  latch  of  the  seat  belt.  The  crew  was  throwing  our  gear  out  of  the 
door,  and  another  crew  member  made  frantic  hand  signals  for  us  to  exit. 

The  Marine  made  it  to  the  door  first  but  stopped  abruptly  before  de- 
scending the  ladder.  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  pushing  me  out  of  the 
plane,  but  the  Marine  hadn't  started  moving  yet. 

"Go!"  the  crew  member  yelled  at  us  as  he  prodded  the  Marine  forward 
with  his  hand.  The  Marine  glared  back  at  the  crew  member,  but  finally  he 
was  down  the  stepladder  into  the  darkness,  and  I  was  right  behind  him. 

Mines,  I  thought,  beware  of  the  mines.  This  was  why  the  Marine  had  hes- 
itated. We  had  been  forewarned  that  the  place  was  full  of  them.  Stay  on  the 
hardstand.  The  airplane  took  up  most  of  the  width  of  the  runway  and  there 
was  no  place  for  us  to  go.  Darkness  surrounded  us.  I  pulled  a  small  flashlight 
from  my  pocket  and,  aware  of  the  need  for  light  discipline,  lit  the  area  around 
us  for  only  a  split  second.  We  were  right  on  the  edge  of  the  cement.  The 


12  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

minefield  lay  just  beyond  where  we  stood,  out  there  in  the  darkness.  The 
Marine  was  standing  next  to  me  but  I  could  barely  see  him. 

Above,  a  million  stars  shone.  The  sight  was  overwhelming.  In  that  mo- 
ment I  felt  totally  alone  but  surprisingly  at  peace.  I  knew  I  was  where  I  was 
supposed  to  be.  I  thought  of  my  wife  and  family,  left  behind  with  my  closed 
law  practice.  I  was  comforted  knowing  that  they,  too,  believed  I  was  where  I 
needed  to  be.  Here  in  the  fight. 

A  chill  wind  blew  down  on  us  from  the  snowcapped  mountains.  I 
searched  in  vain  for  some  way  to  get  off  the  runway  before  the  MC-130  went 
to  full  power  for  takeoff.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  I  heard  the  four  heavy  propellers 
grab  more  air  as  the  plane  inched  forward.  There  was  no  place  for  us  to  go. 

We  huddled  deeper  into  our  field  jackets.  The  windblast  forced  our  hands 
over  our  ears  and  we  tightly  closed  our  eyes.  Dirt  and  small  rocks  peppered 
us.  In  a  few  minutes  the  wind  abruptly  and  unexpectedly  subsided.  No  lights 
were  visible  on  the  plane.  I  could  just  see  its  outline  turning  sharply  into  the 
night. 

We  waited,  not  moving  until  the  MC-130  was  out  of  earshot.  The  plane 
and  its  crew  were  safe.  But  were  we?  We  looked  around,  squinting  into  the 
pitch  black  nothingness.  There  was  no  one  there  to  meet  us.  We  had  no  ra- 
dios on  us,  no  way  to  communicate  with  anyone.  We  had  rushed  to  get  on 
that  plane  back  in  Uzbekistan,  and  even  though  we  weren't  on  the  manifest, 
they  had  agreed  to  drop  us  off  in-country.  We  knew  that  our  final  destination, 
the  Task  Force  Headquarters  building,  was  near  the  runway,  but  it  was  about 
0130  (one-thirty  in  the  morning),  and  we  didn't  dare  walk  blindly  off  into  the 
darkness. 

After  about  fifteen  minutes  of  standing  in  the  cold  night,  we  heard  a  slight 
rumbling  in  the  distance.  The  silhouette  of  a  truck  started  to  grow  larger  and 
larger  as  it  approached.  Unarmed  and  exhausted,  we  hoped  it  was  friendly. 
The  headlights  were  mostly  blacked  out  but  still  projected  a  faint  glow,  and 
we  walked  quickly  over  to  where  the  truck  seemed  to  be  heading.  It  stopped. 
A  young  airman  looked  out  and,  by  the  expression  on  his  face,  appeared  more 
surprised  to  see  us  than  we  were  to  see  him.  To  our  relief,  he  gave  us  a  ride. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  the  time  we  made  our  way  to  the  sup- 
port base,  which  was  not  really  a  base  at  all  but  just  an  old  bullet-riddled  roof- 
less building.  A  makeshift  entranceway  was  added  to  keep  light  from  seeping 
out  of  the  cracks  of  the  front  doorway.  A  sliding  hatch  opened  into  a  vestibule 
of  hefty  tarps.  No  security  guards  were  posted,  no  barbed  wire  protected  the 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  13 

perimeter.  The  American  troops  we  met  inside  all  had  beards  and  wore  civil- 
ian clothes.  Their  defense  was  being  low  key,  and  they  relied  on  the  North- 
ern Alliance  and  their  own  intelligence  to  notify  them  of  an  attack.  Any 
Taliban  in  the  area  would  be  dealt  with  quickly,  long  before  they  could  get 
close  to  the  special  operations  forces. 

The  light  was  dim  inside  the  building.  Special  Forces  teams  slept  in  two 
large  rooms  off  the  main  hall.  Camouflaged  poncho  liners  acted  as  interior 
doorways.  Plywood  and  two-by-fours  were  used  to  fashion  a  separate  opera- 
tions area  at  one  end  of  the  main  room.  Maps  with  overlays  hung  profession- 
ally on  the  bare  wood  walls.  Radios  and  field  telephones  of  different  types 
were  silent.  The  light  was  brighter  here. 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  general,"  a  bearded  man  who  identified  himself  as  the 
unit's  sergeant  major  said,  obviously  not  happy  that  he  was  awakened  to  greet 
the  two  lieutenant  colonels  unexpectedly  dropping  in. 

"You  were  brought  to  the  wrong  place.  Follow  me."  We  grabbed  our 
heavy  bags  and  dragged  them  along  the  dirt  road  to  our  headquarters.  Our 
task  force  was  separate  from  the  war  fighters  here.  We  had  a  special  mission. 
The  sergeant  major  carried  two  of  our  bags  and  used  a  small  flashlight 
strapped  onto  a  headband  to  find  his  way  as  we  moved  clumsily  through  the 
darkness. 

Out  of  breath  and  disoriented  in  the  blackness,  we  made  it  to  our  desti- 
nation and  into  a  dusty  old  building.  The  lights  here  were  dim.  There  was  a 
hole  in  the  door  where  the  handle  was  supposed  to  be.  A  water  bottle  filled 
with  sand  as  ballast  was  used  instead  of  a  spring  to  keep  the  door  closed.  A  lan- 
yard tied  to  the  upper  corner  of  the  wooden  door  fit  through  a  small  hole  in 
the  doorjamb.  The  sand  weight  pulled  the  door  tightly  closed. 

A  lone  figure  sat  in  a  chair  guarding  a  plywood  door.  He  was  a  bearded, 
tired-looking  young  man,  in  jeans  and  a  heavy  sweater.  Even  with  his  longish 
hair  and  coarse  wool  hat  I  could  tell  he  was  an  American  soldier.  He  stood 
slowly  as  we  entered,  adjusting  his  M-16. 

"These  officers  belong  here,"  the  sergeant  major  said  while  he  moved 
quickly  back  to  the  door.  The  young  man  just  nodded. 

As  we  made  our  way  through  the  darkness  to  our  sleeping  quarters,  I  was 
struck  by  the  contrast  between  the  building's  decrepit  condition  and  the 
twenty-first-century  technology  I  knew  was  in  these  rooms,  installed  by  the 
first  troops  who  had  arrived  at  this  desolate  base.  There  would  be  STU-III  se- 
cure telephones,  state-of-the-art  computers  monitored  continually  by  signals 


14  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

technicians  and  information  analysts,  and  a  video-teleconferencing  uplink 
system  that  enabled  the  general  and  his  staff  to  communicate  with  fellow 
commanders  back  in  the  States.  This  was  the  "the  cell,"  the  nerve  center  for 
the  task  force  in  the  region. 

We  were  led  into  a  small,  cramped  room  with  no  heat.  It  was  cold 
enough  that  I  could  see  my  own  breath.  Military  equipment  and  weapons 
were  suspended  haphazardly  from  nails  in  the  wall.  A  bare  lightbulb 
seemed  to  be  hanging  precariously  from  frayed  wires  in  the  center  of  the 
ceiling,  and  I  could  make  out  the  dark  outline  of  men  sleeping  in  cots.  For 
the  next  five  months,  this  Was  home.  The  Marine  and  I  looked  at  each 
other.  We  had  finally  made  it.  I  could  tell  by  the  half  smile  on  his  face  that 
he,  too,  knew  that  this  whole  experience  was  history  in  the  making  and  we 
were  now  a  part  of  it. 

Before  leaving,  the  sergeant  major  turned  toward  us  and  said  respectfully 
but  matter-of-factly,  "Gentlemen,  welcome  to  Afghanistan." 


TIC 

Journal 
Lieutenant  Colonel  Stephen  McAllister 

A  philosophy  major  who  joined  the  U.S.  Air  Force  not  long  after  he  gradu- 
ated from  college,  Stephen  McAllister  would  go  on  to  serve  in  Operation 
Desert  Storm  in  1991  and  Operation  Enduring  Freedom  more  than  ten 
years  later.  McAllisters  deployment  to  Afghanistan  was  originally  sched- 
uled to  last  for  three  months.  It  was  extended  to  eight.  McAllister  worked  at 
Bagram  Air  Base  for  the  Air  Component  Coordination  Element  (ACCE) 
in  the  headquarters  of  the  Combined  Joint  Task  Force  (CJTF-180),  and  dur- 
ing his  time  there  he  began  writing  a  journal.  McAllister  mused  on  both  the 
serious  and  the  relatively  insignificant,  from  the  plight  of  the  Afghan  peo- 
ple and  mortar  attacks  on  Bagram  to  poisonous  snakes  and  port-o-johns 
that  were  almost  as  terrifying  in  their  own  way.  (McAllisters  observations 
about  the  bathroom  facilities  on  base  are  featured  on  p.  143.)  In  one  of  his 
entries,  which  is  intentionally  vague  in  parts  for  reasons  of  operational  se- 
curity, he  wrote  about  the  military  euphemisms  and  terminology  used  to  de- 
scribe the  harsh,  real-life  brutality  of  combat. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  15 


arly  in  the  afternoon,  another  map  is  projected  on  the  screen  at  the  front 
of  the  headquarters,  prompting  everyone  to  stop  and  take  notice.  Along 
with  its  graphic  terrain  depiction,  contour  lines,  and  named  geographic  fea- 
tures, there  are  bright  yellow  crosshairs  in  a  circle.  And  above  it  are  the 
words— Troops-In-Contact.  The  acronym  is  TIC,  and  it  is  shorthand  for  U.S. 
soldiers  either  engaging  hostile  forces  or  receiving  fire  from  the  enemy.  It  is  a 
polite  and  dispassionate  way  of  saying  that  someone  is  trying  to  kill  an  Amer- 
ican's son  or  daughter,  husband  or  wife,  boyfriend  or  girlfriend. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  mission,  a  convoy  of  vehicles,  mostly  Humvees,  is 
traveling  down  a  gully  between  steeply  rising  hills.  A  single,  two-lane  dirt  road 
winds  next  to  a  dried  streambed.  It  serves  as  the  sole  link  between  two  rela- 
tively large  villages.  Inside  the  lead  and  rear  Humvees,  soldiers  sit  in  the 
driver  and  passenger  seats,  and  a  soldier  stands  in  the  turret  manning  the 
M240D  machine  gun.  The  other  vehicles  contain  two  soldiers  each.  All  have 
their  flak  vests  and  helmets  donned.  The  driver  and  passenger  have  their 
M-i6s  "locked  and  loaded,"  on  safe  with  a  round  in  the  chamber.  The  muz- 
zles rest  on  the  floorboard.  The  more  senior  soldier  is  in  the  passenger  seat, 
though  all  three  of  the  troops  are  under  twenty-five  years  old.  I  can  imagine 
the  driver  and  passenger  joking  about  getting  home  to  toilets  that  actually 
flush  as  they  are  constantly  scanning  the  terrain  for  something  out  of  the  or- 
dinary. The  soldier  in  the  turret  can't  hear  the  joking  below  and  shifts  his 
focus  in  segments  to  look  for  the  "bad  guys." 

And  now  it  begins.  The  lead  vehicle  jumps  violently  and  dirt  flies.  A  deaf- 
ening explosion  echoes  through  the  valley  like  a  thunderclap.  The  driver  and 
passenger  are  numb  from  the  shock.  Shards  of  metal  and  glass  rip  through  the 
air.  The  turret  gunner,  knocked  off  balance,  is  on  his  knees  holding  on  to  what- 
ever feels  solid.  Pain  like  they  have  never  known  before  surges  through  the 
driver  and  passenger  like  an  electric  current.  The  convoy  behind  them  lurches 
to  a  stop.  I  can  almost  hear  the  soldiers  in  the  number-two  vehicle  say  "Jesus 
Christ"  in  unison  and  instinctively  pick  up  their  M-i6s.  The  ranking  soldier 
yells  into  a  microphone  slung  over  his  shoulder  and  clipped  to  the  front  of  his 
flak  vest:  "Dragon  Base,  Dragon  Base!  This  is  Convoy  Alpha.  We  are  under 
fire!  We  are  under  fire!  Coordinates  42S  WD  964  629.  Vehicle  number  one  dis- 
abled. Crew  status  unknown.  Direction  of  attack  unknown.  Request  immedi- 
ate assistance."  The  microphone  transmits  every  word  and  breath.  "Stay  in  the 
vehicle!  Everybody  stay  in  the  vehicle!  No  one  move!" 


16  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Two  soldiers  cautiously  approach  the  lead  Humvee.  One  door  is  missing, 
the  rest  intact.  The  turret  gunner  opens  a  back  door  and  slides  onto  the 
ground,  trying  to  keep  a  low  profile. 

"Jesus,  what  was  that?" 

"Stay  here." 

The  driver  and  passenger  are  both  conscious  but  obviously  in  shock. 
Blood  covers  the  right  side  of  the  driver's  face.  The  passenger's  mouth  is  also 
bleeding  profusely  and  he's  wincing  in  agony.  They're  taken  from  the  vehicle 
and  laid  on  the  ground.  "Dragon  Base,  Dragon  Base,  Convoy  Alpha  request- 
ing immediate  medevac.  Two  injuries— both  stable." 

The  headquarters  is  all  business.  Is  there  close  air  support  available?  What 
caused  the  explosion?  What  time  did  the  explosion  happen?  Where's  the 
nearest  medevac?  Launch  the  HH-60  and  support  it  with  an  AH-64.  Take  the 
patients  to  the  nearest  airfield  where  we  can  stabilize  them  and  put  them  on 
a  bird  to  Bagram.  We've  heard  reports  that  it  was  an  RPG  (rocket-propelled 
grenade).  Can  we  get  confirmation?  We  need  to  launch  a  Chinook  to  sling- 
load  the  damaged  Humvee  and  bring  it  to  Bagram  for  analysis.  The  HH-60  is 
en  route,  expect  arrival  in  fifteen  minutes.  Hold  the  C-130.  We'll  put  the  pa- 
tients on  it.  Remainder  of  the  convoy  reports  negative  contact.  Close  air  sup- 
port reports  negative  contact.  Chinook  estimating  arrival  in  twenty  minutes. 
HH-60  arrived.  Patients  stable.  Transload  to  C-130.  Expect  departure  in 
twenty-five  minutes;  arrival  at  Bagram  in  one  hour  and  twenty-five  minutes. 
We  now  believe  they  struck  a  mine.  Chinook  sling-loading  Humvee  now. 
Second  explosion.  RPG?  No  injuries,  no  damage.  Convoy  reports  mines. 
Professional  and  dispassionate. 

The  moon  is  out  now,  casting  shadows  everywhere.  A  patrol  is  investigat- 
ing reports  of  suspicious  activity  within  a  kilometer  of  base  camp.  Twelve  sol- 
diers struggle  with  the  moon's  brightness,  which  washes  out  the  NVGs  (night 
vision  goggles).  They  stumble  on  rocks,  cursing.  Approaching  the  reported 
coordinates  they  find  twenty  individuals  fully  armed  with  AK-47S  and  RPGs. 
Suddenly,  the  armed  men  turn  and  run.  The  patrol  begins  pursuit.  The 
armed  men  stop  and  turn,  shooting  into  the  darkness.  The  patrol  returns  fire. 
One  soldier  abruptly  stops  shooting  and  doesn't  respond.  Another  is  cursing 
and  swearing.  The  assailants  get  away.  The  first  soldier  has  been  shot  in  the 
head  and  is  covered  in  blood.  The  second  soldier  is  lucky.  The  bullet  grazed 
his  cheek  and  exited  the  back  of  his  helmet.  The  squad  leader  radios  for 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  17 


medevac  and  again  the  HH-6os  and  AH-64S  scramble.  The  soldier  with  the 
head  wound  dies  before  getting  to  a  hospital. 

I  stand  at  the  gate  to  the  flight  line  for  the  arrival  of  a  C-130,  which  is  car- 
rying the  remains  of  the  soldier.  The  moon's  gone  and  the  clouds  are  thick- 
ening. The  only  stars  visible  are  running  from  the  advancing  storm  front  and 
the  blackness  is  penetrating.  A  crowd  of  troops  gathers,  though  it's  difficult  to 
tell  how  many  have  come.  Uniforms  stand  next  to  sweat  clothes,  young  next 
to  old,  men  next  to  women.  Some  strain  to  see  as  the  aft  ramp  lowers,  others 
look  blankly  at  their  feet.  We  watch  intently  as  the  body,  entirely  covered,  is 
removed  on  a  stretcher  and  put  in  the  waiting  ambulance.  The  general 
salutes  as  the  ambulance  passes.  Some  follow  suit.  Others,  lost  in  prayer, 
deep  thoughts,  tears,  salute  in  their  own  private  way.  Once  the  ambulance 
disappears  into  the  darkness,  some  of  the  gathered  start  to  walk  back  to  their 
tents.  It  takes  a  little  longer  for  others  to  start  moving.  No  one  says  a  word. 

As  I  walk  slowly  to  work,  I  wonder  if  the  young  dead  soldier  has  a  wife  and 
children.  Would  his  son  or  daughter  be  allowed  to  see  him?  Would  they  rec- 
ognize him  when  he  comes  home?  Would  they  remember  him  as  they 
walked  across  their  high  school  commencement  stage  or  at  their  wedding? 
Would  his  grandchildren  ever  know  how  their  grandfather  died?  How  long 
before  his  memory  would  disappear?  Fifteen  seconds  on  CNN. 

It's  still  dark  when  I  start  the  daily  reports.  There  isn't  an  airlift  mission  of 
special  note  today.  Airpower  didn't  dispense  any  flares,  drop  any  bombs,  fire 
any  guns.  Combat  air  support  covers  the  next  twenty-four  hours. 

The  bottom  line  on  the  report— NSTR.  Nothing  Significant  to  Report. 


FRIENDLY  FIRE 

Personal  Narrative 
Captain  Michael  S.  Daftarian 


As  American  and  Coalition  infantry  units  poured  into  Southwest  Asia  to 
serve  in  Operation  Enduring  Freedom,  thousands  of  airmen  flew  over  the 
region  to  bomb  A/  Qaeda  and  Taliban  targets  and  provide  close  air  sup- 
port for  the  troops  on  the  ground.  Thirty-two-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  Re- 
serve captain  Michael  S.  Daftarian,  a  civilian  pilot  and  firefighter  prior 


18  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

to  his  active-duty  service,  was  deployed  to  Bagram,  Afghanistan,  in  Au- 
gust 2002  for  six  months  with  the  354th  Fighter  Squadron  of  the  355th 
Fighter  Wing  from  Arizona.  In  the  following  account,  Daftarian  describes 
not  only  the  technical  and  logistical  challenges  of  flying  an  A-10  Warthog  in 
the  chaos  of  combat,  but  the  split-second  decisions  that  have  to  be  made 
while  traveling  at  more  than  four  hundred  miles  an  hour—  in  the  dark. 


he  particular  area  we're  headed  to  contains  a  small  U.S.  outpost  located 
on  the  Pakistan  border  surrounded  by  hilly  and  moderately  mountain- 
ous terrain.  I've  provided  support  to  the  ground  forward  air  controllers,  or 
GFACs,  there  before,  but  never  on  a  dark  night  like  this  one.  Conversely,  my 
lead  pilot  is  on  his  second  flight  in-country  and  his  first  night  flight  here,  hav- 
ing only  arrived  three  days  prior. 

As  we  continue  south,  passing  off  my  four  o'clock  are  the  lights  of  Kabul, 
the  last,  and  really  only,  major  city  or  town  of  any  kind  in  this  vast  region.  Off 
to  the  distant  east  is  the  well-lit  Pakistani  city  of  Peshawar.  To  the  south  is 
nothingness,  and  that's  where  we  are  directly  headed.  A  faint  something  be- 
gins to  appear.  It  almost  looks  like  Saint  Elmo's  fire  dancing  around.  My  lead 
and  I  are  coordinating  on  our  interflight  radio,  cross-checking  the  map  loca- 
tion, and  quickly  reviewing  available  tactics  to  use.  As  we  get  closer,  it  be- 
comes clear  that  what  I'm  seeing  are  tracers  from  automatic  weapons  fire. 

Lead  gives  a  call  on  the  designated  UHF  freq  and  uses  the  ground  unit's 
call  sign:  "Playmate,  this  is  Misty  One-One." 

No  answer;  we're  still  too  far  out.  Approaching  twenty  miles  from  the 
area,  it's  now  apparent  that  there's  a  serious  battle  going  on  down  there.  The 
tracers  are  heavy  coming  from  the  northeast,  while  the  return  fire  from  what 
must  be  our  guys  is  not  as  intense.  I  also  see  what  looks  like  strobe-light 
flashes  appear  on  the  southwest  side  of  the  fighting.  The  scene  is  difficult  to 
describe,  but  it's  akin  to  a  fireworks  show  gone  insane,  with  Roman  candles 
shooting  in  every  direction  on  the  ground. 

Lead  tries  the  call  again,  "Playmate,  Misty  One-One." 

Immediately  we  get  a  response.  "Misty  One-One,  Playmate,  we  got  a  situ- 
ation here,"  the  guy  on  the  radio  is  yelling.  "We're  under  automatic  weapons 
fire  at  this  time  from  our  north.  What's  your  location  and  what  you  got?" 

Normally,  in  close  air  support,  there's  a  standard  litany  of  information 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  19 

that's  passed  back  and  forth  when  checking  in  with  a  ground  unit,  and  prior 
to  expending  munitions.  Called  the  "9-line,"  it's  nine  essential  elements  of 
coordination  information  passed  from  the  ground  unit  to  the  supporting  air- 
craft. It  contains  such  items  as  target  coordinates,  target  elevation,  target  type, 
friendly  location,  any  restrictions,  any  marking  devices  to  be  used,  heading 
and  distance  to  the  target  if  running  in  from  an  initial  point,  etc.  Right  now, 
there  is  no  time  to  go  through  a  standard  coordination  drill,  and  most  of  the 
information  we  need  is  readily  apparent  just  by  what  we  are  looking  at  on  the 
ground. 

"Misty,  Playmate,  we're  taking  a  beating  from  the  hills  to  our  north,  heavy 
fire.  We  need  that  suppressed.  You  got  that  area  in  sight?"  the  GFAC  asks. 

"Affirmative,"  lead  answers.  "I'm  contact  that,  we  can  be  there  in  one 
mike  with  strafe.  What  restrictions  you  got  for  us?"  The  GFAC  reads  us  the 
restrictions  of  northwest  to  southeast  or  vice  versa,  in  order  to  keep  stray 
rounds  from  hitting  friendlies.  What  is  so  surreal  about  this  situation  is  that 
from  my  jet,  I  can  see  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  beautiful  light  show. 
The  significance  of  the  destruction  being  sent  back  and  forth  down  there  is 
apparent  only  each  time  the  GFAC  keys  his  mike.  Each  time  he  transmits,  I 
can  hear  automatic  weapons,  rifle  fire,  and  men  shouting  in  the  background. 

The  GFAC  keys  up,  yelling  into  the  mike  (probably  due  to  being  nearly 
deaf  from  all  the  close  gunfire),  "Misty,  Playmate,  you  got  your  restrictions, 
you're  cleared  hot,  call  in  with  direction  and  target  in  sight,  you've— 
INCOMING!" 

At  that  exact  moment  Playmate's  radio  cuts  off,  and  I  see  what  appears 
from  my  vantage  point  to  be  two  bottle  rockets  zing  across  the  ground  from 
the  hillside  and  impact  the  camp  with  two  bright,  instantaneous  glows. 

Playmate  had  been  talking  into  his  handset  with  us,  and  had  seen  the 
RPG-7  rocket-propelled  grenades  coming  his  way.  I  could  hear  the  whoosh- 
bang  of  the  explosion  as  Playmate  yelled  the  "INCOMING"  warning  to  his 
comrades,  while  at  the  same  time  watching  it  happen  from  the  air. 

Lead  calls,  "Misty,  Playmate,  you  up?  You  all  right?" 

No  answer. 

In  a  few  seconds,  Playmate  comes  back  up,  yelling  into  the  handset, 
somewhat  incoherent  and  breathing  heavily,  as  if  he'd  just  been  punched  in 
the  gut:  "You  .  .  .  Copy?  .  .  .  you're  cleared  .  .  .  hot .  .  .  need  the  munitions 
now  .  .  .  Juliet  Papa." 

Juliet  Papa  is  the  confirmation  code.  In  close  air  support  ops,  if  you're 


20  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

dropping  bombs  in  support  of  troops-in-contact,  they  must  verify  that  they 
know,  approve,  and  accept  the  risk  of  your  dropping  munitions  close  to  their 
position,  mindful  of  the  fact  that  they  could  potentially  get  hit.  This  was  not 
only  troops-in-contact,  this  was  danger-close.  The  enemy  is  located  only 
about  seven  hundred  to  eight  hundred  meters  from  the  friendly  position. 
Considering  that  a  500-pound  bomb  has  a  minimum  safe  distance  of  425  me- 
ters, there  is  no  room  for  error  here.  As  I  set  up  my  switches  for  my  first  pass, 
I  mentally  rehearse  the  pilot  prayer:  "Please  God,  don't  let  me  fuck  up." 

Lead  and  I  quickly  confirm  our  game  plan:  we  will  start  our  first  pass  with 
strafe  from  the  30  mm  cannon  and  work  from  there.  Tonight,  my  weapons 
loadout  is  1,170  rounds  of  30  mm  gun,  two  Mk-82  500-pound  bombs,  one 
seven-shot  pod  of  rockets,  and  one  Maverick  air-ground  missile.  I  quickly 
double-check  my  switches:  Heads  Up  Display  (HUD)  on  top  of  the  dash 
panel  is  set  to  guns,  gunsight  cross  visible,  backup  gunsight  mil-setting  dialed 
in,  30  mm  cannon  selected  to  on/high,  master  arm  selected  to  arm,  green 
"gun  ready"  light  visible  on  the  top  center  of  the  instrument  panel.  Lead 
calls,  "Misty  One's  in  from  the  southeast  hot,  target  in  sight." 

"Cleared  .  .  .  hot,"  comes  the  exhausted  response  from  Playmate  amid  the 
ever-present  staccato  of  gunfire. 

Lead  calls,  "Off  target,  west,"  just  as  Playmate,  watching  our  strike,  comes 
up  with  "Two,  work  further  north  from  there  along  the  hill.  ..."  I  acknowl- 
edge Playmate's  correction. 

Shortly  thereafter,  I  call,  "Two's  in  from  the  southeast,  target  in  sight." 

"You're  cleared  hot,  Two,"  comes  the  reply. 

The  target  is  just  to  my  left.  I  roll  into  a  140-degree  bank,  simultaneously 
cracking  the  throttles  back  to  half  and  letting  the  nose  fall  through  the  hori- 
zon. I  then  pull  it  up  in  a  slicing  maneuver  through  seventy  degrees  nose  low 
towards  the  target  as  I  roll  wings-level,  stabilizing  in  a  level,  fifty-degree  dive. 

The  altimeter  is  rapidly  unwinding,  going  full-circle  counterclockwise 
about  once  a  second.  I  roll  in  at  17,000,  and  am  now  passing  14,000  in  a  fifty- 
degree  dive.  I  fan  out  the  speed  brakes  as  the  airspeed  begins  passing  370 
knots,  while  simultaneously  centering  up  the  target  in  the  gun  sight. 

BRRRRRRRRRRRIPPPPPPP  goes  the  cannon  as  I  squeeze  the  trigger, 
sending  seventy  rounds  per  second  down  into  the  hillside  below. 

I  see  the  enemy  tracer  fire  still  going  as  my  rounds  impact  like  so  many 
sparklers,  reminding  me  of  a  dark  concert  hall  with  tons  of  camera  flashbulbs 
going  off.  I  keep  the  trigger  squeezed  and  move  the  stick  forward  and  aft 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  21 

about  one  inch,  spreading  out  the  death  and  destruction  on  the  hillside  in- 
stead of  just  keeping  it  focused  on  one  area.  When  shooting  tanks  you  want 
to  concentrate  your  gunfire,  a  method  commonly  known  as  track-shoot-track. 
Here,  I  want  to  spread  the  bullets— share  the  love,  if  you  will— with  as  many 
of  the  enemy  as  I  can.  I  hold  the  trigger  for  what  seems  like  an  eternity,  get- 
ting blinded  by  the  flame  now  coming  from  the  front  of  the  jet. 

Mindful  that  I  am  screaming  towards  mountainous  terrain  in  a  fifty- 
degree  dive  with  an  airspeed  of  440  knots  and  the  altimeter  wildly  spinning 
through  8,000  feet,  I  come  off  the  gun  trigger  and  haul  the  stick  into  my  lap 
and  shove  the  throttles  forward.  I  pull  up  into  a  forty-degree  climb  and  roll 
into  a  ninety-degree  left  bank,  letting  the  nose  fall  to  the  horizon  as  I  reenter 
my  left-hand  orbit  of  the  target. 

I  can  see  that  there's  still  enemy  fire  coming  from  the  northern  side  of  the 
hill,  though  the  overall  volume  is  less  than  it  was  before.  Lead  gets  to  his  roll- 
in  point  and  calls  in  from  the  southeast  again.  He  receives  a  "cleared  hot" 
from  Playmate. 

He  calls  off  target  to  the  west  again,  and  Playmate  comes  on  freq  with  a 
request:  "Two,  can  you  give  me  those  bombs  on  this  next  pass?  I  wanna  waste 
the  hillside.  We  still  got  movers  up  there  firing  .  .  .  and  we're  heading  towards 
that  location." 

I  respond  with  affirmative  and  ask  if  I  can  be  in  from  the  south  this  next 
pass  to  give  me  a  varied  run-in  heading  (don't  want  to  use  the  same  tactics  too 
many  times),  and  to  buy  me  a  little  more  breathing  room  from  the  friendlies, 
who  are  now  starting  to  fan  out  from  the  camp  perimeter.  I  reset  my  switches 
for  bombs  now:  30  mm  cannon  still  set  to  ON  as  backup,  weapons  stations 
four  and  eight  selected,  fuzing  sequence  set  to  ripple-single,  two  bombs  se- 
lected with  thirty-one-millisecond  interval,  master  arm  checked  in  arm, 
green  rr  ready  lights  on  the  bomb  panel.  Passing  on  the  south  side  of  the  tar- 
get, I  call,  "Two's  in  from  the  south,  target  in  sight." 

Playmate  passes  the  "cleared  hot"  and  I  roll  in. 

I  stabilize  in  a  fifty-degree  dive  again.  The  altimeter  madly  unwinds  and 
the  airspeed  increases  as  I  watch  the  bombsight,  or  "pipper,"  slowly  track  up 
the  HUD  to  the  area  of  enemy  fire  on  the  center  of  the  hillside.  As  the  pipper 
tracks  over  that  point,  I  press  the  "pickle"  button,  and  feel  a  slight  jolt  as  the 
jet  rids  itself  of  two  500-pound  bombs  from  its  underside.  Pulling  off  target 
into  a  thirty-degree  climb  and  rolling  back  down  to  the  horizon,  I  see  my  two 


22  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

bombs  detonate:  one  on  the  center  of  the  hill,  and  one  on  the  northwest  side, 
both  creating  a  large  "photoflash"  effect  as  they  explode.  Both  land  slightly 
left  of  where  I've  aimed  them,  closer  to  the  friendlies.  Instantly,  I  get  on  the 
radio.  "Playmate,  Misty  Two,  how  were  those  bombs?" 

Static. 

No  response  from  Playmate.  A  huge  lump  forms  in  my  throat.  I  come 
back  with  "Playmate,  Mist}'  Two,  how'd  those  bombs  look?" 

Nothing. 

"Playmate,  Misty7  Two,  acknowledge!"  Still  nothing  but  broken  static. 

Looking  down  at  the  hillside,  there  are  no  more  tracers.  None  from  any- 
where. A  few  fires  burning  here  and  there,  but  no  signs  of  any  weapon  fire,  ei- 
ther from  the  enemy  in  the  hills  or  from  the  friendlies  near  the  outpost. 

Goddammit!  Dammit  to  hell.  Nothing  can  compare  to  the  feeling  that 
you've  just  bombed  your  own  troops,  the  very  guys  you  came  to  support. 
"Playmate,  Misty7  Two,  what's  your  SITREP?"  (situation  report).  Nothing. 

Then  there's  the  sound  of  a  mike  keying.  Once,  twice.  Playmate  comes 
up:  "Two  .  .  .  good  hits,  we're  still  hunkering  down.  .  .  .  We  still  got  shrapnel 
raining  down  here,  but  the  hillside  is  gone!  Break,  break  .  .  .  One,  put  your 
bombs  on  the  far-north  side  of  the  hill." 

Damn  that  was  close,  too  close  for  comfort.  But  an  indescribable  relief. 
Lead  drops  his  bombs  on  the  north  side  of  the  hill.  We  each  make  two  more 
passes,  expending  our  rockets  and  some  more  gunfire  on  the  eastern  side  of 
the  hill  near  the  border,  in  order  to  try  to  get  anyone  attempting  to  escape 
back  across  to  Pakistan. 

Playmate  reports  all  clear,  thanks  us,  and  promises  to  forward  the  BDA 
(bomb  damage  assessment)  come  daylight.  Then  he  clears  us  off-target. 

"Copy  that,  Playmate.  We  can  be  back  in  a  hurry  if  you  need  us,"  I  say, 
and  then  turn  the  plane  around  to  begin  the  forty-minute  flight  to  Bagram. 
Less  than  two  and  a  half  hours  later,  after  returning  to  base,  debriefing  the  in- 
telligence officers,  and  reviewing  the  videotapes  of  the  mission,  I'm  back  in 
my  bunk. 

Seven  months  after  returning  to  Arizona  from  Afghanistan,  Daftarian  was 
called  up  to  serve  again  — this  time  to  provide  close  air  support  to  U.S. 
ground  troops  fighting  in  the  early  stages  of  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  23 


A  QUICK  LOOK  AT  WHO   IS   FIGHTING  THIS  WAR 

Letter 
Captain  Ryan  Kelly 


As  a  blinding  sandstorm  whipped  through  Camp  Buehring  in  Udairi, 
Kuwait,  thirty-five-year-old  U.S.  Army  Captain  Ryan  Kelly  sat  in  a  tent  typ- 
ing out  a  letter  to  his  mother  back  in  Colorado.  "The  worst  thing  here  is  not 
the  searing  heat  or  the  cold  nights,"  Kelly  wrote.  "It's  the  waiting." 

Waiting  for  the  wind  to  quit  blowing  and  the  sand  to  quit  grinding 
against  your  skin.  Waiting  for  a  moment  of  privacy  in  a  tent  packed 
with  jo  other  men,  in  a  camp  packed  with  yoo  other  tents,  in  a  base 
packed  with  15,000  soldiers,  all  looking  for  a  clean  place  to  go  to  the 
bathroom.  .  .  .  Waiting  for  the  bone-rattling  coughs  from  dust  finer 
than  powdered  sugar  to  stop  attacking  the  lungs.  Waiting  for  the  gen- 
erals to  order  the  battalion  to  move  north,  toward  Tikrit,  where  oth- 
ers—Iraqis—are also  waiting:  waiting  for  us.  .  .  . 

While  stuck  at  Camp  Buehring  preparing  himself  for  battle,  Kelly  had 
the  opportunity  to  reflect  not  only  on  the  imminent  charge  into  Iraq,  but  on 
the  men  and  women  who  would  be  going  with  him.  His  letter  to  his  mother 
continued: 


quick  look  around  my  tent  will  show  you  who  is  fighting  this  war. 
There's  Ed,  a  58-year-old  grandfather  from  Delaware.  He  never  com- 
plains about  his  age,  but  his  body  does,  in  aches  and  creaks  and  in  the  slow- 
ness of  his  movements  on  late  nights  and  cold  mornings.  .  .  . 

There's  Lindon,  a  31-year-old  black-as-coal  ex-Navy  man  from  Trinidad 
who  speaks  every  word  with  a  smile.  His  grandfather  owned  an  animal  farm 
and  lived  next  to  his  grandmother,  who  owned  an  adjacent  cocoa  field.  They 
met  as  children. 

There's  SGT  Lilian,  a  single  mother  who  left  her  five-year-old  daughter  at 
home  with  a  frail  and  aging  mother  because  nobody  else  was  there  to  help. 

There's  Melissa  and  Mike,  two  sergeants  who  got  married  inside  the  Ft. 
Dix  chapel  a  month  before  we  deployed— so  in  love,  yet  forbidden,  because 


24  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

of  fraternization  policies,  even  to  hold  hands  in  front  of  other  soldiers.  But  if 
you  watch  them  closely,  you  can  catch  them  stealing  secret  glances  at  each 
other.  Sometimes  I'll  see  them  sitting  together  on  a  box  of  bottled  water  ten- 
derly sharing  a  lunch.  They  are  so  focused  on  each  other,  that  the  world 
seems  to  dissolve  around  them.  If  they  were  on  a  picnic  in  Sheep's  Meadow 
in  Central  Park,  instead  of  here,  surrounded  by  sand  and  war  machines,  it 
would  be  the  same.  War's  a  hell  of  a  way  to  spend  your  honeymoon. 

There's  SFC  Ernesto,  38,  a  professional  soldier  whose  father  owns  a  cof- 
fee plantation  in  Puerto  Rico  and  whose  four-year-old  daughter  cries  when 
he  calls. 

There's  Noah,  a  23-year-old  motor  cross  stuntman,  who  wears  his  hair  on 
the  ragged  edge  of  army  regulations.  He's  been  asking  me  for  months  to  let 
him  ship  his  motorcycle  to  the  desert.  I  keep  telling  him  no. 

There's  CW4  Jerry,  the  "Linedog"  of  aviation  maintenance,  whose  fa- 
ther was  wounded  in  WWII  a  month  after  he  arrived  in  combat.  On  D-Day, 
a  bouncing  betty  popped  up  from  behind  a  hedge  grove  near  Normandy 
Beach  and  spewed  burning  white  phosphorus  all  over  his  body,  consigning 
the  man  to  a  cane  and  a  stutter  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  CW4  Jerrv  lives  out 
on  the  flight  line,  going  from  aircraft  to  aircraft  with  his  odd  bag  of  tools, 
like  a  doctor  making  house  calls.  He  works  so  hard  I  often  have  to  order 
him  to  take  a  dav  off. 

There's  Martina,  22,  a  jet-black-haired  girl,  who  fled  Macedonia  with  her 
family  to  escape  the  genocide  of  the  Bosnia-Croatian  civil  war.  Her  familv  ran 
away  to  prevent  the  draft  from  snatching  up  her  older  brother  and  consuming 
him  in  a  war  they  considered  absurd  and  illegal.  A  few  years  later,  the  family, 
with  no  place  else  to  run,  watched  helplessly  as  the  US  flew  their  daughter  into 
Iraq.  She's  not  even  a  US  citizen,  just  a  foreigner  fighting  for  a  foreign  country 
on  foreign  soil  for  a  foreign  cause.  She  has  become  one  of  my  best  soldiers. 

There  is  William  "Wild  Bill,"  a  23-year-old  kid  from  Jersey  with  a  strong 
chin  and  a  James  Dean-like  grin.  The  day  before  we  went  on  leave,  he  roared 
up  in  front  of  the  barracks  and  beamed  at  me  from  behind  the  wheel  of  a 
gleaming-white  monster  truck  that  he  bought  for  S1500.  Three  days  later,  he 
drove  it  into  the  heart  of  Amish  countrv  where  the  transmission  clanked  and 
clattered  it  to  a  stop.  He  drank  beer  all  night  at  some  stranger's  house,  and  in 
the  morning,  sold  them  the  truck.  Kicker  is,  he  made  it  back  to  post  in  time 
for  my  formation. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  25 

There's  my  lSG,  my  no-nonsense  right-hand  man.  He's  my  counsel,  my 
confidant,  my  friend.  He's  the  top  enlisted  man  in  the  company  with  28  years 
in  the  army,  and  would  snap  his  back,  and  anybody  else's  for  that  matter,  for 
any  one  of  our  men.  Last  year,  his  pit  bull  attacked  his  wife's  smaller  dog— a 
terrier  of  some  sort,  I  think.  As  she  tried  to  pry  them  apart,  the  pit  bit  off  the 
tip  of  her  ring  finger.  Top  punched  the  pit  bull  in  the  skull  and  eventually 
separated  the  two.  A  hospital  visit  and  a  half  a  pack  of  cigarettes  later,  he 
learned  the  blow  broke  his  hand.  He  bought  her  a  new  wedding  ring  in 
Kuwait. 

And  on,  and  on  and  on.  .  .  . 

I  hope  you  are  doing  well,  mom.  I'm  doing  my  best.  For  them.  For  me. 
For  you.  I  hope  it's  good  enough. 

Tell  everyone  I  said  hello  and  that  I  love  and  miss  them.  Talk  to  you  soon. 

Love, 
Ryan 

Captain  Kelly  was  responsible  for  every  one  of  these  individuals,  as  well  as 
more  than  seventy  other  soldiers.  He— and  all  of  them  — would  come  home 
alive  after  almost  a  year  of  combat  in  Iraq. 


DISTANT  THUNDER 

Personal  Narrative 

Sergeant  Denis  Prior 


"J  hate  the  idea  of  war  and  I  cant  wait  for  it  to  begin,"  Denis  Prior  writes  at 
the  beginning  of  a  moment-by-moment  account  of  the  days  just  before  and 
after  the  launch  of  the  March  2003  invasion  into  Iraq.  A  thirty-year-old 
U.S.  Army  sergeant  originally  from  Mobile,  Alabama,  Prior  was  attached  to 
the  3/7  Cavalry  Squadron,  yd  Infantry  Division.  After  being  trained  in  Ara- 
bic, he  was  designated  as  a  HUMINT  (human  intelligence)  collector— or, 
as  it  is  more  commonly  known,  an  interrogator.  Prior  was  deployed  to 
Kuwait  in  October  2002,  and  after  six  months  in  the  desert,  he  was  anxious 
for  the  war  to  start.  "Every  soldier  in  Kuwait  feels  the  same  way"  Prior  goes 
on  to  explain  in  his  narrative, 


26  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

even  though  we  never  say  so,  never  in  fact  talk  about  it.  Every  day  as 
we  inch  closer  to  the  inevitable  but  still  unknown  date  when  we  will 
charge  across  the  berm  we  grow  more  certain  it  is  a  terrible  idea  and 
grow  more  apprehensive  partly  because  we  want  to  begin  before  the 
horrifying  heat  of  summer  starts  to  simmer,  partly  because  we  just 
want  to  get  it  over  with,  but  mostly,  deep  down,  we  are  afraid  it  may 
not  happen,  and  even  though  we  dont  want  it  to  happen  we  have 
grown  to  count  on  it.  We  are,  however  reluctant,  soldiers,  and  we  have 
trained  and  trained,  lived  eaten  and  slept  a  hundred  pretend  wars, 
and  we  are  desperately  ready  to  commence  with  a  real  one,  however 
much  we  dread  it 

And  then,  almost  before  Prior  himself  realizes  it,  the  war  has  begun. 


e  haven't  even  crossed  the  border  yet  when  an  explosion  rocks  our 
left  side.  Later  we  will  find  out  that  it  is  an  errant  Iraqi  missile  aimed 
at  Kuwait  City,  but  we  all  assume  now  a  battle  is  starting,  except  that  nothing 
else  follows  and  we  proceed  uneasily  to  the  border.  Just  as  planned,  the  berms 
and  fences  are  breached,  the  line  through  marked,  the  other  side  secure.  We 
hear  sporadic  small-arms  fire  in  the  distance,  but  it  dies  down  quickly,  and 
nothing  about  it  comes  over  the  net,  so  we  don't  figure  it  to  be  real  resistance. 
Still,  everyone  is  tense,  and  within  an  hour  the  lead  hunter-killer  team  spots 
an  enemy  tank  to  his  two  o'clock  and  asks  Apache  Six  for  permission  to  fire. 

"Are  you  sure  it's  an  enemy  tank?"  Six  asks. 

"Roger,  Six,  it's  a  T-54." 

"Kill  it." 

We  hear  the  boom  of  the  Abrams's  big  gun,  and  the  team  leader  reports  a 
direct  hit. 

"Six,  we  have  some  movement  on  our  left,  can't  make  it  out  yet,  but  it 
could  be  a  group  of  tanks." 

Meanwhile  nothing  stirs  from  the  burning  tank  to  our  right.  The  CO  has 
the  first  team  keep  moving  while  a  trail  team  sweeps  out  for  a  better  look  at 
the  tank. 

"Six,  I  think  it's  at  least  three  T-62S,  eleven  o'clock.  Permission  to  engage." 

"You're  sure  they're  not  our  tracks?" 

No  response. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  27 

"Why  don't  you  wait  till  you  see  what  you're  shooting,  Blue." 

"Roger." 

"Six,  this  is  White  Four.  Coming  around  the  tank  on  the  right." 

"Send  it,  Four." 

"The  good  news  is,  it's  an  enemy  tank,  and  it's  destroyed.  The  bad  news 
is,  it  looks  like  it  was  destroyed  in  Desert  Storm." 

We  all  chuckle. 

"Apache  Six,  this  is  Blue  One.  Negative  enemy  contact  on  the  left  here." 

"Well,  what  was  it,  Blue?" 

"It  looks  like  it's,  uh  .  .  .  a  herd  of  camels." 

We  could  hear  a  collective  groan  from  the  entire  troop. 

"All  right,  Apache,  everybody  settle  down,"  Six  said.  "Every  blip  on  the 
radar's  not  gonna  be  Godzilla.  Scan  your  lane,  and  wait  till  you  can  identify 
something.  Six  out." 

A  sandstorm  hits  just  after  dark,  and  it  gets  harder  and  harder  to  follow  the 
order  of  march.  We  are  traveling  with  no  lights  except  our  blackouts,  the  dim 
bulbs  that  are  only  visible  by  NVGs.  The  air  is  full  of  sand,  and  there  is  only 
a  bare  sliver  of  a  waning  moon.  Chief  Wilder  raises  Chaos  on  the  radio  and 
asks  who  they  are  following.  "Nobody,"  they  yell,  "we  can't  see  anything!" 

Chief  tells  them  to  follow  us  and,  cursing,  Gene  veers  off  in  the  direction 
he  thinks  he  saw  the  convoy,  and  the  rest  of  the  train  falls  in  behind  us.  Mike 
and  I,  in  the  back  and  without  NVGs,  can  see  nothing  except  dim  swirls  of 
sand  and  the  occasional  faint  bouncing  set  of  lights  from  roving  parts  of  the 
convoy.  The  terrain  gets  rockier  and  hillier,  and  our  gear,  so  carefully  placed, 
is  bouncing  up  and  down  and  around.  By  the  time  we  catch  up  with  the  ve- 
hicles ahead  of  us,  the  convoy  is  in  shambles.  There  are  vehicles  all  over  the 
rocky  desert.  Captain  Lyle  is  anxious  to  get  to  Samawah  because  Crazy  Horse 
is  taking  the  canal  bridge  and  we  are  supposed  to  immediately  take  the  river 
bridges.  He  is  shouting  on  the  radio,  back  and  forth  with  the  first  sergeant,  try- 
ing to  locate  the  sprawling  pieces  of  his  unit. 

"Band-Aid,  where  are  you?"  he  yells  into  the  radio. 

"We're  just  right  of  Apache  Seven,"  they  answer. 

"That's  a  negative,"  the  first  sergeant  cuts  in.  "I  don't  see  anybody  on  my 
right." 

"Don't  give  me  this  right-left  shit,"  the  captain  counters,  "give  me  a  god- 
damn grid!" 


28  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Band-Aid  reads  off  a  grid,  and  the  captain  is  silent,  plotting  it,  while  the 
first  sergeant  stays  on  the  radio  trying  to  consolidate  the  trains. 

"Where  the  fuck  are  we?"  Chief  Wilder  asks,  his  eyes  jumping  from  the 
plugger  to  the  map. 

"We're  right  behind  the  113s.  That's  either  Rock  or  Thunder  up  there." 

"Is  Apache  Seven  behind  us?" 

"Must  be." 

"Band-Aid,  you  are  nowhere  near  Apache  Seven,"  says  the  commander. 
"Who  is  the  last  in  the  convoy?"  There  is  silence  on  the  radio.  "Goddammit," 
Seven  yells,  "Apache  Eight,  you're  supposed  to  be  the  trail  vehicle!  Is  there 
anyone  behind  you?" 

"This  is  Apache  Eight.  I  can't  see  anybody  anywhere." 

In  the  truck,  we  groan. 

"All  right,  listen  up,  trains,"  Apache  Six  says.  "We  are  going  to  take  those 
damn  bridges,  whether  you  come  along  or  not.  Unless  you  want  to  stay  here 
in  the  middle  of  fucking  nowhere  by  yourselves,  you  better  keep  up."  A  mo- 
ment later  he  gets  back  on  the  radio.  "Guide  ons,  guide  ons,  guide  ons:  I  want 
everyone  to  stop  in  place.  I  say  again,  the  convoy  is  halting  now.  Drivers,  take 
off  your  NODs  and  switch  to  white  light.  I  say  again,  everyone  in  the  convoy, 
switch  to  white  light."  Slowly  the  desert  lights  up,  and  through  the  haze  of 
sand  lights  pop  up  in  every  direction,  amid  the  humming  of  idling  engines. 

"Good  God,"  someone  in  our  truck  mutters.  There  is  no  semblance  of 
order  at  all. 

We  start  sprinting  north,  rolling  over  absurdly  rough  terrain,  jagged  rocky 
hills  and  ravines  with  no  trail.  I  expect  to  flip  the  trailer  or  puncture  a  tire  at  any 
moment.  There  is  less  talk  over  the  radio,  but  we  hear  several  M-113  armored 
personnel  carriers  lose  their  tracks,  and  one  of  the  trucks  snaps  its  steering  col- 
umn. We  hit  the  road  just  before  dawn  and  come  upon  the  combat  tracks  wait- 
ing for  us.  Remarkably,  the  whole  convoy,  minus  the  downed  vehicles,  quickly 
regroups  in  the  gray  light,  and  as  the  sun  rises  we  roll  into  the  muddy  fields 
below  Samawah.  There  are  groves  of  palm  trees  along  the  road,  the  first  green 
things  we  have  seen  in  months,  and  some  simple  block  houses.  We  veer  off  the 
road  in  front  of  the  canal,  where  Crazy  has  set  checkpoints,  and  drive  along  to 
a  muddy  bank  just  south  of  the  city.  We  park  next  to  a  CNN  truck  and  eaves- 
drop on  the  correspondent's  broadcast.  He  seems  to  be  practicing  his  lead-in. 

"Thirty-six  hours  after  the  war  officially  started,  I  stand  here  with  mem- 
bers of  the  Seventh  Cavalry  Regiment—" 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  29 

"It's  been  thirty-six  hours  since  the  war  started,  and  the  Seventh  Cavalry 
Regiment  is  poised  in  front  of  the  first  engagement—" 

"After  thirty-six  hours  of  driving  through  the  desert,  the  Seventh  Cavalry 
Regiment  is—" 

We  quickly  lose  interest.  It  has  begun  to  rain  lightly,  and  we  get  in  the 
truck  and  close  our  eyes,  too  tired  to  sleep. 

Shots  ring  out  just  ahead  of  us. 

"Contact  on  left  side,"  the  lead  platoon  leader  calls  out  on  the  radio. 
Apache  Six  orders  the  convoy  to  speed  up  and  fire  on  any  confirmed  targets. 

"Three  dismounts,  ten  o'clock!"  a  squad  leader  calls  out. 

"Watch  out  on  the  left  side,"  I  yell,  inanely,  since  our  truck  has  no  gun- 
ner, and  all  we  can  do  is  shoot  out  of  whatever  window  we  are  sitting  by.  The 
only  other  person  on  the  left  side  besides  myself  is  Gene,  who  is  driving  and 
can't  very  well  scan  and  shoot  at  the  same  time. 

Tracers  flash  up  at  the  head  of  the  convoy,  and  the  25  mm  guns  start 
booming.  I  hear  a  bullet  hit  my  side  of  the  truck,  and  instinctively  I  fire  a  cou- 
ple of  rounds  into  the  darkness. 

"What  are  you  shooting  at?"  Chief  yells,  and  I  scream  back,  "They  hit  our 
truck,"  not  answering  his  question,  so  he  yells  again,  "But  what  are  you  shoot- 
ing at?" 

I  don't  answer,  and  tell  myself  to  settle  down.  Members  of  the  lead  ele- 
ment start  identifying  the  attackers  better:  they  are  wearing  black,  they  are 
driving  white  trucks,  they  are  firing  rifles  and  RPGs. 

"White  truck,  eleven  o'clock,"  Gene  calls  out. 

I  lean  out  the  window  and  fire  at  the  truck  until  it  disappears  behind  us. 
In  front  of  me,  Gene  is  yelling.  "Are  you  all  right?"  I  call  out,  thinking  he's 
been  hit.  "It's  your  goddamn  brass!"  he  yells  back.  With  every  shot  my  rifle 
was  flinging  hot  empty  casings  onto  Gene's  head,  neck,  and  lap. 

"Was  there  anybody  in  it?"  Chief  asks,  meaning  the  truck.  I  replay  the 
truck  flashing  by  in  my  head.  Not  only  was  there  no  one  in  it,  it  was  riddled 
with  bullet  holes  from  every  rifle  in  every  previous  vehicle  in  the  convoy.  Af- 
terwards, the  Chief,  Mike,  and  Gene  will  often  bring  up  the  deadly  white 
Toyota.  "You  sure  took  out  that  empty  truck,"  Chief  will  cackle.  "You 
whipped  the  shit  out  of  that  thing." 

Apache  Six  gets  us  back  into  a  more  orderly  formation,  and  we  continue 
down  the  road.  Soon  there  is  more  shooting,  and  we  race  through  it  without 


30  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

stopping,  then  drive  on,  and  then  more  shooting.  Finally  we  stop  and  our 
team  jumps  out  onto  the  ground  and  begins  scanning  for  targets.  Scanning  is 
hopeless  without  night  vision  goggles;  there  is  no  moon  and  we  can't  see 
where  the  earth  stops  and  the  sky  begins.  It  is  just  an  endless  expanse  of  black, 
with  only  the  tracers  from  the  .50-cal  guns  blazing  into  the  darkness. 

Then  we  hear  the  hum  from  the  sky,  the  sweet  sound  of  close  air  support. 
An  A-10  screams  down  with  its  cannon  blazing,  and  then  it,  or  another  plane, 
drops  its  payload,  the  last  bomb  so  powerful  it  almost  makes  my  insides  col- 
lapse. Throughout  the  firefight  I  hear  a  clicking  from  the  other  side  of  the 
truck,  and  after  the  last  bomb;  when  there  is  nothing  but  dead  silence,  I  ask 
Chief  Wilder  what  it  was. 

"Were  you  taking  pictures?"  Gene  asks  from  the  truck. 

Chief  grins.  "I  got  some  good  ones." 

"Just  don't  leave  the  flash  on,"  I  say. 

Apache  Six  calls  on  the  radio  to  move  on.  As  we  roll  out  he  gives  the  troop 
some  words  of  encouragement,  and  then  the  XO,  who  is  apparently  at  the 
point  tracking  the  route,  says  he  wants  to  change  it  to  avoid  some  built-up 
areas  ahead.  The  commander  assents,  and  after  driving  through  a  silent  town 
and  over  a  small  bridge  and  along  a  canal,  we  turn  right  off  the  main  road  and 
stop  for  a  moment. 

I  take  Chief  Wilder's  NVGs  and  pull  guard  while  he  monitors  the  radio. 
There  is  a  road  far  out  to  the  left,  and  occasionally  a  car  drives  by  with  head- 
lights. I  can  hear  voices  on  the  radio,  but  I'm  not  close  enough  to  understand 
what  they  are  saying.  Gradually  the  gunfire  subsides. 

Daniel,  the  interpreter  working  for  Civil  Affairs,  comes  up  to  me  with  a 
roll  of  toilet  paper.  It  seems  that  all  the  excitement  has  loosened  his  bowels, 
and  he  absolutely  has  to  relieve  himself. 

"Can  you  cover  me?"  he  asks,  looking  sheepish. 

"You're  serious?" 

"Yes,  I  have  to,"  he  insists. 

I  nod,  and  he  runs  over  and  squats  in  the  culvert  across  the  road.  Beyond 
the  culvert  is  a  flat  dusty  field  with  patches  of  palms.  Off  in  the  distance  there 
is  more  gunfire,  then  shouting  on  the  radio. 

"Apache  Six,  Apache  Seven.  We  are  taking  direct  fire!  Direct  fire  from  the 
north  side  of  the  road!" 

"Apache  Seven,  Apache  Six.  Set  up  a  tight  perimeter  and  return  fire.  Do 
you  have  eyes  on  the  enemy?" 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  31 

"Negative,  no  eyes  on." 

"Lay  down  suppressive  fire,  but  watch  those  houses!  Do  not  fire  on  the 
houses  unless  you  have  positively  identified  a  target." 

I  am  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  gunfire,  and  when  I  turn  back  toward 
Daniel  I  freeze.  In  the  green  haze  of  the  NVGs  there  are  five  green  figures 
creeping  stealthily  through  the  palms  just  behind  Daniel. 

"Mike!"  I  hiss,  "five  people,  nine  o'clock,  can't  see  who."  We  both  drop  to 
a  knee  and  aim  our  rifles.  Mike  doesn't  have  NVGs  so  he  is  blind,  just  wait- 
ing to  do  what  I  do.  The  figures  are  dead  silent  and  still  moving  cautiously. 
Slowly  I  rotate  the  selector  from  safe  to  semi,  and  hear  a  faint  click  as  Mike 
does  the  same.  Two  of  the  figures  are  cradling  what  look  like  weapons  in  their 
arms. 

I  should  shoot  them  now.  I  should  not  give  them  a  chance  to  shoot  first. 
The  trigger  is  cold  against  my  finger.  I  struggle  to  keep  Daniel  and  the  five  fig- 
ures in  the  screen  at  the  same  time.  I  should  shoot. 

"Qifl"  I  yell  as  loud  as  I  can.  "Irmee  salahik!"  [Stop!  Throw  down  your 
weapon!] 

They  freeze.  A  quivering  voice  calls  out,  "Ma  termee.  Medeniyoun." 
[Don't  shoot.  We're  civilians.] 

I  walk  up  a  few  steps.  It  is  a  family  of  five  shivering  next  to  the  road,  actu- 
ally a  family  of  seven.  What  I  had  seen  as  the  two  weapons  in  their  arms  are 
babies  wrapped  up  in  blankets.  "Ease  up,  Mike,  they're  civilians."  Daniel, 
crouching  behind  a  bush  practically  underneath  them,  tells  them  to  go  to  a 
safe  place.  They  quickly  cross  the  road  between  our  trucks  and  disappear  into 
the  trees,  silent  as  ghosts. 

When  we  approach  the  Euphrates  again,  we  jump  from  Apache  to  Bone 
Crusher,  another  troop  in  the  cavalry  squadron.  We  stop  just  outside  the  town 
and  hear  gunfire  ahead.  Soon  we  start  moving  again  as  the  Iraqi  fighters  up 
front  are  killed  or  driven  off,  and  a  light  sandstorm  kicks  up.  We  quickly  lose 
sight  of  the  horizon  as  it  disappears  into  the  orange-gray  haze.  When  we 
reach  the  river,  the  convoy  stops  and  the  tanks  move  up  and  take  the  first 
bridge.  They  receive  fire  immediately,  and  we  listen  to  the  battle  as  they  fight 
their  way  across  the  bridge.  They  advance  through  the  town,  getting  fire  from 
all  over. 

As  we  pull  up  to  the  bridge,  we  see  an  old  man  carrying  a  paper  bag  and 
wearing  a  ratty  blue  blazer  over  the  light  robe  called  a  dishdasha.  He  is  pa- 
tiently standing  in  front  of  a  scout  who  is  holding  him  in  place  with  his  rifle. 


32  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

There  is  some  sporadic  small-arms  fire  in  the  distance,  but  it  is  quiet  here  by 
the  bridge.  I  approach  the  old  man  and  ask  him  what  he  was  doing. 

"I  am  trying  to  cross  the  bridge.  My  house  is  over  there." 

"What  is  in  your  bag?" 

"Just  ordinary  items  from  the  dukhan  [small  convenience  store]." 

"Show  me." 

I  make  sure  the  scout  is  covering  me  as  I  peer  over  the  old  man's  shoulder 
while  he  sifts  through  the  eggs  and  milk  and  sugar  in  the  bag. 

"Listen,"  I  say,  "it  is  not  safe  here.  It  is  not  safe  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  it 
is  not  safe  to  go  to  your  house.  Find  some  place  safe  here  — maybe  the 
dukhan  —  where  you  can  wait  until  we  are  gone." 

"How  long  will  that  take?" 

"I  don't  know  how  long,  it  could  be  a  few  hours,  it  could  be  all  day." 

"I  will  sit  here  and  wait." 

"Listen,  it  is  not  safe  to  be  near  our  forces  or  the  muselaheen  [armed  fight- 
ers]. There  is  fighting  all  around  here." 

"I  can't  sit  here?"  he  asks,  pointing  at  the  railing  that  lines  the  road  ap- 
proaching the  bridge. 

"You  can  sit  anywhere  you  want,  as  long  as  you  stay  out  of  the  way,  but  I 
would  prefer  you  stay  away  until  the  fighting  is  over." 

He  looks  at  me  wearily  and  shuffles  back  up  the  road  away  from  the 
bridge.  I  turn  to  the  scout,  who  asks  what  the  old  man  wanted.  When  I  tell 
him,  he  says,  "What  the  hell?  Doesn't  he  know  we're  trying  to  fight  a  war 
here?" 

I  shrug  and  head  back  to  the  truck.  The  old  man  has  not,  as  I  had  hoped, 
gone  back  to  the  dukhan.  He  has  stopped  farther  up  the  road  and  sat  on  the 
railing.  After  a  while  a  younger  man  walks  by.  The  old  man  shouts  something 
at  him,  and  the  younger  man  smiles  and  keeps  walking  until  the  scout  stops 
him.  Gene  and  I  get  out,  and  Gene  searches  him  while  I  ask  him  what  he 
wants.  His  cousins  live  across  the  river  and  he  wants  to  see  if  they  are  safe.  I 
tell  him  he  has  to  wait  and  then  ask  him  several  questions  about  the  musela- 
heen, and  he  pleads  ignorance,  and  I  tell  him  he  should  find  a  safe  place  to 
wait  until  we  are  gone.  He  nods  again,  and  walks  back  up  the  road  and  sits 
next  to  the  old  man.  Soon  another  man  comes  and  then  another.  We  search 
and  question  them,  and  they  sit  down  on  the  railing.  By  the  time  we  get  the 
call  that  the  convoy  is  being  relieved,  there  is  a  line  of  ten  men  sitting,  talk- 
ing, and  smoking,  waiting  for  our  battle  for  their  town  to  end.  One  is  a  doctor 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  33 

who  speaks  a  little  English,  and  I  give  him  some  general  instructions  for  the 
crowd:  raise  their  hands  if  they  approach  American  troops,  keep  out  in  the 
open  if  they  insist  on  going  outside,  avoid  the  muselaheen.  Then  I  go  back  to 
the  truck  and  listen  to  the  radio,  and  we  wait  anxiously  for  orders  to  get  the 
hell  out  of  town,  which  finally  come.  Just  before  we  drive  off  to  find  our  place 
in  the  convoy  I  jump  out  and  run  back  to  them. 

"Listen,  there  are  more  American  soldiers  coming.  Do  not  cross  any  of  the 
bridges  until  all  the  Americans  are  gone,  or  they  will  stop  you,  and  maybe 
shoot  you.  Stay  out  of  their  way.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

They  all  nod,  and  I  jump  back  in  the  truck.  As  we  pull  out  I  look  back  and 
they  are  all  waving. 

We  continue  driving,  and,  as  the  sandstorm  gets  worse,  the  dim  light  from  the 
sky  begins  to  fail  altogether.  No  one  knows  where  we  are  going,  and  the  radio 
is  mostly  silent.  I  nod  off  for  a  moment,  and  when  my  head  clears  I  think 
about  relieving  Gene  with  the  driving  so  he  can  get  some  sleep.  Then  the 
shooting  starts  again. 

This  time  they  are  smart:  instead  of  hitting  us  up  front,  they  have  waited 
until  the  front  of  the  convoy  has  passed  and  strike  us  in  the  middle.  Bone  Six 
yells  at  everyone  to  hit  the  gas  and  punch  through.  With  all  of  us  cursing  the 
vehicle  in  front  of  us,  which  is  not  moving  fast  enough  for  our  liking,  Gene 
stomps  on  the  gas.  The  Iraqis  have  set  the  ambush  on  a  sharp  turn,  and  we 
can  hear  the  bullets  zipping  across  our  hood  and  tail  end  as  we  hit  the  turn 
and  haul  ass.  I  see  muzzle  flashes  off  the  road  on  our  left  and  shoot  at  them, 
and  Gene  yelps  in  surprise  as  my  hot  brass  lands  in  his  lap. 

A  rocket  whooshes  by,  then  another.  Tracers  are  flying  all  over,  from  every 
direction. 

There  is  havoc  on  the  radio,  all  the  leaders  screaming  at  once.  Some  kind 
of  a  rocket  screams  over  our  left  flank  and  lands  up  ahead  somewhere  in  the 
convoy. 

"CEASE  FIRE!  CEASE  FIRE!"  someone  yells  on  the  radio,  not  identify- 
ing himself.  "You're  shooting  friendlies!" 

No  one  ceases  fire. 

"Who's  shooting?"  Bone  Six  asks  someone,  everyone.  "Who  said  that?" 

We  fly  by  an  Abrams  on  fire  and  watch  as  the  crew  scrambles  out  of  the 
tank  and  into  another  track  that's  pulled  up  alongside  it. 

"Holy  shit,"  Chief  says.  "Did  you  see  that?" 


34  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"There's  dismounts  up  front!"  one  of  the  platoon  leaders  yells  in  the  radio. 
"I  see  ten,  maybe  twenty,  small  arms,  RPGs." 

"BRAD  DOWN!  BRAD  DOWN!"  someone  starts  screaming,  then, 
"They're  swarming  all  over  here!  There's  a  hundred,  maybe  two  hundred! 
Abandoning  Brad!" 

We  listen  in  horror,  bullets  still  flying  around  us,  at  the  nightmare  up 
front,  in  the  very  direction  we  are  racing. 

"This  is  Bone  Six.  Turn  around,  Bone  Crusher!  Every  vehicle  turn 
around  and  drive!" 

"What  the  fuck?"  Gene  yells  as  he  brakes.  "We're  going  back  through  the 
kill  zone?" 

"Just  turn  around,"  Chief  says. 

The  road  is  still  on  top  of  a  narrow  berm,  so  there  is  precious  little  room 
to  turn  around,  but  Gene  executes  a  lightning-fast  three-point  turn,  yelling  at 
the  vehicle  behind  us  to  get  the  fuck  out  of  our  way.  When  the  other  truck 
takes  too  long  he  veers  around  it.  There  are  some  M-113  assault  vehicles  in- 
terspersed among  the  train,  and  we  swerve  around  the  slower  trucks  to  get  in 
the  shade  of  their  firepower.  We  pass  the  burning  Abrams  again,  lifeless  now, 
and  the  shooting  increases  as  we  whip  around  the  turn.  We  don't  stop  until 
we  reach  squadron's  rally  point. 

Before  sunrise  the  next  morning  we  are  already  moving  out.  We  are  back  in 
open  desert,  and  we  cut  off  the  road  through  the  sand.  We  quickly  sink  into 
soft  beds  of  dust,  and  churn  through  it  to  the  next  road,  and  stick  to  improved 
surfaces  for  the  most  part  after  that.  It  is  hot  and  the  convoy  throws  up  clouds 
of  dust  into  the  air,  but  the  sandstorms  seem  to  have  left  us,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  we  reached  Samawah,  no  one  is  shooting  at  us.  It  is  a  comforting 
feeling,  but  as  we  get  closer  to  Baghdad  we  are  getting  closer  and  closer  to 
Iraq's  proper  armies,  and  I  dread  the  thought,  after  weathering  Kalashnikov 
and  RPG  and  mortar  fire,  of  getting  shot  at  by  tanks  and  heavy  artillery.  Oc- 
casionally we  hear  snatches  of  reports  of  Iraqi  heavy  units,  but  we  never  seem 
to  get  a  sense  of  where  or  how  large  they  are. 

In  the  late  afternoon  there  is  a  skirmish  with  an  Iraqi  checkpoint  on  a  road 
parallel  to  the  one  we  are  traveling  on.  Apache  is  dispatched,  and  soon  after 
they  call  for  Bull,  so  we  ride  out  with  a  Bradley  to  our  east,  following  the  Brad 
as  it  crosses  right  through  a  farm  field  with  a  small  house.  There  are  several 
figures  standing  in  front  of  the  doorway,  staring  toward  us  blankly. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  35 

When  we  get  to  the  checkpoint,  there  are  three  zip-tied  Iraqis  surrounded 
by  some  Apache  soldiers.  We  hop  out  and  separate  the  prisoners,  talking  to 
each  in  quick  succession.  Two  of  them  are  willing  to  talk,  though  they  don't 
know  much.  They  were  put  in  place  by  their  unit  as  a  routine  checkpoint. 
The  poor  bastards  were  ordered  to  resist  any  force  and  then  left  to  wait  for 
American  tanks.  To  add  insult  to  injury,  their  lieutenant  fled  the  post  a  few 
hours  before  we  found  them. 

The  third  prisoner,  a  sergeant,  is  as  defiant  as  I've  ever  seen  any  EPW.  "I 
still  resist  the  Americans,"  he  tells  me.  "I  would  still  be  fighting  if  it  wasn't  for 
your  superior  technology."  I  try  not  to  laugh;  I  admire  his  gumption.  It  turns 
out  that,  in  what  may  be  a  first  in  war,  the  three  surrendered  themselves  to  an 
American  helicopter  hovering  over  them.  It  was  a  couple  of  Kiowas  that 
found  the  checkpoint  and  rained  down  25  mm  fire  on  them  until  they  raised 
the  white  flag,  and  then  the  helos  hovered  in  place  until  some  ground  troops 
could  reach  them  and  take  them  into  custody. 

The  prisoner  is  uncooperative,  but  he  is  also  furious  with  his  unit  and  par- 
ticularly his  lieutenant.  I  ask  him  why  he  is  protecting  the  officers  who  be- 
trayed him,  while  his  silence  means  more  of  his  fellow  enlisted  troops  will 
die,  and  soon  I  have  him  talking.  Unfortunately,  he  knows  almost  nothing. 
The  Iraqi  command's  reputation  for  keeping  their  soldiers,  even  their  NCOs, 
in  the  dark  is  proving  true.  It  may  not  be  an  effective  way  to  run  an  army,  but 
it  is  an  effective  way  to  stymie  an  interrogation. 

We  drive  back  to  Apache's  train  where  they  have  set  up  camp  and  spend 
the  night  on  an  open  plain.  I've  lost  track  of  exactly  where  we  are,  but  we 
seem  to  be  surrounded  by  friendlies,  since  our  security  posture  is  low.  I  ex- 
pect there  to  be  an  argument  about  who  will  guard  the  prisoners,  but  Civil  Af- 
fairs all  of  a  sudden  seems  happy  to  hang  out  with  them.  They  camp  next  to 
us  and  are  up  half  the  night  talking  with  their  prisoners,  about  Iraqi  culture, 
Islam,  war,  peace,  and  so  on.  By  the  time  I  drop  off,  nestled  in  my  spot  on  the 
hood  of  the  Humvee,  they  are  all  great  friends,  even  the  defiant  Iraqi 
sergeant,  laughing  and  cutting  up  while  the  rest  of  the  troops  slumber. 

CENTCOM  has  ordered  a  pause  for  the  entire  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom. 
We  are  all  to  stay  put  indefinitely  to  refit,  which  everyone  desperately  needs. 
Some  of  the  troops'  vehicles  are  on  their  last  legs,  and  Apache  Eight  starts 
making  the  rounds  as  everyone  else  breaks  open  their  vehicles  for  some  seri- 
ous maintenance.  While  Mike  and  Gene  tend  to  our  equipment,  Chief  and 
I  walk  to  our  squadron  headquarters,  and  I  stop  by  a  familiar-looking  cargo 


36  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

truck.  Inside,  with  their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs,  are  all  of  the  prisoners 
we  have  collected  so  far.  Their  eyes  light  up  when  they  recognize  me.  They 
assault  me  with  questions.  It  takes  me  a  minute  to  realize  they  are  all  saying 
the  same  desperate  thing:  "Please  give  us  cigarettes." 

I  tell  the  guard  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  truck  that  they  are  asking  for  cig- 
arettes. "Is  it  OK?"  he  asks. 

"It's  not  good  for  them,"  I  tell  him.  "It  causes  cancer." 

"But,  I  mean,"  he  says,  not  smiling,  "is  it .  .  .  ?"  I  know  what  he  means.  He 
wants  to  know  if  it  is  all  right  to  be  nice  to  the  enemy. 

"Sure,  if  you  want,"  I  say.  "They're  your  cigarettes." 

He  pulls  out  his  pack,  spurring  the  prisoners  to  rush  to  the  door,  and  we 
stick  the  cigarettes  in  their  mouths  and  light  them,  and  they  ask  me  more 
questions:  Where  are  they  going?  How  long  will  they  be  in  custody?  When 
will  the  handcuffs  come  off?  Will  the  food  get  any  better?  Will  they  get  ciga- 
rettes? Will  they  go  to  America?  I  tell  them  the  truth,  that  they  are  going  to  a 
detention  facility,  they  will  stay  there  until  the  war  is  over,  the  food  will  not 
get  any  better,  they  will  rarely  if  ever  get  cigarettes,  and  they  will  not  get  sent 
to  America.  They  seem  pleased  that  they  are  being  fed  and  not  being  beaten, 
but  disappointed  that  they  are  not  going  to  America,  and  crushed  by  the  news 
about  the  cigarettes. 

That  night  the  sky  lights  up  with  artillery.  We  are  shelling  Hillah,  we  are 
shelling  Karbala,  we  are  shelling  Baghdad.  Since  we  paused  the  artillery  has 
caught  up  with  us,  so  after  dark  we  watch  the  streaks  of  fire  thrusting  up  into 
the  sky,  and  listen  for  the  cool  free  fall  back  down  to  earth,  and  then  see  the 
flash,  then  the  boom,  as  it  pummels  the  cities,  like  the  lightning,  then  the 
thunder,  of  a  rainstorm.  The  shelling  cleaves  me  in  two,  one  side  shaken, 
knowing  each  flash  and  boom  means  more  innocent  Iraqis  dying  in  their 
homes;  the  other  side  stilled,  knowing  it  also  means  less  of  the  enemy  likely 
to  shoot  at  me.  I  sit  and  watch,  picturing  the  Fedayeen  and  Republican 
Guard  getting  annihilated.  Die,  motherfuckers,  die,  I  say  to  them  all.  You, 
not  me.  Not  me. 

We  drive  toward  Baghdad,  past  Karbala,  through  the  Karbala  Gap.  We  are  fi- 
nally confronting  Saddam's  conventional  army  and  the  tank  battles  are  com- 
mencing. We  come  upon  the  carnage  as  the  burnt-out  enemy  vehicles  are 
cooling,  as  the  dead  bodies  are  stiffening.  This  is  when  the  tourism  begins; 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  37 


the  soldiers  start  taking  pictures  of  the  corpses,  stripping  them  of  memen- 
tos—weapons, web  gear,  belt  buckles,  anything  shiny  that  you  can  carry  eas- 
ily and  wipe  the  blood  off  quickly.  Our  team  is  scouring  through  the 
wreckage  looking  for  survivors  to  interrogate.  The  stench  leaves  us  reeling. 

We  bypass  the  twisted  smoking  metal  of  the  vehicles  hit  by  rockets  and 
bombs,  where  the  corpses  are  simply  blackened  effigies  of  former  human  be- 
ings, and  concentrate  on  the  fighting  positions  riddled  with  bullets,  where 
the  bodies  are  untouched  by  fire,  harmed  only  by  bullets  and  the  loss  of 
blood.  But  still  they  are  all  dead.  By  the  time  we  pass  Yusifiyah  and  swing  west 
to  Abu  Ghraib,  there  is  grass  on  the  ground  and  we  can  see  palm  trees. 
Apache  Six  sends  us  to  scout  out  a  car  that  has  attacked  them.  A  Bradley  shot 
it  up,  but  there  may  be  a  survivor.  We  slowly  approach  the  car  on  foot, 
weapons  pointed  ahead.  I  call  out,  but  there  is  no  reply,  and  we  quickly  de- 
termine the  three  men  inside  are  dead.  Gene  pulls  something  out  of  the 
clutches  of  the  corpse  in  the  driver's  seat. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  ask  him. 

"It's  a  Dragunov,"  he  says,  brandishing  the  long  sniper's  rifle.  "Fifty  cal." 

I  start  to  tell  him  to  put  it  down,  then  change  my  mind.  What  do  I  care? 
Gene  grabs  a  corner  of  the  dead  man's  shirt  and  wipes  the  blood  off  the  bar- 
rel. When  we  get  back  to  Apache  he  scrubs  the  weapon  down,  then  until  sun- 
set he  scans  the  horizon  with  the  sights,  the  muzzle  fanning  right,  then  left. 
The  dead  man  didn't  have  any  ammo  left,  so  there  are  no  rounds  for  Gene  to 
shoot. 

"I'll  find  some,"  he  says.  "We  got  time." 

Second  Brigade  is  approaching  Baghdad,  just  east  of  us,  and  we  follow 
their  progress  over  the  radio  in  between  talking  to  Iraqis.  The  Iraqis  can't 
stand  the  idea  of  unburied  bodies,  and  the  civilians  quickly  organize  them- 
selves into  burial  teams;  we  supervise  them  as  they  cross  our  line  of  control, 
dragging  corpses  out  of  tanks  and  foxholes,  digging  shallow  graves  on  the  side 
of  the  road  and  quickly  filling  them.  They  wrap  their  headdresses  around 
their  faces  to  protect  themselves  from  the  stench,  but  it  does  little  good.  The 
smell  of  death  can't  be  avoided.  It  drowns  out  the  smell  of  smoke  from  the 
fires  that  have  broken  out  in  Abu  Ghraib,  western  Baghdad,  and  out  towards 
Fallujah. 

"I'll  find  some,"  Gene  repeats  to  himself.  "We  got  time."  He  squints  into 
the  sun.  A  sandstorm  is  kicking  up,  tilting  the  pillars  of  smoke  on  the  horizon 
to  the  east,  and  the  sun  brightens,  even  though  it  is  setting. 


38  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

GET  SOME 

Fiction 
First  Lieutenant  Paul  A.  Stieglitz 


At  the  same  time  that  soldiers  with  the  U.S.  Army's  yd  Infantry  Division 
were  pushing  northward  through  the  desert  toward  Baghdad,  U.S.  Marines 
with  the  ist  Marine  Division  were  also  converging  on  the  Iraqi  capital  by 
way  of  An  Nasiriyah.  The  Marines  were— to  the  disappointment  of  many  of 
them— encountering  minimal  resistance  as  they  charged  through  one  town 
after  another.  Twenty-eight-year-old  First  Lieutenant  Paul  A.  Stieglitz  was 
a  ground  intelligence  officer  in  the  ist  Battalion,  ^th  Marines,  and  served  as 
the  commander  of  the  battalions  Scout  Sniper  Platoon.  The  following 
story,  although  a  work  of  fiction,  is  based  substantially  on  what  Stieglitz 
saw  as  he  and  his  platoon,  every  one  of  them  eager  to  experience  actual 
combat,  rushed  almost  nonstop  through  Iraq. 

|  stand  up  and  look  at  the  horizon  through  my  binos.  Big  surprise.  Not  a 

goddamn  thing.  Doc  Q  has  the  other  side  of  the  road.  I  bring  up  my 
M-40  sniper  rifle  and  place  it  in  the  550-cord  sling  we  made  on  the  Humvee's 
frame.  I'm  stiff  from  the  cold  and  from  sitting  in  the  back  for  too  long.  The 
drivers  are  pushing  on  nothing  but  coffee  grounds.  The  forward-thinking 
ones  brought  some  Ripped  Fuel  or  some  other  over-the-counter  stimulant, 
and  now  they  pass  it  around  like  candy. 

"Keene,  go  see  what's  going  on  up  with  the  lieutenant's  vehicle,"  I  say. 
Azuela  comes  back  to  the  vehicle  from  his  two  minutes  of  fun. 

"How  you  doing,  Azuela?"  I  say  as  we  glance  at  each  other. 

"Where's  the  fight?"  he  replies. 

Good  question.  We  started  with  such  high  hopes  and  an  adrenaline  rush. 
Intel  passed  that  we  would  not  have  any  resistance  for  a  while,  until  we  got 
further  north,  but  still.  It  was  hard  to  not  get  pumped  up  when  we  were  finally 
moving  into  Iraq.  We  sat  in  Kuwait  for  one  long-ass  month,  and  before  that, 
we  were  on  the  ship  for  forty-five  days.  I  had  said  goodbye  to  my  wife,  Karen, 
almost  three  months  earlier.  Before  that,  we  trained  with  the  expectation  of 
going  to  Iraq,  based  on  what  the  president  was  saying  in  the  news  for  around 
five  or  six  months.  Talk  about  a  buildup.  And  now  those  goddamn  Iraqis 
don't  even  have  the  class  to  meet  us  at  the  border.  After  two  days  of  driving, 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  39 

the  excitement  has  eased  into  bitterness.  Most  of  the  guys  here  just  want  a 
chance  to  kill  someone,  and  now  it  looks  like  we  came  all  this  way  and  aren't 
even  going  to  get  a  Combat  Action  Ribbon. 

Sergeant  Azuela  rummages  through  his  gear  until  he  finds  his  cigarettes. 
He  pulls  two  out  and  gives  me  one.  I  take  it  without  a  word  and  he  lights  us. 
I  never  smoked  but  started  to  in  Kuwait.  Just  something  to  do.  Most  of  the 
guys  in  the  infantry  are  just  ordinary  men  doing  an  extraordinarily  painful 
job.  It  makes  working  with  a  true  psychopath  like  Azuela  all  the  more  re- 
freshing. 

He's  a  real  American  hero.  His  parents  are  Puerto  Rican  immigrants  who 
came  to  America  when  he  was  five  or  so  and  settled  in  Brooklyn.  Never  call 
him  Puerto  Rican  or  Mexican  or  Hispanic.  All  he  is,  he  says,  is  American.  I've 
never  heard  him  speak  Spanish.  He  came  into  the  Marines  as  a  cook  and 
quickly  worked  his  way  to  sergeant.  And  then  after  9/11,  he  wanted  to  get  back 
at  those  motherfuckers  and  went  about  it  the  only  way  he  knew  how,  by  trans- 
ferring to  the  infantry.  All  he  ever  talks  about  is  killing  and  fighting.  He  really 
lives  the  Marine  Corps.  He  has  a  wife,  but  I  don't  know  anybody  who  ever 
met  her.  He  took  a  few  different  types  of  martial  arts  in  his  free  time  and  is 
missing  a  front  tooth  that  he  lost  in  a  fight.  He  just  never  bothered  to  get  it  re- 
placed. He  is  always  demonstrating  his  tricks  on  the  guys,  "teaching"  them. 
Things  like  how  to  kill  a  man  silently  by  disemboweling  him  with  one  of  the 
small  samurai  swords  he  keeps  in  his  boots. 

"Two  minutes!"  yells  Lance  Corporal  Levick.  Finally,  we're  getting  ready 
to  roll. 

Lance  Corporal  Keene  runs  back  and  hands  his  M-16  rifle  to  Doc  as  he 
climbs  in. 

"What's  up?  The  lieutenant  got  any  good  intel?"  I  ask. 

"Fifth  Marines  has  been  fighting  in  that  oil  field,  I  guess  they  have  had 
some  casualties." 

"Any  dead?"  asks  Doc. 

"Yeah.  I  don't  know  how  many." 

"Cool.  Maybe  we'll  get  some,"  says  Azuela  with  a  smile. 

We  settle  in  on  our  piled-up  gear  as  the  convoy  starts  up  again. 

I  wake  up  and  it's  dark.  The  convoy  has  stopped  and  we  have  been  sitting  in 
the  same  spot  for  around  five  hours.  Earlier  today,  our  biggest  excitement  was 
when  a  single  car  drove  up  onto  the  embankment  around  1,800  meters  to  the 


40  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

east.  As  soon  as  it  was  visible,  every  gun  in  the  battalion  was  on  it.  The  radio 
traffic  was  hilarious.  You  would  have  thought  we  were  being  flanked  by  the 
Red  Guard.  It  turned  out  to  be  just  some  guy  in  his  car.  This  country  does 
have  like  forty  million  people  in  it,  right?  People  do  sometimes  drive  around, 
right?  Everyone  needs  to  chill  the  fuck  out. 

It's  my  turn  on  watch,  so  I  take  the  NVGs  from  Doc  and  start  my  surveil- 
lance of  the  horizon.  The  companies  have  pushed  out  Marines  on  security, 
and  they  are  in  groups  around  five  hundred  meters  out.  I  am  looking  out  past 
them,  sitting  on  the  hood  of  our  vehicle.  After  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  Cap- 
tain Madrigal  makes  his  way  back  to  our  vehicle.  He's  the  commanding  offi- 
cer of  the  Headquarters  and  Service  Company,  which  in  an  infantry  battalion 
is  pretty  much  everyone  but  those  actually  doing  the  fighting.  He  slaps  the 
hood  and  yells,  "All  right,  gents,  we're  moving  out  real  soon.  We're  going 
right  through  the  city  and  they've  got  heavy  fighting  up  there!  I  need  you  to 
stay  alert  and  stay  alive!"  and  he's  off  to  the  next  vehicle  with  the  same 
speech.  What  a  crazy,  spastic  bastard. 

Over  the  radio,  they  call  for  all  of  the  drivers  for  a  route  brief  and  Sergeant 
Azuela  and  PFC  Claybuck  go.  I  have  my  guys  clean  their  weapons  and  do  a 
function  check  and  go  over  all  their  gear.  We  all  have  M-i6s  and  pistols.  I  also 
have  my  M-40  sniper  rifle  complete  with  night-vision  scope,  and  one  of  only 
two  monstrous  M-82  Barrett  .50-cal  sniper  rifles.  Plus  extra  rounds,  radios 
(both  handheld  and  back  mounted),  grenades,  claymore  antipersonnel 
mines,  antitank  rockets,  food,  and  other  miscellaneous  crap. 

"How's  it  going?"  asks  our  lieutenant,  who  sauntered  up  quietly  in  the 
dark. 

"Good,  sir,"  says  Levick. 

"Cleaning  your  weapons?  Good.  I  guess  I  don't  have  to  micromanage  you 
all,  right?"  He  looks  at  me  with  a  smile  and  I  just  stare  back.  He  is  an  all-right 
guy,  but  he  has  a  knack  of  saying  the  wrong  things  that  just  get  under  my  skin. 
I  thought  that  the  biggest  part  of  officer  training  was  to  make  them  feel  like 
invincible  leading  machines,  so  they  can  pass  off  their  crap  to  the  troops.  But 
I  guess  it  didn't  work  on  this  guy. 

"Look,  you  all  know  the  plan,  right?"  asks  the  lieutenant.  "Stay  flexible, 
we  need  to  be  able  to  adapt  to  any  situation." 

"Aye,  sir,"  I  answer  with  an  inward  roll  of  the  eyes.  Despite  my  frustration, 
one  of  the  good  things  about  our  lieutenant  is  that  he  knows  the  value  of 
the  sniper  team  leader,  and  even  though  he  sounds  like  a  Marine  Corps  lead- 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  41 

ership  pamphlet,  he  always  stresses  initiative  and  judgment.  He's  not  the  kind 
of  guy  to  micromanage  me.  Hell,  let's  see  him  try  it.  I  am  almost  nine  years 
older  than  him  and  have  a  few  tricks  in  my  bag. 

And  no,  I'm  not  some  screwed-up  sergeant  who  can't  get  promoted.  I  got 
out  of  the  Corps  after  my  first  enlistment.  Nothing  really  seemed  to  be  going 
on  back  in  1997.  So  I  went  to  college  to  be  a  paramedic  and  worked  that  job 
until  2001. 

Two  days  after  9/11 1  went  to  the  recruiter  and  asked  about  coming  back  in 
with  broken  time.  Like  everyone  else  I  was  pissed  off  beyond  belief  about  the 
attack.  I  didn't  even  tell  Karen  about  it  until  after.  They  let  me  back  in  with  a 
reduction  in  rank  to  corporal  and  I  joined  again  on  November  12. 

People  always  ask  why  I  came  back  in.  As  long  as  I  can  remember,  I've 
wanted  to  fight  in  a  war.  I  figured  if  I  could  put  my  desires  to  good  use,  it 
would  be  okay,  so  I  joined  up  with  the  Marines.  When  I  got  to  my  first  bat- 
talion it  felt  like  home.  After  9/11, 1  returned  because  I  knew  there  was  going 
to  be  some  major  shit  going  down  and  the  Marines  were  going  to  be  doing 
most  of  the  hard-core  fighting,  as  always.  Fuck  if  I  was  going  to  miss  it. 

The  lieutenant  returns  to  his  vehicle,  and  I  go  through  some  possible  sce- 
narios with  my  team.  We  practice  actions  on  ambush  and  talk  through  room 
clearing  and  entering  buildings  again,  just  to  make  sure  everyone  has  their 
heads  in  the  game.  I  talk  a  little  about  sniper/observer  dialogue  with  my  ob- 
server and  radio  operator,  Lance  Corporal  Keene.  My  four-man  team  is  made 
up  of  me,  Keene,  Levick,  and  Doc.  As  the  team  leader  and  only  school- 
trained  sniper,  I  would  be  the  one  shooting  the  M-40.  Lance  Corporal  Levick 
is  my  assistant  team  leader  and  carries  our  new  M-16  A-4,  which  has  a  heav- 
ier barrel  and  is  supposed  to  be  accurate  to  eight  hundred  meters.  It  also 
comes  with  a  good  magnified  sight  and  night  vision,  so  Levick  is  able  to  split 
from  me  and  act  as  a  de  facto  sniper.  Doc  is  our  team's  medic.  He  also  carries 
a  radio.  A  real  good  group  of  guys.  They  are  all  experienced,  relatively,  and 
they  were  chosen  for  the  platoon  for  their  maturity  and  intelligence.  In  a 
sniper  team,  each  one  needs  to  be  able  to  do  it  all.  I  can't  babysit  them  like  I 
would  if  I  were  in  the  rifle  companies.  They  need  to  be  able  to  act  without  in- 
structions, which  is  a  rare  thing  in  the  companies  for  lance  corporals. 

Sergeant  Azuela  says,  "They  just  gave  the  five-minute  warning,"  and  we 
all  get  in  the  back.  Me  and  Keene  on  the  right,  Levick  and  Doc  on  the  left 
facing  outboard.  Up  and  down  the  convoy,  Marines  are  running  back  to  their 
vehicles.  Claybuck  is  in  the  passenger  seat  up  front  and  is  monitoring  the 


42  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

battalion  TACNET.  If  anything  goes  down,  Azuela  and  Claybuck  stay  in  the 
vehicle.  Unless  of  course  it's  an  ambush,  in  which  case  we  either  drive 
through  it  or  everyone  gets  out  and  fights. 

The  vehicles  all  start  at  the  same  time  so  that  our  numbers  can't  be  de- 
tected by  sound.  We  start  moving.  We  can  see  and  hear  artillery  firing  in  the 
direction  of  the  city.  They  fire  constantly,  like  popping  popcorn.  After  a  half 
hour  of  moving  at  a  snail's  pace,  we  pass  the  artillery,  probably  a  full  battalion 
firing,  spread  out  in  a  line  perpendicular  to  our  route  on  both  sides  of  us.  The 
noise  punches  you  in  the  gut  every  time  they  fire. 

"Whoa,  check  it  out,"  Azuela  calls  over  his  shoulder.  "Up  ahead." 

We  look  and  can  see  the  Euphrates  River  that  marks  the  southern  bound- 
ary of  Nasiriyah.  We  will  be  crossing  a  bridge  and  on  the  right  side  of  it  we  no- 
tice a  burning  tank,  glowing  in  the  night  sky. 

"Sweet!" 

"I  guess  this  is  the  real  thing,  huh?" 

"Get  some!" 

The  convoy  comes  to  a  stop  for  a  minute  with  the  burning  tank  in  our 
view,  with  us  on  the  south  side  of  the  bridge. 

"Hey  Azuela,  where  s  the  convoy?"  I  ask  after  a  few  minutes.  I  look  ahead 
and  see  nothing;  only  the  bridge  and  blackness  beyond.  Azuela  had  whited 
out  his  NVGs  by  looking  at  the  fire  and  didn't  see  when  the  convoy  took  off. 
Azuela  punches  it,  going  maybe  forty  miles  an  hour,  which  seems  like  a  hun- 
dred after  driving  fifteen  for  all  this  time.  Levick's  M-16  is  pointed  over  the 
side,  and  he  goes  back  to  watching  the  darkness.  I  know  that  my  guys  are  all 
just  praying  to  see  action. 

Low  buildings  line  the  street,  two  or  three  stories  max.  Third-world-type 
buildings.  Tropical  plants  contrast  with  the  desert  environment  we've  driven 
through  up  to  this  point.  Palm  trees  and  thick,  unkempt  vegetation  grow  be- 
tween the  buildings. 

We  come  to  another  bridge  and  Azuela  slows  down  a  little.  There  is  a 
burned-out  shell  of  an  amtrac,  one  of  ours,  on  the  bridge.  Up  ahead  we  can 
see  tracers  flashing  across  the  road  from  both  sides.  An  artillery  illumination 
round  goes  off  and  lights  up  the  sky.  We  are  driving  full  into  a  fight. 

Levick  says  that  the  convoy  is  up  ahead  waiting  until  the  fighting  dies 
down. 

"Who's  getting  some?"  I  ask.  Charlie  Company  is  first  in  the  procession, 
but  they  aren't  necessarily  the  ones  fighting. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  43 

"Bravo,"  answers  Levick.  Right.  They  are  second  in  line  followed  by 
Alpha,  so  I  assume  that  Bravo  had  been  ambushed  or  hit  after  Charlie  passed. 
I  hear  the  popping  sound  of  small  arms  punctuated  by  the  boom  of  AT-4S  or 
SMAWs,  probably  used  to  punch  a  hole  in  a  wall  while  breeching. 

I  look  at  my  team.  They  are  patiently  watching  over  the  side  of  the 
Humvee,  scanning  with  NVGs.  "Give  me  the  headset,"  I  say  to  Levick,  "and 
switch  it  over  to  regimental  intel  net." 

"Desperado  Six,  this  is  Desperado  One,"  I  call,  trying  to  get  our  platoon 
commander. 

"Desperado  One,  this  is  Desperado  Six,"  he  answers. 

"Disco,"  using  the  code  to  switch  to  our  own  battalion  intel  net. 

"Roger." 

Levick  switches  freqs  and  I  wait  for  my  platoon  commander. 

"Desperado  One,  go  ahead." 

"Roger,  we  should  be  up  in  the  fight,  I  can  see  a  good  building  from  back 
here  that  we  can  get  up  on  and  provide  covering  fire.  Requesting  permission." 

"Roger,  get  a  grid  ready  and  I'll  get  permission  from  Palehorse  Three." 

I  lied  about  the  building.  I  couldn't  see  shit,  we  were  too  far  away,  but  I 
was  counting  on  the  lieutenant  being  so  into  his  radio  that  he  wasn't  looking 
at  the  fight  up  ahead.  I  know  we  can  find  something,  though.  So,  we  wait  for 
permission  from  Palehorse  Three,  the  operations  officer  who  controls,  or  at 
least  keeps  track  of,  all  of  the  moving  pieces  of  the  battalion.  Each  of  my  guys 
turns  and  gives  me  either  a  big  smile,  or  with  Doc,  a  little  lower-lip  biting 
complete  with  flared  nostrils. 

The  lieutenant  calls  back  and  gives  us  our  permission.  "Just  make  sure 
you  stay  on  the  west  side  of  the  road  when  you  move  into  position.  There  is  a 
big  concentration  of  bad  guys  up  there,  east  of  the  road.  Their  ambush  was 
pretty  well  coordinated." 

"Roger,  Desperado  One  out." 

I  have  Sergeant  Azuela  drive  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  convoy  and  then 
we  get  out  to  walk  up  to  the  fight,  maybe  five  hundred  meters  ahead.  Levick 
radios  in  as  we  leave  convoy  security  and  we  spread  out  in  patrol  formation  on 
the  west  of  the  road. 

There  are  a  few  one-story  buildings,  and  we  go  behind  those  to  move  up 
and  stay  back  from  the  road.  Keene  is  point,  then  me,  and  then  Levick,  with 
Doc  bringing  up  the  rear.  We  aren't  doing  the  typical  sniper  stalking-type 
movement,  trying  to  stay  hidden  from  all  observation;  the  situation  doesn't 


44  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

call  for  it.  We  need  to  get  up  there  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  I  don't  want 
these  eighteen-year-old  kids  on  Bravo 's  security  thinking  we  are  trying  to 
sneak  into  their  lines. 

We  move  almost  at  a  run,  staying  behind  buildings  and  in  vegetation  as 
much  as  possible.  This  is  easy  because  the  whole  area  is  overgrown.  The 
chemical  protective  suits  are  really  difficult  to  move  in.  It's  like  wearing  an 
extra-large  set  of  pajamas  over  a  three-piece  suit  and  then  trying  to  look 
smooth  as  you  dance  a  tango. 

We  come  around  the  corner  of  a  building.  "Halt!"  a  bush  yells  at  us.  "I 
have  a  book  on  my  desk,"  he  challenges  us,  using  the  challenge  word  "desk." 
The  password  is  "waiter." 

"Your  mother  fucked  a  waiter,"  answers  Keene. 

We  continue  moving  parallel  to  the  road,  keeping  back  about  a  hundred 
meters  until  we  come  to  the  biggest  building  we  can  see.  Three  stories.  Close 
to  the  road,  on  our  right,  we  can  see  the  amtracs  of  Bravo  Company  and  a  lot 
of  Marines  lying  prostrate  on  the  ground.  Some  seem  to  be  in  decent  cover, 
but  most  are  just  lined  up  near  the  road.  Looks  a  little  too  close  together,  but 
who  am  I  to  second-guess? 

I  get  on  Bravo s  TACNET  and  ask  if  anyone  is  in  the  building  that  we 
want  to  go  into.  The  company  XO  tells  us  no  and  I  ask  permission  to  go  in 
and  occupy  the  roof.  "Be  my  guest,"  he  says  like  the  jackass  he  is. 

I'd  like  to  have  some  suppressive  fire  on  the  building,  just  in  case  there  is 
someone  in  there,  but  it  would  take  too  long  to  coordinate,  plus  stealth  would 
be  out  the  window  with  a  squad  of  machine  guns  shooting  the  place  to  hell. 
We  are  going  to  go  in  all  at  once,  in  a  stack,  just  like  we  practiced  before  com- 
ing over  here. 

This  part  gets  me  nervous  and  I  decide  to  move  up  to  the  building  and 
look  in  the  windows  to  check  it  out.  It's  all  dark,  just  like  all  the  buildings  in 
the  city,  because  the  power  is  out.  We  peer  in  one  window  and  it  looks  like  an 
ordinary  office  building,  with  desks  and  office  furniture  inside.  We  move  to 
the  back  and  more  of  the  same.  Fuck  it,  I  think  as  I  get  impatient,  we  need  to 
get  in  there. 

I  signal  to  my  team  that  we're  going  through  the  window.  Doc  gets  on  his 
hands  and  knees  and  Keene  stands  on  his  back  and  looks  into  the  window  for 
a  few  seconds.  Levick  and  I  are  keeping  security  and  watching  to  the  left  and 
right.  I  motion  for  him  to  go  in,  and  Keene  breaks  the  window  with  the  butt 
of  his  rifle.  He  clears  the  glass  from  the  pane  and  heaves  himself  in.  Next  I  go 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  45 

through  and  then  Landers.  Keene  is  on  one  knee  pointing  his  rifle  at  the  door 
leading  out  of  the  office.  Levick  and  I  reach  out  the  window  and  pull  in  Doc. 

Once  in,  we  listen  for  a  minute.  All  quiet.  The  air  smells  like  dust  and 
mold.  We  get  back  in  order  and  proceed  out  of  the  room.  I  can  tell  that  we 
are  all  nervous;  a  little  sharpness  in  movements,  quickness  maybe  that  isn't  al- 
ways there  in  training.  We  stack  up  by  the  door,  and  I  give  Keene  a  knee  in 
his  leg,  which  is  his  signal  to  open  the  door.  We  explode  into  the  other  room, 
each  of  us  covering  his  corners  like  we  practiced  time  and  time  again.  I  feel 
warm  feelings  of  pride  for  a  second,  before  I  make  myself  concentrate  on 
what  we're  doing.  There'll  be  time  for  pride  if  we  all  make  it  back. 

We  move  through  two  more  rooms  this  way  before  we  find  the  hallway 
and  the  stairwell.  We  move  up  the  stairs  to  the  second  and  then  third  floors. 
Now  to  find  a  way  to  the  roof.  We  move  through  each  room,  looking  for  a 
hatch,  or  better  yet,  a  stairway  up,  but  there  isn't  one.  There  might  be  a  lad- 
der on  the  outside  of  the  building,  going  up  from  a  window,  but  I  decide  not 
to  waste  time  looking  for  it.  I  motion  to  go  to  the  forward  window,  the  one 
that  looks  out  over  the  street  and  at  our  potential  targets. 

We  set  up.  Keene  and  I  drag  a  desk  to  make  a  good,  stable  shooting  posi- 
tion as  Doc  opens  all  the  windows.  Not  just  the  one  I  will  be  shooting  out  of, 
because  that  would  alert  the  not-so-casual  observer  of  our  location.  I  arrange 
my  shooting  position  on  the  desk,  Keene  sets  up  his  observation  position  next 
to  me,  and  Levick  and  Doc  move  to  the  rear  of  the  building  to  cover  security. 

I  set  my  pack  on  the  desk  in  order  to  provide  a  platform  to  place  the  bar- 
rel of  my  M-40  on.  The  desk  is  in  the  middle  of  the  room  so  that  we  aren't  too 
close  to  the  window,  silhouetting  ourselves  in  the  frame.  I  grab  a  bunch  of 
binders  from  a  bookshelf  in  the  office  and  stack  them  on  the  desk  to  rest  my 
shooting  elbow  on,  setting  up  a  makeshift  platform  that  is  angled  down  at  the 
street  and  buildings  ahead  of  us.  When  Keene  is  ready,  sitting  Indian  style  on 
another  desk  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  binos  on  his  tripod  in  front 
of  him,  I  tell  him  to  call  to  Bravo  and  give  them  our  position  and  say  that 
we're  ready  to  shoot. 

We  begin.  We're  in  a  good  position,  a  little  to  the  north  of  all  of  Bravo 's 
amtracs.  I  can  see  the  furthest  northern  amtrac  about  a  hundred  meters  to 
our  south.  Charlie  is  to  the  north,  but  they  aren't  visible  from  here.  I  start 
looking  for  guys  with  guns  that  I  can  shoot. 

I  see  two  buildings  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  one  of  which  is  two  sto- 
ries tall  and  the  other,  one  story.  In  between  the  two  buildings  is  a  nice  field 


46  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

with  plenty  of  concealment  from  bushes  and  trees.  Lots  of  shadows  and  good 
places  to  hide.  Were  I  an  Iraqi,  I  would  definitely  use  it  to  move  through,  and 
that's  what  I'm  counting  on.  We  hear  over  Keene's  radio  that  Bravo  is  prepar- 
ing to  clear  a  building  they  think  has  the  most  enemy  in  it,  to  our  south.  We 
hear  the  explosions  of  two  rockets  and  several  machine  guns  providing  sup- 
pressive fire.  A  textbook  attack.  Keene  and  I  keep  looking  at  our  field,  hoping 
that  we  can  get  some  of  the  Iraqis  running  away  to  the  north. 

"I  think  I  got  one,"  says  Keene.  "Two  to  the  left  of  the  center  palm  tree.  I 
saw  movement." 

"Got  it."  I  move  my  gaze  to  that  area,  and  with  my  night  vision  scope,  I 
can  see  a  suspicious  dark  spot.  My  rifle's  scope  is  set  at  300  yards,  and  this  spot 
is  roughly  350  yards  away.  No  wind.  Just  aim  a  little  high,  I  tell  myself.  I  wait 
until  we  can  get  a  definite  target;  no  sense  in  possibly  giving  our  position 
away.  And  then  the  dumb  fucker  stands  up,  just  like  that,  in  the  open.  Maybe 
he  thinks  he's  hidden  behind  that  tree  because  of  the  angles.  Even  better,  he 
has  an  AK. 

I'm  about  to  get  my  first  kill.  There's  no  way  I  can  miss  at  this  range,  the 
guy  fills  my  whole  scope,  but  I  take  my  time  anyway,  just  like  I've  done  thou- 
sands of  times  in  training.  On  my  exhale  I  slowly  and  gently  squeeze  the  trig- 
ger, pulling  straight  back.  The  slow  controlled  motion  feels  like  it  takes  an 
eternity,  and  the  guy  is  raising  his  rifle  up  to  his  shoulder  to  fire  a  shot.  My 
crosshairs  rest  directly  on  the  line  that  connects  his  shoulders— he  is  at  about 
a  forty-five  degree  angle.  .  .  . 

BANG!!! 

My  rifle  jumps  and  I  lose  sight  of  anything  as  it  recoils.  I  quickly  bring  it 
back  down  and  look  for  my  target,  but  I  see  nothing. 

I  work  the  bolt  to  rack  another  round.  Like  butter. 

"Center  mass,  you  got  him,"  reports  Keene.  My  heart  is  racing  and  I  feel 
a  light-headed  euphoria.  Giddy.  I  did  it.  Fucking  sweet.  Felt  just  like  I  always 
imagined  it  would. 

Some  might  think  that  is  a  little  extreme,  to  imagine  shooting  someone 
during  training.  Maybe  it  is,  but  then  again,  shooting  a  man  is  a  little  extreme 
as  well,  and  this  is  what  we  were  sent  here  to  do.  I  knew  if  I  ever  had  to  use 
this  weapon  for  real,  it  would  end  someone's  life.  No  doubt  about  it.  And  if  I 
weren't  mentally  prepared  for  that,  right  now  I  would  probably  be  a  little 
more  worried  about  what  I  had  just  done  and  not  have  my  head  in  the  game. 


ANO     NOW     IT     BEG  47 

Maybe  Id  be  shaking  and  trembling,  unable  to  focus.  But  that  guy  is  a  mem- 
ory to  me  now.  Only  the  present  matters,  and  I've  got  more  people  to  shoot 

"Good  job,  Sergeant,"  Keene  says.  I  can  feel  him  looking  at  me. 

"Shut  the  fuck  up  and  keep  looking.  There  should  be  some  more  fuckers 
back  there  ...  or  some  running  through  soon,"  I  say  as  I  slow  my  breathing  to 
a  nice  calm,  even  pace.  More  shooting  by  Bravo  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 
We  listen  to  the  radio  chatter  on  their  net. 

"I  got  one  .  .  .  four  hundred  out .  .  .  he's  running  away  from  the  building," 
says  Keene.  I  move  my  rifle  to  the  left  and  see  the  guy  instandy.  He's  running, 
but  having  a  hard  time  of  it  with  the  tall  grass  and  uneven  ground.  Aim  high. 
I  relax  my  left  hand,  which  my  rifle  butt  rests  on.  lowering  the  butt  and  ele- 
vating the  crosshairs  until  they  are  at  his  head  level.  I  trail  him  for  a  second  or 
two.  This  one  is  harder  because  he's  moving,  but  luckily,  or  unluckily  for 
him,  he's  moving  perpendicularly  to  me.  Easier  to  lead.  He's  not  moving 
quickly,  so  I  keep  my  crosshairs  a  fraction  of  a  mil  ahead  of  him  and  start  to 
squeeze.  Lightly,  steady  .  .  . 

BANG! 

The  rifle  always  startles  me;  just  like  it  should.  I  bring  the  scope  back 
down  and  work  the  bolt. 

"You  got  him.  ...  He  went  down." 

"Impact7" 

"I  couldn't  tell.  He  just  went  down." 

"Call  this  in  to  Bravo.  Both  kills.  Tell  them  we've  got  this  area  covered." 

I  get  two  more  kills  in  the  same  way.  bringing  my  total  to  four  for  the  night 
After  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  we  move  out  again.  There  has  not  been  any 
shooting  for  about  twenty  minutes  and  Bravo  has  cleared  the  three  builc  _ 
that  had  been  giving  trouble.  I  guess  our  mission  was  not  to  clear  the  town  or 
route,  but  merely  to  go  through  it  and  this  was  a  sidetrack,  self-defense.  Wlien 
I  look  at  my  watch,  we've  only  been  in  the  building  for  about  two  hours. 

The  sun  is  coming  up  again  as  we  roll  out. 

"How  was  the  shooting.  Sergeant?"  Claybuck  asks  with  his  usual  wide- 
eyed  enthusiasm. 

"Four."  I  answer.  I  reach  into  my  pack  and  take  out  an  MRE.  I  eat  some 
pound  cake  as  I  heat  beef  ravioli.  Doc  is  already  asleep.  King  on  our  gear,  and 
Levick  and  Keene  are  talking  while  they  eat  The  city  looks  different  in  the 
light.  Looks  much  more  like  a  small  town  than  a  city  with  a  million  people  in 


48  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

it.  The  air's  cool  and  fresh  and  there's  dew  on  the  plants.  Before  I  know  it, 
we're  out  of  the  city  and  into  the  suburbs.  The  city  was  even  smaller  than  it 
looked  on  the  map. 

We  pass  a  burning  little  car  in  the  median.  I  can  see  the  driver's  door  open 
and  an  Iraqi  is  lying  out  of  the  driver's  seat  with  his  head  on  the  ground.  Dead 
as  a  .  .  .  whatever.  Just  dead. 

"Holy  shit,  look  at  that."  Doc  is  awake  now,  watching  the  view.  Then  I  see 
what  they're  talking  about.  There's  a  bus  ahead  completely  shot  to  fuck,  still 
burning  a  little.  Then  I  catch  a  whiff  of  the  indescribably  revolting  smell  of 
burning  flesh.  Driving  past  at  five  miles  an  hour  we  get  a  slo-mo  show  of  the 
gore  inside.  Bodies.  Maybe  fifteen  or  twenty.  All  dead.  Some  charred,  black 
and  crisp,  windows  shot  out  and  a  few  dead  fuckers  half  in,  half  out,  trying  to 
escape.  A  few  had  made  it  out  of  the  bus  and  were  lying  in  the  road,  their  bod- 
ies contorted  in  every  position  imaginable.  We  drive  over  the  smear  of  a  body 
already  driven  over  countless  times  by  tracks  and  tires.  There's  a  pair  of  boots 
in  the  road,  sitting  in  the  normal  position,  as  if  someone  was  still  wearing 
them,  attached  to  them,  with  feet  and  a  few  inches  of  calf  inside. 

We  continue  to  see  the  aftermath  of  last  night.  Another  bus.  Same  condi- 
tion. A  torn  leg  in  the  road.  Severed  at  the  hip. 

"Holy  shit!"  says  Sergeant  Azuela. 

I  look  to  see  what  he's  looking  at.  "Stop  the  vehicle,"  I  tell  him.  "Come 
on,  Doc." 

We  jump  over  the  side  of  the  vehicle  and  walk  over  to  a  body  in  the  road. 
A  small  body.  A  small  moving  body.  A  boy  about  seven  or  eight  years  old, 
lying  on  his  back  and  raising  one  of  his  hands  to  the  sky. 

As  we  walk  over  to  him,  I  think,  How  many  vehicles  have  passed  and  not 
stopped  for  this  boy?  I  stand  over  him,  looking  with  a  paramedic's  critical  eye, 
and  gasp  a  little  inside.  He  is  fucked,  there  is  no  other  way  to  say  it.  His  eyes 
move  to  me  and  we  meet.  His  big,  black,  Arab  eyes.  He  moves  his  arms  as  if  he 
wants  me  to  pick  him  up  and  he  lets  out  a  labored,  wheezing  whine.  His  eyes 
are  huge  with  pleading,  huge  and  beautiful  and  black.  His  head  is  split  open 
and  there's  a  large  spot  of  dark  sticky  blood  pooled  in  a  heart  shape  above  his 
head.  He's  bleeding  from  his  chest.  Old  blood,  dark  blood,  is  dried  on  his  tank- 
top  T-shirt  and  pooled  at  his  left.  He  has  crusted,  dried  blood  tracing  down  both 
cheeks  from  his  mouth.  I  can't  believe  he's  still  alive.  Barefoot  with  torn  shorts. 

I  take  in  all  of  this  in  an  instant.  Doc  looks  through  his  bag  for  something 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  49 

and  pulls  out  a  stethoscope  and  listens  to  his  chest  as  those  eyes  tear  me  to 
pieces.  I  want  to  reach  down  and  pick  him  up  and  hug  him  and  make  every- 
thing better.  I  kneel  down  beside  him  and  put  my  hand  on  his  head  and  hold 
his  forehead.  Dried  tears  have  left  tracks  in  the  dirt  on  his  face;  his  eyes  stay 
on  me  and  he  tries  to  say  something  but  just  opens  his  mouth  as  he  looks  at 
me,  pleads  with  me  to  take  care  of  him,  but  I  can't,  we  can't.  This  boy  is  dead. 
Fuck!!!!!  I  scream  inside. 

"Come  on,  Doc,  we  gotta  go.  They're  waiting."  I  pull  Doc  up  and  we  run 
back  to  the  Humvee  and  continue  on.  Back  in  the  vehicle  no  one  talks.  I  feel 
a  powerful  wave  of  rage  flowing  inside  and  try  to  let  it  flow  out  of  me,  not  re- 
sist it,  just  let  it  disperse  without  showing  it.  Thinking  about  that  boy,  scared, 
all  alone,  pain,  just  wanting  his  mother,  confused,  not  knowing  what  he  did 
to  deserve  this  or  why  it  happened,  just  scared  and  wanting  his  mother  to 
make  it  better,  but  no  one  comes,  cold,  night,  noise,  pain. 

Nausea  hits.  Oh  God,  please  don't  let  me  throw  up  in  front  of  my  guys.  I 
need  to  keep  it  together,  stay  cool,  be  cool,  man.  I  try  to  concentrate  on  my 
breathing,  but  my  mouth  is  watering,  watering  with  that  bitter  alkaline  taste. 
Too  late,  fuck,  here  it  comes.  I'm  not  going  to  let  it.  My  back  is  turned  to  my 
guys,  I'm  looking  out  the  side  and  I  brace  myself. 

Fuck  it,  I'm  keeping  it  down,  I'm  not  puking  in  front  of  my  guys.  Not  after 
that.  Every  muscle  in  my  body  tenses  and  I  feel  the  spasm  of  my  guts.  My 
throat  tightens  and  I  will  myself  to  keep  it  down.  My  mind  and  guts  are  duk- 
ing  it  out,  and  it  comes  up  but  I  keep  my  mouth  clamped  shut.  I  am  not  going 
to  let  this  happen,  I  squeeze  and  squeeze  and  finally  it  stops  and  I  swallow  the 
majority.  I  spit  a  little  out  and  cough.  Some  went  down  my  windpipe  and  I 
cough  and  cough  like  I'm  dying.  But  I  pull  through  it.  My  eyes  are  watering 
and  I  wipe  'em  and  my  mouth  and  look  back  at  my  guys,  but  no  one  noticed, 
thank  God.  I'm  sweating  as  I  take  a  drink  of  stale,  dirty-tasting  water. 

I  sit  back  and  think  about  why  that  affected  me  so  much.  I've  seen  chil- 
dren die  before  when  I  was  a  paramedic  and  it  always  bothered  me.  I  once 
worked  on  a  pretty  little  eight-year-old  girl  who  was  hit  by  a  car  crossing  the 
road.  Her  head  had  smashed  the  windshield  and  she  was  lying  maybe  twenty 
feet  from  the  car  when  we  got  there.  We  did  everything  we  could,  which  was 
basically  nothing,  but  she  stopped  breathing  on  the  way  to  the  hospital.  We 
breathed  for  her,  but  they  pronounced  her  dead  at  the  hospital  during 
surgery.  I  thought  that  after  I  quit,  I  would  never  need  to  see  anything  like 
that  again. 


50  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


We  drive  on.  The  sun  is  high  in  the  sky  now  and  we're  the  lead  battalion  for 
the  division,  pushing  our  way  to  Baghdad.  I  settle  in  for  more  of  the  same. 


LIFE  ON  THE  USNS  COMFORT 

Journal 
Commander  Edward  W.  Jewell,  M.D. 


After  weighing  anchor  in  January  2003,  the  hospital  ship  USNS  Comfort 
left  Baltimore,  Maryland,  and  slowly  chugged  across  thousands  of  miles  of 
ocean  to  its  final  destination  in  the  Persian  Gulf  What  the  Comfort  lacks 
in  speed  (and  firepower),  it  makes  up  for  in  size  and  advanced  medical  tech- 
nology: the  bright  white  hospital  ship,  the  length  of  almost  three  football 
fields,  has  one  thousand  patient  beds,  twelve  fully  equipped  operating 
rooms,  full  state-of-the-art  radiological  capabilities,  several  labs,  CAT-scan 
machines,  and  two  oxygen-producing  plant  systems.  In  early  March,  just 
weeks  before  the  launch  of  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom,  forty-eight-year-old 
Commander  Edward  W.  Jewell  said  goodbye  to  his  wife,  Clara,  and  left 
their  home  in  Washington,  D.C.,  to  fly  out  to  the  Middle  East.  Jewell  spe- 
cializes in  diagnostic  radiology  and  was  sent  to  the  Comfort  for  a  two- 
month  deployment  to  evaluate  X-rays  and  determine  the  severity  of  internal 
wounds  sustained  by  American  forces.  The  following  excerpts  are  taken  from 
the  journal  entries  that  Jewell  wrote  aboard  ship  and  then  edited  later. 

March  27 

Q:  The  Comfort  is  a  large  noncombat  hospital  ship  protected  by  the  most 
powerful  Navy,  Army,  and  Air  Force  in  history.  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of? 
A:  Everything.  Danger  is  all  around  us.  We  are  really  very  close  to  the  action. 
At  times  we  see  oil  fires  near  the  shore.  However,  we  cannot  really  see  the 
combat.  We  are  not  afraid  of  the  Iraqi  military.  If  they  try  to  fire  a  rocket  at  us 
it  would  be  easily  shot  down  by  artillery  on  the  ground,  aircraft,  or  naval  gun- 
nery/rockets. However,  we  believe  there  are  mines  in  the  Gulf.  Purportedly, 
small  boats  have  approached  the  Comfort  several  times.  When  this  happens 
we  call  in  a  helo  and  launch  our  small  boat  to  run  them  off.  How  can  we  pos- 
sibly see  one  of  these  things  in  the  dark?  I  think  it  would  be  very  easy  for  a  ter- 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  51 

rorist  to  attack  this  ship  with  an  explosive-laden  small  boat.  Very  easy.  The 
Comfort  is  the  slowest  ship  in  the  water.  We  couldn't  outrun  a  rowboat.  Huge 
red  crosses  on  our  sides  and  decks  mark  the  optimum  spots  to  aim  a  torpedo 
or  rocket  to  sink  us.  As  a  noncombatant  ship,  Comfort  is,  of  course,  unarmed. 
Would  the  Iraqis  attack  a  hospital  ship  if  they  could?  Why  not?  In  their  view, 
they  were  invaded  by  mercenary  infidels  who  deserve  no  better.  A  surgeon 
buddy  of  mine  Mike  from  Massachusetts  thinks  an  attack  on  our  ship  is  a 
near  given,  with  a  50  percent  chance  of  success.  However,  he  is  a  proctologist 
and  Red  Sox  fan  and  naturally  pessimistic. 

March  28 

Sickening  sight:  a  helicopter's  downwash  blows  a  stack  of  letters  overboard. 
Who  knows  what  was  lost?  Last  letter  to  save  a  troubled  relationship?  A  fat 
check?  Notice  of  tax  audit?  We'll  never  know.  That's  war. 

The  doctors  are  all  bored  from  underutilization,  but  the  surgeons  seem 
particularly  restless.  There  are  so  many  of  them  and  not  enough  cases  to  fill 
the  time. 

The  Army  helos  cannot  fly  patients  out  to  us  in  bad  weather.  The  visi- 
bility has  been  poor  the  last  three  days,  with  choppy  seas.  We  were  to  have 
received  twenty  or  thirty  new  patients  but  they  never  made  it  because  of  the 
weather.  This  will  all  change  markedly  very  soon.  A  new  scheme  for  casu- 
alty movement  has  Comfort  playing  a  more  pivotal  role.  Two  all-weather 
CH-46  Marine  helos  will  be  permanently  assigned  to  us.  They  will  be  bring- 
ing patients  to  us  who  have  had  only  basic  stabilizing  medical  care  or  none 
at  all,  coming  directly  from  the  battlefield.  We  hear  they  will  be  mostly 
Americans. 

Rumor  is  an  Iraqi  speedboat  loaded  with  explosives  was  intercepted  today. 
It  is  believed  it  was  headed  towards  one  of  our  ships,  maybe  us.  I  notice  today 
there  are  more  gray-hulled  (regular  Navy)  ships  protecting  Comfort.  I  hope  it 
stays  that  way. 

March  29 

Old  Navy  jargon  "belay  my  last,"  meaning  disregard  my  last  statement,  ap- 
plies to  my  commentary  from  yesterday.  We  got  creamed  with  fresh  casualties 
last  night,  thirty  new  patients,  both  sides,  all  needing  immediate  and  signifi- 
cant intervention.  The  injuries  are  horrifying.  Ruptured  eyeballs.  Children 
missing  limbs.  Large  burns.  Genitals  and  buttocks  blown  off.  Grotesque  frac- 


52  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

tures.  Gunshot  wounds  to  the  head.  Faces  blown  apart.  Paraplegics  from 
spine  injuries.  The  number  of  X-ray  studies  performed  last  night  in  a  short  pe- 
riod of  time  is  so  great  it  causes  the  entire  system  to  crash  under  the  burden 
of  the  electronic  data  it  is  being  fed.  Miraculously,  Cathy  and  John  are  able 
to  reboot  it. 

Our  patients  are  mostly  Iraqis.  Along  with  their  combat  wounds,  they  are 
dirty,  undernourished,  and  dehydrated.  One  rumor  says  we  will  treat  all  the 
wounded  Iraqi  EPWs  (enemy  prisoners  of  war)  for  the  duration  of  the  war  and 
these  are  the  only  patients  we  will  see.  If  true,  this  would,  in  effect,  make  the 
Comfort  a  prison  hospital  ship.  The  corpsmen  on  the  wards  have  to  guard  the 
prisoners  and  keep  them  from  communicating  with  one  another  to  prevent  re- 
bellion. As  medical  people  we  are  trained  to  care  for  the  sick;  it  is  difficult  to 
stay  mindful  that  these  patients  are  the  enemy  and  could  fight  back  against  us. 

April  4 

A.m.:  We  will  be  taking  on  fuel,  food,  supplies,  mail(?),  and  off-loading 
garbage  most  of  the  day.  This  will  limit  opportunities  to  bring  on  new  patients 
and  pave  the  way  for  an  easy  day.  We  hope. 

P.m.:  Well,  no  mail  but  they  did  bring  in  eight  more  Iraqis,  so  I  had  a  busy 
afternoon  and  evening.  Worst  case  was  a  middle-aged  civilian  female  shot  in 
the  head.  Her  CAT  scan  showed  major  brain  damage  and  her  prognosis  is 
very  dim.  Nonetheless,  they  chose  to  operate  on  her.  She  will  not  do  well. 

So  far,  sixty  coalition  fatalities,  twelve  of  which  were  due  to  friendly  fire. 

April  5 

The  Saturday  entertainment  is  karaoke.  I  usually  like  it,  but  tonight  it's  not 
for  me.  The  room  is  hot  and  crowded,  and  the  whole  event  is  just  too  loud  for 
me.  I  step  out  for  air.  On  deck  is  a  different  world.  For  safety  we  are  on 
"darken  ship"  status  now.  This  means  no  external  lights  and  all  windows  are 
covered  to  block  light  transmission.  The  night  is  moonless,  skies  only  a  slight 
haze.  It  is  very  dark  outside.  So  dark  my  eyes  need  ten  minutes  to  fully  ac- 
commodate. There  is  a  magnificent  display  of  stars,  and  the  night  has  a  misty, 
impressionist  feel.  People  moving  about  in  the  night  are  just  vague  dark 
shapes.  Voices  are  low.  Boys  and  girls  being  what  they  are,  couples  are  form- 
ing on  Comfort.  They  drift  into  obscure  corners.  Ghostlike  green  blobs  of  flu- 
orescence rise  and  fall  in  the  water.  Jellyfish.  Thousands  of  jellyfish,  they  drift 
and  bob  around  the  ship.  I  watch  the  stars  until  my  neck  hurts.  Someone  is 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  53 

singing  in  the  dark  in  a  beautiful,  strange  language.  He  tells  me  it  is  Hindi, 
and  he  is  actually  practicing  for  karaoke.  I  hope  he  wins. 

April  7 

Unusual  experience  today.  I  visited  the  inpatient  ward  holding  the  Iraqi 
EPWs.  I  accompany  one  of  the  internists  on  his  rounds.  This  doctor  created 
a  niche  for  himself  by  volunteering  to  serve  as  the  attending  physician  on  the 
prisoner  ward.  The  experience  will  be  unforgettable  for  him— and  be  a 
unique  item  on  his  curriculum  vitae. 

The  prisoners  are  kept  on  a  separate  ward,  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  ship, 
for  security  reasons,  and  the  location  is  kept  obscure.  There  is  concern  for  the 
security  of  the  prisoners.  Lawyers  run  everything  now,  and  we  actually  have  a 
lawyer  on  board  whose  primary  job  is  to  ensure  we  comply  with  all  tenets  of 
the  Geneva  Convention.  There  are  press  on  board  all  the  time. 

The  ward  is  real  creepy.  Burly  armed  guards  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  the 
prisoners.  There  is  an  interpreter  on  board  most  of  the  time.  The  prisoners 
are  not  allowed  to  talk  to  one  another.  Some  are  strapped  down  to  the  bed. 
There  is  an  isolation  room  for  the  unruly.  Medical  attendants  have  to  remove 
their  belts  before  entering  the  ward  and  empty  their  pockets  of  pens  and  other 
sharp  objects  (remember  Hannibal  Lecter). 

Most  of  the  Iraqis  show  real  appreciation  for  the  care  rendered  them.  I 
would  love  to  talk  to  them  about  family,  etc.,  but  we  have  been  firmly  warned 
not  to  do  this.  It  is  contrary  to  our  training  in  medicine  not  to  show  at  least 
some  warmth  towards  the  patient,  but  these  are  our  marching  orders.  The 
prisoners  are  a  sad  lot.  I  feel  for  them.  Most  were  not  real  soldiers,  just  con- 
scripts forced  to  fight  for  the  Big  Lie,  Saddam  Hussein.  Some  of  these  guys, 
however,  were  Republican  Guards,  some  of  them  the  feared  Fedayeen  sui- 
cide commandos.  In  general,  the  prisoners  are  badly  wounded.  They  look  de- 
feated and  glad  to  be  out  of  combat. 

April  n 

The  number  of  patients  coming  aboard  Comfort  is  simply  out  of  control. 
Like  the  characters  on  M*A*S*H,  we  have  grown  to  hate  the  rumble  of  helos 
on  the  flight  deck,  since  it  usually  means  another  load  of  Iraqi  patients.  Today 
we  received  at  least  thirty-five  more.  New  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours  is  a  big 
influx  of  sick  and  injured  children.  We  have  only  one  doctor  with  residency 
training  in  pediatrics.  Some  of  the  kids  are  very  ill.  One  was  DOA  from  drink- 


54  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

ing  kerosene.  "They"  are  sending  everyone  here.  We  don't  know  who  "they" 
are,  and  no  one  seems  to  have  a  handle  on  where  these  patients  come  from, 
when  they  are  arriving,  or  who  is  sending  them.  We  take  them  all  and  do  our 
best.  Patients  are  beginning  to  die  because  their  injuries  are  so  severe  and 
they  are  getting  to  us  too  late. 

There  is  no  long-term  care  plan  for  all  these  patients,  and  the  ones  who 
survive  will  need  long-term  care.  Where  will  they  go?  Who  will  care  for  them 
after  we  leave?  We  have  become  deeply  involved  in  a  humanitarian  crisis  we 
will  not  be  able  to  extricate  ourselves  from. 

April  12 

It  had  to  happen.  Boys  and  girls  together.  Sex.  People  are  having  sex  on 
board,  and  rumor  has  it  that  finally  somebody(s)  got  caught.  It  may  have  been 
more  than  just  a  couple.  A  menage  a  trois  had  been  the  subject  of  rumors  for 
some  time  and  they  were  finally  caught  in  flagrante.  They  were  sent  to  cap- 
tain's mast,  a  form  of  internal  Navy  investigation  and  trial  where  the  accused 
Stand  Tall  in  front  of  The  Captain  to  answer  allegations.  Mast  is  swift  and 
final.  They  get  to  the  point  quickly  and  mete  out  punishment  on  the  spot. 
Whatever  punishment  was  assigned  here  is  unknown  to  the  crew.  Most  of  the 
men  just  want  to  know  who  the  girl(s?)  were! 

April  15 

Tim  and  John  were  up  all  night  helping  with  a  Marine  who  was  run  over  by 
an  eighteen-wheel  truck  in  an  accident.  Amazingly  he  lived  despite  a  crushed 
pelvis  and  massive  blood  loss. 

Civilian  Iraqi  patients  are  being  allowed  to  move  around  the  ship  more 
(with  escort,  of  course)  as  their  conditions  improve.  I  saw  a  teenager  today 
smiling  and  shaking  hands  with  everyone.  As  he  bent  to  tie  his  shoe,  his 
sleeve  slid  up.  I  saw  he  had  a  tattoo  on  his  upper  arm.  A  fresh  Marine  Corps 
"Globe  and  Anchor."  Wow!  Hearts  and  minds,  indeed. 

April  17 

We  began  in  earnest  to  discharge  stable  EPW  patients  from  the  Comfort. 
Close  to  thirty  sent  back  today.  Sent  somewhere.  Sadly,  these  guys  don't  real- 
ize they  are  not  being  repatriated.  For  security  reasons  they  cannot  be  told 
where  they  are  really  going.  Looking  at  these  pathetic-looking  fellows,  it  is 
easy  to  forget  they  were  the  enemy,  and  many  probably  still  wish  us  harm.  Ac- 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  55 

cording  to  an  ICU  doctor,  one  of  the  most  timid-looking  teenage  patients  is 
actually  an  identified  terrorist.  Another  patient  awoke  from  surgery  disori- 
ented as  to  place;  he  asked  if  he  had  been  sent  home  to  Syria!  Apparently 
many  anti-American  Syrians  had  joined  Saddam's  army  to  fight  us. 

In  a  Pavlovian  way,  the  patients  now  associate  the  presence  of  the  Big 
Nurse  Administrator  with  the  Clipboard  with  imminent  departure  of  fellow 
Iraqis.  As  soon  as  she  sets  foot  on  the  wards  they  circle  their  arms  overhead 
like  helo  blades  in  motion  and  make  woop-woop  sounds.  They  know  helos 
are  in-bound  for  evacuation. 

April  21 

Comfort  receives  a  visit  from  CENTCOM,  the  name  for  the  headquarters 
group  for  the  entire  war.  A  group  of  their  medical  admin  bureaucrats,  pri- 
marily Army,  are  on  board  to  give  us  an  overview  of  the  medical  situation  in 
Iraq  and  Kuwait.  We  hope  to  hear  something  concrete  about  our  own 
status— -what  is  planned  for  us,  how  can  we  off-load  our  patients,  and  mostly, 
when  can  we  go  home?  Instead  of  insight  and  clarity,  we  got  more  obscuring 
mud  in  the  eye.  The  formal  presentation  is  tiresome,  trite,  and  uninforma- 
tive.  It  takes  fifteen  minutes  to  get  the  PowerPoint  working.  The  speaker  uses 
too  much  Army-specific  jargon.  He  admits  the  Comfort  is  the  most  stable,  es- 
tablished, and  productive  medical  unit  in  theater.  The  hospitals  in  Iraq  have 
been  looted  and  are  barely  functioning. 

A  Q&A  session  follows.  The  discussion  is  as  overheated  as  the  room.  Sev- 
eral doctors  are  really  pissed  about  how  hard  we  worked  and  how  we  got  stuck 
taking  all  the  EPWs.  Pointed  questions  regarding  why  we  got  so  stuck  with  so 
many  patients  go  ignored  or  glossed  over.  It  is  explained  that  the  Iraqi  casual- 
ties were  put  on  helicopters  by  well-meaning,  altruistic  U.S.  troops,  even 
though  they  were  told  not  to  do  this.  They  offer  no  explanation  for  why  all  the 
Iraqis  ended  up  in  our  hospital.  They  thank  us  for  all  our  hard  work,  tell  us 
they  "feel  our  pain,"  and  say  war  is  hell.  It  is  not  convincing  or  reassuring  to 
us.  These  guys  all  look  rested,  tanned,  and  pain-free. 

The  meeting  ended  inconclusively.  We  are  no  clearer  on  finding  out 
when  this  will  be  over  for  us.  If  anything,  the  Army  brief  made  it  appear  we 
may  be  here  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

The  USNS  Comfort  returned  to  Baltimore  in  June  2003,  having  treated  al- 
most seven  hundred  patients  (nearly  two  hundred  of  whom  were  Iraqi  civil- 


56  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


ions  and  prisoners  of  war).  Dr.  Jewell  remained  on  active  duty  until  the  end 
of  September  2004,  when  he  officially  retired  from  the  Navy.  But  he  contin- 
ues to  work  for  the  military  as  a  civilian  doctor. 


HERE  AMONG  THESE  RUINS 

E-mail 

Specialist  Helen  Gerhardt 


Of  the  estimated  2.2  million  troops  serving  in  the  United  States  military, 
approximately  one  out  of  every  six  is  a  woman.  Officially,  women  are  not 
allowed  to  fight  in  frontline  infantry  combat  units.  But,  just  as  in  wars  past, 
they  are  frequently  placed— or  put  themselves— in  harm's  way.  At  the  age 
of  thirty-three,  Helen  Gerhardt  enlisted  in  the  U.S.  Army  in  May  2000. 
Three  years  later,  having  just  completed  a  double  undergraduate  major  in 
fine  arts  and  English  literature,  she  found  herself  in  the  Middle  East  with 
the  Missouri  Army  National  Guard,  1221st  Transportation  Company.  The 
job  entailed  driving  915  Ais  (eighteen-wheeler  tractor-trailers)  throughout 
Iraq  to  move  everything  from  large  cases  of  food  and  water  to  charred 
Humvees  incapacitated  by  roadside  bombs.  The  work  was  demanding  and 
often  extremely  dangerous.  (Soon  after  the  invasion  commenced,  eleven 
U.S.  soldiers  with  the  507th  Maintenance  Company  were  killed  when  their 
convoy  was  hit  by  rocket-propelled  grenades  and  small-arms  fire.)  In  the  fol- 
lowing e-mail  to  loved  ones  back  in  Missouri,  Specialist  Gerhardt  shared 
her  first  impressions  of  the  Iraqi  people  and  their  country,  which  seemed  to 
be  a  curious  mix  of  the  ancient  and  the  modem. 

Dear  friends  and  family, 

A  few  days  ago  I  sat  in  the  passenger  seat  of  a  truck  with  my  M16  pointing 
out  the  window  as  I  crossed  the  border  into  Iraq  for  the  first  time.  All  of  us  me- 
thodically scanned  the  landscape  for  the  flesh  and  blood  snipers  or  grenade 
launchers  we  had  envisioned  during  training  and  constantly  glanced  in  the 
rear  view  mirror  to  make  sure  the  truck  behind  us  was  at  a  safe  distance.  I  felt 
greedy  for  every  concrete  detail  to  dispel  the  figments  of  the  Iraq  I  had  con- 
structed in  my  own  imagination  over  the  months  of  waiting. 

Our  convoy  of  nine  trucks  and  a  humvee  felt  very  small  to  all  of  us.  Our 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  57 

request  for  an  MP  escort  had  been  denied  without  the  required  48  hours  no- 
tice, never  mind  that  we'd  been  ordered  onto  the  road  with  only  about  36 
hours  warning.  The  MPs  are  stretched  very  thin,  and  although  officially  all 
convoys  are  supposed  to  be  escorted,  in  reality  most  small  groups  go  without. 
We'd  been  advised  to  make  our  own  firepower  very  apparent  as  the  next  best 
deterrent  to  an  attack.  The  convoy  commanders  traveled  in  the  Humvee  with 
a  machine  gun  mounted  on  top  and  the  other  saw  gunners  in  the  915s  were 
placed  at  front,  middle,  and  end  of  the  convoy.  Combat  Lifesaver  drivers  and 
their  first  aid  bags  were  also  spaced  evenly  throughout  the  line.  We'd  been  in- 
structed to  look  as  wide-awake  as  we  could.  I  didn't  find  this  difficult. 

The  border  is  a  real  border.  In  Kuwait,  high  status  sports  cars,  Islamic  sky- 
scrapers, gleaming  ranks  of  enormous  oil  drums,  and  slickly  designed  bill- 
boards all  shouted  the  thriving  economy  of  our  hosts.  Light  poles,  power 
lines,  and  little  green  trees  marched  beside  the  near-flawless  highway,  unre- 
markable until  they  abruptly  halted  where  the  demilitarized  zone  was 
marked  by  bulldozed  ridges  topped  with  concertina  wire.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  DMZ  null  and  void,  the  village  of  Safwan  straggled  loosely  north  and 
south  along  the  road.  Rusted,  carefully  stripped  car  frames  rested  on  both 
shoulders  of  the  road,  uncomfortably  reminding  me  of  the  props  at  our  live- 
fire  training  range.  Small  windowless  houses  shed  grey  bricks  like  worn-out 
lizard  scales  on  patches  of  thick,  fine  dust  and  rocky  sand.  .  .  . 

The  first  face  I  saw  closely  was  a  girl  maybe  ten-years-old,  thin,  but  beat- 
ing time  on  a  half-full  water  bottle  as  she  danced  up  and  down  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  road  with  confident  grace.  She  looked  straight  into  my  eyes  with  no 
trace  of  humility,  her  brilliant  smile  seemed  to  command  acknowledgement 
of  a  beauty  impossible  to  deny  anything  to,  her  cinnamon  and  curry-colored 
gown  waved  like  a  flag  of  bold  pleasure  in  her  past  triumphs.  I  wished  I  could 
throw  roses  and  roast  beef,  confetti  and  comdogs,  wanted  to  celebrate  her 
gutsy  contrast  to  my  worst  fears  and  to  get  a  good  square  meal  into  her  belly. 
Behind  her  an  older  woman  stood  still  and  straight,  wrapped  in  black,  staring 
through  her  daughter  and  me  to  the  desert  beyond. 

As  we  passed  the  last  house,  beyond  the  line  of  other  children,  two  young 
boys  squatted  with  hands  on  knees,  one  in  shorts  and  a  Western-style  oxford 
shirt,  the  other  in  a  white  knee-length  Islamic  gown.  They  ignored  our  obe- 
diently tight-fisted  caravan  as  they  examined  and  seriously  discussed  some 
mechanical  contraption  between  them. 

Everywhere  as  we  progressed  north,  the  middle  ages  met  the  modern;  a 


58  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

satellite  dish  protruded  from  a  mud  hut,  a  donkey  hauled  a  cart  with  two 
women  sharing  a  cell  phone  back  and  forth,  a  large  black  and  white  cow  tried 
to  keep  its  feet  in  the  bed  of  a  small  Toyota  pick  up  truck.  Roadside  stands 
sold  Snapple  and  long  blocks  of  ice.  Men  dressed  in  shiny  green  U.S.  football 
jerseys  waved  to  us  with  one  hand  as  they  scooped  salt  from  cracked-ivory  flats 
into  glinting  white  pyramids.  Lines  of  camels  were  urged  onward  by  little 
boys  with  big  sticks  and  bigger  walkmans.  .  .  . 

We  stayed  overnight  in  a  little  dustbowl  of  a  new  Army  camp,  Cedar  II, 
setting  up  our  cots  on  the  empty  trailer  beds  out  of  reach  of  scorpions  and 
snakes.  The  next  day  we  were  scheduled  to  pass  through  the  outskirts  of 
Baghdad,  near  where  the  members  of  another  mission  had  seen  the  smoking 
remains  of  a  915  truck  after  it  had  been  rocket  grenaded.  We  took  a  wrong 
turn  off  the  highway  and,  unable  to  read  the  Arabic  street  signs,  wandered 
into  the  slums  of  Sadr  City  where  children  pointed  and  laughed  as  our  long 
convoy  of  illiterates  passed  back  and  forth  through  the  narrow  streets  looking 
for  a  way  out.  The  adults  barely  glanced  at  us,  faces  surely  schooled  into  stone 
by  years  of  threats  by  those  who  held  rifles  and  the  keys  to  prisons  that  swal- 
lowed many  sons,  fathers,  and  husbands  whole  without  a  word.  We  finally 
found  our  way  back  to  the  highway,  but  by  nightfall  had  barely  made  it  past 
Tikrit,  birthplace  of  Saddam  Hussein. 

The  next  day  all  went  smoothly  and  we  pulled  into  our  destination 
camp  in  Mosul,  a  former  Iraqi  Army  base.  Wandering  through  the  littered 
compound  next  to  the  buildings  we  had  occupied  we  found  abandoned 
helmets,  spent  shells,  and  Arabic  training  manuals  for  gas  mask  use.  In  one 
room  I  found  twisted  hooks  hanging  from  the  ceiling  next  to  an  electronic 
control  board  and  I  shuddered  at  what  my  inner  Hollywood  pieced  out  of 
the  scene. 

But  in  the  regular  soldier's  barracks  I  found  a  detail  that  irrationally 
moved  me  more.  A  black-bottomed  coffee  pot  sat  in  the  sill  of  a  window,  its 
spout  pointing  out  the  heavy  bars  on  the  windows  toward  the  foothills  in  the 
distance.  Here  the  poorly  fed  draftees  of  years  past  may  have  shared  coffee 
and  cigarettes,  read  letters  from  home,  told  each  other  the  news  of  the  fami- 
lies we  knew  they  had  not  volunteered  to  leave.  I  sat  there  a  long  time,  the 
door  open  behind  me,  finally  moved  to  take  myself  back  to  the  Army  barracks 
I  had  freely  chosen.  Just  outside  the  door  I  found  a  boy  waiting  for  me. 
"Thank  you"  he  said,  his  light  brown  eyes  looking  straight  into  mine,  and 
then  he  smiled  with  what  seemed  years-worth  of  relief.  Despite  all  my  reser- 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  59 

vations  about  this  war,  I  could  not  help  but  wonder  if  he  was  thanking  me  for 
freeing  father,  uncle,  or  brother  from  some  cell  like  that  I'd  walked  so  easily 
out  of. 

Everywhere,  from  southern  Iraq  to  this  former  garrison/prison  of  the 
Baathists,  we  have  seen  images  of  Saddam  that  have  been  literally  de-faced, 
hacked  out  or  painted  over  from  hairline  to  chin,  leaving  his  black  hair, 
shoulders,  and  body  intact.  With  Hussein  still  missing,  the  effect  is  ghoulish; 
the  desecrations  constantly  remind  us  that  the  vengeful  man  still  hides 
among  the  powerless  that  he  has  fed  on  for  so  many  years. 

I  sit  writing  here  among  these  ruins,  looking  out  the  unbarred  window, 
thinking  of  you,  missing  you  always. 

With  all  my  love, 
Helen 


NIGHT  FLIGHT  TO   BAGHDAD 

Personal  Narrative 
Master  Sergeant  Thomas  W.  Young 


On  April  9, 2003,  Baghdad  fell  with  relatively  little  bloodshed.  The  Iraqi  mil- 
itary essentially  disbanded  itself,  and  Saddam  Hussein  and  his  senior  com- 
manders fled  into  hiding.  Fears  of  a  massive,  catastrophic  battle  between  U.S. 
and  Iraqi  ground  troops  in  a  final  standoff  around  Baghdad  were  not  real- 
ized, and  the  invasion  was  hailed  as  an  extraordinary  success.  American 
troops  focused  much  of  their  efforts  in  the  weeks  that  followed  on  stabilizing 
the  country's  major  towns  and  cities,  particularly  the  Iraqi  capital,  which  had 
disintegrated  into  chaos  from  looting  and  a  wave  of  Shia  versus  Sunni  re- 
venge killings.  On  May  1,  President  George  W.  Bush  announced  from  the 
USS  Abraham  Lincoln  that  "major  combat  operations  in  Iraq  have  ended." 
The  president  then  emphasized  that  there  was  still 

difficult  work  to  do  in  Iraq.  We're  bringing  order  to  parts  of  that  coun- 
try that  remain  dangerous.  .  .  .  The  transition  from  dictatorship  to 
democracy  will  take  time,  but  it  is  worth  every  effort.  Our  coalition 
will  stay  until  our  work  is  done.  .  .  . 


60  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Forty-one-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  Master  Sergeant  Thomas  Young  ar- 
rived at  the  Aiasirah  Island  Air  Base  in  Oman  just  daxs  before  Operation 
Iraqi  Freedom  began.  Young,  who  had  become  a  pilot  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
nine,  joined  the  military  in  1992  after  watching  young  men  and  women  sac- 
rificing their  lives  in  the  Gulf  War.  He  wanted  to  fly  missions  that  would 
one  day  help  American  forces  on  the  ground,  and  he  got  the  chance  eleven 
years  later  when  he  served  as  a  flight  engineer  with  the  i6~th  Airlift  Wing. 
West  Virginia  Air  National  Guard,  which  was  mobilized  to  the  Middle 
East  in  March  2003.  Like  most  troops  in  the  region.  Young  believed  that  bv 
the  beginning  of  May,  the  worst  of  the  fighting  in  Iraq  was  over.  But  there 
were  still  sorties  to  be  flown,  and  none  of  them  was  without  risk. 


aghdad  tonight,  fellas." 

That  word  comes  from  pilot  and  aircraft  commander  Mike  Lang- 
ley  as  my  crewmates  and  I  emerge  from  our  air-conditioned  tent  to  board  the 
crew  bus.  Our  cold-soaked  sunglasses  fog  up  instantly  in  the  115-degree  heat 
of  outdoors.  We  stand  around  in  butternut-colored  desert  flight  suits,  squint- 
ing against  the  harsh  light  of  the  desert  afternoon,  wiping  our  lenses  with 
handkerchiefs  and  brown  scarves. 

Though  war  stories  often  focus  on  the  youth  of  the  warriors,  we  don't  fit 
that  mold.  We're  all  around  forty,  with  vears  of  experience  flying  the  C-130 
Hercules,  a  four-engine  turboprop  transport  aircraft.  In  addition  to  the  boss, 
Langley,  our  six-man  crew  includes  copilot  Ed  Bishop,  navigator  Kelly  Wash- 
ington, and  loadmasters  Roland  Shambaugh  and  John  Cox.  I  occupy  the 
flight  engineer  seat. 

Tonight's  schedule  calls  for  us  to  flv  to  Tallil  Air  Base  in  southern  Iraq. 
There  we'll  pick  up  cargo  and  take  it  to  the  former  Saddam  International  Air- 
port, currently  under  new  management  thanks  to  the  3rd  Infantry  Division. 
Now  we  will  build  on  their  efforts  by  taking  supplies  and  fresh  troops  into  that 
airfield,  newly  renamed  Baghdad  International. 

After  taking  on  jet  fuel,  we  gear  up  for  the  combat  zone  as  night  falls.  My 
crewmates  and  I  squirm  into  our  flak  jackets  and  tug  at  the  fasteners.  The  flak 
vests  are  hot,  heavy,  and  miserable,  but  thev  can  spare  vou  a  lifetime  in  a 
wheelchair  or  worse.  I've  been  known  to  nag  my  buddies  about  wearing 
them.  "Yes,  Dad,"  I've  heard  more  than  once. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  61 


Over  our  flak  jackets,  we  also  pull  on  survival  vests,  which  contain  flares, 
a  knife,  a  first-aid  kit,  a  Beretta  9mm,  a  signal  mirror,  and  other  things  that 
might  come  in  handy  when  you've  had  an  airplane  blown  out  from  under 
you.  There's  also  an  item  called  a  blood  chit.  It's  a  piece  of  cloth  with  a  mes- 
sage in  several  languages  that  reads  approximately  like  this:  Ym  an  American 
aviator,  and  Ym  having  a  real  bad  day.  I  wont  hurt  you,  and  if  you  help  me, 
my  government  will  try  to  repay  you. 

Finally,  helmets  adorned  with  night  vision  goggles  take  the  place  of  our 
usual  headsets.  I  fumble  for  the  tiny  switch,  and  the  NVGs  come  alive  with  a 
faint,  battery-powered  whine.  Night  becomes  full  daylight,  as  if  viewed 
through  dark  green  sunglasses. 

Throttles  up  and  we're  airborne.  Practically  as  soon  as  we  get  the  gear  up, 
Washington,  the  navigator,  informs  us  we're  entering  hostile  territory. 

"We're  crossing  the  fence,"  he  says,  as  if  we're  on  some  peaceful  farm 
chore.  A  string  of  lights  illuminates  the  Iraq-Kuwait  border  that  stretches  be- 
neath us  — a  bright  curving  chain  of  white  pearls.  "Combat  entry  checklist," 
he  adds. 

Time  to  go  to  war.  We  begin  configuring  the  airplane  to  make  it  harder  to 
hit,  and  to  minimize  the  damage  if  something  does  manage  to  nail  us. 

Lights  off.  Cabin  pressure  reduced.  Fuel  cross-feed  off.  I  double-check  the 
switches  for  external  lights,  touching  each  of  them  with  a  gloved  index  finger.  I 
worry  about  forgetting  something  as  simple  as  a  light  switch.  I'd  hate  to  get  my 
crew  killed  because  I  let  us  fly  into  a  combat  zone  with  bright  strobes  flash- 
ing—a big,  fat,  stupid  target  visible  to  every  jihadi  on  the  Arabian  peninsula. 

The  Herk  levels  off  at  cruising  altitude,  and  we  drone  above  a  layer  of 
scattered  clouds.  Above  us,  the  Milky  Way  sparkles.  Seen  through  night  vi- 
sion goggles,  the  stars  appear  as  glittering  dust,  a  scattering  of  crushed  dia- 
monds. A  wondrous  sight  brought  to  us  by  the  grim  technology  of  war. 

We  have  little  time  for  stargazing.  Too  soon,  approach  control  hands  us 
off  to  Tallil  tower. 

"Cleared  to  land." 

Throttles  chopped,  the  nose  comes  down  and  we  begin  spiraling  the  big 
airplane  toward  the  runway.  The  ground  appears  to  rotate  beneath  us  as  we 
corkscrew  lower  and  lower.  Infrared  runway  lights,  invisible  except  through 
NVGs,  beckon  us.  This  approach  hardly  compares  to  the  landings  we  do  in 
our  civilian  jobs  as  airline  pilots,  and  I  smile  as  I  imagine  pulling  this  off  in  a 


62  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

jetliner:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  please  fasten  your  seat  belts  and  lock  your 
trays  in  the  upright  position.  We'll  be  executing  something  called  a  random 
steep  tactical  approach  for  our  arrival  into  Chicago  this  evening.  If  you  feel 
any  violent  evasive  maneuvering,  please  be  advised  that  we  are  making  every 
effort  to  avoid  surface-to-air  missiles." 

Fortunately,  we  see  none  to  avoid  right  now.  We  land  and  taxi  to  the  ramp 
for  an  ERO,  or  engines  running  on-load.  The  loadmasters  push  several  pal- 
lets of  cargo  into  place  in  pitch  darkness  with  the  aid  of  NVGs. 

We  carry  beans  and  bullets,  as  the  saying  goes,  and  just  about  everything 
else.  On  any  given  flight  it  could  be  ammunition,  construction  supplies,  Meals 
Ready  to  Eat,  medical  equipment,  blood  plasma,  or  bomb-sniffing  dogs.  We 
also  carry  troops,  soldiers  rotating  out,  soldiers  rotating  in,  we  fly  them  all. 

In  just  a  few  minutes  we're  airborne  again,  clawing  for  altitude  at  max 
continuous  power.  We  want  to  get  out  of  the  threat  range  of  missiles,  small 
arms,  and  antiaircraft  artillery,  or  AAA.  Almost  as  soon  as  we  level  off,  a  green 
glow  appears  on  the  horizon  like  a  Venusian  dawn.  The  night  vision  goggles 
pick  up  the  lights  of  Baghdad  so  far  away  that  at  first  we  seem  to  make  no  for- 
ward progress  toward  them. 

However,  the  distance-measuring  equipment  on  our  instruments  counts 
down  the  miles,  and  eventually  when  I  peer  under  the  goggles  I  can  see  the 
lights  even  with  the  naked  eye.  As  we  switch  to  the  frequency  for  the  com- 
mand and  control  plane  orbiting  somewhere  overhead,  the  AWACS  bird,  we 
catch  a  disturbing  conversation: 

"Say  again  that  location." 

The  pilot  of  another  C-130  reels  off  a  sector  designation  for  a  spot  near  the 
airport. 

"Copy  that.  Probable  SA-7  missile  launch.  We'll  relay." 

Another  aircraft  checks  in.  "Burst  of  triple-A  off  our  eleven  o'clock. 
Maybe  eight  or  nine  tracers." 

"That  don't  sound  good,"  says  one  of  our  loadmasters  on  interphone. 

"I'm  thinking  this  is  a  good  time  to  be  wearing  your  flak  vest." 

"Yes,  Dad." 

Approach  clears  us  for  descent  near  the  edge  of  the  city.  Although  recent 
news  stories  have  focused  on  electrical  blackouts,  Baghdad  looks  pretty  well  lit 
for  a  city  in  the  midst  of  war.  But  we've  never  seen  it  before,  so  we  don't  know 
what  normal  looks  like.  And  we  know  normal  lights  don't  include  tracers. 

"Got  some  ground-to-ground  fire  off  the  left  wing,"  calls  Shambaugh. 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  63 


I  scan  the  ground  urgently  but  find  nothing. 

"There  it  goes  again." 

This  time  I  see  it  in  the  edge  of  my  field  of  vision— tiny  green  needles  of 
light,  gone  in  an  instant.  They  come  in  quick  snaps,  stabbing  the  night.  You 
might  call  them  pretty  if  you  didn't  know  the  light  show  results  from  tracer  mag- 
nesium burning  on  high-velocity  rounds.  I'm  glad  to  see  them  flashing  right  to 
left.  The  ones  that  don't  appear  to  move  are  the  ones  coming  right  at  you. 

But  now  it's  time  to  forget  the  tracers  and  just  do  the  job.  Tower  clears  us 
for  a  random  steep. 

Again  the  airport  seems  to  rotate  under  us.  I  divide  my  attention  between 
the  unwinding  altimeter  and  the  tormented  city  below,  watching  for  threats. 
To  the  north,  the  Tigris  loops  through  the  heart  of  Baghdad,  reflected  light 
shimmering  on  the  water.  The  cradle  of  civilization,  this  land  beneath  our 
wings  has  witnessed  some  of  the  best  and  worst  that  human  society  has  of- 
fered. Its  sands  contain  the  relics  of  Mesopotamia  and  the  bones  of  mass 
graves.  Its  waters  irrigated  the  beginnings  of  agriculture  and  carried  bodies  of 
Saddam's  victims. 

We  want  very  much  to  help  bring  a  change  for  the  better,  but  that  de- 
pends on  many  things  far  out  of  our  control.  All  we  can  do  is  fly  this  aircraft 
to  the  best  of  our  ability. 

Bishop,  the  copilot,  rolls  the  wings  level  onto  a  short  final  approach.  Just 
a  few  hundred  feet  above  Baghdad,  I  half-expect  to  hear  the  blaring  of  the 
missile  warning  tones.  If  that  happens,  our  defensive  system  can  launch  flares 
to  help  confuse  a  heat-seeking  missile.  But  down  low  and  slow,  we  have  little 
room  and  leverage  for  maneuver,  like  a  knife  fight  in  a  phone  booth. 

No  shoulder-launched  knives  for  now,  though,  and  the  landing  is  normal. 
Or  at  least  as  normal  as  possible  on  night  vision  goggles,  with  firefights  going 
on,  after  corkscrewing  down  like  a  falling  leaf  to  land  on  a  taxiway  because 
the  runways  are  pocked  with  bomb  craters. 

We  park  on  a  cargo  ramp  and  off-load,  again  with  engines  running.  I  wipe 
my  face  with  a  handkerchief,  double-check  the  takeoff  speed  and  distance, 
then  take  a  swig  of  water  and  a  whiff  of  oxygen,  just  to  clear  the  cobwebs.  The 
loadmasters  are  almost  too  good.  Before  I  can  unbuckle  my  harness  and 
stretch  my  legs,  the  guys  have  the  cargo  off  the  airplane. 

"We're  all  closed  up  back  here,"  calls  Shambaugh.  "Let's  get  the  hell  out 
of  Dodge." 

Works  for  me.  As  we  taxi  out,  I  briefly  imagine  Saddam  himself  boarding 


64  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

an  aircraft  on  this  ramp  in  his  better  days.  No  time  to  ponder  that  now, 
though.  Throttles  up,  brakes  released,  and  we're  off  again,  lifting  into  the 
angry  night  over  Baghdad. 

Langley's  flying  now,  and  he  wants  what  Air  Force  pilots  call  "smash." 
Smash  is  kinetic  energy.  Up  high,  it's  altitude  we  can  convert  into  speed  by 
diving.  Down  low  where  we  are  now,  it's  velocity  we  can  trade  for  altitude  or 
a  good,  hard  turn. 

"I'm  lowering  the  nose  to  get  some  speed,"  says  Langley,  thinking  out 
loud.  I'll  remember  that  sentence  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

A  tremendous  flash  lights  up  the  cockpit  like  daylight.  Magnified  by  night 
vision  goggles,  it  blinds  me. 

For  a  tenth  of  a  moment  I  think:  There's  the  fireball,  it's  all  over. 

The  missile  warning  tone  screeches  like  a  demon.  Langley  whips  the  air- 
plane into  a  steep  bank,  and  my  arms  grow  heavy  with  the  pull  of  g-forces. 

I  expect  heat,  pain,  fire,  eternity. 

Instead  comes  speed,  and  speed  brings  life.  I  realize  I  felt  no  impact,  my 
vision  is  restored,  and  this  airplane  is  still  flying. 

Remaining  among  the  living,  I  get  back  to  work,  calling  altitudes  and 
scanning  instruments.  The  heading  indicators  spin  through  the  turn,  an  un- 
readable flicker  of  numbers.  The  systems  gauges  show  no  signs  of  engine 
damage.  That  flash  came  from  our  antimissile  flares  firing  off,  the  defensive 
system  doing  its  job  automatically.  One  for  the  textbooks,  Langley  s  maneu- 
ver and  the  decoying  flares  have  thwarted  a  little  piece  of  heat-seeking  hell. 

"Anybody  see  anything?"  he  asks. 

"Missile  came  up  from  the  right,"  answers  Cox. 

"I  saw  it  too,  until  I  lost  it  in  the  flares,"  adds  Bishop. 

Cox  explains  that  he  saw  a  truck  stop  and  turn  off  its  lights,  and  the  launch 
appeared  to  come  from  on  or  near  the  truck. 

Away  from  the  city,  we  climb  through  a  sky  as  dark  as  a  mineshaft.  The 
night  vision  goggles  don't  help  at  the  moment,  because  in  the  black  emptiness 
of  the  desert,  they  can't  find  a  speck  of  light  to  amplify.  For  perhaps  twenty  min- 
utes, there  is  absolute  silence  on  the  interphone.  Just  a  faint  electronic  hiss. 

Finally  someone  speaks.  "You  guys  all  right?"  asks  Langley.  "I  need  to 
know  you're  still  in  the  game.  Everybody  check  in."  His  tone  is  matter-of-fact, 
as  if  he's  calling  for  any  routine  checklist. 

"Copilot's  good." 

"Nav's  okay." 


AND     NOW     IT     BEGINS  65 

Engineer. 

"Loadmaster  one." 

"Load  two." 

We  fly  home  to  Masirah  weary  and  sobered,  older  and  wiser.  And  damned 
lucky. 

Back  on  our  tent  porch,  I  collapse  into  a  deck  chair  and  twist  open  a  beer. 
The  cap  cuts  my  hand,  but  I  don't  care.  The  beer  is  cold  and  good,  and  if  I 
can  feel  pain  it  means  I'm  still  alive.  The  rest  of  the  crew  joins  me,  exhausted 
but  not  ready  for  sleep. 

The  enemy  launched  on  us  once  before,  but  the  missile  missed  by  a 
much  wider  margin  then,  partly  because  the  shooter  didn't  know  how  to  use 
his  weapon.  After  that  first  time,  we  even  raised  a  lighthearted  toast  while  hav- 
ing drinks  back  at  base:  "To  bad  guys  too  stupid  to  lead  a  moving  target."  We 
crack  no  jokes  tonight.  This  time,  the  bastard  knew  what  he  was  doing.  Com- 
petence scares  us  more  than  fanaticism. 

"That's  the  only  time  I  have  ever  braced  for  impact,"  says  Langley,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

Everybody's  first  thought  was  a  little  different. 

"I  thought  the  loadmasters  were  dead,"  says  Bishop. 

"I  just  wondered  what  the  hell  was  happening,"  adds  Shambaugh,  who'd 
been  posted  in  the  window  opposite  where  the  missile  came  up. 

And  I  thought  we'd  all  had  our  tickets  punched.  But  I  was  wrong. 

I  was  wrong  by  mere  yards,  by  microseconds.  I  was  wrong,  but  not  by  much. 

In  the  dark  on  our  dusty  porch,  I  realize  the  distance  between  our  aircraft 
and  that  warhead  represents  the  life  we  have  left  to  live.  It  is  this  moment  and 
all  that  remain. 

This  war  will  alter  many  lives,  and  it  will  rip  away  some  altogether.  For 
now  at  least,  it  has  handed  ours  back. 

And  as  soon  as  we  rest  up,  we'll  fly  into  Iraq  again. 

Young  returned  to  West  Virginia  two  months  later  and  remained  on  active 
duty  for  a  year.  While  U.S.  and  Coalition  forces  had  quelled  some  of  the  riot- 
ing that  had  exploded  throughout  the  country  in  the  immediate  aftermath  of 
the  invasion,  Iraq  was  far  from  secure.  Violence  against  American  troops  was 
escalating,  and  by  summer  2003,  an  organized  and  vicious  insurgency  seemed 
to  he  gaining  in  strength.  The  war,  it  appeared,  was  only  just  beginning. 


CHAPTER    TWO 


EARTS  AND  MINDS 


INTERACTIONS   WITH   AFGHANS   AND   IRAQJS 


Children  in  the  Iraqi  village  of  Jassan,  near  the  Iranian  border,  see 

Marines  for  the  first  time  during  the  U.S.  invasion,  April  2003. 

Photo  by  Major  Benjamin  Busch,  USMC;  used  by. permission. 


A  couple  hours  after  we  landed,  we  had  a  convoy  to  Kabul.  It  took  about  two 
hours,  but  I  will  never  forget  the  trip.  The  scenery  was  incredible.  I  knew 
that  there  were  mountains  in  Afghanistan,  but  there  are  so  many  that  it  is  an 
unbelievable  sight.  It's  hard  to  imagine  that  it  can  be  90  degrees  on  the 
ground,  yet  not  generate  enough  heat  on  the  mountaintops  to  melt  the 
snow  that  is  apparent.  The  native  people  are  also  a  sight  to  see.  These 
people  are  incredibly  resourceful  making  shelter  from  clay  and  mud  and 
using  the  minimal  resources  they  have  to  work  with.  .  .  .  On  the  trip,  I  saw 
many  small  children,  some  no  older  than  4  or  5,  off  by  themselves  in  the 
middle  of  nowhere,  waving  and  smiling  as  we  passed  by.  The  poverty  level  is 
so  high.  They  have  little  food  and  little  resource  for  potable  water  to  drink. 
We  were  told  not  to  give  any  of  our  food  or  water  to  the  natives.  However,  I 
find  it  hard  to  see  these  cute  children  starving  on  the  side  of  the  road  while  I 
have  a  case  of  bottled  water  next  to  me  in  the  cab.  Needless  to  say,  a  half 
dozen  of  my  waters  were  hurled  from  my  window  along  the  way.  One  kid 
really  earned  his;  he  saw  our  vehicles  approaching  and  ran  150—200  meters 
across  the  land  as  fast  as  a  deer.  I  couldn't  believe  how  fast  he  was!  As  I 
approached  him,  it  was  evident  that  all  he  wanted  to  do  was  wave  like  a  kid 
at  a  parade.  He  was  7  or  8  at  best  and  wearing  a  cloth  with  no  shoes.  I 
couldn't  resist  tossing  him  a  water.  He  picked  it  up  as  I  saw  in  my  rearview 
mirror  and  jumped  up  and  down  waving  at  my  vehicle.  It  is  so  sad  what  kind 
of  world  these  kids  are  born  into. 

—Thirty-four-year-old  U.S.  Army  Sergeant  Andrew  Simkewicz  (210th 
Forward  Support  Battalion,  10th  Mountain  Division),  e-mailing  family 
back  in  Massachusetts  from  Afghanistan  on  May  30,  2003.  Two  days  later, 
Simkewicz  wrote:  "One  of  the  cute  little  Afghan  kids  that  I  had  spoken 
about  ran  up  to  a  soldier  and  knocked  out  six  of  his  teeth  with  a  slingshot." 


68  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


ONE  SMALL  VILLAGE 

Journal 
Chief  Warrant  Officer  Two  Jared  S.  Jones 


Culture  shock  does  not  even  begin  to  describe  the  reaction  that  many  young 
servicemen  and  women,  especially  those  who  have  never  been  outside  the 
United  States  before,  experience  when  they  arrive  in  a  war-torn  country  like 
Iraq  or  Afghanistan.  And  even  those  who  have  traveled  abroad  are  stunned 
by  the  poverty  and  destruction  that  greet  them.  "The  majority  of  the  people 
of  Afghanistan  are  still  living  in  the  biblical  times  of  Jesus,"  U.S.  Army  First 
Sergeant  August  C.  Hohl,  Jr.,  wrote  in  an  account  based  on  his  deployment 
to  the  region.  "Their  mud  villages,  their  homes  covered  by  whatever  tree 
branches  and  wood  that  they  have  salvaged,  the  caravans  of  shepherds— all 
these  things  are  images  I've  only  envisioned  in  my  Bible  readings  or  from  a 
few  books  on  ancient  history."  But  as  surprised  as  Hohl  was  by  the  condi- 
tions he  saw,  he  was  deeply  affected  by  the  people  themselves  and  their  per- 
spective on  life  amid  such  adversity.  "They  don't  take  well  to  pity,"  Hohl 
observed  about  the  Afghans  he  met,  "but  their  personal  and  religious  beliefs 
are  not  unlike  ours  in  that  everyone  understands  the  importance  of  reach- 
ing out  to  and  being  charitable  towards  one  another."  Hohl  was  especially 
moved  by  his  visits  to  rural  schools,  where  he  would  bring  pencils,  paper, 
chalk,  and  other  supplies  provided  by  donors  back  home  in  Wisconsin. 

The  kids  sit  there  and  learn  with  old  bullet  holes  and  bomb-scarred 
walls  around  them.  They  are  usually  lucky  if  they  even  have  wooden 
benches  to  sit  on.  Most  of  the  time  there's  just  the  bare  floor  or  a  plas- 
tic tarp.  But  the  children  there  are  so  proud  to  open  up  their  book 
bags  and  show  you  their  math,  writing,  or  art  books  and  what  they 
can  do.  Then  there  are  the  teachers,  all  of  whom  talk  about  the  needs 
of  their  students  before  even  considering  their  own  needs.  Most  of  the 
teachers  are  two  to  three  months  behind  in  getting  paid,  but  they  be- 
lieve very  strongly  in  the  importance  of  education  for  their  people. 
Coming  here  has  shown  me  that  while  we  all  might  live  differently 
due  to  environmental,  geographical,  and  educational  conditions, 
people  are  basically  the  same  inside.  Learning  some  of  the  history,  so- 
cial habits,  and  religion  of  this  country  has  left  me  with  a  profound 


HEARTSANDMINDS  69 

sense  of  hope  that  we  can  assist  the  people  here.  But  we're  not  so 
smart  that  we  cant  learn  from  them,  too. 

Service  members  are  not  unaware  of  the  military  value  of  fostering  good- 
will within  Afghanistan  and  Iraq;  civilians  on  friendly  terms  with  American 
forces  are  less  likely  to  cause  them  harm,  and  they  are  more  inclined  to  pro- 
vide information  about  suspected  insurgents,  the  location  of  stashed 
weapons,  rumors  of  possible  ambushes  or  attacks,  and  other  critical  intelli- 
gence. But  many  troops,  like  Hohl,  write  with  genuine  emotion  about  their 
desire  to  work  with  Afghans  and  Iraqis  and  help  the  neediest  among  them, 
especially  children.  "You  would  not  believe  how  different  the  world  is  over 
here,"  twenty-three-year-old  U.S.  Army  Chief  Warrant  Officer  Two  fared  S. 
Jones  wrote  in  his  first  e-mail  home  from  the  middle  of  Afghanistan.  Jones 
had  left  for  Bagram  in  April  2004  with  a  sense  of,  in  his  words,  ufear  and 
mistrust"  But  over  time,  not  only  did  he  begin  to  admire  and  appreciate 
Afghanistan  and  its  people,  he  fell  in  love  with  them.  The  deployment  was 
also  special  because  one  of  his  fellow  AH-64A  Apache  pilots  in  the  lhuth 
Aviation  Attack  Helicopter  Battalion,  Utah  Army  National  Guard,  hap- 
pened to  be  his  father.  (It  is  not  uncommon  for  parents  and  their  grown  chil- 
dren, spouses,  or  siblings  to  serve  together  in  the  same  reserve  unit.)  In  a 
journal  based  primarily  on  his  e-mails  home,  Jones  chronicled  his  experi- 
ences flying  both  combat-  and  humanitarian-aid-related  missions  through- 
out Afghanistan,  and  the  latter,  particularly  visits  to  the  small  village  of 
Jegdalek,  were  the  ones  that  affected  him  the  most.  (The  following  entries 
were  written  between  early  September  2004  and  mid-March  2005.) 

Week  Twenty-One 

In  recent  news,  our  adopted  village,  Jekdelehek  (uncertain  of  the  spelling),  is 
one  of  the  many  war-ravaged  villages  from  the  days  of  the  Soviet-Afghan  war, 
and  we  are  trying  to  find  medical  supplies  and  raise  money  to  establish  some 
sort  of  a  medical  clinic.  Last  Monday  a  little  girl  and  her  father  were  brought 
to  our  U.S.  Army  hospital  here  in  Bagram  after  we  visited  their  village.  The 
little  girl,  Halima  (pronounced  Hah-lee-mah),  is  approximately  five  years  old 
and  needed  corrective  eye  surgery.  I  had  the  honor  of  attending  the  opera- 
tion, wearing  a  medical  hair  cover,  breathing  mask,  and  all.  There  were  two 
surgeons:  one  U.S.  and  one  Egyptian  — it  was  a  truly  fascinating  experience! 
Don't  worry,  I  won't  share  the  gory  details.  .  . 


70  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Week  Twenty-Two 

Last  week,  we  returned  the  little  girl  and  her  father  to  their  village,  Jekdele- 
hek.  What  an  unforgettable,  truly  amazing  experience!  Nearly  thirty7  people 
reside  in  their  humble,  three-room  abode.  Most  of  the  family  are  farmers  of 
sorts,  and  possess  a  few  livestock  (a  cow,  a  goat,  and  a  family  of  chickens), 
which  they  share  their  residence  with.  During  the  Soviet-Afghan  war,  when 
the  Soviet  Army  was  first  invading  from  the  north,  the  family  and  the  rest  of 
the  village  took  to  the  surrounding  caves,  hiding  from  Soviet  aircraft  that 
strafed  and  bombed  most  every  village  they  came  across,  including  theirs. 

They  told  us  that  since  America  has  come  to  Afghanistan,  fighting  for 
their  freedom  and  way  of  life,  the  village  has  prospered  like  it  never  has  before 
and  they  are  very  grateful  for  our  presence.  They  hope  that  we  (meaning 
U.S. /U.N.  support)  can  stay  until  the  new  democratic  government,  with  the 
help  of  the  Afghan  National  Army  (ANA),  is  fully  operational  and  their  coun- 
try has  been  rid  of  terrorist  scum  like  Osama  bin  Laden.  After  we  said  good- 
bye, as  I  was  riding  on  the  CH-47  Chinook,  I  realized,  even  away  from  family, 
friends,  and  the  luxuries  of  home,  I  had  so  very,  very  much  to  be  thankful  for. 

Week  Twenty-Nine 

In  Jegdalek  we  distributed  more  humanitarian  aid,  with  donations  ranging 
from  personal  hygiene  to  school  supplies,  shoes,  and  soccer  balls.  It  is  always 
a  pleasure  to  see  the  difference  we  are  making  for  these  people,  even  if  it  is 
only  one  small  village,  whose  people  have  next  to  nothing.  I  saw  Halima 
again,  who  is  doing  incredibly  well.  Her  eyes  have  healed  completely  and  she 
continues  to  share  her  winning  smile  with  us.  Her  father  is  now  commuting 
to  Kabul,  working  a  regular  job,  where  he  is  making  significantly  more  than 
he  did  before.  We  continue  to  offer,  as  able,  medical  support  to  those  who 
need  it  most.  For  example,  we  have  been  bringing  antibiotics  to  a  man  who 
has  lost  an  arm  and  a  leg  to  infection  and  is  about  to  lose  another.  Now  he  has 
a  fighting  chance  of  retaining  this  limb.  There  is  a  young  boy,  no  older  than 
twelve  years  old,  who  suffers  from  a  heart  condition  involving  a  leaky  valve. 
He  can  walk  no  further  than  a  dozen  yards  before  he  must  stop  and  catch  his 
breath.  If  he  does  not  receive  medical  care  from  a  professional  cardiologist, 
which  we  lack  here  in  the  country  of  Afghanistan,  he  will  die  shortly.  We  are 
now  in  the  process  of  obtaining  him  a  visa  and  passport.  If  we  are  successful 
we  are  going  to  use  some  of  the  funds  we  have  received  for  humanitarian  aid 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  71 

to  fly  him  back  to  the  U.S.  where  a  former  military  doctor  is  more  than  will- 
ing to  do  the  necessary  surgery  ...  for  free.  Please  pray  for  this  young  boy. 

Week  Thirty-One 

Combat  is  only  one  facet  of  the  military,  a  necessary  evil  we  must  sometimes 
wage  against  evil  people.  There  is  much  more  happening  in  this  country  be- 
sides what  you  hear  in  the  media.  I  want  to  share  another  amazing  story  with 
you.  The  young  child  with  the  poor  heart  condition  has  been  brought  here  to 
Bagram  Air  Field.  His  name  is  Asedullah  (the  spelling  may  or  may  not  be  ac- 
curate). Everything  to  this  point  has  fallen  perfectly  into  place.  Hospital  ad- 
ministrative fees  have  already  been  waived.  In  Kabul,  passports  were  granted 
in  one  day.  Unfortunately,  due  to  miscellaneous  bureaucracies,  it  will  be,  at 
a  minimum,  thirty  days  before  the  visas  are  available.  Therein  lies  another 
catch— Asedullah  and  his  father,  since  he  will  be  accompanying  his  boy  to 
the  States  for  the  surgery,  must  pick  them  up,  in  person,  at  the  nearest  visa  of- 
fice .  .  .  which  is  in  Pakistan.  What  happens  next?  We  wait. 

Week  Thirty-Four 

As  I  continue  to  fly  over  Afghanistan,  I  have  noticed  that  the  people  predom- 
inantly fly  one  of  two  colors  — a  green  flag  and  a  red  flag.  I  have  learned  that 
the  green  flag  signifies  that  that  family  has  lost  someone  to  the  Taliban, 
whereas  the  red  flag  signifies  that  that  family  lost  someone  during  the  Soviet- 
Afghan  conflict.  Sadly,  I  have  seen  many,  many  of  both  colors.  A  black  flag, 
however,  is  supposed  to  mark  a  home  that  supports  the  Taliban  regime  — I 
haven't  seen  many  of  this  color  anymore.  Many  of  the  graveyards,  I  have  no- 
ticed, have  fences  around  them.  They  are  to  keep  out  animals,  specifically 
wild  dogs  and  hogs  that,  if  not  for  the  fence,  would  dig  up  the  dirt  covering 
the  fresh  burial.  I  have  seen  entirely  too  many  small  fences,  something  I  hope 
changes  as  this  country  continues  to  progress. 

Week  Forty-Five 

The  highlight  of  my  week  was  something  I  have  wanted  to  do  for  a  very  long 
time  — observe  Operation  Shoe  Fly.  CW2  William  Andrews,  the  driving,  or 
rather,  flying  effort  behind  Operation  Shoe  Fly,  invited  me  to  come  along.  So 
how  does  it  work?  One  or  more  CH-47  Chinooks  are  filled  primarily  with 
shoes,  among  other  donations,  such  as  blankets,  clothing,  and  toys.  As  the  pi- 


72  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

lots  fly  across  the  country,  following  the  routes  between  forward  operating 
bases  (FOBs),  they  look  for  the  desolate  and  more  isolated  communities.  Flv- 
ing  near  these,  the  crew  chiefs  wait  for  the  best  drop  opportunity— typically 
beside  homes  and  other  prominent  gathering  locations,  yet  away  from  person- 
nel. Once  the  shoes  are  flying,  the  children  come  running.  Luckily,  that  we 
know  of,  no  one  has  been  hit  by  a  falling  shoe  or  any  other  gift  from  the  sky. 

One  interesting  story  he  shared  with  me  — during  one  particular  flight 
while  dropping  shoes,  the  yillagers  ran  inside,  scared.  In  all  likelihood  they 
were  recalling  the  cruel  tactic  used  by  the  Soyiets,  who  dropped  booby-trapped 
gifts.  On  the  return  flight,  when  they  were  flying  oyer  the  same  village,  the  vil- 
lagers ran  outside,  proudly  displaying  their  new  shoes  and  waving  their  thanks. 

Mr.  Andrews  estimates  that  Operation  Shoe  Fly  has  dropped  more  than 
ten  thousand  pairs  of  shoes  over  Afghanistan.  Many  of  those  come  from  one 
source— a  resident  of  Hawaii  who  was  in  fact  born  in  Afghanistan.  She  alone 
has  donated  nearly  two  thousand  shoes!  A  few  months  ago  she  returned  tem- 
porarily, and  was  flown  aboard  a  Chinook,  herself  dropping  shoes  oyer  her 
motherland,  and  even  had  the  opportunity  to  visit  Jegdalek,  where  she  acted 
as  interpreter  on  the  trip. 

Week  Forty-Six 

Asedullah  and  his  father,  who  made  it  out  of  the  country  for  Asedullah's 
operation,  are  scheduled  to  come  back  to  Afghanistan  soon.  My  father  was  fi- 
nally able  to  set  foot  in  their  village  yesterday.  I  wish  I  could  have  accompa- 
nied him,  but  I  was  flving.  He  had  a  wonderful  time  and  I  am  glad  he  was 
able  to  see  Afghanistan  for  what  it  reallv  is. 

Week  Forty-Seven 

This  week  we  said  goodbye  to  our  adopted  village,  Jegdalek.  I  saw  Halima  and 
some  of  her  family— our  little  Cinderella,  as  we  have  fondly  dubbed  her,  is 
doing  better  than  ever.  I  gave  her  some  one-two-threes,  a  family  tradition  of 
tossing  a  child  into  the  air,  higher  with  each  number.  One  of  her  brothers  did 
something  incredibly  heart  wrenching— he  gave  me  a  small  rubv;  a  gift  of 
friendship.  By  the  way,  the  rubies  of  Jegdalek  are  world  renowned.  .  .  .  Here 
is  a  boy,  with  almost  nothing,  giving  me  something,  anything.  I  was  so  moved 
by  this  that  I  ended  up  giving  away  nearly  everything  I  had  on  me  .  .  .  my 
gloves,  my  pen,  my  watch.  Anything  means  everything  to  these  people.  And 
then,  the  time  had  come  — hearing  the  Chinooks  in  the  distance,  we  said  our 


HEARTSANDMINDS  73 

last  goodbyes,  never  again  to  visit  this  small  village  in  the  middle  of 
Afghanistan,  that  has  come  to  mean  so  much  to  many  of  us.  It  was  bitter- 
sweet, this  finale. 

Week  Forty-Eight 

Yesterday  was  a  long  flight— escorting  one  of  the  new  CH-47  Big  Windy  Chi- 
nook aircraft,  we  visited  nearly  every  FOB  in  our  southern  area  of  operations. 
It  just  so  happened  that  our  route  of  flight  took  us  over  Jegdalek.  Flying  with 
CW5  Layne  Pace,  we  circled  over  the  house  of  Halima  and  then  Asedullah. 
I  am  not  certain,  but  I  think  I  could  see  them  both,  looking  up  at  us  looking 
down  on  them. 

Speaking  of  Asedullah,  at  long  last  he  and  his  father  returned  to  the  vil- 
lage earlier  this  week!  He  is  doing  very  well  and  I  learned  that  already  he  is 
running  around  with  his  brothers  and  the  rest  of  the  boys  of  Jegdalek.  He  will 
return  to  school  shortly  and  resume  the  life  that  previously  could  not  have 
been.  What  a  happy  ending  to  an  amazing  story. 

These  journeys  to  Jegdalek  have  been  the  highlight  of  my  deployment— 
I  will  never  forget  the  faces  of  this  humble  village.  Looking  back,  I  remember 
the  first  time  we  visited  their  village,  the  people  reserved,  uncertain.  On  our 
final  visit  I  was  struck  at  how  so  much  had  changed.  Our  friendship  forever 
sealed,  the  people  welcome  us  as  family  now.  Afghanistan  is  changing,  I  have 
seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  These  children,  this  next  generation,  will  one  day 
be  the  next  mullah  or  village  elder,  and  they  will  teach  their  children  how 
things  were,  and  how  things  are,  and  how  things  can  be. 

Both  Jones  and  his  father  returned  to  the  States  in  April  2005,  and  Jones 
went  back  to  school  at  the  University  of  Utah  to  pursue  a  major  in  film. 


LUNCH  WITH   PIRATES 

Personal  Narrative 
Staff  Sergeant  Clint  Douglas 


Before  embarking  overseas,  many  U.S.  troops  receive  cultural  sensitivity 
briefings  so  that  they  do  not  inadvertently  offend  the  civilians  and  allied 
military  personnel  they  meet  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq.  Much  of  the  infor- 


74  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

mation  is  basic  common  sense  and  courtesy:  Do  not  seem  impatient  or  dis- 
tracted during  conversations,  do  not  point  a  finger  in  someone's  face,  do  not 
use  profanity,  etc.  But  some  rules  are  less  obvious.  One  should  not,  for  ex- 
ample, compliment  a  host  on  any  specific  item  in  his  home,  as  he  will  then 
feel  obliged  to  offer  it  as  a  gift.  And  it  is  extremely  insulting  to  point  the  sole 
of  one's  foot  at  another  person,  even  if  it  is  done  unintentionally  while  sit- 
ting and  chatting  informally.  No  matter  how  much  preparation  servicemen 
and  women  are  given,  however,  they  will  inevitably  find  themselves  in  situ- 
ations for  which  there  is  simply  no  training  manual  or  reference  guide.  In 
March  2003,  thirty-four-year-old  U.S.  Army  Staff  Sergeant  Clint  Douglas, 
a  former  Peace  Corps  volunteer,  was  deployed  to  Afghanistan  with  the  20th 
Special  Forces  Group  (Airborne),  Illinois  National  Guard,  for  more  than 
six  months.  Douglas  quickly  discovered  that  beneath  the  patina  of  social 
niceties  and  expressions  of  mutual  regard,  some  associations  and  alliances 
with  local  leaders  were  considerably  more  complicated  than  they  initially 
appeared. 


Iverall  we  worked  well  with  the  provincial  officials  appointed  by 
Afghan  President  Hamid  Karzai.  Like  Karzai  himself,  they  owed  their 
positions  and  their  continuing  survival  to  the  strength  of  our  arms.  Without 
us  they  were  all  dead  men.  But  the  most  peculiar,  if  not  spectacularly  bizarre, 
of  all  of  our  relationships  was  that  with  Zia  Audin,  the  local  warlord  in 
Gardez.  It  was  one  of  distrust,  conspiracy,  and  mutual  antipathy.  We  endured 
a  dysfunctional  marriage  of  convenience,  but  divorce  was  difficult  and  we 
couldn't  just  get  rid  of  him.  The  few  men  that  he  still  controlled  were  en- 
camped at  several  different  bases  around  the  city,  but  his  real  power  em- 
anated from  the  Bala  Hissar,  or  Castle  Greyskull  as  we  called  it,  a  massive 
fortification  built  by  the  British  in  the  nineteenth  century  in  the  middle  of 
Gardez.  It  dwarfed  all  of  the  other  structures  in  town  and  dominated  the  en- 
tire mountain  plain  that  surrounded  the  city. 

Zia  Audin,  sorry,  General  Zia  Audin,  was  responsible  for  many  of  the 
rocket  attacks  on  our  firebase  and  at  least  some  of  the  IEDs  that  exploded 
around  our  patrols.  All  of  the  American  and  Afghan  agencies  around  the  re- 
gion knew  this,  and  most  interestingly  Zia  Audin  knew  that  we  knew.  But  he 
didn't  try  to  kill  us  out  of  a  sense  of  either  hatred  or  malice  in  his  heart;  he  did 
it  out  of  jealousy  and  pride,  for  Zia  Audin  was  heartbroken.  He  suffered  from 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  75 

an  unrequited  love  of  America,  and  this  was  awkward  for  all  parties.  So  Zia 
Audin,  in  a  fit  of  adolescent  pique,  did  what  came  naturally— he  tried  to  kill  us. 

Outright  murder  wasn't  on  his  mind  so  much  as  grandiose  posturing. 
What  he  wanted  was  attention  and  respect.  What  he  wanted  was  to  keep  us 
frightened  of  the  incomprehensibly  alien  and  hostile  Afghan  countryside.  By 
arranging  the  anonymous,  nighttime  rocket  attacks  that  rained  down  on  us  as 
we  slept  in  our  bunks,  he  thought  that  he  could  reinforce  the  perceived  ne- 
cessity of  his  power  and  authority,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  protect  us, 
and  fortunately  the  rockets  and  mortars  missed  their  mark.  No  one  had  been 
injured. 

We  were  up  to  some  not-so-subtle  subterfuges  of  our  own.  In  moving  to 
the  Gardez  firebase,  we  had  inherited  from  previous  Special  Forces  teams  a 
conspiracy  to  undermine  and  isolate  Zia  Audin,  and  it  was  something  that  we 
did  with  relish.  Zia  Audin  was  a  bandit  and  a  thug,  and  so,  of  course,  he  had 
been  a  close  American  ally.  Although  a  Pashtun,  he  had  been  a  member  of 
the  Tajik-dominated  Northern  Alliance.  As  a  young  man  he  had  fought 
against  the  Soviets  during  the  Jihad  and  then  against  the  Taliban,  who  had 
imprisoned  and  tortured  him  for  several  years.  When  the  Americans  invaded, 
he  joined  the  swelling  ranks  of  unemployed  warlords  and  reemerged  from 
obscurity  to  fight  the  Taliban  once  again,  along  with  their  Arab  allies.  By  all 
accounts  he  had  been  a  brave  and  tenacious  fighter.  But  he  was  now  a  petty 
warlord  beholden  to  no  one,  and  his  rank  of  "general"  was  recognized  due  to 
his  years  of  fealty  and  service  against  the  Taliban. 

The  goal  of  the  Americans  was  to  provoke  and  humiliate  Audin,  and  ulti- 
mately drive  him  from  his  castle  in  the  city  center.  Stripped  of  the  castle, 
which  afforded  him  both  symbolic  and  physical  protection,  he  would  only  be 
safe  in  Kabul.  He  had  many  powerful  enemies  in  Gardez,  and  the  locals  de- 
spised him.  His  men  had  terrorized  the  community,  demanding  protection 
money  from  the  local  shop  owners  and  raping  young  boys  on  their  way  to 
school.  They  were  highwaymen,  who  set  up  illegal  checkpoints,  charging 
"road  taxes"  from  anyone  unlucky  enough  to  stumble  upon  one  of  their  road- 
blocks. And  they  preyed  on  the  local  nomads,  kidnapping  prominent  tribal 
elders  until  their  families  ransomed  them  from  jail.  Audin  and  his  men  had 
gone  out  of  their  way  to  alienate  and  piss  off  everyone  in  town.  Rocketing  our 
firebase  didn't  endear  them  to  us  either. 

Special  Forces  teams,  ANA  (Afghan  National  Army)  units,  the  Karzai- 
appointed  provincial  governor,  and  the  new  police  chief  all  conspired  to  chip 


76  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

away  at  his  power.  First,  Audin's  men  were  forbidden  from  operating  check- 
points along  the  roads,  then  they  were  banned  from  carrying  weapons  while 
out  of  uniform  in  the  city,  and  finally  they  were  prohibited  from  wearing  their 
uniforms  in  the  city  limits  as  well.  They  were  only  authorized  to  travel  from 
Castle  Greyskull  to  their  handful  of  crumbling  encampments  in  the  coun- 
tryside, where  they  would  languish  in  the  desert.  Failure  to  comply  led  to  the 
emasculating  spectacle  of  being  publicly  and  roughly  disarmed.  Bandits 
stripped  of  their  mystique  and  their  weapons  found  themselves  to  be  very  vul- 
nerable men,  and  their  former  victims  suddenly  saw  them  as  the  small-time 
criminals  that  they  were. 

And  then  there  was  the  matter  of  the  rapes.  An  old  man  stopped  a  patrol 
of  ANA  along  a  roadside  and  complained  to  the  battalion  commander  about 
Zia  Audin's  men  "touching  the  schoolboys,  who  were  always  crying  when 
they  passed  his  house."  He'd  seen  Audin's  soldiers  taking  boys  into  their  bar- 
racks. The  ANA  battalion  commander,  an  old  communist  who  had  fought 
with  the  Soviets  and  against  our  erstwhile  mujahideen  allies,  was  livid. 

He  marched  a  company  of  his  men,  along  with  two  gun  trucks  of  his 
American  advisors,  into  the  closest  of  Audin's  compounds.  His  soldiers  dis- 
armed the  men  inside  under  gunpoint  and  surrounded  them  in  the  middle  of 
a  courtyard,  then  lined  them  up  against  one  of  the  compound's  walls.  "If  I 
hear  about  another  crying  schoolboy,  I'll  come  back  and  execute  the  lot  of 
you,"  he  announced,  his  voice  cracking  with  rage. 

This  was  a  threat  that  he  made  frequently  and  with  solemn  Stalinist  sin- 
cerity, and  it  always  worked.  He  could  say  things  that  we  couldn't  and  we  ad- 
mired him  greatly  for  it,  although  I  couldn't  help  but  wonder  about  a  man 
who  was  so  cavalier  about  firing  squads  and  mass  execution.  How  often  had 
he  delivered  on  this  threat  in  the  past?  Or  was  I  just  being  squeamish  and 
weak?  There  were  no  more  reports  about  crying  schoolchildren.  Audin's  men 
were  further  restricted  and  forbidden  from  any  contact  with  the  Gardez  shop 
owners.  They  would  always  push  their  luck,  and  after  an  armed  confrontation 
they'd  back  down,  losing  more  and  more  face  in  front  of  the  locals. 

This  was  the  deteriorating  situation.  We'd  whittled  away  at  Zia  Audin's 
power  and  his  honor  to  the  point  where  his  men  sat  dispersed  at  their  various 
barracks  despised,  unpaid,  bored,  and  hungry.  Because  of  their  previous  turns 
at  bad  behavior,  the  locals  were  enthusiastic  about  informing  on  them.  Shame 
is  a  powerful  force  in  Afghanistan,  and  we  disgraced  these  sad  pitiful  fuckers 
without  mercy.  The  consistency  with  which  the  Americans  had  dealt  with 


HEARTS    AND     MINDS  77 

Zia  Audin  had  also  generated  no  small  amount  of  goodwill  among  much  of 
the  local  population.  We  were  mostly  tolerated  as  a  necessary  evil,  and  that 
was  about  as  good  as  we  could  hope  for. 

I  became  obsessed  with  Audin  and  his  gang  of  cutthroats.  The  Taliban 
were  nebulous,  as  much  rumor  as  reality,  but  I  thought  that  we  could  actually 
do  some  real  good  if  we  could  get  these  gangsters  off  the  people's  backs. 

We  were  nearing  the  final  act.  Zia  Audin  was  trapped  and  isolated.  He  was 
largely  marginalized.  We  even  treated  the  rocket  attacks  as  more  of  a  nui- 
sance than  anything  else,  the  price  of  doing  business  in  Afghanistan.  But 
more  sinister  was  his  flirtation  with  the  Taliban.  We  started  to  receive  reports 
that  he  was  assisting  his  old  enemies,  putting  them  up  in  the  castle,  and  fa- 
cilitating their  activities  in  the  area.  He  was  trying  to  play  both  sides  against 
the  other  in  a  last  desperate  bid  to  maintain  some  kind  of  relevance.  It  was  the 
oldest  game  in  Afghanistan,  and  a  particularly  dangerous  one  if  all  of  the  con- 
cerned parties  found  out  what  you  were  up  to. 

Out  of  desperation  he  had  surrendered  most  of  his  heavy  weapons  as  a 
goodwill  gesture,  but  still  we  pushed.  There  would  be  no  reconciliation.  We 
would  pressure  him  either  until  we  could  prove  that  he  was  working  with  the 
insurgents  or  until  he  just  quit  the  city.  And  it  was  against  this  backdrop  that 
Bill,  our  team  sergeant,  and  I,  along  with  our  ANA  battalion  staff,  called  on 
Zia  Audin  for  lunch. 

Lunching  with  Zia  Audin  was  a  ritualistic  courtesy,  demanded  by  custom 
and  protocol.  The  first  time  that  I'd  heard  of  such  an  absurdity  was  during  a 
conversation  with  one  of  our  predecessors  at  the  Gardez  firebase. 

"You've  actually  had  lunch  with  him?"  I  asked,  shocked. 

"Oh,  yeah,  sure.  I've  been  up  there  a  couple  of  times,"  he  shrugged. 

"Have  I  been  reading  the  wrong  intelligence  reports  or  something?  Did  I 
miss  a  meeting?  Are  we  talking  about  the  same  Zia  Audin,  the  Zia  Audin? 
The  jackass  who  attacks  our  convoys,  mortars  our  firebase,  and  who  might  be 
working  with  the  Taliban?"  I  demanded,  as  I  counted  off  his  sins. 

"That  would  be  the  one.  It's  just  expected.  You  go  up  to  Castle  Greyskull 
occasionally  and  have  lunch  with  him.  You  still  have  to  talk  to  him,  and  any- 
way he  puts  on  a  nice  spread  of  chow.  If  you  get  a  chance  to  go  up  there,  take 
it.  You  won't  be  disappointed,"  he  said,  obviously  relishing  the  irony  of  the  sit- 
uation. 

Now,  I  had  never  in  my  pitiful  life  knowingly  exchanged  pleasantries  over 
lunch,  or  any  other  meal  for  that  matter,  with  a  man  who  was  regularly  trying 


78  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

to  kill  me.  But  when  Bill  invited  me  to  escort  him  to  the  castle  for  his  first 
meeting  with  Audin,  I  jumped  at  the  opportunity.  The  idea  seemed  so  ele- 
gant, like  the  medieval  Spaniards  and  Moors  retiring  to  each  other's  tents  to 
play  chess  and  exchange  bons  mots  after  a  bloody  day  of  battle  and  slaughter. 
Perhaps  the  metaphor  was  unnecessary;  we  would,  after  all,  be  departing 
from  our  own  high-walled  mud  fortress  to  visit  another,  albeit  grander  one. 
We  were  literally  making  a  kind  of  feudal  social  call.  This  situation,  however, 
was  less  straightforward;  Zia  Audin  was  technically  on  our  side.  And  anyway, 
I  really  wanted  to  see  the  inside  of  that  castle. 

Bill  and  I,  along  with  one  interpreter  (or  terp,  as  we  called  them),  jumped 
into  the  old  Mercedes  jeep  that  served  as  our  "get  around  town"  car  and  fol- 
lowed two  jeeploads  of  our  Afghan  officers  up  to  the  castle.  Theoretically  the 
purpose  of  this  visit  was  to  discuss  ways  to  coordinate  our  efforts  at  stabilizing 
the  area  around  Gardez,  but  the  reality  was  that  lunch  provided  us  all  an  op- 
portunity to  size  each  other  up. 

At  the  bottom  gate  to  the  castle  drive,  Audin's  men  lined  up  for  a  slapdash 
review.  They  saluted  and  lowered  the  ridiculous  cotton  string  that  barred  the 
road  to  the  castle  heights,  which  meandered  up  the  hillside  past  the  thick 
stone  walls  and  into  an  immense  central  courtyard.  The  courtyard  itself  was 
littered  with  old  Soviet  antiaircraft  guns  and  rusting  howitzers  under  several 
ancient  shade  trees.  All  of  this,  in  turn,  was  surrounded  by  decrepit  barracks 
and  administrative  buildings  that  were  missing  doors  and  windows.  The 
rooms  themselves  appeared  to  be  ransacked,  with  rusting  artillery  shells,  old 
rockets,  and  human  feces  strewn  along  the  floor. 

On  the  north  side,  a  rocky  outcrop  ascended  still  higher  and  the  crum- 
bling stone  marked  an  even  older  castle,  whose  origins  appeared  to  have  been 
lost  in  violent  antiquity.  And  here  atop  the  highest  parapet  stood  two  stone 
burial  vaults  decorated  with  the  green  flags  of  martyrdom.  But  to  whom  they 
belonged  was  also  seemingly  lost.  Opposite  the  most  ancient  part  of  the  cas- 
tle was  a  two-story  building  that  had  seen  at  least  some  renovation  during  the 
twentieth  century.  There  were  no  obvious  holes  in  its  corrugated  tin  roof  and 
the  window  frames  held  actual  glass. 

Audin  and  his  officers  walked  out  from  behind  this  building  while  his  sol- 
diers, wearing  pressed  uniforms  rather  than  the  normal  mix  of  camouflage 
and  civilian  attire,  assembled  in  two  ranks.  Then  Audin  and  his  entourage 
filed  between  them  dressed  in  finery  appropriate  to  their  status  as  oriental 
despots.  They  wore  a  mixture  of  green  and  khaki  ceremonial  uniforms,  ac- 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  79 

cessorized  by  scarlet  epaulettes  and  exaggerated  peaked  garrison  caps  that 
were  a  hangover  from  Russian  military  fashion  sense.  They  formed  a  recep- 
tion line  for  us  to  introduce  ourselves,  shaking  hands  gently  in  the  Afghan 
custom,  as  we  touched  our  hearts,  mouthing,  "Salaam  alaikum"  —  Peace  be 
with  you.  We  left  a  couple  of  ANA  privates  to  guard  the  vehicles  in  the  court- 
yard. They  were  the  only  ones  present  who  didn't  feel  the  need  to  wear  disin- 
genuous smiles  and  instead  eyed  Audin's  troops  sternly,  all  business. 

Audin's  officers  led  us  into  what  was  the  warlord's  office  and  receiving 
room,  with  a  large  desk  at  one  end  and  couches  surrounding  a  low  brass  cof- 
fee table.  The  typical  Afghan  functionary  would  decorate  his  office  with  a 
bouquet  of  fake  silk  flowers,  but  Audin,  the  gaudy  usurper,  felt  compelled  to 
jam  a  dozen  of  them  in  every  nook  and  cranny.  The  moldy  brown  carpet  was 
covered  by  a  cheap  and  threadbare  burgundy-colored  Afghan  rug.  The  airless 
room  stank  of  mildew,  and  body  odor  filled  the  space  like  a  fog.  Everyone  set- 
tled into  the  couches,  while  Bill  and  I  removed  our  body  armor,  piling  it  next 
to  the  door  along  with  our  carbines.  We  still  had  our  pistols,  and  I  chose  to  sit 
next  to  our  gear,  just  in  case  this  already  awkward  luncheon  went  horribly- 
wrong.  I  calculated  that  Bill  and  I  could  shoot  everyone  in  the  room  easily  be- 
fore any  help  could  arrive  for  Audin,  which  I  found  reassuring. 

Audin  sat  in  front  of  his  desk,  and  when  he  removed  his  pompous  head- 
gear, I  could  finally  get  a  good  look  at  him.  Not  surprisingly  he  was  a  small 
man,  broad  across  the  shoulders,  but  also  handsome.  His  meticulously 
combed  and  pomaded  beard  merged  into  a  full  head  of  black  hair.  He  had  a 
fresh  haircut  and  used  a  discreet  amount  of  hair  creme.  His  hands  were  soft 
for  an  Afghan,  with  long  manicured  fingernails,  and  they  were  no  longer  ac- 
customed to  physical  labor.  His  face,  the  little  that  wasn't  covered  by  his  thick 
beard,  seemed  unaffected  by  his  years  of  hardship  and  overexposure  to  the 
desert  wind  and  sun.  This  coupled  with  his  dark  sensuous  eyes  and  full  lips 
gave  him  an  effete  quality.  He  looked  younger  than  I'd  expected,  too  young 
to  be  the  potentate  of  Gardez.  He  did  not  smile,  and  when  he  spoke,  he  did 
so  to  the  entire  room  and  without  looking  at  anyone  directly,  but  taking  in 
everything  as  his  eyes  shifted  nervously  from  side  to  side.  I  knew  right  away 
that  this  was  a  man  who  had  lost  the  taste  for  guerrilla  fighting  and  living  in 
caves.  He  was  afraid. 

Tea  was  served  immediately  and  pleasantries  were  exchanged  between 
Audin's  staff  and  the  ANA  officers  until  the  food  was  served.  And  it  became 
glaringly  apparent  that  Bill  and  I  had  made  a  serious  error  before  we'd  come 


80  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

to  the  castle— we'd  brought  only  one  terp,  who  was  huddled  next  to  Bill  on 
the  couch  translating  snatches  of  the  conversation.  I,  however,  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and,  being  deaf  as  a  stump,  was  having  a  difficult  time 
hearing  the  translation. 

This  was  just  a  tactical  error;  the  strategic  disaster  was  in  our  choice  of  in- 
terpreter. We'd  brought  Mohammed,  who,  while  he  claimed  that  he  was 
twenty,  didn't  look  a  day  older  than  fifteen  and  was  fresh  faced,  pretty,  and 
beardless.  We'd  brought  a  goddamn  cherub  to  a  meeting  with  a  gang  of  pi- 
rates, pederasts,  and  rapists.  Audin's  henchmen  couldn't  stop  gaping  at  him, 
their  eyes  bugging  out  of  their  heads.  The  young  man  shifted  his  slight  frame 
nervously  under  the  weight  of  their  lewd  stares,  causing  the  couch  to  creak 
loudly  and  distracting  everyone  in  the  room.  Beads  of  perspiration  formed  on 
his  forehead,  and  he  tapped  his  left  foot  incessantly. 

He  was  also  a  lousy  interpreter,  one  of  our  worst.  All  of  his  languages, 
English,  Dari,  and  Pashtu,  sounded  like  "moosh,  moosh,  moosh,"  and  he  had 
the  affectation  of  pursing  his  lips  when  he  spoke,  giving  the  impression  that 
he  was  blowing  kisses  to  the  listener.  The  suggestiveness  of  this  unfortunate 
habit  drove  the  assembled  bandits  mad  with  lust  as  they  leaned  forward  in 
their  seats  devouring  peaches  and  hanging  on  his  every  mooshy  word. 

But  at  least  the  captain  had  been  right  about  the  food;  it  was  delicious  — 
lamb  and  chicken  kebabs  with  jasmine  rice,  followed  by  fresh  melon,  and 
ice-cold  Pepsis.  After  the  last  plates  had  been  cleared,  we  got  down  to  the  seri- 
ous business  of  politics  and  war.  I  pulled  out  my  notebook,  if  for  no  other  rea- 
son than  to  look  official  and  to  write  down  my  observations  and  the  names  of 
the  men  gathered.  Bill  began  guiding  the  conversation  where  we  wanted  it. 

"Attacks  on  Coalition  forces  have  been  increasing  in  the  region  for  the  last 
two  months."  He  paused,  looking  directly  at  Audin.  "Are  you  aware  of  this?" 

"Moosh,  moosh,  moosh." 

The  bandit  on  my  right  crunched  loudlv  into  one  of  the  last  remaining 
peaches  and  juice  dribbled  down  his  long  beard. 

"Yes,  yes,  we  are  of  course  aware  of  this  and  we  are  concerned  for  the 
safety  of  our  American  friends.  .  .  .  We  want  to  help,  but  our  resources  are 
sadly  limited,"  Audin  lied.  "The  people  who  are  responsible  for  these  attacks 
are  not  from  this  region.  There  are  no  Taliban  here.  .All  of  the  people  are 
against  the  Taliban  and  bin  Laden  and  the  Al  Qaeda.  These  people  are  for- 
eigners, from  Pakistan  or  maybe  Kandahar." 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  81 

"So  you  know  nothing?"  I  said,  staring  directly  at  Audin,  trying  to  be  men- 
acing and  give  my  words  weight  by  making  eye  contact,  but  failing. 

He  did  not  respond. 

"Well,  General,  the  only  way  that  we'll  be  able  to  help  you  is  if  you  join 
your  forces  with  the  Afghan  National  Army,"  Bill  continued.  He  didn't  have 
to  threaten,  he  was  a  threat.  The  son  of  Norwegian  farmers  from  Minnesota, 
he  looked  every  bit  the  errant  Viking  that  he  was.  His  thick  and  muscled  body 
always  seemed  to  be  straining  to  contain  something  explosive  and  volatile. 
His  face  was  permanently  locked  in  an  angry  scowl  under  a  shaggy  mane  of 
sandy  hair.  I'd  always  had  a  nagging  sense  that  Bill  might  feel  the  need  to 
snap  my  neck  someday,  just  to  relieve  tension,  and  I'd  been  his  friend  for  six 
years. 

"Yes,  I'm  very  interested  in  this  ANA.  It  is  very  good  to  build  a  new  army 
for  the  peace,  security,  and  stability  of  Afghanistan.  Perhaps  some  of  you 
Americans  or  some  of  these  Afghan  officers  could  share  some  of  these  new 
techniques  with  my  men,"  Audin  said,  sweeping  his  hand  toward  the  couch 
filled  with  our  counterparts. 

"No,  I'm  afraid  that  that  is  not  possible.  We  only  work  with  the  ANA  and 
the  ANA  do  not  train  other  militias.  Respectfully,  I  don't  think  that  you  un- 
derstand what  the  ANA  is,"  said  Bill,  smiling.  "Your  men  must  eventually  sub- 
mit to  ANA  command  and  go  to  Kabul  for  training." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  see.  Perhaps  then  I  could  send  some  of  my  men  to  Kabul  for 
training  and  then  they  will  return  here  to  Gardez  and  share  this  new  knowl- 
edge. Then  together  we  will  all  work  for  peace,  security,  and  stability  here  in 
Gardez.  But  after  we  have  done  this  we  will  need  new  weapons  and  money 
for  uniforms.  Right  now  I  do  not  even  have  the  money  to  pay  my  soldiers."  At 
this  his  men  nodded  in  agreement,  while  our  Afghans  said  nothing  and  be- 
trayed neither  emotion  nor  opinion. 

"Again  this  is  not  possible.  All  of  your  men  need  to  go  to  Kabul  for  train- 
ing. We  know  that  your  men  are  good  soldiers.  There  will  always  be  a  home 
for  them  in  the  ANA,"  replied  Bill,  speaking  not  to  Audin  this  time,  but  to  his 
lackeys,  who  were  concerned  about  their  personal  fortunes  as  well.  He  was  of- 
fering them  a  way  out.  He  paused  for  dramatic  effect.  "But  they  will  not  re- 
turn here  under  your  command.  They  will  become  professional  soldiers,  and 
they  will  go  where  the  army  orders  them,  just  as  my  army  has  sent  me  here  to 
Afghanistan." 


82  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"Yes,  I  see.  But  my  own  men  are  from  here.  This  is  their  home.  Many  of 
them  must  take  care  of  their  families,  some  even  have  sick  relatives  that  they 
must  tend  to.  Plus  they  know  the  city.  The  people  of  Gardez  do  not  trust 
strangers.  My  men  can  provide  information.  They  can  recognize  the  people 
who  come  here  to  cause  trouble.  They  can  be  a  great  contribution  to  the 
peace,  security',  and  stability  of  Gardez." 

I  had  had  enough  of  the  courtly  circularity  of  the  conversation  and  de- 
cided to  force  the  issue.  The  empty  cynical  phrase  "peace,  security,  and  sta- 
bility" was  also  giving  me  a  headache.  I  looked  at  the  terp,  who  I  suspected 
had  been  doing  a  lousy  job  at  the  translation  to  begin  with,  and  told  him  to 
pay  close  attention  to  my  words,  to  which  he  responded  with  a  peevish  scowl. 

"Who  are  the  terrorists  and  where  are  they?  If  you  and  your  men  know  the 
area  and  who  the  troublemakers  are,  then  tell  us.  Give  me  their  names  and 
their  addresses.  We  know  that  there  are  Taliban  in  Gardez.  The  firebase  is  at- 
tacked regularly,  bombs  are  planted  along  the  roads,  and  bandits  set  up  ille- 
gal checkpoints  to  rob  the  people.  You  say  that  you  can  help  us,  then  help  us." 

The  room  exploded  into  arm  waving  and  excited  jabbering,  and  the  terp 
was  overwhelmed. 

"General  Audin  says  that  they  do  not  know  who  these  people  are,  but  if 
they  find  them,  then  they  would  gladly  torture  them  for  you,"  the  terp  said  af- 
fably, while  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  six  men  who  were  all  speaking  to  him 
at  once.  The  mention  of  torture  apparently  brought  all  of  the  Afghan  factions 
in  the  room  together  and  now  all  of  them  were  animated  and  jabbering  and 
laughing  and  the  tension  eased.  I  lit  a  cigarette  and  waited  for  the  room  to 
quiet  a  bit. 

"Now  what  are  they  talking  about?"  I  asked  the  terp  after  the  commotion 
seemed  to  die  down. 

"They're  still  talking  about  torturing  their  enemies,"  he  replied  with  a 
shrug.  I  waited,  but  the  Afghans  seemed  content  to  debate  the  nuances  of 
abuse.  Bill  just  smiled  indulgently  as  he  observed  the  scene. 

"If  you  don't  know  who  these  people  are,  what  use  are  you  to  us?"  I  inter- 
rupted over  the  din  of  the  crowd.  "They  are  the  future,"  I  said,  pointing  at  the 
ANA  officers,  who  were  suddenly  all  quiet  and  stone  faced.  "If  your  men  want 
to  continue  to  soldier,  then  they  will  join  the  ANA.  If  they  have  to  stay  in 
Gardez,  then  they'll  have  to  get  civilian  jobs.  There's  no  way  around  it.  It's  in- 
evitable." 

The  room  grew  silent  and  the  tension  returned,  to  my  great  malicious  sat- 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  83 


isfaction.  But  Audin  was  a  professional  at  these  parlor  games,  whereas  I  was 
just  an  amateur.  He  was  momentarily  off  balance,  but  recovered  quickly.  He 
made  eye  contact  with  me  for  the  first  time  and  only  for  a  moment,  before 
slowly  reaching  for  his  tea  on  the  coffee  table. 

"Tell  me  more  about  this  ANA  of  yours.  My  men  and  I  very  much  want  to 
help  our  American  friends  fight  the  wicked  Taliban." 

And  around  and  around  we  went  for  another  hour,  just  like  the  previous 
one.  Audin  was  trying  to  find  a  way  to  hold  on  to  some  scrap  of  his  power  and 
prestige,  while  we  tried  to  disabuse  him  of  the  notion  that  he  had  any  future 
in  Gardez.  Finally,  when  everyone  seemed  exhausted  from  too  much  talking 
and  jittery  from  too  much  tea,  we  left  the  castle  after  many  florid  pronounce- 
ments from  all  sides  testifying  as  to  the  great  productivity  of  the  day  and  as- 
surances to  meet  again  soon. 

During  the  drive  back  to  the  firebase,  I  found  myself  feeling  oddly  sorry 
for  Audin.  He  was  frozen  in  his  own  rhetoric,  an  anachronism,  incapable  of 
change.  He  was  alone  and  justifiably  terrified  of  the  future,  surrounded  by 
enemies,  a  prisoner  behind  his  own  castle  walls.  Perhaps  pity  was  a  truer  de- 
scription of  what  I  felt  for  him,  however  fleetingly.  He  was  just  a  man  after  all 
and  not  the  monster  of  my  imagination.  But  the  feeling  faded  as  we  passed 
the  earthworks  of  our  own  fortifications  and  I  saw  the  faces  of  my  friends.  He 
had  made  his  own  enemies,  and  I  counted  myself  among  them  more  than 
ever.  It  was  his  obvious  position  of  weakness  that  I'd  seen  during  lunch  and  it 
was  this  frailty  that  had  spoken  to  my  humanity,  but  it  didn't  last.  I  felt  a  clar- 
ifying rush  of  bloodlust  instead. 

We  headed  over  to  the  Afghan  officer  tent  when  we  got  back  to  brief  the 
ANA  battalion  commander  and  talk  with  our  counterparts  about  their  im- 
pressions of  Audin  and  his  cronies.  We  found  the  officers  lounging  around  a 
long  table  drinking  tea  and  smoking  cigarettes.  Two  commanders  from  an- 
other Afghan  militia  unit  had  stopped  by  for  a  visit.  They  were  from  General 
Lodin's  command  and  Zia  Audin  theoretically  reported  to  them,  although 
they  exercised  no  real  control  over  him.  Everyone  had  been  discussing  how 
to  remove  him  from  Gardez  before  we  even  arrived.  One  of  the  guests,  whose 
face  remained  shrouded  behind  aviator  sunglasses,  claimed  that  he  was 
Audin's  "best  friend,"  and  that  while  he  remained  loyal  to  his  comrade  in 
arms,  he  understood  that  his  old  friend  needed  to  move  on,  perhaps  to  Kabul. 

"He  must  learn  that  the  world  is  changing,"  he  explained,  as  he  prattled 
on  about  the  usual  "peace,  security,  and  stability"  bullshit.  They  say  never 


84  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

trust  a  man  who  says,  "Trust  me,"  and  I  decided  while  I  sat  there  listening  to 
this  man  pontificate  that  anyone  in  Afghanistan  who  talked  at  length  about 
peace,  security,  and  stability  was  probably  working  overtime  to  undermine  all 
three.  The  general  consensus  among  the  Afghans  was  that  Audin  needed  to 
be  handled  respectfully,  if  not  gently.  His  mysterious  friend  promised  to  have 
a  manly  tete-a-tete  with  him  while  he  was  in  town.  It  was  impossible  to  tell 
whether  he  was  there  to  spy  for  us  or  on  us. 

While  all  of  this  flowery  discussion  was  taking  place,  I  noticed  that  Bill 
seemed  more  explosive  than  usual,  and  then  suddenly,  he  slammed  his  fist 
onto  the  table,  spilling  everyone's  tea,  and  his  face  contorted  into  unmasked 
fury.  "I  hate  that  asshole!"  he  screamed  to  no  one  in  particular.  "I  wanted  to 
punch  that  no-good  motherfucker  in  the  face!  Beat  that  motherfucker  right 
in  his  own  goddamn  house!  Beat  him  right  in  front  of  his  men  .  .  .  mother- 
fucker. I'd  love  to  shoot  that  bastard."  And  then  he  laughed  like  a  maniac  at 
his  own  bloody  fantasy. 

Audin's  "best  friend"  literally  winced  in  what  looked  like  genuine  pain, 
and  the  rest  of  the  Afghans  looked  aghast  and  confused  as  they  listened  to  the 
translation.  "Oh  shit,"  I  thought,  "so  much  for  diplomacy."  The  ANA  officers 
were  laughing  nervously  and  their  insulted  guests  didn't  bother  to  hide  their 
irritation  at  this  breach  of  protocol,  both  of  them  scowling  and  smoking  in 
silent  impotent  rage. 

Cultures  everywhere  celebrate  their  traditions,  but  they  also  chafe  against 
them.  Most  Afghans  were  tired;  tired  of  war,  tired  of  fighting,  and  tired  of 
meaningless  talk.  Bill  embodied  the  unrestrained  and  unpredictable  power 
of  the  United  States,  but  his  frustrated  rage  appeared  to  be  honest,  and  hon- 
esty is  a  rare  and  precious  thing.  Stories  of  his  impolitic  explosion  filtered 
through  the  terps,  the  ANA  soldiers,  the  Afghan  militias  and  mercenaries, 
into  the  city,  and  no  doubt  to  our  myriad  enemies.  Bill's  reputation  was 
made.  That  was  the  day  that  the  Afghans  named  Bill  Shere  Khan,  The  Tiger. 
That  was  the  day  that  the  Afghans  fell  in  love  with  him.  Bill  was  a  force  of  na- 
ture, and  so  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  his  outburst  was  genuine  or  cal- 
culated drama,  but  it  amounted  to  an  earthquake.  Here  was  Bill,  heir  to 
Iskander  in  all  of  his  blond  barbarous  glory,  equal  parts  courteous  and  cruel. 
My  petulant  badgering  of  Audin  had  been  nothing  more  than  second-rate 
theatrics,  which  no  doubt  all  of  the  Afghans  expected  from  an  earnest  and 
self-righteous  American. 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  85 

Up  until  that  moment,  the  Audin  situation  was  a  local  political  problem, 
but  Bill  had  made  it  personal,  he'd  made  it  tribal.  And  at  that  moment  he'd 
crossed  over  and  gone  native.  After  that  day  there  wasn't  a  thing  that  our 
Afghan  troops  wouldn't  do  for  him;  they  trusted  him  completely.  In  a  land 
fragmented  by  blood  feuds,  he'd  transcended  politics  and  had  declared  a  per- 
sonal vendetta.  And  in  Afghanistan,  it  was  considered  a  moral  obligation  to 
carry  out  one's  revenge.  Two  weeks  later  Zia  Audin  quietly  abandoned  Castle 
Greyskull  and  fled  to  Kabul. 


SIX  WEEKS  IN  and  KHOST-GARDEZ 

Fiction 
Specialist  Ross  Cohen 


After  graduating  from  Brown  University  in  May  2001,  twenty-two-year-old 
Ross  Cohen  immediately  set  out  on  what  he  expected  would  be  a  full  year 
of  backpacking  throughout  Asia.  He  spent  two  months  in  Mongolia  work- 
ing for  an  English-language  newspaper  and  then  traveled  to  Kashgar,  a 
small  city  in  western  China.  While  checking  e-mails  late  one  night  in  the 
hostel  where  he  was  staying,  Cohen  learned  of  the  September  u  terrorist  at- 
tacks and  decided  to  forgo  his  yearlong  journey,  return  to  the  United  States, 
and  enlist  in  the  Army.  Cohen  trained  at  Fort  Benning  and  became  an  air- 
borne infantryman,  ultimately  shipping  off  as  a  paratrooper  to  eastern 
Afghanistan  with  the  ist-^oist  Parachute  Infantry  Regiment,  which  was  at- 
tached to  the  10th  Mountain  Divisions  1st  Brigade.  Cohen  wrote  several 
short  works  of  fiction  based  on  his  experiences  in-country,  focusing  primar- 
ily on  the  interactions  between  soldiers  in  a  single  unit  But  he  was  also 
fascinated  by  the  relationships  between  U.S.  troops  and  local  Afghans,  in- 
cluding the  misunderstandings  and  even  confrontations  that  could  flare  up 
because  of  mutual  suspicion  and  distrust.  (Since  Taliban  and  A/  Qaeda 
troops  did  not  wear  uniforms  and  appeared,  to  most  U.S.  personnel,  in- 
distinguishable from  innocent  civilians,  American  forces  had  to  approach 
almost  every  stranger,  or  "hajji"  as  they  referred  to  them,  as  a  potential 
threat)  In  the  following  story,  Cohen  relates  what  happens  when  troops 
dont  know  for  certain  who  is  harmless  and  who  is  not. 


86  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


Tn  the  tent,  1730  Zulu— 2200  Afghan  time.  Today  was  exciting,  sort  of.  We 
made  our  first  contact  with  hajji  in  a  small  village  near  Khost.  We  killed 
four  of  them.  Well,  by  we  I  don't  mean  "we,"  but  Charlie  Company.  "We" 
were  on  base  security,  at  the  OP-6  tower,  when  the  word  came  in  over  the 
radio.  All  the  dead  guys  appeared  to  be  foreign,  not  .Afghani,  so  that  meant  Al 
Qaeda,  not  Taliban. 

Now  it  was  time  to  sleep,  and  that's  all  I  cared  about. 

Our  team  leader  walked  in  the  tent.  "Ginsburg.  Peterman." 

Goddammit.  I  had  just  taken  my  boots  off. 

"Sergeant." 

"C  Co.  just  brought  some  hajjis  in.  You've  got  PUC  guard." 

Fuck.  "When?" 

"Now." 

"What's  the  uniform?" 

"I  don't  fuckin'  know.  Take  full  battle  rattle." 

Team  leader  and  I  had  been  friends  before  the  deployment.  We  used  to 
watch  football  together  at  a  sports  bar  in  Anchorage,  but  now,  a  month  and  a  half 
in-country,  things  had  become  strained.  I  asked  too  many  questions,  I  guess. 

"Really?  Are  they  armed?" 

"Jesus,  Ginsburg.  You  can  take  your  gear  off  when  you  get  there,  just 
bring  it." 

"Roger,  Sarnt.  What,  uh,  are  we  supposed  to  do,  exactly?" 

A  deep  sigh.  This  was .  .  .  paining  him.  "They'll  brief  you  when  you 
fuckin'  get  there,  okay?" 

"Roger,  Sarnt.  Oh  — and  last  thing— who's  relieving  us?" 

Really  paining  him.  "Benson  and  Nicholas.  Two-hour  shifts." 

I  smiled.  "Gotcha,  Sarnt.  We're  on  it." 

I  pulled  on  and  laced  up  my  desert  combat  boots,  something  I  hated  to  do 
more  than  once  a  day.  Nothing— nothing  felt  better  than  taking  them  off.  I 
grabbed  my  gear.  Peterman  grabbed  his. 

We  walked  out  of  the  tent  into  the  pitch  black  night.  No  lights  at  all.  I 
never  understood  the  need  for  light  discipline  on  the  base.  They  knew  where 
we  were.  It  wasn't  as  though  some  dude  was  up  in  the  mountains,  waiting 
only  for  someone  nontactical  to  turn  on  his  flashlight  so  that  he  could  finally 
know  .  .  .  "Aha!  That's  where  the  American  base  is  hiding!!"  For  a  time  I  used 
the  light  from  my  iPod  to  get  around,  but  that  broke  eventually. 


HEARTS    AND     MINDS  87 

We  adjusted  to  the  darkness. 

"Do  you  know  where  this  place  is?"  Peterman  asked. 

"I  think  so,"  I  replied.  I  led  the  way,  bumping  into  something  every  tenth 
or  so  step. 

"This  is  pretty  cool.  Real  fucking  hajjis." 

"Yeah  it  is.  Too  bad  they  had  to  come  just  before  sleep."  I  paused,  finding 
the  opening  in  the  gate  that  led  to  the  PUC  cages.  "Well,  we  can  always  sleep 
on  guard  tomorrow." 

"Yeah  we  can." 

It  was  dark,  but  we  both  smiled.  They  had  no  idea.  Though  they  would. 

We  neared  the  cages,  and  the  silence  bothered  me.  "You  know  what  PUC 
stands  for?"  PUC  — pronounced  like  a  hockey  puck. 

"I  dunno.  Prisoner  something?" 

"Yeah.  That  makes  sense." 

A  few  meters  away  from  the  entry  to  the  cages,  we  heard  noises.  Soldiers 
on  the  move,  doing  things.  Unlike  us,  they  had  been  outside  the  wire  all  day, 
and  they  deserved  sleep  more  than  we  did.  Whatever.  They  had  guard  last 
month.  They'd  have  it  again  in  a  couple  of  months.  Our  turn  now.  Except 
tonight,  we  wouldn't  sleep  so  much. 

"Hey— you  the  guys  from  Alpha  Company?"  one  of  the  soldiers  asked  me. 

"Roger,  Sergeant.  Oh!  Hey,  Sarnt  Greer,  what's  up?"  Sergeant  First  Class 
Greer— a  platoon  sergeant— had  been  Staff  Sergeant  Greer,  an  Alpha  Com- 
pany squad  leader,  until  just  before  the  deployment.  His  promotion  led  to  a 
transfer,  and  we  hadn't  seen  him  in  a  while. 

"Oh,  hey  Ginsburg.  We  got  two  PUCs.  You  know  what  to  do  with  'em?" 

"Umm  .  .  .  not  really,  Sarnt.  No." 

"Just  make  sure  they  don't  sleep.  Do  whatever  you  have  to  do,  but  keep 
'em  awake." 

"No  worries,  Sarnt.  Were  these  guys  part  of  the  attack  today?" 

He  was  already  walking  off,  heading  to  sleep  or  a  briefing  or  whatever  it 
was  that  platoon  sergeants  did  at  night.  He  hesitated  for  a  second,  and  a  sec- 
ond only.  "Yeah.  They  were." 

"Thanks,  Sarnt.  Have  a  good  night." 

His  soldiers  followed  him  out,  looking  at  me,  and  Peterman  and  I  were 
alone. 

With  the  PUCs. 

We  walked  into  the  cage  area,  and  I  leaned  my  weapon  against  a  bench. 


88  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

I  glanced  at  the  Afghans,  but  only  for  a  second  before  I  took  off  all  of  my 
gear.  In  three  well-rehearsed  motions,  my  back  was  free  and  I  felt  a  shitload 
better. 

I  turned  to  Peterman.  I  nodded. 

He  extended  his  machine  gun's  bipod  legs,  and  put  it  down.  I  picked  up 
my  weapon  and  slung  it. 

I  moseyed  over  to  the  PUC  cages.  The  Afghans  were  separated  in  differ- 
ent mesh-wire  setups.  They  were  two  young  boys.  Not  seventeen  or  eighteen 
young— twelve  or  thirteen  young.  But  one  was  older  than  the  other. 

I  walked  up  to  the  older-looking  boy.  "What  the  fuck,  hajji.  Why  you 
tryin'  to  kill  Americans?"  Now  I  yelled.  "Don't  you  know  we're  here  to  help 
you?!" 

I  wasn't  so  good  at  the  shit-talk.  I  had  been  in  one  fight  in  my  life,  a  fight 
I  neither  started  nor  ended.  Though  I  did  give  him  a  bloodv  nose. 

Peterman,  five  years  younger  than  I,  had  been  silent.  Now  he  followed  my 
lead. 

"HEY  FUCKIN'  HAJJI  WE'RE  FUCKIN'  TALKIN'  TO  YOU!!!" 

He  had  removed  from  his  weapon  his  ultrabright  Surefire  flashlight  that 
we  used  for  clearing  caves  and  dark  rooms.  He  shined  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  one 
I  was  yelling  at. 

The  Afghan  didn't  budge.  He  had  a  sandbag  over  his  head,  as  they  both 
did.  His  had  slipped  a  little,  though,  and  with  his  exposed  left  eye,  he  stared 
back  at  us.  He  was  on  his  knees,  with  his  hands  flex-cuffed  behind  his  back. 

"Goddammit!!  We're  trying  to  fix  your  shithole  of  a  countrv  and  all  you 
can  do  is  try  to  kill  us!!  That's  FUCKED  up,  man.  That— is  — fucked  — up!!" 

He  said  nothing.  He  stared  into  the  flashlight. 

We  heard  a  whimper  from  the  next  cage  over.  A  mistake.  I  don't  know- 
why,  but  it  was  a  mistake  I  felt  the  need  to  ...  do  something  about. 

"Oh,  is  little  hajji  sad?  Do  you  want  to  sleep,  hajji?  Well  so  the  FUCK 
would  I!!"  I  turned  to  Peterman.  I  was  a  specialist,  he  was  a  private  first  class. 
I  was  in  charge.  I  nodded  at  the  older  one.  "Keep  your  light  on  this  fucker. 
Thinks  he's  a  TOUGH  guy!!" 

As  I  walked  to  the  younger  Afghan,  I  heard  Peterman  shouting,  "You 
think  you're  a  fuckin'  tough  guy,  huh!  Huh,  hajji!!"  He  ran  up  to  the  cage  and 
threw  his  body  against  it.  The  whole  structure  shook.  I  looked  over,  and  the 
Afghan  was  staring,  unmoving. 

Afghan  the  younger  was  openly  crying  now.  "Oh,  whatsamatter,  hajji? 


HEARTSANDMINDS  89 

Sad  'cuz  you  tried  to  fuckin'  kill  our  boys,  and  now  you're  gettin'  what  you  de- 
serve?! Oh,  that  sucks  FUCKSTICK!!!"  I  repeated  Peterman's  body  check  to 
the  door.  The  boy  startled  back  and  lost  it.  Big  open  tears. 

"Don't  fuckin'  cry!!  How  old  are  you?  Tsu  kelen  ye?"  I  had  just  started 
learning  Pashtu. 

No  response.  Just  loud,  painful  bawling. 

His  older  brother— I  assumed  it  was  his  older  brother— said  something  to 
him.  I  couldn't  understand  what. 

"HEY  SHUT  THE  FUCK  UP!!  NO  ONE  SAID  YOU  COULD 
FUCKIN'  TALK!!"  If  Peterman  hadn't  said  it,  I  would  have,  but  maybe  not 
so  convincingly.  He  shook  the  bars  again.  Afghan  the  elder  said  nothing. 

"So  I  asked  you  a  question!  Tsu  — kelen— ye?"  I  was  a  little  embarrassed 
that  my  accent  might  be  off,  or  worse,  my  grammar. 

He  looked  up,  stifling  his  sniffles. 

"Tse?" 

"Tsu  —  kelen — ye?" 

"Yao-laas." 

"Yao-laas  .  .  .  Ummm  .  .  .  you're  eleven?  Yao-laas?" 

He  nodded.  His  sandbag  too  had  come  loose. 

"You're  eleven  years  old,  man.  Why  are  you  trying  to  kill  us?  Why?  Wali?" 
He  said  nothing. 

My  Surefire  was  attached  to  the  front  of  my  weapon.  The  idea  was  for  it 
to  illuminate  what  you  were  going  to  shoot.  I  flashed  it  in  his  eye,  and  he 
flinched  backwards. 

We  heard  footsteps.  Peterman  and  I  looked  over.  It  was  team  leader.  He 
wanted  to  check  out  the  action.  He  was  smiling  when  he  saw  me  with  the 
flashlight. 

"Havin'  fun,  Ginsburg?" 

"These  fucksticks,  Sarnt.  This  one's  all  cryin'  an'  shit."  I  went  back  to  the 
cage. 

"IT'S  NOT  SO  FUCKIN'  FUN  TO  TRY  TO  KILL  US  NOW,  HUH?!!" 

Rattle  rattle  rattle!  Team  leader  was  pleased,  and  that  made  me  feel  good. 
"What'd  they  tell  you  guys  to  do  with  'em?" 

"Sarnt  Greer  was  here.  He  said  to  keep  'em  awake  all  night,  but  that's  it. 
These  are  some  of  the  guys  who  fired  at  C  Co  today." 

He  prowled  the  area.  I  wasn't  in  charge  anymore.  "I  thought  we  killed  all 
them?" 


90  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

"I  thought  so,  too,  Sarnt  I  guess  not." 

"What's  this  guy's  deal?"  He  nodded  at  the  elder. 

Peterman.  "He  thinks  he's  pretty  tough.  Won't  fuckin'  CRY  like  his  little 
fuckin'  BROTHER!!"  Speaking  softly  and  then  yelling,  Peterman  thought, 
would  keep  them  on  their  toes.  I  thought  so,  too. 

I  broke  into  song.  "Turn  around  .  .  .  BRIGHT  EYES  .  .  .  every  now  and 
then  I  fall  apaaaart!!"  On  "bright  eyes"  I  hit  them  both  with  the  light  from  my 
Surefire.  Team  leader  grinned  at  me. 

He  liked  seeing  me  like  this. 

"All  right,  you  two."  He  nodded.  It  was  the  closest  to  praise  he  came.  "I'm 
goin'  to  rack  out.  You  guys  need  anything?" 

"Naw,  we're  good,  Sarnt." 

"All  right.  I'll  see  y'all  in  the  morning."  Kindness. 

He  walked  off.  I  knew  what  team  leaders  did  at  night.  They  slept. 

A  moment  later,  we  heard  voices  and  steps  from  the  opposite  direction.  It 
was  Azizullah,  the  senior  interpreter  on  base  and  an  American  citizen,  fol- 
lowed by  a  couple  of  military  intelligence  guys  I  didn't  recognize. 

"Hey,  Aziz,  what's  up?"  I  smiled. 

He  looked  at  me.  He  looked  at  the  whimpering  boy.  He  didn't  smile. 
"They're  in  pain,  you  know." 

"Uh  .  .  ." 

"Look  at  his  hands.  Open  the  gate." 

I  fiddled  with  the  keys  and  the  lock.  I  helped  the  boy  to  his  feet.  His  wrists, 
zip-tied  behind  his  back,  were  rubbed  raw.  I  saw  blood. 

"Do  you  have  a  knife?" 

I  took  out  my  Gerber  that  was  attached  to  my  belt  loop.  I  swung  it  open 
and  cut  the  zip-tie,  with  the  MI  guys  looking  on.  I  could  feel  his  skin  surging 
for  air. 

I  told  Peterman  to  do  the  same  for  the  older  one. 

Aziz  and  the  boys  talked  for  a  few  minutes  in  Pashtu,  while  we  looked  on. 
This  wasn't  our  show  anymore,  and  I  felt .  .  .  not  good.  My  upper  lip  curled 
up,  and  I  was  glad  that  Aziz  hadn't  come  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

"Hey,"  Aziz  said,  "is  there  any  water?" 

I  looked  around.  There  was  a  case  by  the  bench.  I  grabbed  two  bottles  and 
handed  them  to  Aziz.  He  gave  one  each  to  the  boys.  They  talked  in  Pashtu  a 
little  more. 


HEARTSANDMINDS  91 

I  asked,  "So  what  did  these  guys  do?" 

He  inhaled  sharply.  "They  were  lighting  a  fire  in  a  field.  Your  guys  saw 
them,  so  they  panicked  and  started  running.  The  running  was  suspicious,  so 
they  brought  them  in." 

That  sounded  .  .  .  reasonable. 

"So  they  weren't  part  of  the  attack?" 

"Look  how  old  they  are.  Of  course  they  weren't." 

"Right.  Could  the  smoke  have  been  some  kind  of  signal,  though?" 

"No.  They  lit  the  fire  almost  an  hour  after  the  attack.  In  a  different  vil- 
lage. 

"So  why'd  they  light  it?" 

"Kids  like  to  play  with  fire." 

"Oh." 

Reasonable. 

Aziz  spoke  with  them  a  little  while  longer,  and  then  he  and  the  MI  guys 
took  off,  telling  us  to  keep  a  watch  on  them,  but  to  let  them  sleep  if  they 
wanted  to.  I  asked  him  what  would  happen  to  them,  and  he  said  that  they'd 
be  taken  home  in  a  day  or  two. 

Both  boys  got  back  in  the  cages,  but  with  their  hands  freed,  they  no  longer 
had  to  sit  on  their  knees.  The  elder  sat  Indian  style,  and  watched  us.  The 
younger  one  crawled  into  the  fetal  position  and  slept.  Every  now  and  then  Pe- 
terman  would  walk  over  to  them  out  of  boredom,  and  gently  kick  at  the  wire. 
I  didn't  say  anything.  I  smoked  a  few  cigarettes. 

A  little  while  later,  after  Benson  and  Nicholas  had  relieved  us,  Peterman 
and  I  walked  back.  Twenty-hundred  Zulu  now,  a  little  after  midnight  Afghan 
time.  In  a  few  hours,  we'd  be  awake  again. 

"So  that  was  fucked  up,  huh?"  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  bed  without  saying 
something,  anything. 

Peterman  seemed  okay.  "Stupid  fucking  hajjis  shouldn't  have  been  light- 
ing fires.  What  are  we  supposed  to  do?" 

"Yeah  .  .  ."  The  moon  was  out  now,  and  we  could  see  a  little  better.  No 
stumbling  anymore. 

I  pulled  back  the  tent's  canvas  door  and  stepped  inside.  Everyone  was 
asleep. 

In  a  whisper.  "Good  night,  man." 

"Night." 


92  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

I  quietly  took  my  gear  off  and  sat  down  on  my  cot.  I  took  my  boots  and 
socks  off  and  massaged  the  balls  of  my  feet. 

I  thought  I  might  have  trouble  falling  asleep  that  night.  But  I  didn't. 

In  another  story  that  was  also  inspired  by  a  real  incident,  Cohen  describes 
a  brief  but  memorable  encounter  during  a  routine  security  check  in  the 
Khost-Gardez  region  of  Afghanistan. 

"Get  off  your  ass,  Ginsburg!" 

Hooah,  douchebag. 

Using  my  left  hand  as  a  lever,  and  being  sure  to  keep  my  weapon's  two 
barrels  out  of  the  dirt,  I  worked  my  way  off  the  boulder  I  had  been  sitting  on. 
My  back  and  shoulders  pulled  and  sagged  as  eighty  pounds  of  gear  once  more 
hung  off  them. 

There  was  no  reason  to  stand.  I  could  see  fine  how  I  was.  Either  way,  I 
didn't  care.  Whatever  we  were  looking  for  on  that  roadblock  on  the  Khost- 
Gardez  Pass  had  long  ago  escaped  me,  if  not  us.  My  mission  was  to  deny  sanc- 
tuary to  back  pain. 

I  walked  over  to  Benson,  our  team's  light-machine-gunner.  Team  Leader 
Douchebag  was  too  near  to  talk  about,  so  we  exchanged  instead  a  lingering 
glance.  Then,  putting  aside  my  M-4/203  (rifle  with  grenade  launcher- 
fifteen  pounds  loaded),  I  pulled  out  a  nearly  empty  pack  of  cigarettes  from 
my  cargo  pocket. 

"You  have  a  lighter?" 

"What  happened  to  the  last  one  I  gave  you?" 

"Urn  .  .  .  things.  It's .  .  .  around."  I  smiled  apologetically,  and  looked 
down.  My  Kevlar  helmet  (4.2  pounds)  weighed  down  my  head  and  neck. 
Some  guys  looked  good  with  helmets.  Or  at  least  they  looked  rugged  and  sol- 
dierly. Since  Basic,  though,  I  had  always  felt  that  the  helmet  made  me  look 
stupid.  Worse,  goofy.  I  could  pass  as  a  soldier  with  the  rest  of  the  uniform,  but 
the  K-Pot  suggested  that  I  was  just  playing  at  being  a  warrior  in  an  oversized 
costume  hat. 

"Uh-huh.  You  guys  are  ridiculous  with  lighters.  Here.  But  don't  keep  it." 

"Thank  you."  On  the  third  attempt,  I  lit  the  cigarette,  inhaled  and  ex- 
haled deeply.  I  placed  my  hands  underneath  the  ammo  pouches  attached  to 
my  flak  vest  (total  weight  of  M-4  and  M-203  ammo:  thirty  pounds)  and  pulled 
up,  taking  the  strain  off  my  shoulders  for  a  second. 


HEARTSANDMINDS  93 

"You  want  one?"  I  handed  the  lighter  back. 

"What  kind  are  they?" 

"Hajjis.  But  the  good  ones.  With  the  Arabic  writing." 

"No  thanks." 

After  my  third  drag,  I  spotted  a  jingle  truck  coming  around  the  bend. 
"Goddammit."  The  Afghans  loved  their  jingle,  God  bless  'em.  These  mas- 
sive flatbed  trucks  that  were  affixed  from  bumper  to  tailgate  with  jingles  and 
spangles  and  extravagantly  painted  mosaics  were  used  to  transport  all  goods 
up  and  down  the  narrow  mountain  pass.  And  yes,  they  jingled  when  they 
moved. 

Someone  had  to  search  it. 

"Fucking  Bravo  Team,  man.  Just  waving  it  through  to  us." 

Nicholas,  my  grenadier  counterpart  in  Bravo  Team,  caught  my  eye  as  the 
jingle  rumbled  past  his  position.  He  waved  and  flashed  a  friendly  smile.  Your 
turn. 

I  walked  up  to  the  cab  and  used  my  best  Pashtu.  "Motar  tsecha  kusha, 
meherabanee."  Get  out  of  the  car,  please. 

The  driver,  a  middle-aged  Afghan  (or  Pakistani  —  I  had  no  idea  except  that 
he  was  Pashtun),  flashed  an  appreciative  smile.  "Pashtu  pohegey?"  You  un- 
derstand Pashtu?  he  asked. 

"Leg  leg."  A  little  bit.  We  need  to  search  your  vehicle,  I  told  him.  I  asked 
if  he  had  any  explosives,  bullets,  weapons,  Taliban,  or  Al  Qaeda  in  his  flatbed. 
He  smiled  again  and  said  no.  Without  prompting,  he  spread  his  arms  so  that 
I  could  search  him. 

I  considered  putting  the  cigarette  out.  It  would  make  the  job  easier,  and  I 
wasn't  enjoying  the  tobacco.  I  was  too  hot  and,  at  eight  thousand  feet,  too 
high.  But  I  held  on  to  it.  Why  not  smoke? 

After  Douchebag  and  Mormon  (Alpha  Team's  M-14  gunner)  finished  the 
vehicle  search  and  I  had  finished  with  the  driver  and  the  two  passengers 
(Benson,  with  the  biggest  gun,  pulled  security),  I  thanked  the  driver  for  his 
patience  and  sent  him  on  his  way.  The  driver,  part  pleased  and  part  bemused 
that  this  foreign  soldier  would  be  so  polite  and  speak  his  language,  thanked 
me  and  took  off.  Five  minutes  closer  to  calling  it  a  day. 

"Jesus,  man"  — I  turned  to  Benson— "my  back  is  killing  me." 

"I  hear  ya."  He  paused.  "You  wanna  trade  weapons?" 

I  knelt  before  the  weighty  supremacy  of  his  shittier  situation.  Without 
question,  his  suck  was  worse  than  my  suck.  But  then,  he  had  been  in  the  unit 


94  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

a  good  nine  months  less  than  I.  "Eh,  I'm  good,  thanks."  I  had  carried  his 
weapon,  the  squad  automatic  weapon  (SAW)  before:  15.5  pounds  without 
ammo.  An  extra  seven  pounds  per  every  two  hundred  rounds,  with  combat 
load  being  eight  hundred.  Plus  spare  barrel— seven  pounds.  Much  like 
Afghanistan,  it  sucked,  it  was  awkward,  and  it  was  a  pain  in  the  ass  to  clean. 

Benson  saw  the  stream  of  vehicles  first.  "Motherfucker."  At  least  four  jin- 
gles and  three  cars— invariably  white  Toyota  Corollas  — coming  our  way, 
with  the  sun  showing  no  sign  of  abating.  More  bullshit  searches.  More  ten- 
sion all  up  and  down  the  back  as  I  bent  down  to  check  for  explosives  and 
sharp  objects.  (And  what  would  I  do  if  I  found  a  sharp  object?  Were  knives  il- 
legal?) Body  armor  with  vest:  twenty  pounds. 

"I  wish  one  of  them  would  blow  up." 

Bravo  Team  waved  the  first  vehicle  through,  and  then  halted  the  second 
one.  Neither  team  would  be  able  to  sham  out  of  this  one.  (To  sham:  Army 
lingo  for  evading  work.  For  example:  "Hey  man,  I  couldn't  help  but  notice 
that  while  we  were  putting  up  barbed  wire  for  two  hours  you  were  shamming 
in  the  latrine.") 

Staff  Sergeant  Feiner,  2nd  Squad— our  squad's— squad  leader,  grabbed 
Ahmad  and  Zalmay,  a  couple  of  the  Afghan  Militia  Forces  (AMF)  guys,  and 
told  us  to  wave  the  first  car  through  to  them. 

As  our  vehicle— another  jingle— pulled  up,  Feiner  called  over  to  us. 
"Ginsburg,  I  need  some  help  with  the  translating." 

I  caught  Douchebag's  eye.  "Hey  Sarnt,  Sarnt  Feiner  wants  me  over  there." 
He  glared  at  me,  made  me  wait. 

"Well  then,  I  guess  you  better  get  over  there,  huh?" 

"Hooah,"  I  murmured,  and  got  over  there. 

All  smiles  now.  "What's  up,  Sarnt?"  I  took  a  drink  from  my  CamelBak,  the 
water-filled  bladder  that  I  carried  on  my  back.  (Five  pounds  full.) 

In  his  good-natured  Californian  redneck  drawl  he  said,  "I  need  your  Pash- 
tu  ex-per-tees,  Ginsburg.  Find  out  where  these  gentlemen  are  heading  to, 
please." 

The  driver  of  the  Corolla  looked  at  me,  wondering  what  I  had  to  offer  to 
our  little  group.  I  started  off  with  a  friendly  "Stalay  mashe."  Hello,  and  he  re- 
laxed and  smiled  broadly. 

"Where  are  you  coming  from?" 

"Kabul." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  95 

"Khost." 

"Why?" 

Something  that  I  couldn't  quite  get.  I  picked  up  a  couple  of  words  for  rel- 
atives, though,  and  relayed  to  Sergeant  Feiner  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Khost 
to  see  family. 

"Ask  him  if  he's  seen  anything  suspicious."  This  was  always  a  fun  game.  I 
enjoyed  learning  Pashtu.  It  gave  me  something  to  do,  and  it  made  me  feel 
special.  I  had  a  unique  talent  for  a  paratrooper  with  no  rank.  And  it  helped 
with  building  a  rapport  and  communicating  our  intentions  to  the  locals.  But 
not  once  in  seven  months  had  I  discovered  any  intel. 

"Have  you  seen  anything  strange?  Any  explosives,  bullets,  weapons,  Tal- 
iban, Al  Qaeda  ..."  I  droned  on  in  a  playful  monotone. 

He  smiled,  getting  the  joke,  and  vigorously  assured  myself  and  Sergeant 
Feiner,  whom  he  seemed  to  sense  was  the  boss,  that  he  had  seen  nothing 
whatsoever.  Ever. 

In  the  meantime,  the  AMF  guys  had  searched  him,  his  car,  and  his  fellow 
passengers,  who  were  all  watching  the  exchange  intently.  In  a  land  without 
television,  Americans  were  high  entertainment. 

"Sa'eeshwa.  Ta  tlaay  shay.  Dera  manana  staala  komak  tsecha."  Okay.  You 
can  go.  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  help. 

The  AMF  guys  loved  this.  Children  during  the  Soviet  invasion,  adoles- 
cents during  the  warlord  years,  and  young  men  under  the  Taliban,  they  never 
grew  tired  of  this  spectacle  of  the  polite  soldier.  I  maneuvered  my  combat 
lifesaver  bag  (six  pounds),  slung  around  my  torso,  to  a  different  place  to  read- 
just some  of  the  weight. 

Our  Afghan  friend  stared  at  me,  taking  in  my  dark  features  and  olive  com- 
plexion. "Ta  Afghani  ye?" 

"Nah.  Ze  Amrikayan  yam,"  I  teased  him,  pointing  to  the  flag  on  my  right 
shoulder.  I'm  not  Afghan.  I'm  American. 

"Ta  Musulman  ye?" 

"Nah.  Ze  Yehud  yam."  I'm  not  Muslim.  I'm  Jewish. 

Silence.  My  back  spasmed,  and  I  looked  at  my  rucksack  (forty-five 
pounds)  attached  to  the  grill  of  our  Humvee,  parked  twenty  meters  away.  In- 
side lay  my  three-part  sleep  system  and  MREs  and  extra  T-shirts  and  socks 
and  everything  else  from  the  packing  list,  down  to  never-used  but  always 
humped  sunscreen  and  bug  juice;  all  of  it  still  hours  and  a  long  walk  away 
from  being  of  any  use  to  me.  Ahmad  and  Zalmay  watched  me  and  the  driver. 


96  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Finally,  from  the  driver.  "Sha  Musulmanr  Be  Muslim!  Yes,  of  course.  I 
smiled  my  most  friendly  of  American  smiles,  the  can-do  smile  that  has  been 
transforming  the  world  for  generations,  and  explained  that  I  liked  being  Jew- 
ish. My  dad  was  Jewish,  my  mom  was  Jewish,  my  sister  was  Jewish,  mv 
brother  was  Jewish. 

He  cut  me  off  and  told  me  that  ves  ves  he  understood. 

"We  are  like  cousins,  then.  We  are  all  children  of  Ibrahim." 

We  shared  a  moment.  Sergeant  Feiner  looked  on,  sensing  and  enjoying 
Douchebag's  annoyance  from  a  hundred  meters  away  that  we  weren't  mov- 
ing the  traffic  along. 

"Yes.  We  are  cousins." 
Cousins. 
Cousins. 

He  reached  out  to  shake  my  hand,  and  did  the  same  with  Sergeant  Feiner. 
Thank-yous  were  exchanged  between  the  driver,  Feiner,  and  myself.  Ahmad 
and  Zalmay  staved  quiet.  He  got  back  into  his  car  and  drove  off. 

Sergeant  Feiner  looked  at  me.  "All  right  Ginsburg,  you  better  get  back  to 
your  team." 

"Hooah,  Sarnt." 

He  winked  at  me.  "Thanks,  Ginsburg." 

"My  pleasure,  Sarnt." 

A  step  away  from  Feiner's  protective  shield,  I  was  barked  at  bv 
Douchebag.  "Ginsburg,  get  the  fuck  over  here!!" 

I  glared  at  him.  openlv.  "It's  not  like  I  was  doing  my  own  thing!"  I  had 
been  accused  of  this  crime  in  the  past. 

"You  better  watch  your  fuckin'  attitude  or  you'll  be  doin'  mountain 
climbers  all  up  and  down  this  fuckin'  mountain."  Benson  and  Mormon 
looked  on.  At  least  this  would  be  more  grist  for  later. 

I  stared  back  at  him,  not  breaking  eve  contact. 

"Don't  be  eye-fuckin'  me,  Ginsburg.  I  will  fuck  you  up!" 

I  held  eye  contact  but  wouldn't  push  it  anv  further.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do,  Sarnt?" 

I  asked  the  question  plaintivelv,  not  literally,  but  whether  that  illiterate 
fuck  could  sense  that,  after  a  pause  he  took  it  as  an  out. 

"I  want  you  to  get  over  here  and  start  searching  these  vehicles." 

"Hooah,"  I  mumbled,  and  with  head  down  rejoined  my  team. 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  97 


After  being  honorably  discharged  from  the  Army  in  January  2005,  Cohen 
put  on  his  backpack  again  and  traveled  through  Europe,  the  Balkans,  Is- 
rael, and  Central  America.  He  then  returned  to  the  United  States  and  en- 
rolled at  Princeton  University  to  earn  a  masters  degree  in  public  affairs. 


RECLAMATION 

Personal  Narrative 

Lieutenant  Colonel  John  Berens 


A  veteran  of  the  1991  Gulf  War,  forty-seven-year-old  Lieutenant  Colonel 
John  Berens  was  called  out  of  the  U.S.  Marine  Reserve  in  January  2003  to 
serve  in  Iraq  with  Task  Force  Tarawa,  2nd  Marine  Expeditionary  Force. 
Growing  up,  Berens  had  never  aspired  to  join  the  military;  he  wanted,  in 
fact,  to  be  a  chef  But  in  November  1979,  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  old 
and  studying  at  the  Culinary  Institute  of  America,  Berens  heard  that  Amer- 
icans had  been  taken  hostage  in  Iran.  He  immediately  enlisted  in  the  Ma- 
rine Corps  to,  in  his  words,  "make  a  difference  in  the  world."  In  late  April 
2003,  as  he  and  his  fellow  Marines— along  with  a  contingent  of  British  and 
other  Coalition  troops— worked  to  secure  Iraq  in  the  early  days  of  the  war, 
Berens  assumed  that  he  would  be  employing  his  more  than  twenty  years  of 
infantry  skills  to  assist  with  combat  operations.  Instead,  he  was  assigned  a 
task  in  the  town  of  A/  Kut  that  initially  seemed  to  be  of  little  value  to  the 
overall  mission.  Berens  wrote  the  following  narrative  about  the  assignment 
shortly  before  his  unit  left  Iraq  in  June  2003. 


rigadier  General  F.  A.  Houghton,  in  the  gloom  of  his  dirty  tent,  sat  down 
to  eat.  It  was  early  April  and  the  temperatures  often  surpassed  one  hun- 
dred degrees.  Heat,  disease,  starvation,  and  enemy  assaults  were  devastating 
his  men,  and  Houghton  was  trying  his  best  to  present  a  brave  demeanor.  He 
had  witnessed  men  die  following  his  orders,  and  it  was  weighing  heavily  on 
him.  Food  was  also  running  dangerously  low  and  today  another  rider  had 
been  forced  to  sacrifice  his  horse  to  provide  as  many  men  as  possible  a  small 
taste  of  meat. 


98  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

The  siege  of  Al  Kut  had  gone  on  much  longer  than  he  had  expected,  but 
Houghton  was  still  hopeful  that  reinforcements  would  come  north  from  Bas- 
rah and  get  his  brigade  out  of  this  horrific  stalemate.  The  general  ate  a  bite  of 
saq,  called  "spinach"  by  the  troops,  but  it  tasted  particularly  bitter.  He  asked 
one  of  the  men  who  had  prepared  the  meal  if  he  was  certain  that  he  had 
picked  saq  and  not  the  poisonous  look-alike.  The  soldier  assured  him  that  the 
correct  weed  had  been  picked.  Houghton  slowly  finished  eating. 

The  soldier  was  wrong,  and  within  a  few  hours  the  general  was  dead  from 
accidental  poisoning. 

Eighty-eight  years  later  in  the  one-hundred-degree  heat  of  April  2003, 
Brigadier  General  Rich  Natonski,  the  brigade  commander  for  the  U.S. 
Marines  Task  Force  Tarawa,  stood  looking  at  General  Houghton's  gravestone 
in  the  ruins  of  a  World  War  I  British  cemetery  in  Al  Kut.  General  Natonski 
had  just  led  his  brigade  through  combat  at  An  Nasiriyah,  where,  against 
fierce  resistance,  the  task  force  had  seized  and  held  two  vital  bridges.  It  was 
the  most  brutal  combat  Marines  had  seen  since  Vietnam,  and  it  cost  the  lives 
of  nineteen  of  his  men.  The  deaths  of  those  nineteen  Marines  would  remain 
with  General  Natonski  for  the  rest  of  his  life— a  commander's  burden  shared 
with  General  Charles  Townshend,  who,  almost  ninety  years  ago  in  Al  Kut, 
led  the  men  of  his  British  6th  Indian  Division  against  the  Turks.  Townshend 
lost  men  in  the  thousands,  including  one  of  his  brigade  commanders,  Gen- 
eral Houghton. 

General  Natonski  turned  to  me  and  asked,  "I  wonder  how  this  general 
died?"  He  stood  there  and  studied  the  grave  of  a  fellow  brigade  commander 
and  officer  like  himself,  who  had  died  doing  his  duty  at  this  very  place. 

All  who  have  ever  gone  to  war  carry  with  them  the  same  burdens,  regard- 
less of  when  or  where  they  have  served.  So  when  Task  Force  Tarawa  fought 
on  the  same  ground,  under  the  same  harsh  conditions,  with  the  same  time- 
less burdens  as  British  soldiers  of  World  War  I,  the  connection  to  those  long- 
dead  soldiers  was  close  and  visceral. 

General  Natonski  assigned  me  to  clean  this  cemetery,  which  was  little 
more  than  a  sunken  acre  of  rotting  garbage  and  donkey  carcasses  hidden 
under  twelve-foot  reed  grass  and  dead,  skeletal  trees.  Below  the  surface  lay 
the  remains  of  four  hundred  and  twenty  men. 

On  the  face  of  it,  the  job  was  a  nasty  task  that  seemed  to  have  no  direct 
benefit  to  the  Iraqi  people.  My  personal  misgivings,  that  we  could  be  ad- 


HEARTSANDMINDS  99 

dressing  more  urgent  needs,  were  irrelevant.  My  duty  was  to  execute  the  mis- 
sion I  was  given. 

Al  Kut  is  an  ancient,  crumbling  place  that  would  have  died  long  ago,  ex- 
cept that  it  sits  on  the  banks  of  the  Tigris  River.  Commerce  still  flows  the 
eighty  miles  downriver  from  Baghdad.  The  site  has  made  Al  Kut  a  critical 
stopping  point  not  only  for  supplies  of  grain  and  salt,  but  also  for  military 
units  seeking  a  staging  ground  close  to  Baghdad.  In  2003,  Task  Force  Tarawa 
stopped  its  northern  push  at  an  abandoned  Iraqi  airfield  just  south  of  Al  Kut. 
In  1915,  the  British  6th  Indian  Division  stopped  here  as  well  and  became 
trapped  by  Turkish  forces.  That  siege  resulted  in  thousands  of  deaths,  includ- 
ing the  bodies  hidden  here  beneath  garbage  and  grass. 

"It  is  no  problem  for  you  to  put  up  a  cross  here.  We  respect  all  religions." 
I  turned  to  face  a  dark-skinned  Iraqi,  probably  early  thirties,  very  thin  and 
smiling.  He  introduced  himself  as  Hussein  Zamboor,  and  he  spoke  with  a 
clear  British  accent.  "There  are  Christians  who  live  in  this  neighborhood, 
and  the  only  reason  the  cross  was  taken  in  the  first  place  was  so  the  metal 
could  be  used  as  reinforcement  in  cement— because  of  sanctions."  We  were 
looking  at  a  truncated  cement  obelisk  that  was  the  base  of  a  missing  cross  in 
the  center  of  the  devastated  cemetery. 

His  English  was  very  good.  When  I  complimented  him,  there  was  some- 
thing poignant  about  the  way  he  looked  down  modestly  and  said,  "Thank 
you."  Hussein  had  learned  his  English  by  listening  to  the  BBC.  He  became 
my  translator  but  refused  to  be  paid,  saying  that  he  wanted  only  to  learn  to 
speak  better  English. 

Hussein  and  I  were  not  alone  in  the  cemeterv.  When  we  first  arrived, 
there  was  a  great  buzz  of  excitement  and  barefoot  children  came  from  every- 
where. Men  moved  about  in  large  groups,  some  wearing  traditional  gowns, 
called  jellabas,  though  most  were  in  Western  trousers  and  polyester  shirts 
with  colorful  geometric  designs.  They  were  talking  excitedly,  with  a  fierce  en- 
ergy. They  began  to  walk  slowly  around  the  site  as  if  they  too  were  evaluating 
the  sanity  of  cleaning  up  this  place. 

After  inspecting  the  cemetery,  I  was  reeling  from  the  magnitude  of  the 
project.  I  was  about  to  return  to  the  airfield  to  figure  out  a  plan,  when  a  large 
group  of  men  pulled  Hussein  aside.  With  animated  gestures  they  all  seemed 
to  be  talking  at  once.  Hussein  then  turned  to  me.  When  he  spoke,  all  the 
men  became  quiet.  "They  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do  about  the 
protesters,"  he  said. 


100  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Driving  through  the  town  to  the  cemetery  that  morning,  I  had  encoun- 
tered about  a  hundred  men  in  front  of  the  town  hall  holding  black  banners 
and  chanting  over  loudspeakers,  "NO  CHALABI!  NO  CHALABI!"  They 
were  protesting  the  possible  insertion  by  the  United  States  of  .Ahmed  Cha- 
labi,  an  Iraqi  expatriate  with  a  suspicious  background,  into  power  in  Bagh- 
dad. There  was  no  violence,  but  the  chant  was  clearly  directed  toward  us. 

In  Iraq,  men  guard  their  words  like  gems  that  might  be  stolen.  They  whis- 
per their  true  thoughts  only  to  those  whom  they  know  they  can  trust.  The  old 
regime  had  killed  men  for  merely  uttering  words  against  it.  Political  protest 
had  been  a  crime  just  weeks  before.  I  answered  that  we  would  do  nothing 
about  the  protest.  "Those  men  are  being  peaceful.  They're  doing  nothing 
wrong." 

They  asked:  "Will  anyone  stop  them?" 

I  said  no.  "Saddam  is  gone,  and  you  are  free  to  say  anything  you  want  to 
say.  You  can  speak  freely  without  fear." 

The  animated  chartering  stopped,  and  the  faces  of  the  men  immediatelv 
changed.  Thev  looked  hopeful,  like  a  code  they  had  been  trying  to  decipher 
was  beginning  to  make  sense.  These  modest,  hardworking  men  looked  at  me 
in  wonder.  Thev  shook  my  hand,  smiled  big,  mostly  toothless,  head-shaking 
grins. 

The  next  dav,  we  rolled  in  with  even'  type  of  heaw  equipment  imagin- 
able. Marine  combat  engineers  and  Seabees  went  to  work  with  backhoes, 
bulldozers,  and  an  assortment  of  smoke-belching,  earth-moving  machinery. 
We  never  made  it  past  the  front  gate;  the  equipment  sank  in  the  soft  soil,  and 
the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  recovering  the  useless  machines. 

At  the  same  time,  the  Seabees  began  to  measure  the  obelisk  so  a  new  cross 
could  be  constructed.  Another  crew  of  Marines  struggled  to  excavate  an  or- 
nate gate,  which  was  buried,  half  open,  in  a  mound  of  dirt  and  garbage  at  the 
front  of  the  cemeterv. 

Hussein  came  up  and  asked  me,  again  with  a  group  of  men  crowded 
around  him,  "Why  are  you  doing  this  cleaning?  Our  most  dire  need  is  elec- 
tricity. What  are  you  doing  for  that  problem?  We  do  not  understand  why  so 
much  work  is  going  on  here  when  we  cannot  use  the  lights  in  our  houses." 
Electricity  had  been  off  for  many  months. 

"It  is  our  biggest  effort  right  now,"  I  tried  to  console  them.  "We  have  heli- 
copters flying  from  Al  Kut  to  An  Nasiriyah  and  to  Baghdad  to  assess  how  many 
poles  and  electrical  lines  are  down  and  to  document  any  other  problems." 


HEARTSANDMINDS  101 

They  told  me  how  Saddam  used  to  punish  the  town  by  shutting  off  the 
electricity.  Each  day  I  kept  hoping  I  would  see  lights  come  on  in  the  houses. 
Still  I  offered  no  explanation  as  to  why  we  were  doing  the  cleanup. 

General  Natonski  confided  to  me  that  he,  too,  was  taking  flak  for  spend- 
ing the  man-hours  and  resources  for  the  reclamation,  and  he  had  thought 
hard  about  the  justifications  for  the  task.  A  student  of  history,  a  man  of  deep 
moral  convictions,  and  a  warrior-philosopher,  he  decided  simply,  "It's  the 
right  thing  to  do." 

I  inspected  the  grounds  of  the  cemetery  once  again.  Trash  was  every- 
where, piled  up  against  the  perimeter  wall,  between  the  headstones,  even 
stuck  in  the  branches  of  the  dead  trees.  I  found  a  torn-out  bit  of  notebook 
paper  with  an  Iraqi  child's  English  homework  on  it  that,  in  shaky  block  let- 
ters, Said,  WHERE  ARE  YOU  FROM? 

This  filth  had  been  building  up  since  1991,  when  Saddam,  angered  by  the 
Brits  after  the  first  Gulf  War,  ordered  this  place  destroyed.  Instead,  the  vil- 
lagers just  dumped  their  garbage  here.  When  I  poked  around  the  putrid 
mounds  of  refuse,  I  realized  that  I  would  not  be  able  to  accomplish  this  mis- 
sion without  enlisting  the  help  of  the  residents  of  Al  Kut.  That  night  I 
sought— and  was  given  permission  to  hire  — local  Iraqis  to  help  us  with  the 
garbage. 

The  next  day  Hussein  introduced  me  to  Methag  Jabar  Abdulla,  a  quiet, 
well-groomed  man  who  owned  a  glass  installation  shop  across  the  street  from 
the  cemetery.  Methag  said  he  could  get  the  men  to  remove  all  the  garbage. 
We  needed  to  discuss  terms  of  a  contract,  so  he  gestured  to  his  shop  and  soon 
we  were  sitting  in  the  damp  coolness  of  the  cement  building.  Methag  drew 
water  from  a  plastic  cooler  and  offered  the  tin  cup  to  me.  Ignoring  the  sani- 
tation risk,  I  drank  the  water,  savoring  my  first  cold  drink  in  three  months. 
The  negotiation  could  now  begin.  I  wrote  on  a  piece  of  notebook  paper  ex- 
actly what  needed  to  be  done:  In  six  days,  remove  all  garbage  down  to  ground 
level  and  haul  it  away.  Hussein  wrote  the  words  in  Arabic  under  my  writing. 

Methag  consulted  his  brother  and  the  other  men  in  the  room.  He  insisted 
that  he  must  hire  five  trucks  and  at  least  fifty  men.  I  said  that  this  would  be 
fine  and  asked  him  how  much  he  expected  to  be  paid.  He  said,  "As  you  wish." 
It  surprised  me.  As  I  wish  ...  I  wished  I  could  pay  him  more,  I  wished  I  could 
bring  in  dentists,  doctors,  electricity  ...  I  wished  this  dignified  man  were  not 
having  to  bargain  to  clean  up  garbage.  We  settled  on  $1,700,  and  he  agreed  to 
start  the  following  day. 


102  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

When  I  arrived  in  the  morning,  the  Iraqis  were  already  working.  I  was  in 
awe  of  the  simplicity  of  their  approach.  I  counted  only  two  tools.  There  was 
an  old  man  standing  on  the  highest  pile  of  garbage  with  a  shovel,  the  blade  of 
which  was  broken  in  half  along  its  length.  Beside  him  was  a  younger  man 
with  a  pickax  that  had  a  shaved  tree  branch  for  a  handle.  The  younger  man 
would  plunge  the  pickax  into  the  pile  and  loosen  a  small  amount  of  the 
garbage  that  the  older  man  could  shovel.  The  rest  of  the  crew  carried  sturdy 
vinyl  bags  as  they  climbed  the  mound  and  then  leaned  down  to  receive  one 
shovelful  of  filth.  One  sack,  one  man,  one  shovelful,  one  trip  to  the  sidewalk 
and  back,  over  and  over. 

They  began  work  at  seven  in  the  morning.  In  the  course  of  the  day,  the 
heat  rose  to  over  one  hundred  degrees,  but  work  never  stopped.  By  seven  that 
night,  one  small  bagful  at  a  time,  the  biggest  garbage  pile  in  the  cemetery  had 
been  displaced  to  the  sidewalk.  In  the  process,  the  Iraqis  uncovered  four 
headstones. 

As  the  work  progressed,  we  learned  more  about  the  soldiers  buried  under 
our  feet.  The  British  had  dug  in  with  only  two  months'  worth  of  food,  and  the 
Turks  kept  British  reinforcements  from  breaching  the  siege.  Hanny  Tahir,  a 
fifty-year-old  general  contractor  who  had  come  by  seeking  work,  said  that  his 
grandfather  once  told  him  that  many  of  the  people  of  Al  Kut  had  died  along 
with  the  British.  In  fact,  the  reason  the  Brits'  food  did  not  last  was  that  they  fed 
the  six  thousand  people  of  Al  Kut  during  the  fighting.  He  cursed  the  Turks. 

The  British  soldiers  were  no  longer  anonymous.  As  their  names  and  their 
struggles  were  slowly  revealed,  our  work  became  more  personal.  The  dates  on 
the  headstones  related  individual  stories:  Private  J.  H.  Mitchell,  of  the  ist  Bat- 
talion Durham  Light  Infantry,  died  along  with  fourteen  other  men  buried 
here  on  December  10,  the  day  the  Turks  launched  multiple  attacks  on  the  6th 
Division's  first  trench  line.  Two  hundred  and  two  men  died  that  day. 

The  Iraqis  continued  their  methodical  work.  One  day  I  pulled  aside  a  boy 
of  about  twelve  who  was  carrying  his  sack  to  the  sidewalk  and,  through  Hus- 
sein, I  asked  him  if  he  had  yet  been  paid.  He  grinned  widely  and  showed  me 
a  handful  of  dinars  from  all  his  work.  I  asked  him  how  much  he  was  being 
paid,  and  he  said  an  amount  that  was  equal  to  two  dollars  a  day,  twice  the 
going  rate.  When  I  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  the  money,  he  be- 
came serious. 

"I  will  buy  food  for  my  family,"  he  responded. 

I  asked  him  how  many  were  in  his  family. 


HEARTS    AND     MINDS  103 

"My  mother  and  my  two  sisters  and  me.  I  am  the  only  man  and  I  must 
work  to  feed  them."  He  appeared  to  me  then  not  like  a  boy,  but  like  a  very 
young  man,  full  of  decency  and  purpose.  I  asked  Hussein  what  had  happened 
to  the  boy's  father,  and  he  told  me  that  Saddam's  men  had  carried  him  away 
in  1998  and  he  had  never  been  seen  again. 

The  next  day  Methag  shook  my  hand  in  the  warm  Arab  greeting  (clasp 
hands,  then  place  your  hand  to  your  heart)  and  thanked  me  for  asking  the  boy 
whether  he  had  been  paid.  I  told  him  he  need  not  thank  me,  as  I  was  just  mak- 
ing sure  that  the  contract  was  being  adhered  to.  In  fact,  I  was  checking  up  on 
him.  But  for  Methag,  it  was  a  new  experience  to  have  the  people  in  charge 
give  a  damn  about  where  the  money  was  going.  Under  the  last  regime,  no  one 
cared  where  it  went  so  long  as  certain  officials  got  their  share  of  it. 

Most  of  the  men  hauling  the  garbage  showed  up  each  morning  wearing  the 
same  shirts  they  had  worn  the  day  before.  We  did,  too.  But  the  striking  differ- 
ence was  that  while  their  clothes  were  always  immaculate,  ours  were  not.  No 
matter  how  hard  they  worked  and  how  dirty  their  clothes  became,  they  washed 
them  each  night  because  they  wanted  to  appear  neat  and  clean  the  next  day. 

I  looked  at  the  men  toting  the  sacks.  There  was  a  dignity  about  them,  an 
innate  bearing  of  nobility  that,  at  least  for  today,  they  could  hold  their  heads 
up  because  they  were  working.  This  was  the  first  work  they  had  been  offered 
in  nearly  a  year,  and  they  were  eager  to  earn  the  money.  But  it  was  more  than 
money  itself  they  were  looking  for;  it  was  a  sense  of  worth.  Cleaning  this 
cemetery  was  beginning  to  affect  me.  Amid  a  war,  it  was  bolstering  my  faith 
in  mankind. 

Hussein  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  shade  one  day  when  he  felt  comfortable 
enough  to  ask  me  about  my  family.  Just  a  wife,  I  said,  and  I  showed  him  her 
picture.  He  lowered  his  head  and  with  a  shy,  charming  grin  said,  "She  is  very 
beautiful." 

I  thanked  him  and  asked  him  if  he  were  married. 

He  said,  wistfully,  "No  ...  no  ...  I  am  not  married.  I  am  not  wealthy 
enough  to  be  married." 

I  asked  him  if  there  was  a  woman  he  liked. 

He  brightened,  "Oh  yes."  He  told  me  her  name,  and  I  asked,  "Does  she 
know  you  like  her?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  think  she  does  not." 

Then  I  asked  him  why.  He  looked  at  me  directly  and  said,  "I  am  a  profes- 
sor of  mathematics.  I  make  a  small  salary.  In  our  culture  I  must  have  enough 


104  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

money  so  that  I  can  take  care  of  the  woman  I  love.  She  does  not  know  be- 
cause I  cannot  tell  her  now." 

Here  was  a  noble  man,  an  honest  man  with  a  tenderness  and  depth  of 
spirit  rarely  encountered.  He  had  been  caught  in  the  grinding  poverty  brought 
on  by  a  mindless  regime  and  the  punishing  effects  of  sanctions.  It  was  not  just 
love  unrequited;  it  was  human  ambition  beaten  to  the  ground  and  dreams  ex- 
tinguished. In  conversation  with  one  of  the  other  translators,  I  learned  that 
Hussein  made  only  enough  money  each  week  to  buy  one  carton  of  eggs. 

Hussein  introduced  me  to  a  man  who  looked  to  be  about  forty  and  was 
very  handsome,  but  his  hands  were  malformed.  He  explained,  using  Hussein 
to  translate,  that  two  years  ago  he  had  been  taken  from  his  home  and  tortured. 
The  men  responsible  wanted  him  to  incriminate  his  friends  even  though  they 
had  done  nothing  wrong.  This  man  needed  to  tell  his  story,  and  he  wanted  an 
American  to  hear  it.  To  torture  him,  the  man  continued,  they  tied  him  from  a 
rafter  by  his  thumbs  and  shocked  him  with  electrical  wires  all  over  his  body. 
He  said  he  withstood  their  punishment,  and  when  they  finally  believed  he  had 
no  useful  information,  they  released  him  by  swinging  a  machete  right  through 
his  thumbs,  leaving  them  dangling  in  the  air  above  his  head. 

The  closer  one  comes  to  death,  the  more  urgent  it  becomes  to  live  gen- 
uinely. Military  men  know  this  simple  openness.  Men  at  war  speak  plainly, 
make  peace  with  their  possible  fate,  and  in  moments  of  reflection  they  tell 
one  another  what  to  do  with  their  belongings  if  they  die.  There  is  no  individ- 
ual more  honest  than  one  who  sees  clearly  the  end  of  his  life.  The  people  of 
Iraq  have  lived  close  to  the  edge  of  death  since  Saddam  came  to  power,  and 
it  has  endowed  most  of  them  with  an  open,  raw  authenticity  that  strikes  me  as 
honest  and  admirable. 

Six  days  passed  and,  as  promised,  the  garbage  was  removed.  Methag  said 
that  he  was  prepared  for  me  to  evaluate  the  quality  of  his  work.  I  walked  slowly 
over  each  area  where  the  piles  of  garbage  had  been,  and  the  grounds  were 
spotless.  A  small  group  of  Iraqis  quietly  followed  as  I  made  my  inspection. 

I  told  them  the  work  was  excellent. 

Methag  asked  me  when  he  would  get  paid,  and  I  told  him,  "Now." 

He  was  in  shock.  He  seemed  to  be  expecting  some  unforeseen  complica- 
tion, some  official  reason  why  he  could  not  be  paid.  I  had  already  gone  to  the 
disburser  and  withdrawn  the  amount  we  had  agreed  on,  and,  with  Hussein 
helping  me  count,  I  placed  the  money  in  Methag's  hand.  His  grin  and  barely 


HEARTSANDMINDS  105 

suppressed  laugh  told  rne  that  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  so  easy  and  honest. 
I  was  proud  to  be  the  one  that  was  giving  the  cash,  knowing  that  this  man 
would  make  sure  it  helped  his  community.  I  also  believed,  in  the  deepest  re- 
cesses of  my  heart,  that  we  had  made  a  difference  here.  Despite  my  skepti- 
cism, the  best  thing  we  brought  with  our  big  machines,  our  loud  talk,  and  our 
American  money  .  .  .  was  hope.  I  think  now  they  believed  we  were  truly  here 
to  help,  and  they  were  then  free  to  hope  for  better  lives  for  themselves. 

While  the  work  on  the  grounds  was  ongoing  and  the  stones  were  being 
reset,  the  restoration  work  on  the  cross  in  the  center  of  the  cemetery  began. 
Ali  Jabar  Abdulla,  Methag's  brother,  had  a  1982  picture  of  the  cemetery  in 
pristine  condition.  It  clearly  shows  the  cross.  The  intent  was  to  make  one  that 
resembled,  as  closely  as  possible,  the  original.  The  Seabees  constructed  a 
three-hundred-pound  cement  cross  and  a  flat,  black  metal  cross  that  would 
be  affixed  to  it,  but  offset  by  a  couple  of  inches  to  create  a  shadow  effect.  It 
was  creative  metalwork  on  an  industrial  scale. 

While  I  was  busy  supervising  the  reclamation,  Brigadier  General  Naton- 
ski  asked  me  to  coordinate  a  ceremony  to  honor  the  British  dead  in  Iraq,  past 
and  present.  At  this  point  in  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom,  British  casualties  al- 
most equaled  our  own.  Our  goal  was  to  hand  off  the  cemetery  in  whatever 
improved  condition  we  could  achieve  by  May  8,  2003,  with  the  hope  that  the 
British  would  undertake  its  continued  improvement. 

The  Seabees  were  busy  installing  the  cross  on  May  7.  It  was  a  beautifully 
rendered  bit  of  ironwork,  and  I  was  admiring  it  when  Hussein  came  to  my 
side.  We  greeted  each  other  as  friends,  "As  Salaam  alaikum,"  "Alaikum 
salaam!'  We  shook  hands  and  then  put  our  hands  to  our  hearts.  We  had  been 
friends  for  only  three  weeks,  but  under  such  pressurized  circumstances  the 
bond  seemed  unusually  strong.  We  had  spoken  honestly  about  our  lives.  We 
trusted  and  respected  each  other,  and  when  I  told  him  that  day  I  would  be 
leaving  after  the  ceremony,  I  saw  sadness  in  his  eyes.  I  too  felt  acute  sorrow 
because  I  loved  this  uncomplicated  man,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  abandoning 
him. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  airfield  that  night,  I  filled  a  small  gift  box  with 
things  I  thought  Hussein  could  use,  along  with  one  hundred  dollars  of  my 
own  money  and  a  heartfelt  note.  I  gave  him  the  box  after  the  ceremony  but 
never  got  to  see  him  open  it. 

His  gift  to  me  was  a  poem  that  I  treasure: 


106  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

You  are  a  good  human. 

USA  have  honor  that  you  belong  to. 

Your  faithful  face  will  not  he  forgotten. 

Everything  will  pass  away,  gold,  kingdoms, 

But  goodness  will  stay  alive,  engraved  in  hearts. 

Here  you  are  in  front  of  a  member  of  Saddam's  victims, 

An  easy  example  for  his  misery, 

But  the  perfume  of  freedom  has  opened  silently  the  doors. 

You  and  I  were  looking  for  life  among  the  tombs. 

The  cemetery  was  as  improved  as  we  could  make  it.  The  reed  grass  was 
gone,  the  dead  trees  were  removed,  and  the  garbage  had  been  hauled  away. 
It  certainly  smelled  better,  and  you  could  see  every  gravestone  although  some 
were  still  leaning  and  cracked. 

The  ceremony  was  meant  to  tie  the  past  with  the  present,  the  dead  to  the 
living,  Iraq  to  Britain,  and  to  America.  But  it  became  a  reflection  on  loss,  a 
somber  moment  to  honor  both  the  men  who  had  died  recently  and  those 
who  were  buried  in  the  cemetery.  And,  by  extension,  it  became  a  gentle,  dig- 
nified way  of  reflecting  on  the  war,  our  grief,  and  the  cost  of  this  grim  profes- 
sion. It  was  the  funeral  we  never  got  to  attend  for  our  nineteen  Task  Force 
Tarawa  Marines.  It  provided  a  quiet  moment  to  help  the  generals  make  peace 
with  the  fact  that  those  deaths  would  be  a  part  of  them  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  I  can  only  imagine  the  guilt,  uncertainty,  regret,  and  sorrow  that  plague 
the  mind  of  someone  whose  decisions  have  cost  the  lives  of  his  men,  and  this 
ceremony  was  a  salve  for  those  deeply  personal  wounds.  It  also  tied  our  Amer- 
ican grief  at  losing  our  young  men  to  the  honor  paid  to  the  British  for  their 
losses.  Major  General  Brims,  the  commanding  general  of  the  ist  UK  Ar- 
mored Division,  had  lost  thirty  men.  He  was  our  guest  of  honor. 

When  the  ceremony  got  under  way,  I  staked  out  a  little  privacy  for  myself 
and  stood  alone  behind  the  chairs.  My  mission  was  almost  complete,  and  this 
was  the  first  time  I  could  begin  to  relax.  Behind  me  stood  most  of  the  men  of 
the  neighborhood.  Hussein,  in  a  very  subdued  voice,  translated  throughout 
the  ceremony  for  his  countrymen. 

At  3:00  p.m.  Iraq  time  on  May  8,  the  dignitaries  arrived.  Two  bagpipes 
played  "Amazing  Grace"  as  everyone  took  their  seats.  General  Natonski  said 
this: 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  107 

As  the  fighting  men  of  Task  Force  Tarawa  labored  in  the  sun  to  clear  the 
cemetery,  to  help  restore  its  dignity  and  solemnity,  they  did  it  as  brothers 
to  those  who  lie  herein.  Just  to  the  right  of  where  I  am  standing,  Private 
J.  J.  Jennings'  headstone  reads,  "2nd  Queens  Own,  Royal  West  Kent  Reg- 
iment, Died  March  22  1916.  Age  21." 

To  the  young  Marine  who  sweated  and  strained  to  clear  the  site 
around  his  grave,  Private  Jennings  is  not  a  lost  member  of  another  gener- 
ation, not  just  a  soldier  from  the  ranks  of  our  closest  ally,  he  is  another 
twenty-one-year-old  fighting  man,  a  peer;  his  death  is  linked  to  the  lives  of 
those  we  lost.  We  mourn  the  passing  of  our  young  men  with  timeless,  uni- 
versal grief.  Our  bond  to  Private  Jennings  and  to  all  the  soldiers  buried 
here  is  deep  and  spiritual.  It  transcends  nationality  and  is  rooted  in  the 
understanding  that  when  we  as  soldiers  and  Marines  go  to  foreign  shores, 
our  deepest  hope  is  to  see  our  homes  and  loved  ones  again. 

As  I  thought  about  the  work,  the  words,  the  men  we  had  lost,  and  the  men 
I  had  befriended,  I  was  surprised  by  the  deep  emotion  that  surfaced.  My 
biggest  contribution  to  the  war  was,  in  the  end,  healing,  not  killing.  But  now7 
I  had  to  leave.  I  had  been  allowed  to  see  into  the  lives  of  everyday  Iraqis,  and 
I  knew  there  was  so  much  more  to  be  done.  I  would  not  be  here  to  see  the 
men  make  plans  to  marry,  have  children,  regain  their  lives,  or  simply  be  able 
to  flip  on  a  light  switch.  I  had,  in  three  weeks,  become  close  to  these  men. 
They,  not  the  cemetery,  had  become  my  mission. 

As  General  Natonski  came  to  the  heart  of  his  speech,  his  voice  faltered  — 
and  I  began  to  cry.  I  just  stood  there  and  let  my  tears  fall  without  moving  and 
without  shame.  But  I  was  not  the  only  old  warrior  who  had  put  his  head  down 
and  let  the  wave  of  sorrow  and  relief  wash  over  him. 


JAG   IN  THE  SANDBOX 

Personal  Narrative 
Lieutenant  Colonel  Terry  F.  Moorer 


During  his  one-year  deployment  in  the  Middle  East  as  the  staff  judge  ad- 
vocate with  the  226th  Area  Support  Group,  Alabama  National  Guard, 


108  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

forty-two-year-old  U.S.  Army  Lieutenant  Colonel  Terry  F.  Moorer  ques- 
tioned well  over  a  hundred  detainees  and  EPWs— enemy  prisoners  of  war. 
The  detainees  included  Fedayeen  militants  who  had  sworn  their  allegiance 
to  Saddam  Hussein,  high-level  members  of  the  Saddam  regime,  regular 
Iraqi  soldiers  who  had  been  forced  to  fight  under  penalty  of  death,  and 
other  potentially  threatening  individuals.  (Some  were  civilians  who  had 
been  in  the  wrong  place  at  the  wrong  time  and,  after  being  interviewed, 
were  released.)  Moorer  arrived  in  Iraq  in  April  2003,  and  the  vast  majority 
of  his  time  was  spent  in  Baghdad  and  Um  Qasr,  where  he  adjudicated  as  a 
magistrate  in  the  former  and  conducted  tribunals  in  the  latter.  Moorer  kept 
extensive  notes  detailing  his  experiences,  and  in  the  following  excerpt  he  de- 
scribes the  challenges  he  faced  trying  to  differentiate  between  the  guilty  and 
the  innocent. 


y  participation  in  the  screenings  began  by  working  with  and  observ- 
ing a  British  JAG  captain  named  Margaret.  After  a  brief  handshake 
with  the  prisoner,  Margaret  got  right  to  the  interview,  interspersing  her  inter- 
rogation with  questions  whose  answers  she  already  knew.  It  was  a  method  I 
used  as  well  back  in  Alabama,  but  I  was  surprised  at  how  much  more  difficult 
it  was  to  seek  the  truth  without  reliable  nonverbal  cues.  For  instance,  when 
having  a  conversation  with  someone  in  English,  I  can  focus  on  their  inflec- 
tion, demeanor,  gestures,  and  eye  contact  to  form  an  impression  of  how 
truthful  they  are  being.  This  was  much  harder  to  do  when  you  didn't  know 
the  language. 

Tattoos  and  body  marks  were  one  nonverbal  source  of  information.  Strict 
Muslims  do  not  tattoo  their  bodies,  so  a  physical  inspection  of  the  prisoners 
was  part  of  each  interview.  A  tattoo  raised  a  red  flag  for  me  if  a  prisoner,  par- 
ticularly one  from  a  surrounding  country,  said  he  came  into  the  country  for  a 
religious  purpose.  A  number  of  tattoos  were  depictions  of  girlfriends  or,  more 
importantly,  the  Fedayeen  Eagle.  One  sixteen-year-old  boy  had  Fedayeen 
marks  on  his  arm,  which  he  burned  with  cigarettes  in  an  attempt  to  obscure 
the  tattoo.  Unfortunately  for  him,  he  bragged  to  his  cellmates  about  being  a 
Fedayeen  and  they  relayed  the  information  to  the  guards. 

I  also  realized  that  some  prisoners  who  could  speak  English  would  play 
dumb.  This  enabled  them  to  mask  emotions  or  have  additional  time  to  pre- 
pare evasive  answers.  I  chose  to  have  my  interpreters  literally  convey  my  ques- 


HEARTS    AND     MINDS  109 

tions,  which  I  kept  short  and  simple.  When  I  started  leading  the  screenings 
myself,  I  began  every  interview  with  the  following  sequence  of  questions, 
"What  is  your  first  name,  your  father's  name,  and  your  tribal  name?"  From  a 
name  alone,  it's  often  possible  to  determine  whether  the  person  is  Muslim, 
Christian,  or  some  other  faith.  If  I  had  been  savvy  enough  to  know  more  re- 
gional history,  the  names  might  have  conveyed  more  subtle  information. 

An  interpreter  working  with  us,  a  Kurd,  identified  Saddam  Hussein's 
cousin  (Chemical  Ali's  son)  when  he  was  asked  to  give  his  full  name.  To  my 
knowledge,  no  one  was  aware  of  the  family  relationship  between  the  prisoner 
and  Hussein  prior  to  the  interpreter  asking  the  prisoner  his  full  name.  At 
lunch  that  afternoon,  I  asked  the  interpreter  how  he  knew  the  prisoner  was  re- 
lated to  Hussein  even  though  he  had  never  met  or  seen  this  cousin.  The  in- 
terpreter told  me,  "You  know  who  your  enemies  are  if  twenty-two  of  your 
close  family  members  are  killed  somehow."  The  look  on  his  face  and  the  tone 
of  his  voice  reminded  me  that  when  I  was  a  child,  certain  names,  such  as 
George  Wallace,  held  such  a  deep  meaning  to  me  as  a  black  person  that  I 
knew  who  was  in  that  camp,  whether  I  had  met  them  or  not. 

After  ascertaining  the  names  of  the  prisoners,  their  ages,  and  other  basic 
information,  I  asked  each  prisoner  to  describe  how  he  became  a  prisoner. 
The  stories  ran  the  gamut  from  the  outrageous  to  the  plausible.  For  instance, 
I  interviewed  a  young  Iraqi  sergeant  whom  I  will  call  Habib.  Before  I  could 
ask  substantive  questions,  Habib  said  that  he  did  not  want  to  go  home  under 
any  circumstances.  Habib  had  the  misfortune  of  being  drafted  shortly  before 
Desert  Storm.  In  Iraq,  as  in  most  of  the  surrounding  Arab  countries,  every 
male  between  eighteen  and  twenty-three  serves  a  one-  to  two-year  tour  in  the 
Army.  Physical  or  mental  disabilities  are  the  only  reasons  for  exemption. 

The  draft  is  different  than  one  might  expect.  At  least  yearly,  a  "recruiter" 
goes  into  each  town  and  stops  every  able-bodied  male  and  demands  to  see  his 
Red  Book,  which  is  a  small,  red  book  all  Iraqi  males  over  age  eighteen  must 
carry  with  them  at  all  times  and  which  verifies  the  person's  military  status.  It 
is  a  serious  crime  for  Iraqi  males  of  draft  age  to  be  caught  in  public  without  a 
Red  Book  on  their  person.  If  they  have  not  completed  their  mandatory  mili- 
tary service,  they  are  physically  put  in  the  Army  that  day.  Some  of  the  prison- 
ers I  interviewed  had  bought  exemptions  from  corrupt  recruiters. 

Habib  said  he  became  a  deserter  in  Desert  Storm  after  several  men  died 
in  their  first  aerial  attack.  Habib  ran  home  to  Baghdad  and  paid  someone  to 
make  a  convincing,  forged  Red  Book.  Habib  worked  and  lived  in  Baghdad 


110  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

until  the  present  war.  One  day,  shortly  before  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom 
began,  a  sergeant  in  the  Fedayeen  shanghaied  Habib  into  service.  Habib 
knew  that  if  he  refused  to  serve  he  would  summarily  be  shot.  When  U.S. 
forces  went  into  Baghdad,  the  sergeant  told  Habib  to  cover  him  while  he,  the 
sergeant,  fired  a  rocket-propelled  grenade  (RPG).  When  the  sergeant  took  his 
firing  position,  Habib  shot  and  killed  him  and  then  ran  to  an  American 
checkpoint,  promptly  becoming  a  prisoner  of  war.  Habib  said  that  friends  of 
the  sergeant  saw  the  killing,  and  therefore  the  sergeant's  family  would  attempt 
to  kill  Habib  as  long  as  Habib  was  alive. 

I  also  interviewed  and  actually  felt  great  respect  for  several  Iraqi  officers 
who  were  prisoners  of  war.  Most  of  the  captured  officers  had  surrendered 
their  men  with  little  or  no  resistance.  Quit  and  surrender  are  not  U.S.  Army 
words.  Officers  in  every  military  are  responsible  for  accomplishing  the  mis- 
sion first  and  seeing  to  the  welfare  of  the  command  second.  But  when  resis- 
tance is  futile,  the  difficult  but  correct  moral  choice  is  surrender.  Lee's 
capitulation  at  Appomattox  is  a  prime  example  of  such  moral  courage. 

Unlike  Lee,  however,  the  Iraqi  officers  knew  that  surrender  meant  they 
were  betting  the  lives  of  their  families.  During  the  early  phases  of  the  war, 
Saddam  inserted  Baath  party  officers  into  units  to  report  the  names  of  desert- 
ers. Family  members  of  the  deserters  were  killed  or  tortured  by  Fedayeen.  Ac- 
cording to  the  officers  I  talked  to,  a  real  fear  existed  among  the  Iraqi  officers 
that  their  families  would  be  tortured  or  killed  because  the  officers  chose  to 
surrender  their  units  rather  than  commit  almost  certain  suicide  by  opposing 
a  vastly  superior  force.  In  our  Western  eyes,  family  generally  means  the  nu- 
clear family.  In  Iraq,  family  includes  the  nuclear  and  extended  family.  The 
Iraqi  officers  at  Camp  Bucca  made  the  difficult  but  correct  moral  choice  to 
surrender  rather  than  offer  futile  resistance. 

I  also  had  an  opportunity  to  serve  as  the  presiding  tribune  on  a  panel  that 
heard  a  memorable  case.  A  Syrian  prisoner  said  he  had  come  to  Iraq  with  two 
other  friends  to  visit  Karbala,  a  holy  city  for  the  Shiite  Muslims.  According  to 
the  prisoner,  he  and  his  friends  set  out  in  their  automobile  with  no  particular 
destination  in  mind.  Knowing  that  Syria  was  several  hours  from  Karbala  and 
many  Syrians  were  coming  to  Iraq  to  fight  Coalition  troops,  I  suspected  the 
story  to  be  false.  The  sole  matter  left  for  the  panel  was  to  ascertain  the  motive 
behind  the  lie. 

After  the  prisoner,  whom  I  shall  call  Khalil,  finished  his  story,  we  visually 


HEARTS     AND     MINDS  111 

inspected  him.  Khalil  had  a  tattoo  that  consisted  of  verses  of  the  Koran  and 
his  girlfriend's  name.  A  long  surgical  scar  ran  down  the  right  side  of  his  back. 
Khalil  said  he  donated  a  kidney  in  Baghdad  the  year  before  and  that  he  came 
to  Iraq  to  have  a  follow-up  examination.  Coincidentally,  his  two  friends  were 
just  about  to  appear  before  another  Tribunal  panel.  After  separately  ques- 
tioning the  trio,  we  discerned  that  Khalil  had  sold  his  kidney  the  previous 
year  and  he  had  brought  his  two  friends  to  sell  their  kidneys. 

My  assessment  of  the  situation  was,  Khalil  is  desperately  poor,  has  a  fam- 
ily to  feed,  and  has  no  real  prospects  for  a  better  future.  Under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, many  would  be  tempted  to  do  the  same  because  the  $5,000  or 
$10,000  he  and  his  friends  would  obtain  from  selling  their  organs  is  roughly- 
equivalent  to  someone  offering  an  American  $2,000,000.  We  set  Khalil  free 
after  we  came  to  conclude  he  was  not  a  physical  threat  to  Coalition  forces. 

Another  case  exemplified  the  rampant  evil  in  Iraq  prior  to  the  invasion.  A 
prisoner  whom  I'll  call  Mahmed  had  the  Fedayeen  markings,  but,  more  im- 
portantly, had  been  seen  by  several  witnesses  at  work  during  the  war.  Accord- 
ing to  the  testimony  of  these  eyewitnesses,  when  Coalition  forces  invaded  a 
certain  town,  Mahmed  shot  and  killed  persons  leaving  the  city.  Mahmed 
killed  boys,  girls,  women,  and  men,  old  and  young,  as  they  fled  toward  safety. 
Mahmed  had  also  threatened  Iraqi  soldiers  by  assuring  them  that  if  they 
didn't  fight,  the  Fedayeen  would  kill  the  soldier  and  his  family. 

The  serious  cases  were  seemingly  unending.  One  day,  I  literally  had  a 
foot-high  stack  of  files,  which  represented  the  morning  docket,  including  (I 
have  changed  the  name  of  each  prisoner): 

Zaden  — By  his  own  admission,  Zaden  was  an  assistant  to  Chemical  Ali.  I 
found  Zaden  to  be  a  security  risk  worthy  of  detention. 

Sala— After  the  end  of  main  combat  operations,  Sala  killed  two  GIs  near 
Tikrit  (Saddam's  hometown)  by  means  of  a  bomb.  Sala  cut  off  the  arm  of  one 
of  the  dead  GIs,  shook  hands  with  it  at  various  public  places  while  saying, 
"Down  Mr.  Bush."  I  detained  Sala  as  a  security  risk  and  identified  him  as  a 
potential  war  criminal. 

Mohammed— Mohammed  slapped  his  wife  during  an  argument  and 
was  promptly  arrested  by  MPs.  Mohammed  was  stupid  enough  to  think  he 
might  be  able  to  beat  an  MP.  The  MP  quickly  and  painfully  subdued  Mo- 
hammed, dragged  him  out  of  the  house,  and  dumped  him  into  the  back  of  a 
Humvee.  MPs  of  the  800th  Brigade  have  a  technical  term  for  this  procedure: 


112  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"Carrying  out  the  trash."  I  gave  Mohammed  eleven  days,  the  max  for  simple 
assault,  and  another  seven  for  attempting  to  assault  the  MP. 

The  next  morning,  I  went  into  the  House  of  Cards,  where  I  met  Tariq 
Aziz,  the  former  deputy  prime  minister  of  Iraq,  and  other  high-ranking  mem- 
bers of  the  Hussein  regime.  Before  the  war,  the  U.S.  military  handed  out 
decks  of  playing  cards  to  the  troops  that  had  the  faces  of  these  "most  wanted" 
Iraqis,  which  is  why  the  facility  that  keeps  them  is  called  the  House  of  Cards. 
Out  of  respect  for  their  privacy  and  the  regulations  of  Camp  Cropper,  our 
conversations  with  the  "face  cards"  consisted  of  no  more  than  a  "Good  morn- 
ing" or  a  nod.  Most  of  the  prisoners  wanted  to  talk  and  spoke  fluent  English 
with  a  British  or  American  accent  acquired  from  having  lived  in  either  or 
both  countries.  It  was  not  appropriate  to  engage  in  substantive  conversation 
or  to  gawk. 

After  the  tour,  I  spoke  with  a  guard  who  had  worked  in  the  Face  Card  sec- 
tion from  its  inception  The  guard's  impressions  of  the  prisoners  were  that 
they  were  all  extremely  intelligent  and  well-educated  individuals  who  had 
studied  at  the  finer  Western  universities  in  the  United  States  and  Britain.  The 
guard  noted  that  there  was  a  pecking  order  within  the  deck  of  face  cards  and 
that  some  of  the  prisoners  were  genuinely  upset  that  their  likeness  did  not  rate 
a  higher  card  than  other  inmates'. 


WEDNESDAY  2/23/05 

Personal  Narrative 

Specialist  "Ski"  Kolodziejski 


Manning  a  .50-caliber  machine  gun  mounted  on  top  of  a  Humvee,  twenty- 
one-year-old  Specialist  "Ski"  Kolodziejski  regularly  patrolled  the  streets  of 
Baghdad  with  the  617th  Military  Police  Company  (attached  to  the  18th 
Military  Police  Brigade)  during  a  one-year  deployment  to  Iraq.  Kolodziejski 
was  a  member  of  the  U.S.  Army  National  Guard  out  of  Kentucky  and  was 
called  up  in  the  fall  of  2004.  In  February?  2005,  while  driving  through  the 
eastern  outskirts  of  Baghdad,  Kolodziejski  watched  as  a  group  of  young 
Iraqis  converged  excitedly  on  a  small  convoy  of  American  vehicles  in  hopes 
of  getting  candy.  Kolodziej ski's  attention  quickly  turned  to  one  child  who 


HEARTSANDMINDS  113 


was  standing  at  a  distance  from  the  rambunctious  crowd.  What  happened 
next  prompted  Kolodziejski  to  write  the  following  short  account  after  re- 
turning to  base. 


I  remember  pulling  over  on  the  side  of  the  road  in  our  squad's  three  Hum- 
mers. We  were  conducting  a  security  halt  to  get  out  and  stretch  before 
continuing  on  with  patrolling  the  routes.  The  sky  was  partly  cloudy  and  the 
weather  was  warm,  the  way  springtime  feels  at  home  in  the  States. 

School  must  have  just  ended  because  a  large  number  of  Iraqi  children 
were  outside  and  then  began  approaching  our  vehicles  to  receive  some  free 
candy,  which  we  often  gave  out  to  the  kids.  Some  of  them  seemed  just  plain 
greedy,  screaming,  pushing,  and  swarming  the  vehicles  like  ducks  feeding 
frantically  on  thrown  bread  crumbs. 

A  small  girl  of  no  more  than  eight  or  nine  years  old  stood  by  herself  in 
the  rear  of  the  wild  youngsters,  watching  her  peers  scoop  up  all  of  the  treats 
being  handed  out.  She  timidly  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest  and  ob- 
served quietly. 

We  finally  made  eye  contact.  As  she  was  looking  at  me,  I  pointed  to  the 
blond  hair  pulled  up  into  a  small  bun  at  the  back  of  my  head,  trying  to  make 
her  realize  that  I  too  was  a  girl.  A  smile  suddenly  came  to  her  face.  In  that  mo- 
ment I  remembered  that  females  of  this  culture  do  not  have  the  freedoms 
that  we  American  women  possess. 

Once  the  noisy  group  of  mostly  boys  descended  on  another  truck,  I 
watched  as  the  small  girl  moved  shyly  towards  me.  I  leaned  down  and  smiled 
brightly  at  this  beautiful  child  with  dark  hair  and  dark  skin.  I  handed  her  a 
full  bag  of  candy,  a  gift  of  gold  to  the  girl,  and  she  seemed  overjoyed.  The 
young  child  gazed  at  me  appreciatively  for  a  moment  and  then  very  politely 
said:  "Thank  you"  in  English.  I  nodded  my  head  and  replied  "Shukran" 
which  is  "thank  you"  in  her  language. 

WTiether  or  not  I  made  a  real  difference  in  that  small  girl's  life  I  can't  say 
for  certain,  but  I  know  for  a  fact  that  she  made  one  in  mine. 

Kristina  "Ski"  Kolodziejski  returned  to  the  United  States  in  November  2005 
and  re-enrolled  at  Northern  Kentucky  University,  where  she  had  been  study- 
ing as  a  freshman  before  enlisting  in  the  Army. 


114  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

AFTERMATH 

Fiction 
First  Lieutenant  Sangjoon  Han 


Since  the  March  2003  invasion  of  Iraq,  tens  of  thousands  of  Iraqi  men, 
women,  and  children  have  been  killed  as  a  result  of  both  combat  operations 
and  insurgent  attacks,  and  a  substantially  higher  number  have  been  per- 
manently injured.  (During  a  December  12,  2005,  question-and-answer 
session  following  a  speech,  President  Bush  himself  estimated  the  figure  of 
war-related  deaths  at  the  time  to  be  about  "thirty  thousand,  more  or  less") 
U.S.  Army  First  Lieutenant  Sangjoon  Han,  a  twenty-four-year-old  Korean- 
born  soldier  who  served  in  Iraq  from  September  2003  through  April  2004 
with  1st  Battalion,  12th  Field  Artillery,  wrote  the  following  story  based  on  a 
real  attack  involving  a  roadside  bomb.  Han  tried  to  portray  the  incident 
and  its  aftermath  from  many  different  angles,  and  while  the  American  per- 
spectives were  based  on  his  own  experiences  and  conversations  with  other 
U.S.  soldiers,  the  Iraqi  point  of  view  could,  of  course,  only  be  imagined. 


pecialist  Bryon  Chambers  buried  his  face  a  bit  further  into  the  neck 

gaiter  to  protect  himself  from  the  cold  air  whipping  past  his  skin.  They 
had  all  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  packing  cold-weather  gear  to  go  to  the  desert. 
They  hadn't  realized  they  would  be  there  through  the  winter. 

The  persistent  itch  at  the  top  of  his  skull  was  returning,  along  with  a  vague 
sense  of  unease.  He  felt  like  he  had  missed  something.  The  Humvee  was  doing 
just  under  sixty,  which  was  entirely  too  slow  as  far  as  Chambers  was  concerned. 
The  higher  risk  of  fatal  accidents  was  a  perfectly  acceptable  price  to  pay  for 
faster  runs  through  the  IED  alleys  that  they  traveled  so  regularly.  Unfortu- 
nately, Sergeant  McClintock  didn't  feel  the  same  way,  and  he  was  the  one  in 
charge  of  the  first  of  the  two  convoys  in  which  their  platoon  was  traveling. 

Familiar  sights  and  sounds  surrounded  him,  from  the  decaying  buildings 
and  resentful  people  on  the  sides  of  the  road  to  the  belching  of  the  over- 
worked diesel  engine  under  the  dust-covered  hood.  It  was  the  same  depress- 
ing routine  as  ever}-  other  day. 

For  a  brief  time  right  after  the  end  of  the  invasion,  they  were  greeted 
everywhere  with  smiles  and  cheers  from  Iraqis  who  were  happy  to  be  rid  of 


HEARTSANDMINDS  115 

Saddam,  but  who,  more  important,  were  glad  that  the  war  had  been  relatively 
short.  Now,  Chambers  felt  harsh  stares,  even  from  toddlers  barely  old  enough 
to  walk.  It  seemed  the  whole  country  was  spitting  curses  after  them  whenever 
they  drove  by,  and  as  if  that  weren't  enough,  there  were  the  select  few  who 
were  actively  trying  to  kill  them. 

That's  why  they  were  always  on  the  lookout  when  they  were  running  a 
convoy.  The  officers  and  NCOs  told  them  that  if  something  looked  wrong, 
then  it  probably  was.  Chambers  was  pretty  sure  he'd  seen  something  wrong, 
and  it  drove  him  crazy  that  he  couldn't  identify  what  it  was.  The  ping  of  the 
radio  speaker  broke  his  concentration. 

"We've  been  hit!"  Sergeant  Wilson's  voice  yelled  on  the  speaker  in  almost 
a  panic.  It  was  only  then,  after  the  second  convoy  was  attacked,  that  Cham- 
bers remembered  the  cracks  in  the  road  a  few  miles  back  where  it  looked  like 
the  pavement  had  been  dug  up.  They  hadn't  been  there  before. 

"Turn  us  around!" 

Chambers  had  stepped  on  the  brake  even  before  Sergeant  McClintock 
gave  the  order.  He  made  a  screeching  U-turn  and  held  the  accelerator  down 
to  the  floor. 

"Hey!"  Sergeant  McClintock  shouted  up  to  the  gunner.  "Fire  some 
rounds,  get  these  idiots  out  of  our  way!" 

The  violent  noise  of  the  machine  gun  soon  drowned  out  the  sound  of  the 
engine,  and  Chambers  watched  as  the  traffic  before  him  parted  like  the  Red 
Sea. 

Qasim  was  only  about  twenty  paces  from  the  road  — almost  at  the  ramshackle 
fence  dividing  his  farm  from  his  neighbor's— when  he  caught  his  first  glimpse 
of  the  approaching  vehicles.  His  heart  jumped  into  his  throat  as  he  dropped 
the  clump  of  soil  he'd  been  examining.  Something  was  about  to  happen.  The 
town  on  the  far  side  of  the  road  was  suddenly  empty. 

The  three  trucks  drew  steadily  closer  and  were  soon  just  a  hundred  meters 
away.  Even  with  his  weakening  eyesight,  from  this  distance  Qasim  could 
make  out  the  faces  of  the  individual  soldiers.  It  was  the  closest  that  he'd  ever 
come  to  them,  he  realized,  and  he  was  still  studying  their  expressions  when 
the  explosion  engulfed  the  last  truck  in  the  convoy. 

The  noise  was  deafening,  and  the  old  farmer  felt  the  ground  shake  be- 
neath his  feet.  A  painful  sensation  started  building  deep  inside  his  ears,  but 
Qasim  stood  fixed  in  place,  observing  the  aftermath.  He  wanted  to  see  what 


116  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

the  Americans  would  do.  The  answer  was  not  long  in  coming.  The  Ameri- 
cans started  shooting. 
He  turned  to  run. 

Private  First  Class  Roy  Jackson  could  still  feel  the  force  of  the  blast  when  he 
heard  Sergeant  Wilson  in  the  front  seat  yelling  for  Davies  to  turn  them 
around.  He  was  sure  that  they  had  taken  casualties. 

Jackson  could  see  as  he  looked  over  the  driver's  shoulder  that  the  second 
Humvee  with  Sergeant  Price  had  pulled  up  right  behind  them.  A  hundred 
meters  down  the  road,  there  was  the  outline  of  a  crater  and  thick  black  smoke 
hanging  over  the  pavement.  The  third  and  final  Humvee  in  their  convoy  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

A  sick  knot  formed  in  Jackson's  stomach  as  he  realized  that  it  was  up  to 
him  to  tend  to  the  wounded.  This  was  the  reason  the  medics  were  there,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  get  to  work.  It  was  only  when  he  saw  Davies  and  Sergeant 
Wilson  jumping  out  with  their  weapons  at  the  ready  that  he  remembered  that 
their  first  priority  was  to  secure  the  area. 

Jackson  climbed  out  of  the  truck  and  glanced  nervously  toward  the  town. 
There  was  hardly  anyone  visible,  though  the  place  was  usually  bustling.  He 
wondered  if  the  townspeople  had  gotten  word  of  the  attack  in  advance.  The 
empty  streets,  at  least,  made  the  few  who  were  inexplicably  present  that  much 
more  noticeable. 

A  young  Iraqi,  maybe  about  Jackson's  own  age,  peeked  out  from  a  narrow 
alley  toward  the  blast  site.  He  didn't  seem  frightened  or  panicked,  and  if  any- 
thing it  looked  like  he  was  trying  to  assess  the  damage.  In  his  hand,  he 
clutched  what  might  have  been  a  weapon,  but  Jackson  saw  that  it  was  even 
more  damning— the  means  by  which  he  had  detonated  the  bombs  in  the 
road. 

He  was  holding  a  cell  phone. 

"Over  there!"  Jackson  shouted.  "It  was  him!"  The  medic  took  aim  and 
proceeded  to  empty  his  pistol.  He  reloaded  his  weapon  while  directing  the 
machine  gun  toward  the  low  wall  behind  where  the  Iraqi  was  hidden.  The 
ground  shook  from  the  three-  to  five-round  bursts  capable  of  ripping  a  body 
in  two,  but  Jackson  could  see  that  the  young  man  had  already  escaped. 

Jackson  rose  cautiously  to  his  full  height,  still  pointing  the  9mm  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  town.  His  ears  were  ringing,  the  pavement  under  his 
feet  was  covered  with  spent  casing,  and  he  looked  around  nervously  waiting 


HEARTSANDMINDS  117 

for  someone  to  tell  him  what  to  do  next.  The  IED  blast  and  the  gunfire  had 
taken  its  toll,  but  the  medic  was  still  able  to  hear  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle 
break  the  sudden  silence.  It  was  followed  by  an  indistinct  shout,  and  another 
shot  rang  out  before  Jackson  could  turn  to  look  toward  the  source. 

Sergeant  Price  was  kneeling  in  the  mud  just  a  few  meters  away  from  his 
Humvee,  taking  aim  with  his  rifle.  Out  in  the  field  was  an  Iraqi  man  in  a  dirty 
white  robe,  running  toward  an  earthen  hut  a  few  hundred  meters  from  the 
road.  But  the  medic  could  see  that  there  was  no  way  that  he  would  make  it. 
There  was  another  shout,  and  then  the  warning  shots  came  to  an  end. 

"If  they're  running,  they're  guilty."  The  credo  had  been  drilled  into  their 
heads  over  and  over  again,  and  it  was  what  went  through  the  sergeant's  head 
as  he  knelt  to  take  aim.  He  desperately  wanted  the  man  to  stop  running  be- 
fore he  squeezed  the  trigger. 

The  rifle  kicked  back  against  his  shoulder  where  it  was  braced,  and  Price 
could  see  a  small  puff  of  dirt  rising  a  few  meters  ahead  of  the  man.  There  was 
no  way  the  Iraqi  could  have  missed  it,  and  yet  he  kept  on  running. 

"Stop!"  Price  shouted  at  the  man's  back,  though  his  voice  was  drowned 
out  by  the  drone  of  the  .50  cal  firing  from  the  next  vehicle.  He  gave  the  man 
another  second,  then  skipped  another  round  in  front  of  him. 

It  would  be  so  simple  for  the  man  to  stop,  Price  thought  as  a  silent  anger 
rose  up  inside  of  him.  He  took  careful  aim,  fearing  that  his  hands  would  start 
shaking  from  rage  before  he  managed  to  get  off  the  shot.  Just  stop  running,  his 
mind  screamed  at  the  man.  The  son  of  a  bitch  was  going  to  make  him  shoot. 
Price  hated  the  man  at  that  moment.  He  wanted  the  man  to  die  for  the  sin  of 
forcing  Price  to  kill  him. 

"STOP!"  he  shouted  only  a  half  second  before  he  fired  again,  so  that  it 
was  really  no  warning  at  all. 

More  dust  kicked  up  in  front  of  Qasim,  who  was  now  sure  that  the  Americans 
were  shooting  at  him.  Relief  mixed  with  terror  as  he  realized  they  had  missed 
again,  but  that  the  next  bullet  could  easily  find  its  mark.  The  world  tunneled 
down  to  a  shaky  horizon  and  the  roof  of  his  house,  which  was  just  beyond  a 
low  mound  of  earth.  Ym  going  to  make  it,  he  told  himself.  He  only  had  to  run 
a  little  further. 

It  was  suddenly  quiet,  and  the  farmer  wondered  if  the  soldiers  had  given 
up.  A  morbid  curiosity  made  him  want  to  turn  around  and  look,  but  another 
shot  skipping  past  him  was  enough  to  make  him  run  even  harder.  His  legs 


118  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

burned  and  his  lungs  were  ready  to  burst,  and  far  away  he  heard  someone 
shouting  a  word.  It  was  a  foreign  word,  an  American  word.  A  word  he  did  not 
understand. 

Qasim  fell  forward  into  the  dirt.  Three  bullets  had  torn  straight  through 
him,  piercing  his  back  and  the  soft  flesh  of  his  stomach. 

An  unnerving  silence  followed  the  thunder  of  the  guns,  like  clear  skies  in  the 
wake  of  a  hurricane.  Private  Jackson  heard  the  blood  pounding  in  his  ears  as 
he  looked  across  the  Humvee  to  Sergeant  Wilson.  The  sergeant  yelled, 
"Davies!  Doc!  We're  moving!" 

Jackson  was  still  fumbling  with  the  improvised  latch  of  his  steel  door 
when  Davies  started  the  truck  in  the  direction  of  the  crater.  Behind  them, 
they  left  Sergeant  Price  and  his  driver  moving  out  toward  the  fallen  Iraqi.  It 
was  another  moment  before  Jackson  sported  the  wreckage,  crashed  against  a 
tree  in  the  ditch  by  the  road. 

Specialist  Sam  Vargas  took  in  short,  shallow  breaths  as  he  lay  on  the  ground, 
staring  up  at  the  Iraqi  sky.  A  single  white  cloud  floated  toward  the  opposite 
horizon,  but  the  interruption  in  the  blue  expanse  hardly  registered.  The 
young  soldier  was  consumed  with  terror. 

The  last  thing  that  he  remembered  was  thinking  that  he  was  too  close  be- 
hind the  second  Humvee.  Now  he  didn't  know  where  he  was  or  what  was 
going  on,  and  he  couldn't  hear  a  thing  except  for  a  faint  ringing  in  his  ears. 
He  tried  to  move  but  found  that  he  couldn't  summon  a  single  muscle  in  his 
entire  body.  He  had  never  been  so  scared  in  his  life. 

Doc  Jackson  hit  the  ground  running  before  the  truck  was  even  close  to  a 
complete  halt.  Before  him  was  the  last  Humvee,  which  had  spun  almost  per- 
pendicular to  the  road.  Under  its  shattered  fiberglass  hood,  the  engine  was  vent- 
ing a  worrying  amount  of  smoke.  Two  tan-clad  figures  were  crawling  out  of  the 
wreckage,  but  Jackson  immediately  knew  that  they  were  relatively  unharmed. 

On  the  ground  were  the  scattered  remains  of  the  truck's  provisions,  mixed 
with  broken  pieces  of  the  vehicle  itself.  Just  beyond  this  debris  field,  a  few 
meters  from  the  driver's  side  door,  a  soldier  lay  on  his  back. 

The  medic  knelt  to  get  to  work  on  Vargas,  and  at  the  same  time  shouted 
instructions  back  to  Sergeant  Wilson.  "We  need  to  call  Vargas  in  as  Urgent. 
I  don't  know  what  the  other  two  look  like,  but  they're  probably  both  at  least 
Priorities." 


HEARTSANDMINDS  119 

"Got  it.  What  about  the  guy  that  Price  tagged?" 

"The  Iraqi?  At  least  an  Urgent-Surgical.  He's  probably  dead  by  now." 

"All  right,  I'm  gonna  call  in  the  medevac." 

They  were  only  a  hundred  meters  from  Sergeant  Wilson's  truck  when  Cham- 
bers slammed  on  the  brake  and  brought  an  end  to  the  wild  adrenaline  rush  of 
the  past  three  minutes.  They  had  made  it  back  with  exhilarating  speed,  faster 
than  he  had  ever  imagined  a  Humvee  could  go,  but  he  still  couldn't  escape 
the  feeling  that  they  were  too  late.  There  were  already  wounded  on  the 
ground.  One  of  them  was  Vargas. 

Chambers  jumped  out  of  the  vehicle  and  rushed  over  to  Vargas.  He 
planted  the  butt  of  his  rifle  into  the  ground  and  dropped  to  one  knee  next  to 
the  medic. 

"He's  gonna  be  fine,"  Doc  Jackson  assured  him,  but  the  fear  in  Vargas's 
unblinking  eyes  told  Chambers  otherwise.  Saliva  started  to  foam  around  the 
young  soldier's  mouth,  and  Chambers  saw  a  slight  tremble  go  through  his 
body.  In  Baghdad,  Vargas  slept  on  a  squeaky  green  cot  not  five  feet  away  from 
him,  in  the  same  leaky,  rotting  tent  as  the  forty  other  people  assigned  to  this 
mission.  Now  he  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  Iraqi  mud  and  descending  into 
convulsions.  Vargas  was  not  going  to  be  fine,  and  they  all  knew  it. 

Qasim  kept  his  jaw  clenched  tightly  shut  as  the  Americans  rolled  him  onto 
his  back.  Hot  pain  shot  through  his  stomach,  and  he  gripped  still  tighter  the 
handfuls  of  dirt  that  he'd  clawed  out  of  the  ground.  He  refused  to  look  down 
at  his  abdomen  for  fear  that  the  sight  would  fill  him  with  horror  and  he  would 
cry  out  or  weep.  He  was  less  than  two  hundred  meters  from  his  house.  Inside, 
his  wife  would  be  huddled  in  the  far  corner— the  smallest  children  gathered 
around  her  while  the  older  ones  hid  elsewhere  in  the  field.  He  wouldn't  let 
them  hear  him  cry  out.  He  would  not  die  like  some  frightened  animal. 

In  his  mind,  Qasim  could  hear  the  angry  words  spoken  by  the  hotheaded 
young  men  every  time  they  mentioned  the  Americans.  Cowards!  they  cried. 
Murderers!  That  was  how  he  wanted  to  feel  now,  as  he  lay  dying  in  the  wet, 
bloodstained  earth.  He  wanted  to  hate  them— to  spit  his  anger  and  contempt 
in  their  faces  before  the  last  trace  of  life  ebbed  from  his  ruined  body.  But  all 
he  could  feel  was  the  searing  pain  of  his  wounds. 

He  saw  their  outlines  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  though  the  world  had 
taken  on  a  terrible  brightness.  The  Americans  were  greater  in  stature  than  his 


120  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

sons  had  any  hope  of  being,  but  there  was  something  about  them  that  made 
them  soft,  almost  pudgy.  They  lived  comfortably  back  home,  he  realized. 
They  were  people  used  to  luxury,  and  soon  they  would  go  back  to  their  old 
lives  while  he  would  be  dead  and  his  children  left  fatherless.  At  last,  he  could 
feel  anger  cutting  through  the  pain. 

Sergeant  Price  knew  it  was  hopeless  the  moment  he  saw  the  ground  under 
the  man  turning  into  dark,  bloody  mud.  Still,  the  Iraqi  was  alive  and  con- 
scious, and  the  only  alternative  to  trying  to  save  him  was  to  return  to  their 
Humvee  and  watch  him  die  from  the  side  of  the  road.  Since  Price  was  the 
one  who  had  shot  him,  it  seemed  only  right  that  he  try  to  keep  him  from 
death. 

There  wasn't  much  that  could  be  done,  especially  with  nothing  more 
than  the  contents  of  a  combat  lifesaver  bag.  Price  arranged  the  man's  in- 
testines over  his  abdomen  as  delicately  as  he  could.  The  sickening  warmth  of 
the  shredded  entrails  in  his  hands  and  the  slickness  of  fluids  were  enough  to 
make  Price's  stomach  turn.  He  wiped  the  blood  on  his  trousers  before  rum- 
maging through  his  medical  supplies. 

About  the  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  give  the  man  an  IV  to  try  to  keep 
up  his  blood  pressure.  It  was  absurd,  he  thought  to  himself,  that  he  was  hold- 
ing a  little  plastic  bag  over  a  man  whose  vital  organs  were  sitting  in  a  pile  on 
top  of  him.  But  he  simply  didn't  know  what  else  to  do. 

Vargas  was  still  on  the  ground  in  an  unresponsive  state.  Waiting  for  the  mede- 
vac  was  the  worst  part,  Private  Jackson  thought.  He  remembered  that  the  last 
time  the  chopper  had  taken  forty-five  minutes  just  to  get  to  their  position. 

Jackson  looked  at  the  IV  bag  that  Davies  was  holding  up,  then  down  at  Var- 
gas, who  still  had  spittle  around  the  edges  of  his  mouth.  The  vacant  expression 
bothered  him.  His  eyes  were  almost  unblinking  but  clearly  not  focused  on 
anything.  He  could  imagine  Vargas  at  forty,  still  catatonic  and  sitting  in  a 
wheelchair  in  some  VA  hospital  where  a  nurse  spoon-fed  him  gray  mush. 

He  tried  to  shake  the  images  out  of  his  mind;  Vargas  will  be  fine,  he  told 
himself.  But  looking  down  at  the  young  man,  who  had  once  again  started 
shaking  just  slightly,  he  couldn't  help  but  wonder. 

The  low  thumping  noise  was  a  welcome  sound  to  Chambers,  who  had  spent 
the  better  part  of  the  past  twenty  minutes  guarding  the  landing  zone.  He  in- 


HEARTSANDMINDS  121 

stinctively  turned  to  watch  the  Black  Hawk  descend,  though  he  knew  he  was 
supposed  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  sector. 

A  cloud  of  dust  kicked  up  over  the  demarcated  area,  partially  obscuring 
the  helicopter  as  it  landed.  The  flight  medic  jumped  out  of  the  hold  with  his 
head  bent  low,  carrying  the  litter  they  would  use  to  transport  Vargas. 

Vargas  struggled  a  bit  as  they  moved  him  onto  the  stretcher,  but  it  wasn't 
long  before  they  had  him  secured  and  were  running  him  into  the  belly  of  the 
chopper.  The  other  soldiers  from  the  destroyed  Humvee  followed  behind, 
and  the  crew  helped  them  into  the  hold.  The  litter  team  ran  back  out,  and 
Chambers  watched  as  they  ran  past  him  toward  Sergeant  Price,  who  was  still 
kneeling  next  to  the  fallen  Iraqi. 

Price  was  amazed  that  the  man  lying  on  the  muddy  ground  was  still  con- 
scious, let  alone  alive.  Up  until  the  moment  when  they  arrived  with  the  litter, 
the  Iraqi  didn't  make  the  slightest  sound.  He  hadn't  even  looked  scared  as  the 
blood  drained  out  of  his  body.  He  had  just  continued  to  stare  up  at  the 
sergeant  with  a  coolness  that  Price  found  unsettling.  It  was  as  if  he  knew  that 
Price  had  been  the  one  who  had  shot  him. 

"Shit,"  the  medic  spat  when  he  saw  the  extent  of  the  damage.  "This  one's 
not  going  to  make  it." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"We'll  load  him  up  anyway.  We  can't  just  leave  him  here." 

It  wasn't  until  they  were  moving  him  onto  the  litter  that  the  sergeant  real- 
ized just  how  small  the  Iraqi  was.  He  couldn't  have  been  more  than  five  foot 
two  at  most,  and  he  was  so  rail-thin  that  he  weighed  almost  nothing.  But 
when  they  lifted  him,  for  the  first  time  he  heard  the  man  make  the  slightest 
of  noises.  A  faint  moan,  a  louder-than-usual  exhalation  was  all  that  it  was,  and 
it  didn't  seem  like  anyone  else  heard  it  over  the  sound  of  the  helicopter.  But 
Price  noticed  it— maybe  because  he  had  been  listening  to  the  man's  breath- 
ing for  close  to  half  an  hour.  He  reached  over  and  adjusted  a  coil  of  dirt- 
encrusted  intestine  that  had  slipped  off  the  man's  stomach  while  they  were 
moving  him. 

Vargas  had  clenched  his  eyes  shut  when  they  came  to  get  him.  He  kept  them 
tightly  closed  even  as  he  felt  the  blades  beating  faster  and  the  bird  beginning 
to  move.  Though  more  than  half  an  hour  had  passed  since  he  found  himself 
lying  on  the  side  of  the  road,  he  still  hadn't  regained  control  over  his  body. 


122  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

When  the  convulsions  took  hold  once  more,  all  he  could  do  was  pray  again 
and  again  that  when  he  finally  reopened  his  eyes,  he  would  be  looking  at 
the  ceiling  of  a  hospital  in  Kuwait  or  Germany,  and  not  up  at  the  great  blue 
Iraqi  sky. 

The  helicopter  lurched  forward,  and  the  young  soldier  was  on  his  way. 

Sergeant  Price  was  leaning  against  Sergeant  Wilson's  vehicle  when  Wilson 
himself  walked  up.  He  could  tell  that  Price  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"What's  up?"  Wilson  asked. 

"Ah,  just  wondering  if  I  did  the  right  thing.  I  mean,  I  don't  know  if  he's 
guilty  or  not." 

"Hey,  that  motherfucker  was  running.  There  was  no  way  for  you  to  know." 

"Yeah,  I  know.  I  just  wish  I  could  be  sure.  I  mean,  he's  probably  gonna 
die,  right?" 

"Don't  drive  yourself  crazy  about  it,  man.  We've  got  enough  to  worry 
about." 

Qasim  could  feel  the  American  helicopter  taking  off.  The  physical  pain  had 
eased  a  bit,  and  overwhelmingly  what  he  felt  was  anger  and  despair.  How  will 
my  wife  and  sons  ever  be  able  to  bury  me  now?  he  thought.  He  didn't  even 
know  where  they  were  earning  him. 

He  was  growing  furious  at  himself  as  well.  If  he  hadn't  stood  around  to 
watch  the  convoy  passing,  he  would  still  be  out  in  his  fields  making  prepara- 
tions for  the  spring  planting.  He  silently  cursed  his  own  stupidity.  He  also 
cursed  the  Americans  for  their  guns  and  the  young  men  who  attacked  them 
with  their  bombs.  He  almost  cursed  God,  but  just  barely  caught  himself.  He 
was  going  to  die,  and  there  was  nothing  he  could  do  about  it. 

A  sad  sense  of  defeat  came  over  him  as  his  vision  grew  even  blurrier. 
Anger  gave  way  to  another  feeling.  He  wanted  to  hold  on  to  life  just  a  few  mo- 
ments longer. 

He  looked  around  the  helicopter  once  more,  trying  to  catch  a  few  last 
glimpses  of  his  surroundings.  The  inside  was  mostly  black  and  burnished  steel, 
covered  with  the  same  light  dust  that  coated  everything  else.  On  the  far  wall 
was  a  window,  the  blue  Iraqi  sky  beyond.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  looked 
outside  at  the  receding  ground,  but  he  knew  he  would  never  get  that  chance. 

Across  from  him  there  was  an  American  soldier  clenching  his  eyes  shut 
and  shaking  slightly.  Qasim  could  see  that  for  all  the  fabulous  technology  that 


HEARTSANDMINDS  123 

his  country  had  sent  with  him,  the  soldier  was  still  filled  with  terror.  He  is  only 
a  boy,  Qasim  said  to  himself.  A  scared  young  boy  who  looks  like  he  just  wants 
to  go  home. 

It  will  be  over  soon,  Qasim  thought  as  each  breath  grew  more  labored  than 
the  last.  He  took  one  final  look  at  the  soldier  and  closed  his  eyes. 


ROAD  WORK 

Personal  Narrative 

Staff  Sergeant  Jack  Lewis 


Iraqi  civilians  are  not  only  caught  in  the  crossfire  when  hostilities  erupt  be- 
tween American  troops  and  insurgents,  they  are  the  victims  of  military- 
related  accidents  as  well.  In  February  2005,  forty-one-year-old  U.S.  Army 
Reserve  Staff  Sergeant  Jack  Lewis  witnessed  the  aftermath  of  a  late-night 
crash  involving  a  nineteen-ton  Stryker  armored  vehicle  (call  sign  "Rat- 
tlesnake Six-Seven")  and  a  small  car.  While  Lewis  had  seen  shocking  acts 
of  violence  and  bloodshed  during  his  deployment  with  Tactical  Psychologi- 
cal Operations  Detachment  1290,  1-25  SBCT  (Stryker  Brigade  Combat 
Team),  nothing  had  struck  him  as  hard  emotionally  as  the  suffering  caused 
by  this  collision. 


I  never  heard  the  boom-CRUNCH,  only  imagined  it  later.  There  was 
strong  braking,  followed  by  a  great  deal  of  shouting.  Our  Stryker  moaned 
through  its  monstrous  air  brakes  and  then  bumped,  heaved,  and  finally 
ground  itself  to  a  halt. 

"Six-Seven's  in  the  ditch!" 

"Did  they  roll  it?" 

"No,  they're  up.  I  think  they're  disabled." 

"Where's  the  colonel?  Is  the  colonel's  vehicle  okay?" 

The  colonel's  vehicle  was  okay. 

The  major  said  that  we  would  need  a  combat  lifesaver.  It  wasn't  combat. 
There  were  no  lives  left  to  save.  But  I  dug  out  the  CLS  bag,  because  you 
never  know,  do  you?  And  walked  across  a  pitch  dark  highway. 

Somebody  was  wailing  in  Arabic,  hypnotically,  repetitiously. 


124  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

A  single  car  headlight  was  burning,  a  single  shaft  of  light  beaming  across 
the  road  like  an  accusing  finger.  When  tactical  spotlights  suddenly  illumi- 
nated the  little  car,  we  found  the  source  of  the  wailing. 

He  was  an  older  man  with  a  silver  beard,  a  monumental,  red-veined  nose, 
and  a  big,  thick  wool  overcoat.  He  was  hopping  like  a  dervish,  bowing  rapidly 
from  the  waist  and  throwing  his  arms  to  the  sky,  then  to  his  knees,  over  and 
over  again  in  a  kind  of  elaborate  dance  of  grief. 

Down  the  road  a  hundred  meters  or  so,  Six-Seven's  vehicle  commander 
and  air  guards  had  dismounted  and  were  standing  around  in  the  ditch.  No- 
body had  started  smoking  yet. 

I  walked  to  the  car  with  an  Air  Force  sergeant  and  moved  the  older  man 
aside  as  gently  as  possible.  He  was  built  like  a  blacksmith,  powerful  through 
the  neck  and  shoulders. 

It's  hard  to  describe  what  we  found  in  the  car.  It  had  been  a  young  man, 
only  moments  earlier  that  night.  A  cop  or  a  fireman  or  a  soldier  would  have 
simply  said,  "It's  a  mess  in  there."  I  used  to  be  a  fireman.  I'm  a  soldier  now.  It 
was  as  bad  a  mess  as  I've  seen. 

I'm  not  a  medic.  We  didn't  have  one  with  us.  It's  still  my  responsibility  to 
preserve  life.  So  I  squeezed  into  the  crumpled  passenger  area,  sat  on  the  shat- 
tered glass,  and  tried  to  take  the  pulse  from  his  passenger-side  arm  (nothing) 
and  his  neck  (nothing).  I  thought  about  CPR,  but  only  for  a  moment.  His  left 
arm  was  mostly  torn  off,  and  the  left  side  of  his  head  was  flattened. 

Up  on  the  highway,  GIs  walked  around,  gave  and  took  orders.  By  the  car, 
the  victim's  father  still  capered  madly,  throwing  his  arms  around,  crying  out 
to  God  or  anyone.  I  asked  him,  in  my  own  language,  to  come  with  me,  to 
calm  down,  to  let  me  help  him.  I  put  my  arm  around  him  and  guided  the  old 
Arab  to  the  road.  I  sat  him  on  the  cold  ramp  of  our  Stryker  and  tried  to  assess 
his  injuries.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  could  be  only  as  superficially 
scratched  up  as  he  appeared.  His  hand  was  injured,  bruised  or  possibly  bro- 
ken, and  he  had  a  cut  on  his  left  ear.  I  wrapped  a  head  bandage  onto  him  and 
tied  it  gently  in  back.  It  looked  like  a  traditional  headdress  with  a  missing  top. 
Every  few  seconds  he  would  get  animated,  and  I  would  put  my  hand  firmly 
on  his  shoulder.  He  would  not  hold  still  long  enough  for  me  to  splint  his  arm. 

"Why  can't  he  shut  up?" 

"You  ever  lose  a  kid?"  This  is  a  pointless  question  to  ask  a  soldier  who's 
practically  a  kid  himself. 

We  moved  him  into  the  Stryker,  assuring  him  that  no,  we  weren't  arrest- 


HEARTSANDMINDS  125 

ing  him.  But  he  didn't  care.  Whenever  he  started  to  calm  down,  he  would 
look  toward  the  car  and  break  into  wails.  I  sat  next  to  him,  put  my  arm  around 
his  shoulder,  tried  to  keep  him  from  jumping  around  enough  to  hurt  himself 
or  a  soldier.  I  held  him  tightly  with  my  right  arm.  By  the  next  morning,  my 
shoulder  would  be  on  fire. 

Forty  minutes  later  a  medic  arrived. 

"What's  his  status,  sergeant?" 

"He  has  a  cut  on  his  left  earlobe.  I  think  his  hand  is  broken."  (I  think  his 
heart  is  broken.) 

"Roger.  Okay,  I  got  this." 

"Thanks."  (Bless  you  for  what  you  do  every  day,  doc.) 

I  got  out  of  the  way,  letting  the  old  guy  go  for  the  first  time  in  almost  an 
hour.  He  started  wailing  again  almost  immediately.  While  the  medic  worked 
on  him,  the  colonel's  interpreter  came  over  and  fired  a  few  questions  at  the 
man.  It  sounded  like  an  interrogation. 

They  had  been  on  their  way  back  to  Sinjar,  just  a  few  miles  away.  The 
younger  man  had  been  taking  his  father  back  from  shopping.  They  were  min- 
utes from  home. 

We  didn't  find  any  weapons  in  the  car— either  piece  of  it.  There  was  no 
propaganda,  nor  were  there  false  IDs.  If  we  had  stopped  these  people  at  a 
checkpoint,  we  would  have  thanked  them  and  let  them  go  on. 

The  young  man  had  been  a  student.  Engineering.  With  honors.  Pride  of 
the  family.  What  we  like  to  think  of  as  Iraq's  future. 

Finally,  I  had  to  ask,  "What  does  he  keep  saying?" 

The  terp  looked  at  me,  disgusted,  resigned,  or  maybe  just  plain  tired.  "He 
says  to  kill  him  now." 

The  colonel  came  over  and  asked  the  medic  if  he  could  sedate  the  man 
with  morphine. 

"No,  sir.  Morphine  won't  help." 

"Well,  can't  you  give  him  something  to  calm  him  down?  I  mean,  this  is 
unacceptable." 

I  walked  away  and  lit  a  Gauloise.  A  sergeant  came  up  next  to  me,  smok- 
ing. I  didn't  say  anything.  After  a  few  moments  in  the  black  quiet,  I  overheard 
him  say,  "It  wasn't  anyone's  fault.  It  was  just  an  accident." 

"I  know."  Inhale.  Cherry  glow.  Long  exhale.  "Why  we  gotta  drive  in 
blackout— here  — I  don't  get." 

"If  Six-Seven  had  turned  their  lights  on  a  couple  of  seconds  earlier  .  .  ." 


126  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"Yeah.  I  know."  And  he  went  to  help  carry  the  young  man's  remains  into 
the  sudden  light  show  of  ambulances  and  police  jeeps,  surrounded  by  young 
Arabic  men  with  steely  eyes. 

The  supersized  staff  sergeant  who  mans  the  .50  cal  on  our  truck  walked 
down  the  road  to  kick  a  little  ass  and  get  Six-Seven's  recovery  progress  back  on 
track.  Within  a  few  minutes,  they  had  it  hooked  up.  It  would  be  two  weeks  be- 
fore that  Stryker  would  roll  outside  the  wire  again,  this  in  an  environment 
where  trucks  totaled  by  IEDs  are  welded  back  together  and  sent  again  into 
harm's  way  in  mere  hours. 

I  went  and  sat  on  the  back  gate  of  the  Stryker.  I  felt  the  cold  creep  into  me. 
The  old  man  sat  next  to  me,  perhaps  too  tired  to  continue  his  tirade  against 
cruel  Fate,  careless  Americans,  war  and  its  accidents. 

I  haven't  lost  a  full-grown  son,  just  a  little  daughter.  A  baby.  And  she 
wasn't  torn  from  me  in  a  terror  of  rending  steel,  stamped  out  by  a  sudden 
monster  roaring  out  of  the  night.  She  went  so  quietly  that  her  passing  never 
woke  her  mother.  I  like  to  think  she  kissed  her  on  the  way  out,  on  her  way 
home. 

But  still,  sitting  on  the  steel  tail  of  the  monster  that  killed  his  son,  I  think 
I  knew  exactly  how  one  Iraqi  man  felt. 

"Just  kill  me  now." 

We  sat  and  looked  straight  into  the  lights. 


MOORE  THOUGHTS  and  GIRL  INTERRUPTED 

Personal  Narratives 
Captain  James  R.  Sosnicky 


For  twenty-seven  months  beginning  in  May  2003,  Captain  James  R.  Sos- 
nicky worked  and  traveled  throughout  the  Middle  East  with  the  U.S.  Army 
Reserve's  354th  Civil  Affairs  Brigade.  A  graduate  of  both  the  U.S.  Military 
Academy  at  West  Point  and  Oxford  University,  Sosnicky  first  deployed  to 
Iraq  as  an  economic  development  officer  to  help  reopen  the  banks  and  find 
reconstruction  work  for  local  contractors.  To  this  end,  he  founded  the  Bagh- 
dad Business  Center,  which  has  assisted  thousands  of  Iraqi  small  busi- 
nesses. For  the  second  part  of  his  tour,  he  was  assigned  to  an  Iraq-focused 
civil  affairs  task  force  at  the  U.S.  Embassy  in  Jordan.  While  overseas,  Sos- 


HEARTS    AND     MINDS  127 

nicky  wrote  numerous  essays  and  stories  relating  how  the  United  States,  its 
culture,  and  its  citizens  are  often  perceived  in  the  Middle  East  In  mid- 
September  2004,  Sosnicky  had  the  opportunity  to  watch  Michael  Moore's 
documentary  Fahrenheit  9/11  when  it  opened  in  Amman.  "Who  knows  how 
much  of  Fahrenheit  9/11  is  true"  Sosnicky  wrote  after  viewing  the  movie.  "It 
doesnt  really  matter,  I  guess." 


r.  Moore  makes  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  doesn't  like  the  current 
POTUS  and  that  he'd  like  to  see  him  thrown  out  of  office.  Half  of  our 
country  apparently  agrees  with  him.  The  other  half  thinks  that  Mr.  Bush  is 
doing  a  great  job.  It's  not  my  place  to  say. 

What  is  in  my  lane,  and  what  did  bother  me  very  much  about  the  film, 
was  its  depiction  of  the  American  soldier  in  Iraq.  For  the  two  of  you  who 
haven't  seen  the  movie,  there  is  one  scene  in  which  the  American  Fighting 
Man  is  portrayed  as  a  callous  idiot  playing  profanity-filled  songs  on  his  tank's 
internal  radio  as  he  goes  blasting  through  the  streets  of  Baghdad.  There  are  a 
few  other  tableaux  that  reinforce  the  notion  that  every  American  in  uniform 
is  either  a  heartless  ass  or  an  embittered  and  sullen  lost  youth. 

While  it  is  true  that  most  guys  are  tired  and  would  love  to  go  home,  the 
idea  that  the  typical  soldier  is  a  jerk,  disconnected  completely  from  the  fate  of 
the  Iraqi  people,  is  not  true.  To  suggest  otherwise  is  ignorant  and  offensive.  In 
my  job  as  a  civil  affairs  officer  in  Iraq,  I  have  worked  and  rubbed  elbows  with 
soldiers  from  nearly  every  division  in  the  Army.  I  have  seen  their  interactions 
with  the  local  people.  Every  American  soldier  has  Iraqi  friends.  Several,  al- 
though they  aren't  supposed  to,  have  Iraqi  girlfriends. 

In  a  violent,  faraway  land,  where  everything  is  unfamiliar,  99.9  percent  of 
the  American  soldiers  have  behaved  professionally,  compassionately,  and 
bravely.  Of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  soldiers  who  have  rotated  into  and 
out  of  Iraq,  a  handful  have  embarrassed  us.  The  names  of  the  a-holes  of  Abu 
Ghraib  taste  more  bitter  on  the  tongues  of  our  troops  in  Baghdad  than  they 
do  on  those  of  the  incensed-for-the-camera  politicians  who  will  sleep  off 
cocktails  tonight  in  their  Georgetown  abodes.  And  while  the  film  showed  a 
few  conquering  Americans  talking  about  the  rush  of  war,  chanting  "the  roof 
is  on  fire,"  it  did  not  show  the  faces  of  countless  Americans  rebuilding  hospi- 
tals, delivering  textbooks  to  schools,  or  providing  Iraqis  with  clean  water  to 
drink.  Those  things,  even  I'll  admit,  do  not  make  for  interesting  cinema. 


128  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Something  else  you  didn't  get  to  see  is  the  Middle  Eastern  reaction  to  this 
film.  As  I  said,  I  saw  Fahrenheit  g/11  in  Amman,  Jordan,  sitting  in  the  theater 
with  an  Arab  audience.  There  was  a  lot  in  the  movie  to  make  an  American 
uncomfortable  in  that  crowd. 

But  while  there  was  laughter  in  some  parts,  there  were  no  shouts  of  anger 
from  my  fellow  popcorn  munchers.  There  was  something  else,  however, 
something  that  took  me  by  surprise.  During  the  scene  in  which  a  grieving 
American  mother  named  Lila  Lipscomb  doubles  over  in  agony  in  front  of  the 
White  House,  crying,  "I  just  want  my  son  back,  I  just  want  my  son  back," 
every  head-scarf-wearing  Muslim  Arab  woman  around  me  was  sobbing.  The 
pain  of  a  mother  grieving  for  her  dead  son  cut  through  national  and  religious 
boundaries  and  touched  on  an  emotion  common  to  us  all.  That  compassion, 
the  compassion  of  the  average  Muslim  Arab,  is  hardly  ever  put  on  display. 

During  his  more  than  two  years  in  the  Middle  East,  Sosnicky  also  wrote 
profiles  of  the  individuals  he  encountered  personally  and  professionally.  In 
the  following  story,  he  describes  a  young  woman  he  befriended  during  his 
year  in  Iraq. 

Mariam  Maslawi  worked  as  a  dentist  before  the  war.  Since  the  American  in- 
vasion, and  the  subsequent  loss  of  reliable  electricity  at  her  clinic,  she  has 
not.  The  Iraqi  Ministry  of  Health  still  requires  her  to  show  up  to  work  six  days 
a  week.  So  she  sits  in  the  hot,  dark  waiting  room  with  her  fellow  dentists 
doing  nothing  from  0800  to  noon  so  as  to  collect  their  sixty  dollars  per  month 
and  to  keep  their  names  on  the  order-of-merit  list,  should  things  get  better  in 
the  future. 

Madam's  father  is  a  pharmacist.  He  is  an  old  man.  His  store  was  looted 
following  the  invasion.  It  has  not  reopened  since.  Her  father  has  been  a  crip- 
ple all  of  his  life.  Now  he  is  having  prostate  problems.  Her  mother  takes  care 
of  him.  Of  her  sisters,  one  escaped  the  country  years  ago,  one  is  still  in  high 
school,  and  one  is  an  unemployed  recently  graduated  mechanical  engineer. 
Mariam  is  the  sole  breadwinner  for  the  family.  She  needs  more  than  the  sixty 
dollars  per  month  from  the  government  to  take  care  of  them. 

Fortunately,  Mariam  taught  herself  English  while  attending  the  Univer- 
sity of  Baghdad.  She  keeps  a  notebook  so  that  she  can  jot  down  unusual  new 
words  she  learns.  Though  she  is  fluent,  Mariam  is  not  satisfied  with  her  En- 
glish. Her  language  skill  allows  her  to  work  with  the  Americans.  The  first 


HEARTSANDMINDS  129 

Americans  Mariam  ever  saw  were  those  soldiers  of  the  3rd  Infantry  Division 
who  came  rumbling  down  her  street  in  their  Abrams  tanks. 

Like  (presumably)  the  soldiers  in  those  tanks,  Mariam  is  a  Christian.  She 
told  me  she  keeps  a  portrait  of  Jesus  in  her  bedroom.  When  asked  why,  she 
replied  simply,  "I  like  Jesus."  She  then  made  a  face  and  giggled  at  the  absur- 
dity of  such  a  question. 

Mariam  looks  like  any  young  woman  in  America.  She  has  light  skin, 
brown  eyes,  and  dark  hair  that  she  wears  in  a  long  ponytail.  She  likes  to  laugh 
and  likes  to  dress  as  nicely  as  she  can.  She  saw  an  advertisement  for  colored 
contact  lenses  in  an  American  magazine  and  thought  those  would  be  nice  to 
have.  She  likes  popular  Arab  music,  but  also  Shakira  and  Enrique  Iglesias. 
"He  is  very  nice."  Like  many  Arabs,  she  believes  in  conspiracy  theories.  With- 
out question,  the  war  was  fought  for  oil  and  Israel. 

Every  day,  after  her  duties  at  the  dental  clinic,  Mariam's  mother  drives 
her  in  the  family's  beat-up  sedan  to  the  eastern  side  of  the  Fourteenth  of  July 
Bridge.  There  is  an  American  checkpoint  there.  After  standing  in  line  with 
the  other  workers,  Mariam  is  searched  for  weapons  by  the  soldiers.  Most 
know  her  by  face  and/or  name  by  now.  When  they  go  through  her  purse  and 
wave  their  wands  over  her  five-foot-tall  petite  body,  they  do  so  matter-of-factly, 
sometimes  even  smiling  slightly.  This  familiarity  will  cease  with  the  next  ro- 
tation of  soldiers.  The  new  guys  will  be  hard-asses  for  a  while  because  they 
will  be  scared.  And  they  should  be.  Mariam's  cousin  was  killed  at  a  similar 
checkpoint  back  in  January,  when  a  car  bomb  tore  through  the  line  of  wait- 
ing Iraqis. 

Mariam  walks  across  the  long  steel  bridge  spanning  the  Tigris.  Once  on 
the  other  side,  she  is  officially  in  the  Green  Zone  or  "International  Zone"  as 
they  started  calling  it  after  the  handover  of  power  to  the  Iraqis.  It  is  another 
mile  walk  to  her  store.  All  told,  it  takes  an  hour  to  get  to  her  destination. 

Though  she  has  never  smoked,  Mariam  sells  cigarettes  to  the  soldiers,  em- 
bassy staff,  and  government  contractors  working  in  the  International  Zone. 
Her  profits  are  small.  One  dollar  per  carton.  She  sells  a  few  other  trinkets,  too, 
such  as  lighters  and  key  chains  with  Saddam  Hussein's  face  on  them.  Ameri- 
cans love  these  things.  She  got  permission  from  the  proper  authorities  in  the 
International  Zone  to  build  this  store.  (The  "proper  authorities,"  however, 
vary  depending  on  whom  you  ask,  and  they  change  every  three  or  four 
months.  There  is  a  constant  fear  that  one  day  someone  will  tell  her  to  go 
away.) 


130  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Mariam  went  into  debt  to  build  her  store  from  the  ground  up,  using  local 
contractors  who  charged  her  too  much  for  material  and  labor  because  they 
could.  In  an  attempt  to  save  money,  Mariam's  mother  came  in  one  day  and 
scooped  up  dirt  in  her  hands  that  she  put  into  a  bucket  for  the  builders  to  use. 
They  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  "What  is  this  old  woman?" 

It  is  a  simple  structure,  made  of  brick  and  concrete.  There  is  no  front,  just 
three  walls  and  a  tin  corrugated  roof  on  top.  The  temperature  gets  up  near  120 
degrees  Fahrenheit  inside  during  the  summertime.  There  is  dust  everywhere. 
The  dust  and  leftover  particles  of  building  material  cling  to  Mariam's  hair 
and  moist  skin.  She  is  careful  to  wipe  the  dust  off  the  cartons  of  cigarettes  be- 
fore she  hands  them  to  her  customers.  She  is  very  attentive  to  details  like  that. 
She  is  a  professional.  Much  like  she  used  to  be  as  a  dentist. 

Shoplifting  is  a  constant  problem.  Both  the  Americans  and  the  Iraqis 
have  stolen  from  her.  The  Americans  call  her  a  liar  when  they  get  caught,  so 
she  doesn't  bother  confronting  them  anymore.  Once  when  she  complained 
to  the  police  about  an  Iraqi  thief,  his  tribe  threatened  to  kill  her. 

Mariam  takes  any  threat  of  violence  seriously.  A  couple  of  months  ago, 
her  house  was  bombed.  The  blast  shattered  the  front  windows  and  sent  glass 
flying  inside.  Everyone  hit  the  deck.  By  a  miracle,  no  one  got  hurt.  After  a  few 
minutes  of  huddling  on  the  floor,  Mariam  cautiously  stepped  outside.  The 
houses  in  front  and  on  either  side  of  her  were  fine.  Only  her  house  was  bat- 
tered and  torn.  Only  her  house  contained  a  person  working  with  the  Ameri- 
cans. 

Her  house  had  been  shaken  by  war  before.  When  she  was  a  young  girl, 
Iranian  missiles  pounded  the  street.  The  Americans  have  bombed  her  three 
times  since,  in  1991,  1998,  and  2003.  Mariam  is  twenty-eight  years  old.  She 
knows  things  women  her  age  in  the  United  States  do  not.  A  couple  of  weeks 
ago  I  was  in  Baghdad,  visiting  with  Mariam.  There  was  an  explosion  in  the 
distance. 

"What  do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "car  bomb  or  mortar  round?" 

"Definitely  a  mortar  round,"  she  replied. 

Most  girls  in  the  U.S.  have  a  tin  ear  for  such  things. 

Mariam  seldom  complains.  When  I  offered  her  a  hundred  dollars  to  help 
her  get  by,  she  got  insulted  and  ordered  me  to  put  the  money  back  into  my 
pocket.  Immediately  she  could  tell  she'd  been  too  harsh.  "Now,  if  you  had  a 
thousand,  it  would  be  a  different  story,"  she  joked  with  a  wink  and  a  touch  of 
my  hand.  Mariam  never  talks  about  wanting  to  move  to  the  United  States. 


HEARTSANDMINDS  131 

Her  dream  is  to  move  to  Jordan  or,  better  yet,  Beirut.  "Someplace  where  the 
weather  is  nice  and  you  can  go  outside  without  being  afraid,"  she  says. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Mariam,  she  had  worked  a  long  day.  By  then  it  was 
dark  and  her  mother  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  to 
pick  her  up.  At  home,  there  would  not  be  much  relief.  No  electricity  meant 
no  air-conditioning.  No  air-conditioning  in  the  murderous  heat  of  Baghdad 
meant  no  sleep.  Mariam  hasn't  slept  much  all  summer. 

I  walked  with  Mariam  in  the  darkness  and  told  her  how  much  I  admired 
her  strength. 

"They  won't  beat  me,"  she  said.  "They  won't  win.  I  won't  let  them." 

"Who  won't  beat  you?"  I  asked. 

"The  Iraqis,  the  Americans,  all  of  them." 

We  walked  on  a  bit  longer.  "Sometimes  I  get  tired,"  she  said  quietly,  tears 
filling  her  eyes.  "Please  forgive  me.  You  are  going  back  to  Jordan  tomorrow 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  remember  me  like  this." 

Unlike  the  Nile  in  Cairo,  there  are  no  well-lit,  grand  hotels  or  municipal 
buildings  buttressing  the  Tigris  in  weary  Baghdad.  There  is  nothing  to  give 
people  the  feeling  that  they  are  standing  in  a  city  that  was  the  sparkling  jewel 
of  the  civilized  world  for  five  hundred  years.  There  are  just  date  palms  and  a 
general  sorrow  at  night  that  manifests  itself  in  the  blacked-out  houses,  shut- 
tered shops,  empty  streets,  and  lonely  silence. 

There  were  no  other  pedestrians  on  the  bridge.  No  other  sounds  but  those 
of  our  shoes  moving  over  the  span.  A  cool  breeze  blew  away  the  stagnant  hot 
air  and  lifted  our  spirits  temporarily.  "That  is  very  nice,"  Mariam  said  gently. 
Directly  below  us  the  black  Tigris  flowed  on  into  the  India  ink  horizon.  The 
moonlight  reflected  off  of  the  peaks  in  its  flow.  At  the  far  end  of  the  bridge  was 
the  silhouette  of  a  Bradley.  Beyond  that,  I  could  not  go. 

As  we  got  to  the  armored  vehicle,  we  stopped  and  looked  at  each  other  in 
the  moonlight  for  a  moment.  I  could  feel  the  eyes  of  the  American  soldiers  in 
the  Bradley  on  us.  Mariam  was  sure  that  there  were  eyes  of  suspicious,  hostile 
Iraqis  on  the  other  side  of  the  checkpoint  fixed  on  her.  We  both  wanted  to 
give  each  other  a  hug,  but  we  could  not.  "I'll  see  you,"  I  said  awkwardly  to  the 
girl  I'd  known  for  over  a  year. 

"Insha'allah"  she  replied.  "God  willing."  We  stood  there  for  another 
moment. 

Clutching  her  handbag,  Mariam  turned  and  walked  away,  disappearing 
finally  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER    THREE 


•STUCK  IN  TT-TTS  SANDBOX 

GRIPES,    HUMOR,    BOREDOM,   AND   THE    DAILY  GRIND 


hMHnHHHHHHHHHBHb 


A  few  days  before  Christmas,  Marines  take  a  time-out  from  combat  operations  to  play  a 

friendly  game  of  baseball  at  Camp  Ramadi,  Iraq,  in  late  December  2004. 

Photo  by  Corporal  Paul  Leicht,  USMC;  used  by  permission. 


Once  a  month,  all  soldiers  must  fill  out  a  white  index  card  like  it's  a  postcard 
and  write  a  message  on  the  back  of  it.  What  happened  was  a  lot  of  soldiers 
were  failing  to  contact  their  parents  and  let  them  know  that  they  were 
okay,  and  these  worrywart  parents  were  contacting  the  chain  of  command 
saying  that  their  little  Johnny  wasn't  writing  to  them  enough.  So  to  fix  this 
problem,  once  a  month  we  all  had  to  form  up  and  each  of  us  was  handed 
an  index  card  to  fill  out  to  a  parent  or  wife  to  tell  them  that  we  were  okay, 
doing  well,  still  alive,  and  hand  it  over  to  the  squad  leader  who  double- 
checks  and  makes  sure  that  everybody  fills  one  out,  and  he  then  personally 
goes  over  to  S-i  and  drops  it  off  in  the  mailbox. 

I  was  writing  to  my  wife  all  the  time,  so  the  first  postcard  I  filled  out  was 
to  my  parents,  in  the  best  kindergarten  dyslexic  letters  I  could: 

DeAr  mOM  aNd  dAd, 

I  Am  flnE,  I  aM  27  YeArS  Old  AnD  ThEy  ArE  TrEAtiNg  mE 
LiKe  I  aM  6.  wEhAvE  to  fllL  tHeSe  CaRdS  OuT  NoW  bEcAuSe 
PeeplEZ  ArNt  wrilTiNg  tO  MoMMY  aNd  DaDDiE  EnUff,  sO 
nOW  thEy  mAke  uS.  LoVe.CoLbY 

My  dad,  who  spent  twenty  years  in  the  Army,  fully  understood  that  this  was 
how  the  Army  solves  problems  and  laughed  when  he  received  the  postcard. 
My  mom  on  the  other  hand  didn't  quite  get  it  and  my  dad  had  to  explain  it 
to  her,  and  when  my  mom  asked  why  I  wrote  all  preschoolish,  he  said  that  I 
was  just  being  a  smart  ass  again,  which  she  fully  understood. 

—Twenty-seven-year-old  U.S.  Army  Specialist  Colby  Buzzell,  writing  from 
Mosul,  Iraq,  in  July  2004. 


134  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

CAMP  MUCKAMUNGUS 

Journal 
Staff  Sergeant  Parker  Gyokeres 

"I'm  going  to  kill  my  travel  agent"  thirty-year-old  Staff  Sergeant  Parker 
Gyokeres  (pronounced,  appropriately  enough,  "jokers")  wrote  facetiously  in 
one  of  his  journal  entries  chronicling  a  five-month  deployment  to  Tallil, 
Iraq.  Officially,  Gyokeres  was  an  aircraft  armament  systems  technician  in 
the  U.S.  Air  Force's  332nd  Fighter  Wing,  but  during  Operation  Iraqi  Free- 
dom he  was  tasked  to  serve  with  a  force  protection,  or  FP,  unit  that  screened 
and  escorted  local  civilians  and  foreign  nationals  working  at  the  Tallil  Air 
Base  in  the  southern  part  of  the  country.  (The  primary  responsibility  of  the 
FP  airmen  was  to  prevent  insurgents  from  infiltrating  the  base  by  posing  as 
contractors  or  day  workers.)  Gyokeres  emphasized  in  his  journals,  which  he 
also  e-mailed  to  friends  and  family  in  the  States,  that  his  service  was  noth- 
ing compared  to  what  other  troops  had  to  endure  in  more  dangerous  parts 
of  the  country.  But  he  still  relished  pointing  out  the  minor  privations  and 
absurdities  of  day-to-day  life  in  the  desert. 


Iknow  a  number  of  you  have  been  curious  about  what  it's  like  over  here,  so 
we  are  going  to  take  a  small  mental  voyage.  First  off,  we  are  going  to  pre- 
pare our  living  area.  Go  to  your  vacuum,  open  the  canister,  and  pour  it  all 
over  you,  your  bed,  clothing,  and  your  personal  effects.  Now  roll  in  it  until  it's 
in  your  eyes,  nose,  ears,  hair,  and  .  .  .  well,  you  get  the  picture.  You  know  it's 
just  perfect  when  you  slap  your  chest  and  cough  from  the  dust  cloud  you 
kicked  up.  And,  no,  there  is  no  escape,  trust  me.  You  just  get  used  to  it. 

Okay,  pitch  a  tent  in  your  driveway,  and  mark  off  an  area  inside  it  along 
one  wall  about  six  feet  by  eight  feet  (including  your  bed).  Now,  pack  every- 
thing you  need  to  live  for  four  months— without  Wal-Mart— and  move  in. 
Tear  down  the  three  walls  of  your  tent  seen  from  the  street  and  you  have 
about  as  much  privacy  as  I  have.  If  you  really  want  to  make  this  accurate, 
bring  in  a  kennel  full  of  pugs;  the  smell,  snoring,  and  social  graces  will  be  just 
like  living  with  my  nine  tentmates.  Also,  you  must  never  speak  above  a  whis- 
per because  at  all  times  at  least  four  of  your  tentmates  will  be  sleeping.  That's 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  135 

where  the  flashlight  comes  in  handy;  you  are  going  to  use  it  to  navigate  a 
pitch  dark  tent,  twenty-four  hours  a  day. 

Time  for  hygiene.  Walk  to  the  nearest  bathroom.  In  my  case,  it's  a 
thousand-foot  trudge  over  loose  gravel.  Ever  stagger  to  the  John  at  0400?  Try 
it  in  a  frozen  rock  garden.  Given  the  urges  that  woke  you  at  this  hour,  taking 
the  time  to  put  on  your  thermals  and  jacket  might  not  be  foremost  in  your 
mind.  But  halfway  there,  it's  too  late.  So  dress  warmly.  It  gets  really  freakin' 
cold  here  at  night. 

I  don't  even  feel  like  talking  about  the  latrine  experience.  All  I  have  to  say 
is  that,  after  the  first  time,  I  went  back  to  the  tent  and  felt  like  either  crying  or 
lighting  myself  on  fire  to  remove  the  filth. 

Time  for  the  reason  we  are  here  in  the  first  place.  Work. 

I  am  somewhat  limited  in  my  ability  to  say  how,  when,  and  why  we  do 
what  we  do,  so  I'll  be  vague  at  times.  Overall  the  work  is  extremely  interest- 
ing and  different  for  an  aircraft  maintainer  like  myself.  Essentially,  my  unit 
escorts  third-country  nationals  (TCNs)  and  local  nationals  (LNs)  who  work 
on  base.  We  handle  their  passes,  and  we  also  watch  over  areas  in  which  they 
work  and,  in  some  cases,  live.  I  currently  work  in  the  control  center  for  those 
escorts  and  workers.  I  handle  radio  traffic  and  communication  between  the 
people  coming  in,  patrols  and  posts  controlling  or  containing  escortees,  and 
the  police  who  search  their  vehicles.  I  am  nearly  always  speaking  through  my 
Iraqi  translator  with  Iraqis,  Koreans,  Italians,  Dutch,  and  countless  other  na- 
tionalities while  tending  to  multiple  other  duties. 

In  an  average  exchange  I'll  be  speaking  with  an  Arabic  translator  who  is 
speaking  pidgin  Turkish  who  is  trying  to  tell  me  he  needs  to  get  in  touch  with 
a  person  whose  name  he  doesn't  know,  but  whom  I  still  need  to  contact,  while 
some  Pakistanis,  Bangladeshis,  and  Filipinos  are  trying  to  steal  back  the  knives 
I  confiscated  from  them,  as  the  Koreans  bring  fifteen  kids  into  their  hospital  for 
medical  attention.  Meanwhile,  the  guy  in  the  corner  is  making  threats  against 
my  control  team  because  he  is  sick  of  waiting  for  somebody  on  the  base  and  the 
screaming  kid  just  stopped  screaming,  because  he  puked  on  my  weapons/con- 
traband searcher  who  now  wants  to  shoot  the  Korean  escort  for  letting  that  sick 
kid  loose.  This  goes  on  for  twelve  hours.  Reminds  me  of  a  really  stressed-out, 
low-budget  version  of  ER— with  automatic  weapons— in  Arabic. 

Although  things  can  get  chaotic,  there  are  rules  that  need  to  be  followed. 
Many  of  them  are  ones  we've  made  up  on  our  own. 


136  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Rule  #1:  Not  speaking  English  is  no  excuse  for  being  stupid.  I  think  I'm 
going  to  get  a  card  that  says  that  in  Arabic  and  flash  it  to  every  person  who  at- 
tempts access  to  our  facility.  Don't  even  try  "I  don't  understand"  on  me,  all  I 
asked  you  to  do  was  sit  down  and  stay  there  while  I  work  on  your  issue.  I  then 
had  to  get  the  interpreter  to  tell  you.  Twice.  I  then  had  to  post  one  of  the 
troopers  on  you  to  babysit.  If  I  have  to  tell  you  again,  I'm  going  to  kick  your 
butt  out  and  you  might  be  barred  entry  permanently.  And  stop  asking  how 
long  it  will  be.  I  told  you  twice  we  are  waiting  on  your  rep  and  he  will  be  here 
when  he  feels  like  it.  Ask  me  again  and  I'm  going  to  start  yelling. 

Rule  #2:  Making  me  yell  will  get  you  in  trouble.  If  you  don't  stop  wan- 
dering slowly  (like  I  didn't  see  you  get  out  of  our  paddock)  towards  your  truck, 
I'm  going  to  yell.  If  you  don't  get  off  the  cell  phone  in  my  yard,  now,  I'm 
going  to  yell.  (No  weapons,  communication  devices,  cameras  at  all  on  base 
for  TCNs  or  LNs,  and  we  mean  it.)  If  you  don't  tell  me  about  the  sharpened 
tire  iron  I  just  found  under  your  floorboard  (and  don't  worry,  my  guys  will 
find  it,  I  assure  you),  I  won't  yell  when  I  take  it,  but  I  will  yell  loudly  when 
you  have  the  stones  to  ask  for  it  back.  You  have  got  to  be  shitting  me.  What  do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  sharpened  eighteen-inch  piece  of  bent  angle 
iron  is  a  family  heirloom?  You  go.  Now. 

Rule  #3:  If  you  don't  stop  after  I  tell  you  once,  yell  at  you  twice,  and  phys- 
ically attempt  to  stop  you  from  being  terminally  stupid  or,  more  to  the  point, 
doing  something  that  could  be  potentially  threatening,  I'll  go  the  last  step, 
and  it  always  works,  regardless  of  language,  nationality,  or  IQ.  We  call  it  "the 
exclamation  point"  or  "Shacking  One."  As  in:  "That  damn  idiot  wouldn't 
stop,  and  when  he  started  reaching  into  his  bag  again,  after  I  had  told  him  so 
many  times  not  to,  I  had  to  Shack  One  on  him." 

Shacking  One  means  you  grab  your  rifle's  charging  handle  and  as  quickly 
as  possible  (to  make  as  much  noise  as  possible)  yank  back  till  the  handle  stops 
and  your  fingers  break  free.  As  soon  as  your  fingers  clear  the  handle,  the 
spring  tension,  from  the  pull,  slams  the  bolt  forward  and  chambers  your  first 
round.  It  sounds  like  a  very  quick  sliding/slapping  SHLACKl  It's  the  loudest 
metallic  noise  in  the  world  when  it  happens.  And  for  at  least  three  seconds, 
the  only  sound  you  hear,  as  the  crowd  unpuckers,  is  of  your  own  heart  trying 
to  break  out  of  its  rib  cage,  one  pounding  thump  at  a  time.  Once  you've  heard 
both  the  noise,  and  its  effect,  you'll  never  forget  it.  I've  never  had  to  do  it  my- 
self (except  in  training),  and,  again,  it's  really  for  cases  when  you  believe  there 
is  a  genuine  security  issue. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  137 


Shacking  One  is  the  international  symbol  for  "Conversation  over."  Shack- 
ing One  tells  the  individual  that  this  is  not  a  game  and  we  are  not  going  to 
allow  it  to  continue.  From  that  point,  amazingly  and  without  exception,  peo- 
ple do  what  they  are  told,  immediately.  They  suddenly  understand  every- 
thing we  have  been  trying  to  tell  them.  Whaddaya  know? 

Please  don't  get  the  impression  that  all  we  do  all  day  is  run  around  and  act 
like  storm  troopers.  We  all  know  our  guns  should  never  come  off  our  shoul- 
ders, and  if  they  do,  that's  the  very  second  we  need  to  be  calling  in  the  pro- 
fessionals to  assist  us.  The  guns  are  for  our  self-defense  as  an  absolute  last 
resort.  Nothing  more.  Thankfully,  events  like  these  aren't  common.  Most 
days  pass  by  smoothly  with  only  funny  stories  to  break  up  the  monotony. 

A  week  ago,  for  instance,  Geraldo  Rivera  came  to  Tallil  to  do  a  report 
for  Fox.  As  he  was  going  into  his  shtick,  just  as  the  camera  zoomed  in  on  his 
face,  a  troop  in  the  crowd,  positioned  just  over  Geraldo's  shoulder  and  visi- 
ble only  in  the  midsection,  "adjusted  himself,"  on  live,  national  television. 
In  prime  time.  This  is  the  same  troop  who  got  kidney  stones,  was  shipped  to 
Baghdad  to  have  a  CAT  scan,  and  whose  convoy  was  attacked  while  he  was 
there.  When  he  came  back,  the  Army  doctor  informed  him  that  he  had  two 
more  stones,  which  he  then  painfully  passed  over  the  next  two  weeks.  If 
there's  a  lightning  storm,  I'm  running  away  from  this  kid,  'cause  he's 
cursed. 

Or  blessed,  as  he's  still  here,  still  alive,  and  didn't  lose  a  stripe  after  the 
Pentagon  called  the  base  commander  the  next  day  and  wanted  to  know  why 
reporters  in  the  morning  national  press  briefing  were  asking  about  an  airman 
at  Tallil  AB  being  obscene,  live,  on  prime-time  Fox  News.  The  kid  had  to 
scratch,  for  God's  sake.  He  had  no  idea  that  the  camera  was  zooming  in  at 
that  exact  moment.  And,  yes,  he's  one  of  my  crew,  God  bless  him. 

I  was  just  told  that  today  he  received  a  letter  of  reprimand  for  (and  I  quote 
directly)  "an  immature,  childish,  and  obscene  gesture  that  intentionally  de- 
famed the  USAF."  Was  it  bad  timing?  Yes.  Was  it  bad  manners?  Probably.  But 
was  it,  as  the  reprimand  further  stated,  "a  deliberate  action,  known  as  a  'pack- 
age check?'  "  Ahh  .  .  .  no. 

I'm  still  stuck  on  the  very  official  usage  of  the  words  "package  check,"  but 
I'm  pretty  sure  that  the  troop's  actions  weren't  deliberate.  He's  not  an  anar- 
chist, attempting  to  bring  disorder  and  chaos.  He's  an  airman  who  worked 
hard  all  day,  got  pulled  off  of  the  dinner  bus  to  be  on  TV,  and  was  put  directly 
behind  a  blowhard  who  likes  a  tight  close-up.  He  was  then  left  there,  stand- 


138  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

ing  (and  sweating)  in  the  desert,  for  thirty  minutes.  Sooner  or  later  you  just 
gotta  adjust,  folks. 

This  place  truly  never  ceases  to  trip  me  out.  Last  week  I  met  a  man  who 
came  through  here  to  visit  his  wife  who  was  in  hospital.  He  spoke  okay  En- 
glish and,  it  turns  out,  he  was  an  American  citizen  from  Dearborn,  Michigan. 
His  home  was  less  than  ten  miles  from  where  I  lived  before  joining  up.  His 
driver's  license  was  issued  at  the  same  office  where  I  had  gotten  mine.  What 
a  head  trip.  I'm  standing  there  in  all  my  body  armor,  with  a  helmet  and  an  as- 
sault rifle,  looming  at  least  a  foot  and  a  half  taller  and  a  hundred  pounds 
heavier  than  he,  talking  about  restaurants  in  Detroit  like  an  old  friend.  He 
told  me  that  eight  of  his  friends  from  Dearborn  have  died  in  the  service  of  the 
new  Iraqi  Army  in  the  last  few  months.  I  had  no  idea  that  so  many  of  those 
guys  were  U.S.  citizens.  He  will  be  back  to  serve  as  an  interpreter  in  a  few 
months.  He  brought  his  kids  in  to  meet  me  and  they  looked  like  American 
kids  in  their  Spiderman  jackets  and  Nikes.  These  kids  go  to  American 
schools,  they  watch  SpongeBob,  and  now  they  are  swatting  flies  and  getting 
the  metal  detector  treatment  for  hidden  weapons.  I  wonder  often  what  they 
think  about  all  of  this. 

Finally,  and  in  the  words  of  one  of  our  tentmates:  "Just  when  you  think 
you  have  this  place  all  figured  out,  it  rains!"  We  assumed  that,  since  this  is  the 
desert,  it  wouldn't  rain  forever,  or  because  it's  all  sand  it  would  just  drain 
away.  Well  campers,  it  didn't  stop,  and  this  desert  isn't  sand.  The  dust  and  silt 
of  which  we  are  becoming  such  connoisseurs,  is  just  that,  silt.  It  is  clay  sedi- 
ment from  the  Euphrates  River  that  now  flows  a  mile  from  us  and,  appar- 
ently, once  flowed  where  we  stand  today.  Add  to  that,  all  occupied  ground 
was  scraped  to  remove  the  bomblets  and  mines  and  this  made  the  earth 
dense,  fine,  and  impermeable  to  seepage.  In  short,  our  dry  lake  just  became 
a  very  wet,  muddy  one. 

The  parking  lots  at  each  end  of  tent  city  have  become  chocolate  reservoirs 
as  a  result  of  the  huge  hump  in  the  center  where  the  tents  are.  When  Civil 
Engineering  came  out  to  appraise  the  situation,  their  expert  estimate,  based 
on  size  and  depth,  was  that  the  biggest  parking  lot  held  over  110,000  gallons 
of  water.  There  is  nowhere  for  this  water  to  go.  The  ground  isn't  absorbing  it, 
and  the  six-foot  walls  of  the  compound  contain  its  edges.  The  funny  part  of 
this  is  that  some  of  the  dirt  wasn't  as  well  compacted,  and  vehicle  traffic  has 
created  huge  holes  that  we  like  to  call  "sweet  spots."  Invisible  from  above,  the 
only  clue  you  have  that  you  have  hit  one  of  these  bathtub-size  holes  is  when 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  139 

your  vehicle  frame  slams  to  a  stop,  leaving  you  stranded  inside  a  football  field 
of  water. 

Sitting  in  the  guard  shack  at  the  edge  of  the  parking  lot,  we  wish  we  had 
popcorn  because  the  show  is  so  good.  We  rate  the  hits  and  critique  them.  I 
have  two  favorites.  The  first  was  the  driver  of  "Turdzilla,"  which  is  what  we 
call  the  huge  vacuum  truck  that  sucks  the  poop  out  of  porta-potties  and  field 
latrines.  He  nearly  flipped  his  forty-foot  rig  in  a  hole  the  size  of  a  Ford  Ranger 
because  he  reasoned  high  speed  was  the  way  to  beat  the  sweet  spots.  It  wasn't. 

The  other  guy  figured,  if  you  can't  beat  'em,  join  'em.  This  individual  was 
driving  an  open-topped  Army  Hummer  with  no  doors.  His  beast  could  ford 
thirty-six  inches  of  water— if  done  sensibly.  His  was  not,  shall  we  say,  a  text- 
book demonstration  of  a  sensible  technique.  He  revved  his  huge  diesel, 
dropped  it  into  gear,  and  floored  it.  What  happened  next  I  will  never  forget. 
He  hit  the  edge  of  the  pool  moving  just  a  bit  faster  than  the  posted  speed  limit 
and  was  doing  great,  throwing  huge  fountains  of  thick,  brown  mud  in  gigan- 
tic arcs  away  from  the  truck.  Then  he  hit  the  big  one,  the  one  we  simply  call 
"the  hole."  It's  in  the  area  of  the  highest  traffic,  created  when  the  mud  lake 
wasn't  quite  so  full.  It's  the  hole  that  all  the  other  holes  want  to  become.  We 
have  no  idea  how  big  it  is,  really,  but  I  saw  a  mini  pickup  float  across  it  two 
days  ago.  Anyway,  he  hit  this  hole  and  we  just  lost  him.  The  front  dipped 
down  and  immediately  a  huge  brown  wall  shot  straight  up  in  front  of  his 
truck.  He  must  have  panicked  a  bit  and  taken  his  foot  off  the  gas  when  his 
world  went  brown  and  wet.  Bad  idea. 

Did  I  mention  that  this  truck  had  an  open  roof?  Yeah,  the  wall  of  mud  fell 
on  this  brave  chap  and  we  lost  him  again.  By  this  time  his  Hummer  was  start- 
ing to  sink,  and  I  found  it  amusing  that  it  stopped  one  inch  below  the  level  of 
the  doorsills.  After  hitting  the  wall,  the  wave  of  mud  was  on  its  way  back,  and 
in  the  time  it  took  him  to  get  the  mud  off  his  goggles,  the  wave  crested  over 
his  feet  and  the  entire  truck  was  filled  with  slop.  All  I  could  see  of  him  that 
wasn't  brown  was  a  set  of  white,  grinning  teeth.  He  eventually  made  it  out  of 
the  pond,  pulled  up  to  us,  and,  over  the  sound  of  draining  mud  and  a  hissing 
engine,  said:  "God  I  love  this  job." 

So  do  I,  man,  so  do  I. 


140  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


VTC  and   HAPPY  AUSTRALIA  DAY 

E-mails 
Captain  Steven  A.  Givler 


Although  danger  is  an  ever-present  reality7  to  those  serving  in  Iraq  and 
Afghanistan,  troops  spend  a  significant  portion  of  time  performing  mind- 
numbing  bureaucratic  tasks  not  unlike  those  found  in  a  civilian  corpora- 
tion (e.g.,  ordering  equipment  and  supplies,  dealing  with  personnel  issues, 
filling  out  paperwork).  One  of  the  most  dreaded  duties  for  those  in  uniform, 
regardless  of  where  they're  stationed,  is  attending  seemingly  endless  meet- 
ings and  briefings.  Steven  A.  Givler,  a  forty-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  captain 
who  was  on  his  second  deployment  to  the  Middle  East  and  stationed  at  the 
A/  Udeid  Air  Base  in  Qatar  for  five  months,  frequently  wrote  to  his  family 
back  in  Georgia  about  his  experiences  with  the  116th  Air  Control  Wing. 
Some  days  were  clearly  less  dramatic  than  others.  ("VTC,"  alluded  to  in  the 
January  18,  2005,  e-mail  below,  is  the  abbreviation  for  video  teleconferenc- 
ing. "RAF"  refers  to  Great  Britain  s  Royal  Air  Force.) 


If  you  really  want  to  break  a  man's  spirit,  subject  him  to  several  hours  of 
VTC.  The  endless  prattle  of  disembodied  heads  asking  inane  questions 
from  thousands  of  miles  away,  the  mind-numbing  briefings  of  the  office  war- 
riors who  tell  us  the  same  thing  time  after  time  (the  only  difference  being  the 
exchanging  of  old  cliches  for  newer  ones)— to  be  spared  this  horrifying 
prospect,  the  captive  terrorist  would  tell  you  everything  he  knows. 

For  us  though,  there  is  no  escape,  so  we  fashion  what  devices  we  can  to 
get  us  through  the  misery.  One  favored  pass-time  is  graphing  the  number  of 
urns  and  uhs  of  one  of  the  regular  speakers.  She  is  generally  very  consistent, 
but  last  week  she  made  an  exceptionally  good  showing,  uttering  162  in  just 
over  five  minutes.  We  are  in  tremendous  suspense,  waiting  to  see  whether  she 
will  eclipse  that  record. 

We  also  keep  a  list  of  odd  sayings  generated  by  another  one  of  the  regu- 
lars. Sometimes,  if  he  comes  up  with  a  particularly  good  one,  we  make  a 
poster  of  it  and  hang  it  where  we  work.  That  explains  the  sign  over  our  door, 
which  reads,  "Apply  here  for  granular  answers  to  thorny  issues." 

Of  course  all  this  happens  only  during  parts  of  the  conference  that  don't 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  141 

pertain  to  us,  and  only  when  our  microphone  is  turned  off.  Our  spokesman, 
a  very  proper  RAF  squadron  leader,  always  gives  us  the  sign  before  his  speak- 
ing part  comes  up,  and  then  of  course,  we  sit  very  straight  for  the  camera,  and 
act  as  if  it  would  never  cross  our  minds  to  do  otherwise. 

Today  though,  it  was  much  harder  than  usual  to  pull  that  off.  Just  before 
our  turn  came  around,  we  heard  from  a  group  not  normally  represented  in 
our  meetings.  When  they  appeared  on  our  screen  it  was  obvious  they  hadn't 
looked  at  their  own  image  before  they  transmitted.  They  were  all  slouched 
low  in  their  seats,  and,  because  of  the  angle  of  the  camera,  nothing  showed 
above  the  table  in  front  of  them  but  their  heads.  "Holy  cow!"  one  of  us  ex- 
claimed, "They're  leprechauns!"  This  brought  the  house  down,  and  it  was  all 
the  squadron  leader  could  do  to  bring  us  under  control  before  his  time  to 
speak. 

I  hope  before  I  leave  here  to  convince  the  squadron  leader  and  the  two  of- 
ficers who  flank  him  to  spend  my  final  VTC  beneath  their  table,  using  sock 
puppets  to  present  their  briefings.  .  .  .  Steven 

Since  the  beginning  of  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom,  thousands  of  Australian 
troops  have  served  with  U.S.  and  Coalition  forces  in  the  Middle  East.  On 
January  26,  Givler  e-mailed  the  following  story  about  a  raucous  evening 
with  a  small  group  of  Aussie  soldiers. 

In  one  stroke  on  26  January,  1788,  Captain  Arthur  Phillips  claimed  Aus- 
tralia as  a  British  colony,  and  established  a  thriving  industry  (a  penal  colony) 
on  its  shores.  Not  bad  for  a  day's  work. 

So  impressive,  in  fact,  that  Australians  have  been  celebrating  the  day  ever 
since.  Unaware  of  this,  I  was  making  my  appointed  rounds  at  work  tonight, 
when  I  was  collared  by  a  couple  Aussie  colleagues  (they  refer  to  me  as  a 
"mate")  and  dragged  to  a  party  in  a  tent  adjacent  to  where  I  work.  Along  the 
way,  in  order  to  compensate  for  the  shocking  gaps  in  my  knowledge  of  His- 
tory, I  was  apprised  of  the  significance  of  this  important  date,  said  apprisings 
arriving  on  high-volume  beer-scented  blasts  delivered  directly  into  my  ear, 
the  loudness  the  result  not  so  much  of  inebriation,  as  of  a  myth  that  has  arisen 
about  my  being  slightly  deaf. 

My  hearing  is  perfectly  fine,  but  I  seem  to  have  great  difficulty  with  the 
Australian  language.  Some  claim  it's  similar  enough  to  our  language  that  a 
native  English  speaker  should  be  able  to  understand  it,  but  this,  of  course,  is 


142  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

completely  silly.  They  are  separate  and  distinct  languages,  and  while  they 
may  share  some  curse  words,  they  have  little  else  in  common.  I  know  this  to 
be  true,  but  I  seem  to  be  in  the  minority.  Because  of  this,  I  frequently  find  my- 
self asking  Australians  to  repeat  themselves.  As  a  result,  my  "mates"  have 
formed  the  opinion  that  I  am  somewhat  hard  of  hearing. 

Far  from  causing  them  to  shun  me,  this  mythical  handicap  of  mine  seems 
to  endear  me  to  these  kindhearted  people,  and  they  go  out  of  their  way  to  talk 
to  me,  asking,  "How're  ya  goin'  mate?"  and— well  I  don't  know  what  else  they 
say,  because  I  can't  understand  a  word  of  it.  I  nod  and  smile  and  make  what 
I  hope  are  appropriate  remarks  from  time  to  time,  and  I  seem  to  be  doing 
pretty  well,  because  I'm  often  rewarded  with  a  bone-crushing  slap  on  the 
back,  broad  smiles  and  a  stream  of  throaty  vowels  that  sound  as  if  I'm  listen- 
ing from  under  water. 

Times  like  these  make  me  miss  (even  more  than  usual)  my  wife.  They  re- 
mind me  of  my  first  year  or  so  in  South  Carolina,  where  her  ability  to  trans- 
late Gullah,  or  whatever  people  were  speaking  to  me,  saved  me  from  several 
beatings,  and  impressed  on  me  the  certainty  that  my  life  would  never  again 
be  complete  without  her  in  it. 

She  is  not  here  though,  so  I  get  by  as  well  as  I  can,  which  means  I  have 
become  a  master  of  reading  body  language,  facial  expression,  and  contextual 
elements  of  conversation  too  subtle  even  to  be  named.  These  clues  provide 
me  insights  into  the  inscrutable  utterings  of  my  friends  here,  and  allow  me  to 
"participate"  in  discussions  that  are  completely  beyond  my  understanding. 
An  aside:  How  is  it  I  can  appreciate  these  modes  of  nonverbal  communica- 
tion when  I  cannot  abide  a  mime? 

My  skills  of  interpretation  failed  me  tonight  in  the  tent  though,  when  my 
hosts  were  playing  an  enthusiastic  game  of  Australian  trivia.  Not  only  did  I 
not  know  any  answers,  I  could  not  ascertain  the  meaning  of  a  single  question. 
At  one  point  in  the  heated  competition,  it  was  the  turn  of  my  "mates"  to  an- 
swer a  question.  Whether  in  the  spirit  of  inclusiveness,  or  because  they  them- 
selves were  unsure  of  the  answer,  I'll  never  know,  all  I  can  say  for  certain  is 
that,  after  the  question  was  posed,  they  all  turned  to  me,  and  beerily  shouted 
things  like,  "Gowedan  givatraymate!" 

Well,  there  I  was.  A  close-packed  throng  of  inebriated  amateur  rugby  play- 
ers blocked  the  path  to  the  door  ahead  of  me,  while  all  the  men  stood  behind 
me.  No  way  out.  A  quick  survey  of  all  my  body  language  skills  told  me  only 
that  every  ear  in  the  bar  was  inclined  in  my  direction,  and  that  the  fate  of  my 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  1-3 

team  rested  on  my  shoulders.  A  hush  fell  over  the  mob.  Of  such  situations,  in- 
ternational incidents  are  made.  I  raised  my  beer  and  shouted.  "To  Australia!" 
and,  in  the  pandemonium  that  ensued,  bought  a  brief  respite,  but  it  was  over 
all  too  soon.  Once  again,  the  place  fell  silent,  and  I  felt  myself  being  crushed 
under  the  burden  of  the  prestige  of  the  United  States.  I  ran  through  my  small 
vocabulary  of  authentic  Australian  words  and  flung  one  out  in  desperation. 
"Dingo,"  I  gasped.  My  team  erupted  in  cheers,  joined  after  a  slight  delay  by 
our  rivals,  who  were  unhappv  to  lose  a  point,  but  glad  to  know  that  an  .Amer- 
ican was  so  well  informed  about  their  country. 

Later,  when  things  died  down,  I  happened  to  see  the  list  of  questions  lying 
on  the  bar.  Apparently  the  one  thev  had  put  to  me  was.  "WTrat  was  the  first 
non-native  species  introduced  to  Australia?" 

Steven 

Givler  returned  home  in  Februan  2005  and  enrolled  in  the  Saval  Post- 
graduate School  in  \lonterey.  California,  to  earn  a  masters  degree  in  Mid- 
dle Eastern  studies. 


FORCE   PROVIDER 

Personal  Narrative 

Lieutenant  Colonel  Stephen  McAllister 


Among  the  numerous  topics  that  inspire  grumbling,  controxers\,  and  exas- 
peration among  troops,  few  are  as  beloved  as  the  "portable,  single- 
occupancx  personal  waste  disposal  comfort  station,"  otherwise  known,  as  the 
port-o-john.  Most  complaints  are  about  the  seats  (wet  xear-round.  ice-cold 
in  the  winter):  the  smell,  especially  during  broiling  summers  |  "lethal,"  "not 
human,"  and  "almost  hallucinogenic"  being  just  a  few  descriptions  ;  the 
toilet  paper  |  "AWOL";;  and  the  fact  that  it  sometimes  requires  a  ten-minute 
hike,  frequently  in  the  dark,  to  get  to  one.  U.S.  Air  Force  Lieutenant 
Colonel  Stephen  McAllister,  who  had  been  stationed  at  the  headquarters  of 
the  Combined  Joint  Task  Force  C]TF-iSo  in  Bagram.  Afghanistan,  wrote 
the  following  stor\'  in  May  2003  about  the  barely  civilized  condition  of  their 
bathrooms  — and  the  higher  command's  mind-boggling  attempt  to  improve 
them. 


144  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


hanks  to  our  friends  in  the  Army  we  had  flushing  toilets,  although 
they're  actually  called  Force  Providers,  and  they  look  essentially  like  a 
box  trailer  you  might  see  on  a  flatbed  railcar  for  hauling  cargo.  Inside  the 
male  Force  Provider,  along  the  back  half  of  the  right  wall,  there  is  a  long, 
open  urinal  that  vaguely  resembles  a  feeding  trough  for  cattle.  The  other  half 
of  the  same  wall  has  sinks  and  mirrors.  The  left  wall  is  lined  solely  with  toi- 
lets, which  are  elevated  one  foot  from  floor  level  on  platforms  that  sit  above 
the  Force  Provider's  holding  tanks.  But  there's  a  problem.  Several,  in  fact. 

First,  these  aren't  typical  flushing  commodes.  Each  toilet  has  two  pedals, 
one  a  little  bigger  than  the  other.  The  smaller  pedal  is  pressed  before  you  sit 
down,  and  it  fills  the  basin  with  about  four  inches  of  water.  Then  after  the  toi- 
let is  used,  you  step  on  the  larger  pedal,  which  opens  the  flapper  valve  at  the 
bottom  and  flushes  out  the  waste.  This  also  dispenses  more  water  into  the 
basin,  theoretically  washing  it  clean.  The  problem  is  that  many  of  the  flapper 
valves  have  lost  their  seal,  which  means  that  the  four  inches  of  water  drains 
away  prior  to  use.  And  the  water  released  when  you  press  the  large  pedal 
couldn't  wash  away  dust  let  alone  .  .  .  well,  you  know. 

Second,  the  majority  of  people  here  aren't  experiencing  regular  move- 
ments due  in  part  to  the.high-protein  food  we  routinely  eat.  The  unfortunate 
consequence  of  this  incontinence  is  the  explosive  nature  of  the  illness.  This 
leaves  a  mess  that  a  trickle  of  water  simply  can't  handle. 

Third,  the  headquarters  is  made  up  primarily  of  men  — I'd  say  fifty-to-one. 
To  no  one's  surprise,  there  are  no  problems  with  the  women's  Force  Provider. 
But  then  the  odds  are  in  their  favor. 

So  you're  probably  able  to  guess  that  the  problem  we  have  is  one  of  clean- 
liness. And  the  Army  leadership  has  had  enough.  The  headquarters  director, 
a  brigadier  general,  got  involved  and  issued  the  following  decree: 

MEMORANDUM  FOR  ALL  CJTF-180  JOC  PERSONNEL 

SUBJECT:  MALE  FORCE  PROVIDER  GUARD  ROSTER  AND  INSTRUCTIONS 

1.  Guard  will  immediately  start  on  the  Male  Force  Provider  until  further 
guidance  is  provided  by  the  Director.  This  is  a  result  of  individual(s) 
trashing  the  latrine  and  other  unethical  acts.  Each  shift  will  be  two 
hours  long  and  both  officers  and  enlisted  are  required  to  pull  the  duty. 

2.  Instructions.  As  an  individual  goes  into  the  force  provider,  the  guard 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  145 

will  take  note  who  goes  in  and  will  be  required  to  inspect  the  force 
provider  prior  to  that  individual  leaving  the  facility.  This  is  to  ensure 
that  the  force  provider  is  not  trashed  or  vandalized  during  use.  The 
purpose  of  the  force  providers  was  to  improve  the  quality  of  life  for 
CJTF-180  personnel. 

We  couldn't  believe  it. 

The  Army  then  decreed  that  each  office  in  the  headquarters  would  take 
their  turn  guarding  the  Force  Provider.  One  of  the  guys  in  my  work  area  sug- 
gested that  we  didn't  have  to  because  we  were  Air  Force  and  not  Army. 
"That'll  endear  us  to  everyone  here,"  I  said  sarcastically. 

A  major  said,  "I'll  go  out  there  when  I  see  the  sergeant  major  out  there." 
The  Army  sergeant  that  delivered  the  news  replied  that  no  rank  was  exempt. 
More  rumbling  and  "Jesus  Christ,  I  don't  believe  this"  and  "For  crying  out 
loud"  and  "There's  typical  Army  leadership  for  you." 

I  thought  to  myself,  What  will  I  tell  my  grandchildren  when  they  want  to 
know  what  I  did  during  the  war  in  Afghanistan?  "I  was  in  the  thick  of  it,  pulling 
CG  duty."  "What's  CG  duty,  Grandpa?"  uCrapper  Guard." 

Our  office  drew  a  half-hour  block  just  prior  to  sunset.  I'd  convinced  my- 
self that  I  would  be  the  first  to  go  pull  our  guard  shift  and  had  said  as  much 
but  secretly  hoped  that  someone,  somewhere  would  realize  the  folly  of  this 
policy  and  cancel  the  shifts.  But  as  we  approached  the  hour,  still  no  cancel- 
lation, and  I  resigned  myself  to  the  inevitable. 

Only  twenty-five  minutes  before  I  was  due  to  take  my  post,  Colonel  Bled- 
soe, who  goes  by  the  call  sign  "Zipper,"  walked  in  and  announced  that  he 
would  take  our  shift.  Zipper  is  a  vice  wing  commander  back  in  the  States,  and 
he  fits  the  mold  perfectly.  He's  a  southern  boy  with  a  laid-back  attitude,  a  com- 
mon-sense guy  who  lets  nothing  fluster  him.  He's  well  liked  and  he's  able  to 
see  the  humor  in  virtually  any  situation.  The  CG  duty  was  no  exception. 

Zipper  decided  that  he  would  approach  this  duty  with  the  decorum  it  de- 
served. He  found  a  broom  and  a  roll  of  toilet  paper,  and  he  gathered  his  book, 
water,  and  coat  and  asked  Lovin,  a  popular,  well-respected  Army  sergeant,  to 
escort  him  to  his  duties  and  perform  the  guard  mount.  Zipper  slid  the  roll  of 
toilet  paper  down  the  handle  of  the  broom,  flipped  the  broom  so  the  bristles 
were  up  and  the  roll  of  toilet  paper  rested  on  his  hand,  and  marched  out  of 
our  tent.  Lovin  marched  in  step  behind,  followed  by  a  half-dozen  giggling 
onlookers. 


146  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

The  small  parade  passed  the  headquarters'  guards  and  moved  out  the 
door  and  on  toward  the  Force  Provider.  Bewildered  soldiers  quickly  moved 
out  of  the  way  of  the  duo  and  then,  after  a  moment,  decided  to  join  the 
crowd.  Zipper  marched  directly  in  front  of  the  young  sergeant  currently 
standing  guard,  who  instinctively  came  to  attention  but  was  obviously  con- 
fused about  what  was  happening.  At  that  same  instant  someone  started  to 
come  out  of  the  Force  Provider,  looked  wide-eyed  at  the  procession,  and 
promptly  closed  the  door  and  retreated  back  inside. 

"Sergeant  Lovin,  proceed  with  the  mounting  of  the  Guard." 

"Yes  sir." 

Lovin  stepped  out  from  behind  Zipper,  who  was  now  standing  at  atten- 
tion with  his  broom  and  mirroring  the  outgoing  crapper  guard  with  his  M-16, 
and  then  proceeded  to  flank  both  guards. 

"Prepare  for  inspection!"  Lovin  commanded.  The  outgoing  guard,  still 
not  sure  what  the  hell  was  going  on,  looked  helplessly  at  Lovin. 

"Come  on,  prepare  for  inspection." 

The  guard  came  to  attention  again,  unshouldered  his  M-16,  and  pre- 
sented it  for  inspection.  Lovin  stepped  in  front  of  the  guard,  carefully  looked 
over  the  rifle,  proceeded  to  inspect  the  soldier's  uniform,  and  reminded  the 
soldier  that,  in  the  future  when  pulling  crapper  guard  duty,  he  expected  to 
see  crisper  creases  on  the  sleeves  and  more  attention  to  effective  ironing.  The 
crowd  was  laughing  hysterically.  Lovin  then  executed  an  about-face,  as  well 
as  can  be  expected  on  loose  rocks,  and  faced  Zipper.  Immediately,  the  broom 
and  toilet  paper  came  off  the  shoulder  and  Zipper  stared  straight  ahead,  over 
Lovin's  hat,  and  into  the  eyes  of  Sergeant  Woodin,  the  second  guard. 

"Colonel  Bledsoe,  your  toilet  paper's  unraveling  and  the  broom's  in  seri- 
ous need  of  grooming,"  Lovin  said  with  authority.  "Can  you  explain  this?" 

"Sir,  no  excuse  sir.  It  won't  happen  again  sir." 

"See  that  it  doesn't."  Approval  from  the  crowd. 

Lovin  made  a  right-face,  took  two  steps,  performed  an  about-face,  and 
yelled,  "Attention  to  orders."  Both  guards  brought  their  appointed  weapons  to 
shoulder  and  returned  their  left  arm  to  their  side. 

"At  twelve  hundred  hours  Zulu,  Sergeant  Woodin  is  hereby  relieved  of  his 
post.  Let  all  who  hear  these  orders  beware.  Dismissed." 

And  with  that,  Zipper  and  Woodin  entered  the  Force  Provider  to  inspect 
each  toilet  for  cleanliness  and  serviceability.  The  soldier  who  had  tried  to  get 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  147 

out  during  the  changing  of  the  guard  made  his  escape.  The  crowd  started  to 
disperse  and  I  joined  them.  Zipper  was  left  to  his  guard  duties. 

Word  got  back  to  us  that  when  someone  approached  the  Force  Provider, 
Zipper  would  snap  to  attention,  broom  and  toilet  paper  at  the  ready,  and  bark, 
"Halt.  Who  goes  there?  State  your  business.  Number  one  or  number  two?" 

One  young  soldier  turned  around  and  went  the  other  way,  and  Zipper 
had  to  chase  him  down  to  explain  he  was  just  kidding.  The  half  hour  came 
and  went,  and  it  was  legendary.  Pictures  showed  up  on  the  Internet.  People 
talked  about  it  at  the  chow  hall.  Zipper  had  become  a  hero. 

By  the  time  I  was  getting  into  bed,  no  more  than  five  hours  later,  word 
had  spread  that  Crapper  Guard  duty  had  officially  been  ended. 


LIFE  ON  THE  USS  RAINIER 

Journal 
Lieutenant  Todd  Vorenkamp 


Troops  on  the  ground  are  not  the  only  ones,  of  course,  who  write  about  hu- 
morous incidents  while  serving  abroad.  During  his  seven  months  flying  as  a 
Sea  Knight  cargo  helicopter  aircraft  commander,  thirty-year-old  Lieu- 
tenant Todd  Vorenkamp  kept  a  weekly  journal  that  detailed  the  less  serious 
moments  he  and  his  crewmates  experienced  aboard  the  USS  Rainier,  a  sup- 
ply, ammunition,  and  fuel  ship.  (The  Rainier  was  part  of  the  USS  Con- 
stellation Battle  Group  stationed  in  the  northern  Arabian  Gulf  from 
November  2003  until  June  2004.)  Halfway  through  his  deployment, 
Vorenkamp  wrote  the  following  entry.  ("Air  Det"  is  shorthand  for  the  two- 
helicopter  air  detachment,  Sideflare  64  and  Sideflare  65,  and  "VERTREP" 
is  short  for  vertical  replenishment,  which  refers  to  the  transfer  of  cargo  using 
helicopters.) 


here  is  a  young  sailor  in  the  same  berthing  compartment  as  our  Air  Det 
sailors  who  allegedly  walks  around  24/7  with  a  48-ounce  coffee  mug 
and  he  — allegedly— drinks  two  mugs  a  day  while  he  works.  Apparently  he  is 
never  found  without  this  coffee  mug  and  it  has  become  part  of  his  identity. 


148  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

This  immediately  becomes  a  joke  to  the  Air  Det  guys,  and  they  decide  it 
will  be  great  fun  to  steal  this  all-important  coffee  mug.  So,  they  take  it. 

I  hear  the  kid  is  beside  himself— forced  to  drink  out  of  coffee  mugs  that 
are  only  25  percent  of  the  capacity  of  his  precious  mug. 

The  guys  then  come  up  with  a  plan  to  torture  the  poor  sailor  by  pho- 
tographing his  coffee  mug  all  over  the  ship  and  printing  the  photos  on  a 
black-and-white  laserjet  printer.  Within  hours  the  mug  has  become  our 
newest  crew  member. 

There  are  photos  of  the  mug  waiting  outside  the  command  master  chiefs 
office,  waiting  for  mail  at  the  post  office,  sitting  in  the  mouth  of  a  dryer  in  the 
laundry  room,  on  the  shelf  in  the  ship's  armory  with  a  shotgun  and  M-14 
pointed  at  it,  hanging  out  at  the  hazardous  materials  locker,  running  on  the 
treadmill  in  the  gym,  welding  in  the  hull  technician's  shop,  sending  messages 
from  the  signal  bridge,  answering  nature's  call  on  the  toilet,  getting  a 
checkup  in  the  dental  chair,  being  defibrillated  in  medical,  getting  a  trim  at 
the  barber  shop,  calling  loved  ones  at  the  sailor  phone,  hanging  from  the  res- 
cue hoist  of  Sideflare  65,  and  finally  resting  on  a  shelf  in  the  ship's  store  be- 
tween the  Q-tips  and  Tampax. 

On  Friday  I  got  to  fly  a  vertrep.  We  had  to  move  about  300  pallets  of  am- 
munition from  USNS  Shasta  — a  Military  Sealift  Command  ship.  It  was  a 
pretty  fun  vertrep— very  tight  pattern  when  the  ships  were  right  next  to  each 
other— so  it  was  pretty  busy. 

We  were  moving  racks  of  three  1000-pound  bombs.  They  are  banded  to- 
gether—three abreast— in  special  racks.  Well,  we  came  over  Shasta  to  pick 
up  our  3000  lbs  of  bombs  on  one  trip— and  we  attached  the  load  and  then 
lifted  vertically  for  the  trip  over  to  Rainier,  180  feet  away.  Suddenly  I  hear 
from  the  Shasta  tower,  "Urn,  65  .  .  .  um,  well,  never  mind." 

I  am  perplexed  for  the  half  a  second  pause  until  my  crewman  in  the  back 
says,  "HOLY  SHIT,  SIR!  WE  JUST  DROPPED  A  BOMB  ON  SHASTAl" 

Whoops. 

Apparently  the  bombs  were  banded  incorrectly  and  as  we  nosed  over  to  go 
forward  the  middle  bomb  in  the  rack  slid  right  out  of  its  holder  and  fell  about 
twenty  feet  to  the  deck  of  the  Shasta.  According  to  eyewitnesses  it  bounced 
four  times  before  coming  to  rest  on  the  flight  deck  of  Shasta. 

I  talked  to  the  Rainier  s  gunner  after  the  vertrep— he  said  there  is  no 
chance  of  the  bomb  exploding  without  the  fuse  unless  it  breaks  apart  when  it 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  149 

hits  the  deck.  Lucky  for  us,  it  stayed  in  one  piece  and  we  were  able  to  finish 
the  vertrep. 

The  captain  of  the  Rainier  likes  to  tell  folks  that  I  dropped  the  first  bomb 
of  the  war. 

On  April  22,  2003,  Vorenkamp  had  to  endure  the  initiation  "ceremony" 
commonly  inflicted  on  all  wogs  (which  is  short  for  pollywogs  or,  literally, 
tadpoles,  but  in  a  maritime  tradition  refers  to  any  sailor  who  has  not  crossed 
the  equator).  Vorenkamp  argued  that,  as  a  former  merchant  mariner,  he 
had  crossed  the  equator  multiple  times,  just  not  on  a  U.S.  warship,  and  he 
should  therefore  be  spared  the  customary  hazing  rituals.  His  superiors 
begged  to  differ. 

Tuesday  is  Wog  Day!  The  USS  Rainier  will  be  crossing  the  equator  and 
King  Neptune  will  be  turning  all  of  the  slimy  wogs  into  salty  shellbacks.  Some- 
where during  the  cruise  it  was  determined  that  I  was  a  slimy  pollywog  even 
though  I  had  been  across  the  equator  SIX  times  previous  to  this  ship  and  even 
have  a  shellback  card  in  my  wallet.  I  am  told  that  it  does  not  count  because  I 
never  went  through  the  ceremony  and  merchant  ships  are  not  real  ships. 

I  argue  that  merchant  ships  are  real  ships  with  real  sailors  and  that  I  am  a 
true  shellback.  After  all,  spending  three  months  as  slave  labor  on  the  M/V  Sea 
Fox  is  much  more  difficult  than  a  naval  equator-crossing  ceremony. 

My  resistance  does  not  pay  off,  and  I  find  myself  up  at  5  a.m.  on  Wog  Day 
to  undergo  the  torture. 

I  write  the  following  on  my  T-shirt:  I  HAVE  BEEN  ACROSS  THE  EQUATOR  OF 
THE  PLANET  EARTH  6  TIMES  ON  BOARD  SHIPS.  IF  YOU  HAVE  CROSSED  THE  EQUA- 
TOR LESS  THAN  6  TIMES  PLEASE  FIND  SOMEONE  WHO  IS  LESS  SALTY  THAN  YOUR- 
SELF. 

On  the  back:  from  "naval  traditions  and  ceremonies":  "the  cross- 
ing THE  LINE  CEREMONIES  OF  THE  MODERN  NAVY  ARE  MOST  PICTURESQUE.  IN 
MERCHANT  SHIPS  THE  CEREMONY  IS  STILL  REASONABLY  SEVERE  AND  PHYSICAL 
DISCOMFORTS  INFLICTED."  ONCE  AGAIN  .  .  .  THIS  IS  MY  7TH  LINE  CROSSING. 
THANK  YOU  FOR  YOUR  CONSIDERATION  AND  COMPASSION. 

Wog  Day  wasn't  too  bad.  It  started  in  the  wardroom  where  I  was  fed  a 
saltine  cracker  while  on  my  hands  and  knees.  Yum.  I  love  Vegemite  on  my 
saltines!  I  almost  vomited. 


150  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

I  thought  I  would  prove  how  tough  us  merchant  mariners  are  by  being 
one  of  the  only  fools  on  the  ship  not  to  make  kneepads  for  the  ceremony. 
After  crawling  over  about  200  feet  of  nonskid  I  was  completely  regretting  that 
decision.  1300  feet  later— with  bloody  knees  — I  would  be  a  "shellback." 

The  ceremony  consisted  of  spending  countless  minutes  with  my  head 
next  to  the  bulwarks  yelling  for  Flipper.  Fun.  Also,  we  were  drenched  in  salt 
water  the  whole  time.  Fun.  We  crawled  all  over  the  place,  sang  "Row,  Row, 
Row  Your  Boat"  a  hundred  times,  yelled  for  Flipper  a  bit  more,  got  covered 
in  sea-dye-stained  water,  swam  in  tubs  of  root  beer,  crawled  over  barrels  and 
cargo  nets,  crawled  through  a  plastic  chute  filled  with  lots  of  breakfast  meals 
and  some  wog's  vomit,  was  ordered  to  climb  a  steel  pole  covered  with  Crisco, 
and  had  to  suck  a  cherry  out  of  a  portly  Chiefs  buttered  belly  button.  Fun. 

Well,  I  did  it,  bloody  knees  and  all,  but  I  know  that  in  my  heart  I  became 
a  shellback  on  15  January  1994.  I  don't  feel  like  I  needed  to  do  it— and  my 
knees  constantly  remind  me  that  I  shouldn't  have  done  it! 

Two  journal  entries  later,  Vorenkamp  related  how  some  efforts  by  the  sailors 
to  entertain  themselves  were  not  appreciated  by  the  senior  command. 

One  thing  that  the  morale  folks  on  board  do  for  fun  before  ports  is  Bingo 
Night.  Saturday"  night  was  Bingo  Night.  I  had  not  been  a  big  bingo  fan  — I 
played  for  the  first  time  the  other  week.  After  suffering  through  four  hours  of 
bingo  before  Perth  I  decided  to  volunteer  to  host  the  next  Bingo  Night.  On 
Saturday  I  enlisted  the  help  of  Doc  Quack  and  we  were  all  set  to  do  tag-team 
bingo! 

Doc  and  I  went  down  to  the  SITE  (Ship  Information,  Training,  and  En- 
tertainment) TV  studio  fifteen  minutes  before  show  time.  We  chose  the 
bingo  patterns  and  planned  our  costumes.  We  would  do  a  round  in  uniform. 
Round  2  would  be  in  baseball  jerseys— me  in  a  Boston  jersey  and  Doc  in  An- 
gels kit.  Round  3  would  be  Hawaiian  shirts  and  round  4  would  be  in  hockey 
jerseys. 

Round  5— the  blackout  round— was  the  shocker.  As  far  as  we  know  there 
has  not  been  Naked  Bingo  since  the  Tailhook  scandal  of  1991.  We  thought  it 
would  be  fun.  (And,  for  the  record,  we  weren't  actually  completely  naked.) 
So,  after  round  4  the  music  videos  start,  we  verify  the  winner  from  that  round, 
and  then  the  camera  comes  on  with  Doc  and  me  shirtless  on  Rainier  TV 
ready  to  do  the  blackout  round!  We  were  having  a  good  laugh— and  I  hear 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  151 

that  the  people  around  the  ship  were  laughing  too.  The  whole  night  was  rife 
with  comedy— some  good,  some  bad  — all  improv. 

Meanwhile,  approximately  five  minutes  into  the  Naked  Blackout  Round 
the  captain  of  the  Rainier  was  channel-surfing  the  five  channels  on  SITE  TV 
in  his  stateroom  when  he  came  across  a  (seemingly)  naked  doctor  and  heli- 
copter pilot  drawing  bingo  balls.  Apparently  he  was  not  amused  and  he  called 
the  executive  officer,  woke  him  up,  and  ordered  him  to  call  down  to  SITE  TV 
to  put  an  end  to  the  shameless  display. 

The  phone  rang  in  SITE  TV  and  we  cut  to  "commercial"  and  returned 
with  the  Hawaiian  shirts  back  on.  Oh  well. 

Vorenkamp,  who  comes  from  a  long  line  of  servicemen  (his  father  was  in  the 
U.S.  Marine  Corps  during  the  war  in  Vietnam  and  his  grandfather  and 
great-grandfather  served  in  the  U.S.  Navy),  was  later  promoted  to  lieu- 
tenant commander  and  plans  to  stay  in  the  military  until  retirement.  Years 
after  his  experience  on  the  Rainier,  Vorenkamp  would  write  that  his  knees 
remain  scarred  from  Wog  Day  and  that  the  Shasta  still  has  a  sizable  dent 
on  it  due  to  the  thousand-pound  bomb  he  dropped.  Both  were  noted  more 
with  pride  than  embarrassment. 


IN  THE  HANGAR 

Lyrics 
Sergeant  Sandi  Austin 


In  a  tradition  dating  back  to  the  American  Revolution,  troops  often  sit 
around  their  campsites  and  sing  of  home,  lost  loves,  and  the  hardships  of 
soldiering.  Although  fiddles  and  fifes  have  been  replaced  by  more  sophisti- 
cated instruments  and  the  words  are  undoubtedly  edgier  than  those  of  the 
iy8os  ("Lovely  Nancy"  and  "The  Willow  Tree"  being  just  two  particular  fa- 
vorites of  the  times),  music  remains  an  integral  part  of  military  life  in  Iraq 
and  Afghanistan.  Rap,  hip-hop,  rock,  heavy  metal,  punk,  blues,  jazz,  and 
country  are  among  the  most  popular,  and  many  troops  compose  their  own 
lyrics  and  melodies  as  well.  In  late  December  2003,  a  twenty-six-year-old 
U.S.  Army  Reserve  sergeant  named  Sandra  "Sandi"  Austin  wrote  and  per- 


152  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

formed  the  following  song  for  her  fellow  soldiers  in  the  3-2  Stryker  Brigade. 
At  the  time,  they  were  living  on  an  old  air  base  just  outside  ofSamarra,  Iraq. 

Crazy  thoughts  running  through  my  head 
Making  me  think  that  silence  is  dead 
In  a  world  where  your  voice  is  seldom  heard 
Open  your  mouth  but  can't  utter  a  word 

Here  we  are  searching  for  justification 
In  a  nation  searching  for  its  salvation 
Who's  gonna  take  away  my  frustration? 

Where  is  the  music?  Where  is  the  praise? 
Stuck  in  this  sandbox  for  too  many  days 

Back  to  the  silence,  where  has  it  gone? 
Surrounded  by  people  who  won't  get  along 
Minds  are  all  clashing,  metal  as  well 
We've  all  got  our  own  views  but  none  of  us  can  tell 

Here  we  are  searching  for  justification 
In  a  nation  searching  for  its  salvation 
Who's  gonna  take  away  my  frustration 

Where  is  the  music?  Where  is  the  praise? 
Stuck  in  this  sandbox  for  too  many  days 

Dreams  are  our  destiny  in  this  waking  life 
No  need  for  loneliness,  worry,  or  strife 

Where  is  the  music?  Where  is  the  praise? 
Stuck  in  this  sandbox  for  too  many  days. 

Austin  wrote  the  song  after  having  spent  only  six  weeks  in  Iraq.  She  had  al- 
most ten  more  months  to  go. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  153 


COMBAT  MUSICIAN,   LOST  IN  TRANSLATION, 

and  THE  CIRCLE 

Personal  Narratives 

Sergeant  Sharon  D.  Allen 


Bored  with  college  and  tired  of  working  construction  to  pay  the  bills, 
Sharon  D.  Allen  enlisted,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  in  the  U.S.  Army.  Along 
with  wanting  a  challenge  in  life,  she  felt  a  sense  of  obligation.  "It  was  my 
turn,"  she  would  later  say  of  the  decision;  Aliens  younger  brother  Luke  was 
also  in  the  military,  and  during  World  War  II  their  grandfather  had  fought 
in  Europe,  where  he  had  been  wounded  in  battle  and  captured  by  the  Ger- 
mans. Allen  joined  the  Ohio  Army  National  Guard  and  became  a  fueler, 
or,  more  officially,  a  petroleum  supply  specialist,  driving  nineteen-ton 
trucks  filled  with  diesel.  Before  she  was  mobilized  to  the  Middle  East,  she 
concluded  that  being  in  a  large  vehicle  with  the  word  FLAMMABLE  written 
on  the  side  "in  eighty-million  point  font  size"  might  not  be  such  a  great 
idea.  Allen,  who  was  shipped  to  Iraq  in  March  2004  with  the  216th  Engi- 
neer Battalion  (Combat  Heavy)  as  a  sergeant,  eventually  received  training 
to  operate  bulldozers,  loaders,  dump  trucks,  and  other  heavy  equipment.  As 
grueling  as  the  labor  was,  Allen  found  humor  and  creative  inspiration  in 
the  characters,  both  Iraqi  and  American,  she  met  and  worked  with  during 
her  eleven-month  tour  of  duty.  While  deployed,  she  wrote  numerous  short, 
nonfiction  accounts  based  on  these  individuals,  and  in  the  following  story, 
Allen  profiles  a  soldier  who  was  trying  to  teach  himself  how  to  be  a  musi- 
cian. The  instrument  of  choice  was  simply  not  one  that  she  had  expected, 
though  it  does  prove  that  some  things  never  go  out  of  style. 


ost  of  my  platoon  is  comprised  of  guys  who  work  as  prison  guards  in 
the  civilian  world.  One  of  my  best  friends  out  here  is  Shannon  Bear, 
a  240-pound,  six-foot  three-inch  prison  guard.  When  he  got  back  from  leave, 
he  brought  with  him  a  new  toy. 
A  fiddle. 

In  the  middle  of  Iraq,  Bear's  learning  how  to  play  the  fiddle.  He's  really, 
really  happy  because  he's  almost  got  two  songs  down.  "Mary  Had  a  Little 


154  OPERATION     HOMECO'MING 

Lamb"  and  "Twinkle,  Twinkle  Little  Star/'  You  have  to  picture  this  grown 
man  all  excited  because,  as  he  said,  he's  "almost  ready  to  turn  the  page!" 

To  "Little  Brown  Jug." 

If  you  can't  beat  'em,  join  'em,  so  now  I'm  trying  to  pick  it  up.  Got  "Mary 
Had  a  Little  Lamb"  and  "Twinkle,  Twinkle  Little  Star"  and  a  start  at  "Camp- 
town  Races."  I  am  notorious  for  my  lack  of  patience,  however,  so  I  convinced 
Bear  to  jump  ahead  to  "Amazing  Grace,"  which  was  in  chapter  twenty-six. 
Keep  in  mind,  we  were  on  chapter  four. 

He  got  the  first  two  notes  right  off  the  bat,  and  we  were  really  impressed 
with  ourselves  until  we  realized  that  we  could  not  read  sheet  music. 

"What's  that  little  slashy-thingy?"  I  asked.  "If  we  could  figure  out  what  that 
is,  I  can  get  it."  Oh,  yes,  with  the  fiddle,  as  with  most  things,  a  little  bit  of 
knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing. 

Later  we  found  a  book  with  "Amazing  Grace"  without  the  little  slashy- 
thingies.  We  are  now  unstoppable. 

Music  was  more  than  just  a  diversion  for  Allen  and  her  fellow  soldiers,  how- 
ever. At  times  it  was  also  a  cultural  icebreaker. 

We  work  with  a  lot  of  Turks  and  Iraqis,  especially  Kurds.  I  wish  that  every 
deployed  soldier  had  a  chance  to  meet  them  because  they  are  very  different 
from  the  Arabs  in  the  south.  The  Kurds  love  us. 

I  started  to  learn  Kurdish  to  keep  score  in  volleyball.  Eventually  I  learned 
about  two  hundred  words  and  phrases,  but  it  wasn't  so  easy  because  they  have 
sounds  Americans  can't  pronounce.  They  can't  say  "left"  or  "six,"  for  some 
reason,  so  I  guess  we're  even. 

One  of  our  guys  brought  his  guitar  around  to  the  guard  shacks  and  played 
some  American  music  for  them.  Note  to  Enrique  Iglesias:  Iraqis  know  you. 
For  what  it's  worth,  you  rank  right  up  there  with  Michael  Jackson,  Madonna, 
and  Shakira. 

Sometimes  they'd  try  to  join  in.  You  haven't  lived  until  you've  seen  a 
bunch  of  Iraqi  soldiers,  complete  with  AK-47S,  sitting  around  and  singing 
with  gusto  as  they  mangle  the  Beatles'  "Let  It  Be." 

"In  times  of  trouble,  mother  Mary  comes  to  me,  speaking  words  of  wis- 
dom .  .  .  Little  Pea." 

They  really  got  into  it. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  155 

"Little  Pea,  Little  PEA!  Little  Pea,  yeah,  Little  Pea  .  .  .  Whisper  words  of 
wisdom,  Little  Pea." 
That  was  a  good  day. 

More  so  than  any  generation  of  troops  before  them,  servicemen  and  women 
overseas  today  have  the  ability  to  see  and  hear  what  the  media  are  reporting 
back  home  and  how  the  conflicts  in  which  they  are  fighting  are  being  por- 
trayed. Allen  and  her  platoon  were  well  aware  of  the  political  debates  being 
waged  about  whether  American  forces  should  or  should  not  have  been  sent 
to  Iraq,  and  they  regularly  discussed  the  subject  themselves.  In  a  longer, 
more  serious  piece  written  in  June  2004,  Allen  describes  how  these  conver- 
sations, which  took  place  at  their  forward  operating  base  near  Kirkush, 
Iraq,  became  almost  a  nightly  ritual. 

The  camp  is  under  red-lens  light  discipline,  which  means  we  can't  use  an 
unfiltered  flashlight.  It  severely  lessens  our  evening  entertainment  options. 
So,  soon  after  we  arrived,  we  began  our  strange  nightly  gatherings.  You  won't 
find  it  on  any  schedule,  but  you  can  set  your  watch  by  it.  As  the  sun  nudges 
the  horizon  and  the  gravel  cools,  some  of  us  give  up  our  battle  with  the  am- 
bient light  and  surrender  our  reading  until  the  morning.  Others  collect  up 
their  poker  winnings  or  grumble  about  their  losses.  And  we  all  drag  our  chairs 
and  cigarettes  and  joylessly  warm  water  out  to  the  gravel  and  talk.  We  call  it 
"the  circle." 

In  the  Army  there  is  an  incredibly  varied  cross  section  of  society,  and  we 
are  a  diverse  group.  We  have  a  couple  kids  straight  out  of  high  school,  who'd 
either  joined  to  get  a  little  excitement  out  of  life  or  to  get  a  leg  up  on  it  so  that 
they  could  go  to  college.  We  have  older  guys,  who've  already  put  in  their 
time.  They  tend  to  be  either  jaded  or  genial,  both  in  reaction  to  the  accumu- 
lated bullshit  slung  at  most  soldiers  who've  been  in  the  service  for  years.  We 
have  everyone  from  idealists  to  realists  to  fatalists,  more  than  a  few  who  began 
at  one  end  of  the  spectrum  and  eventually  meandered  their  way  to  the  other. 

I  always  find  it  amusing  when  people  talk  about  "the  military"  vote,  per- 
spective, or  whatever.  My  company  has  170-some  soldiers,  and  170-some 
opinions.  We  might  have  more  invested  in  foreign  policy  than  people  back 
home,  but  that  doesn't  mean  we  all  agree  on  exactly  what  those  policies 
should  be.  Two  of  the  guys,  Jeff  and  Sam,  are  brothers  serving  together  here 


156  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

but  in  different  platoons.  They  are  both  slightly  to  the  left  of  extremely  con- 
servative, yet  also  very  anti-Iraq  war.  Their  father  threatened  to  cut  off  his 
own  head  and  send  it  in  to  Aljazeera  if  his  sons  aren't  returned  home  soon. 

Jake  is  one  of  my  best  friends  out  here,  and  one  of  the  most  infuriating 
people  I've  ever  known.  Jake's  a  former  Marine  who  comes  from  a  Marine 
family  and  whose  biggest  regret  is  that  this  isn't  "a  real  war,"  something  on  the 
scale  of  World  War  II  or  Vietnam.  I  usually  point  out  to  him  that  we  didn't 
lose  many  people  in  the  first  few  years  of  Vietnam,  either.  And  then  I  say 
something  about  how  I'm  really  fucking  sorry  that  not  enough  of  us  have  died 
for  him  to  consider  this  a  real  war.  If  I  had  met  Jake  in  a  bar  in  the  States  and 
he  had  said  half  the  bullshit  he  says  here,  well,  we  definitely  would  not  have 
become  friends.  But  he's  here,  too,  so  I  guess  he's  entitled  to  his  opinion.  His 
son,  Joey,  will  be  joining  us  when  he  gets  out  of  Basic.  I  wonder  if  his  opinion 
will  change  then. 

In  the  circle,  we  talk  for  hours  not  only  about  the  reasons  for  this  war,  but 
for  the  previous  one,  too,  and  if  we  were  ever  justified  in  coming  to  this  part 
of  the  world  in  the  first  place.  At  least  in  Desert  Storm,  some  members  of  the 
circle  argue,  Iraq  was  the  aggressor.  Also,  the  whole  world  seemed  to  support 
us.  Several  of  the  soldiers  in  my  platoon  are  former  Marines  and  more  than  a 
few  had  been  in  the  Gulf  War.  Desert  Storm,  they  say,  was  to  keep  Iraq  from 
taking  over  Kuwait.  Naked  aggression  that  had  to  be  stopped.  Simple  as  that. 

Others  shoot  back  that  even  so,  we  have  no  right  to  get  involved  in  a  situ- 
ation that  was  a  fiscal,  not  physical,  threat,  to  us.  Now  we're  trying  to  change 
an  entire  culture?  And  aren't  we  being  naive  or  arrogant  to  think  that  we  will 
make  any  long-term  difference  here,  anyway?  Tempers  can  get  heated,  and 
on  some  days,  it  probably  isn't  a  good  idea  that  we  are  all  armed.  Unfortu- 
nately, two  of  the  guys,  Jeff  and  Jake,  are  too  big  for  me  to  punch. 

One  night  we  started  arguing  the  hierarchy  of  evil  world  leaders,  and 
where  Saddam  stood  on  that  list.  There  are  obviously  worse  men,  so  why 
Iraq?  Why  now?  For  every  Saddam,  there  are  ten  more  vicious  dictators,  and 
we  can't  get  rid  of  them  all.  Of  course,  then  we  had  to  delve  into  Saddam's 
motivations,  and  if  he's  really  such  a  bad  guy.  For  the  record,  I  was  on  the 
"yes,  he's  an  inexcusable  piece  of  shit"  side  of  this  argument. 

Jake,  of  course,  wonders  if  the  country  is  really  less  dangerous  now  than 
under  Hussein.  He  doesn't  think  there  would  be  suicide  bombers  and  IEDs 
littering  the  roads  without  our  impetus.  Haven't  we  made  everything  worse? 
the  question  is  inevitably  asked. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  157 

You  mean  worse  than  when  hundreds  of  thousands  of  people  were  exe- 
cuted, gassed,  and  tortured?  the  inevitable  answer  comes. 

At  least  there  wasn't  so  much  random  violence  and  bloodshed. 

No,  under  Hussein  it  was  all  well-organized  violence  and  bloodshed.  Peo- 
ple were  scared  to  death  to  say  the  wrong  thing. 

Well,  now  they're  scared  to  death  to  walk  outside  without  getting  blown  up. 

If  we  leave,  this  place  will  erupt  into  a  civil  war. 

It  probably  will  anyway.  And  it'll  be  our  fault  for  lighting  the  fuse.  .  .  . 

And  around  and  around  we  go. 

I  personally  believe  that  living  conditions  are  better  now  in  Iraq  than  be- 
fore we  were  here.  I  just  don't  know  if  they  are  safer.  It  seems  to  change  from 
day  to  day.  And  even  I  wonder  if  one  country  can  impose  political  stability 
and  democracy  on  another. 

Some  point  out  that  we  did  it  in  Japan  and  Germany.  And  technically, 
of  course,  the  Iraqis  can  "vote  out"  a  democracy  if  they  prefer  another  sys- 
tem of  rule.  While  I  understand  that  most  Americans  believe  democracy  to 
be  the  best  system  of  rule,  we  may  also  have  to  accept  that  it  might  not  work 
for  every  culture.  I  sincerely  want  it  to  work,  but  Jeff  and  Jake  hold  out  lit- 
tle hope. 

Along  with  the  whole  question  of  mixing  faith  and  politics,  we're  also 
dealing  with  a  schismatic  religion  and  people  who  loathe  one  another.  A 
Sunni  won't  even  use  a  toilet  after  a  Shiite  has.  Now  we  want  them  to  work 
together  to  create  a  new  system  of  law?  Then  you  throw  in  the  Kurds,  who  are 
mainly  Christian,  of  an  entirely  different  culture,  and  whose  claim  to  fame  is 
that  their  mere  existence  is  the  one  thing  that  brings  the  Sunnis  and  Shiites 
together.  The  Muslims  and  Kurds  hate  each  other  with  a  bloodthirsty  passion 
most  of  us  cannot  even  conceive.  One  member  of  the  circle  asked,  "Jesus 
Christ  himself  couldn't  get  these  people  to  get  along.  Do  you  really  think 
Bush  can?" 

And  where  the  hell  are  the  weapons  of  mass  destruction?  (Here  we  go.) 

Please,  it's  not  like  he  didn't  have  them  or  use  them  before. 

But  did  anyone  think  he  was  really  going  to  use  them  on  us? 

He  could  have  sold  them  to  people  who  wanted  to. 

Some  of  the  soldiers  in  my  company,  I'm  told,  still  bear  the  scars  of  mus- 
tard gas  from  Desert  Storm,  and  I've  met  Kurds  whose  family  members  were 
gassed  to  death.  I  don't  know  if  Saddam  shipped  his  stuff  out  to  Syria  or  if  he 
buried  it,  which,  after  being  there  and  seeing  the  incredible  expanse  of  noth- 


158  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

ingness  that  is  Iraq,  is  in  no  way  inconceivable.  I  don't  know  if  Bush  really 
thought  we'd  find  any.  He  may  have  exaggerated  the  threat,  but  chemical 
warfare  is  nasty  shit.  Several  of  us  have  no  problem  if  he  was  just  staying  on 
the  safe  side  with  this  one. 

Jeff  and  others  don't  think  we're  here  to  build  a  democracy  or  "make  the 
world  safer  from  terrorism."  This  led  to  a  heated  discussion  about  Bush's  mo- 
tivations. Halliburton,  retribution  (for  Hussein's  attempted  assassination  of 
Bush's  dad),  oil— they  all  came  up.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  we're  only  here  for 
oil.  A  logical,  removed  argument  could  outline  the  reality  that  Americans  do 
consume  oil  and  need  a  friendly  government  in  charge  of  reserves.  But 
Canada  and  Mexico  have  oil,  and  it'd  be  a  hell  of  a  lot  easier  to  invade  them. 

If  we're  here  for  humanitarian  reasons,  Jeff  asked,  then  why  didn't  we  go 
into  Rwanda? 

Yeah,  but  there's  no  oil  in  Bosnia  or  Kosovo  either,  someone  countered. 
And  we  went  in  there. 

I  cannot  believe  that  Bush  or  Cheney  are  risking  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  American  lives  so  they  or  their  friends  can  make  a  little  money.  Rumor  has 
it  they're  both  pretty  well  off  anyway.  Jeff  rarely  allows  any  benefit  of  the 
doubt  when  it  comes  to  Bush.  I  don't  think  Jeff  could  say  a  good  word  about 
Bush  with  a  gun  to  his  head  — and  some  of  us  have,  trust  me,  entertained  the 
thought. 

It  gets  pretty  exhausting  after  a  while.  Things  would  be  a  lot  less  compli- 
cated if  our  government  was  totally  innocent  and  Saddam's  was  totally  guilty. 
Or  if  we  hadn't  been  so  buddy-buddy  with  him  all  those  years  before  Desert 
Storm. 

And  speaking  of  old  friends,  someone  asked  if  they  thought  we'd  ever  find 
Osama  bin  Laden.  That  was  the  whole  point,  right— 9/11?  There's  hardly  ever 
any  mention  in  the  news  or  by  politicians  about  Afghanistan,  and  it's  like  the 
troops  over  there  have  been  forgotten. 

This  last  point  we  could  all  agree  on.  Maybe  those  of  us  in  Iraq  would  be 
forgotten  too,  or  worse.  The  public  supported  Vietnam  for  the  first  few  years, 
too,  then  it  changed.  We  don't  know  how  we're  going  to  be  treated  when  we 
get  home,  but  I  think  most  people  realize  that  you  can  be  for  the  troops  even 
if  you're  against  the  war. 

Everyone  says  they  are  supporting  us,  but  sometimes  it  seems  that  civil- 
ians have  no  idea  about  who  soldiers  really  are.  This,  too,  we  all  agreed  on, 
that  people  back  home  have  no  concept  of  what  troops  go  through.  We're  not 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  159 

robotic  killing  machines.  We're  regular  Americans,  just  doing  our  jobs.  This 
war  has  really  tapped  the  National  Guard,  so  the  average  soldier  out  here 
could  be  your  mechanic  or  your  plumber.  Maybe  your  dentist.  Or  the  girl  at 
the  cash  register.  I  think  we're  all  pretty  proud  of  what  we  do,  and,  at  heart, 
we're  all  patriotic.  But  we're  not  brainwashed,  and  we  have  differing  opin- 
ions. And  we  realize  that  there  wasn't  only  one  reason  for  starting  this  war. 

At  least  certainly  not  one  obvious  reason. 

Because  I  honestly  believe  if  there  had  been,  in  one  of  our  endless  dis- 
cussions in  the  circle,  we  would  have  found  it. 


THE  CAT 

Poem 
Ryan  Alexander 


Although  it  is  against  military  regulations  (primarily  for  health  reasons), 
servicemen  and  women  often  adopt  stray  cats  and  dogs  as  unofficial  mas- 
cots for  their  units  or  as  personal  pets.  Surrounded  by  the  harshness  and 
frenzy  of  combat,  many  troops  find  it  calming  to  care  for  something  small 
and  vulnerable,  while  others  believe  that  the  animals  bring  good  luck. 
And  for  some,  especially  those  grappling  with  homesickness,  they  are  sim- 
ply a  reminder  of  a  favorite  pet  back  in  the  States.  Before  heading  to  Iraq 
in  April  2004  with  the  U.S.  Army's  Stryker  Brigade  Combat  Team 
(SBCT),  twenty-eight-year-old  Ryan  Alexander  gave  his  wife  a  cat  to  keep 
her  company  during  his  four-month  deployment.  (Alexander  had  served 
in  the  U.S.  Marine  Corps  but  was  honorably  discharged  in  2001.  When 
Operation  Iraqi  Freedom  began,  he  volunteered  to  work  with  the  SBCT  as 
a  civilian.  The  specifics  of  his  job  cannot  be  disclosed.)  Alexander  wrote 
the  following  poem  about  a  cat  he  encountered  soon  after  he  arrived 
in  Mosul. 

She  came  to  me  skittish,  wild. 
The  way  you're  meant  to  be, 
surrounded  by  cruelty. 
I  did  not  blame  her. 
I  would  do  the  same. 


160  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

A  pregnant  cat,  a  happy  distraction; 
some  sort  of  normal  thing. 
Calico  and  innocent. 

The  kittens  in  her  belly  said  feed  me. 

And  I  did. 

She  crept  with  careful  eye, 
Body  held  low  to  the  dirt, 
Snagged  a  bite, 
And  carried  it  just  far  enough  away. 

She  liked  the  MREs, 

the  beef  stew,  the  chicken  breast,  the  barbeque  pork, 

but  she  did  not  like  canned  sardines. 

I  do  not  blame  her. 

I  would  do  the  same. 

She  came  around  again  and  again 
finally  deciding  that  I  was  no  threat, 
that  this  big  man  wasn't  so  bad. 

I  was  afraid  to  touch  her  as  the  docs  warned  us. 
Iraqi  animals  were  carriers  of  flesh-eating  disease. 
I  donned  a  plastic  glove  and  was  the  first  to  pet 
this  wild  creature  who  may  be 

the  one  true  heart  and  mind  that  America 
had  won  over. 

After  a  while  I  forgot  the  glove  and  enjoyed 
the  tactile  softness  of  short  fur, 
flesh-eating  bacteria  be  damned. 

Her  belly  swelled  for  weeks 

and  she  disappeared  for  some  days 

until  her  kittens  were  safely  birthed 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  161 

in  the  shallow  of  a  rusted  desk 

in  the  ruins  that  lined  the  road  behind  us. 

She  came  around  again  slim 

with  afterbirth  still  matted  to  her  hind  legs. 

She  would  return,  but  not  quite  as  often. 
She  came  to  eat  and  for  attention, 
but  there  was  nursing  to  be  done. 

One  day  she  crept  up  with  a  kitten  in  her  mouth. 

She  dropped  it  at  my  foot  and  stared  up  at  me; 

she  expected  something,  but  there  was  nothing  I  could  do. 

The  young  black  and  white  kitten  was  dead, 

its  eyes  not  yet  opened. 

It  looked  like  some  shriveled  old  wise  thing, 
completely  still,  mouth  puckered, 
small  body  curled  and  limp. 

She  let  me  take  the  baby  without  a  fight. 
She  knew,  but  seemed  unaffected. 

She  had  fetched  me  a  gift, 

a  lesson, 

among  the  worried  nights, 

shot  nerves  from  poorly  aimed  mortar  rounds: 

Everything  dies. 

The  evil,  the  innocent, 

her  baby  and 

me. 

I  thought  I  should  say  a  prayer  and  bury 

this  poor  little  thing, 

but  I  did  for  it  what  will  be  done  for  me. 

I  laid  it  in  the  burn  can  amongst  the  ash 
and  said  I'm  sorry. 


162  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

SPIN  and  FLIGHT 

Personal  Narratives 
Major  Richard  Sater 

Stripped  of  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  conveniences  and  luxuries  of  home,  troops 
in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan  often  discover  that  even  the  most  ordinary  mo- 
ments can  assume  special  meaning  in  the  life-and-death  context  of  war.  For 
forty-three-year-old  Richard  Sater,  a  major  in  the  U.S.  Air  Force  Reserve 
who  began  his  seven-month  deployment  to  Afghanistan  in  September  2003, 
this  realization  came  just  a  few  days  before  Thanksgiving.  Sater  wrote  the 
following  after  a  visit  to  the  makeshift  laundry  room  in  the  Air  Force  village 
at  Bagram  Air  Base. 


ne  recent  midnight  finds  me  doing  laundry,  a  necessity  every  eight  or 
nine  days,  inside  our  plywood  hut  lined  with  dingy  washers  and  ex- 
hausted dryers.  The  plumbing  provides  only  hard,  cold  water,  so  sorting 
whites  and  colors  and  permanent  press  is  pointless. 

Usually  I  spend  as  little  time  as  possible  in  the  laundry  room,  stuffing 
things  into  two  washers  and  then  bolting  for  forty-five  minutes.  This  night,  as 
I  measure  soap  powder  and  wait  for  the  tubs  to  fill,  a  gentleman  comes  in  — 
tall,  lanky,  generously  mustached,  with  sad  eyes  the  color  of  hazelnuts— with 
three  bags  of  laundry.  Small  ones,  with  little  in  them. 

He  asks  where  he  can  get  detergent  around  here.  I  hand  him  my  box  and 
watch,  curious,  as  he  dumps  the  laundry  into  three  separate  washers— odd,  I 
think,  as  the  few  items  of  clothing  would  easily  fit  into  one  medium-sized 
load. 

He  wears  a  desert-tan  flight  suit,  the  two-piece  kind,  with  no  markings  on 
it,  identifying  him  by  not  identifying  him  as  Special  Forces  aircrew.  I  intro- 
duce myself.  He  gives  me  a  single  name:  Dash.  I  don't  ask  for  more,  not  want- 
ing to  put  him  in  a  position  of  not  wanting  to  say  more. 

His  words  faintly  colored  with  British,  he  says  he  is  an  MH-53  gunner. 
Then  I  know  why  he's  here.  We  lost  a  helicopter  a  couple  of  days  ago,  an  Air 
Force  MH-53  Pave  Low.  It  crashed  in  the  night  soon  after  taking  off  from 
here.  Five  killed,  Army  passengers  as  well  as  Air  Force  crew.  I  extend  my  sym- 
pathies to  him  for  the  crash,  and  he  shakes  his  head,  disgusted. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  163 

"It  was  a  resupply  mission,"  he  says.  "Not  even  a  combat  sortie."  Had  the 
crash  occurred  during  a  combat  mission  — even  if  the  helicopter  had  been 
forced  down  by  enemy  fire  — he  would  not  be  as  troubled.  One  can  make 
peace  with  such  things  under  war.  But  such  cost  for  an  ordinary  resupply  mis- 
sion insults  all  who  fly  and  fight. 

Three  colleagues  lost.  Friends,  perhaps,  at  least  brothers-in-arms.  And 
somehow  or  other,  the  task  has  fallen  to  Dash  of  doing  the  laundry  of  these 
three,  prior  to  sending  their  personal  effects  to  their  families.  "Don't  want  to 
send  them  home  dirty,"  he  says. 

I  listen,  since  he  seems  to  want  someone  to.  He  tells  me  a  little  about  the 
deceased  crew  members.  One  was  divorced,  he  says;  one  was  a  recent  father 
and  another  had  teenaged  children.  Through  wash  and  rinse  and  spin  and 
tumble  dry,  I  stay  with  him,  each  of  us  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  dryer,  our  feet 
hanging  down.  The  air  smells  of  fabric-softener  sheets;  the  rhythmic  click  of 
buttons  and  the  soft  thud  of  damp  clothes  turning  underneath  us  punctuate 
his  story. 

After  he  spends  his  quiet  rage  and  grows  silent,  I  ask  about  himself.  I  learn 
that  his  mother  is  English,  that  his  dad  served  in  the  U.S.  Navy.  Dash  tells  me 
he  has  remained  single  himself  because  it  is  easier.  He  has  twenty-eight  years 
in  the  Air  Force  and  has  grown  tired,  he  says.  He's  assigned  to  a  base  in  the 
southeastern  United  States,  and  when  his  enlistment  is  up  this  time,  he  will 
get  out. 

And  after  retirement?  He  tells  me  he  has  bought  himself  a  metal  detector, 
the  kind  you  see  old  guys  using  at  the  beach  sometimes,  looking  for  coins  in 
the  sand.  And  Dash  plans  to  spend  his  own  time  on  the  beach  to  see  what  he 
can  find. 

Carefully,  he  folds  his  three  bags  of  clothing,  mundane  socks  and  under- 
shirts, some  gym  shorts,  uncommon  only  because  they're  forced  to  bear  the 
weight  of  wasted  potential,  of  the  price  extracted  for  freedom  to  endure. 
Courteously,  gravely,  we  shake  hands.  I  would  like  to  meet  him  again,  I  tell 
him  before  he  departs,  and  he  says  the  same. 

And  he  goes. 

Alone  again,  I  fold.  The  water  here  contains  enough  cautionary  bleach  to 
kill  the  worst  bacteria  in  it,  but  brown  T-shirts  turn  pale  purple  and  the  desert- 
camouflage  uniforms  take  on  a  salmon-pink  tint  over  time.  I  count  socks  to 
make  sure  I  have  an  even  number. 

In  the  cold  dark  of  the  early  morning,  I  stumble  through  the  empty  com- 


164  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

pound,  back  to  my  tent,  arms  full  of  these  clothes,  baked  hot  and  scented 
with  boxed  springtime. 

Dash  will  find  his  treasure,  buried.  I  am  certain.  He  has  earned  his  reward. 
And  for  my  part,  I  will  choose  the  important  things  and  summon  thanks. 

Five  months  later,  Sater  wrote  about  another  simple  activity  that  had  taken 
on  greater  significance  in  post-Taliban  Afghanistan. 

On  the  back  road  this  sunny  afternoon,  I  am  flying  a  kite. 

I  arrived  a  couple  of  days  ago  at  my  old  home,  Bagram,  gone  for  good 
from  Kabul,  in  the  status  referred  to  as  "awaiting  transportation"— a  seat  on  a 
flight  heading  in  the  direction  I  want  to  go,  which  is  homeward.  In  the  mean- 
time, I  have  a  sunny,  dusty  afternoon  free  and  a  kite. 

The  kite  is  a  gift  from  the  International  Security  Assistance  Force,  which 
operates  in  Kabul,  separate  from  Operation  Enduring  Freedom.  ISAF  is  our 
opposite,  a  peacekeeping  force,  troops  from  approximately  thirty  nations  serv- 
ing as  police.  Their  kites  are  trisected  into  black  and  green  and  red,  the 
shades  of  Afghanistan's  flag.  In  the  center  of  the  kite,  outlined  in  white,  is  a 
dove  and  (very  small)  the  ISAF  logo  and  a  sentiment— I  don't  know  what— 
written  in  Dari.  Two  bright  yellow  streamers  make  the  kite's  tail. 

I'm  accustomed  to  kites  that  are  shaped  like,  well,  kites,  a  paper  diamond 
with  crossed  sticks  and  a  long  knotted-rag  tail.  But  this  kite  is  made  of  some 
kind  of  sturdy  fabriclike  plastic,  and  it's  more  or  less  square.  It  has  no  sticks, 
but  it  has  pockets  built  into  each  side  of  it  that  catch  air.  I'm  skeptical  but  de- 
termined to  try  it  anyway. 

I  run  a  couple  of  miles  down  the  perimeter  road,  past  the  power  lines 
(which,  I  recall,  tempt  kites),  and  out  to  a  deserted  stretch.  I  unfold  the  kite 
and  tie  the  string  to  it  and,  without  ceremony,  offer  it  to  the  wind,  and  up  it 
goes.  It  is  a  good  day  for  up. 

Air  Force  pilots  make  much  of  slipping  the  surly  bonds  of  earth.  I  am  not 
a  pilot,  but  attach  your  soul  and  imagination  to  a  kite  in  the  wind  and  blue 
sunny  sky,  and  I  believe  you  can  accomplish  the  same  result.  A  kite  rising 
takes  your  spirit  with  it. 

The  wind  — and  it's  a  good,  strong  wind  with  mischief  on  its  mind— likes 
this  kite.  I'm  pleased  and  surprised  at  how  easily  it  rises,  tugging  persistently 
and  persuasively  on  the  string  as  I  unroll  more  and  more. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  165 

Kite  flying  is  hardly  an  everyday  occurrence  at  Bagram.  I  wonder  if  I  am 
violating  airspace  by  sending  this  one  skyward.  Three  helicopters  take  off, 
and  I  suppose  it  is  possible  that  a  high-enough  kite  could  pose  some  sort  of 
hazard,  but  our  birds  steer  clear  of  me  — or  I  of  them. 

Runners  trot  past.  Most  offer  a  grin  or  a  thumbs-up. 

The  kite  bobs  and  dips  occasionally,  but  mostly  it  just  aims  higher.  Some- 
times it  loops  downward,  catches  itself  and  struggles  back  up,  regaining  lift. 

I  should  say  that  the  whole  length  of  the  road  back  here  is  fenced  on  both 
sides,  barbed  wire  with  ubiquitous  red  "minefield"  triangles.  Some  of  the 
land,  of  course,  actually  is  mined.  Some  of  it  simply  hasn't  been  cleared,  so 
it's  unknown  whether  there  are  explosive  devices  buried  in  it  or  not. 

The  Soviets  mined  the  place  years  ago,  and  they  thoughtfully  put  up 
posts,  rows  of  them,  in  the  ground  to  identify  the  path.  Such  a  fence  surely 
kept  away  anyone  who  might  have  attempted  to  infiltrate  along  its  line.  It's 
certainly  kept  us  away. 

After  the  kite  goes  down,  I  carefully  begin  rewinding  the  string.  It's  tan- 
gled in  the  concertina  wire,  and  the  kite  itself  appears  to  be  tangled  in  a  bush. 
With  some  coaxing  and  gentle  tugging,  I  get  the  kite  airborne  again  and  it 
flies  itself  out  of  the  minefield.  I'm  relieved. 

My  kite  soars  over  the  rusted  hull  of  a  MiG  fighter,  over  piles  of  twisted, 
corrugated  iron,  skeletons  of  trucks,  scattered  scrap  and  ghosts.  Even  years 
later,  quietly  rusting  under  the  harmless  sun  and  blue  sky,  these  tons  of  scrap 
metal  suggest  the  cost  of  war. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road  are  the  remains  of  mud-brick  structures  that 
were  surely  houses  in  the  not-distant  past,  though  their  current  condition 
makes  them  look  like  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  civilization. 

There  is,  not  far  from  our  road,  a  whole  settlement  that  appears  aban- 
doned, broken  and  empty  windows  and  no  color.  I've  run  by  it  numerous 
times  and  seen  no  signs  of  life  until  this  evening.  I  can  hear  the  call  for  prayer 
from  within  the  settlement. 

As  I  continue  my  kite  flying,  I  also  hear  the  voices  of  children  playing. 
Their  squealing  and  shrieking— only  children  can  hit  such  pitches  — carry 
across  the  coming  dusk. 

The  Taliban  outlawed  kites.  Too  frivolous.  Imagine.  In  town  today,  riding 
through  Kabul,  you  can  see  children  flying  kites  now  because  they  can.  We 
forget  sometimes  that  genuine  progress  is  measured  in  small  increments. 


166  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Once  the  sun  begins  setting  behind  the  mountains,  I  decide  it's  time  to 
quit.  The  wind  is  reluctant  to  let  go  of  my  kite,  but  slowly,  I  rein  it  in  and 
begin  my  jog  back  to  the  main  camp.  I  round  the  corner  at  the  closest  point 
to  the  settlement  and  spot  two  young  boys  waiting  there,  probably  not  more 
than  five  or  six  years  old.  They  point  excitedly  and  chatter.  I  don't  have  to 
guess  why  they're  so  interested. 

Three  strands  of  concertina  wire  separate  us.  I  fold  the  kite  securely  and 
toss  it  neatly  over  the  barricade.  The  boys  pounce,  tussle;  one  of  them  tri- 
umphs and  holds  the  prize  aloft.  They  run  off  together  and  don't  look  back  at 
me.  I  suspect  they  had  the  thing  in  the  air  within  a  couple  of  minutes,  in  the 
tail  of  daylight. 

I  hope  the  boys  have  as  much  luck  as  I  did  making  it  fly.  Maybe  they  will 
know  someone  who  can  read  the  Dari  passage  on  the  kite  and  derive  some 
encouragement  from  it.  But  if  the  dove  depicted  on  the  kite  stands  for  noth- 
ing more  than  two  Afghan  boys  having  some  fun  for  a  day  or  two,  perhaps  no 
other  significance  is  necessary. 

A  year  and  a  half  after  returning  from  Afghanistan,  Sater,  who  had  also 
served  in  Operation  Enduring  Freedom-Phillippines  in  2002,  was  mobi- 
lized for  duty  in  Iraq.  It  would  be  his  third  overseas  deployment  in  four 
years. 


REFLECTIONS 

Poem 
Captain  Michael  Lang 

Finding  respite  from  the  rigors  and  demands  of  warfare  can  be  a  challenge 
for  troops  in  a  combat  zone.  Some  achieve  it  through  everyday  activities— 
playing  cards,  listening  to  music,  watching  DVDs,  writing  letters  home, 
lifting  weights— but  many  discover  that  their  most  cherished  times  are 
when  they  are  alone.  These  private  moments  offer  servicemen  and  women 
much-needed  solace  as  well  as  an  opportunity  simply  to  think  or  process 
their  emotions.  U.S.  Army  Captain  Michael  Lang,  an  infantry  officer  with 
the  yd  Brigade,  2nd  Infantry  Division,  wrote  the  following  poem  in  July 
2004  about  an  experience  outside  ofBalad,  Iraq.  Lang  had  taken  a  short 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  167 

break  to  go  off  by  himself  and  look  out  over  a  land  that  was  both  hostile  and 
unexpectedly  beautiful. 

In  the  desert,  there  is  sand 
and  space,  filled  up  by  wind 
and  heat.  It's  black  at  night, 
lightless,  aside  from  the  stars. 
When  the  storms  came  one  night, 
I  smoked  out  in  the  sand 
and  glowed  within  the  world 
the  lightning  revealed. 


SOLIDARITY  and  OUR  WAR 

Poems 

First  Lieutenant  Stephanie  Metzger  Harper 


Like  Michael  Lang,  previous,  twenty-six-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  First  Lieu- 
tenant Stephanie  Metzger  Harper  wrote  short,  almost  snapshotlike  poems 
inspired  by  nature  and  the  surrounding  landscape.  Harper,  who  served  in 
Operation  Enduring  Freedom  and  flew  over  Afghanistan  with  the  12th  Ex- 
peditionary Airborne  Command  and  Control  Squadron,  penned  the  follow- 
ing lines  of  verse  during  her  deployment,  which  began  in  November  2001. 

How  strong  the  paper  thin 

poppy  stands  against 

the  sun  and  trampling  wind 

Harper,  who  was  promoted  to  captain  on  New  Year's  Day  2002  and  earned 
three  Air  Medals  for  flying  thirty  combat  missions,  was  based  primarily  in 
the  Middle  East  She  wrote  most  of  her  poetry  in  her  tent,  but  occasionally 
she  would  jot  down  images  in  her  flight  notebook  while  working  as  an  air 
battle  manager  aboard  the  E-8C  Joint  Surveillance  Target  Attack  Radar 
System  aircraft.  In  the  following  poem,  Harper  focuses  on  both  the  beauty 
of  the  physical  environment  around  her  and  the  people  with  whom  she  was 
serving.  (A  "saif"  which  Harper  alludes  to,  is  a  curved  Arabic  sword.) 


168  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Another  desert  night 

mercifully  blacks  out  the  miles  and  miles  of  flat, 

tan 

sand 
stretching  beyond  the  razor  wire  around  our  camp. 

Off  duty, 

we've  retreated  to  our  tents. 

—  quiet  and  contemplative  — 

The  first  crew  is  up  tonight .  .  . 

Somewhere  over  the  battlefield  they  are  finding  out, 

for  all  of  us, 

what  this  war  is  going  to  be  like. 

A  string  of  Christmas  lights 

glows  above  the  center  aisle  of  our  tent 

casting  thick,  black  shadows  into  the  corners  of  our  new  home. 

We've  dubbed  it  the  "Chinese  laundry"  .  .  . 

Flight  suits,  camouflage,  and  damp  towels 

suspended  everywhere 

from  parachute  cords. 

Our  cots  are  in  line  along  each  side  of  the  tent, 
most  of  us  sleep  with  our  feet  towards  the  aisle. 

we  drift  off .  .  . 
each  of  us  just  a  few  feet  away  from  the  next— 
In  musty  beds  that 

levitate  us  above  the  canvas  floor 
where  sand  is  collecting  in  all  the  low  spots. 

The  saif  moon  cuts  an  arc  across  the  cool  night  sky. 

And  I, 

waking  just  enough  to  check, 

turn  my  head  to  see  that  my  friend  has  made  it  back  safely. 

Wrapped  in  an  olive  drab  sleeping  bag— 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  169 


the  reassuring  shape  of  her 
rises  up  above  the  horizon  of  her  cot, 

In  line  with  my  own, 
and  the  next, 

and  the  next. 

I  breathe  a  little  easier 

and  sink  back  into  sleep  — 
Until  it  is  my  turn 
to  disappear  quickly 
into  the  dark, 

crescent-hung 
sky. 


PVT.   MURPHY 

Cartoons 
Master  Sergeant  Mark  Baker 


Along  with  recording  their  experiences— and  simply  passing  the  time— by 
writing  poems,  stories,  and  journals,  some  service  members  put  pen  to  paper 
and  express  themselves  through  sketches,  portraits,  and  other  visual  arts.  In 
1992,  twenty-five-year-old  Mark  Baker  began  drawing  a  series  of  cartoons 
based  on  a  character  he  named  Pvt.  Murphy.  Baker  joined  the  U.S.  Army 
when  he  was  eighteen  and  has  served  as  a  cavalry  scout  and  intelligence  an- 
alyst, and  he  is  now  an  active-duty1  master  sergeant  assigned  to  Fort 
Huachuca,  Arizona.  The  first  Pvt.  Murphy  cartoon  was  published  in  1993, 
and  in  November  2000  the  series  began  running  on  a  regular  basis  in  the 
Army  Times,  where  it  is  read  by  a  quarter  of  a  million  people  each  week. 
Like  the  scruffy  GIs  Willie  and  Joe,  created  by  the  famed  World  War  II  artist 
Bill  Mauldin  (with  whom  Baker  has  often  been  compared),  the  cartoons 
eponymous  character  offers  the  common  grunt's  perspective  on  military  life. 
Although  often  running  afoul  of  his  commanding  officers  and  frequently 
griping  about  Army  rules  and  regulations,  Murphy  demonstrates  a  strong 
sense  of  pride  in  his  fellow  soldiers— especially  those  who  have  come  before 
him.  (In  the  first  cartoon  below,  "B.C."  stands  for  battalion  commander.) 


170 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


I  DON'T  KNOW,  MURPHY 
IT'S  ONE  THINS  TO  KEEP 
A  JOURNAL,  BUT  TO  POST 

IT  ON-LINE? 


WHAT'S  THE  BIG  DEAL?  I'M  NOT 
VIOLATING  OPSEC.  I  HAVEN'T 
WRITTEN  ANYTHING  CLASSIFIED. 
THIS  IS  SIMPLY  COMMENTARY 
ON  MY  EXPERIENCES  OVER  HERE. 


LAST  TIME  I  CHECKED,  FREE  SPEECH 
WAS  STILL  A  CONSTITUTIONAL 
RIGHT.  BESIDES,  NO  ONE  KNOWS 
I'M  A  WRITER. 


tO/  IRNgST  MMXNGHAlr, 

THi  BX.  HANTS  TO  tti  YOU 

XN  HI3  OFFICE,  NOW 


<*4X 


•.:  r-.E" 


^^^'\hk:: 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX 


171 


172  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


THE   LAND  OF  ABRAHAM 

Personal  Narrative 

Captain  Donna  Kohout 

Many  troops  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan  find  comfort  and  strength  in  religious 
faith,  and  those  who  serve  in  the  Middle  East  are  especially  awed  by  the 
biblical  history  that  surrounds  them.  In  the  late  winter  of  2002  and  through 
the  early  spring  of  2003,  Captain  Donna  Kohout  was  a  fighter  pilot  with 
the  36yd  F-16CJ  Squadron,  36yd  Operations  Group,  36yd  Wing,  sta- 
tioned in  Saudi  Arabia.  In  April  2003,  Kohout  shared  the  following  obser- 
vations with  loved  ones  and  members  of  the  Dillon  Community  Church  in 
Colorado,  where  Kohout  was  living  before  she  joined  the  U.S.  Air  Force. 


'm  still  praising  God  for  the  opportunity  to  spend  five  months  in  the  Mid- 
dle East  both  to  serve  in  the  largest  conflict  of  our  day  and  to  witness  the 
wonders  He  was  working  at  Prince  Sultan  Air  Base  in  Saudi  Arabia,  where  I 
lived.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  the  feeling  that  there  was  a  spiritual  ele- 
ment to  what  we  were  doing.  When  I  first  arrived  I  did  a  double  take  when  I 
looked  at  the  maps  in  the  back  of  my  Bible  and  recognized  the  locations  of 
the  cities  we  were  flying  over.  Tallil  had  been  Ur  of  the  Chaldeans,  the  birth- 
place of  Abraham,  who  was  the  father  of  the  Israelites.  When  God  punished 
the  Israelites  with  exile  from  the  land  He  had  given  them,  they  were  taken  to 
Babylon,  near  present-day  Al  Hillah.  This  is  also  where  Daniel  survived  his 
famed  bout  in  the  lions'  den.  During  their  years  of  exile  in  the  Babylonian 
Empire,  the  Israelites  camped  out  near  Nippur,  or  the  current  Al  Kut. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  feeling  of  flying  across  what  we  called  the  TE 
Line  in  the  months  prior  to  "Night  1"  of  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom  (OIF).  The 
TE  (Tigris-Euphrates)  Line,  which  marks  the  edge  of  the  settled  area,  is  just 
south  of  the  Euphrates  River.  South  of  the  line  is  barren  desert.  At  night,  no 
lights  are  visible  there,  but  to  the  north  bright  collections  define  the  towns 
CNN  made  famous— Tallil,  As  Samawah,  Basrah,  Al  Kut,  Al  Amarah,  Kar- 
bala,  and  of  course  Baghdad.  One  clear  day  I  looked  down  at  the  rich  greens 
of  the  valley  between  the  Tigris  and  Euphrates  and  pondered  over  the  fact 
that  these  were  the  rivers  that  I'd  learned  about  in  church  and  school  my 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  173 

whole  life.  Genesis  describes  the  Garden  of  Eden  standing  at  the  headwaters 
of  four  rivers,  two  of  which  are  the  Tigris  and  Euphrates.  That  places  the  Gar- 
den just  north  of  Basrah,  within  sight  of  where  I  flew  almost  daily. 

Abraham,  Daniel,  Ezra,  Nehemiah,  the  whole  displaced  Israelite  nation, 
and  perhaps  even  Adam  and  Eve  all  trod  the  ground  I  was  looking  down  on 
day  after  day.  And  I  was  living  in  the  same  desert  where  the  Israelites  wan- 
dered. We  complain  about  being  there  for  three  months  — it's  so  flat,  windy, 
hot,  sandy,  and  dry,  it's  no  wonder  the  Israelites  complained  during  the 
FORTY  YEARS  that  they  followed  God  around  the  Sinai  Peninsula  between 
their  exile  from  Egypt  and  their  entrance  into  the  "Promised  Land"  near 
Jerusalem. 

In  OIF,  I  flew  only  nights,  except  for  the  occasional  late-evening  or  sun- 
rise flight.  At  night  a  person  can  see  every  bullet  and  missile  launched,  near 
and  far  away,  with  the  aid  of  night  vision  goggles.  Thankfully,  most  of  what 
the  Iraqis  shot  was  unguided  and  too  small  to  reach  the  altitudes  at  which  we 
fly.  However,  it  is  still  nothing  shy  of  a  miracle  that  given  the  sheer  number 
of  airplanes  in  the  sky,  they  didn't  shoot  down  a  single  fighter,  bomber,  or 
tanker  with  all  the  projectiles  they  launched  over  those  three  weeks. 

I  may  have  officially  been  a  part  of  OIF,  and  flown  over  Baghdad  numer- 
ous times,  but  whenever  we  met  for  Officers'  Christian  Fellowship,  Praise 
Band,  or  church,  we  agreed  that  we  didn't  really  feel  like  we  were  a  part  of  the 
war.  We  came  back  to  base  and  slept  in  warm  beds  in  air-conditioned  rooms. 
Granted,  three  or  four  per  room,  and  people  even  lived  in  the  storage  room 
down  the  hall,  but  that  was  hardly  a  sacrifice  compared  to  what  the  Army 
troops  and  Marines  had  to  endure.  So,  like  many  of  you,  we  supported  those 
guys  the  best  way  we  could  — in  prayer.  It  really  meant  a  lot  to  me  to  see  the 
picture  of  a  group  of  them,  arms  around  each  other,  gathered  in  prayer.  God 
really  is  everywhere.  How  amazing  to  meet  in  a  chapel  on  a  multinational 
base  in  Saudi  Arabia  to  celebrate  Easter,  play  Australian  songs  in  a  praise 
band  led  by  a  Scot,  hear  the  sermon  from  an  American  while  sitting  next  to  a 
Brit,  and  write  about  it  all  to  friends  in  Colorado.  Fm  overwhelmed  just 
thinking  about  it. 

Praise  God  for  the  safety  He  has  provided  to  so  many  of  us  over  the  last 
several  months.  And  please  continue  to  pray  for  the  Iraqi  people  and  the  sol- 
diers over  there  now.  There  is  a  long  and  unconventional  road  ahead  of  them 
still. 


174  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Captain  Kohout  went  on  to  become  the  first  woman  to  fly  the  F-njA 
Nighthawk  Stealth  Fighter,  one  of  the  most  technologically  advanced  war- 
planes  of  its  time.  Captain  Kohout  remains  in  the  U.S.  Air  Force,  and  in 
the  spring  of  2006  she  married  a  fellow  fighter  pilot,  Lieutenant  Colonel 
Richard  J.  Douglass. 


THE  MENORAH  and   DECEMBER  15 

E-mail 
Simone  A.  Ledeen 


uFor  those  of  you  who  don't  know— tonight  was  the  first  night  of  Hanukah," 
tweniy-eight-year-old  Simone  A.  Ledeen  wrote  from  Iraq  in  December  2003. 
Ledeen  was  not  a  soldier  but  a  civilian  advisor  with  the  Coalition  Provi- 
sional Authority  (CPA),  which  functioned  as  the  country's  governing  body 
until  control  was  transferred  to  Iraqi  leadership  in  June  2004.  Ledeen,  who 
had  been  working  for  an  economic  consulting  firm  before  the  war,  went  to 
Baghdad  in  October  2003.  (A  close  family  friend  had  been  aboard  the  air- 
plane that  was  crashed  into  the  Pentagon  on  September  11,  and  both 
Ledeen  and  her  brother  wanted  to  serve  their  country  in  some  way.  Ledeen's 
brother  became  an  officer  in  the  U.S.  Marine  Corps,  and  Ledeen  joined  the 
CPA  to  help  with  Iraq's  economic  redevelopment.)  Ledeen  regularly  up- 
dated her  family  in  Washington,  D.C.,  via  e-mail  about  life  in  a  war  zone. 
And,  as  a  person  of  Jewish  faith,  few  moments  were  as  meaningful  to  her  as 
celebrating  Hanukah  in  the  former  palace  of  a  brutal,  anti-Semitic  dicta- 
tor. She  continued  her  e-mail  home: 


So  there  were  6  of  us— 2  soldiers  who  led  the  service— two  civilians  in  ad- 
dition to  me— and  the  chaplain  here  who  is  Christian  but  who  wanted  to 
witness  this  historic  event:  the  first  lighting  of  the  menorah  in  Saddam's  Re- 
publican Palace.  As  I  was  the  only  female  they  asked  me  to  light  the  Shabbat 
candles.  I  actually  got  quite  emotional  and  almost  couldn't  finish.  Lighting 
the  Sabbath  candles  in  this  place  — in  the  seat  of  power  of  a  man  who  tried  so 
hard  to  destroy  us.  I  thought  about  the  Hanukah  story— about  how  the  Mac- 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  175 

cabees  and  their  followers  refused  to  compromise  their  beliefs  — how  they  de- 
feated Antiochus'  army— and  how  they  rededicated  the  Temple,  making  oil 
that  should  have  lasted  for  only  one  day  last  for  eight.  I  realized  that  in  a  way, 
now  we  are  rededicating  this  place.  What  was  once  the  seat  of  evil  has  been 
replaced  by  hope  and  praise  to  G-d. 

The  menorah  we  use  is  beautiful  — it  was  a  gift  to  the  CPA  from  an  Iraqi 
Jewish  artist  living  in  New  York.  All  of  the  candle  holders  are  shaped  like 
pomegranates,  a  symbol  of  fertility— to  bring  growth  and  new  life  to  this 
country. 

I  also  thought  about  the  miracle  of  Hanukah,  of  the  lamp  burning  for 
eight  whole  days  until  they  could  find  more  oil.  That  is  what  this  country 
needs  — no,  not  oil  (!!)  — but  a  miracle  of  that  kind.  Even  though  there  are 
limited  resources  .  .  .  even  though  some  people  say  it's  hopeless  ...  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  maybe  there's  more  to  it  than  that.  There  are  so  many 
people  here  sacrificing  so  much  — from  the  young  soldiers  to  the  translators 
who  risk  being  recognized  to  the  older  men  and  women  who  retired  from  the 
military  but  still  volunteered  to  come  as  civilians  so  this  effort  could  have  the 
benefit  of  their  expertise.  Then  there  are  all  the  people  back  home  who  are 
praying  for  us  and  sending  us  good  wishes .  .  .  and  food.  .  .  .  Basically  what  I 
am  trying  to  say  is  there  is  a  lot  of  good  coming  into  this  place  — and  I  am  not 
ready  to  give  up  on  it. 

It  is  late  and  I  am  going  to  sleep  now.  Love  to  all  and  Happy  Holidays!! 

"It's  funny  how  quickly  one  gets  used  to  the  noises  of  war"  Ledeen  wrote 
about  the  constant  bombings  in  the  Iraqi  capital  just  weeks  after  she  arrived 
there.  Even  combat  troops  who  put  themselves  in  harm's  way  sometimes 
lament  how  repetitious  and  tedious  the  weeks  and  months  at  the  front  can 
seem,  and  when  the  monotony  of  wartime  life  is  broken,  it  is  often  because 
of  some  terrible  incident  or  attack.  But  every  once  in  a  while,  a  flash  of  good 
news  surges  through  both  the  civilian  and  military  communities  like  an 
electric  current,  infusing  them  with  joy  and  excitement.  On  December  19, 
2003,  Simone  Ledeen  wrote  home  about  just  such  a  moment.  (L.  Paul  Bre- 
mer, whom  Ledeen  refers  to  below,  ran  the  Coalition  Provisional  Authority; 
Lieutenant  General  Ricardo  Sanchez  was  the  head  of  all  U.S.  and  allied 
forces  in  Iraq;  and  Peggy  Noonan  was  a  speechwriter  for  presidents  Ronald 
Reagan  and  George  H.  W.  Bush.) 


176  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

This  morning  started  out  like  any  other  .  .  .  got  a  wake  up  call  from  my 
mother  (greatest  mother  on  earth),  and  then  promptly  went  back  to  sleep. 
Woke  up  20  minutes  later  and  rushed  through  the  morning  routine,  and  hav- 
ing missed  breakfast  walked  straight  over  to  my  office.  We  are  currently 
preparing  a  report  to  Congress  regarding  the  supplemental  spending  bill  so 
we  are  particularly  crazed  these  days. 

Anyway  I  was  running  around  the  palace  with  one  of  my  colleagues  today, 
making  sure  everyone  was  going  to  be  ready  with  their  parts  of  the  document 
when  in  one  office  or  other  someone  told  us  Saddam  had  been  captured.  We 
all  said  "oh,  wouldn't  that  be  great  if  it  were  true?!  I  hope  it  is!"  and  then  we 
continued  on  to  our  next  stop.  Suddenly  we  heard  a  great  cheer  erupt  from 
downstairs— we  ran  over  to  one  of  the  balconies  but  didn't  see  anyone  down- 
stairs. 

I  had  the  distinct  impression  we  were  missing  the  party.  But  no  matter— 
there  was  so  much  work  to  do!  As  we  walked  through  the  halls,  I  noticed 
everyone  smiling— we  passed  a  group  of  Iraqi  electricians  who  were  yelling 
excitedly  and  practically  jumping  off  their  ladders.  We  stopped  in  the  DFAC 
to  get  some  food  where  we  learned  that  it  was  for  real— that  Bremer  had  told 
the  Governing  Council— and  that  there  would  be  a  press  conference  shortly. 

We  started  hearing  crazy  amounts  of  gunfire  outside.  Our  translators 
came  over  to  say  hello,  just  out  of  their  minds  with  excitement.  "For  us  this  is 
better  than  the  9th  of  April!"  one  says.  "It  is  really  over  now,"  added  the  other. 
After  lunch  we  went  back  to  the  office  — everyone  had  decided  to  go  to  the 
press  conference  so  I  joined  the  exodus  to  the  parking  lot.  When  we  got  out- 
side I  called  my  mother  (woke  her  this  time  as  it  was  6am  on  the  East 
Coast)— but  she  didn't  seem  to  mind.  As  we  walked  down  the  street  to  the 
parking  lot,  I  heard  singing  amid  the  sounds  of  automatic  machine  gun  fire. 
I  looked  down  the  road  and  saw  a  large  group  of  young  Iraqi  men,  dancing 
down  the  street,  waving  their  shirts  over  their  heads.  Keep  in  mind  this  is  the 
famous  Green  Zone  — not  the  downtown  streets.  As  they  got  closer,  I  recog- 
nized the  electricians  I  had  seen  earlier  in  the  day.  The  men  danced  right 
past  me  and  I  held  up  the  phone  so  my  mother  could  hear.  We  all  just  stood 
there  with  big  dumb  grins  on  our  faces,  watching  them  and  sharing  in  their 
happiness.  One  of  the  translators  had  also  told  me,  "you  cannot  imagine  what 
we  have  been  through.  Now  we  can  really  have  a  new  Iraq."  I  remembered 
her  words  as  the  men  passed  by  me  singing  and  dancing.  When  I  turned  to 
get  in  the  car  I  had  tears  in  my  eyes. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  177 

We  zipped  over  to  the  convention  center  and  found  the  room  where  the 
press  conference  was  being  held.  Can't  discuss  security  but  there  was  plentv 
of  it.  We  finally  made  it  inside  and  I  grabbed  a  spot  in  the  back  of  the  room 
against  the  wall  where  I  had  a  perfect  view  in  the  space  between  two  cameras. 
Bremer  and  Sanchez  came  out— Bremer  said  the  words  that  are  now  famous 
and  we  all  went  nuts.  The  news  reports  I  have  read  state  that  it  was  onlv  the 
Iraqi  journalists  who  got  up  and  yelled  and  made  a  fuss  — people  I  was  there 
and  let  me  tell  you  we  in  the  back  and  on  the  sides  were  ALL  yelling  and 
screaming  — soldiers,  CPA,  the  security'  guys  — don't  let  them  make  you  be- 
lieve it  was  only  a  few! 

Then  the  video.  When  that  image  of  Saddam  all  bearded  and  disheveled 
came  up  on  the  screen  everyone  gasped.  I  think  I  might  have  put  my  hand  up 
to  my  mouth.  It  was  so  dramatic  and  shocking.  I  am  sure  you  know  of  the 
Iraqi  journalists  who  stood  and  screamed  at  the  image,  chanting  "death  to 
Saddam,"  and  how  one  of  them  had  been  imprisoned  and  tortured  for  2  vears 
for  the  simple  fact  of  writing  for  a  Shiite  newspaper.  It  was  deeply  moving. 
Everyone  was  transfixed.  He  finally  sat  down  and  began  sobbing  uncontrol- 
lably as  General  Sanchez  continued  with  the  briefing. 

After  the  press  conference  was  over,  we  all  piled  back  in  the  car  and  came 
back  to  the  palace.  Celebratory  fire  could  still  be  heard  —  actually  it  was 
pretty  much  nonstop.  I  still  don't  understand  the  whole  shoot  a  gun  in  the  air 
because  you're  happy  thing.  .  .  .  My  translator  friend  called  me  when  she  got 
home,  saying  the  streets  of  Baghdad  were  crazy— people  dancing,  giving  out 
candies,  just  general  mayhem  — but  joyful  mayhem.  She  couldn't  stop  talk- 
ing she  was  so  excited,  and  her  excitement  filled  me  with  ...  a  very  good  feel- 
ing that  I  am  not  sure  I  can  describe.  Happiness  but  something  more 
profound— we  really  have  done  something  good  here.  If  we  do  every  single 
other  thing  wrong,  we  still  freed  these  people  from  Saddam  Hussein.  That  is 
a  legacy  to  be  proud  of.  And  unlike  the  Germans  after  WW2,  the  Iraqis  get  to 
put  him  on  trial  for  his  crimes.  I'll  bet  the  trial  will  be  like  Eichmann's  in  the 
60s— with  everyone  disappointed  to  find  the  defendant  just  a  pathetic,  neu- 
rotic man  with  a  complex  or  two.  The  banality  of  evil  and  all  that. 

Anyway  tonight  we  have  done  a  lot  of  work,  but  also  broke  for  some 
Johnny  Walker  in  honor  of  the  day's  events.  There's  a  lot  more  to  sav— many 
things  have  happened  in  the  time  I  haven't  written  so  I  vow  to  write  again  in 
the  next  couple  of  days  and  fill  you  all  in. 

In  the  meantime,  we  should  all  heed  the  words  of  Peggy  Noonan  and  "not 


178 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


be  boring  people  who  Consider  the  Implications.  Let's  not  talk  about  the  do- 
mestic political  impact.  For  just  a  day  let's  feel  the  pleasure  history  just 
handed  us." 

Much  love 


me 


THE  OUTSIDER 

Personal  Narrative 
First  Sergeant  Richard  Acevedo 

Since  October  2001,  more  than  one  million  U.S.  Marines,  soldiers,  airmen, 
and  sailors  have  been  mobilized  to  Afghanistan  and  Iraq,  and  a  significant 
number  have  fought  in  both  countries.  If  their  wartime  writings  are  any  in- 
dication, these  troops  often  find  military  service  to  be  grueling,  boring,  ter- 
rifying, infuriating,  and  exhausting— but  also  the  most  memorable  and 
fulfilling  time  of  their  lives.  Many,  if  not  the  majority  of  them,  will  credit 
one  reason  above  all  for  why  the  experience  is  so  rewarding:  the  bonds  of 
friendship  they  forge  with  their  brothers-  and  sisters-in-arms.  These  rela- 
tionships are  not  formed  overnight,  and  it  would  be  misleading  to  suggest 
that  tensions  and  outright  hostilities  between  service  members  do  not  exist. 
As  in  any  community,  some  people  just  dont  get  along.  Thirty-eight-year- 
old  U.S.  Army  First  Sergeant  Richard  Acevedo  hadnt  even  left  for  Iraq 
when  he  was  confronted  with  a  problem  that  was  proving  to  be,  in  his  words, 
a  serious  "leadership  challenge"  relating  to  one  of  the  men  in  his  company. 
(Identifying  information  about  the  soldier  has  been  changed  to  protect  his 
identity.) 


In  the  twenty  years  I've  spent  in  the  U.S.  Army,  I  have  always  been  in  the 
company  of  infantrymen,  a  group  of  rough-and-tumble,  physical  individ- 
uals who  are  self-reliant,  intelligent,  and  adventurous.  They  love  bad  food, 
adverse  living  conditions,  sleep  deprivation,  constant  physical  abuse,  and  the 
lurking  possibility  that  they  might  die  in  the  execution  of  their  sworn  duties. 
It  is  not  a  life  for  everyone. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  179 


Manuel  Ernesto  was  a  soldier  assigned  to  the  infamous  "Fighting  69th,"  a 
National  Guard  infantry  battalion  based  out  of  New  York,  which  is  where  I 
call  home.  The  unit  has  a  history  of  being  one  of  the  most  decorated  outfits 
in  the  Army,  boasting  a  lineage  that  goes  all  the  way  back  to  the  Revolution- 
ary War  and  with  a  fair  number  of  legends  in  its  ranks.  Men  like  the  famed 
poet  Joyce  Kilmer;  Father  Duff}',  the  Army  chaplain  whose  statue  graces 
Times  Square;  and  "Wild  Bill"  Donovan,  who  would  go  on  to  start  the  OSS 
(Office  of  Strategic  Services),  the  predecessor  to  the  present-day  CIA.  Today's 
members  of  the  Fighting  69th  are  true  New  Yorkers  and  come  from  all  walks 
of  life.  Manuel  Ernesto  probably  represented  that  better  than  anyone. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  to  describe  Ernesto  is  to  say  that  he's  a  simple  man. 
At  the  time,  he  looked  to  be  in  his  late  thirties,  though  it's  hard  to  tell  exactly. 
He  was  kind  and  had  a  childlike  innocence  about  him,  but  he  had  difficult} 
understanding  easy,  straightforward  tasks  and  directions.  There  was  also 
something  about  him  that  seemed  awkward  and  out  of  sync.  My  many  years 
in  the  Army  have  taught  me  to  be  a  quick  study  of  men,  and  my  initial  im- 
pression of  Ernesto  led  me  to  believe  that  he  would  not  fit  in  very  well  within 
the  Spartan,  testosterone-driven  world  of  the  infantry. 

Ernesto  was  shy  and  kept  to  himself,  and  since  the  Army  is  primarily  a 
herd  society,  those  who  do  not  participate  in  the  herd  quickly  get  singled  out. 
In  the  Army,  it  is  never  about  the  individual  and  always  about  the  collective 
group.  Men  who  don't  contribute  or  carry  their  weight  are  considered  a  lia- 
bility'; anyone  not  fitting  that  mold  gets  ruthlessly  ostracized.  To  his  fellow  in- 
fantrymen, Ernesto  wasn't  seen  as  one  of  them,  and  they  labeled  him  a  misfit. 
Despite  what  the  other  soldiers  felt  about  Ernesto,  I  gave  him  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt.  Mainly  for  two  reasons:  one,  I  desperately  needed  bodies,  since  I 
didn't  have  the  full  complement  of  soldiers  intended  for  my  deployment;  and 
two,  Ernesto  was  extremely  polite  and  sincere  in  even-thing  he  said  and  did. 

We  spent  four  months  at  Fort  Hood,  Texas,  preparing  for  our  deployment 
to  Iraq.  I  figured  that  any  soldier  who  couldn't  handle  the  pressure  of  training 
for  war  would  get  weeded  out  during  our  train-up  period.  If  Ernesto  couldn't 
get  his  act  together,  I  would  handle  it  when  the  time  came.  Until  then,  I 
would  monitor  Ernesto's  progress  and  hope  for  the  best. 

My  first  real  observation  of  Ernesto  in  action  was  during  one  of  our  early 
morning  PT  sessions.  I  always  started  off  the  day's  training  with  a  grueling 
workout.  I  had  to  get  these  men  in  shape  and  help  them  shed  the  pounds  that 
their  comfortable  civilian  lives  had  packed  on  them.  Combat  in  Iraq  would 


180  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

be  unforgiving  on  these  citizen  soldiers,  and  they  would  have  to  tote  around 
as  much  as  fifty  pounds  of  gear  every  day  in  the  brutal  120-  to  130-degree  sum- 
mer heat.  I  often  started  the  PT  session  with  some  stretching  and  light  calis- 
thenics in  order  to  warm  the  guys  up  and  prevent  injuries  before  kicking  off 
the  real  exercise.  Usually  I  began  with  jumping  jacks,  and  on  this  one  morn- 
ing as  I  was  jumping  along  and  leading  the  company,  I  could  hear  the  men 
break  out  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  I  scanned  the  ranks  looking  for  the  reason. 
Lo  and  behold,  there  he  was  in  the  last  row,  rear  left-hand  corner  of  the  for- 
mation. It  was  Ernesto  jumping  around  in  spasms  of  unsynchronized,  dis- 
combobulated  movement.  He  looked  like  a  fish  that  just  landed  on  the  deck 
of  a  boat,  flapping  around  waiting  to  be  clubbed. 

At  first,  I  thought  it  was  an  act  and  began  to  get  angry,  thinking  he  was  try- 
ing to  get  laughs  during  my  PT  session.  I  watched  him  for  a  couple  of  seconds 
more  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  no  act.  Men  were  laughing  so 
hard  they  were  losing  their  own  rhythm.  The  harder  Ernesto  tried  to  get  in 
sync  with  everyone  else,  the  worse  he  looked.  His  body  moved  like  a  broken 
rag  doll  and  the  self-absorbed  expression  of  concentration  on  his  face  caused 
the  men  to  break  up  even  more.  One  of  the  guys  next  to  him  started  to  mimic 
his  movements,  and  instead  of  Ernesto  catching  on  that  he  was  being 
mocked,  he  looked  at  the  prankster  with  a  quizzical  expression  on  his  face 
and  shouted  to  him  between  labored  breaths:  "Are  you  .  .  .  having  ...  a  hard 
time  .  .  .  with  this .  .  .  too?"  This  caused  the  whole  group  to  convulse  in 
laughter.  That  was  who  Ernesto  was.  He  tried  his  hardest,  but  he  just  couldn't 
understand  basic  concepts. 

Ernesto's  team  leader,  squad  leader,  and  platoon  sergeant  began  to  com- 
plain to  me  on  a  daily  basis  that  Ernesto  was  having  a  hard  time  grasping  the 
fundamentals  of  being  an  infantryman.  I  would  often  tell  them  to  try  harder, 
that  Ernesto  was  just  a  leadership  challenge.  All  three  sergeants  looked  at  me 
as  if  I  had  lost  my  mind,  but  since  I  outranked  them,  they  couldn't  tell  me 
that  I  was  crazy.  They  left  my  office  mumbling  under  their  breath  that 
Ernesto  was  hopeless. 

Days  turned  to  weeks  and  Ernesto  wasn't  making  any  progress.  It  was  time 
to  come  up  with  a  game  plan  for  him  or  he  would  get  himself  or  someone 
else  killed.  I  decided  one  day  to  have  a  discussion  with  our  battalion  sergeant 
major  in  reference  to  Ernesto.  I  was  going  to  explain  all  the  things  we  tried  in 
getting  Ernesto  trained  up.  If  that  got  me  nowhere,  I  would  inform  him  that 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  181 


we  needed  to  have  Ernesto  evaluated  by  a  military  psychologist  for  mental 
stability  and  have  him  released  or  discharged  from  the  Army.  I  had  the  whole 
strategy  worked  out  in  my  head. 

As  soon  as  the  topic  of  Manuel  Ernesto  was  broached,  the  sergeant 
major  began  to  smile.  Ernesto,  it  turns  out,  had  been  in  his  company  some 
years  back  when  he  was  a  first  sergeant.  During  training,  Ernesto  started  to 
squirrel  away  food  from  the  mess  tent  and  keep  it  in  his  backpack  in  antici- 
pation of  some  unknown  impending  famine.  One  day,  he  took  three  little 
containers  of  milk  from  that  morning's  breakfast.  Most  of  the  time,  the 
Army's  milk  is  processed  in  such  a  way  that  it  has  a  very  long  shelf  life.  But 
on  that  day,  the  mess  tent  had  served  fresh  milk,  and  Ernesto,  not  realizing 
the  difference,  stuck  the  containers  of  milk  in  his  duffel  bag.  A  few  days 
later,  people  heard  screaming  in  the  middle  of  the  night  from  somewhere 
inside  the  patrol  base;  Ernesto  was  on  the  ground  writhing  in  pain  and 
clutching  his  stomach  in  agony.  The  cause  of  his  illness  was  consumption 
of  spoiled  milk. 

After  hearing  the  story,  I  became  angry  and  asked  the  sergeant  major,  "If 
everyone  knew  this  guy  was  so  screwed  up,  why  was  he  ever  placed  in  my  in- 
fantry company  for  this  dangerous  deployment?"  I  was  upset,  because  I  felt  I 
was  the  only  one  in  the  whole  damned  battalion  who  didn't  know  how  wacky 
this  Ernesto  guy  was.  The  sergeant  major  assured  me  he  would  find  Ernesto 
a  job  as  a  "gofer"  somewhere  safe  within  the  battalion.  But  there  was  some- 
thing else  he  said  that  stunned  me:  Ernesto,  prior  to  this  deployment,  had 
been  homeless  and  living  in  a  city  shelter.  This  was  why  he  had  been  squir- 
reling away  the  food,  and  this  was  why  he  had  been  saving  the  milk;  these 
were  habits  he  had  cultivated  from  being  homeless  for  so  long. 

A  few  days  later,  I  was  informed  that  Ernesto  would  be  transferred  to  the 
headquarters  company  to  work  in  their  supply  room.  Essentially,  Ernesto 
would  get  a  job  that  would  not  require  him  to  leave  the  camp  to  go  out  on 
missions.  I  informed  Ernesto  of  the  pending  transfer  to  his  new  position.  Up 
until  that  point,  he  had  been  teased  relentlessly  and  was  made  the  butt  of 
many  jokes  within  the  company  from  all  its  resident  alpha  males.  I  figured  he 
would  be  relieved  to  get  out  of  this  environment  and  move  to  a  quieter  arena. 
Instead,  when  I  told  him  of  the  pending  transfer,  he  seemed  saddened  by  the 
news. 

I  told  Ernesto  that  an  opening  in  the  headquarters  company  supply  room 


182  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

had  become  available  and  that  it  was  a  hard  decision  for  me  to  make  with  all 
the  qualified  men  I  had  in  the  company.  But  I  had  to  recommend  somebody 
for  this  important  position,  and  I  felt  he  was  the  best  man  for  the  job.  He 
cheered  up  a  bit  when  I  told  him  this  and  thanked  me  for  my  confidence  in 
him.  He  said  that  he  wouldn't  let  me  or  the  company  down  in  any  way.  I  told 
him  that  I  didn't  doubt  it.  He  quietly  left  my  office  and  I  was  quite  pleased 
with  myself  in  how  I  had  handled  the  whole  situation.  I  would  get  a  more  fit- 
ting replacement  for  Ernesto,  and  he  would  get  to  work  in  a  place  where  he 
wouldn't  hurt  himself  or  anybody  else  for  that  matter.  Problem  solved,  case 
closed. 

Some  weeks  went  by  and,  one  night  while  working  late  in  my  office,  I 
heard  a  soft  tap  on  my  office  door.  I  shouted,  "Come  in,"  at  the  same  time 
wondering  who  was  knocking  at  such  a  late  hour.  It  was  Ernesto. 

He  shuffled  quietly  into  my  office,  shy  and  apologetic  for  disturbing  me.  I 
told  him  to  come  in,  sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  was  bothering  him.  I  knew  it 
wasn't  a  social  visit  at  such  a  late  hour.  He  sat  down  wringing  his  hands  and 
looking  all  around  my  office,  studying  every  nook  and  cranny  and  every  ob- 
ject in  the  room.  He  looked  at  everything  but  me. 

Ernesto  attempted  to  make  small  talk  and  asked  me  about  my  family.  I 
told  them  they  were  all  well  and  in  good  health.  When  I  saw  this  conversa- 
tion wasn't  getting  anywhere,  I  gently  asked  him  what  was  on  his  mind.  He  fi- 
nally looked  me  in  the  face  timidly  and  asked  if  he  could  come  back  to  the 
company  and  be  with  the  men.  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  his  comment,  and  I 
asked  him  if  he  was  unhappy  where  he  was.  He  said  that  the  supply  sergeant 
was  taking  very  good  care  of  him  and  that  he  liked  the  work  he  was  doing  and 
the  hours  he  kept. 

I  told  him  I  was  a  little  confused  about  why  he  wanted  to  come  back.  It 
was  evident  that  he  had  found  his  niche,  and  I  had  heard  really  good  things 
about  his  work  there.  He  had  the  hardest  time  looking  me  in  the  eye,  and  I  fi- 
nally told  him  as  nicely  as  I  could  that  I  didn't  think  he  was  cut  out  to  be  an 
infantry  soldier.  I  don't  think  Ernesto  took  this  as  a  surprise,  and  I  felt  he  knew 
the  truth  deep  down  inside.  He  quietly  stated  that  he  knew  the  men  would  be 
risking  their  lives  soon  in  combat  and  that  he  wanted  to  be  with  the  men  and 
would  do  anything  he  could  to  help  them  — even  if  it  meant  picking  up  the 
dead  and  filling  body  bags. 

Ernesto  stayed  quiet  after  that  comment.  We  were  weeks  away  from  de- 
ploying to  Iraq  and  the  newspapers  and  cable  channels  were  rife  with  stories 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  183 

about  people  getting  their  heads  cut  off,  convoys  being  ambushed  on  a  regu- 
lar basis,  and  U.S.  service  members  getting  killed  by  the  constant  onslaught 
of  bombs  hidden  on  the  roads.  My  soldiers  were  trading  horror  stories  with 
one  another  and  the  rumors  were  causing  quite  a  stir,  and  everyone  was  very 
tense. 

I  looked  at  Ernesto,  and  I  realized  that  his  comment  about  picking  up  the 
dead  and  filling  the  body  bags  was  not  just  an  idle  or  morbid  statement.  For 
all  his  awkwardness  and  childlike  qualities,  Manuel  Ernesto  was  far  more  in 
tune  with  what  was  important  than  the  rest  of  us.  He  understood  the  true 
ramifications  of  the  dangers  awaiting  us,  and  he  wanted  to  be  a  part  of  some- 
thing important.  Ernesto  showed  more  compassion  for  his  fellow  soldiers 
than  they  ever  showed  him.  I  felt  ashamed  at  that  moment,  especially  con- 
sidering that  some  men  in  my  company  were  trying  to  do  everything  in  their 
power  to  get  out  of  going  off  to  fight.  Here  was  Ernesto,  a  guy  who  was  home- 
less and  shunned  by  the  rest  of  civilized  society,  and,  in  the  end,  he  turned 
out  to  have  more  heart  and  guts  than  most. 

Ernesto  sat  quietly,  waiting  for  my  answer,  and  I  knew  that  my  response 
was  important  to  him.  I  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  told  him  that  if  the  day 
ever  came  when,  God  forbid,  I  had  to  pick  up  my  fallen  soldiers,  it  would  be 
an  honor  for  me  if  he  could  help  in  any  way.  He  smiled  and  tears  welled  up 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  quietly  got  up  and  saluted  me  in  an  awkward 
manner,  and  I  saluted  back,  not  having  the  heart  to  tell  him  I  was  a  sergeant 
and  only  officers  get  saluted. 

He  thanked  me  again  as  he  left,  and  I  thought  to  myself  that  I  owed 
Ernesto  a  larger  debt  of  gratitude.  He  had  taught  me  a  powerful  lesson  about 
humility  and  courage.  I  smiled  as  I  watched  him  pass  my  window  and  disap- 
pear into  the  humid  Texas  night. 

Both  Acevedo  and  Ernesto  deployed  to  Iraq  for  almost  a  full  year,  begin- 
ning in  the  fall  of  2004,  and  both  men  returned  alive  and  well. 


184  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


PURPLE-HEARTED 

Personal  Narrative 
Staff  Sergeant  Jack  Lewis 


The  admiration  that  troops  often  express  for  one  another  cuts  across  race, 
ethnicity,  religion,  gender,  and  socioeconomic  backgrounds.  And  genera- 
tions. "Although  I  am,  in  fact,  the  same  age  as  my  drivers  dad  (which  is  to 
say  precisely  twice  my  driver's  age),"  U.S.  Army  Reserve  Staff  Sergeant  Jack 
Lewis  wrote  in  a  December  2004  e-mail  home  about  why  he  wanted  to  go  to 
Iraq,  "a  country  that  sends  only  its  young  to  war  deserves  to  lose  both  its 
young,  and  its  wars.  Each  one  of  us  bears  responsibility  for  every  last  sol- 
dier; this  is  my  small  contribution:  to  take  care  of  the  two  kids  on  my  little 
team."  Several  weeks  later,  and  only  days  before  the  historic  January  2005 
elections  in  Iraq,  Lewis  wrote  a  story  about  one  of  these  "kids,"  Specialist 
Joshua  Yuse  (pronounced  yoo-see),  a  twenty-one-year-old  soldier  who  pro- 
vided Lewis  with  no  end  of  grief— and  pride.  (The  castle  that  Lewis  alludes 
to  is  a  thirteenth-century  Ottoman  building  in  Tall  Afar  being  used  as  a  po- 
lice garrison.) 


e's  young  enough  to  be  my  son.  Annoying  enough,  too. 

When  I  beat  on  his  hooch  door  this  morning  to  get  him  up  for  a 
mission,  he  was  his  typical  floppy-jointed,  addle-headed,  eye-rolling  self.  It 
was  pouring  rain,  I  was  standing  out  in  the  middle  of  it  wearing  PT  shorts  and 
a  raincoat,  and  I  was  losing  patience:  "Get  up,  time  to  move.  You're  going 
down  with  Apache." 

Long  groan— but  he  had  known  what  the  mission  was  since  last  night. 

"Quit  your  bitchin',  Yuse,"  I  told  him.  "You're  lucky  as  hell— you  get  to 
hang  out  at  the  castle,  and  I  have  to  ride  the  hatch  in  this  shit." 

Yuse  was  headed  downtown  to  broadcast  over  the  LRAD,  i.e.,  long  range 
acoustic  device,  a  gizmo  originally  designed  to  warn  boaters  away  from  the 
exclusion  zone  surrounding  naval  vessels,  while  I  was  going  to  charge  around 
town  in  one  of  Charger  Troop's  Stryker  armored  vehicles,  broadcasting  pro- 
election  messages,  prerecorded  in  Arabic,  from  a  manpack  loudspeaker  sys- 
tem. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  185 

"Yeah  ...  I  guess,"  he  said,  rubbing  the  back  of  his  head,  sullen  as  a 
teenager,  which,  at  twenty-one,  he  practically  is. 

"Be  at  the  office  no  later  than  zero-seven-thirty,"  I  told  him  before  throw- 
ing on  a  uniform  and  four  hundred  bucks'  worth  of  raingear  to  go  there  my- 
self. 

I  was  closing  in  on  a  peak  experience  of  blood  pressure  when  he  slouched 
through  the  door  at  0729. 

"I  took  the  trailer  off." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  surprised  at  his  initiative.  "How  we  doin'  on  fuel?" 

"I  filled  it  last  night." 

"All  right,  let's  get  your  pack  together." 

"I  already  got  it,  sergeant— it's  ready  to  go." 

"Damn,  Yuse.  I  hardly  know  you!" 

Goofy  grin  from  him.  "I  do  what  I  can,  sar'nt." 

I  dropped  him  down  at  Apache's  hangar,  ran  to  the  chow  hall  to  get  him 
a  box  breakfast,  and  off  he  went  into  Tall  'Afar. 

But  I  never  went  out  on  my  mission.  After  I  put  together  a  briefing  memo  for 
the  squadron  commander  and  walked  it  over  to  the  TOC,  I  ran  into  the  bat- 
tle captain,  CPT  Murphy. 

He  said,  "Oh.  It's  good  you're  here.  Yuse's  your  guy,  right?  We  got  a  report 
he  was  shot  in  the  neck—" 

"WHAT?" 

"  —  but  apparently  he  was  wounded  in  the  hand.  A  fragment  hit  him  in 
the  chin,  and  it  bled  all  over,  and  they  thought  he  had  a  neck  wound." 

"Mortars  or  small  arms?" 

"We  don't  know  yet." 

"Are  they  bringing  him  in  now?" 

"We  don't  know  yet." 

I  went  to  the  aid  station  to  wait.  Yuse  couldn't  be  evac'd  immediately  be- 
cause all  available  combat  power  needed  to  stay  on-site  and  fight.  Then,  after 
Apache's  company  commander  rolled  his  own  vehicle  out  to  the  castle  to 
pick  up  my  soldier,  they  hit  an  IED  on  the  return  trip. 

Everything  takes  too  long.  It  took  twenty  minutes  for  Apache  66  to  move  from 
the  front  gate  across  the  FOB  to  the  aid  station,  because  a  convoy  of  civilian 


186  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

fuel  tankers  was  plugging  up  the  roads.  When  A66  finally  rolled  in  and 
dropped  ramp,  my  kid  soldier  was  sitting  inside,  holding  up  a  bloody  bulb  of 
gauze  the  size  of  his  head.  He  looked  mighty  uncomfortable. 
The  first  words  out  of  his  mouth  were  "I'm  all  right,  sergeant." 
It  seems  that  Yuse  was  running  the  LRAD  when  the  castle  came  under 
fire,  as  it  usually  does  when  that  bullet  magnet  is  in  operation.  He  put  down 
his  MP3,  picked  up  his  rifle,  and  took  up  a  security  position  along  the  battle- 
ments. When  the  sniper  found  him,  the  neck-aimed  bullet  hit  him  in  his  for- 
ward hand,  bounced  off  his  rifle,  and  dug  into  his  armored  vest  with  a 
heavyweight  punch.  A  fragment  of  the  bullet  jacket  flew  up  and  cut  his  chin 
to  the  bone.  Infantry  and  commo  soldiers  gave  him  buddy  aid.  He  wheezed 
pretty  hard,  but  he  stayed  alert  and  responsive.  And  he  never  complained. 

What  Yuse  did  do,  after  he  was  shot:  He  trained  up  a  commo  sergeant  on 
how  to  run  the  LRAD,  so  that  while  he  waited  for  evac,  he  could  keep  his 
mission  going.  He  secured,  or  caused  to  be  secured,  all  of  his  sensitive  items 
and  equipment.  He  marveled  at  the  bullet  they  dug  out  of  his  vest.  He  told 
everybody  not  to  worry  about  him,  and  reminded  them  to  keep  their  heads 
down. 

Everything  takes  too  long.  At  the  aid  station,  one  X-ray  salvo  wasn't  enough; 
they  had  to  go  two  rounds  with  that.  The  sleep-deprived  lab  tech  who  tried  to 
start  Yuse's  IV  failed  five  times  on  his  right  arm  before  someone  else  took  it 
away  and  plugged  it  in  properly,  upstream  of  his  bleeding  left  paw. 

Through  all  that,  nothing  but  some  wincing  and  the  occasional  "Oww." 

And  this  comment:  Til  tell  you  one  thing.  These  elections  better  work. 
They  better  get  democracy,  and  freedom,  and  their  rights,  and  hot  chicks  in 
tight  jeans.  I  hope  I  didn't  take  this  bullet  for  nothing." 

Specialist  Josh  Yuse  was  treated,  given  a  bit  of  morphine,  and  then  evac'd 
to  the  67th  Combat  Support  Hospital  by  a  UH-60  Black  Hawk  helo. 

I  made  sure  he  had  his  IBA  with  the  souvenir  slug  in  one  pocket,  along 
with  his  helmet,  coat,  and  the  bloody  shirt  with  his  name  on  it.  They  can 
wash  it  out  at  the  hospital.  They  do  it  all  the  time. 

I  held  on  to  his  weapon,  which  caught  the  bullet  as  it  exited  through  the 
meat  of  Yuse's  left  thumb.  That  weapon  is  NMC  (non-mission  capable)  and 
irreparable;  it  won't  ever  cycle  again  without  the  bottom  half  of  it  being  re- 
placed. 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  187 

I  stood  and  watched  him  lift  off,  saluting  Yuse  in  my  way.  I  doubt  he  no- 
ticed. He  was  trying  not  to  drop  his  IV  bag,  which  sounds  like  a  simple  thing 
until  you  try  it  while  juiced  to  the  gills  on  morphine  and  battling  the  shaky 
shock  of  adrenaline  withdrawal. 

I'll  miss  Yuse  here,  and  not  just  for  the  work  he  does,  which  is  plenty  if  I 
remind  him  often  enough.  I'll  miss  his  pulling  dumb  stunts,  working  so  hard 
at  not  working  that  it  exhausts  him  just  to  think  about  it,  dropping  to  do  push- 
ups just  because  I  gave  him  a  hard  look,  teaching  me  how  to  play  Yahtzee 
(then  beating  the  crap  out  of  me),  and  schooling  me  at  Ping-Pong  until  he 
gets  impatient  and  starts  hitting  the  ball  too  hard  to  spin  it  down  onto  the 
table. 

He's  a  near-total  dingbat  with  no  sense  of  planning  who  still  manages  to 
get  things  done.  A  lazy  sloth  who  works  like  a  sled  dog.  A  good  kid  with  bad 
manners.  A  graceful  athlete  who  trips  over  his  own  size  twelves.  This  is  the 
overgrown  boy  I  have  to  kick  out  of  the  rack  every  morning,  remind  him  to 
check  the  oil,  bring  his  gloves  on  mission,  and  shower  periodically. 

Mostly,  he's  just  too  much  of  a  goofy  kid  for  me  to  have  expected  him  to 
take  this  like  a  man. 

Yuse  didn't  want  to  be  deployed  to  Iraq.  He  wanted  to  chase  women 
around  Seattle,  and  go  to  college  and  find  out  what  he  wants  to  be.  He 
wanted  to  play  video  games,  drink  beer,  and  buy  a  Mustang. 

Guys  my  age  are  supposed  to  gripe  about  how  kids  today  are  letting  the 
world  go  to  hell  in  a  handbasket,  how  there  aren't  any  standards  for  behavior 
anymore.  After  all,  we've  taken  such  good  care  of  things. 

Maybe  it's  because  guys  my  age  usually  work  with  guys  my  age.  Guys 
Yuse's  age  are  just  parts  for  the  big  machine  in  civilian  life:  laborers,  clerks, 
apprentices.  Yuse  went  from  busboy  to  combat  soldier.  Now  he's  WIA,  and  he 
doesn't  even  have  the  good  sense  to  snivel  about  it. 

He  was  subsequently  evac'd  to  67th  CSH  for  surgery,  then  on  to  Land- 
stuhl.  As  they  loaded  him  onto  the  C-130,  he  was  fretting  about  letting  down 
my  team  and  our  detachment  by  flying  out  to  Germany. 

I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  the  passing  of  "The  Greatest  Gener- 
ation." Ain't  no  generation  better  than  his.  Specialist  Yuse  didn't  just  take  it 
like  a  man.  He  took  it  like  his  brothers  across  the  generations,  and  earned  his 
flagon  of  mead  at  Valhalla  or  at  least  his  pint  of  Bud  at  the  local  VFW. 

He  took  it  like  a  soldier. 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


After  having  surgery  in  Landstuhl,  Germany,  Yuse  was  sent  back  to  the 
United  States  to  be  treated  at  the  military  hospital  in  Fort  Bragg,  North 
Carolina.  Lewis  returned  to  Washington  in  June  2005  after  serving  for  al- 
most ten  months  in  Iraq.  He  and  Yuse  still  keep  in  touch. 


BROTHERHOOD 

Poem 
Sergeant  Dena  Price  Van  den  Bosch 


On  August  5, 2003,  thirty-two-year-old  Sergeant  Dena  Price  Van  den  Bosch 
was  waiting  for  a  convoy  with  a  group  of  GIs  in  125-degree  heat  at  an  air 
base  in  Doha,  Qatar.  Van  den  Bosch  was  serving  with  a  military  intelli- 
gence task  force,  and  the  others  soldiers,  although  all  part  of  the  10th 
Mountain  Division,  were  from  various  other  units— infantry,  transporta- 
tion, signals,  artillery — and  barely  knew  one  another.  And  yet,  Van  den 
Bosch  believed,  the  very  fact  they  were  all  soldiers  meant  that  they  shared  a 
bond  only  fellow  servicemen  and  women  could  truly  understand. 

these  same  faces .  .  . 

who  share  smokes 

out  of  collective  boredom 

while  offering 

their  own  version  of 

sympathy 

to  stories  of 

unfaithful  wives 

over  another  game  of  Spades 

will  plot  with 

eager  efficiency 

to  catch  the  mice 

which  terrorize  their  tent 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  189 

transforming  the  moments 
into  something 
almost  bearable 

these  same  faces .  .  . 

may  someday 

crawl  one  hundred  meters 

under  lire 

to  reach  their  brother 

with  no  guarantee 

they'll  return 

and  people 
wonder  why 


CHAPTER    FOUR 


VORT  DS  APART 


LIFE   ON   THE   HOME   FRONT 


PFC  Noah  Pincusoff,  as  a  boy  in  1992  wearing  his  father's 
Vietnam  War  helmet.  Photo  by  James  Lois;  used  by  permission. 


Dearest  Son, 

I  don't  know  where  to  begin  this  first  letter  to  you.  I  am  so  conflicted  on 
your  departure.  On  the  one  hand,  I  know  you  have  trained  very  hard  for 
this— everything  you  have  done  for  the  past  15  months  was  leading  to  this 
day.  I  know  that  you  want  and  need  to  be  there  for  your  brothers.  Not 
something  I  will  ever  fully  understand  or  appreciate  because  I  have  never 
been  or  will  ever  go  to  war.  So  that  intensifies  my  fears.  Dad  understands 
and  fears  all  the  more  for  you. 

And  he  and  I  are  indescribably  proud  of  you  for  all  you  have  endured 
and  achieved.  I  know  at  times  you  don't  understand  why  people  thank  you 
for  your  service,  but  I  think  someday  you  will.  More  than  pride,  however,  is 
our  love  for  you.  You  are  the  single  most  precious  thing  in  our  lives  (as  is 
each  of  our  children).  So,  of  course,  we  have  spent  our  lives  leading  you, 
teaching  you  and  protecting  you.  These  fuel  our  fear.  We  have  faith  in  you, 
your  abilities,  your  skills  — but  there  is  nothing  you  can  say  or  do  that  will 
alleviate  that  fear— a  parent's  fear— until  you  are  home  with  us  again. 

I  know  that  you  will,  in  the  next  year  or  so,  experience  many,  many 
things  you  have  only  heard  about  or  imagined  (and  about  which  I  am 
already  having  nightmares!).  I  believe  your  Dad  and  I  love  you  more  than 
you  will  ever  know  .  .  .  but  I  also  know  we  get  that  back  from  you  ten-fold. 
Keep  your  eyes  open  and  your  head  and  ass  down! 

All  my  love  — always  .  .  .  until  we  are  together  again. 
Mom 

—  Carla  Meyer  Lois,  writing  to  her  nineteen-year-old  son,  Private  First  Class 
Noah  Pincusoff,  on  January  16,  2005,  the  day  before  he  deployed  to  Iraq. 
Seven  months  later,  Pincusoff  suffered  severe  neck  and  spinal  injuries, 
as  well  as  shrapnel  wounds,  from  a  car-bomb  attack  on  the  outskirts  of 
Ramadi.  After  coming  home  to  recuperate,  he  returned  to  active  duty. 


182  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

had  become  available  and  that  it  was  a  hard  decision  for  me  to  make  with  all 
the  qualified  men  I  had  in  the  company.  But  I  had  to  recommend  somebody 
for  this  important  position,  and  I  felt  he  was  the  best  man  for  the  job.  He 
cheered  up  a  bit  when  I  told  him  this  and  thanked  me  for  my  confidence  in 
him.  He  said  that  he  wouldn't  let  me  or  the  company  down  in  any  way.  I  told 
him  that  I  didn't  doubt  it.  He  quietly  left  my  office  and  I  was  quite  pleased 
with  myself  in  how  I  had  handled  the  whole  situation.  I  would  get  a  more  fit- 
ting replacement  for  Ernesto,  and  he  would  get  to  work  in  a  place  where  he 
wouldn't  hurt  himself  or  anybody  else  for  that  matter.  Problem  solved,  case 
closed. 

Some  weeks  went  by  and,  one  night  while  working  late  in  my  office,  I 
heard  a  soft  tap  on  my  office  door.  I  shouted,  "Come  in,"  at  the  same  time 
wondering  who  was  knocking  at  such  a  late  hour.  It  was  Ernesto. 

He  shuffled  quietly  into  my  office,  shy  and  apologetic  for  disturbing  me.  I 
told  him  to  come  in,  sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  was  bothering  him.  I  knew  it 
wasn't  a  social  visit  at  such  a  late  hour.  He  sat  down  wringing  his  hands  and 
looking  all  around  my  office,  studying  every  nook  and  cranny  and  every  ob- 
ject in  the  room.  He  looked  at  everything  but  me. 

Ernesto  attempted  to  make  small  talk  and  asked  me  about  my  family.  I 
told  them  they  were  all  well  and  in  good  health.  When  I  saw  this  conversa- 
tion wasn't  getting  anywhere,  I  gently  asked  him  what  was  on  his  mind.  He  fi- 
nally looked  me  in  the  face  timidly  and  asked  if  he  could  come  back  to  the 
company  and  be  with  the  men.  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  his  comment,  and  I 
asked  him  if  he  was  unhappy  where  he  was.  He  said  that  the  supply  sergeant 
was  taking  very  good  care  of  him  and  that  he  liked  the  work  he  was  doing  and 
the  hours  he  kept. 

I  told  him  I  was  a  little  confused  about  why  he  wanted  to  come  back.  It 
was  evident  that  he  had  found  his  niche,  and  I  had  heard  really  good  things 
about  his  work  there.  He  had  the  hardest  time  looking  me  in  the  eye,  and  I  fi- 
nally told  him  as  nicely  as  I  could  that  I  didn't  think  he  was  cut  out  to  be  an 
infantry  soldier.  I  don't  think  Ernesto  took  this  as  a  surprise,  and  I  felt  he  knew 
the  truth  deep  down  inside.  He  quietly  stated  that  he  knew  the  men  would  be 
risking  their  lives  soon  in  combat  and  that  he  wanted  to  be  with  the  men  and 
would  do  anything  he  could  to  help  them  — even  if  it  meant  picking  up  the 
dead  and  filling  body  bags. 

Ernesto  stayed  quiet  after  that  comment.  We  were  weeks  away  from  de- 
ploying to  Iraq  and  the  newspapers  and  cable  channels  were  rife  with  stories 


STUCK     IN     THIS     SANDBOX  183 

about  people  getting  their  heads  cut  off,  convoys  being  ambushed  on  a  regu- 
lar basis,  and  U.S.  service  members  getting  killed  by  the  constant  onslaught 
of  bombs  hidden  on  the  roads.  My  soldiers  were  trading  horror  stories  with 
one  another  and  the  rumors  were  causing  quite  a  stir,  and  everyone  was  very 
tense. 

I  looked  at  Ernesto,  and  I  realized  that  his  comment  about  picking  up  the 
dead  and  filling  the  body  bags  was  not  just  an  idle  or  morbid  statement.  For 
all  his  awkwardness  and  childlike  qualities,  Manuel  Ernesto  was  far  more  in 
tune  with  what  was  important  than  the  rest  of  us.  He  understood  the  true 
ramifications  of  the  dangers  awaiting  us,  and  he  wanted  to  be  a  part  of  some- 
thing important.  Ernesto  showed  more  compassion  for  his  fellow  soldiers 
than  they  ever  showed  him.  I  felt  ashamed  at  that  moment,  especially  con- 
sidering that  some  men  in  my  company  were  trying  to  do  everything  in  their 
power  to  get  out  of  going  off  to  fight.  Here  was  Ernesto,  a  guy  who  was  home- 
less and  shunned  by  the  rest  of  civilized  society,  and,  in  the  end,  he  turned 
out  to  have  more  heart  and  guts  than  most. 

Ernesto  sat  quietly,  waiting  for  my  answer,  and  I  knew  that  my  response 
was  important  to  him.  I  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  told  him  that  if  the  day 
ever  came  when,  God  forbid,  I  had  to  pick  up  my  fallen  soldiers,  it  would  be 
an  honor  for  me  if  he  could  help  in  any  way.  He  smiled  and  tears  welled  up 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  quietly  got  up  and  saluted  me  in  an  awkward 
manner,  and  I  saluted  back,  not  having  the  heart  to  tell  him  I  was  a  sergeant 
and  only  officers  get  saluted. 

He  thanked  me  again  as  he  left,  and  I  thought  to  myself  that  I  owed 
Ernesto  a  larger  debt  of  gratitude.  He  had  taught  me  a  powerful  lesson  about 
humility  and  courage.  I  smiled  as  I  watched  him  pass  my  window  and  disap- 
pear into  the  humid  Texas  night. 

Both  Acevedo  and  Ernesto  deployed  to  Iraq  for  almost  a  full  year,  begin- 
ning in  the  fall  of  2004,  and  both  men  returned  alive  and  well. 


194  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

could  begin  in  this  moment,  I  could  not  be  happier.  But  for  whatever  reason, 
we  wait,  and  wait  and  have  to  wait  some  more. 

Just  know  that  I  miss  you,  every  part  of  you,  and  these  ramblings  are  a  poor 
attempt  to  express  to  you  how  much.  I  pray  so  hard  that  you  are  home  soon. 

Sending  big  hugs  and  soft  kisses,  as  always .  .  . 

Kari 

Sergeant  Donnie  Apted  returned  to  his  family  in  May  2004  after  a  fifteen- 
month  deployment. 


TOO  MUCH   REALITY 

Letter 

Pamela  J.  Clemens 


Before  Operation  Desert  Storm  in  January  1991,  when  the  opening  air  strike 
against  Baghdad  was  captured  live  on  television,  it  could  take  anywhere 
from  a  few  days  to  more  than  a  year  before  combat  images  from  a  war  were 
shown  on  the  home  front.  The  ground  invasion  of  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom 
was  the  first  such  assault  ever  broadcast  in  real  time,  and  for  the  loved  ones 
of  troops  watching  at  home,  the  experience  was  agonizing.  When  U.S. 
Army  Staff  Sergeant  Jason  R.  Clemens  embarked  for  Iraq  in  February  2003 
with  the  54th  Engineer  Battalion,  130th  Engineer  Brigade,  his  wife,  Pam, 
found  it  nerve-racking  to  follow  the  news.  But  she  also  found  it  impossible 
to  ignore.  On  March  23,  2003,  Clemens  wrote  a  letter  to  her  husband  the 
day  after  seeing  one  particularly  horrendous  update. 

Jason,  I  miss  you  so  much!!! 

Please  forgive  me,  as  I  need  to  tell  you  about  yesterday.  I  pray  with  all  my 
heart  that  this  does  not  upset  you,  but  I  need  to  tell  you.  Yesterday  was  the 
worst  day  of  my  life.  The  TV  reported  that  there  were  POW's  and  then  all  of 
a  sudden  the  reporter  said  that  they  had  come  from  a  maintenance  unit  that 
was  traveling  with  the  3rd  ID  and  took  a  wrong  turn  and  was  all  of  a  sudden 
staring  down  the  barrel  of  an  Iraqi  tank. 

He  said  that  they  were  showing  a  tape  of  the  POW's  being  interrogated  on 
Iraq  state-run  TV  and  being  played  on  Aljazeera.  Then  he  said  that  they 


WORLDSAPART  195 

showed  a  room  full  of  bodies  that  appeared  to  have  been  shot  in  the  forehead. 
I  thought  I  was  going  to  die.  I  thought  it  was  you.  I  was  so  scared.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do,  what  to  think.  I  just  stood  there  not  knowing  what  to  do. 
Jason,  it  was  horrible.  I  was  so  scared.  I  can't  even  begin  to  describe  what  I  felt 
to  you  in  words.  My  whole  body  was  screaming  on  the  inside.  I  don't  ever 
want  to  relive  those  feelings  again.  It  was  awful. 

Then  the  phone  rang  and  it  was  your  dad.  Jason,  he  broke  down  on  the 
phone.  We  both  sat  on  the  phone  and  cried,  neither  of  us  knowing  if  it  was 
you  or  not.  He  kept  asking  me  if  anyone  had  contacted  me.  I  did  my  best  to 
reassure  him  that  no  one  had  come  to  the  house  to  tell  me  anything.  I  think 
that  was  the  only  comfort  we  had.  Your  mom  was  on  her  way  back  from  the 
coast  and  I  was  worried  for  him,  but  we  cried  and  talked  and  by  the  time  we 
hung  up,  he  seemed  to  be  better.  He  loves  you  so  much.  .  .  . 

I  took  Jake  for  a  walk  and  cried  the  whole  time.  I  just  don't  know  what  I 
would  do  if  anything  happened  to  you.  When  I  got  back  from  the  walk,  I  was 
pouring  the  dog  food  into  the  bin  when  the  phone  rang.  I  answered  it  and  the 
person  on  the  other  end  hung  up.  I  was  scared  that  it  was  someone  calling  to 
see  if  I  was  home  so  they  could  come  tell  me  that  you  were  a  POW.  Well  I 
went  back  to  pouring  the  dog  food  and  since  I  cut  the  bag  at  an  angle,  it 
spilled  all  over  the  floor.  I  was  bent  down  picking  up  the  food  and  I  began  to 
cry.  Then  the  phone  rang  again.  As  I  was  getting  up,  I  banged  my  head  on  the 
corner  of  the  cabinet. 

I  answered  the  phone  and  it  was  my  dad.  Jason  I  broke  down  like  a  baby. 
I  think  my  dad  must  have  seen  the  news  too  as  he  kept  assuring  me  that  it  was 
not  you  who  was  captured.  He  just  let  me  cry  and  told  me  everything  was 
going  to  be  okay.  He  promised.  I  felt  better  after  I  had  cried  to  him  and  he  let 
me  cry  just  like  when  I  was  growing  up  and  needed  to  cry  to  my  daddy.  Migi 
came  over  after  that  phone  call  and  would  not  let  me  cry  for  the  rest  of  the 
night.  I  had  went  earlier  yesterday  and  bought  three  new  DVD's.  I  am  sorry 
to  buy  so  many,  but  I  just  can't  watch  the  TV.  I  am  so  sorry,  but  it  is  just  too 
hard  for  me.  I  watch  some,  but  the  majority  of  it,  I  just  can't  take.  It  is  too 
much  reality  for  me.  .  .  . 

I  was  watching  Tom  Brokaw  right  before  I  was  going  to  go  to  bed  when  he 
said  that  the  maintenance  unit  came  from  the  3rd  ID  507th  out  of  Ft.  Bliss 
TX.  They  even  have  an  African  American  female.  Jason,  I  can't  tell  you  what 
went  through  my  mind.  I  was  so  relieved,  but  my  chest  still  hurt  for  the  fam- 
ilies of  those  who  were  captured.  I  feel  so  guilty  because  I  was  glad  it  was  not 


196  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

you.  I  immediately  called  your  dad  and  your  mom  answered  the  phone.  I  was 
so  glad  she  was  there.  She  said  that  your  dad  was  doing  a  bit  better.  I  told 
them  what  I  had  heard  and  they  were  relieved. 

We  kept  talking  and  they  said  that  they  found  comfort  talking  to  me  since 
we  were  all  in  this  together.  Then  your  dad  got  on  the  phone  and  said  he  was 
sorry  if  he  upset  me  and  I  told  him  that  he  could  call  me  anytime  day  or 
night,  as  I  would  do  the  same  for  them.  Then  he  told  me  he  loved  me  and  to 
come  and  see  them.  When  your  mom  got  back  on  the  phone,  she  told  me 
that  people  forget  to  say  the  things  they  should  say  and  she  told  me  that  she 
loved  me  and  that  I  was  a  good  daughter-in-law  and  she  was  glad  I  was  mar- 
ried to  you.  I  was  so  touched  and  did  not  know  what  to  say.  I  was  glad  when 
she  broke  the  emotion  by  saying  that  when  she  was  talking  to  your  dad  that 
they  both  agreed  that  they  were  glad  that  you  were  not  married  to  anyone 
else.  That  helped  to  lighten  the  mood.  I  told  them  I  loved  them  too  and  that 
I  was  also  glad  that  you  weren't  married  to  anyone  else  either.  .  .  . 

I  will  write  more  later  and  fill  in  the  gaps  in  this  letter  that  I  forgot  to  write. 
Love  You! 

Staff  Sergeant  Jason  Clemens  returned  to  Pam  in  December  2003. 


BUZZ  SAW 

Poem 

Billie  Hill-Hunt 


Some  spouses  go  to  creative  lengths  to  ease  the  pain  of  separation.  A  month 
before  Billie  Hill-Hunt's  husband,  U.S.  Army  Specialist  Corey  T.  Hunt,  left 
for  Iraq  in  January  2005,  she  secretly  made  an  audiotape  of  him  sleeping. 

I  used  to  say 

"You  are  cutting  down  an  entire  forest  with  your  snoring." 

Now  without  it 

Bedtime  seems  boring 

I  recorded  you 

The  last  time  you  were  here 


WORLDSAPART  197 

Call  me  crazy 

But  I  play  it  from  time  to  time 

Just  to  keep  you  near 

Specialist  Hunt  returned  to  Billie  in  December  2005,  and  while  she  is 
thrilled  to  have  her  husband  home,  she  now  finds  his  snoring  annoying 
once  again. 


ALBUM 

Personal  Narrative 

Kathleen  Furin 


Spouses  and  parents  are  not  alone  in  their  heartache  when  a  soldier,  Ma- 
rine, airman,  or  sailor  embarks  for  Iraq  or  Afghanistan;  siblings,  too,  worry 
about  their  brother  or  sister  heading  into  harm's  way.  In  January  2005, 
Kathleen  Furin  watched  as  her  younger  brother,  a  U.S.  Army  captain,  left 
their  home  in  Pennsylvania  to  fight  in  a  war  she  did  not  support.  His  de- 
ployment—and the  photo  album  she  often  looked  through  to  remind  her  of 
the  times  they  had  been  together— prompted  Furin  to  write  the  following 
account  while  he  was  gone. 


e  are  flipping  through  photos  one  evening,  my  daughter  Aya  and  I, 
something  she  loves  to  do  lately.  A  friend  who  is  a  teacher  tells  me 
how  children  learn  about  the  world;  first  themselves,  their  own  bodies;  then 
their  families,  their  neighborhood;  later  the  larger  city,  state,  country,  world.  I 
show  her  Iraq  on  the  globe.  "It's  a  far  way,  Mama,"  Aya  says,  "almost  as  far  as 
you  can  get."  "It  is,  baby,"  I  say.  I  don't  know  what  Iraq  means  to  her;  she  knows 
only  that  her  uncle,  my  younger  brother,  is  working  there  for  a  while.  I  know 
through  my  travels  that  no  place  has  meaning  until  you  experience  it,  its 
sounds,  its  smells,  the  quality  of  light,  the  way  people's  faces  express  emotion. 
She  goes  back  to  the  album,  studying  the  pictures  with  a  look  of  contentment. 
In  this  one  you  are  leaning  away  from  the  others,  from  us,  as  if  you  have 
already  left.  Of  course  at  that  time  we  could  never  have  imagined  a  life  with- 
out you.  Not  on  this  day,  even  though  you  are  in  your  dress  blues.  Today  is  a 


198  .OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

happy  occasion,  a  baptism,  a  welcoming  into  family  of  a  sweet  new  little 
soul— your  daughter,  Lilly. 

Although  the  gathering  is  because  of  her,  in  this  one  you  can  barely  see 
her.  She  is  swaddled  in  blankets,  despite  the  summer  heat,  and  tucked  care- 
fully into  Kim's  arms.  I  am  next  to  Kim,  smiling  broadly,  one  arm  around  her. 
It  strikes  me,  looking  back  at  this  photo,  that  I  didn't  know  how  close  we 
would  become,  how  the  events  of  the  world  would  shape  our  own  lives,  how 
9/11  would  change  everything. 

We  were  afraid  that  you  would  be  sent  then.  I  worried  for  you  even 
though  we  still  weren't  close,  not  close  in  any  real  way.  I  loved  you  through 
loving  your  family:  your  wife,  your  daughter,  later  your  son.  We  had  always 
had  our  differences,  and  I  remember  thinking  you  were  a  total  asshole  be- 
cause you  stopped  getting  pizza  from  our  usual  place;  it  was  owned  by  Arabs. 
"A-rabs,"  as  you  would  say.  For  some  reason  you  developed  a  strong  hick  ac- 
cent in  the  military.  "It's  probably  a  sleeper  cell,"  you'd  say,  and  sometimes  I 
would  almost  believe  you.  Maybe  military  people  knew  more  than  regular 
people,  at  least  about  things  like  that. 

But  then  I  would  remember  how  the  delivery  guy  had  hugged  my  hus- 
band, given  us  our  pizza  free  when  he  saw  the  pink  stork  and  drooping  bal- 
loons after  Aya's  birth.  A  few  weeks  after  9/11  they  changed  their  pizza  boxes 
so  they  had  huge  American  flags  and  the  words  "God  Bless  America"  on 
them.  I  preferred  their  old  boxes,  the  ones  that  said  "We  use  only  the  finest  in- 
gredients." But  you  only  ate  Sal's  pizza  then,  and  you  guaranteed  me  that 
there  would  definitely  be  another  terrorist  attack  on  U.S.  soil,  which  did  noth- 
ing to  ease  my  fears.  You  have  this  way  of  speaking,  probably  honed  in  the 
military,  as  if  you  are  the  absolute  authority  on  any  subject.  "But  what  if  you 
have  to  go  over  there?"  I  asked— there,  at  that  time,  being  Afghanistan.  "You 
can't  leave  Lilly,"  I  said.  But  you  shrugged,  the  perfect  American  soldier, 
bound  to  do  his  duty  no  matter  what.  "If  I  go,  I  go,"  you  said.  "Just  tell  Lilly 
how  much  I  loved  her.  Make  sure  she  knows  I  was  a  good  dad."  I  could  do 
that,  I  thought,  if  the  worst  happened,  I  could  do  that. 

In  this  photograph  the  girls  are  all  excitement,  sweet  summer  dresses, 
grinning  and  fighting  over  the  new  baby.  Aya  holds  him;  you  can't  see  her 
face  as  she  gazes  down  at  him.  She  is  dwarfed  by  the  pink  of  the  hospital 
chair,  a  chair  not  made  for  children.  Lilly  wraps  loose  limbs  around  her, 
looks  up,  grins.  Your  son,  A.C.,  is  a  big  baby,  but  in  these  he  is  overshadowed 


WORLDSAPART  199 

by  the  girls.  I  think  he  will  always  be  overshadowed  by  the  girls,  especially 
after  my  own  new  daughter,  Chaundra,  is  born  three  months  later. 

In  this  one  you  are  standing  with  Kim,  one  arm  around  her,  formal.  By 
then  I  loved  Kim  like  a  sister,  loved  her  quiet  strength,  her  humor,  her  devo- 
tion to  the  kids.  But  I  hated  that  she  wouldn't  stand  up  to  you.  She  wanted 
you  to  make  a  DVD  of  yourself  reading  to  the  kids  before  you  left.  She 
wanted  a  piece  of  you,  something  to  show  them  when  they  asked  about 
Daddy.  But  you  refused.  "I'm  not  making  a  death  video,"  you  said.  I  saw  her 
tears  that  she  tried  to  keep  in,  saw  her  tight,  tense  jaw.  So  I  pulled  Mom  and 
Dad  into  it,  which  maybe  wasn't  fair.  But  that's  your  wife  and  kids  that  you're 
leaving  for  God  knows  how  long.  In  the  end  you  did  it.  I  haven't  watched  it, 
but  I  can  imagine  how  you  look:  loving,  reassuring,  tight  triangles  of  stress  at 
the  edges  of  your  lips,  triangles  that  only  the  adults  can  see. 

I  started  having  war  dreams  about  a  month  before  you  left.  Constant, 
vivid  nightmares;  the  baby  would  wake  me  up  to  nurse  and  I  would  fall  right 
back  into  the  same  dream.  Bombs,  bodies,  body  parts,  dead  children.  In  some 
ways  the  anticipation  was  worse  than  the  leaving.  We  lie  to  Lilly  and  Aya;  you 
have  a  job  that  requires  you  to  be  far  away  for  a  long  time.  How  old  are  kids 
when  they  learn  about  bombs,  guns,  war?  Are  we  wrong  for  wanting  to  pro- 
tect them  from  the  knowledge  of  these  things? 

And  what  do  we  do  now,  other  than  wait?  I  was  vehemently  opposed  to 
the  war  in  Iraq,  still  think  it  was  a  huge  mistake.  I  can't  watch  the  news,  and 
when  it  comes  up  on  AOL  or  whatever,  one  hundred  dead  in  car  bomb  in 
Baghdad,  I  can't  read  it.  I  just  shut  my  eyes  and  hope.  What  frightens  me  is 
that  I  feel  like  I'm  not  the  only  one  who  is  not  paying  attention.  I  remember 
hearing  Grandma  talk  about  World  War  II,  how  hard  it  was,  how  much  every- 
one was  willing  to  sacrifice.  Grandma  told  me  about  folding  foil  up  into  little 
balls,  getting  ration  tickets  for  butter  and  meat  and  gasoline;  nothing  was 
wasted.  I  was  too  little  to  remember  Vietnam,  but  it  seems  as  if  it  was  huge  in 
the  consciousness  of  the  nation.  People  were  watching  their  TVs  every  night, 
following  each  and  every  battle.  The  depth  of  the  protests,  the  unrest;  it  spoke 
volumes  about  people's  engagement  with  the  war,  with  their  country.  This 
war  hasn't  gripped  us,  hasn't  absorbed  us  like  the  other  conflicts  did. 

Recently,  I  went  to  the  protests.  When  the  one-thousandth  soldier  was 
killed  in  Iraq  we  took  the  girls  to  the  candlelight  vigil.  We  were  interviewed 
by  a  news  team.  "It's  not  just  the  one  thousand  American  soldiers  who  have 


200  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

died,"  I  said.  "It's  all  the  Iraqis  as  well.  This  is  about  everyone  who  has  suf- 
fered." Then  I  speak  of  you,  my  connection  to  the  war,  and  I  begin  to  ciy.  Of 
course  this  is  what  they  show  later  on  the  eleYen  o'clock  news,  me  erring. 

I  don't  know  mam"  others  who  are  touched  personally  and  this  is  what 
bothers  me.  We  are  at  war.  We  are  spending  inordinate  amounts  of  our  re- 
sources, yet  we  are  not  being  asked  to  conserve,  to  cut  back,  here  at  home. 
The  fortY-nYe-million-dollar  inaugural  ball  went  on  as  scheduled.  The  Os- 
cars, the  Super  Bowl;  we  are  a  country  out  of  touch.  It  is  this,  I  fear,  this  lack 
of  consciousness,  this  unwillingness  to  see  the  ugly  things,  to  make  the  hard 
choices:  this  will  destrov  us  faster  than  anv  terrorist  could.  I  want  some  kind 
of  recognition;  hew  our  people  are  dying  over  there.  Our  national  dialogue 
should  be  loud  and  inflamed,  we  should  be  working  day  and  night  to  figure 
out  a  way  to  handle  this  mess,  not  tuning  in  to  American  Idol. 

I  have  gotten  only  two  e-mails  from  you.  It  blows  mv  mind  that  I  can  re- 
ceive vour  e-mails,  vou,  in  the  middle  of  a  war  zone,  on  a  base  in  one  of  Sad- 
dam's old  palaces.  Thev  were  group  e-mails,  to  all  of  us  in  the  family; 
somewhat  cheerful,  describing  vour  residence,  the  weather.  When  I  asked 
Kim  why  we  haven't  heard  from  vou.  she  says  vou  can't  alwavs  get  online,  but 
I  know  that's  not  true,  because  you  pop  up  sometimes  on  mv  buddv  list.  You 
must  have  vour  reasons  for  wanting  this  distance.  What  would  I  do  if  I  were 
there,  in  vour  position?  Would  I  want  to  be  reminded  of  mv  old  life  or  would 
I  just  focus  even"  little  piece  of  mv  being  on  getting  through  the  next  mo- 
ment, the  next  day,  making  it  home  as  whole  as  I  could  be? 

I  picture  what  vou  are  doing  as  a  kind  of  death,  a  folding  in  of  the  soul,  so 
that  only  the  essential,  survivalist  parts  peek  out  from  thick  cloth  that  hides 
everything  else.  A  friend  whose  brother  just  came  back  described  it— being 
there,  the  whole  experience  — as  a  suffocation.  "He  was  stuck  in  a  building 
most  of  the  time  and  now  he  can't  even  go  to  the  grocen'  store,"  she  savs.  "The 
frickin'  grocerv  store  scares  him  speechless.  It  overwhelms  him."  She  sighs. 
How  do  you  come  back  from  that,  start  chipping  away  at  your  life  again? 

And  what  if  you  don't  come  back  at  all?  When  I  allow  myself  to  imagine 
the  unimaginable.  I  think  of  a  life  without  you.  I  imagine  that  your  absence 
would  fill  even  greater  spaces  than  vour  presence,  "lour  death  is  like  a  TV 
screen  at  three  a.m..  all  grav  and  white  and  static.  Quiet,  really,  but  disturb- 
ing nonetheless,  something  that  jolts  us  all  awake. 

Here  are  the  pictures  of  our  last  holiday  together.  Lilly  and  Aya  look  like 
two  little  flowers  about  to  bloom,  their  bright  faces  upturned,  towards  the  sun. 


WORLDSAPART  201 

They  are  wearing  identical  outfits  like  they  insist  on  and  each  is  wearing  one 
of  her  own  shoes  and  one  of  the  other's.  Their  arms  are  wrapped  tight  around 
each  other;  Aya's  curls  boing  up  and  away,  Lilly's  golden  hair  falls  over  both 
of  their  shoulders.  They  remind  me  of  two  strong  trees.  In  the  next  one 
Chaundra  is  curled  in  the  middle  of  them,  a  wild  look  on  her  face.  All  three 
are  laughing,  all  in  red  and  black  and  patent  leather  for  Christmas. 

In  this  photograph  you  are  laughing,  head  tilted  back  just  a  little,  warmth 
in  your  eyes.  Is  this  the  one  we  will  treasure,  the  one  that  will  be  passed  down 
generation  to  generation?  You  are  the  keeper  of  the  family  lore;  it  is  you  who 
know  all  the  cousins  and  second  cousins  and  who  doesn't  talk  to  who  and 
why.  You  have  all  the  old  photographs,  the  ones  of  Grandma  Lola  and  Papa, 
of  great-grandparents  and  uncles  and  everybody  else.  In  this  one  Grandma 
Lola  sits  just  so,  Papa's  hand  on  her  shoulder.  You  cannot  tell  that  they  have 
known  each  other  since  childhood,  loved  each  other  almost  as  long.  Is  this 
what  they  dreamed  of?  That  they  would  bear  a  son  would  who  bear  a  son  who 
would  be  sent  to  fight  and  maybe  die  in  a  country  they  have  never  even  heard 
of?  You  always  envision  a  better  future  for  your  children;  otherwise,  why  have 
them?  You  don't  envision  death  in  a  desert:  bloody,  gory,  loud. 

A  friend  suggested  that  I  give  you  something  before  you  go,  something 
spiritual,  something  sentimental,  and  at  first  I  rejected  the  idea.  I'd  already 
given  you  something  practical;  the  Leatherman  Super  Tool  200,  which  just 
made  me  cringe,  knowing  why  you  needed  it,  knowing  where  you'd  be.  "Not 
a  knife,  Kathy,"  she  said.  "Something  real."  "He'd  laugh  at  me,"  I  said,  but  the 
idea  stayed  with  me.  It  gave  me  a  kind  of  power,  that  I  could  offer  you  a  small 
gift  and  you  would  know  how  much  I  cared.  In  fact,  I  began  to  realize  that  ex- 
pression of  love  is  the  only  true  power  there  is. 

So  I  did  it.  I  bought  a  small  green  crystal.  I  don't  know  why  I  chose  green; 
perhaps  it  reminded  me  of  the  earth,  it  reminded  me  of  a  feeling  of  safety.  I 
waited  until  late  one  night  to  shove  it  into  your  hand.  "Here,"  I  said.  "Take 
this  with  you,  it's  small  enough."  You  had  had  a  beer  or  two  and  the  feeling 
was  warm,  light.  You  laughed,  but  it  was  a  kind  laugh,  and  I  could  tell  that 
you  appreciated  it  even  if  you  didn't  understand  it.  I  could  tell  that  I  had  done 
the  right  thing. 

"Kim  gave  me  a  cross  blessed  by  the  Pope,  Mom  gave  me  a  rosary,  and 
now  this,"  you  said. 

"Well,  shit,  if  all  that  doesn't  keep  you  safe  I  don't  know  what  will,"  I 
joked. 


202 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


I  would  not  cry.  I  did  not  cry.  We  went  back  to  watching  the  movie  we'd 
rented  and  I  stopped  thinking  about  what  the  future  would  hold,  if,  when  I 
would  see  you  again.  One  by  one  we  peeled  ourselves  off  the  couch,  tumbled 
into  beds  or  sleeping  bags  throughout  the  house,  so  that  I  was  alone,  startled 
by  loud  static  at  four  a.m.  I  turned  off  the  TV  and  crawled  onto  the  air  mat- 
tress. I  listened  to  everybody  breathing  around  me;  in,  out,  in,  out.  Aya 
moaned  a  little  in  her  sleep  then  rolled  away,  one  chubby  arm  flung  over  her 
smooth  eyebrow.  How  many  breaths  would  you  be  away? 

In,  out,  in,  the  most  basic  physiological  function,  what  keeps  us  together. 
I  fell  asleep  counting  breaths  instead  of  sheep,  counting  the  minutes  hours 
days  until  we  could  stop  holding  ours  and  have  you  with  us,  here,  safe  again. 
In,  out,  in.  Safely  now,  almost  there,  one  breath  at  a  time. 

Furins  brother  returned  to  the  States  in  January  2006. 


TO  COLONEL  LISAGOR 

Poem 

Sara  Lisagor 


More  than  one  third  of  the  troops  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan  are  "civilian  sol- 
diers"—members  of  the  National  Guard  or  reseme  who,  in  many  cases, 
have  families  and  full-time  jobs  but  can  be  called  up  for  long  periods  of  time 
if  there  is  a  war  or  national  emergency.  Most  are  in  their  early  to  mid- 
thirties.  Dr.  Philip  Lisagor  was  fifty-eight  when  he  left  his  wife,  their  two 
daughters,  Sara  and  Jessica,  and  their  home  in  Nevada  to  serve  as  deputy 
commander  for  clinical  services  of  the  U.S.  Army's  Second  Medical  Brigade 
in  Iraq.  Colonel  Lisagor  s  almost  seven-month  tour  of  duty7  began  in  June 
2004  and  his  responsibilities  included  everything  from  overseeing  the  cre- 
ation of  field  hospitals  (which  meant  he  had  to  travel  frequently  through 
dangerous  regions  of  Iraq)  to  performing  trauma  surgeries.  Lisagor  and  his 
daughter  Sara  had  actually  become  somewhat  distant  while  she  was  in  col- 
lege, but  after  he  deployed  overseas,  Sara  developed  a  greater  appreciation 
for  the  sacrifices  he  was  making.  In  the  fall  of  2004,  she  wrote  the  following 
poem  for  her  father. 


WORLDSAPART  203 

Dirt,  road  salt,  snow  and  oil 
smother  the  underbelly  of  our 
dinosaur  Suburban.  Daisy 
paws  her  ball  under  the  steel 
carcass  one  more  time.  Shit. 
The  frost  gnaws  through 
the  knees  of  my  jeans 
while  I  jab  with  a  shovel 
at  the  tooth-rotten  toy 
that  soaks  in  a  soup  of  slush 
between  mud-drenched  hubcaps 
on  the  snow  tires  you  bought. 
I  see  you,  eleven  hours 
away,  hunched  over  just  like  me. 
You  curse  under  your  breath, 
scanning  beneath  your  Humvee 
for  traces  of  a  car  bomb. 

In  December  2004,  Colonel  Lisagor  returned  home  and  went  back  to  his  job 
as  the  chairman  of  surgery  at  the  Veterans  Administration  Hospital  in 
Reno,  Nevada. 


DOWN  THE   ROAD 
Personal  Narrative 
Anne  Miren  Berry 


Focusing  on  the  future  helps  many  family  members  on  the  home  front  cope 
with  the  anxiety  of  waiting  for  a  loved  one  serving  abroad.  They  often  visu- 
alize and  plan  for  everything  from  the  joyful  ^Welcome  Bach"  celebration 
to  larger,  more  long-term  matters  such  as  whether  or  not  they  will  move  to  a 
new  town  or  city,  have  (more)  children,  further  their  education,  or  start  a 
different  career.  Anne  Miren  Berry  and  her  husband,  Lieutenant  Colonel 
Joel  Berry,  were  living  in  North  Carolina  when  he  was  shipped  off  to  Iraq 
for  six  months  in  January  2003  — three  months  before  the  invasion  began  — 


204  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

with  the  2nd  Marine  Expeditionary  Brigade,  ist  Marine  Expeditionary- 
Force.  During  her  husband's  deployment,  Berry  looked  for  coastal  property 

where  she  and  Joel  would  build  their  retirement  house  one  day.  In  the  fol- 
lowing piece,  Bern'  reflects  on  the  life  that  she  envisioned  the  two  of  them 
sharing  once  he  came  home  — and  the  jarring  realization  that,  in  the  con- 
text of  a  war,  even  the  hope  of  having  such  dreams  can  often  seem  futile. 


I  didn't  have  a  box  for  that  first  care  package.  All  I  had  was  a  jumble  of baby 
wipes,  Gatorade  bottles,  and  a  Valentine's  Day  card,  which  was  hard  to 
find  in  early  January,  but  the  package  could  take  weeks  to  reach  my  Joel,  who 
was  steaming  on  a  ship  toward  the  Middle  East.  I  knew  exactly  where  he  was 
going,  and  so  did  everybody  else,  but  the  official  word  we  families  had  was 
that  his  ship  would  be  standing  bv  in  the  Arabian  Gulf. 

I  didn't  wait  to  send  a  care  package,  because  I  couldn't  stand  the  thought 
of  Joel  unable  to  bathe  under  a  fierce  sun  and  sinking  into  the  relentless  itch- 
ing, thick,  filth  of  his  cammies.  I  worried  that  he  would  be  thirsty,  lips  crack- 
ing and  throat  ragged,  but  have  nothing  he  actually  enjoyed  drinking.  I  knew 
that  regardless  of  the  timeless,  dav-in  and  dav-out  rhythm  of  war.  he  would 
pause  on  February  14  and  wonder  whv  I  hadn't  sent  a  sentimental  card. 

So  I  stood  in  the  post  office  line,  watching  the  backs  of  people's  heads  as 
thev  muttered  and  sighed.  After  twenty  minutes,  I  stepped  out  of  that  line  and 
drove  a  few  blocks  to  the  Mail  It  store. 

There  was  a  chime  on  the  door,  but  I  didn't  need  it  to  announce  my  en- 
trance. The  Mail  It  shop  was  emptv  except  for  the  woman  behind  the 
counter,  tan  and  sturdy  and  with  curlv  brown  hair  in  a  bouffant  bubble.  She 
looked  at  mv  bag. 

"You're  gonna  need  a  number  nine  for  that,"  she  said,  sizing  me  up.  I 
dumped  mv  bag  on  the  counter  as  she  plucked  a  flat  box  off  the  shelf. 
"Where's  this  going,  sugar7" 

I  wasn't  sure,  exactly,  how  the  mail  would  make  it  to  his  ship,  when  its  lo- 
cation changed  with  every  knot  left  in  its  wake,  but  I  dug  around  my  purse  for 
the  scrap  paper  with  the  address  he'd  left  me.  I  flattened  it  on  the  counter,  a 
mess  of  numbers  that  made  no  sense.  The  onlv  human  touch  was  Joel's  full 
name  and  rank,  a  lieutenant  colonel  in  the  U.S.  Marine  Corps. 

"Oh,  you  poor  thing,"  the  Mail  It  lady  said,  lining  the  box  with  crumpled 
newspaper.  "You'll  need  to  fill  out  a  customs  form,  just  tell  'em  what  you're 


WORLDSAPART  205 

sending.  Only  don't  write  down  the  coffee,  they  don't  like  to  see  that.  They'll 
open  this  box  as  sure  as  I'm  standin'  here." 

"What  about  these?"  My  voice  rose  as  I  pulled  out  a  pack  of  photographs. 
"These  have  no  value.  I  don't  know  what  to  write  on  the  form." 

"Now,  sugar,  don't  worry,"  the  Mail  It  lady  said,  putting  a  wrinkled  hand 
over  mine.  Her  fingernails  were  a  cotton  candy  pink.  I  read  the  name  pinned 
to  her  green  polo  shirt. 

"It's  just— well,  these  pictures,  Sandy,  I  took  them  last  week,"  I  babbled. 
"I  took  pictures  of  the  waterfront  property7  we're  going  to  buy  when  he  gets 
back."  Sandy's  was  the  first  kind  face  I'd  seen  all  day,  and  I  had  the  urge  to  run 
behind  the  counter  and  lay  my  head  on  her  shoulder  and  have  her  stroke  my 
hair. 

"Let's  see  what  we've  got  here,"  Sandy  said,  prying  open  the  sleeve  of 
prints.  "Aren't  these  pretty." 

They  were  landscapes,  void  of  all  people  except  for  a  man  in  the  back  cor- 
ner of  one  shot.  I  told  her  that  was  Esley  Brown,  the  first  realtor  who'd  re- 
turned my  call. 

His  office  was  in  Oriental,  a  sleepy  waterside  resort  town  at  the  far  end  of  a 
country  road. 

I  got  lost  driving  to  his  office,  so  it  was  nearly  lunchtime  when  I  first  met 
him.  I  shook  his  hand  and  passed  him  a  carton  of  fried  chicken.  It  was  a 
breezy  January  day,  but  I  also  brought  iced  sodas. 

"Well,  isn't  this  a  hoot!"  he  said,  steering  his  car  with  one  hand  while  wav- 
ing drumsticks  with  the  other,  pointing  out  the  marina  and  the  restaurants 
and  the  schools.  "You  have  kids?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  I  said,  not  knowing  how  to  explain  that,  although  I  was  thirty-five 
years  old  and  had  been  married  nearly  a  decade,  Joel  and  I  couldn't  commit 
to  a  baby.  We  sometimes  played  roulette  in  the  dark,  exuberantly  taking  up 
the  dare,  but  really  it  was  something  we  kept  postponing.  Even  Joel's  deploy- 
ment for  war  didn't  make  us  want  to  try  harder. 

"I  won't  be  here  if  you  freak  out,"  Joel  had  told  me. 

"Maybe  we  should  try,  just  in  case,"  I'd  said,  and  the  "in  case"  immedi- 
ately soured  on  my  tongue,  because  I  always  felt  he  was  coming  back  to  me. 
He'd  come  back,  and  life  would  be  good  again;  better,  in  fact,  because  Esley 
Brown  was  going  to  find  for  me  a  dream  property  on  the  Pamlico  Sound,  and 
that's  a  future  I  saw  clearly,  Joel  and  me  and  a  house  overlooking  the  water. 


206  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

I  would  be  a  history  professor  with  slack  hours  and  an  office  in  our  sun- 
room.  I'd  grade  exams  and  watch  Joel  sit  on  the  dock  with  a  fishing  pole,  and 
he'd  wave  to  me  whenever  he  got  a  bite.  Our  house  would  be  white,  or  maybe 
it  would  be  brick,  and  it  would  for  sure  have  a  wraparound  porch,  and  we'd 
entertain  family  in  the  summer  with  barbecues  and  poolside  picnics.  His  par- 
ents and  my  parents  would  drive  down  together  and  argue  over  who  got 
which  guest  room,  but  it  wouldn't  matter  because  each  would  have  a  suite 
with  its  own  bathroom  and  a  view  of  the  water.  And  while  I  was  baking  bis- 
cuits and  tossing  German  potato  salad,  Joel  would  hug  me  from  behind,  and 
we'd  fit  together  with  warm  perfection. 

Sometimes  there  was  a  little  girl  in  our  picture;  never  a  baby  or  older  than 
a  toddler,  but  sometimes  she  didn't  exist  either. 

"How  much  can  you  spend?"  Esley  Brown  had  asked  me.  I  told  him  about 
Joel's  war  pay,  which  wouldn't  be  taxed  and  which,  if  I  saved  it  carefully, 
would  be  enough  for  a  down  payment  on  some  fine  waterside  Carolina  dirt. 

Esley  Brown  winked  and  stepped  on  the  gas,  hurtling  down  gravel  roads 
to  raw  neighborhoods,  tracts  of  land  marked  off  with  tiny  red  flags,  some  with 
signs  that  read  SOLD  or  under  contract  and  next  to  sweeping  views  of  the 
wide-open  Pamlico  Sound.  Those  prices  stunned  me,  much  more  than  we 
could  afford,  even  if  all  we  ever  did  was  park  a  trailer  on  that  waterfront. 

So  Esley  Brown  downshifted,  driving  me  to  property  along  the  less  ex- 
pansive Intracoastal  Waterway,  and  that's  when  I  took  out  the  camera.  I 
stepped  to  the  back  of  the  property  line  for  the  wide  angle  and  then  walked  to 
the  edge  and  snapped  the  waterline. 

Esley  Brown  watched  me  and  smoked.  Even  these  lots  were  overpriced, 
and  bigger  than  our  budget  allowed,  but  just  barely. 

As  the  bucket  of  chicken  emptied,  Esley  Brown  took  me  to  pockets  of 
marsh  property,  tiny  lots  that  were  cut  into  weird  angles  with  only  a  foot  or 
two  along  the  waterfront,  or  that  had  a  half  mile  of  wetlands  to  be  crossed.  I 
reluctantly  took  pictures  here,  as  Esley  Brown  remarked  that  these  lots 
flooded  during  hurricanes— we  could  be  trapped  for  days— but  these  were 
the  properties  we  could  definitely  afford,  or  at  least  we  could  once  six  months' 
hazardous  duty  pay  made  it  into  our  bank  account.  Six  months.  That's  what  I 
was  counting  on,  though  Joel  had  told  me  not  to  count  on  anything. 

"We  don't  even  know  if  there  will  be  a  war,"  Joel  had  said,  though  I  knew 
he  didn't  really  mean  that,  not  with  the  posturing  and  threats  and  deadlines 
to  meet. 


WORLDSAPART  207 

"Before  he  left,  we  promised  to  think  of  each  other  every  day,  at  the  same 
time,"  I  told  Sandy  as  she  fit  the  photos  into  the  box  and  began  to  bind  it  shut. 
"Do  you  know  what  the  time  difference  is  over  there?" 

She  looked  at  me.  "Eight  hours.  My  son  is  there,  too." 

I  promised  to  ask  Joel  if  he  knew  Sandy's  son,  Corporal  Tom,  whenever  we 
spoke  next,  but  I  lied.  I  would  get  only  two  phone  calls  in  the  month  before 
Joel's  ship  pulled  up  to  Kuwait,  and  each  call  was  crackled  and  full  of  mysteri- 
ous clicks  and  awful  feedback  that  made  it  impossible  to  be  spontaneous,  our 
voices  tripping  over  each  other  before  he  disappeared  for  good,  in  midsentence. 

Sandy  told  me  about  her  son.  He  was  twenty  years  old  and  was  born  with 
so  much  thick  black  hair  he'd  needed  his  first  haircut  only  a  month  later. 
Now  in  the  U.S.  Army,  he  shaved  down  to  his  scalp  every  other  week. 

He  was  tall  and  loved  to  tell  jokes  to  make  his  mama  blush.  His  favorite 
home-cooked  meal  was  rib-eye  steak  on  the  grill,  so  when  Sandy  sent  him 
care  packages,  her  boxes  were  filled  with  next-best  beef  jerky  and  pepperoni 
sticks.  She  was  working  on  a  way  to  send  him  homemade  biscuits. 

"Mm  boy,  Mama,  please  send  more,"  Corporal  Tom  wrote  to  her  on  the 
side  of  an  MRE  box,  which  told  her  he'd  eaten  Mexican  rice  that  day. 

I  finally  began  getting  letters,  too;  short  messages  in  envelopes  that  had  traces 
of  Iraqi  sand  in  them. 

"Great!"  Joel  had  underlined  three  times,  about  my  pictures.  Some  wives 
sent  their  husbands  photos  of  themselves,  glamorous  studio  shots  that  over- 
looked their  everyday  crooked-buttoned  shirts  and  worn-down  fingernails. 
Sometimes  soldiers  got  pictures  of  children  taking  a  first  step,  or  dogs  with  a 
new  litter,  but  Joel  liked  mine  very  well. 

He  asked  me  for  more  details  about  the  bridge-side  property  in  Oriental, 
across  from  the  marina,  where  he  could  see  our  lives  unfold  together,  could 
see  the  rocking  chairs,  side  by  side  on  that  front  porch.  If  he  saw  our  little  girl, 
too,  he  never  let  me  know. 

He  also  didn't  tell  me  about  the  things  he  saw  on  his  ride  to  Baghdad.  I 
watched  the  news  while  I  packed  each  box,  one  eye  on  the  sandstorms  and 
ambushes  and  prisoners,  ours  and  theirs;  the  children  clamoring  for  candy  as 
American  tanks  rumbled  past. 

"You  might  say  this  is  the  highlight  of  my  military  career,"  he  wrote  wryly. 
"Keep  the  pictures  coming."  So  I  did,  color  pages  I  ripped  out  of  realtor  web- 
sites and  magazines. 


208  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Esley  Brown  called  me  one  day  to  tell  me  that  the  bridge  lot  had  gone  off 
the  market.  The  buyer  had  paid  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  over  the  asking 
price.  He  said  he'd  find  me  another  property,  and  made  me  swear  I  would 
call  him  when  Joel  returned. 

I  didn't  know  when  that  would  be,  until  the  families  were  told  to  stop 
sending  letters  and  boxes.  Our  Marines  were  coming  home.  I'd  miss  placing 
my  tokens  of  love  into  that  plain  cardboard  box,  size  No.  9,  but  soon  I'd  have 
the  real  thing  in  my  arms. 

Even  without  the  care  packages,  I  found  a  reason  to  go  back  to  Mail  It.  I 
wanted  them  to  print  two  banners,  one  for  me  and  one  for  Joel's  parents  to 
wave  on  the  day  of  his  homecoming.  I  wanted  our  hero  and  welcome 
home  to  be  big  enough  to  see  from  the  helicopter  as  it  neared  the  families. 

I  blew  into  the  Mail  It  store,  full  of  plans  for  the  Saturday  of  Joel's  return, 
but  behind  the  counter  stood  another  woman,  a  vounger  woman  who  looked 
politely  but  coolly  at  me. 

"Where's  Sandy?"  I  asked. 

"Delaware,"  she  said. 

And  that's  when  I  knew. 

Sandy  was  headed  to  Dover  Air  Force  Base  to  meet  the  flag-draped  casket 
of  her  only  son,  killed  the  week  before,  I  would  later  learn,  when  his  Hummer 
came  under  enemy  fire.  Corporal  Tom  and  three  other  soldiers  died  that  day. 

I  returned  to  Mail  It  to  pick  up  mv  banners,  but  Sandv  wasn't  coming 
back.  She  was  moving,  the  new  woman  told  me,  going  to  live  with  her  daugh- 
ter in  Florida. 

I  foolishly  clutched  the  banner  poles.  How  could  I  have  presumed  a 
happy  ending  for  any  of  us?  Why  hadn't  I  been  more  aware  that  my  storv 
could  have  ended  just  as  badly  as  Sandy's? 

I  wondered  how  we  had  handled  the  silence  in  our  homes,  waiting  for  our 
lives  to  resume,  hoping  when  they  did  that  thev  would  somehow  be  the  same 
as  we  remembered.  I  wondered  how  any  of  us  had  let  these  men  go. 

After  leaving  Mail  It  with  my  banners,  I  came  home  to  a  message  from  Eslev 
Brown.  His  voice  was  excited  for  me.  He'd  found  property'  he  was  sure  wed 
like,  but  I'd  have  to  come  right  away  and  see  for  myself. 

I  stared  at  the  answering  machine,  its  light  no  longer  blinking.  I  deleted 
his  message  that  day,  and  the  one  he  left  me  the  following  week.  I  swept  the 


WORLDSAPART  209 

real  estate  brochures  into  the  trash.  I  kept  my  copies  of  the  pictures  in  an  en- 
velope inside  the  third  drawer  of  my  rolltop  desk,  under  the  take-out  menus, 
just  in  case. 

Joel  did  come  back  to  me,  in  a  flurry  of  chopper  blades  on  a  hot  June  day,  and 
I  handed  off  my  banner  to  a  friend  as  I  ran  across  the  landing  field  to  greet  my 
Marine. 

As  we  embraced,  I  cried,  "It's  you.  Oh,  it's  you!" 

And  I  knew  then  that  the  sustenance  of  our  time  apart,  the  pictures  of  our 
waterfront  property,  were  mirages  as  surely  as  if  he'd  seen  them  in  the  desert. 
The  only  future  I  needed  was  in  my  arms,  clinging  to  me  in  rough  cammies 
that  now  outsized  him,  and  wherever  our  future  home  was,  it  only  mattered 
that  he  was  the  one  to  hold  my  hand  as  we  sat  on  the  front  porch,  our  rockers 
going  in  perfect  rhythm. 


SAFEKEEPING 

Fiction 
Commander  Kathleen  Toomey  Jabs 


Kathleen  Toomey  Jabs  entered  the  U.S.  Naval  Academy  in  July  1984  at  age 
eighteen  (she  graduated,  with  honors,  in  the  top  fifty  of  her  class)  and  was 
commissioned  as  an  officer  in  1988.  Jabs  is  currently  a  commander  in  the 
Navy  Reserve  and  assigned  to  the  office  of  the  Chairman  of  the  Joint  Chiefs 
of  Staff.  In  the  spring  of  2003,  Jabs  was  rushing  through  the  Baltimore/ 
Washington  International  Airport  on  her  way  to  report  for  reserve  duty, 
when  an  incident  occurred  that  inspired  her  to  write  a  story  about  a  female 
sailor  heading  off  to  the  Middle  East.  Although  this  is  a  work  of  fiction,  the 
sentiments  expressed  are  ones  that,  for  Jabs  and  her  husband  (a  Navy  com- 
mander who  deployed  to  Iraq  in  the  fall  of  2004),  strike  very  close  to  home. 


ive  days  after  the  notification,  Brenda  Croce,  wearing  fresh-pressed 

Navy  summer  whites,  urged  her  four-year-old  son,  Tommy,  through  the 

rain  and  into  the  revolving  airport  doors.  She  was  a  long-legged,  sinewy 

woman  with  short-clipped  hair  and  dark  purple  crescents  under  her  eyes.  For 


210  0PERATI0NH0MEC0MING 

the  past  week,  she  had  been  living  on  pots  of  coffee  and  sleeping  only  three 
or  four  hours  a  night.  In  her  arms  she  carried  two  green  duffel  bags,  a  binder 
of  official  papers,  orders,  and  tickets,  and  a  wooden,  two-foot-long,  half-bald 
hobbyhorse.  Rain  glazed  her  uniform.  She  shook  herself  off  in  the  doorway 
and  removed  Tommy's  jacket,  tucking  it  under  a  duffel-bag  strap.  In  the  dis- 
tance a  disembodied  voice  made  announcements,  calling  out  departures  and 
reminding  passengers  not  to  leave  their  bags  unattended.  Brenda  checked  her 
watch. 

"Hey  buddy,  we  gotta  catch  your  flight.  You  ready?  Can  you  run?"  she 
asked. 

Tommy  stood  rooted,  brown  eves  wide,  fists  pressed  under  his  chin. 
Brenda  handed  him  the  horse  and  told  him  to  ride  it.  He  pulled  the  horse  in 
close  and  whispered  something  before  he  started  off  in  a  slow  shuffle.  Brenda 
smiled  at  him,  and,  after  shifting  the  bags  on  her  shoulders,  they  trotted  past 
food  stalls  and  down  the  long  corridor  of  vendors  and  ticket  counters.  At  the 
security  check-through,  the  line  snaked  down  the  corridor  past  the  restrooms 
about  fifty  people  deep.  So  much  for  advance  planning,  she  thought.  She 
found  the  end  of  the  line  and  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  wall.  First  the  late 
cab,  then  the  traffic,  now  this.  She  slung  her  bag  to  the  floor  and  began  to  tap 
her  foot.  It  was  Tommy's  first  flight  alone  and  she  was  supposed  to  have  him 
in  place  ninety  minutes  early.  The  departure  monitor  showed  the  plane 
would  begin  boarding  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  Knowing  her  parents,  Brenda 
thought  they  were  probably  already  waiting  at  the  arrival  gate  on  their  end. 

When  she  received  the  recall  orders,  she  had  phoned  them  first.  Tommy's 
father  was  out  of  the  country,  out  of  money,  and  out  of  their  lives  as  far  as  she 
was  concerned.  Her  father  had  assured  her  yes,  of  course,  Tommy  could  stay 
with  them,  they'd  love  to  have  him,  and  then  her  mother  had  added  in  a 
mournful  drawl,  I  told  you  this  would  happen.  Brenda  had  recited  the  lines 
she'd  rehearsed,  her  own  rationalization  cloaked  in  duty.  My  numbers  up.  At 
least  Tommy  has  health  care.  If  I  go  AWOL,  III  be  "away"  a  lot  longer.  Her 
mother  had  held  her  tongue  after  that  and  Brenda  had  excused  herself  and 
hung  up  the  phone.  She  continued  working  her  way  down  the  check-off 
sheet:  bills  to  prepay,  notices  to  give,  copies  of  orders  for  her  employer,  forms 
and  more  forms  to  fill  out.  The  orders  activated  her  for  a  year,  but  the  stay 
could  be  extended. 

The  line  for  baggage  check  inched  forward.  Brenda  strained  to  see  what 


WORLDS    APAR1 

the  holdup  was.  She  had  no  idea  what  she  would  do  if  Tommy  missed  his 
flight.  He  had  to  make  it  she  thought.  He  just  had  to. 

Finally,  it  was  her  turn.  Brenda  showed  her  military  ID  to  the  first  secu- 
rity guard,  who  nodded  for  her  to  go  on.  calling  out  "Line  five."  in  a  bored 
voice.  She  led  Tommy  to  the  scanner  and  stacked  her  bags  in  plastic  bins.  Se- 
curity guards  stood  at  both  ends  of  the  conveyor  belt  As  she  approached  the 
checkpoint,  the  first  guard  called  her  You  need  to  remove  your  shoes 

and  belt."  he  said. 

My  belt?"  She  pointed  at  the  anodized  silver  buckle. 

He  nodded. 

"What  about  all  this7"*  She  gestured  towards  the  silver  chief  petty  officer 
insignia  on  her  collar  and  the  warfare  pin  and  rows  of  nbbons  over  her  left 
pocket.  I'm  a  metal  detector's  dream.  I  don't  see  what  difference  the  belt  is 
going  to  make."  She  unfastened  the  silver  buckle  and  placed  the  belt  in  a  bin 
on  top  of  her  shoes  and  purse.  "Go  on.  Tommy.  Put  the  horse  on  the  machine 
and  walk  toward  the  man.  Mommy  will  be  right  behind  you." 

Tommy  walked  through  the  scanner  and  looked  back  to  watch  her.  .As  she 
expected,  the  detector  beeped  as  she  walked  through  it 

"Over  here  please."  a  guard  said.  He  pointed  for  her  to  step  behind  a  clear 
screen  and  called  out  "Female."  Brenda  motioned  for  Tommy  to  folio 
short  woman  in  a  blue  uniform  with  a  gold  star  approached.  She  told  Brenda 
to  spread  her  leg  she  were  tak.    g  ird  and  then  she  ran  a  metal 

wand  along  Brenda  s  inner  and  outer  thighs  and  squatted  down  to  pat  the  legs 
of  her  trousers.  The  guard  stood  up  and  waved  the  wand  across  Brendas  back. 
The  wand  made  a  dinging  noise  and  the  woman  said.  Tm  going  to  touch 
you.  I  have  to  verity  your  bra  has  an  underw  - 

"Fine,"  Brenda  said. 

She  felt  a  nudge  along  her  spine  and  then  the  warm  pressure  of  the 
guard's  fingers  along  her  ribs.  She  kr..  should  act  agreeable:  it  wasn't 

the  woman's  fault.  It  was  all  standard  operating  procedure.  Brenda  knew  the 
drill.  She  suspected  she  would  be  doing  something  similar  by  the  end  of  the 
week  Her  orders  w  ere  to  fly  to  Fort  Bliss,  join  the  other  Navy  stragglers,  pick 
up  bodv  armor,  cammies.  and  an  1  -  and  then  catch  a  hop  into  Kuwait 
She  was  an  electronics  technician,  but  rumor  had  it  that  everyone  without  a 
hard  billet  was  pulling  security  dutv. 

\\  hile  the  woman  finished  patting  up  and  down  her  arms.  Brenda  no- 


212  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

ticed  Tommy  staring  at  them.  His  hands  were  clenched  into  fists  and  balled 
under  his  chin  so  that  his  face  seemed  contorted.  When  had  that  started?  she 
wondered,  or  had  Tommy  been  doing  it  all  along  and  now  that  she  was  leav- 
ing she  was  more  aware  of  it?  She  tried  to  shake  off  her  worry.  It  was  probably 
nothing.  By  nature,  Tommy  was  a  quiet  child,  timid  even.  She  thought  of 
him  as  an  old  soul,  gentle  and  resigned  to  the  constant  shuffling  of  their  life. 
"It's  okay,  bud,"  she  said.  Til  be  done  in  a  minute." 

The  female  guard  handed  Brenda  her  shoes  and  Brenda  slipped  them  on 
and  walked  over  to  the  conveyor  belt  to  claim  the  bags.  The  hobbyhorse  was 
leaning  against  a  felt  partition,  off  to  the  side.  When  she  went  to  pick  it  up, 
another  security  guard  stopped  her.  "You  can't  take  that,"  he  said. 

She  assumed  he  was  joking.  "Don't  worry,  I'm  a  sailor.  I  ride  ships,  not 
horses,"  she  said.  "It's  my  son's.  It  plays  music."  She  pressed  the  head  of  the 
hobbyhorse  and  a  canned  version  of  the  Lone  Ranger  theme  music  crackled 
around  them. 

"You  can't  carry  it  on.  You'll  have  to  check  it  in." 

Brenda  looked  at  her  watch  and  then  at  the  line  of  people  waiting  behind 
the  security  checkpoint.  Fifteen  minutes  until  boarding.  "I  don't  have  time  to 
go  back  through  this  line." 

"I'm  sorry  but  you  can't  take  the  horse." 

"What  do  they  think  my  son's  going  to  do?"  she  asked.  "Ride  it  in  the 
aisles?  It's  not  like  it's  some  secret  rifle.  You  have  my  word  of  honor."  She  held 
up  her  hand  like  a  scout. 

"Step  over  here  please,  ma'am,"  the  guard  told  her. 

"What'd  I  do?"  Her  heart  started  to  pound  and  her  cheeks  flushed. 

"What's  wrong,  Mommy?"  Tommy  asked.  His  fists  were  pressing  against 
his  chin  so  hard  she  could  see  the  whites  of  his  knuckles. 

"The  man  wants  Blackie."  She  bit  her  lip.  "He  doesn't  think  you  should 
take  Blackie  on  the  plane." 

"Why?" 

"He's .  .  ." 

"What's  the  problem  here?"  asked  the  new  guard.  She  assumed  he  was 
the  supervisor;  he  wore  gold  bars  on  his  collar. 

She  shot  a  look  at  the  first  guard  and  twirled  the  stick  horse  in  her  hand 
like  a  baton.  "My  son's  horse." 

The  supervisor  picked  up  the  horse  and  shook  it.  He  batted  the  handle 
against  his  arm  and  smacked  it  into  his  palm.  "I'm  sorry,  ma'am,  this  can't  go." 


WORLDSAPART  213 

"There's  nothing  on  the  sign  about  hobbyhorses,"  she  said.  She  pointed  at 
the  posted  list  of  banned  items,  which  showed  pictures  of  scissors,  golf  clubs, 
box  cutters,  nail  files,  razors,  knitting  needles,  but  no  horses. 

"The  handle  is  wood,"  the  guard  said. 

"My  son's  four.  I  don't  think  he's  planning  to  pound  down  the  cockpit 
door.  I  doubt  it  would  work  anyway.  He'd  have  to  bat  a  stewardess  first." 

The  guard's  eyes  were  flat.  He  squinted  at  her  a  little,  and  she  saw  that  he 
was  young  and  unschooled.  He  lifted  a  walkie-talkie  to  his  mouth.  She  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  panic.  "I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  anything,"  she  said. 
"Bad  joke.  Forget  it." 

She  squatted  down  so  she  could  look  Tommy  in  the  eye  and  spoke  in  a 
voice  of  forced  calmness.  "Tommy,  can  you  be  brave?  We  can't  take  Blackie. 
I'll  ask  Nana  and  Grampa  to  get  you  a  new  horse.  A  better  one.  Okay?" 

"I  want  Blackie,"  Tommy  said.  His  eyes  widened  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
going  to  cry.  Not  here.  Not  now,  she  thought.  The  time  for  tears  had  passed. 
Now  she  was  in  the  groove,  executing  the  plan.  Put  Tommy  on  the  plane. 
Catch  her  own  flight.  Report  for  indoc.  Deploy.  She  had  ten  minutes  to  find 
Tommy's  gate.  Her  own  flight  left  in  an  hour. 

She  took  a  deep  breath.  "They'll  feed  Blackie  here,"  she  said.  "I  think  it 
would  be  too  hot  for  him  in  Atlanta.  You  know  how  humid  it  gets  in  the  sum- 
mer. Blackie's  not  used  to  that." 

"Really?"  Tommy  asked. 

"Blackie  is  a  special  horse,"  she  said  quickly.  "He  has  secret  special  pow- 
ers. Like  the  way  he  talks  to  you  and  the  way  he  listens.  If  he  stays  here, 
they'll  put  him  in  a  paddock  with  all  the  other  confiscated  toys  and  keep  him 
safe." 

"What's  confiscated?" 

It  was  the  wrong  word,  Brenda  thought.  It  sounded  too  negative,  and 
Tommy  couldn't  possibly  understand  it.  The  refrain  "Ask  me  no  questions 
and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies"  flashed  through  her  mind.  She  had  told  Tommy  only 
the  barest  facts  about  an  important  Navy  job  Mommy  needed  to  do,  and  all 
disguised  in  a  story  about  a  wonderful  visit  to  Nana  and  Grampa.  It  was  the 
same  thing  the  Navy  was  doing  with  her.  Who  knew  what  anyone  really  be- 
lieved; nothing  was  happening  as  expected,  but  the  orders  were  valid  and 
needed  to  be  obeyed.  At  some  level  she  believed  the  stories  and  all  the  talk 
saved  you;  you  had  to  fall  back  on  them  or  you  would  go  mad.  She  leaned  in 
towards  Tommy  and  spoke  in  a  soft  voice.  "I  meant  special.  Very  special. 


214  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Blackie's  going  to  make  new  friends.  Bears  and  lions  and  tigers.  Maybe  some 
dolls." 

"Oh."  His  eyes  brightened. 

"They  have  lots  of  good  food  here.  They'll  keep  him  safe  and  maybe, 
when  we  come  back,  we  can  get  him.  He'll  be  all  fattened  up.  How  about  it?" 

Tommy  glanced  at  the  horse  and  then  back  at  her.  His  voice  shook  a  lit- 
tle. "When  can  we  get  him?" 

"When  we  come  back." 

"When?" 

"It  won't  be  too  long.  Just  long  enough  for  Blackie  to  have  a  good  adven- 
ture. And  for  you,  too.  A  little  time  apart .  .  ."  She  stopped  abruptly.  She  bit 
her  lip  and  pressed  her  eyes  shut;  she  felt  dizzy  and  a  little  woozy.  Her  whole 
insides  seemed  to  be  churning.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  Tommy  was  star- 
ing at  her. 

"What's  wrong,  Mommy?" 

She  gripped  the  orders  and  stood  and  shook  out  her  legs.  She  had  no  idea 
how  long  she  would  be  gone  or  if  she  would  be  back  at  all.  "I'm  okay,  bud.  I 
can't  bend  like  I  used  to."  She  felt  her  heart  quiver  and  tighten.  The  din 
around  her  was  almost  overwhelming:  suitcases  slapping  the  belt,  guards  call- 
ing for  IDs,  radios  buzzing,  and  overhead  the  announcements  kept  coming. 
In  the  midst  of  all  the  noise,  she  heard  a  slight  rustle  and  saw  Tommy  move 
towards  Blackie.  He  patted  the  horse  on  the  neck  and  pressed  its  ear  and  the 
scratchy  familiar  music  floated  out.  He  whispered  something  in  the  horse's 
ear  and  then  he  turned  away  and  walked  towards  her  without  looking  back  at 
the  horse. 

"What'd  you  tell  him?"  she  asked. 

"Goodbye,"  he  said. 

"That's  it?" 

"I  said  he  has  to  be  brave." 

Her  eyes  started  to  burn.  Everything  was  loud  and  bright.  Tommy  slipped 
his  hand  into  hers,  and  she  clasped  the  small  fingers  and  squeezed  them 
hard.  Her  heart,  she  thought,  had  seized;  she  couldn't  think  up  any  lie  to 
numb  the  pain.  She  stood  immobile  until  Tommy  tugged  on  her  arm.  "Okay, 
Mommy,  time  to  go,"  he  said.  He  pulled  her  forward  and  led  her  into  the 
crowd  heading  for  the  gate. 


WORLDSAPART  215 


DEAR   BABY 

Letter 

Staff  Sergeant  Sharon  McBride 


The  daughter  of  a  Vietnam  veteran  who  was  killed  on  active  dutv,  Sharon 
McBride  joined  the  U.S.  Army  herself  to  — in  her  words  — ~repav"  the  mili- 
tary for  covering  her  college  expenses  and  taking  care  of  her.  McBride  was 
three  when  her  father  died.)  After  spending  fourteen  months  in  the  Middle 
East  in  support  of  both  Operation  Enduring  Ereedom  and  Operation  Iraqi 
Freedom,  Staff  Sergeant  McBnde  returned  to  the  United  States  in  the  sum- 
mer of  2003  and  was  assigned  to  Eort  Richardson,  Alaska.  Although  her 
sense  of  pride  was  undiminished,  McBride  did  not  romanticize  military  life 
and  recognized  full  well  how  arduous  it  could  be.  Months  after  she  moved 
to  Alaska,  McBride,  thirty-four  years  old  at  the  time,  knew  it  was  about  to 
get  even  more  difficult;  she  was  pregnant  and  would  probablv  have  to  raise 
the  child  on  her  own.  (McBride  and  the  child's  father  had  separated.!  Two 
months  before  her  daughter  was  bom,  McBride  wrote  the  following  letter. 

Dear  babv: 

As  you  grow  inside  me,  I  have  been  thinking  more  and  more  of  what  it 
means  to  be  a  mommy  in  the  U.S.  Army. 

Let  me  be  the  first  to  tell  you,  though,  that  we  have  a  rough  road  aheac  I 
us,  kiddo.  The  life  of  a  soldier  isn't  an  easy  one. 

Already  in  the  seven  vears  that  I've  been  in  the  Armv,  I've  spent  a  lot  of 
time  away  from  home.  It's  verv  rare  that  I  get  to  spend  holidavs  with  my  fam- 
ily. And  more  and  more  I  see  my  friends  and  comrades  departing  on  deploy- 
ments that  send  them  far  away  from  their  families  for  extended  lengths  of 
time.  And  I  have  a  feeling  that  life  isn't  going  to  get  any  easier,  sweetie. 

And,  although  we  have  been  given  a  reprieve  of  sorts,  I  have  a  feeling  it 
won't  be  too  long  after  you  are  born  that  I.  too,  will  be  asked  to  go  away— 
again. 

It  seems,  my  dear,  that  there  are  too  many  nasty  people  in  this  world  that 
feel  like  they  need  to  oppress,  suffocate  and  stamp  out  human  pride  and  free- 
dom among  their  fellow  man. 

Why,  sweetie?  I  don't  know.  But  these  men  seem  to  be  everywhere.  Even 


216  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

day  when  I  turn  on  the  news,  there's  a  different  man  in  a  different  part  of  the 
world  that's  making  life  unbearable  for  others. 

As  a  soldier,  I  have  given  my  word  that  if  the  call  comes  for  me  to  do  my 
part  in  making  the  world  a  better  place  to  live,  I'll  go.  No  hesitation.  No  ques- 
tions asked. 

That  call  was  a  lot  easier  to  answer  when  I  didn't  have  you— when  I  just 
had  myself  to  think  about.  Now,  as  a  future  parent,  I  can  see  why  some  single 
mommies  choose  to  get  out  of  the  Army,  but  my  resolve  is  true. 

I  know  baby,  this  is  going  to  be  hard  for  you  to  understand.  You're  going 
to  want  your  mommy  and  she'll  be  far,  far  away. 

I'm  going  to  miss  a  lot  of  important  things— perhaps  many  of  your  firsts: 
birthdays,  holidays,  you  know,  all  the  good  stuff.  But,  I  am  a  soldier.  It's  a  pro- 
fession that  few  choose,  but  one  that  the  many  don't  hesitate  to  call  when 
there's  trouble  to  be  fixed.  That's  our  job;  our  mission  in  life:  to  help  others 
that  can't  seem  to  help  themselves. 

But,  take  comfort  in  the  fact  that  there  are  going  to  be  other  children  that 
will  not  only  be  missing  their  mommies  but  daddies  too. 

Many  families  have  gone  down  this  road  before  us.  We  won't  be  the  first. 

And  we  certainly  won't  be  the  last.  So,  if  they  can  do  it,  surely  we  can  do 
it  too. 

While  we  are  together,  though,  I  promise  to  hold  you  a  bit  longer  than 
necessary,  read  the  story  about  the  purple  dinosaur  as  many  times  as  you 
want,  fix  your  favorite  food  for  dinner,  kiss  you  a  lot,  hold  your  hand  and  take 
as  many  photos  of  you  as  possible.  Memories  of  these  things  will  have  to  sus- 
tain us  while  we  are  apart. 

Just  take  heart  that  being  an  Army  baby  won't  be  all  bad.  There  will  be 
sweets  to  go  with  the  sour.  You'll  get  to  travel  and  see  other  cultures  that  other 
kids  won't  get  to  see.  There  will  always  be  food  on  the  table  and  clothes  on 
your  back.  If  you  get  sick,  you  will  always  have  medicine  to  make  you  feel 
better. 

Some  children  in  the  world  don't  even  have  shoes.  I  know,  because  I've 
seen  them. 

So,  as  you  grow  stronger  and  bigger  inside  me,  I  can  only  hope  and  pray 
that  you  remember  the  lessons  I  will  teach  while  we  are  together  and  that 
they  will  help  you  when  we  are  apart:  Always  share  your  cookies,  never  call 
names,  remember  to  say  "I'm  sorry"  if  you  are  wrong,  wash  behind  your  ears 
and  brush  your  teeth,  and  say  "I  love  you"  every  chance  you  get. 


WO  R  LDS     A  PA  RT  217 

Lastly,  don't  forget  to  pray  for  Mommy  and  the  other  parents  that  often 
have  to  be  so  far  away  from  their  little  ones.  We  don't  want  to  leave,  but  some- 
times duty  calls. 

Love  Forever, 
Mommy 


On  February  6,  2004,  McBride  gave  birth  to  a  healthy  eight-pound,  twelve- 
ounce  baby  girl,  whom  she  named  Lyssa  Bree.  Two  years  later,  McBride  re- 
ceived orders  to  deploy  overseas  once  again. 


MANNING  THE  HOME   FRONT 

Personal  Narrative 

Peter  Madsen 


"J  am  a  single  father  of  three,  a  sometimes  retail  and  distribution  manager, 
and  a  husband,"  Peter  Madsen  wrote  in  the  summer  of  2004  from  Fort 
Bragg,  North  Carolina.  "My  wife,  Specialist  Juliet  C.  Madsen,  is  an  Army 
Medic  stationed  in  Iraq."  The  high  number  of  female  troops  heading  off  to 
war  has  created  a  relatively  new  social  phenomenon:  the  single-parent, 
home-front  husband.  Madsen  himself  had  been  in  the  military  for  nine 
years  before  retiring  in  1999  after  breaking  his  back  in  an  accident.  His  wife, 
Juliet,  was  in  the  Army  Reserve  before  the  launch  of  Operation  Iraqi  Free- 
dom and  went  back  on  active  duty  March  30,  2004.  She  deployed  two 
months  later,  leaving  Peter  and  their  three  children— Tyler  (age  eleven), 
Joshua  (ten),  and  Erin  (seven)  — behind  in  North  Carolina. 


hen  I  first  thought  about  my  wife  going  over  there,  in  the  desert,  I 
had  to  smile;  even  she  will  admit  that  she  looks  a  little  funny  with  all 
her  gear  on.  Juliet  is  tiny  and  childlike  buried  beneath  a  mound  of  fatigues 
and  body  armor.  Blond  wisps  of  hair  escape  from  under  her  Kevlar  helmet.  I 
could  never  have  imagined  this  very  attractive,  blond  waif  of  a  girl  going  to 
war,  but  there  she  is. 

She  works  at  one  of  the  Theater  Internment  Facilities  (TIF)  we  have 


218  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

heard  so  much  about  since  "the  pictures"  came  out,  and  she  provides  med- 
ical care  and  comfort  to  the  prisoners.  Some  of  them  are  Iraqis  who  have 
been  caught  up  in  the  maelstrom  of  war  and  it's  not  clear  how  dangerous  they 
are,  but  others  are  bombers  and  killers.  I  smile  less  when  I  think  of  my  wife  in 
the  company  of  these  individuals.  I  am  a  civilian  now  but  I  was  an  officer  and 
Army  aviator,  and  I  know  what  war  does  to  people.  I  know  my  wife's  suffering. 
I  hear  it  on  the  phone  and  see  it  in  her  letters. 

We  were  a  typical  American  family  until  Juliet  went  back  on  active  duty 
in  hopes  of  entering  the  Army's  Physician's  Assistant  Program.  I  supported 
her  quest  then  and  I  still  do  today.  She  is  a  very  beautiful  woman,  an  excel- 
lent student  (3.98  GPA  and  National  Honor  Society  member),  a  fabulous 
mother,  and  the  love  of  my  life.  I  will  support  her  in  anything  that  she  wants 
to  do.  I  had  my  turn  and  now  it  is  hers. 

She  was  in  North  Carolina,  and  I  was  at  home  in  New  York,  sick  in  bed, 
when  she  called  me  with  the  news  of  her  impending  deployment  to  Iraq.  I 
have  made  those  calls  to  her  before  and  yet,  despite  that  and  a  daily  dose  of 
CNN,  I  was  stunned.  We  agreed  not  to  tell  the  kids  until  I  brought  them  to 
her  in  North  Carolina.  We  hoped  the  closeness  would  somehow  minimize 
the  reality  of  the  message. 

We  decided  to  move  to  Fort  Bragg  so  the  kids  and  I  would  be  surrounded 
by  other  military  families.  It  had  helped  when  I  had  been  deployed,  and  we 
assumed  it  would  be  the  same  when  my  wife  was  gone. 

Lesson  #1:  Just  because  they  have  changed  the  name  to  "Spouses'  Club" 
from  "Wives'  Club"  does  not  mean  that  men  are  welcome. 

Lesson  #2:  If  I  were  deployed,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  would  feel  comfortable 
with  my  wife  hanging  out  with  the  husbands  of  other  soldiers. 

Ultimately,  I  felt  totally  alone. 

When  Juliet  first  left  for  Iraq,  I  didn't  do  as  well  as  I  thought  I  might.  I  sat 
in  bed  telling  myself  over  and  over  that  I  could  do  this.  Then  the  panic  set  in, 
and  I  cried.  I  had  no  idea  how  to  get  the  kids  to  school  on  time  let  alone  how 
to  feed  them  on  a  daily  basis.  I  was  simply  not  prepared  for  this.  Apparently 
our  wives  do  more  than  sit  around  eating  bonbons  and  watching  the  Home 
Shopping  Network.  The  list  of  things  that  keep  a  house  in  running  order 
doesn't  just  get  done  by  itself,  and  that  was  pretty  apparent  in  our  home 
within  days  of  Juliet's  departure. 

The  house  was  a  mess,  the  laundry  pile  grew  daily,  and  the  kids  were  be- 
coming rather  unimpressed  by  the  menu  selection.  I  was  lying  on  the  couch 


WORLDSAPART  219 

watching  Oprah  on  TiVo  one  evening  after  work  when  they  gathered  around 
me.  The  eldest  cleared  her  throat.  "Dad,"  she  said,  then  paused  for  a  moment 
to  gather  her  thoughts.  "Dad,  we  don't  really  like  pizza  that  much  anymore." 

I  looked  at  the  younger  two,  and  they  were  nodding  rather  emphatically. 
Being  a  good  father,  I  realized  we  needed  to  make  a  change. 

Two  weeks  later,  they  came  back.  This  time  Joshua,  my  middle  child, 
spoke.  "Dad,  we  don't  like  Chinese  either." 

My  wife  had  made  me  a  list  of  all  the  important  things  that  I  should  re- 
member while  she  was  away.  It  was  long  but  it  could  not  be  all-inclusive.  She 
was  pressed  for  time  as  she  was  getting  ready  to  leave  and  most  of  it  represents 
the  expected.  Bills,  vet  appointments,  and  school  records  were  there.  A  re- 
minder to  transfer  medical  records  and  set  up  school  physicals  was  on  the  list 
too.  Daughter's  hair  appointment  was  not. 

It  isn't  like  I  hadn't  been  a  parent  before  (just  not  a  single  one),  so  I  was 
pretty  confident  that  I  could  successfully  add  one  or  two  things  to  the  list  on  my 
own.  Well,  I  was  wrong.  Tyler  is  eleven  and  was  starting  the  seventh  grade.  Like 
her  mother,  she  is  a  tiny  thing.  She  was  nervous  about  going  to  a  new  school 
where  she  knows  no  one,  so  I  was  determined  to  make  it  a  good  beginning. 

Knowing  she  wanted  to  look  nice  on  her  first  day,  I  offered  to  take  her  to 
the  barbershop  just  off  post.  She  provided  me  with  a  resounding  "NO!" 

Lesson  #3:  Girls  do  not  go  to  barbershops. 

Several  days  later,  after  some  serious  thought,  I  hoped  to  make  the  situa- 
tion right.  I  announced  that  we  could  go  and  get  her  hair  done  at  a  beauty 
salon.  She  threw  her  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me,  thanked  me,  and  told 
me  that  she  loved  me.  I  have  rarely  felt  so  alive  as  I  did  just  then.  At  moments 
like  that,  I  realized  that  I  could  do  this.  My  children  have  a  deep  connection 
with  their  mother,  and  I  have  watched  them  grieve  over  this  loss  of  her.  They 
are  good  to  me  and  we  are  building  a  wonderful  new  relationship,  but  I  can- 
not light  them  up  the  way  that  she  does.  Watching  my  daughter  smile,  I 
began  to  think  I  might  have  mommy  magic  too. 

The  big  day  came  and  Tyler  and  I  went  to  the  mall  to  find  a  hair  salon. 

Lesson  #4:  Apparently,  you  are  supposed  to  make  an  appointment  before 
going  to  these  places. 

We  went  blindly  in  search  of  a  salon  that  would  trim  her  hair  and  add 
some  highlights.  I'm  told  that  is  the  "in"  thing  to  do,  and  I  wanted  to  help  my 
little  girl  be  cool.  After  an  intensive  search,  we  found  a  salon  that  would  take 
her  right  away  and,  after  several  minutes  of  conversation,  we  agreed  on  a  trim 


220  0PERATI0NH0MEC0MING 

with  blond  and  honey  highlights.  Proud  of  my  success  with  Tyler,  I  set  off  to 
find  a  good  coffee  and  a  quiet  bench  to  sit  on  while  I  waited. 

I  returned  to  see  Tyler  under  the  dryer.  She  was  smiling  and  laughing 
with  the  girl  next  to  her.  I  felt  a  connection  with  her  and  was  so  proud  of  my- 
self for  adding  this  special  item  to  our  list.  After  twenty  more  minutes  she 
came  out  smiling,  twirled  around,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought. 

I  can  only  imagine  what  I  looked  like  standing  there  with  my  mouth 
hanging  open.  My  daughter  has  long,  beautiful,  strawberry  blond  hair  with 
the  natural  wave  that  most  women  pay  for.  She  has  sparkling  blue  eyes,  and  I 
am  terrified  of  the  boys  who  will  surely  come  calling  over  the  next  few  years. 
I  did  not  expect  the  red,  almost  burgundy,  streaks  running  through  her  hair. 

Whatever  my  expression  looked  like,  it  was  enough  to  make  her  face  go 
ashen.  Then,  I  really  blew  it.  "What  did  you  do  to  your  hair?  What  on  heaven 
and  earth  did  you  do  to  your  hair?" 

I  paid  the  stylist,  grabbed  my  daughter's  hand,  and  almost  ran  towards  the 
car.  I  muttered  and  grumbled  to  myself  along  the  way.  As  we  pulled  out  of  the 
mall  parking  lot,  I  raged  on  and  on  about  her  hair  and  her  mother  and  what 
kind  of  trouble  I  was  in.  I  did  not  notice  Tyler's  silence  until  we  hit  the  first 
stoplight,  a  mile  down  the  road.  She  was  lying  on  the  back  seat  of  the  mini- 
van  crying  quietly  so  as  not  to  interrupt  my  diatribe. 

I  have  never  felt  so  small  or  so  inadequate. 

Realizing  my  mistake,  I  apologized  to  her.  I  told  her  how  much  I  loved 
her  and  that  I  was  sorry  for  being  a  boob.  Once  her  hair  dried  more,  the  high- 
lights really  did  look  good,  bringing  out  the  natural  color  of  her  hair.  We  went 
home  to  take  pictures  for  her  mom  of  her  cool  new  haircut.  We  e-mailed 
them  to  her  and  surprisingly,  given  the  eight-hour  time  difference  between 
North  Carolina  and  Nasiriyah,  Iraq,  Juliet  e-mailed  back  almost  immediately. 
She  wrote  that  she  loved  the  new  haircut,  and  Tyler  beamed. 

Over  time,  I  learned  how  to  be  a  father  and  a  mother.  It  does  not  always 
go  well.  Sociologists  and  psychologists  would  have  an  absolute  blast  in  my 
home.  I  could  write  a  book  about  what  not  to  say  to  young  children.  I've  said 
them  all  in  just  a  few  weeks.  The  good  news  is  that  I  don't  think  that  I  have 
scarred  them  permanently.  I  start  each  day  with  "I  love  you"  and  end  it  the 
same  way.  At  night  they  sneak  into  my  bed,  kiss  me  quietly,  and  whisper,  "I 
love  you,  Daddy."  This  is  a  new  world  where  our  mothers,  sisters,  daughters, 
and  wives  go  to  war.  Gentlemen,  we  had  better  get  prepared. 


WORLDSAPART  221 

I'm  not  sure  when  it  happened,  but  one  day  I  walked  into  my  house  and 
looked  at  the  dirty  dishes,  the  dirty  clothes,  the  dirty  kids,  and  the  light  came 
on.  I  cleaned  up  and  did  the  laundry.  I  sent  three  grumbling  maniacs  to  the 
bathtub  and  I  made  dinner.  Joshua,  my  ten-year-old,  said  it  still  sucked  but  he 
ate  it.  (Lesson  #5:  Hunger  makes  anything  palatable.)  The  next  morning, 
Erin,  my  seven-year-old  daughter,  said  I  didn't  kiss  as  good  as  Mommy.  She 
kissed  me  twice  so  I  could  practice.  Tyler  cleaned  the  house  for  me  while  I 
was  out  the  next  day.  It  was  spotless.  An  amazing  transformation  was  taking 
place.  Life  was  perfect!  Our  lives  were  running  smoothly. 

And  then  we  hit  a  rough  patch.  No  one  liked  my  spaghetti  and,  on  one 
particular  evening,  no  one  wanted  to  be  tucked  in.  My  wife  had  recently  fig- 
ured out  how  to  instant-message  online  with  her  friends  and  really  didn't 
have  time  for  me  that  night.  It  takes  hours  to  get  a  chance  at  fifteen  minutes 
on  the  computer  or  phone,  so  it's  not  always  fun  to  hear  a  broken  husband 
whining  on  the  other  end,  and  I  was  whining  long  and  hard. 

I  can't  say  that  it  was  an  easy  day.  I  can't  say  that  it  was  an  easy  week,  and 
I  can't  say  that  this  has  been  an  easy  month.  I  can  say  that  we  are  making  it 
one  day  at  a  time.  I  have  killed  two  goldfish  and  a  hamster,  and  I  have  ruined 
at  least  three  loads  of  laundry.  The  good  news  is  that  once  you  turn  every- 
thing pink,  it  stays  pink.  The  fish  went  to  the  porcelain  graveyard  with  snick- 
ers from  the  older  kids  and  a  somber  eulogy  from  the  youngest.  The  hamster 
has  a  place  of  honor  and  a  cross  in  the  backyard. 

I  have  learned  what  our  soldier's  wives  have  lived  for  generations:  hope 
and  grief  and  perseverance.  I  find  humor  with  my  children  every  day.  When 
you  are  seven,  two  wrongs  really  do  make  a  right.  Seventh-graders  can  be 
cruel  to  one  another,  but  fathers  can  make  it  better.  Why  would  you  wash  the 
minivan  with  a  steel-wool  brush?  I  don't  know,  but  her  heart  was  in  the  right 
place. 

Each  morning  when  I  wake  up,  I  kiss  my  children  and  hold  them  close. 
We  talk  about  Mom  and  the  war,  but  we  leave  CNN  off.  We  go  to  bed  each 
night  and  all  say  one  prayer:  "God,  please  bring  our  mommy  home  safe.  She 
is  always  in  our  hearts  and  in  our  thoughts  and  we  can  hardly  wait  to  have  her 
home  with  us."  I  say  an  extra  prayer,  too,  just  for  me:  "Thank  you,  God,  for 
giving  me  this  time  with  my  children." 

I  don't  know  where  our  story  will  end.  I  just  know  that  we  make  it  through 
each  day  with  love  and  laughter,  and  that  is  good  enough  for  now. 


222  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

In  September  2004,  Madsen  received  a  distressing  phone  call  informing 
him  that  his  wife  had  been  rushed  to  the  Landstuhl  Regional  Medical  Fa- 
cility Center  in  Germany.  Specialist  Juliet  Madsen  had  suffered  massive 
and  prolonged  heat-related  injuries  that  had  damaged  both  her  brain  and 
central  nervous  system,  and  she  was  eventually  flown  back  to  Fort  Bragg  to 
recuperate.  Juliet  was  medically  retired  from  the  Army  in  January  2006,  and 
the  long-term  impact  of  her  injuries  is  not  known. 


HURTFUL  WORDS 

Journal 
Ruth  Mostek 


They  know  that  the  troops  in  Afghanistan  and  Iraq  have  it  worse.  But  for  the 
family  members  burdened  with  added  responsibilities  and  pressures  on  the 
home  front  when  their  loved  ones  deploy  overseas,  bitterness  and  anger  can 
begin  to  fester.  "I  finally  feel  that  Ym  getting  the  hang  of  this  single  parent 
thing  but  I  keep  getting  mad  at  my  husband,"  one  military  wife  wrote  after 
her  husband,  a  staff  sergeant  in  the  U.S.  Army,  left  for  Afghanistan  in  April 
2004.  "Ym  mad  when  I  have  to  care  for  sick  children  myself."  She  went  on, 

Ym  mad  at  him  for  not  being  here  when  I've  totally  lost  my  patience 
and  there  is  no  one  to  rescue  the  kids  from  my  yelling.  Ym  mad  be- 
cause if  something  goes  wrong,  it's  all  my  fault .  .  .  there's  no  one  to 
share  the  blame.  Although  I  know  he's  not  on  vacation  over  there,  I  re- 
sent that  he  doesnt  have  to  pick  up  after  anyone  else.  I  resent  that  he 
can  sit  and  read  a  book  in  private.  But  under  all  this  resentment  is 
something  worse  .  .  .  fear.  Ym  afraid  that  III  say  something  out  of 
frustration  on  one  of  those  infrequent  calls  and  that  will  be  the  last 
thing  he  hears  from  me.  Ym  afraid  that  this  loneliness  will  be  mine 
alone  forever.  I  resent  him  for  making  me  worry. 

Few  issues  have  as  much  potential  to  cause  strife  among  family  mem- 
bers as  concerns  over  money.  In  December  2003,  twenty-three-year-old  U.S. 
Army  Sergeant  Hiram  Zayas  was  mobilized  for  duty  in  Iraq  as  an  MP  with 
the  800th  Military  Police  reserve  unit  out  of  Michigan.  (Zayas  s  unit  did 


WORLDS     APART  223 

not  arrive  in  the  Middle  East  until  February  2004.)  Zayas  had  started  a 
small  used  car  business  before  he  left,  and  he  asked  his  mother,  Ruth 
Mostek,  in  Indiana  to  help  manage  his  finances  while  he  was  gone.  The  fol- 
lowing journal  entries,  which  were  written  by  Mostek,  record  how  rapidly 
tensions  can  escalate  even  between  people  who  love  each  other. 

March  11 

After  Hiram  left  for  Iraq  there  were  still  loose  ends  with  his  financial  affairs. 
He  made  phone  calls  from  wherever  he  was  stationed  to  handle  most  of  it.  It 
was  unclear  to  me  whether  or  not  he  wanted  to  keep  his  small  business  going. 
I  had  paid  his  business  insurance  that  was  in  danger  of  being  cancelled.  He 
said  if  I  had  not  done  that  he  would  have  enough  money  in  his  account.  We 
started  blaming  each  other.  Hiram  was  very  conscientious  about  wanting  his 
credit  cards  paid  off  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  tried  to  pay  them  off  but  there  was 
never  enough  money.  I  began  to  think  perhaps  "going  off  to  war"  should  be  a 
total  break  from  parents,  like  in  the  old  days.  A  son  would  tip  his  hat  and  say, 
"Maybe  you  will  hear  from  me  in  two  to  four  years."  It  didn't  seem  like  such 
a  bad  idea  now.  He  was  aggravating  me,  his  mother,  half  to  death  — from 
across  the  ocean  and  an  entire  continent!  I  confronted  him  in  an  e-mail.  He 
wrote  back.  The  words  exchanged  on  both  sides  are  too  hurtful  to  include. 

March  30 

I  deeply  regret  arguing  with  Hiram  earlier— and  here  it  is  the  worst  month  of 
attacks  upon  them  so  far.  His  tension  over  his  situation,  loss  of  innocence,  loss 
of  closeness  to  loved  ones,  the  strain  of  having  to  figure  out  what  to  do  in  new 
untenable  situations— were  somewhat  taken  out  on  me.  (The  e-mail  I  shred- 
ded began,  "Mom,  you  have  really  managed  to  piss  me  off!!"  He  had  never  spo- 
ken to  me  that  way  in  his  life  before.)  That's  o.k.  I  understand,  as  my  sister 
reminded  me,  people  lash  out  at  their  loved  ones  because  they  are  the  closest 
ones  to  them.  I  e-mailed  him  that  I  was  sorry,  sent  him  a  magazine.  But  how 
could  these  little  things  put  a  dent  in  the  tremendous  pressure  he  is  under  now? 
How  do  you  reach  someone  in  the  middle  of  an  honest  to  goodness  battle? 

April  4 

My  son  &  I  continue  the  argument.  I  think  he  is  a  pompous  arrogant  23-year- 
old  male  mass  of  conceit— who  absolutely  cannot  see  something  from  some- 
one else's  point  of  view.  He  probably  thinks  I'm  stupid  &  incompetent.  He 


224  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

thinks  I  have  a  chip  on  my  shoulder  &  whine  over  nothing.  I  am  now  to 
blame  for  all  that  is  wrong:  for  his  difficult  adjustment  to  the  war,  for  his 
shock  at  man's  inhumanity  to  man,  for  the  fact  he  has  to  work  hard  for  his 
money  &  never  get  ahead.  Good  —  if  that's  how  he  feels  about  it.  Meantime 
he  is  the  epitome  of  selfishness.  I  have  failed.  This  hurts  me  most  of  all.  Well, 
there  is  one  clue  he  may  have  some  compassion.  He  has  noticed  how  the 
poor  Iraqis  suffer  &  have  little.  Good  for  him. 

June  8 

My  son  &  I  made  up  last  week.  His  girlfriend  called  to  tell  me  to  get  online 
with  him.  So  I  did  &  he  and  I  "talked"  pleasantly.  It  was  a  big  step  &  one  I'm 
grateful  for.  I  think  each  of  us  both  knows  now  how  quickly  tempers  can  flare 
&  so  I  consider  it  a  temporary  truce  until  we  can  talk  more  honestly  in  per- 
son. But  I'm  still  kept  in  the  dark  because  I  didn't  expect  to  see  him  until  Jan- 
uary, then  I  find  out  he's  just  come  back  briefly  for  a  funeral,  on  his  dad's  side. 

June  9 

Today  Hiram  finally  came  by  to  visit  while  he's  on  leave.  After  he'd  had  hours 
visiting  with  his  father,  I  went  ahead  and  called  his  girlfriend's  cell  phone  to 
reach  him.  She  told  me  (which  I'm  sure  she's  lived  to  regret)  that  he  was  out 
looking  at  car  lots  to  buy  with  his  dad.  Buying  a  car  lot?!  With  what?  When 
he  hasn't  filed  taxes?!  (Later  I  realized  he  just  wanted  to  go  out  alone  with  his 
father  for  a  while.)  I  snapped.  I  bitched  at  his  girlfriend  about  it  &  had  her 
have  him  call  me  (poor  girl  in  the  middle).  I  harangued  at  him  when  he 
called  me  back. 

In  spite  of  our  phone  argument  &  me  saying  it  was  absolutely  no  problem 
for  me  to  drive  up  there  to  see  him,  he  and  his  girlfriend  came  by  anyway. 
Neither  of  them  hugged  me  back.  I  admit  it  was  phony  of  me  to  try  and  greet 
them  smiling  but  what  else  was  I  to  do  than  try  to  squelch  my  temper?  We  did 
talk  some  on  other  subjects.  His  girlfriend  wanted  nothing,  not  even  water 
which  I  finally  gave  her  anyway  as  she  looked  so  sad  &  miserable.  He  wanted 
only  coffee  &  I  offered  him  a  bowl  of  chips  but  I  didn't  see  him  eat  any. 

As  they  were  leaving  she  went  to  the  car,  he  lingered  in  the  doorway  &  we 
started  to  argue.  I  laid  out  everything  that's  been  bothering  me  about  his  ask- 
ing me  to  pay  his  bills,  then  demanding  when  &  how  they  be  paid  &  the 
many  overdraft  fees.— The  first  thing  he  said  was,  "Maybe  it's  because  I'm  in 
a  war,  you  know?!"  and  "All  of  the  financial  stuff  is  unimportant.  What  does 


WORLDSAPART  225 

it  matter?  I  might  not  come  back— this  may  be  the  last  time  you  ever  see  me. 
What  is  your  problem?  You  are  upset  over  nothing  &  always  make  a  big  deal 
out  of  little  things.  Haven't  I  always  treated  you  nice?"  I  had  to  agree,  but  gra- 
cious &  humble  I  am  not— especially  when  I  have  a  point  to  make. 

There  was  no  bringing  the  argument  to  a  loving  close.  How  do  you  wrap 
up  the  sparking  ends?  The  wires  were  still  too  hot  to  touch  for  an  embrace. 

Mid-Novemher 

Hiram  came  back  to  the  United  States  after  serving  for  nine  months  in  Iraq. 
I  heard  about  his  return  from  his  sisters. 

Dec.  15 

Hiram  got  married  today.  I  wasn't  invited  to  the  wedding.  Hiram  and  I  have 
spoken  on  the  phone  only  twice  (briefly)  since  he  got  back.  Once  he  called 
to  ask  me  a  question  regarding  his  business,  thinking  I  would  have  certain  pa- 
pers. There  were  no  apologies  between  us.  Another  time  I  called  him.  He  was 
fairly  cheerful  that  time.  He  was  proud  that  he  had  gone  into  partnership 
with  someone,  and  they've  opened  up  a  car  lot.  I  said,  "You  know  I  love  you 
Hiram."  He  said,  "I  know."  I  tried  to  apologize  to  him  in  writing  several  times 
but  he  didn't  reply. 

March  7,  2005 

I'm  just  remembering  the  excited,  happy  look  on  Hiram's  face  the  day  his 
unit  was  leaving  for  Iraq  more  than  a  year  ago.  We  had  left  the  unit's  building 
to  go  to  the  bank  in  South  Bend.  He  was  coming  up  to  the  car  on  the  pas- 
senger side  as  I  was  sliding  into  the  driver's  seat.  I  looked  out  the  car  window 
to  see  him  bend  a  little  to  open  his  door  &  I  wanted  to  freeze  that  look  in  my 
mind.  His  face  was  lean— such  smooth  features  — and  he  had  a  humongous, 
happy  proud  grin  on  his  face.  I  just  thought  my  son  looked  so  handsome.  Of 
course  I  was  aware  he  wouldn't  be  the  same  when  he  returned  from  war.  I've 
heard  it  changes  boys  into  men.  I  was  also  acutely  (and  painfully)  aware  of  my 
role  as  mother.  I  didn't  want  to  baby  him  so  I  gave  him  advice  instead. 

April  15,  2005 

My  son  and  his  new  wife  have  moved  to  an  apartment  close  to  where  he  has 
his  business,  which  is  operating  successfully  from  what  his  sisters  tell  me.  Ap- 
parently he  lives  less  than  two  hours  from  me.  There  is  still  no  communication 


226  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

between  us.  Last  week  I  called  him  twice  requesting  an  address  to  forward  a 
personal  letter  someone  mailed  to  my  home.  He  did  not  call  back. 

Although  Mostek  and  her  son  did  not  see  each  other  for  almost  a  year  after 
his  return  to  the  States,  in  October  2005  they  reconciled  and  now  write, 
phone,  and  spend  time  together  regularly. 


REGARDING  TIGGER 

E-mail 
Jennifer  Huch-Gambichler 


Humor,  for  many  family  members  of  deployed  troops,  becomes  an  emo- 
tional necessity  when  life  on  the  home  front  reaches  a  point  of  seeming  un- 
bearable. Caring  for  two  boys,  five-year-old  Sam  and  fifteen-month-old 
Max,  by  herself  in  Fort  Hood,  Texas,  Jennifer  Huch-Gambichler  received 
terrible  news  one  day  about  a  beloved  pet.  (Her  husband,  U.S.  Army  Cap- 
tain Steven  R.  Gambichler,  had  recently  left  for  Kuwait  and  would  not  re- 
turn for  another  ten  months,  in  October  2003.)  Although  the  incident  was 
devastating  to  everyone  involved,  especially  little  Sam,  Huch-Gambichler 
sent  an  e-mail  to  relatives  that  recounted  some  of  the  day's  lighter  moments. 

Dear  Family, 

So  sorry  to  depress  each  of  you  today  with  this  unfortunate  group  email, 
but  I  just  can't  face  the  20  or  so  phone  calls  it  would  take  to  put  the  word  out, 
so  here  goes .  .  . 

It's  not  about  Steven,  first  of  all.  He's  gone,  which  still  completely  sucks, 
but  we  had  a  phone  call  a  few  days  ago  &  all  seems  well  so  far.  It's  just  that  to- 
morrow I  have  to  call  our  rear  detachment  commander  &  get  word  to  the 
hubby  that  Tigger  died  today. 

Our  beloved  doggie  somehow  escaped  &  was  hit  by  a  car  on  the  horrible 
road  behind  our  house.  In  fact,  he  was  directlv  behind  our  back  fence  when 
we  finally  got  to  him,  thanks  only  to  a  benevolent  lad}-  caller  who  took  it  upon 
herself  to  deliver  the  bad  news.  She  wasn't  the  one  who  did  him  in  but  she 
was  gracious  enough  to  pull  over  when  she  sported  him  lying  on  the  street,  & 


WORLDSAPART  227 

even  carried  his  body  to  a  grassy  stretch  that  lines  the  sidewalk  of  our  notori- 
ous road  from  hell.  .  .  . 

We  think  he  was  gone  maybe  30  minutes  before  he  was  hit  &  instantly 
killed,  of  course  by  some  bastard  who  didn't  bother  to  stop.  It  all  happened  so 
fast  that  my  four  legged  baby  was  still  warm  when  I  found  him. 

Poor  Sam.  He  gave  Tig  his  usual  kiss  before  we  walked  to  school  this 
morning  &  8  hours  later  the  kid  came  home  to  a  frazzled  mess  of  a  mother 
who  had  to  explain  why  his  best  friend  in  the  whole  world  was  gone  for  good. 
He  spent  the  entire  afternoon  crying  on  the  couch  with  his  back  to  the  room 
&  his  head  under  Tigger's  favorite  pillow,  wailing  "GO  AWAY!"  every  time  I 
tried  to  comfort  him. 

He  finally  ran  out  of  steam  late  this  evening  &  wandered  into  the  kitchen 
looking  for  juice,  demanding  to  know  if  heaven  was  real  &  if  Tigger  had 
"passed  the  test  to  get  in"  (no  earthly  clue  where  that  came  from).  I  hemmed 
&  hawed  &  bullshitted  for  a  few  minutes  until  I  remembered  a  story  another 
Army  wife  told  me,  something  she  made  up  for  her  own  kids.  I  assured  Sam 
that  all  animals  go  to  a  paradise  called  'The  Rainbow  Bridge"  &  that  Tig  was 
in  a  happy  place  where  smoked  pig  ears  grew  right  up  through  the  ground  & 
he  could  chase  rabbits  all  day  &  poop  in  dad's  favorite  shoes  anytime  he 
wanted  without  getting  yelled  at.  I  got  the  tiniest  smile  from  him  with  that, 
but  it  was  still  another  3  hours  of  crying  before  he  finally  passed  out  face 
down  on  his  Batman  comforter  with  Tig's  leopard  print  dog  collar  grasped 
tightly  in  his  chunky  little  fist. 

Thank  God  for  my  beloved  friend  Judy.  She's  our  Executive  Officer's  wife 
&  lives  right  around  the  corner,  so  she  was  there  in  a  flash  when  I  called  sob- 
bing incoherently  into  the  phone.  We  went  together  to  the  spot  described  by 
the  lady  caller  &  found  my  sweet  baby  in  the  grass.  He  looked  so  completely 
undamaged,  only  a  little  blood  around  his  nose  &  mouth,  &  we  held  him  & 
wept  over  him  there  on  the  side  of  that  stupid  road.  .  .  . 

But,  as  is  the  custom  with  tragic  events  in  this  family,  the  day  wasn't  totally 
without  humor.  Tigger,  well  known  in  the  neighborhood  for  his  perpetual 
"display  of  manhood"  despite  an  early  neutering,  chose  to  die  as  he  had 
lived  .  .  .  sporting  his  usual  mondo  erection.  After  we  had  said  our  farewells 
&  prepared  to  load  him  into  the  van,  Judy  &  I  rolled  him  onto  his  back  & 
there  it  was,  the  most  enormous  doggie  boner  you  can  imagine.  We  both  saw 
it  at  exactly  the  same  instant  &  busted  out  laughing,  tears  streaming  down  our 


228  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

faces,  Tigger's  hind  legs  wide  open  &  Mr.  Happy  flapping  joyfully  in  the 
breeze. . .  . 

Steven  is  never  here  for  this!  I  know  an  Army  wife  has  to  be  a  tough  broad 
and  I  love  a  challenge  as  much  as  the  next  girl,  but  Jesus!  They  don't  exactly 
cover  this  territory  in  the  Army  Wife's  Handbook.  It's  loaded  with  all  that 
1950's  Donna  Reed  crap  about  party  etiquette  &  how  to  practice  tying  your 
husband's  bowtie  on  a  bedpost  (no  lie,  it  actually  says  that— my  feminist 
mother  nearly  had  an  aneurism).  I'd  sure  like  to  add  a  few  chapters  of  my 
own,  maybe  "Absent  Spouses,  Pet  Crises  &  Navigating  Your  Neighborhood 
Crematorium,"  or  "Grief  Reactions  in  Pissed-Off  Five-Year  Olds."  Now  I 
have  to  tell  our  soldier  his  dog  is  dead  &  our  son  is  devastated.  He  tried  to  tell 
me  (warn  me,  really)  exactly  what  to  expect  as  a  military  wife  the  night  we  got 
engaged.  Above  all  things  he  promised  I'd  never  be  bored.  Well,  he  sure  de- 
livered! 


Dogs  Rule 


Love  you  all  so  much, 
Jen 


WORLDS  APART 

E-mail 
Petty  Officer  Second  Class  Edwin  Garcia-Lopez 

Military  personnel  serving  abroad  are  not  unaware  of  or  unsympathetic  to 
the  strain  that  their  absence  might  be  causing  back  home.  Many  try,  as 
best  they  can,  to  remind  their  loved  ones  how  much  they  long  for  the  mo- 
ment when  they  will  be  reunited.  Forty-seven-year-old  Petty  Officer  Second 
Class  Edwin  Garcia-Lopez  was  shipped  to  the  Middle  East  in  August 
2004  with  the  Naval  Coastal  Warfare  Group  Two's  Mobile  Inshore  Un- 
dersea Warfare  Unit  204.  Garcia-Lopez  guarded  an  Iraqi  oil  platform  in 
the  middle  of  the  ocean  for  almost  a  month,  and,  after  one  restless  night, 
he  walked  out  on  the  platform  deck  to  watch  the  dawn  break  over  the  water. 


WORLDSAPART  229 

Desperately  missing  the  woman  he  loved,  Garcia-Lopez  handwrote  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  his  wife  hack  in  New  Jersey.  (He  later  typed  it  out  and  sent 
it  to  her  via  e-mail.) 

September  12,  2004 

Debra, 

It  is  zero  four  thirty.  I  again  awoke  thinking  of  you.  It  makes  me  smile 
when  the  first  thought  I  have  when  I  awake  is  of  you.  My  love,  I  try  not  to 
count  the  days  until  I  see  you  again.  .  .  . 

Debra,  I  miss  the  parting  of  your  lips  as  we  kiss.  I  miss  sleeping  with  you, 
our  bodies  entwined  into  each  other  as  a  soft  whisper. 

And  I  miss  our  home  built  of  work,  sweat  and  years  of  sacrifice.  I  miss  my 
vegetable  garden;  kneeling  in  the  damp  ground  and  sinking  my  hands  into 
the  dark  soil  of  our  back  yard  and  with  brief  fertility  prayers  bury  seeds,  lov- 
ingly I  hope.  To  watch  with  delight  and  much  surprise  as  slowly,  fragile 
sprouts  break  through  the  ground  searching  the  sun  and  warmth.  Later,  to 
bring  to  our  mouths  a  little  piece  of  heaven  from  our  blessed  earth.  These 
and  many  other  small  miracles  are  pleasant  victories  to  my  heart  that  I  miss 
dearly.  .  .  .  Worlds  apart  and  yet  together .  .  . 

As  I  now  gaze  out  across  the  sea,  the  horizon  has  become  thin  strands 
from  sea  to  sky  of  dark  haze,  a  shy  red,  a  yellow  gold  and  finally  a  light  blue. 
I  look  behind  my  shoulder  and  the  coast  of  Iraq  is  still  dark.  I  turn  forward  as 
the  haze  succumbs  to  a  soft  orange  rising  Sun.  Behind  me,  as  minutes  grow; 
the  Iraqi  coast  turns  a  quiet  blue  with  the  increasing  light.  And  once  again, 
slowly,  another  cloudless  day  awakens.  I  have  watched  dawn  not  break,  but 
blossom. 

And  with  that,  I  must  get  myself  ready  for  another  day.  With  a  longing  for 
you,  this  lonely  American  stands  and  lives  with  hope  of  a  great  future  for  our 
country  and  the  good  people  of  a  new  Iraq.  We  all  here  will  do  our  best  to 
serve  as  promised. 

Still,  I  can't  resist  telling  you  a  dream  I  had  some  nights  ago.  I  am  walking 
alone  on  a  beach  and  I  feel  as  if  I  am  searching  my  heart  for  something  to  give 
you.  I  sense  the  distance  and  am  angry  at  the  expansive  Oceans  and  Conti- 
nents that  separate  us.  In  the  dream  I  remember  cursing  in  two  languages  on 
why  I  could  not  lift  and  carry  myself  to  you,  to  offer  you  something  that  would 


230  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

make  all  things  right  and  happy.  Later  that  day  as  I  remembered  the  dream,  I 
promised  myself  that  given  the  opportunity  I  intend  for  you  and  me  to  accu- 
mulate many  pleasant  memories  that  in  retelling,  will  keep  us  warm  in  our 
old  age. 

My  love,  I  wish  I  could  offer  you  more. 

Yours  always, 
Edwin 


Garcia-Lopez  returned  home  in  May  2005. 


ANOTHER   BUMP   IN  THE  ROAD 

E-mail 

Specialist  Michael  A.  Vivirito 


Twenty-two  years  old  when  he  joined  the  National  Guard  in  1997,  Michael 
A.  Vivirito  was  a  specialist  in  the  U.S.  Army's  Individual  Ready  Reserve,  or 
IRR,  when  the  war  in  Iraq  began  in  March  2003.  IRR  reservists  are  rarely 
called  up  (they  are  essentially  in  the  inactive  phase  of  their  military  service), 
but  in  August  2004  Vivirito  was  mobilized  and  sent  to  Kuwait  to  drive  sup- 
ply trucks  into  Iraq.  The  timing  could  hardly  have  been  worse.  Just  before  he 
left  for  the  Middle  East,  his  infant  son,  Charlie,  had  to  undergo  open-heart 
surgery,  and  his  wife,  ]essy,  was  expecting  their  second  child.  Vivirito's  job 
was  a  dangerous  one— many  drivers  have  been  shot,  kidnapped,  or  killed  by 
roadside  explosives— but  what  was  foremost  in  Vivirito's  mind  was  that  his 
wife  had  to  confront  so  many  problems  on  her  own.  On  April  6,  2005,  Vivi- 
rito downplayed  his  own  situation  and  e-mailed  his  wife,  whose  pregnancy 
was  turning  out  to  be  a  difficult  one,  to  keep  her  spirits  high. 

Jessy, 

Baby,  I  miss  you  so  much,  I  think  about  you  constantly.  We  are  still  here  at 
Anaconda,  I  feel  much  better  today.  No  more  blood  or  nausea.  I  guess  it  was 
just  the  settling  of  my  stomach.  Bull  and  I  went  to  the  movie  theater  here.  It 
was  weird.  It  is  an  actual  movie  theater,  with  a  balcony  and  concession  stands 


WORLDSAPART  231 

and  all.  We  watched  some  crazy  movie  with  Lawrence  Fishbome  and  Ethan 
Hawk.  When  we  left  and  walked  outside  we  had  totally  forgotten  where  we 
were.  It  felt  like  home  for  about  30  seconds.  I  said  to  Bull,  "you  know  6  months 
ago,  I  did  not  know  you,  and  there  wasn't  a  chance  in  HELL  I  ever  would  have 
met  you.  Now,  I  know  you  better  than  some  people  I  have  known  my  whole 
life."  It  is  really  amazing.  But,  I  would  trade  it  all  for  one  good  nights  sleep  next 
to  you.  Jessy,  I  can't  imagine  what  you  are  going  through  there  with  our  new 
baby  growing  inside  of  you,  and  Charlie  at  your  knees. 

All  I  can  think  and  dream  is  that  deep  inside  you  is  a  paradise  where  this 
baby  is  growing  and  when  he  or  she  comes  out  we  will  make  our  life  the 
same  kind  of  place  of  warmth  and  love.  I  am  so  sorry  I  am  not  there  for  you. 
But  I  am  Jessy,  I  am  right  there  with  you  all  day,  everyday.  Because  every- 
day you  are  all  I  see  when  I  close  my  eyes.  I  hold  my  breath  and  I  reach  for 
you  and  I  can  almost  grab  you.  I  can  almost  touch  your  cheek.  I  reach  for 
your  hand  and  another  bump  in  the  road  jerks  me  back  into  this  truck.  An- 
other bump  in  the  road,  that's  all  this  is,  right?  That  is  what  they  all  say, 
those  who  do  not  have  to  go  through  this.  "Ah,  just  a  bump  in  the  road,  and 
everything  will  be  fine."  More  like  a  pothole  if  you  ask  me.  It's  just  like  that 
Italian  movie,  "Everybody's  Fine,"  just  as  long  as  you  don't  ask  too  many 
questions.  Your  Dad  was  right;  heaven  must  be  a  bar  with  a  jukebox  and  a 
cold  beer. 

Baby,  someday,  I  don't  know  when  and  I  don't  know  how,  but  we  will  be 
together  and  there  will  not  be  anything  or  anyone  who  will  pull  me  away 
from  you  again.  I  need  you  to  breathe;  I'll  hold  my  breath  for  both  of  us.  I'll 
take  it  all.  Will  you  dance  around  the  world  with  me  .  .  .  ? 

Love  you  forever, 
Michael 


Due  to  complications  during  the  birth  of  their  second  child,  Isabella,  Vivi- 
rito  was  allowed  to  return  to  the  States  early,  but  he  ultimately  served  more 
than  eleven  months  overseas.  Charlie  and  Isabella  are  both  fully  recovered 
and  doing  well 


232 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


DEAR  BOYS 

E-mails 
Lieutenant  Colonel  Chris  Cohoes 

Parents  serving  abroad  are  especially  sensitive  to  how  difficult  it  can  be  for 
a  young  child  to  comprehend  why  Mom  or  Dad  is  away  for  such  a  long  pe- 
riod of  time.  A  veteran  of  the  1991  Desert  Storm  campaign,  thirty-nine-year- 
old  U.S.  Air  Force  Lieutenant  Colonel  Chris  Cohoes  deployed  to  the 
Middle  East  in  the  summer  of  2004,  leaving  behind  his  wife  and  their  two 
sons,  Cavan,  who  was  eleven  at  the  time,  and  Crew,  age  five.  Cohoes  fre- 
quently e-mailed  his  boys  to  encourage  them  to  be  good  to  each  other  and 
to  their  mother,  but  mostly  to  emphasize  that  as  much  as  he  wished  he 
could  be  home  with  them  in  Nebraska,  he  felt  strongly  about  his  missions 
over  Afghanistan  and  Iraq.  Other  troops,  he  reminded  his  sons,  were  sacri- 
ficing even  more. 


13  Aug  04 

Boys, 

I  was  walking  outside  today  and  made  a  big  mistake.  I  grabbed  a  hand  rail 
when  I  walked  down  the  stairs.  I  have  some  nasty  red  marks  from  where  it 
burned  me.  That's  how  hot  it  is.  You  just  can't  believe  it. 

Trust  me,  I'm  not  complaining.  I  flew  a  mission  yesterday.  A  squad  of 
Marines  was  in  the  mountains  way  up  above  10,000  feet,  and  they  were  at- 
tacked by  some  bad  guys.  These  bad  guys  fired  six  big  rockets  at  the  Marines' 
position.  I  saw  the  explosions.  Don't  worry,  they  can't  reach  me  with  anything 
they  have.  Some  of  those  Marines  are  only  seven  years  older  than  you  are, 
Cavan.  All  I  could  think  about  was  you  two  hunkering  down  in  the  moun- 
tains with  rockets  landing  all  around.  I  have  no  fear  for  my  own  safety,  but  I'd 
be  petrified  if  you  were  in  my  shoes— or  worse  yet,  theirs. 

Thinking  about  that  stuff  wasn't  helping  me  or  the  Marines,  so  I  had  to 
box  up  that  feeling  and  store  it  away  for  another  time.  Hope  you  guys  learn 
how  to  do  that  because  it  can  get  you  through  the  rough  spots  with  a  clear 
head.  Trick  is  that  you  have  to  remember  to  find  the  box  again  later.  Keep 
them  stuffed  away,  and  eventually  you'll  run  out  of  storage  space  when  you 
need  it. 


WORLDSAPART  233 

We  helped  get  those  guys  out  of  their  mess,  and  none  of  them  got  hurt.  It 
felt  great  to  help  Americans  in  trouble.  More  than  great.  We  did  roughly  the 
same  thing  three  days  ago,  and  after  that  one,  I  sent  an  e-mail  to  a  Marine 
Major  who  is  a  friend  of  mine.  Here's  part  of  what  he  wrote  back. 

".  .  .  .  As  you  well  know,  we  are  a  family,  we're  tight— very  tight,  we  don't 
ask  for  much:  honor,  courage  and  commitment  are  truly  what  we  live  by— 
and  when  somebody  gives  us  a  hand,  we  consider  it  a  pretty  big  honor.  You've 
earned  a  place  in  our  family  as  a  result.  I  can't  even  describe  what  it  means  to 
us  as  a  whole.  Thanks  brother,  for  all  that  you  do,  and  for  keeping  our  broth- 
ers on  the  pointy  end  of  the  spear  out  of  harm's  way.  Please  pass  back  to  your 
crew  and  squadron  as  well,  we  all  say  thank  you." 

Maybe  that  sounds  like  dialogue  from  a  mediocre  movie  you've  seen,  but 
it  actually  brought  a  tear  to  my  eye.  I  told  you  in  the  last  letter  that  certain  ex- 
periences change  you  forever  and  cause  you  to  see  things  differently.  The 
message  above  might  seem  a  little  sappy  for  most  people,  but  it  meant  a  great 
deal  to  me. 

Tell  Mom  I  love  her.  Tell  Mom  you  love  her  too. 

Love  you  both,  Dad 


Just  over  two  weeks  later,  Cohoes  sent  the  following  e-mail  after  flying  over 
Iraq: 

29  Aug  04 

Boys, 

I  flew  in  a  pretty  amazing  area  of  the  world  today.  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
Mesopotamia?  Probably  not,  but  you  will.  This  is  where  civilization  began  on 
earth  (the  Sumarians)!  Two  great  rivers  of  the  world,  the  Tigris  and  the  Eu- 
phrates, flow  together  here  then  empty  into  the  Persian  Gulf.  Mesopotamia 
was  the  area  between  the  two  rivers  (in  Greek,  Mesopotamia  means  "be- 
tween the  rivers").  The  Bible  talks  a  lot  about  it.  It  says  that  the  Euphrates 
River  flowed  from  the  Garden  of  Eden.  You've  heard  of  "the  Promised 
Land"?  It's  right  here.  Heard  of  Babylon?  Here,  about  30  miles  south  of  Bagh- 
dad. The  city  was  built  about  3,800  years  ago  by  King  Hammurabi.  King  Neb- 
uchadnezzar (I  can't  say  it  either)  built  the  Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon 
about  2,600  years  ago.  It  is  one  of  the  Seven  Ancient  Wonders  of  the  World. 


234  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

This  is  where  many  great  battles  took  place.  The  Romans  fought  here.  One 
of  the  Egyptian  Pharaohs  fought  here.  Now  I'm  fighting  here.  Doesn't  seem 
like  a  "great"  battle  to  me,  and  I'll  bet  you  the  Egyptians  and  Babylonians 
didn't  think  fighting  was  great  then  either. 

It  is  sad  to  see  what  history  has  done  to  this  area.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
everything  we  have  now.  It  was  beautiful,  there  were  forests  nearby,  the  peo- 
ple were  proud.  Now  it  is  a  disaster.  Now  it  is  called  Iraq.  Lots  of  people  from 
other  countries  are  going  there  and  setting  off  bombs  to  try  to  scare  the  Iraqi 
people,  and  it  is  working.  I  wish  they  would  stop,  but  they  won't.  Too  bad 
Hammurabi  isn't  here  now— he  was  amazing,  and  he  could  get  his  country 
under  control  once  again. 

It  was  nighttime  when  I  was  flying  around  thinking  about  these  things, 
then  every  single  light  in  my  plane  went  out.  It  is  a  full  moon  tonight,  but  I 
still  needed  a  flashlight  to  see  in  the  cockpit.  The  first  thing  I  thought  after 
making  sure  the  engines  still  worked  was  what  you  would've  said,  Cavan,  had 
you  been  there.  "Hey  Dad.  The  lights  went  out."  I  started  laughing.  Then  I 
got  most  of  my  lights  back  and  came  back  to  base. 

Cavan,  remember  this:  Babe  Ruth  struck  out  1,330  times.  Crew,  I  think 
that  you  and  Mark  Twain  would've  been  great  friends.  Here's  something  he 
said  about  boys  that  makes  me  think  of  you:  "Now  and  then  we  had  a  hope 
that  if  we  lived  and  were  good,  God  would  permit  us  to  be  pirates." 

Love, 
Dad 


Cohoes  came  home  in  October  2004  and  then  redeployed  to  the  Middle 
East  with  the  Air  Combat  Command  less  than  a  year  later. 


MY  SON 

Poem 

Sergeant  First  Class  Paul  D.  Adkins 

As  much  as  troops  on  the  front  lines  and  their  families  back  home  try  to  re- 
main optimistic,  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  disregard  war's  perils  and  the 
obvious  fact  that  they  might  never  see  one  another  again.  And  the  delicate 


WORLDSAPART  235 

equilibrium  they  struggle  to  maintain,  with  each  side  trying  to  concentrate 
on  the  positives  and  minimize  the  negatives  in  their  e-mails  and  cell  phone 
conversations,  can  easily  be  shattered  by  a  stray  remark  or  offhand  com- 
ment. Soon  after  he  arrived  in  Baghdad  with  the  10th  Mountain  Divisions 
uoth  Military  Intelligence  Battalion,  2nd  Brigade  Combat  Team,  U.S. 
Army  Sergeant  First  Class  Paul  Adkins  learned  from  his  wife  that  their  two- 
year-old  son  was  suffering  from  sudden,  uncontrollable  crying  fits.  The  news 
prompted  Adkins  to  write  the  following  poem. 

Gone  three  weeks,  we  were  driving  somewhere  in  Iraq 
on  a  convoy,  the  desert  gritting  in  the  sun, 
that  torch  of  sand  and  wind.  But  my  son 

back  home,  age  two,  cried 
and  cried;  he  knew 
that  I  was  dead. 

I  had  left  him  forever 
like  a  balloon  which  slipped 
from  his  fingers.  I  was  floating  off  somewhere 
alone.  And  he  was  finally 

turning  and  walking  away 
from  the  spot  he  had  lost  me,  finally 
not  looking  at  the  patch  of  sky 
where  he  had  last  seen  me  wave 
and  pull  away  from  his  hand. 

Adkins  survived  his  one-year  deployment  to  Iraq  and  returned  to  his  wife, 
son,  and  three  daughters  in  New  York  in  May  2005. 


NO  TIME  FOR  SNOWMEN 

Letter 

Captain  Zoltan  Krompecher 


Convinced  that  the  letters  tempt  fate  and  may  be  self-fulfilling,  some  mili- 
tary personnel  refuse  to  write  them.  Others  simply  prefer  not  to  dwell  on  the 
subject  at  all.  But  the  servicemen  and  women  who  do  compose  a  ulast  let- 


236  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

ter"  before  going  into  harm's  way  believe  that,  in  the  event  of  their  death, 
their  letter  will  offer  words  of  love  and  comfort  to  grieving  family  members. 
And  in  an  age  of  instant  messaging,  quick  cell-phone  calls,  and  e-mails 
dashed  off  in  haste,  many  troops  feel  that  these  final  messages  should  be 
crafted  with  great  care  and,  ideally,  written  by  hand.  One  month  before 
leaving  his  home  in  New  York  to  link  up  with  a  special  operations  unit  in 
Iraq,  thirty-seven-year-old  U.S.  Army  Captain  Zoltan  Krompecher  penned 
(and  also  typed)  the  following  letter  to  his  two  little  girls,  Leah,  age  four, 
and  Annie,  age  two.  (Krompecher  had  a  two-month-old  son  named  Jack  as 
well.)  Although  he  focuses  on  his  regret  for  not  spending  more  time  with 
them  because  of  his  obligations  as  a  soldier,  Krompecher  specifically  wrote 
the  letter  in  the  event  that  he  did  not  return. 


Spring  2004 

Dear  Leah  and  Annie, 

My  precious  little  girls.  I  write  this  letter  to  you  because  soon  I  will  leave 
for  Iraq.  Your  mommy  and  I  just  tucked  you  both  into  bed,  read  your  books, 
and  said  our  prayers  together.  Fve  been  watching  the  news  and  am  worried 
that  there  could  be  the  off-chance  that  I  might  never  get  to  watch  you  board 
the  school  bus  for  the  first  time,  place  a  Band  Aid  on  a  scraped  knee,  or  walk 
you  down  the  aisle  of  your  wedding.  So  if  you  are  reading  this  years  from  now, 
I  want  you  to  know  how  very  much  your  daddy  loved  you  and  that  I  am  also 
watching  over  you  and  protecting  you.  You  are  my  everything,  and  now  I 
must  say  goodbye  to  you.  I  cannot  express  adequately  how  much  you  mean  to 
me,  but  I  will  try. 

While  I  was  your  father,  I  was  not  always  a  good  daddy.  I  failed  in  balanc- 
ing the  life  of  a  soldier  with  the  awesome  responsibility  of  being  a  daddy. 
Even  now  I  talk  about,  almost  brag,  to  my  fellow  soldiers  about  going  over— 
many  of  them  are  not  deploying— but  I  suppose  I  do  this  to  convince  myself 
that  I'll  be  fine  and  to  hide  my  fear  and  worry  about  what  could  happen.  I  am 
a  soldier,  and  going  to  war  is  something  few  American  soldiers,  at  least  those 
I  know,  want  to  miss.  Fighting  our  nation's  war  is  what  we  train,  sweat,  and 
prepare  for  our  whole  careers. 

Still,  I  am  worried.  When  I  was  a  young,  single  Green  Beret,  I  was  so  full  of 
bravado  that  little  would  faze  me.  But  now,  I  have  you  two,  my  little  princesses, 
and  your  brother  and  mother  to  think  of.  I  don't  want  this  to  be  our  last  good- 


WORLDSAPART  23" 

bye,  but  I  realize  thousands  of  others  have  left  their  families  to  go  to  the  sound 
of  the  guns:  I  am  going  too,  and  I  am  proud  of  the  men  fine  men  who  give 
much  of  themselves )  Til  be  serving  with  over  there,  but  I  am  scared  about  not 
coming  home  alive.  I  worry  that  the  next  time  you  see  me  will  be  when  you 
stand  in  front  of  my  coffin  wearing  your  Sunday  best  to  say  goodbye  to  a  daddy 
you  hardly  knew.  I'm  scared,  but  I'm  a  soldier.  ...  I  can't  make  sense  of  it  either. 

Leah,  when  you  were  two,  we  went  sledding  for  the  first  time,  just  the  two 
of  us— daddy  and  daughter— out  enjoying  the  snow.  .After  each  ride  down  the 
hill,  I  would  tow  you  back  up  while  you  sat  on  the  sled.  During  one  of  our  treks 
up,  I  overheard  you  crying  and  looked  back  to  see  that  one  of  your  snow  boots 
had  fallen  off  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  I  picked  you  up,  placed  your  foot  in  my 
jacket  and  headed  down  the  hill  to  retrieve  the  missing  boot.  Little  did  I  know 
that  you  would  forever  remember  that  incident  as  a  pleasurable  one  because  it 
was  a  moment  in  which  we  bonded.  Now ,  any  mention  of  snow  and  you  re- 
spond happily  with,  "Daddy,  remember  when  we  went  sledding  and  my  boot 
'felled7  off?"  quickly  following  with.  "Daddy,  when  can  we  go  sledding  agi 
That  was  two  years  ago,  and  you  still  remember  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday. 

One  night  during  this  past  December,  I  read  you  girls  The  Shout  Day  before 
bedtime.  The  next  morning  revealed  three  inches  of  fresh  powder.  That  morn- 
ing you  greeted  me  with  the  plea.  "Daddy,  can  we  go  outside  and  play  like  Peter 
did  in  his  book7"  Sadly,  I  replied  that  I  had  to  get  to  work  but  maybe  we  could 
build  a  snowman  after  I  returned  home.  LTnfortunately,  it  was  so  dark  bv  the 
time  I  returned  from  work  that  there  was  no  time  for  snowmen,  or  anvthing  else. 

Even  morning,  I  walked  outside  to  kick  the  icicles  hanging  off  mv  jeep 
before  driving  to  work  through  the  slush-covered  roads.  In  January,  it  snowed 
again,  and  you  |  Leah )  came  running  up  to  me  with  vour  pull-on  boots  on  the 
wrong  feet,  wearing  an  unzipped  jacket  and  mittens.  At  the  same  time  you. 
Annie,  pointed  excitedly  at  the  blanket  of  snow  that  covered  our  backyard. 
Both  of  you  smiled  eagerly  in  hopes  of  playing  outside.  Sadly.  I  felt  that  I  had 
no  time  to  play  games  in  the  snow.  I  had  received  orders  for  Iraq  and 
preparing  for  war.  Eventuallv.  vou  both  stopped  asking  me  to  plav  in  the  snow 
and  would  instead  sit  quietly  in  vour  reading  chairs  while  I  made  important 
phone  calls  and  dealt  with  other  business. 

During  one  of  the  unseasonablv  warm  da]  s  we  had  just  weeks  ago,  I 
pulled  up  in  our  driveway  and  looked  out  the  car  window  just  in  time  to  wit- 
ness you  (Leah)  attempting  to  play  kickball  with  the  neighborhood  children 
while  Annie  looked  on  from  vour  picnic  table  in  our  front  vard.  In  the  mid- 


238  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

die  of  the  field  was  another  father  from  across  the  street.  He  moved  towards 
you  (Leah)  and  gently  rolled  the  ball  as  you  stood  uncertainly  at  home  plate. 
You  responded  with  a  kick  and  laughed  hysterically  while  running  the  bases. 
Annie  clapped  and  cheered  you  on. 

Then  "it"  hit  me.  Sitting  in  my  car  wearing  my  uniform,  the  thought  of  how 
I  had  wasted  enjoying  so  many  precious  moments  with  my  little  darlings 
slammed  into  me.  I  realized  then  that  that  should  be  me  out  on  that  plate.  That 
should  be  me  guiding  my  daughter  to  first  base  and  then  deliberately  miss  tag- 
ging her  out  as  you  rounded  third  for  a  homerun.  That  should  be  me  enjoying 
a  tea  party  with  my  daughter  on  her  plastic  picnic  table.  I  suddenly  understood 
how  I  should  have  taken  you  both  sledding  to  see  if  perhaps  we  could  make  it 
down  a  hill  without  a  boot  falling  off.  Later  that  week,  I  saw  you  (Leah)  ride 
your  bike  by  yourself  for  the  very  first  time.  I  asked  mommy  who  had  fastened 
your  bicycle  helmet  and  helped  you  move  the  bike  to  the  front  of  the  house. 
Mommy  responded  that  you  had  found  your  helmet,  dragged  your  bike  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  proceeded  to  ride  (with  no  one  walking  at  your  side).  I 
knew  then  that  you  were  both  growing  up  and  would  not  always  need  me. 

When  I  was  stationed  in  Georgia,  my  friend  SFC  (Ret)  James  Smith  sent 
me  an  e-mail  that  ended  with  the  quotation,  "To  the  world  I  am  an  individ- 
ual. To  an  individual,  I  am  the  world."  Unfortunately,  I  never  understood  that 
line  until  recently  receiving  orders  for  this  deployment. 

Last  night,  as  I  was  putting  you  both  to  bed,  Leah  looked  up  at  me  and 
said,  "Daddy,  I  have  tears  in  my  eyes  because  you  will  be  leaving."  Annie,  you 
must  have  realized  something  was  wrong  because  you  started  crying,  too. 
With  that  statement,  I  resolved  to  take  SFC  Smith's  advice  to  heart  and  de- 
cided to  "be  the  world"  to  you  all.  Years  from  now,  I  do  not  want  to  be  the  guy 
who  sits  alone  sifting  through  a  box  of  pictures  trying  to  recapture  fading 
memories  because  he  left  his  children  clinging  to  unfulfilled  promises. 

April  has  arrived,  and  there  is  little  evidence  of  the  long  winter.  I  have  put 
the  sled  away  until  next  year.  Winter  is  over,  and  I  leave  for  Iraq  next  month. 
You  are  growing.  All  I  can  hope  for  is  that  it  will  snow  just  one  more  time. 

Love, 
Your  Daddy 


Ten  days  after  he  wrote  this  letter,  it  snowed,  and  Krompecher  and  his 
children  spent  the  afternoon  sledding  and  drinking  hot  chocolate.  After 


WORLDSAPART  239 


serving  in  Iraq,  Krompecher  came  back  alive  and  well  to  his  wife,  Tina, 
and  their  three  children. 


TIMELESS 

Personal  Narrative 
Christy  De'on  Miller 


Every  parent  or  spouse  reacts  differently.  Many,  upon  seeing  the  uniformed 
military  personnel  walk  up  their  front  steps,  begin  screaming  right  away. 
Others  refuse  to  let  the  casualty  notification  officers  inside,  believing  that  if 
they  do  not  hear  the  message  the  officers  have  come  to  convey,  their  loved  one 
will  still  be  alive.  Some  lash  out  in  despair,  even  slapping  the  officers  in  the 
face.  And  in  the  most  extreme  example  to  date,  a  father  in  Florida  attempted 
suicide  immediately  after  being  told  that  his  twenty-year-old  son  had  been 
killed  in  Iraq.  Like  other  parents  with  a  child  fighting  overseas,  Christy 
De'on  Miller  visualized  how  the  news  of  her  sons  death  might  come  to  her. 
It  was  not  something  she,  or  anyone  for  that  matter,  wanted  to  think  about, 
but  it  was  unavoidable.  Lance  Corporal  Aaron  C.  Austin  was  a  U.S.  Marine 
on  his  second  tour  of  duty  in  Iraq,  and  he  had  already  had  numerous  close 
calls.  Miller  herself  had  served  in  the  armed  forces  and,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
five,  was  a  U.S.  Army  specialist  running  support  missions  during  the  1989  in- 
vasion of  Panama.  During  her  sons  deployment  fifteen  years  later,  Miller, 
who  goes  by  the  name  De'on,  wrote  constantly— poetry,  short  stories,  letters 
to  Aaron  and  other  friends  and  family  members,  as  well  as  journal  entries— 
to  help  her  express  the  range  of  emotions  she  felt  while  waiting  for  her  only 
child  to  return  to  their  home  in  New  Mexico.  (Aaron  also  lived  with  his  fa- 
ther in  Texas.)  In  October  2004,  Miller  began  writing  about  the  morning  she 
first  heard  that  a  firefight  had  erupted  in  Iraq  between  insurgents  and  a 
group  of  Marines,  with  possibly  one  American  fatality.  The  following  ac- 
count, based  primarily  on  her  letters  and  journals,  chronicles  the  many 
thoughts  that  went  through  her  mind  that  day— and  in  those  that  followed. 


n  April  26,  2004, 1  woke  up  around  4:00  in  the  morning  and  turned  on 
the  television  in  my  bedroom.  At  least  twelve  Marines  had  been  in- 


240  0PERATI0NH0MEC0MING 

jured,  and  by  6:00  a.m.,  reporters  were  saying  that  one  had  died.  I  typed 
Aaron  a  letter,  as  I'd  been  doing  daily  for  several  weeks,  trying  to  sound  posi- 
tive, and  finally  landing  on  an  effortless  subject  concerning  how  much  Fd 
paid  on  each  of  his  bills,  what  was  left  in  his  checking  account,  and  how 
much  Fd  pay  next  time.  Mundane  stuff,  safe,  easy,  factual.  Outside  of  men- 
tioning that  we  had  one  Marine  down,  I  avoided  the  hard  news  of  the  day.  He 
would  have  already  known  about  the  Marine,  and  of  course,  I  knew  it  would 
take  three  weeks  for  him  to  get  the  letter.  But  communication  is  so  important 
to  moms  and  their  Marines. 

I  took  Aaron's  dog,  Hennessy,  for  his  morning  walk,  and,  as  was  the  norm,  I 
was  relieved  to  round  the  corner  and  view  my  home— void  of  an  unfamiliar 
government  vehicle  parked  in  front  of  it.  No  one  had  brought  me  any  bad  news. 

Some  believe  that  a  mother  knows  immediately,  somewhere  deep  within 
her  nurturing  nature,  the  moment  that  her  child  has  suffered  harm.  It  had 
been  a  restless  night,  but  there  was  no  sense  of  foreboding.  At  least  no  differ- 
ent than  any  other  time.  I  knew  Aaron  was  always  in  danger. 

It  was  around  4:00  or  5:00  p.m.  when  the  two  Marines  drove  up  to  my 
house.  Aaron  would  have  appreciated  the  almost  limolike  tinted  windows  on 
their  silver  minivan.  At  first,  I  thought  it  must  be  a  friend  coming  to  visit,  but 
after  mere  moments,  my  eyes  made  the  adjustment. 

My  mind  wasn't  far  behind. 

The  noncommissioned  officer  began  to  approach  me.  It  seemed  to  take 
an  eternity  for  him  to  cross  my  lawn  — I  think  I  must  have  walked  some,  gone 
to  meet  him  halfway. 

He  began,  "Ma'am,  are  you  Christy  Miller?" 

The  Christy  has  always  thrown  me.  Only  government  agencies,  debtors, 
or  new  teachers  have  ever  called  me  by  my  first  name.  It's  rarely  been  used  to 
bless  me  with  good  news. 

"What?  What  did  you  ask  me?"  I  think  I  was  hollering.  I  thought  he'd  said 
Kristen  Miller. 

No,  no,  I  wasn't  that  person. 

I  saw  sympathy. 

He  asked  me  again.  Time  and  space  and  neighbors  and  dogs,  all  — every- 
thing—grew  into  a  blazing,  buzzing  blur. 

I  couldn't  let  the  Marines  in  my  home  because  I'd  just  put  my  two  dogs  in 
there  and  Hennessy  is  a  pit  bull. 

"Can  we  go  inside?  We  need  to  talk  to  you."  His  wasn't  an  easy  job. 


WORLDSAPART  241 

"No,  we've  got  to  do  this  outside."  Mine,  still  the  harder. 

After  a  muddled  exchange  regarding  the  dog  situation,  the  other  Marine, 
the  officer,  finally  said,  "Ma'am,  your  son  was  killed  in  action  today  in  Al 
Anbar  province." 

I  said,  "My  son  was  killed  in  the  firefight  that's  on  the  television  right  now. 
He  was  killed  in  Fallujah.  There's  been  one  Marine  killed  today." 

There,  in  that  moment,  that  tiniest  and  longest  length  of  time,  there 
must've  been  a  mechanical  failure,  an  embodiment  of  someone's  (it  couldn't 
have  been  mine)  heart  and  brain  colliding. 

"Mine,"  I  finished.  Yes,  the  Marine  was  mine. 

Aaron  Cole  Austin  was  born  on  July  1, 1982,  at  8:53  p.m.  central  daylight  sav- 
ings time  in  Amherst,  Texas.  Circumcised  and  sent  home  on  the  Fourth  of 
July,  he  was  my  breast-fed,  blanket-sucking  baby  boy,  a  little  Linus  look-alike. 
He  threw  his  blanket  away  when  he  was  ten.  God,  how  I  wish  for  that  blanket 
now.  It  surely  would  have  carried  some  scent.  You  couldn't  even  bleach  it  out. 

Lance  Corporal  Aaron  C.  Austin,  USMC.  Machine  gunner.  Team  leader. 
Echo  Company,  2nd  Battalion,  1st  Marine  Regiment,  1st  Marine  Division. 
KIA  on  April  26,  2004,  in  Fallujah,  Iraq. 

For  a  period  of  time,  I  thought  he  must  have  been  killed  on  April  25, 2004, 
New  Mexico  time.  I  almost  had  the  twenty-fifth  etched  on  his  headstone. 

Almost.  Facts  and  times  were  very  important.  Are  very  important.  I  kept 
checking  his  social  security  number  on  everything  I  signed,  just  in  case  there 
was  some  inaccuracy  in  this  news.  Some  tragic  fact  overlooked  or  flawed. 
Then  I  got  his  watch  back,  the  one  he  was  wearing  that  awful  day,  and  after  I 
took  some  time  to  count  the  hours,  to  do  some  real  figuring,  I  realized  that  we 
shared  a  few  hours  of  the  day.  It  was  definitely  the  twenty-sixth  that  he  was 
killed.  Around  2:00  a.m.  My  time. 

Aaron's  company  commander,  Captain  Zembiec,  wrote  me  right  after  it 
happened. 

040426 

De'on, 

Your  son  was  killed  in  action  today.  He  was  conducting  a  security  pa- 
trol with  his  company  this  morning,  in  enemy  territory.  His  company  had 
halted  in  two  buildings,  strongpointing  them  and  looking  for  insurgents. 


242  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

A  large  number  of  enemy  personnel  attacked  Aaron  and  his  platoon  at 
around  1100.  Despite  intense  enemy  machine  gun  and  rocket  propelled 
grenade  fire,  your  son  fought  like  a  lion.  He  remained  in  his  fighting  po- 
sition until  all  his  wounded  comrades  could  be  evacuated  from  the 
rooftop  they  were  defending.  It  was  during  his  courageous  defense  of  his 
comrades  that  Aaron  was  hit  by  enemy  fire,  enemy  machine  gun  fire. 

We  held  a  memorial  service  this  afternoon  in  honor  of  your  son.  With 
the  exception  of  the  Marines  on  Security,  every  man  in  the  company  at- 
tended the  service.  Aaron  was  respected  and  admired  by  every  Marine  in 
his  company.  His  death  brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  tears  that  fell  in  front  of 
my  Marines.  I  am  unashamed  of  that  fact. 

Your  son  died  a  warrior's  death,  in  battle,  in  a  fight  as  tough  as  any  bat- 
tle that  Marines  who  have  gone  before  us  fought.  Your  son  died  a  hero, 
killing  enemy  soldiers  in  order  to  defend  his  fellow  Marines. 

Captain  Teague  and  Gunny  Sergeant  Velasquez  brought  Aaron's  things  to 
me  on  June  30,  2004.  From  the  men  who  first  told  me  the  news,  who  had 
stood  outside  my  home,  compassionate  Marines  in  dress  blues,  to  those  who 
entered  my  living  room  and  placed  before  me  the  one  remaining  box  of  my 
son's  life,  and  then,  on  bent  knee,  took  out  a  smaller  box  from  within  the 
larger,  and  handed  over  to  me  Aaron's  watch,  the  one  removed  from  his  body 
at  the  time  of  death  — it  is  to  these  men  that  I  owe  so  much. 

June  30  also  just  happened  to  be  the  day  that  Lea  County  unveiled  the 
granite  stone  with  his  name  etched  there.  Thus  far,  Aaron's  name  remains 
singular  on  that  stone.  He  also  holds  the  distinction  of  Texas  as  well  as  New 
Mexico  both  claiming  him  as  their  own.  Since  the  tender  age  of  nine,  Aaron 
has  always  had  at  least  two  places  to  call  home. 

I  began  to  wear  Aaron's  watch,  which  was  still  on  Baghdad  time.  His 
alarm  would  go  off  at  3:28:24.  Then  again  at  3:33:20.  Aaron  was  always,  "Give 
me  five  more  minutes,  Mom." 

This  early  alarm,  its  hidden  meaning,  meant  only  for  him,  for  duty  on  a 
rooftop  possibly,  is  5:30  p.m.  (the  evening  before)  my  time. 

His  watch  became  my  watch.  And  this  is  the  way  my  mind  works  now,  as 
I  watch  out  my  window,  watch  up  in  the  sky  or  into  a  sunset. 

It  will  be  almost  eight  months  before  I'll  sit  and  purposefully  watch  a  sun- 
set. Oh,  I've  witnessed  them  since  April  26,  but  I've  not  really  looked  at  them, 
not  regarded  them.  There  are  the  times  I've  glimpsed  one,  almost  acciden- 


WORLDSAPART  243 

tally,  outside  the  small  window  in  my  entryway  that  faces  the  east,  a  window 
more  inclined  toward  sunrises,  not  sunsets.  This  window  welcomes  the  sun  as 
it  catches  on  the  crystal  suspended  there,  splashing  purples,  blues,  oranges 
and  hope,  early,  very  early  in  the  morning.  By  sunset,  the  parade  of  color  has 
long  marched  past. 

But  one  night  I'll  realize  how  much  more  beautiful  it  is  to  go  out  my  front 
door,  cross  the  street,  sit  on  a  familiar  but  lonely  park  bench,  and  observe  the 
real  thing  facing  west.  It  doesn't  explode  into  sudden  bursts  of  color,  but  eases 
into  a  full  palette  of  shade,  form,  and  light.  I  watch  as  the  same  colors  I  some- 
times noticed  in  the  morning  are  given  back  to  me  in  the  evening,  in  full. 
Purple,  blue,  orange.  I'm  not  filled  with  the  same  hope  I  carry  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  rather,  burdened  by  memory. 

I  could  just  about  hear  his  voice  as  I  sat  there.  As  other  teenagers  and 
youngsters  gravitated  toward  each  other  in  the  street,  strolled  toward  their 
homes,  or  drove  by  me  without  really  looking,  the  bass  beating  in  their  cars, 
cruising,  their  voices  triggered  an  image  of  my  own  young  teen,  then  sixteen, 
laughing,  full  of  hope,  a  very  temporal  hope  — mostly,  a  mind  busy  with  a 
new  strategy  on  how  to  con  Mom  out  of  something  tangible,  name-brand 
shoes,  or  jeans,  or  something  else  costly,  cool,  sweet. 

My  mom  once  told  me  that  my  parenting  skills  bordered  on  contributing  to 
the  delinquency  of  a  minor.  Because  he  always  knew  how  to  charm  me,  how 
to  make  me  smile,  I  was  always  "The  Rescuer."  He  used  to  call  me  Momma 
when  he  wanted  something.  I  got  called  Momma  a  lot. 

Parents  spend  a  great  deal  of  effort  teaching  their  young  how  to  use  time 
well,  how  to  manage  it,  how  to  spend  it  economically.  But  maybe,  sometimes, 
they  should  just  go  fishing,  boating,  or  to  a  movie,  something  that  means  little 
more  than  killing  time  together.  Sometimes.  Aaron  and  I  went  fishing  and 
boating  a  lot.  We  watched  many  movies  together.  Military,  usually. 

On  December  20,  2003,  at  age  forty-eight,  I  graduated  with  a  Bachelor  of 
Arts  in  English.  My  very  proud  son  flew  in  from  Camp  Pendleton  to  attend 
the  ceremony  and  to  celebrate  Christmas  with  family. 

Aaron  had  returned  from  overseas  duty  in  July  2003.  He'd  been  with  the 
Marines,  some  of  the  first  ground  troops  to  cross  the  border  between  Kuwait 
and  Iraq,  and  he  was  due  to  go  back  in  February  2004. 

At  my  graduation  ceremony,  Aaron  sat  through  the  many  speeches.  He 
struggled  through  as  each  of  the  PhD  candidates  received  their  just  dues,  made 


244  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

it  through  the  many  master's  degrees,  a  fraction  of  the  bachelor's  degrees,  and 
then  right  before  his  mother's  name  was  called,  right  before  I  walked,  my  son 
had  to  go  to  the  bathroom.  I  graduated  while  Aaron  was  in  the  head. 

I  kind  of  smiled  when  I  first  heard.  I  would  have  been  disappointed  had  it 
been  any  other  way. 

When  we  were  leaving  the  building,  Aaron  stopped  at  one  of  the  conces- 
sions there  in  the  United  Spirit  Arena  and  used  his  last  few  bucks  to  bless  me 
with  a  bouquet  of  white  roses.  He  always  knew  how  to  charm  me.  How  to 
make  me  smile. 

Aaron  and  I  used  to  joust  with  each  other  when  we  were  alone,  when  he 
could  finally  be  still. 

"I  love  you,"  I'd  say. 

"I  love  you  more,"  he'd  respond. 

"No,  I  love  you  the  very  most." 

"No,  I  love  you  the  mostest  of  the  most." 

"I  love  you  more  than  all  the  eyelashes  in  the  world." 

On  and  on  we'd  go. 

When  Aaron  was  back  on  the  USS  Rushmore,  he  e-mailed  me.  "I  love  you 
more  than  all  the  sand  in  Iraq."  He  always  one-upped  me. 

After  Aaron  was  killed,  his  platoon  leader  sent  me  twelve  white  roses  laced 
with  ribbon  and  tiny  dried  petals  of  baby's  breath.  One  rose,  from  Lance  Cor- 
poral Austin,  is  pressed  in  waxed  paper.  Another  rose,  from  First  Lieutenant 
McCoy,  is  pressed  in  tissue.  The  two  white  roses  stand  together,  pressed  be- 
tween two  small  panes  of  glass  in  my  "Girl's  Bathroom." 

They  both  bless  and  break  my  heart  today. 

At  times,  I  try  to  go  back  in  my  head  before  there  was  an  Aaron.  I'll  listen  to 
music  from  the  sixties  or  seventies.  I'll  try  to  recall  that  I  had  a  life  before 
Aaron.  But  in  the  end,  this  does  nothing. 

Words  like  Forever  and  Eternity  really  mean  something  to  me  now.  Before, 
when  I  would  read  these  words,  I  wouldn't  really  concentrate  on  their  true  de- 
finition, on  their  real  essence.  I  guess  I  thought  they  were  for  later.  Now,  I  have 
a  real  need,  a  down  to  the  white  sand  of  my  bones  aching  need,  to  know  that 
forever  and  eternity  started  long  before  my  time,  way  before  Aaron,  before  the 
Marines  came  to  my  home  That  Day,  and  then  later,  brought  me  his  watch. 
Every  day  there  are  gifts.  And  every  day,  things  are  taken  away. 

Aaron's  watch  stopped  somewhere  between  late  afternoon  on  the  twenty- 


WORLDS     APART 

eighth  of  November  and  noon  on  the  thirtieth.  I  learned  that  when  the  bat- 
ten goes  dead  on  a  digital  watch  — it's  gone.  Blank.  Not  even  a  zero.  The 
watch  now  rests  in  an  Americana  chest  in  his  bedroom. 

Since  Aaron's  death,  I've  experienced  the  first  Mother's  Day  without  my 
son,  his  would-be  twenty-second  birthday  without  him.  and  the  homecom- 
ing of  his  unit  without  him.  Right  around  the  corner  are  his  unit's  Marine 
Ball  (their  229th  Birthday*  and  our  first  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas  with- 
out him.  Many  of  the  "firsts"  will  then  be  behind  me.  I  don't  know  if  the 
seconds,  thirds,  and  fourths  get  any  better.  I  imagine  they  become  more 
manageable. 

At  times  I  believe  I  can  learn  to  live  a  life  without  my  son.  After  all.  I  must. 
I  am  certain  there  are  other  mothers  who  have  lost  their  boys— car  accidents. 
war,  illness  — who  can  shop  for  dinner  at  the  local  grocer's  without  the 
macaroni-and-cheese  boxes  suddenly  causing  them  grief.  Moms  who  can  roll 
sausage  balls  without  tears;  perhaps  the  festive  food  would  even  cause  a  smile. 
But  the  memory  of  him  is  planted  in  everything  around  me.  Inside  of  me.  So 
much  is  gone.  Him,  of  course.  But  so  much  of  him  has  been  lost,  is  fading, 
breaking  down.  His  blanket,  his  watch,  his  uniform.  The  military  uses  com- 
mercial washers  to  clean  personal  items  before  they  are  handed  over  to  the  fam- 
ilies. Understandable,  but  it  leaves  a  synthetic  laundry  smell.  .Aaron's  scent  was 
gone.  These  were  the  realizations,  the  moments  I  most  dreaded.  And  they 
came  out  of  nowhere. 

My  faith  doesn't  equal  that  of  Job's.  I  question.  Why  has  God  cut  the  fruit 
from  my  vine!'  Taken  the  only  child  that  remained?  Left  me  with  no  hope  for 
a  grandchild?  I'm  certain  there  can  be  no  more.  No  more  children. 

And  yet  I  have  no  particular  animosity  for  my  son's  killer.  He's  a  nameless 
and  faceless  combatant  to  me.  Should  I  ever  have  the  opportunity  to  meet 
him,  I  hope  that  I'd  forgive  him.  To  me,  the  buck  stops  with  the  Father.  His 
power  stings  at  times.  But  He's  listened  to  me:  perhaps  He's  even  cried  with 
me.  And  yes,  I  do  know  what  I'm  talking  about  here.  Ifs  a  belief,  man.  .Aaron's 
words.  You  either  believe  in  God  or  xou  don't.  \es.  I'd  forgive.  I  do  forgive. 
There  is  absolutelv  nothing  I'd  do  to  keep  myself  from  spending  etemitv  with 
God  and  .Aaron. 

The  moments  pass.  I  can't  sav  how.  It's  not  of  my  doing.  I  find  comfort  in 
the  late-night  phone  calls  from  Jerrod.  .Aaron's  best  friend,  or  Tiffanv.  the  bro- 
ken and  faithful  fiancee  .Aaron  left  behind.  Those  trusted  ones  who  Ye  seen  fit 


246  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

to  adopt  me.  Here,  with  these  people,  within  this  grafting,  He  gives  back  to 
me  not  only  a  part  of  Aaron,  but  also  a  stronger  ear  to  hear  them,  to  listen  to 
who  they  really  are,  an  eye,  no  longer  singular,  now  that  my  son  does  not  soak 
up  all  the  light.  They  become  more  than  an  extension  of  him.  Perhaps  I'm 
beginning  to  know  them  in  the  way  Aaron  took  the  time  to. 

He  proposed  to  Tiffany  on  March  18.  They  sent  catalogs  back  and  forth 
with  circles  around  the  engagement  rings  each  liked.  She  bought  her  wed- 
ding dress  on  April  26,  2004.  That  Day.  Two  days  before  they  were  to  get  mar- 
ried, on  December  11,  2004, 1  wrote  her  a  letter. 

To  my  Darling  Daughter,  one  not  given  to  me  by  birth,  but  by  God  all  the 
same. 

This  ring  cannot  replace  the  ring  you  hoped  for.  I  cannot  replace 
Aaron,  but  I  will  be  here  for  as  long  as  you  should  ever  need  me,  in  what- 
ever capacity  that  life  and  grace  both  grant  us. 

It  is  the  color  purple:  your  favorite  color  and  my  favorite  color. 

It  is  the  color  of  his  Purple  Heart. 

It  is  the  birthstone  of  the  last  month  you  physically  touched  him. 

Amethyst  is  your  birthstone. 

The  color  purple  is  associated  with  royalty.  Don't  ever  settle  for  being 
loved  less  than  a  Princess,  less  than  the  Bride  of  Christ,  which  is  who  you 
are. 

I  love  you.  Aaron  loved  you  before,  and  I  feel  his  love  for  all  of  us  now. 
It  has  been  perfected  in  a  way  that  we  cannot  even  understand  while  we 
are  here.  Just  trust  The  One  Who  gave  Aaron  to  us.  Just  trust. 

Thank  you  for  loving  my  son,  Tiffany.  Thank  you  for  giving  him  all 
that  hope  and  all  those  dreams  while  he  was  there  in  Iraq.  Thank  you  for 
loving  me. 

God  bless  you;  give  you  strength  and  peace.  Hold  you  in  His  merciful 
arms.  Show  you  new  and  beautiful,  deep,  rich  and  royal  color  in  your  life. 

Always, 
De'on 

On  a  day  in  which  I  felt  pretty  bruised,  I  went  over  to  my  mom's  house.  She 
was  sitting  out  in  her  backyard,  a  yard  that  at  times  I  feel  she  must  have  de- 
signed with  the  Garden  of  Eden  in  mind,  but  anyway,  it's  relaxing.  Habitat  is 


WORLDSAPART  247 

well  and  alive.  I  sat  down  at  one  of  the  sitting  areas  and  looked  up  at  her.  I 
guess  my  eyes  must  have  said  everything.  I  began,  "Mom,  how  long  before 
the  bad  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  me  in  midsentence  and  held  up  her  index  and  middle  finger. 
"De'on,  I  asked  Dr.  Chatwell"  — a  family  doctor  since  I  was  a  babe  — "that 
very  same  question.  I  knew  that  he'd  witnessed  many  deaths,  and  dealt  with 
the  survivors'  grief  later,  and  when  I  asked  him,  he  said  two  summers."  She 
continued,  "The  Indians  also  say  two  summers,  so  if  you  lose  someone  in  the 
winter,  then  it  takes  longer.  By  the  third  summer,  there  are  more  smiles  than 
tears." 

I  sat  there  for  a  moment  and  then  thought,  okay,  then  there  is  some  end 
to  this. 

And  for  my  benefit,  she  added,  "We  lost  Aaron  in  the  spring,  so  we  won't 
have  to  wait  as  long." 

I  really  don't  know  how  to  describe  that  moment  of  finding  those  house 
shoes.  First  of  all,  there  was  a  history  to  them.  For  several  years  in  a  row,  at 
Christmas,  one  of  Aaron's  Santa  gifts  was  a  pair  of  Dollar  Store  house  shoes. 
It  was  kind  of  a  joke,  in  a  way,  because  Aaron  loved  the  name-brand  things. 
I'd  always  get  these  house  shoes  because  we  liked  to  slouch  around  in  our 
comfies  on  Christmas  and  weekends.  They  were  comfortable,  cost  about  four 
bucks,  kind  of  cheap  suede  things,  beige.  Each  year,  Aaron  would  rework  the 
house  shoes  by  taking  a  Nike  tab  off  of  an  old  pair  of  tennis  shoes  and  affix- 
ing it  to  the  back;  or,  on  this  particular  pair,  he'd  taken  a  Sharpie  pen  and 
drawn  zebra  stripes  all  up  and  down  on  them.  These  shoes  were  stuffed  into 
a  closet  for  things  we  didn't  really  need.  At  least,  thought  we  didn't  really 
need. 

I'd  already  been  through  several  rounds  of  "looking  for  him."  Articles,  pic- 
tures, his  voice,  things  like  that.  He  used  to  chew  on  the  caps  of  pens,  his  dog 
tags,  everything,  so  I'd  already  saved  a  few  things  I'd  found  like  that.  You're 
not  ever  preparing  for  this  day,  so  everything  had  pretty  much  been  washed, 
given  away,  or  thrown  out  when  Aaron  deployed.  I  did  find  his  voice  on  a  cou- 
ple of  tapes,  including  when  he  was  in  the  third  grade,  and  he  was  studying 
for  a  spelling  test,  spelling  dinosaur  words  over  and  over.  Then  his  voice  for  a 
few  minutes  back  in  '98,  I  think,  and  then,  after  his  first  trip  to  Iraq  when  a 
news  station  interviewed  him.  Each  and  every  new  little  discovery  is  uplifting 


248  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

for  a  while,  it  lends  hope,  and  then  you  remember  why  you're  even  doing 
this,  and  so  it  goes. 

Then  one  day,  I  was  in  that  closet,  and  I  looked  down  and  saw  that  pair  of 
house  shoes,  the  lizard-striped  ones.  They  brought  a  smile  and  tears  and 
when  I  grabbed  them  up,  noticed  a  kind  of  grimy  stain  in  the  bottom,  I 
sniffed,  over  and  over.  I  cried,  of  course,  but  I  was  still  so  happy.  It  was  the 
smell  of  his  feet.  No  One  ever  expects  that  kind  of  smell  to  be  a  gift,  but  to  me, 
that  day,  it  was,  and  still  every  once  in  a  while,  I  go  and  get  them  out  of  his 
room.  Now  they  sit  by  his  bed,  close  to  our  two  pairs  of  boots:  the  jungle  boots 
I  wore  in  Panama,  and  his  pair,  from  Iraq.  I  can  smell  him  better  in  the  house 
shoes  than  the  boots. 

Hennessy  once  went  to  Aaron's  bedroom  door  (it  was  shut),  scratched  on 
it,  whined,  went  to  the  front  door,  did  the  same,  and  then  just  laid  down,  sort 
of  depressed.  (He's  by  nature  a  depressed  dog,  anyway.)  My  animals  are  the 
ones  who  witness  my  grief  the  most.  They  see  me  in  the  day,  crying.  And  I 
wonder  how  much  they  know.  I  can't  talk  to  Hennessy  in  any  real  way.  I  wish 
I  could.  I  don't  want  him  to  feel  deserted.  The  other  night,  he  went  into 
Aaron's  room  at  least  three  or  four  times,  and  whined.  I  keep  the  door  opened 
most  of  the  time,  now.  It  just  seems  easier  that  way.  That's  the  only  time  he's 
done  that.  Hennessy,  however,  has  no  reaction  to  the  house  shoes,  I've  won- 
dered about  it  over  and  over.  It's  strange  how  these  things  are. 

The  days  have  become  different.  Sorrow  is  a  tiny  tile  in  the  mosaic,  which 
doesn't  lessen  the  sadness,  and  flashes  of  grief  still  come.  But  I  believe  that 
time  does  heal.  I  think  it  teaches.  I  now  belong  to  organizations  and  support 
groups  of  which  a  mother  never  imagines  becoming  a  member.  While  others 
may  recognize  the  scar  of  sorrow  and  ask  about  it,  or  perhaps  because  of  their 
own  scar,  they  will  turn  their  head  away,  we  share  in  the  sorrow,  and  in  the 
hope— a  new  hope,  one  that  has  been  bought  with  tears  and  prayers,  not  just 
day  by  day,  but  minute  by  minute.  I  do  think  that  time  is  on  our  side.  It's  easy 
to  talk  and  write  about  sacrifice,  it's  quite  another  to  live  it.  But  like  the  sons 
and  daughters  we  buried,  we  want  to  be  strong.  We  hope  they  are  proud  of  us, 
because  God  knows  how  very  proud  we  are  of  them. 

We  aren't  always  sure  in  this  life  if  the  words  we  speak  or  those  we  write 
will  be  our  last.  Long  after  the  day  Aaron  died,  I  found  a  letter  I  wrote  to 
Aaron  that  he  never  received.  It's  dated  April  26,  2004.  Aaron  was  already 
dead.  But  he  was  alive  when  I  wrote  it.  To  me,  at  the  time. 


WORLDSAPART  249 

Hi  Son, 

Well,  the  news  is  bad.  Another  Marine  killed,  and  it  sounds  like  your 
unit  was  the  one  in  the  firelight.  Ten  others  wounded.  I  am  just  about  as 
heartsick  as  I  care  to  get.  Our  prayers  are  with  you  and  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  the  very  best  of  blessings  for  you,  for  yours,  for  all  of  our  troops.  I 
pray  that  this  will  end  soon.  I  am  so  sick  of  it. 

I'm  sorry.  I  know  you  don't  need  this.  You  live  with  it,  and  you  and  all 
of  the  troops  are  appreciated  by  so  many.  We  love  you  and  appreciate  all 
you  are  giving  up. 

I  paid  half  your  Star  off  with  $600.00.  So  just  another  $600.00  and 
you  should  be  out  of  debt,  I  think.  Your  last  2  deposits  have  been  around 
866.00.  Your  Sunray  State  Bank  loan  comes  out  in  an  allotment. 

How  are  Jose,  Jamie,  Brent,  Barnes,  and  Koci?  Please  give  them  all  my 
love. 

The  2  letters  I  got  from  you  the  other  day  were  a  month  old.  I  mailed 
Allie  hers,  and  hopefully,  you  will  get  everyone's  addresses  that  I  sent  you 
pretty  soon.  If  you  ever  get  the  chance  to  drop  Granny  and  Grandpa  a  let- 
ter, I  know  they'd  be  thrilled. 

I  love  Tiffany.  I  can't  wait  for  her  to  be  here. 

Please  take  care,  son.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart. 

Do  you  get  to  use  the  pillow  any? 

My  love  and  prayers,  always, 
MOM 

It's  not  really  something  of  his.  He  never  received  it.  But  still,  it's  ours.  Just 
like  so  many  things  are  ours,  now. 

I  add  later,  in  my  mind,  a  postscript.  What  I  would  write  to  him  if  I  could. 
I  miss  you,  Aaron,  with  all  of  me,  all  of  the  time.  Every  moment,  I  was,  am, 
and  will  always  remain  so  very  proud  of  you,  who  you  were,  how  you  went 
down,  what  you  stood  for  and  those  you  fought  for.  For  me.  For  us.  For  your 
Marines,  your  brothers.  They  awarded  you  the  Silver  Star,  Aaron.  They  loved 
you  too,  and  miss  you.  I  guess  I  just  never  really  believed  that  your  time 
would  come  before  my  time.  But  son,  you  know,  we  are  forever.  By  the  grace 
of  God  I  will  join  you  some  day.  I'll  meet  the  mystery  of  it  all,  too,  and  we  will 
be  together.  How  good  it  will  be  to  see  you  again. 


CHAPTER    FIVE 


■p       yl 


THE   PHYSICAL  AND   EMOTIONAL   TOLL   OF   WAR 


Lieutenant  Colonel  Frank  Correa,  July  2003,  on  a  medevac  flight 
of  wounded  troops.  Photo  used  by  permission. 


The  scene  on  the  aircraft  was  hard  to  believe.  We  had  row  after  row  of  litters 
stacked  three-  and  sometimes  four-high  with  patients.  They  seemed  to  go  all 
the  way  to  the  back  of  the  plane.  The  smell  of  unwashed  bodies  and 
infected  wounds  filled  the  air.  Combat  wounds  are  by  nature  dirty,  and  in 
spite  of  thorough  cleaning,  there  are  still  a  lot  of  infections.  Some  were 
amputees  and  missing  parts  of  their  bodies.  One  guy  had  stepped  on  a  mine, 
lost  part  of  his  feet,  and  had  small  shrapnel  wounds  covering  his  face.  Most 
of  our  patients  had  either  gunshot  or  shrapnel  wounds  to  the  arms  or  legs. 
One  of  the  most  critical  patients  was  a  guy  injured  in  a  vehicle  accident  and 
had  serious  head  wounds.  Despite  his  swollen  and  discolored  face,  he  was 
going  to  make  it.  He  was  lucky.  We  had  another  guy  with  a  bad  gunshot 
wound  to  the  abdomen.  His  internal  injuries  were  significant,  and  the  best  I 
could  do  was  give  him  maximum  doses  of  his  pain  meds  to  enable  him  to 
sleep  as  much  as  possible.  Whenever  he  was  awake  I  saw  in  his  eyes  the 
pain,  fatigue,  and  fear  he  felt.  I  will  never  forget  his  expression,  or  him. 
Another  guy  needed  pain  pills  and  told  me  that  the  hospital  had  lost  them 
along  with  all  of  his  personal  belongings.  Ironically  the  thing  he  felt  most 
upset  about  was  their  losing  his  pictures  of  him  and  his  buddies  in  Iraq.  I  felt 
overwhelmed  by  the  sheer  number  of  patients  we  were  treating,  and  I  had 
been  awake  and  on  the  go  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  Making  critical 
decisions  and  keeping  track  of  everyone  when  my  mind  and  body  screamed 
for  sleep  made  the  missions  all  the  more  difficult.  But  I  knew  I  really  had 
nothing  to  complain  about  because  while  our  discomfort  was  temporary, 
many  of  the  wounded  faced  a  lifetime  of  hardships.  For  them,  this  trip  was 
only  the  beginning. 

—Forty-four-year-old  Lieutenant  Colonel  Frank  Correa  describing,  based  on 
notes  from  his  April  2003  journals,  his  service  as  a  medical  crew  director 
with  the  U.S.  Air  Force's  491st  Expeditionary  Aeromedical  Evacuation  Unit. 
During  his  five-month  deployment,  Correa  and  his  crew  cared  for  more 
than  seven  hundred  troops  injured  in  Iraq.  After  coming  back  to  the  States 
in  August  2003,  Correa  returned  to  his  job  as  a  paramedic  with  the  Los 
Angeles  Fire  Department. 


252  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


WHAT'S  GOING  ON  OVER   HERE 

E-mail 
Sergeant  Timothy  J.  Gaestel 


Like  most  of  the  troops  at  the  time,  Sergeant  Timothy  James  Gaestel  was  in 
high  spirits.  "Hey,  dad  this  is  your  son,"  Gaestel  began  a  hastily  written  e- 
mail  home  on  September  21,  2003,  while  just  south  of  Baghdad.  "I  finally 
get  to  write  yall  a  letter.  First  off  let  me  tell  you  we  made  it  here  safe  and  so 
far,  but  everything  is  going  very  good."  The  ground  invasion  of  Iraq,  only 
months  before,  was  considered  a  military  triumph,  and  the  hostilities  flar- 
ing up  in  scattered  parts  of  the  country  since  the  fall  of  Baghdad  seemed 
sporadic  and  containable.  A  twenty-two-year-old  native  of  Austin,  Texas, 
Gaestel  had  always  wanted  to  be  a  soldier  (both  of  his  parents  had  served  in 
the  U.S.  Army),  and  he  was  already  on  his  second  tour  of  duty— the  first 
had  been  in  Afghanistan— with  the  i-^igth  Airborne  Field  Artillery  Unit, 
82nd  Airborne.  Despite  the  upbeat  mood  conveyed  at  the  beginning  of  his 
message,  however,  Gaestel's  e-mail  was  a  stark  reminder  that  the  fighting  in 
Iraq  was  far  from  over.  "Now  Dad,  I  know  that  you  have  already  received  a 
phone  call  that  tells  you  I  am  okay,"  he  continued,  "but  I  want  you  to  know 
exactly  what  happened  [when  our  convoy  was  hit  by  a  roadside  bomb].  ..." 


7e  were  heading  south  down  highway  eight  and  I  was  gunning  for  the 
f  2nd  truck.  Byrd  was  driving  and  my  chief  was  the  passenger.  We  got 
off  highway  eight  onto  Ambush  Alley  the  route  we  didn't  take  going  up  there. 
I  was  in  the  back  of  the  truck  with  my  240B  machine  gun  and  the  S-2  wanted 
to  ride  in  the  back  of  the  truck  with  me  since  I  was  the  only  one  back  there. 
We  were  at  the  end  of  the  convoy  at  this  point  so  we  were  really  hauling  ass 
driving  down  the  wrong  side  of  the  road  and  all  that  just  so  we  could  get  to 
the  front  of  the  convoy.  My  buddy  Eddie  was  a  bad  ass  driver  and  keeps  us  for 
getting  in  wreck  a  few  times.  But  still  able  to  get  the  mission  done.  The  X.O. 
truck  was  behind  us  and  needed  to  get  in  front,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that  I 
had  his  gatoraide  I  was  supposed  too  through  to  him  at  the  next  time  they 
passed  us. 

At  that  exact  moment  a  loud  and  thunderous  boom  went  off  and  pushed 
me  all  the  way  to  the  front  of  where  my  240B  was  mounted.  I  knew  something 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  253 

had  just  happened  and  when  I  turned  around  I  could  see  to  large  smoke 
clouds  on  each  side  of  the  road.  The  first  thing  I  had  thought  was  I  had  just 
been  hit  in  the  back  by  and  IED.  It  wasn't  like  I  felt  as  if  I  was  going  to  die, 
more  like  "man  that  really  hurt."  At  that  moment  I  reached  around  and  felt 
my  back  and  pulled  my  hand  back  and  it  was  cover  with  blood,  before  that  I 
honestly  thought  it  had  just  hit  my  IBA.  It  turns  out  that  it  had  hit  my  IBA  and 
gone  right  through  it. 

I  laid  down  on  the  back  of  the  truck  but  this  didn't  seem  like  a  good  ideal 
and  I  didn't  have  my  weapon  and  had  to  yell  at  the  S-2  to  give  me  my  weapon, 
I  didn't  want  an  ambush  to  happen  and  for  me  not  have  my  weapon.  So  I  stood 
up  on  my  knees  and  yelled  again  to  him  to  man  the  240B,  he  was  scared  but 
that's  what  happened  when  you  don't  ever  get  any  kind  of  training  and  you  sit 
in  an  office  all  day.  This  guy  didn't  react  very  well,  when  I  showed  him  my  back 
he  started  flipping  out  and  yelling  "oh,  G  you  got  him  man,  oh  he's  hit  bad 
man."  This  is  the  last  thing  that  you  tell  someone  who  has  just  been  hit  in  the 
back  and  is  bleeding.  As  you  can  imagine  I  was  pretty  pissed  off  at  this  point  and 
I  showed  my  anger  toward  the  people  in  th  town  that  we  were  driving  through, 
I  had  my  M-4  rifle  at  the  ready  and  my  trigger  finger  on  the  trigger  and  just  wait- 
ing for  someone  to  give  me  a  reason  to  have  me  put  it  from  safe  to  semi.  I  main- 
tained my  military  bearing  as  well  as  one  could  in  that  situation.  I  sure  wanted 
to  shoot  the  bastard  that  had  just  set  the  IED  off.  The  people  in  this  town  must 
have  thought  I  was  crazy  because  I  was  cursing  and  yelling  and  wanting  some- 
one to  give  me  one  reason  why  they  shouldn't  have  me  kill  them.  .  .  . 

As  we  were  making  our  way  back  to  the  FOB  at  that  last  street,  I  could  no 
longer  sit  up  straight  and  my  back  was  killing  me  now.  There  was  a  Major 
who  was  our  field  surgeon  waiting  for  me  in  the  front  of  the  gate  to  check  me 
out.  This  guy  didn't  reassure  me  either.  When  I  told  him  that  I  was  okay  he 
looked  at  me  and  said,  "look  son,  you  may  have  internal  bleeding."  Now  I  was 
scared.  They  rushed  me  to  the  Aide  station,  where  I  talked  to  some  Sergeant 
Majors  and  the  Col.  and  told  them  about  the  kites.  In  like  15  minutes,  in  my 
brown  underwear,  green  socks  up  to  my  knees  and  a  blanket,  I  was  rushed  out 
to  the  Landing  Zone  where  a  chopper  took  me  to  "cash  28"  a  hospital  in 
down  town  Baghdad.  The  flight  there  was  fast  and  I  thought  to  myself,  "how 
small  our  world  was  from  being  in  an  AC  hospital  from  where  I  was  living  in 
a  crappy  army  tent.  The  flight  through  Baghdad  was  amazing  to  you  could 
see  the  whole  city  and  all  the  building  and  stuff  it  was  very  strange.  The  heli- 
copter piolet  was  a  bad  ass  as  well,  he  had  to  do  a  war  time  landing  which  is 


254  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

really  fast  and  quick  it  was  cool.  Now  Dad  I  hadn't  seen  a  female  in  21  days 
and  so  you  could  imagine  I  was  excited  when  I  looked  down  off  the  heli- 
copter as  we  were  coming  in  for  a  landing  to  see  a  very  beautiful  woman  (it 
could  be  she  is  beautiful  because  I  haven't  seen  a  woman  in  awhile).  Now 
when  I  landed  a  female,  second  Lt.  took  me  into  the  ER  room  with  no  one 
else  in  the  whole  room  except  her  and  me.  She  came  up  to  me  and  ripped  off 
my  blanket  and  grabbed  my  brown  undies  ripped  those  off  to  and  gave  me  a 
capater.  Now  that  was  more  painful  than  the  IED  and  way  not  what  I  was 
thinking  was  going  to  happen  when  she  grabbed  my  blanket  off  me.  Then  she 
gave  me  some  morphine  and  I  was  good. 

One  thing  that  bothered  me  is  the  way  they  treated  people,  just  because 
there  always  around  stuff  like  that  doesn't  mean  that  they  have  to  act  like  it's 
nothing  to  get  hit  in  the  back  by  a  bomb.  They  did  an  x-ray  of  my  back  and 
found  that  I  had  two  pieces  of  shrapnel  in  my  back,  I  asked  the  doctor  if  I  could 
keep  the  shrapnel  and  he  said  "yea  sure,  forever."  They  weren't  going  to  be  tak- 
ing the  shrapnel  out.  So  yeah  now  your  son  is  going  to  have  two  pieces  of  metal 
in  his  back  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  I  was  cleaned  up  and  taken  to  patient  hold.  A 
place  that  is  something  out  of  a  movie.  It  was  horrible  to  see  all  the  soldiers  with 
missing  legs  and  arms  and  bandages  everywhere.  Shortly  afterwards  I  was  given 
some  morphine  and  passed  out.  When  I  woke  up  Col.  Smith  CSM  Burgos, 
LTC.  Layton,  CSM  Howard  and  our  Chaplin  came  in.  The  first  thing  LTC 
Layton  said  to  me  was  "well  me  and  the  Sergeant  Major  were  taking  and  you 
are  the  1st  person  to  receive  the  Purple  Heart  in  the  loyalty  battalion  since 
Grenada(  1983).  Its  quite  crazy  the  turn  of  events  that  have  lead  me  here.  A  pur- 
ple heart  recipient,  I  guess  all  it  means  is  that  some  guy  got  me  before  I  could 
get  him.  We  will  joke  about  this  all  someday  Dad.  I  told  them  I  didn't  want  you 
all  to  find  out  about  this  because  im  not  leaving  Iraq  and  I  dint  want  you  to 
worry.  I  know  your  going  too  anyway  but  the  reason  I  shared  this  story  here  was 
so  you  know  what  it's  like  to  be  here  and  that  the  people  that  im  with  all  look 
after  one  another.  I  guess  it's  really  crazy  that  I  volunteered  to  stay  even  though 
I  was  hit  in  the  back  with  shrapnel,  and  as  soon  as  I  can  im  going  to  return  to  my 
unit.  I  don't  want  mom  to  worry  so  don't  read  the  detailed  parts  of  this  letter.  I 
LOVE  YALL  and  ill  be  home  soon  enough.  Let  everyone  know  what's  going  on 
over  here,  let  them  here  it  from  a  soldier.  This  is  my  First  Letter  Home. 

LOVE  ALWAYS 
Your  son 
Spc.  Timothy  J.  Gaestel 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  255 


After  recovering  from  his  wounds,  Gaestel  remained  in  Iraq  for  seven  more 
months  before  returning  to  the  United  States.  In  August  2005,  after  four 
years  of  military  service,  he  was  honorably  discharged. 


PROLIFERATION 

Journal 
Captain  Robert  Swope 


U.S.  Army  Captain  Robert  Swope  shipped  off  to  the  Middle  East  in  the 
early  spring  of  2003  and  served  in  Iraq  for  more  than  fourteen  months,  pri- 
marily with  the  1st  Armored  Divisions  2nd  Brigade  Combat  Team.  Swope 
was  stationed  mostly  in  Baghdad,  and  he  and  his  unit  were  scheduled  to  re- 
turn home  in  March  2004.  But  with  more  troops  needed  to  combat  the  ris- 
ing insurgency,  their  final  homecoming  was  delayed  for  several  more 
months.  Swope  kept  a  journal  during  his  deployment,  and  in  the  fall  of 
2003  the  twenty-five-year-old  infantry  officer  began  recording  how  dramati- 
cally Baghdad  was  changing.  He  was  also  concerned  with  what  was  turning 
out  to  be  the  most  lethal  new  threat  to  U.S.  forces. 

October  15,  2003 

I  took  my  first  trip  through  these  streets  in  the  middle  of  April  when  my  pla- 
toon was  tasked  as  a  security  escort  to  retrieve  the  wreckage  of  an  Apache 
helicopter  that  had  been  downed  earlier  in  the  war  and,  I  was  told,  later  shot 
with  one  of  our  own  Sidewinder  missiles  in  an  effort  to  prevent  nearby  Iraqi 
troops  from  acquiring  the  technology  inside.  Back  then  parts  of  the  city  still 
looked  like  an  apocalyptic  nightmare.  Burned-out  tanks,  armored  personnel 
carriers,  overturned  cars,  and  buses  littered  the  streets.  Rubble  was  every- 
where. 

Driving  through  these  same  streets  today  one  sees  a  great  deal  of  differ- 
ence. Everywhere  you  look  is  a  satellite  dish,  and  Internet  cafes  have  sprouted 
up  across  the  city,  both  links  to  the  outside  world  that  were  illegal  under  the 
previous  regime.  Outdoor  restaurants  and  ice  cream  shops  are  crowded  with 
business.  It's  a  few  hours  before  curfew  starts,  and  the  streets  are  still  con- 
gested with  vehicle  traffic.  Makeshift  stands  along  the  roads  sell  gasoline,  cig- 
arettes, sodas,  and  soap.  The  kids  still  chase  you,  except  they  picked  up  a  little 


256  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

English  during  the  summer  and  can  now  say  everything  from  "I  love  you"  to 
"fuck  you." 

Perhaps  the  newest  and  most  disturbing  trend  is  the  proliferation  of  im- 
provised explosive  devices.  To  date,  more  troops  have  been  killed  or  wounded 
by  IEDs  or  IED-initiated  ambushes  than  any  other  cause.  Unfortunately 
these  devices  are  becoming  increasingly  sophisticated,  with  remote  con- 
trolled detonators  and  elaborate  concealment  techniques,  increasing  the 
danger  to  both  Coalition  forces  and  the  innocent  Iraqis  who  happen  to  be 
nearby  when  one  goes  off,  and  who  almost  always  bear  the  brunt  of  the  dam- 
age. 

November  8 

Once  a  week  on  Saturday  nights  in  the  battalion  theater,  we  have  a  profes- 
sional development  class  or  briefing  for  all  the  commissioned  and  noncom- 
missioned officers  in  the  battalion.  Tonight's  class  is  on  the  battalion's  battle 
drill  for  what  to  do  when  encountering  IEDs.  The  group  discusses  techniques 
that  have  been  used  to  hide  them  as  well  as  other  issues  relating  to  reacting  to 
IEDs  once  they've  been  discovered,  such  as  the  ambushes  that  sometimes  fol- 
low. 

About  five  minutes  into  the  discussion,  a  private  comes  into  the  theater 
and  whispers  to  the  sergeant  major  that  the  S3,  the  battalion's  operations  offi- 
cer, is  needed  in  the  TOC.  The  S3  rushes  out  and  then  comes  back  to  get  the 
headquarters  company  commander  who  leaves  with  the  scout  platoon  leader. 
The  platoon  leader  comes  back  in  with  a  disconcerted  look  on  his  face  and 
vigorously  motions  for  his  platoon  sergeant  to  get  the  hell  up  out  of  the  meet- 
ing and  leave  with  him. 

The  commander  shakes  his  head  when  he's  told  what's  happened  and 
then  quickly  finishes  his  comments  before  releasing  us.  Stepping  outside  I 
hear  that  there  has  been  an  IED  attack  on  one  of  the  scout  vehicles.  A  few 
minutes  later  I  meet  up  with  Joe,  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  the  battalion  main- 
tenance officer,  and  he  tells  me  that  two  soldiers  have  been  wounded,  but 
that's  all  he  knows.  Joe  and  I  head  up  to  the  roof  of  one  of  the  buildings  and 
hang  out,  drinking  German  near-beer  and  smoking  Macanudo  cigars  in  the 
moonlight.  It  starts  to  rain,  one  of  the  few  downpours  I've  experienced  in  the 
desert,  and  the  raindrops  are  cool  on  our  skin  but  we  don't  leave.  A  little  after 
midnight,  we  climb  down  the  ladder,  and  ask  the  captain  who  gave  the  IED 
class  if  there  is  any  more  news  on  the  scouts.  He  tells  us  the  guys  are  okay. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  257 

November  9 

I'm  woken  up  early  this  morning  by  two  fellow  officers  talking  outside  my 
room,  discussing  the  death  of  one  of  the  soldiers  from  the  company  I  was  in 
during  the  war,  who  died  while  manning  a  security  position  at  the  Baghdad 
airport  last  April.  The  weapons  system  of  the  Bradley  Fighting  Vehicle  he 
was  standing  by  accidentally  discharged  from  an  electrical  surge,  sending  a 
25  mm  tungsten-tipped  sabot  round  through  his  Kevlar  helmet  at  point-blank 
range.  It  had  been  a  sunny  day  at  the  airport  and  my  gunner  helped  carry  the 
stretcher.  When  he  came  back,  his  arms  were  covered  in  blood  and  he 
couldn't  stop  shaking.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  head  and  then  jerked  back  after 
he  touched  his  face  and  realized  his  fingers  were  still  wet.  I  helped  him  wash 
it  off  with  a  bar  of  soap  from  my  toiletry  kit,  and  poured  water  over  him.  I  gave 
my  extra  uniform  to  one  of  the  medics  who  attended  the  injured,  and  whose 
uniform  had  to  be  burned  in  a  trash  pit  with  all  the  other  bandages  and 
clothes.  He  spent  the  next  day  and  a  half  being  saluted  as  an  officer.  After  the 
medevac  helicopter  left,  I  remember  watching  the  dead  soldier's  squad  leader 
walking  back  to  his  platoon  area  carrying  his  weapon  cradled  in  both  arms,  a 
blank,  uncomprehending  and  expressionless  look  on  his  face. 

After  hearing  the  other  officers  talk  about  the  sabot  incident,  I  realize  that 
one  of  the  scouts  died  overnight.  My  heart  begins  to  sink  into  my  stomach. 
Later  that  day  on  my  way  back  from  the  base  post  office,  I  stop  by  the  head- 
quarters building  and  inspect  the  Humvee  hit  by  the  IED.  There  are  gashes 
in  the  steel  of  the  vehicle  and  it's  still  wet  from  when  some  soldiers  cleaned  it 
up  at  0200  in  the  morning.  Because  they  didn't  have  a  hose  to  spray  down  the 
vehicle  with  and  flush  the  blood  out,  they  ended  up  pouring  five-gallon  water 
jugs  over  the  inside,  soaking  up  the  crimson  liquid  with  strips  of  cloth  torn 
from  Army-issue  brown  T-shirts. 

Next  to  the  Humvee  is  a  silver  metal  trash  can  with  the  smoldering  re- 
mains of  the  rags  and  bloodied  equipment  that  couldn't  be  cleaned,  such  as 
the  dead  soldier's  boonie  cap  and  his  used  compression  bandages.  A  thin 
plume  of  white  smoke  rises  up  from  it. 

It  turns  out  the  soldier  died  before  the  medevac  helicopter  even  landed  to 
pick  him  up.  A  fragment  from  the  bomb  hit  him  in  the  back  of  the  neck,  sev- 
ering his  spinal  cord.  I  can't  imagine  how  scared  he  must  have  been  in  those 
final  moments  as  he  saw  his  life  slowly  slipping  away,  bleeding  to  death  and  be- 
ginning to  lose  motor  function.  He  was  a  private,  twenty-two,  and  had  only 
joined  the  unit  about  eight  days  earlier.  It  was  his  first  mission  out  into  the  city. 


258  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


TRY  NOT  TO  WORRY  ABOUT  ME 

E-mail 
Captain  Michael  P.  Sullivan 


Along  with  the  use  oflEDs,  American  troops  were  confronted  with  another 
tactic  that  was  less  frequent  but  equally  terrifying.  "Now  I  don't  want  to 
scare  you  all,  but  I  refuse  to  gloss  this  over,  so  let  me  tell  you  the  story" 
twenty-six-year-old  Captain  Michael  P.  Sullivan  began  a  December  12, 
2003,  e-mail  to  family  members.  Sullivan  was  stationed  at  FOB  Champion 
in  Ar  Ramadi,  Iraq,  with  the  313th  Military  Intelligence  Battalion,  82nd 
Airborne  Division.  The  day  before  Sullivan  sent  his  e-mail,  a  car  bomb  det- 
onated just  outside  the  divisions  headquarters.  "The  damage  was  very  ex- 
tensive—it was  a  very  large  amount  of  explosives,"  Sullivan  wrote.  "The 
pick-up  truck  laden  with  aforementioned  explosives  was  carrying  three  lo- 
cals and  one  escort  soldier.  All  of  them  in  the  vehicle  were  instantly  vapor- 
ized by  the  explosion.  The  effects  of  the  blast  wounded  14  other  US 
soldiers /contractors."  Sullivan  continued: 


rankly,  I  easily  could  have  been  killed  or  at  least  seriously  injured  — it  re- 
ally just  came  down  to  the  timing.  You  see,  whether  it  was  targeted  or 
not,  it  just  so  happens  that  the  vehicle  detonated  right  in  front  of  our  313th  MI 
living  quarters  — my  house  as  it  were.  20  feet  away  at  the  most.  By  a  miracle  of 
timing,  I  was  not  at  that  building  at  the  time,  but  a  lot  of  my  subordinate  sol- 
diers were.  I  talk  about  timing,  because  we  have  a  weight  set  just  outside  our 
living  quarters  which  we  utilize  daily  in  the  afternoons.  We  were  planning  on 
lifting  yesterday  at  1400.  30  minutes  later,  and  I  would  have  been  standing 
outside  that  building,  right  in  the  blast.  .  .  . 

'  As  it  was,  two  of  my  soldiers  were  on  the  front  porch  at  the  time  the  vehi- 
cle drove  by  and  detonated.  They  remembered  how  at  the  last  second  before 
the  explosion,  the  escort  soldier  was  frantically  trying  to  escape  the  truck,  but 
alas  he  was  too  late.  Both  soldiers  on  the  porch  were  blown  backwards 
through  the  front  doors  and  into  the  building.  Both  suffered  injuries,  one 
fairly  severe,  but  they  survived.  It  took  quite  a  while  to  mop  up  all  the  blood. 
The  explosion  of  course  blew  all  the  doors  and  windows  violently  inward, 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  259 

plastering  everyone  inside  with  a  shit-storm  of  glass  and  debris.  Again,  mirac- 
ulously, other  than  some  hearing  damage,  everyone  inside  came  out  mostly 
uninjured.  It  is  incredible,  because  most  that  were  inside  have  no  idea  how 
the  larger  pieces  of  glass  did  not  tear  them  apart.  More  of  my  Battalion  col- 
leagues were  standing  in  front  of  the  building  next  door  — the  concussion  of 
the  explosion  threw  them  15  feet  through  the  air,  but  they  also  came  out 
amazingly  uninjured. 

At  the  time  of  the  explosion,  I  was  working  as  usual  in  the  Division  Head- 
quarters, which  is  about  100  meters  away  from  where  it  detonated  (still  it  was 
damned  close).  Now  remember,  we  hear  loud  explosions  in  the  distance  all 
the  time,  day  and  night,  so  in  the  split  second  that  it  first  detonated,  my  brain 
registered  that  I  was  just  hearing  a  mortar  round  or  IED  explode  in  the  dis- 
tance. In  the  next  second,  all  the  windows  imploded,  and  the  explosion  was 
louder  than  anything  you  can  possibly  imagine.  The  concussion  was  stagger- 
ing. And  understand,  our  wall  was  facing  the  explosion,  and  it  was  lined  with 
huge,  tall  windows.  Everything  went,  and  a  maelstrom  of  debris,  glass  and 
window  frame  came  bursting  into  our  workspace.  Quite  a  few  people  were  in- 
jured by  the  flying  glass.  My  friend  Matt  was  standing  in  the  window  at  the 
time  and  got  blown  about  ten  feet  backwards.  He  luckily  got  away  with  just  a 
couple  of  scratches.  Though  some  glass  rained  down  on  me,  I  was  sitting  in  a 
lucky  spot  and  I  somehow  don't  have  a  scratch  on  me.  You  have  never  seen 
people  move  so  fast  in  your  life  as  they  did  when  they  were  getting  away  from 
those  windows.  At  this  point,  it  had  become  all  very  surreal.  All  I  could  think 
to  my  self  was:  "Boy,  that  was  close,  what  the  hell  just  happened?"  When  we 
looked  back  out  the  window,  the  horror  really  struck  us  in  the  313th,  as  we 
could  tell  the  explosion  originated  from  where  our  living  quarters  are  located. 

We  grabbed  our  weapons  and  took  off  at  a  run  for  our  house,  still  not  quite 
knowing  what  had  happened.  I  knew  that  the  explosion  was  way  too  large  to 
have  been  a  mortar,  but  no  one  knew  exactly  what  was  going  on.  As  we  got 
closer,  you  could  see  charred  body  parts  scattered  everywhere  — although  the 
nucleus  of  carnage  was  at  the  building,  some  parts  were  thrown  for  hundreds 
of  feet,  and  may  not  have  even  been  found  yet.  At  one  point,  we  ran  right  past 
a  head  just  lying  there  on  the  ground,  looking  up  at  us.  There  was  an  acrid 
stench  in  the  air  from  the  expended  munition  — it  is  still  in  the  air  as  we 
speak.  As  we  came  up  to  the  building,  it  was  simply  mass  chaos,  and  the  gawk- 
ing onlookers  were  everywhere.  Our  injured  were  bleeding  profusely,  and  the 


260  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

other  soldiers  who  were  in  the  building  were  frantically  performing  first  aid. 
The  crater  in  front  of  the  building  was  massive.  Charred  vehicle  parts  were 
scattered  everywhere  and  will  probably  be  found  hundreds  of  feet  awav  for 
days  to  come.  Most  of  the  portable  toilets  out  front  were  blown  apart— there 
was  a  person  in  one  of  them  at  the  time  of  the  explosion,  but  he  was  fortu- 
nately unhurt  except  for  a  ruptured  eardrum.  The  Battalion  Commander's 
vehicle,  which  was  parked  out  front,  was  completely  demolished.  The  re- 
mains of  the  escort  soldier  were  strewn  over  the  grill  of  the  vehicle— we  knew 
it  was  him,  because  along  with  his  flesh,  we  found  charred  and  bloodv  pieces 
of  his  uniform  everywhere.  Part  of  the  debris  hailstorm  I  mentioned  earlier 
blowing  through  our  building  was  also  a  sprav  of  bodv  parts ...  so  at  first,  we 
just  tried  to  go  around  and  pick  up  the  largest  pieces  and  clear  it  out— a  hand 
by  the  weights,  part  of  a  face  bv  the  back  washing  machines,  intestines  lying 
everywhere.  Well,  vou  get  the  idea.  .  .  . 

At  some  point  vesterdav,  it  really  sank  in  for  me  just  how  luckv  I  was,  just 
how  lucky  most  of  us  were  to  have  not  been  in  a  position  to  have  been  seri- 
ouslv  injured.  Timing  was  the  only  thing  that  saved  us.  That  and  a  really 
strong  building.  ...  It  was  a  lot  to  assimilate  yesterday,  and  as  I  collapsed  onto 
my  bed  last  night,  I  shuddered  at  what  could  have  been,  what  almost  was,  and 
I  humblv  said  a  small  praver  of  thanks  for  our  being  spared.  I  also  said  an  ag- 
onized praver  for  the  familv  of  our  fallen  comrade,  who's  Christmas  will 
never  be  the  same  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

My  close  friend,  CPT  Mike  Dean  is  the  Company  Commander  of  the 
soldier  who  was  killed,  and  my  deepest  condolences  go  out  to  him  today.  We 
will  have  a  memorial  service  for  him  tomorrow. 

I  won't  go  into  the  minutiae  of  how  we  are  responding  to  this  heinous  at- 
tack, but  know  that  the  vigilance  around  here  will  be  heightened  in  order  to 
isolate  this  to  a  single  incident.  We  will  all  hope  this  is  the  case,  now  and  in 
the  future. 

Again,  rest  assured  that  I  am  perfeetlv  alright,  albeit  a  little  shaken  up — 
we  all  are.  .  .  .  Please  let  vour  minds  be  at  ease  and  try  not  to  worn-  about  me. 
I  am  fine. 

Please  take  care  and  trv  not  to  let  this  affect  vour  holiday  season.  Every- 
thing will  be  okay— I  will  be  in  touch  again  soon. 

All  The  Way 

CPT  Michael  P.  Sullivan 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  261 


THE  SMELL  OF  FRESH   PAINT 

E-mail 
Sergeant  Tina  M.   Beller 


In  previous  conflicts,  U.S.  troops  rarely  described  the  true  brutality  of  war- 
fare in  their  letters  home.  Strict  censorship  rules  did  not,  for  the  most  part, 
allow  it,  but  even  during  the  fighting  in  Korea  and  Vietnam,  when  letters 
were  not  screened  by  military  censors,  service  members  often  withheld 
graphic  details.  Now,  however,  in  an  age  of  twenty-four-hour  cable  media, 
the  Internet,  embedded  reporters,  and  satellite  communications,  Americans 
on  the  home  front  are  able  to  hear  breaking  news  from  a  war  zone  almost 
the  moment  it  happens.  Knowing  this,  troops  are  more  likely  to  write  home 
with  details— except  for  anything  that  might  compromise  operational  secu- 
rity—about what  really  happened.  On  the  morning  of  September  12,  2004 
(Iraq  time;  it  was  September  11  back  in  the  States),  insurgents  launched 
mortars  into  the  Green  Zone,  a  highly  protected  area  that  housed  the  Iraqi 
interim  government,  foreign  embassies,  and  other  administrative  buildings. 
Tina  M.  Beller,  a  twenty-nine-year-old  sergeant  in  the  U.S.  Army  Reserve 
(350th  Civil  Affairs  Command),  was  there  when  the  predawn  assault 
began.  Later  in  the  day,  Beller,  who  was  two  months  shy  of  her  eleven- 
month  deployment,  e-mailed  her  parents  in  Pennsylvania  to  assure  them 
that  she  had  not  been  injured. 

Dear  Mom  &  Dad 

I  am  sure  by  now  you  can  read  the  news  and  watch  the  tube  and  know 
that  we  were  severely  attacked  with  a  barrage  of  rockets  yesterday  morning, 
your  night  time.  I  guess  we  still  have  some  diehard  9-11  fans  here,  those  bas- 
tards. 

At  any  rate,  I  am  just  writing  to  let  you  know  that  physically  I  remain  un- 
harmed. Emotionally  and  mentally,  is  a  different  story.  I  never  would  have 
thought  my  day  would  have  started  out  this  way. 

I  was  the  first  responder  to  a  building  within  our  compound  that  was  hit 
by  a  rocket.  I  was  driving  back  into  the  compound  around  0630  from  my  early 
morning  usual  routine  when  the  hair  on  my  arms  stood  up.  I  suspected  some- 
thing was  up,  but  couldn't  identify  since  I  had  just  arrived  from  the  gym  and 


262  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

was  too  busy  praying  to  Jesus  that  I  hadn't  been  nailed  by  a  rocket  at  the 
palace  parking  lot  where  I  had  been  driving  through  just  moments  before. 

I  saw  smoke  in  the  distance  and  a  man  waiving  his  arms  above  him  in  the 
universal  distress  signal.  I  thought  maybe  something  was  on  fire  from  an  ex- 
plosion. From  inside  the  well-padded  palace,  I  never  thought  any  of  the  ear- 
lier impact  rounds  I  heard  were  from  down  here  where  I  lived.  I  thought  it 
was  just  the  palace  being  bombarded  again.  And  for  certain,  I  never  thought 
we  would  have  taken  casualties.  Iraqi  workers— three. 

The  first  Iraqi  casualty  I  saw  came  briskly  walking  down  the  street  toward 
me.  He  seemed  very  alarmed,  sort  of  crazy.  I  could  tell  he  was  in  shock.  He 
reminded  me  of  a  Ping-Pong  ball  walking  back  and  forth,  talking,  mumbling, 
although  I  had  no  idea  who  he  was  speaking  to.  His  mandible  was  completely 
shattered  inside  the  structure  of  his  mouth.  He  made  zero  sense  when  he 
spoke.  He  just  kept  giving  me  sign  language  over  his  belly.  I  think  he  was  try- 
ing to  tell  me  someone  was  pregnant.  Was  that  someone  in  the  building? 
Wholly  crap! 

I  was  kind  of  worried.  His  head  was  abnormally  larger  than  the  rest  of  his 
slender  body.  The  mixture  of  blood  and  spit  that  poured  from  his  mouth 
looked  really  weird  like  a  fountain,  a  bright  red  gurgling  fountain.  I  later  dis- 
covered he  died  as  well  .  .  .  trauma  to  his  head.  Just  even  typing  that .  .  . 
trauma  to  his  head  ...  I  should  have  known  he  would  pass.  Yet  I  was  so  hope- 
ful the  all-mighty  American  Soldiers  could  save  him. 

His  buddy,  who  sat  cross-legged  with  his  back  to  me  in  the  now  demol- 
ished living  room  was  chanting  and  rocking.  I  couldn't  figure  out  why  he 
didn't  hear  me  calling  for  him.  I  kept  saying  it  to  myself,  and  then  I  remem- 
ber speaking  out  loud  to  myself  as  I  scratched  and  pounded  through  the  door 
that  I  couldn't  budge  all  the  way  open,  "Why  isn't  he  listening  to  me,  damn 
it?  Why  isn't  he  getting  up?"  The  others  say  because  the  rocket  blew  his 
eardrum  out  and  the  poor  guy  couldn't  hear  me.  The  three  of  them  were 
probably  honoring  their  first  call  to  prayer  at  that  time  when  the  rocket 
struck. 

I  still  wonder  to  this  moment,  why  in  the  hell  didn't  I  just  go  in  through 
the  front  window  since  it  was  all  blown  out,  but  they  tell  me  not  to  second 
guess  my  actions  or  myself.  Had  I  gone  through  the  window,  maybe  then  I 
would  have  seen  the  dead  guy,  the  third  casualty,. camouflaged  with  soot  and 
debris. 

A  Navy  Seal,  a  medic,  just  happened  to  be  walking  by  after  his  shift  at  the 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  263 

Combat  Support  Hospital  (CSH)  ER.  He  took  over  for  me  obviously  since  he 
was  far  much  more  qualified  than  I.  He  really  did  all  the  work,  not  me.  I  just 
ran  for  help,  got  an  ambulance  and  then  at  0635  in  the  morning,  I  started 
screaming  for  help.  "MEDIC,  MEDIC.  I  NEED  A  MEDIC."  In  hindsight, 
I  don't  know  why  I  was  screaming  medic  when  the  Navy  Seal  had  everything 
under  control  and  was  carrying  a  normal  conversation  with  the  two  Iraqi 
wounded  when  the  reinforcements  arrived. 

The  weirdest  thing  of  all  was  the  absolute  evil  feeling  that  hit  my  body 
when  I  tried  to  bust  through  the  door  the  first  time,  when  I  was  alone  with  the 
casualties  before  the  Navy  Seal  came.  It  actually  stopped  me  in  my  tracks  and 
I  just  paused.  The  Iraqi  behind  me  kept  nudging  me  in  the  doorway,  but  my 
legs  were  glued  to  the  ground.  A  Vietnam  veteran  here  with  us  explained  to 
me  last  night  what  I  felt  was  the  presence  of  death.  And  my  body  didn't  like  it. 

The  general's  driver  showed  up  with  a  vehicle,  and  we  put  them  in  the 
Yukon  and  he  made  like  a  bandit  for  the  CSH.  I  never  did  find  out  who  came 
for  the  deceased.  After  somebody  told  me  I  was  full  of  blood,  I  kind  of 
thought  I  should  go  home  and  shower  and  get  prepared  for  the  next  barrage 
of  attacks.  And  without  fail,  they  came  too. 

They  hit  while  I  was  in  the  shower.  I  had  been  fine  until  this  time  not  re- 
ally reacting  to  what  I  had  just  seen  and  the  little  run  I  took  to  call  for  an  am- 
bulance. And  that's  when  I  went  into  shock  myself  or  I  did  what  they  say  is 
called  coming  down  off  the  adrenaline  high.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  my 
little  legs  strong,  but  I  finally  just  gave  into  the  little  trembles  and  just  sat 
down  in  the  shower  and  cried.  A  few  moments  before,  I  had  realized  that  I 
had  now  washed  my  body  two  times  and  didn't  know  why  the  first  time  wasn't 
good  enough.  .  .  . 

I  made  it  back  to  my  room  after  a  long  heaving  cry  and  began  to  dress  in 
my  uniform.  They  found  me  in  my  room  cleaning  my  weapon,  yet  I  was  shak- 
ing so  bad  I  couldn't  assemble  my  bolt  and  charging  handle  together  cor- 
rectly. I  realized  I  needed  to  chill  before  I  was  going  to  defend  us  anywhere. 

About  four  of  us  sat  in  our  common  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  our  gi- 
gantic concrete  house,  which  used  to  be  inhabited  by  former  presidential 
palace  servants.  Wearing  our  entire  battle  rattle,  we  just  all  looked  at  each 
other,  like  "wholly  shit."  There  we  sat,  four  women  from  the  age  of  24  to  40 
something,  from  Staff  Sgt.  to  1st  Sgt,  gathered  in  the  common  room  on  the 
cold  cement  floor,  both  waiting  and  listening  to  explosions,  radio  traffic,  and 
fifty  cals  (calibur)  being  shot  off  in  the  distance  at  one  gate. 


264  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

Since  the  attack,  I  have  gone  back  once  to  see  the  area  that  was  just  barely 
lit  by  sunlight  at  dusk  yesterday  morning.  Partial  brain  remains  are  still  on  the 
cement  floor  from  the  deceased,  except  now  they  are  pinkish  with  cement 
gristle  all  folded  into  it  and  oven  baked  from  the  sun.  Somebody  tried  to  be 
discreet,  but  did  a  poor  job  in  covering  it  up.  The  gate  that  was  once  there  is 
all  blown  to  hell.  They  have  cheap  yellow  police  tape  around  the  place.  Yeah, 
as  if  that's  going  to  keep  people  out. 

I  found  several  pairs  of  men's  sandals  that  were  just  blown  about  like  they 
were  nothing.  And  of  course,  pools  of  blood,  some  dark  and  brown,  some  still 
red  and  fresh,  reminded  me  of  the  tragedy  that  occurred  earlier  that  morning. 
I  saw  the  pile  of  rocks  that  I  tripped  over  in  the  morning  dusk  and  chaos  be- 
cause I  was  trying  to  run  and  thought  I  was  lighter  than  air,  I  guess.  I  saw  the 
door  that  I  couldn't  bust  through.  I  was  glad  to  see  somebody  had.  Upon  later 
inspection  of  the  attacked  house,  we  found  out  the  object  behind  the  door 
was  the  remnants  of  the  rocket.  No  wonder  I  couldn't  get  through.  I  saw  all 
the  cans  of  fresh  paint  that  were  stacked  outside  the  building.  The  Koreans 
had  hired  these  three  Iraqi  men  to  fix  up  the  place  for  the  Korean  Embassy  to 
move  in.  Guess  the  Koreans  are  going  real  estate  shopping,  huh? 

But  most  of  all,  the  veterans  I  spoke  to  last  night  told  me  I  will  probably 
smell  paint  sometime  in  the  future,  and  it  will  remind  me  of  this  day,  this  hor- 
rible event.  They  also  told  me  it  wasn't  my  fault,  and  I  couldn't  have  saved 
them  since  their  injuries  were  far  too  great  for  my  little  hands.  From  what 
they  had  heard,  I  had  done  the  right  thing,  the  honorable  thing.  "Geez 
Beller,  you  didn't  run  back  to  your  room  and  hide  like  a  lot  of  them  did,"  said 
one  of  our  senior  sergeants,  a  Vietnam  veteran  himself.  "Just  remember  this, 
next  time  somebody  comes  up  to  you  like  they  did  today  asking  you  about 
your  story  in  disbelief,  you  look  at  them  and  ask  them  with  a  stone  cold  face, 
"Were  you  there?  Then  how  would  you  really  know  what  happened?" 

I  walked  our  compound  in  fear  last  night.  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  walk- 
ing by  the  place  in  the  dark,  even  though  it  was  the  short  way  home.  It  was  as 
though  I  were  afraid  some  dark  spookiness  was  going  to  jump  out  at  me  and 
steal  my  soul  or  something.  The  thought  of  the  place  so  dark  like  it  was  in  the 
morning  resonates  in  my  mind.  And  their  horrified  looks,  their  confused 
looks,  the  blood  dripping  on  them,  the  sheer  and  utter  pain  mirrored  on  their 
faces,  they  all  played  like  a  silent  movie  in  my  mind  all  day  yesterday,  all  night 
last  night. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  265 

I  slept  like  shit  last  night.  I  hope  this  isn't  the  beginning  of  what  my  Spe- 
cial Forces  friend  calls  "the  nightmares."  Last  night  was  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  staunchly  did  not  want  to  sleep  alone.  And  that's  a  far  cry  for  someone 
who  is  a  both  a  restless  sleeper  and  a  sheet  hog. 

They  told  me  not  to  write  home  about  it.  "We  don't  want  it  all  over  the  in- 
ternet." But  even  talking  to  all  the  right  people  isn't  helping  the  heavy  weight  I 
am  carrying  on  my  tightened  chest.  And  somehow,  writing  usually  does.  Even 
though  I  got  my  ass  chewed  and  threatened  with  an  Article  15  for  not  running 
all  the  way  back  to  my  quarters  to  get  my  gear  BEFORE  I  went  to  the  scene, 
"You  could  have  been  a  combat  liability  to  us,  SGT,  since  you  didn't  have  ANY 
of  your  gear  with  you,"  it  really  all  doesn't  matter  in  the  big  picture.  Others  here 
at  my  unit  admitted  the  same  things  to  me  along  the  lines  of,  "Beller,  we  would 
have  done  the  same  thing  you  did,  run  to  the  emergency  first— without  a 
doubt."  There's  always  a  few  ways  of  looking  at  things  though,  I  guess.  .  . . 

Keep  well. 


THE   DAY  OF  THE   DRAGON 

Personal  Narrative 

Captain  Robert  A.  Lindblom 


Thirty-two-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  Captain  Robert  A.  Lindblom  was  deployed 
to  Kandahar,  Afghanistan,  with  the  4.1st  Expeditionary  Rescue  Squadron 
from  February  through  April  2003  to  fly  combat  rescue  missions  and  manage 
day-to-day  flight  activities.  When  tragedy  struck  his  unit  in  March,  Lindblom 
not  only  had  to  cope  with  the  personal  and  operational  ramifications  of  the 
sudden  crisis,  he  had  to  help  his  fellow  airmen  find  meaning  in  the  sacrifices 
they  and  other  U.S.  forces  were  making  in  the  region. 


Staring  straight  ahead  at  the  computer  screen  in  front  of  me,  I  could  not 
see  the  rest  of  the  room  with  my  peripheral  vision,  but  I  felt  the  eyes  of 
everyone  on  me.  The  words  hung  in  the  air  like  a  mirage.  I  knew  what  had 
been  said,  but  my  mind  refused  to  accept  it.  The  radio  crackled  again,  re- 
peating the  same  message. 


266  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

"Roker,  Roker,  Komodo  11  is  down!" 

The  transmission  was  meant  for  our  command  and  control  agency,  nick- 
named Roker,  but  everyone  monitoring  the  frequency  would  have  perked  up 
as  I  did  when  the  call  came  through.  The  urgency  in  the  voice  answered 
everyone's  unspoken  question  without  actually  saying  the  words:  the  crash 
was  bad.  It  was  no  mere  hard  landing  or  rollover— someone  was  dead.  As  a 
flight  commander  back  home,  I  had  been  responsible  for  training  and  equip- 
ping the  preponderance  of  the  forces  we  had  in  theater;  four  of  the  six  crew 
members  on  board  were  my  personal  responsibility. 

Komodo  n  and  13  were  Air  Force  HH-60  helicopters  assigned  to  Kanda- 
har Air  Base  in  Afghanistan.  Their  assigned  task  was  to  conduct  combat 
search  and  rescue,  or  CSAR,  missions— to  recover  the  crews,  of  aircraft  lost 
to  enemy  fire.  This  is  the  primary  duty  of  these  Pavehawk  crews,  and  they're 
the  best  in  the  world.  But  U.S.  military  aircraft  were  rarely  shot  down  in 
Afghanistan,  and  the  HH-6os  were  frequently  used  for  medevac  missions  to 
help  individuals  hurt  either  in  ground  combat  or  because  of  other,  more 
mundane,  reasons.  Our  primary  responsibility  still  remained  U.S.  military 
forces,  but  it  was  not  uncommon  when  things  were  quiet  for  our  controlling 
agency,  the  Joint  Search  and  Rescue  Center,  or  JSRC,  at  Al  Udeid  Air  Base 
in  Qatar,  to  launch  us  to  assist  injured  Afghan  military  and  civilians.  These 
missions  were  approved  out  of  genuine  humanitarian  concern  first  and  fore- 
most, but  they  also  had  the  side  benefit  of  positively  influencing  the  local 
populace.  Nothing  inhibits  the  spread  of  terrorism  more  completely  than  an 
act  of  kindness  and  goodwill,  especially  when  it  comes  at  great  personal  risk 
or  expense. 

On  that  particular  day,  we  received  word  of  two  injured  Afghan  children. 
One  had  been  burned  severely  and  was  in  serious  danger  of  losing  an  eye, 
and  the  other  had  significant  head  injuries  after  tumbling  down  a  ravine.  Al- 
though located  in  separate  villages,  they  were  close  enough  that  we  could  re- 
cover both  children  and  get  them  to  competent  medical  care  within  hours,  as 
compared  to  the  days  it  may  have  taken  for  them  to  travel  by  land.  The  round 
trip  was  beyond  even  the  Pavehawk's  capacity  on  a  single  tank,  however,  and 
aerial  refueling  was  required.  That  was  the  last  normal  report  we  received; 
Komodo  11  and  13  had  commenced  refueling  operations  with  an  HC-130 
King  aircraft.  Now  we  learned  the  lead  aircraft  had  somehow  crashed  in  the 
course  of  that  refueling.  The  details  were  still  unclear. 

All  the  men  looked  to  me  as  I  stood.  As  the  unit  operations  officer,  I  ran  the 


THIS     IS     NOT     A    GAME  267 


flying  operations  for  the  unit  commander,  Lieutenant  Colonel  Stein.  More 
importantly,  I  was  second  in  command  behind  him,  and  on  that  particular  day 
I  was  in  charge.  Lieutenant  Colonel  Stein  was  flying  on  Komodo  11. 

"Turn  off  all  the  computers  and  the  morale  phone,"  I  directed  out  loud  to 
no  one  in  particular,  but  a  few  airmen  quickly  jumped  to  complete  the  task. 
To  those  remaining  I  said,  "No  one  talks  about  this  outside  of  the  unit.  No 
one  contacts  home.  Understand?" 

The  JSRC  finally  responded  to  the  initial  call  we  had  all  heard.  "Last  call- 
ing Roker,  say  again." 

With  strained  patience,  a  new  voice  I  recognized  as  the  aerial  gunner  on 
Komodo  13  came  on  the  radio  and  tried  for  a  third  time.  "Roker,  this  is  Ko- 
modo 13.  Komodo  11  has  crashed.  Repeat,  Komodo  n  has  crashed." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then,  "Roker  copies." 

That  exquisite  understatement  belied  the  frenzy  of  activity  I  knew  was 
stirring  up  on  the  other  end  of  the  radio  call  a  thousand  miles  away.  The  team 
at  the  JSRC  would  quickly  begin  gathering  as  much  information  as  they 
could  and  start  coordinating  recovery  efforts  for  the  six  crew  members  they 
knew  to  be  aboard.  I  was  secretly  relieved  to  have  them  in  charge  at  this  point. 

Soon  after  Roker  acknowledged  the  situation,  the  aircraft  commander  of 
Komodo  13,  Lieutenant  Spindler,  came  on  the  radio.  "We've  terminated  re- 
fueling operations.  We're  landing  to  check  for  survivors."  Roker  acknowl- 
edged and  requested  exact  coordinates  of  the  crash.  They  were  working  to  get 
overhead  cover  from  some  nearby  fighters  and  a  quick  reaction  force,  or 
QRF,  to  secure  the  scene. 

Komodo  13  was  soon  on  the  ground  and  silence  reigned  as  he  deplaned 
his  pararescuemen,  or  PJs,  to  search  the  scene.  I  flexed  my  shoulders  and  un- 
clenched my  fists  as  I  tried  to  reason  with  myself.  Since  they  were  refueling, 
they  were  most  likely  flying  about  no  knots,  or  more  than  120  miles  per  hour, 
when  they  impacted  the  ground.  The  odds  of  even  one  person  surviving  were 
not  good,  let  alone  all  six  of  them. 

Agonizing  minutes  ticked  by  without  update  until  the  PJs  reported  some 
bad  news;  they  had  found  two  bodies,  both  deceased.  My  heart  sank  with  the 
announcement. 

Komodo  13  suddenly  recalled  the  PJs  to  the  aircraft— there  were  a  num- 
ber of  vehicles  approaching  the  scene.  My  mouth  went  dry  as  I  heard  the 
radio  crackle  with  Roker's  response.  "Intel  confirms  there  are  no  friendlies  in 
that  area."  Although  that  didn't  necessarily  mean  the  approaching  trucks 


268  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

were  hostile,  it  definitely  increased  the  odds.  When  a  warning  burst  from  the 
gunner's  GAU-2B  mini-gun  didn't  serve  to  deter  the  approaching  vehicles  in 
the  slightest,  those  odds  were  upped  yet  another  notch. 

In  true  cavalry  fashion,  a  flight  of  Marine  AV-8  Harriers  arrived  moments 
later.  After  taking  a  moment  to  positively  identify  our  helo  and  the  unknown 
vehicles,  they  began  to  make  low  passes  over  the  scene  to  let  the  interlopers 
know  there  was  significant  firepower  immediately  available  if  they  meant  our 
helicopter  or  crew  any  harm.  Ignoring  this  attempt  at  intimidation,  the  small 
group  of  vehicles  continued  to  close  the  distance.  The  crew  of  Komodo  13 
now  identified  two  more  sets  of  approaching  lights.  They  were  rapidly  being 
surrounded. 

The  unknown  persons  had  still  not  committed  a  hostile  act,  so  the  AV-8s 
could  do  nothing  but  look  threatening.  With  odds  continuing  to  mount 
against  them,  the  crew  of  Komodo  13  wisely  chose  to  crank  their  engines, 
board  their  PJs,  and  take  off.  They  picked  up  to  a  hover  with  the  nearest  ve- 
hicle only  five  hundred  meters  away,  climbing  to  a  safe  altitude  just  as  the 
trucks  arrived  in  their  now-vacant  landing  zone. 

Komodo  13  had  to  then  fly  in  deteriorating  weather  over  bad  terrain  in  an 
effort  to  replenish,  while  airborne,  their  dwindling  supply  of  fuel.  When  they 
finally  succeeded  in  plugging  with  the  HC-130,  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Their  tanks  had  dropped  to  the  point  where  they  could  no  longer  divert  to 
any  U.S.  installation.  Without  gas  they  would  have  been  forced  to  land  on 
some  mountaintop  and  we  would  have  had  yet  another  crew  down  in  hostile 
territory.  With  full  tanks,  the  aircraft  commander  elected  to  divert  to  Bagram, 
only  thirty  minutes  away,  instead  of  flying  the  ninety  minutes  required  to 
make  it  back  to  Kandahar. 

The  AV-8s  were  also  low  on  fuel  by  that  point,  but  a  flight  of  A-10 
Warthogs  had  arrived  to  replace  them.  The  A-ios  made  their  own  series  of  low 
passes,  releasing  flares  each  time  they  went  by.  Although  harmless,  that  act 
was  finally  able  to  deter  the  curious  locals;  they  soon  returned  to  their  vehi- 
cles and  fled  the  same  way  they  had  arrived.  Our  equipment  and  our  men, 
whether  living  or  dead,  were  safe  for  the  moment. 

About  that  same  time,  the  JSRC  requested  I  meet  them  on  the  computer 
in  our  secure  Internet  chat  room.  They  informed  me  the  QRF  had  arrived  on 
scene  via  CH-47  Chinooks. 

There  was  a  large  debris  field  and  it  would  take  some  time  to  search  and 
secure  it  all.  Aside  from  possible  survivors,  which  were  obviously  our  priority, 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  269 

there  were  weapons  and  classified  information  to  be  protected.  The  QRF 
spread  out  to  begin  this  process,  while  we  resigned  ourselves  to  more  waiting, 
and  I  kept  a  nervous  eye  on  the  television  in  the  background.  With  all  of  the 
media  focus  on  Iraq,  Afghanistan  was  nothing  more  than  a  footnote  on  the 
news,  but  that  might  change  with  word  of  a  fatal  crash.  With  the  sound 
turned  low,  I  watched  for  any  break  in  the  stream  of  images  from  the  larger 
war— a  telltale  map  or  photo  of  Afghanistan. 

Within  the  next  hour  I  received  a  phone  call  from  Lieutenant  Spindler, 
notifying  me  that  they  were  down  and  safe.  But  he  also  told  me  that  their  air- 
craft had  experienced  power  problems  on  the  flight  to  Bagram  and  they  were 
going  to  need  our  help  coordinating  approval  to  have  Army  mechanics  work 
on  the  helicopter.  I  thanked  him  for  the  information  and  promised  to  work 
the  issue.  Before  we  hung  up,  he  updated  me  on  what  they  had  seen  at  the 
crash  site.  Three  bodies  had  actually  been  discovered,  not  just  two  as  we  had 
first  thought,  and  I  said  a  quick  prayer  for  the  remaining  three  airmen. 

Soon  afterward,  the  secure  chat  room  flared  with  activity.  Conflicting  re- 
ports began  to  come  in  from  the  crash  site  via  the  JSRC.  One  minute  they 
had  found  two  survivors,  the  next  they  had  found  one  more  body  and  no  sur- 
vivors, after  that  there  were  indications  they  had  two  bodies  and  one  survivor. 
Rescue  operations  work  this  way  more  often  than  not.  In  the  desire  to  dis- 
seminate news  as  quickly  as  possible,  sometimes  the  accounts  become  mud- 
dled and  confused. 

I  tried  to  repress  my  sense  of  frustration  as  I  was  alternately  heartened  and 
discouraged  with  each  passing  report.  Suddenly,  someone  shouted  out, 
"There  it  is"  and  pointed  to  the  television  situated  to  my  right,  and  we  all 
watched  as  a  banner  scrolled  across  the  bottom  of  the  screen:  "Air  Force  HH- 
60  Pavehawk  helicopter  crashes  southwest  of  Kabul.  Crew  feared  dead."  I  was 
furious;  three  of  our  people  were  dead,  and  possibly  all  six.  How  could  they 
relegate  their  sacrifice  to  the  same  status  as  a  record  rainfall  in  Arizona  or  an 
overturned  semi-truck  in  Virginia? 

Shortly  after  the  news  broke  on  CNN,  I  received  a  request  for  a  private 
chat  from  the  JSRC  — in  this  private  cyber-room,  others  would  not  be  privy  to 
our  discussion. 

"Yes?"  I  posted. 

"JSRC  Deputy  Director  here,"  came  the  reply.  "We're  in  direct  contact 
with  the  QRF." 

"Rgr,"  I  typed,  to  show  I  understood. 


270  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"We  have  confirmation  ...  six  bodies  recovered." 

"Understand,  no  survivors?"  I  queried,  just  to  be  sure. 

"Affirmative  ...  all  deceased." 

Now  it  was  official.  Despite  the  meager  hope  I  had  attempted  to  hold  on 
to,  they  were  all  gone,  including  Lieutenant  Colonel  Stein. 

I  stood  stiffly.  All  eyes  were  on  me  —  everyone  knew  there  was  news  of 
some  kind,  although  they  could  only  guess  at  the  details.  "Gather  everyone  in 
the  maintenance  tent,"  I  said.  "Time  for  an  update." 

Standing  before  the  small  crowd  of  airmen  just  a  few  minutes  later,  I  felt 
the  burden  of  responsibility  even  more  severely.  No  one  spoke— the  usual 
banter  was  replaced  by  an  unnatural  quiet  and  thoughtful,  somber  expres- 
sions. I  silently  cursed  the  moment  I  had  accepted  Lieutenant  Colonel 
Stein's  offer  to  act  as  his  operations  officer  at  Kandahar.  I  didn't  have  the 
depth  of  experience  to  handle  these  affairs,  and  I  was  certainly  not  the  inspi- 
rational leader  these  men  needed  right  now.  I  was  afraid,  terrified  in  fact,  that 
I  would  make  a  mistake.  Even  worse,  I  worried  that  I  would  make  no  deci- 
sion—falling victim  to  my  own  fear  of  error. 

Finally,  with  a  deep  breath  I  began,  "Komodo  13  has  diverted  to  Bagram. 
They  are  down  and  safe,  but  their  aircraft  is  hard-broke  for  power  problems. 
They  will  have  to  remain  at  that  location  until  we  can  figure  out  how  to  fix 
their  helicopter  and  bring  them  safely  back  to  Kandahar." 

Nods  of  understanding  greeted  me  as  I  braced  for  the  next  announce- 
ment. 

"The  QRF  has  completed  their  search  of  the  crash  site." 

The  group  held  their  breath  in  unison. 

"They  have  recovered  all  six  bodies.  There  are  no  survivors." 

Some  bowed  their  heads.  Others  simply  stared,  lost  in  their  own  thoughts. 
One  of  the  men  began  to  cry  silently. 

I  stood  quiet  for  a  moment,  not  out  of  any  desire  to  allow  them  to  absorb 
the  news,  but  because  I  had  no  idea  what  to  say  next.  I  scanned  the  faces  be- 
fore me  while  I  struggled  to  find  the  right  words.  As  I  searched  their  eyes,  I  re- 
alized that  these  men  wanted  to  be  led.  In  a  flash  I  understood;  my  job  was 
actually  very  simple  — I  had  to  act,  to  lead,  that  was  all.  I  did  not  have  to  be 
perfect,  I  did  not  have  to  be  right  every  time,  but  I  had  to  lead.  That  is  why 
the  chain  of  command  works  the  way  it  does— so  men  under  pressure  are  re- 
lieved of  the  uncertainty  that  can  otherwise  cause  paralysis  in  a  unit. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  271 


Whether  I  wanted  the  responsibility  or  not  was  irrelevant;  I  had  it  now  and  it 
was  my  duty  to  pick  up  the  mantle  left  by  our  commander  and  lead  these 
men  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  I  realized  as  well  that  we  needed  something  to 
strive  for— a  goal  or  a  challenge.  Without  something  to  occupy  our  energy, 
the  men  would  settle  into  a  depressive  funk. 

"Sergeant  Whitfield,"  I  addressed  the  NCO  in  charge  of  maintenance. 
"What's  the  status  of  our  third  helo?"  I  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that  our  sole  re- 
maining aircraft  was  currently  non-mission-capable.  The  engine  gauges  had 
proven  unreliable,  and  the  helicopter  was  unsafe  to  fly  without  them.  But  I 
wanted  the  announcement  made  to  the  group.  He  quickly  confirmed  the  in- 
formation for  everybody. 

"Gentlemen,  we  need  to  get  that  aircraft  fixed.  We  still  have  a  mission  to 
do,  and  we  cannot  provide  CSAR  coverage  with  a  broken  aircraft.  Can  you 
fix  it?" 

"Yes  sir,"  he  replied  with  enthusiasm. 

"If  we  can  get  that  aircraft  flyable,  we  can  sit  alert  with  one  bird  until  Ko- 
modo  13  can  get  back  home.  We  can  fly  with  an  Apache  escort  as  our  wing- 
man  if  need  be.  How  much  time  do  you  need?" 

"Five  or  six  hours,  I  think." 

"Okay,  let's  get  to  it."  The  room  was  instantly  energized. 

I  coordinated  with  the  Army  Apache  unit  colocated  with  us  in  Kandahar. 
Their  commander  assured  me  they  were  ready  to  support  and  would  stand 
alert  with  us  for  as  long  as  we  wanted. 

I  worked  with  our  maintenance  officer  to  figure  out  how  to  get  approval 
for  Army  mechanics  to  work  on  an  Air  Force  helicopter.  Master  Sergeant 
Whitfield  provided  periodic  updates  on  the  status  of  our  remaining  heli- 
copter. Progress  was  slower  than  expected,  but  he  had  every  available  man 
working  on  it.  Arrangements  were  also  made  with  our  home  unit  concerning 
death  notifications,  and  individuals  were  selected  to  pack  the  personal  effects 
of  the  deceased  to  be  shipped  back  home  with  the  bodies  and  returned  to  the 
families. 

We  also  began  preparations  for  an  all-post  memorial  that  would  take  place 
two  days  later.  In  the  interim,  we  felt  it  was  necessary  to  organize  a  smaller, 
but  no  less  important,  ceremony  as  soon  as  possible,  and  we  decided  to  post- 
pone the  standard  flag  raising  in  the  morning  and  have  it  at  noon.  Instead  of 
leaving  the  flag  in  its  normal  position,  it  would  be  raised  once,  then  lowered 


272  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

to  half-staff.  Then  I  would  read  the  names  of  our  six  comrades,  followed  by  a 
moment  of  silence.  The  senior  Air  Force  officer  on  base  would  say  a  few 
words,  and  we  would  close  with  a  prayer. 

Despite  the  shadow  of  tragedy  still  looming  over  us,  the  0800  briefing  the 
next  morning  was  less  somber,  especially  with  the  news  that  our  lone  heli- 
copter was  repaired  and  able  to  sit  alert.  There  were  also  further  discussions 
on  plans  to  bring  Komodo  13  to  Kandahar.  Not  only  did  we  need  them  des- 
perately, the  crew  themselves  wanted  back  in  the  saddle.  But  aside  from  the 
maintenance  hurdle,  there  was  also  the  problem  of  arranging  the  necessary 
escort.  Having  just  lost  one  helicopter,  the  JSRC  did  not  look  favorably  upon 
taking  unnecessary  risks  with  another. 

After  yet  another  round  of  debates  with  our  controlling  agency  about  the 
best  way  to  return  Komodo  13  to  Kandahar,  I  sat  down  in  frustration  and 
rubbed  my  forehead.  A  young  airman  approached  me  with  a  small  piece  of 
yellow  paper  and  handed  it  to  me  without  comment.  On  it  were  the  full 
names  of  all  six  crew  members  I  had  requested  for  the  ceremony.  As  I  studied 
the  list  before  me,  something  inside  snapped.  Seeing  the  names  of  the  de- 
ceased somehow  made  their  deaths  real  for  the  first  time.  The  oldest  was 
forty-eight,  and  the  youngest  was  twenty-one.  Two  of  the  crew  members  were 
engaged,  one  had  gotten  married  only  a  few  months  before,  three  of  them 
had  children,  one  was  a  single  parent,  two  were  set  to  be  promoted  soon,  one 
was  ready  to  retire,  and  they  were  all  my  friends. 

I  knew  them  all  — I  knew  them  and  I  missed  them  terribly  already.  I  could 
no  longer  hold  back  the  weight  of  my  own  emotions.  A  childlike  sob  escaped 
first,  and  then  the  tears  came,  blurring  the  sheet  of  paper  before  me.  I  rushed 
out  of  the  office  with  head  bowed  and  crossed  the  short  distance  to  our  sleep- 
ing tent,  grateful  for  the  cool,  dark,  private  sanctuary  it  afforded. 

There  I  gave  my  emotions  free  rein— all  the  sorrow,  frustration,  and  anger 
of  the  preceding  twenty  hours  found  an  outlet  for  several  minutes,  until  fi- 
nally I  regained  some  sense  of  composure.  Although  I  began  to  feel  back  in 
control  of  myself,  I  made  no  effort  to  stop  the  deluge  of  tears  until  a  knock  on 
the  door  forced  me  back  from  the  brink  of  my  misery. 

"Yes,  come  in,"  I  said,  wiping  my  eyes  as  best  I  could. 

The  door  opened  tentatively  and  there  stood  the  airman  who  had  handed 
me  the  piece  of  paper.  "Uh,  sir,  they're  getting  ready  for  the  ceremony." 

"Okay,  I'm  coming,"  I  replied. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     G:v:  ;  -  3 

The  door  closed  as  hesitantly  as  it  had  opened. 

The  short  ceremony  for  the  small  contingent  of  Air  Force  troops  at  this 
Army  base  went  essentially  as  planned.  When  I  read  the  names  aloud  to  the 
assembled  crowd,  I  found  myself  unable  to  stem  another  flow  of  tears.  This 
time,  however,  I  wasn't  alone  — not  a  dry  eye  remained  in  the  group  before 
me.  Other  than  our  tiny  unit,  which  comprised  less  than  a  quarter  of  those 
present,  no  one  really  knew  the  airmen  who  had  been  killed.  Yet  they  shared 
in  our  loss,  and  they  knew  what  it  would  feel  like  if  it  had  been  one  of  their 
own.  There  was  a  good  amount  of  bonding  and  thoughtful  reflection  once 
the  ceremony  was  concluded.  I  was  surprised  at  how  therapeutic  the  little  dis- 
play seemed  to  have  been. 

Soon  after  the  memorial.  I  began  to  tire.  I  realized  it  had  now  been  thirty- 
four  hours  since  I  had  slept.  Without  the  adrenaline  rush  of  responsibility,  my 
body  had  begun  to  shut  down.  I  made  arrangements  with  the  NCO  on  duty 
to  wake  me  if  anything  significant  happened,  then  decided  to  try  to  get  some 
rest.  Lying  in  my  bunk  a  short  time  later.  I  wondered  if  I  could  sleep  with  all 
that  had  happened.  No  sooner  had  that  one  thought  passed  my  mind  than  I 
was  unconscious.  I  slept  for  almost  fourteen  hours. 

Two  days  later  we  still  awaited  the  return  of  Komodo  13.  The  larger,  all- 
base  memorial  ceremony,  scheduled  for  that  night,  was  the  only  major  event 
that  still  remained.  As  the  acting  commander,  I  had  a  small  speaking  part  in 
the  ceremony,  but  otherwise  bore  little  responsibility.  The  largest  hangar  on 
base  was  the  selected  location.  It  was  still  pockmarked  with  bullet  holes  and 
bomb-related  damage  from  the  early  days  of  the  war. 

I  was  truly  amazed,  and  touched,  by  the  tremendous  showing  that  night 
In  short  order,  it  was  standing  room  only  and  the  ranks  of  mourners  contin- 
ued to  swell.  Even  an  entire  battalion  of  Coalition  soldiers  stationed  at  Kan- 
dahar showed  up  dressed  in  their  best  uniforms.  .Although  most  of  them 
would  not  even  understand  the  words  spoken,  they  wanted  to  show  their  sup- 
port. .Again,  the  powerful  bond  of  fellow  warriors  struck  me;  they  had  not  lost 
their  own  comrades,  but  they  felt  the  loss  nonetheless 

As  the  mournful  wail  of  bagpipes  began  the  ceremonv.  I  felt  anothei 
swelling  of  emotion.  Detennined  not  to  lose  my  composure  this  time.  I  held 
my  feelings  in  check  through  taps,  a  twenty -one-gun  salute,  a  memorial  slide 
show,  the  words  of  the  chaplain,  and  my  own  speech.  When  it  was  finally 
over,  I  noticed  a  difference  in  our  small  unit.  I  caught  small  snippets  of  rem- 


274  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

iniscing  as  I  mingled  and  even  saw  a  laugh  or  smile  now  and  then  as  stories 
were  exchanged.  We  would  never  forget  the  sacrifice  made  by  our  departed 
comrades,  but  the  closure  provided  by  the  ceremony  signaled  that  it  was  okay 
to  return  to  our  mission  and  stay  focused  on  why  we  were  here. 

The  next  day  repairs  began  on  our  helicopter  in  Bagram.  When  the  crew 
of  Komodo  13  finally  returned  two  days  after  that,  it  was  a  joyous  reunion. 
The  bonds  of  camaraderie  had  grown  even  stronger  through  the  trauma  we 
had  faced  together.  Their  return  six  full  days  after  our  first  notification  of  the 
crash  also  marked  the  attainment  of  a  priceless  goal.  After  twelve  hours  for 
the  crew  to  rest  and  recuperate,  we  were  back  on  alert— full,  100  percent  mis- 
sion capable.  The  sense  of  pride  was  palpable.  Other  challenges  still  lay 
ahead,  but  the  worst,  we  felt,  was  behind  us. 

In  the  weeks  and  months  following  the  deployment,  some  questioned  the 
loss  of  life  on  the  night  that  Komodo  11  went  down.  Was  there  a  reason  for  six 
U.S.  airmen  to  die  trying  to  rescue  two  Afghan  children  (who,  we  later 
learned,  were  successfully  rescued  by  other  American  troops)  from  tiny  vil- 
lages that  no  one  remembers?  We  grieved,  and  still  mourn,  their  loss,  but  we 
refuse  to  accept  that  their  deaths  were  for  nothing.  During  the  Kandahar 
memorial  for  the  crew  members  of  Komodo  11, 1  offered  the  following  tribute 
to  our  fallen  comrades,  and  I  believe  these  words  as  strongly  today  as  when  I 
spoke  them  that  night: 

"The  traditional  image  of  a  CSAR  mission  is  flying  into  a  hail  of  bullets  to 
recover  a  young  airman  or  soldier  clinging  to  life  after  being  wounded  in  di- 
rect combat  with  the  enemy.  Just  because  this  was  not  that  type  of  mission 
does  not  reduce  in  any  way  the  importance  of  their  sacrifice.  The  unfortu- 
nate reality  of  operations  such  as  the  one  now  performed  by  U.S.  forces  in 
Afghanistan  is  that  we  often  do  not  see  the  results  of  our  efforts.  There  is  no 
way  to  ever  know  what  tragedy  we  may  have  averted  or  catastrophes  we  may 
have  prevented  by  our  presence  here.  Every  ally  and  friend  we  make  now  is 
one  less  enemy  we  have  in  the  future.  Although  their  mission  did  not  suc- 
ceed, perhaps  the  parents  of  those  children  will  tell  them  someday  of  the 
brave  men  and  woman  who  died  attempting  to  save  their  lives.  Perhaps  that 
will  be  enough  to  convince  one  more  person  of  the  goodwill  and  intent  of  the 
United  States  of  America.  Perhaps  that's  one  less  enemy  that  will  take  up 
arms  against  us.  That  is  why  they  flew  their  mission,  and  that  is  why  they  did 
not  die  in  vain." 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  275 


THIS   IS   NOT  A  GAME 

Letter 

Captain  Ryan  Kelly 


While  stationed  in  Kuwait  and  gearing  up  for  combat,  Company  Com- 
mander and  UH-60  Black  Hawk  helicopter  pilot  Captain  Ryan  Kelly  and 
the  members  of  his  company  in  the  i-i^oth  General  Support  Aviation  Bat- 
talion 42nd  Infantry  Division  (Mechanized),  New  Jersey  Army  National 
Guard,  were  eager  to  head  into  Iraq.  (Kelly's  letter  voicing  his  frustration 
about  the  interminable  waiting  they  had  to  endure  in  Kuwait  appears  on 
page  23.J  Motivated  by  a  desire  "to  give  back  to  his  country"  Kelly  joined  the 
Army  in  1^2  at  the  age  of  twenty -two,  and  twelve  years  later  he  finally  em- 
barked on  his  first  deployment  to  a  war  zone.  On  January  21,  2005,  he  sent 
the  following  letter  to  his  mother  from  Camp  Speicher,  Iraq,  expressing  how 
the  troops— and  one  soldier  in  particular— were  reacting  to  actual  combat. 

Dear  Ma, 

They  are  called  HERO  missions.  And  they  are  the  worst  kind. 

It's  the  body  bag  in  the  back  that  makes  the  flight  hard.  No  jovial  banter 
among  the  crew.  No  jokes  of  home.  No  wisecracks  about  the  origin  of  the 
meat  served  at  the  chow  hall,  just  the  noise  of  the  flight— the  scream  of  the 
engines,  the  whir  of  the  blades  clawing  at  the  air,  the  voice  crackling  over 
the  radio  and  echo  of  your  own  thoughts  about  the  boy  in  the  bag  in  the  back. 

Yesterday  I  was  in  the  TOC  (tactical  operations  center)  — it's  where  all  the 
mission  planning  happens,  briefings,  maps  on  the  wall,  etc.  Normally,  after 
flying  missions,  pilots  drift  around  the  TOC  with  an  air  of  satisfied  indiffer- 
ence—similar to  lions  after  devouring  a  zebra.  I  was  talking  with  the  opera- 
tions officer,  complaining  that  my  pilots  weren't  flying  enough,  when  a 
heavy-set,  three  pieces  of  cake  after  dinner  man  came  in.  Instead  of  the  usual 
swagger,  he  was  dazed.  I  asked  him  what  was  wrong.  He  told  me  he  just  fin- 
ished flying  one  of  the  HERO  missions.  When  we  pick  up  friendly  KIAs 
(killed  in  action),  that  is  what  we  call  it. 

He  told  me  he  picked  up  a  US  kid  killed  in  a  car  bomb.  He  tried  to  shrug 
it  off  as  just  another  mission,  but  it  was  obviously  bothering  him.  A  few  sec- 
onds later  he  left,  but  his  look  stayed  with  me. 


276  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Body  bags  must  have  been  in  the  stars  because  later  the  Colonel  an- 
nounced that  the  heaters  in  the  medevac  helicopters  were  not  working  that 
well.  In  response,  the  medics,  operating  on  a  'corn  husk  theory,'  started  zip- 
ping their  live  patients  inside  body  bags  to  keep  them  warm  during  the  flight. 
It  can  get  very  cold  in  the  back  of  the  Blackhawk  because  the  wind  seeps  in 
through  cracks  in  the  window  seals.  However,  the  medics  forgot  to  explain 
this  to  their  patients  who  understandably  freaked  out.  It's  kind  of  funny,  in  a 
twisted  sort  of  way.  I  guess  being  in  a  body  bag  is  better  than  freezing  on  the 
way  to  the  hospital.  Why  is  death  always  so  cold? 

Things  have  hardened  into  routine  here,  like  an  old  artery  that's  carried 
the  same,  tired  blood  along  the  same,  tired  path  for  years.  Pump,  return, 
pump,  return,  wake  up,  eat,  work,  sleep,  wake  up— back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth,  BOOOM!  Rocket  attack.  Pump,  return,  pump,  return  .  .  .  We've  worn  a 
trail  through  the  gravel  with  our  boots  plodding  back  and  forth  to  the  hangar. 

If  it  weren't  for  the  Army  uniforms  and  the  constant  noise  of  helicopters 
taking  off  and  landing,  and  the  Russian  747-like  jets  screaming  overhead 
every  hour  of  the  day,  and  the  F-i6s  screeching  around  looking  for  something 
to  kill,  and  the  rockets  exploding  and  the  controlled  blasts  shaking  the  win- 
dows and  the  "thump,  thump,  thump"  sound  of  the  Apache  gun  ships  shoot- 
ing their  30mm  guns  "in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
and  the  hero  missions  and  the  body  bags  and  the  stress,  and  the  soldiers 
fraught  with  personal  problems— child  custody  battles  fought  from  3000 
miles  away,  surgeries  on  ovaries,  hearts,  breasts,  brains,  cancers,  transplants, 
divorces,  Dear  John  letters,  births,  deaths,  miscarriages  and  miss-marriages— 
and  the  scorpions  and  the  spiders  who  hide  under  the  toilet  seats,  and  the 
freakish  bee-sized  flies  humming  around  like  miniature  blimps,  and  the 
worst:  the  constant  pang  of  home,  the  longing  for  family,  the  knowledge  that 
life  is  rolling  past  you  like  an  unstoppable  freight  train,  an  inevitable  force,  re- 
inforcing the  desire  for  something  familiar,  the  longing  for  something  beau- 
tiful, for  something  safe,  to  be  somewhere  safe,  with  love  and  laughter  and 
poetry  and  cold  lemonade  and  clean  sheets,  if  it  weren't  for  all  that  Iraq 
would  be  just  like  home.  Almost. 

Last  night,  one  of  my  soldiers  showed  up  at  the  chow  hall.  I  was  surprised 
because  he's  been  gone  for  a  while.  Two  months  ago  he  volunteered  to  be 
part  of  a  security  detail  that  escorts  convoys  to.  and  from  Kuwait  and  back 
again.  The  drive  is  a  perilous  600-mile,  one-way  trip  with  roadside  bombs, 
RPG  attacks,  ambushes  and  small  arms  fire. 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  277 

The  convoys  are  made  up  of  security  teams  who  speed  down  the  highway 
in  armored  HMMVs,  like  cowboys  herding  columns  of  trucks  stuffed  with 
food,  fans,  etc.  Foreigners— Japanese,  Turks,  you  name  it— drive  the  giant 
semis  and  risk  capture  and  beheadings  because  the  job  pays  big  money.  Some 
drivers  earn  $100,000  or  more.  Men  like  mine  do  it  because  they  want  to  or 
because  commanders  like  me  order  them  to.  My  man  earns  about  $40,000  a 
year. 

The  convoy  escort  mission  passed  to  me  like  a  foul  smelling  egg.  The 
Army  hatched  the  mission  in  an  effort  to  spare  more  people  the  risk  of  con- 
voying. The  idea  was  to  get  a  few  permanent  escort  teams  together  instead  of 
making  whole  units  drive.  It's  a  good  idea,  if  you  don't  happen  to  be  one  of 
the  poor  suckers  on  one  of  the  teams.  Three  men  they  wanted,  three  men.  I 
was  not  happy.  I  was  pissed  off.  Weren't  we  done  with  these  awful  convoys?  I 
passed  the  news  like  a  kidney  stone  to  my  first  sergeant.  We  went  through  the 
horrible  process  of  selection.  Who  would  it  be?  Who  could  I  afford  to  lose? 
Who  was  worth  more  to  me  alive?  NO  one  should  ever  have  to  ask  these 
questions.  Fortunately,  my  men  volunteered,  sparing  me  the  decision.  I 
was  — and  am  — so  very  proud  of  their  bravery,  mom.  It  nearly  brought  me  to 
tears.  After  about  two  weeks,  two  of  them  returned  unharmed  and  wide-eyed 
from  the  experience. 

But  not  one  man.  He's  still  out  there.  The  guys  in  the  TOC  tell  me  he'll 
be  on  a  team  for  up  to  three  months.  That's  a  long  time  to  let  someone  take 
shots  at  you.  But  it's  war,  and  in  comparison  to  what  grandpa  went  through,  a 
tame  one.  My  man's  missions  are  unpredictable.  I  never  know  if  he's  coming 
or  going.  He'll  drift  around  the  CP  (command  post)  or  the  hangar  for  a  week 
or  so,  turn  a  few  wrenches  on  a  helicopter  and  then  suddenly  I'll  get  a  knock 
on  my  door  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I'll  open  it  and  see  him  standing 
there  donned  in  his  body  armor,  helmet  and  rifle.  He'll  tell  me  he's  leaving 
and  my  first  sergeant  and  I  will  wish  him  good  luck  and  God  speed. 

We'll  all  shake  hands,  I'll  slap  him  on  the  back  and  he'll  disappear.  Then 
I  won't  see  him  for  a  few  weeks.  That's  how  it  goes.  That's  our  routine.  Every 
time  I  send  him  off  I  feel  like  a  father  sending  a  kid  off  into  the  world,  won- 
dering when  he'll  be  back  again  or  if  I'm  going  to  write  a  death  letter  to  his 
family. 

For  weeks  I  won't  know  if  he's  dead  or  alive,  shot  or  blown  up.  All  I  will 
know  is  that  he  is  somewhere  between  here,  Kuwait,  death  and  home.  Then, 
as  suddenly  as  he  left,  he'll  reappear. 


278  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

The  last  time  he  returned,  he  was  flush  with  confidence  and  adrenaline. 
I  caught  him  about  three  weeks  ago  regaling  the  guys  about  this  latest  trip; 
some  Iraqi  kids  chucked  a  brick  off  an  overpass  and  shattered  a  semi's  wind- 
shield. The  driver  lost  control  and  flipped  the  truck  upside  down.  It  crushed 
him  to  death.  My  man  was  unable  to  return  fire  because  the  kids  melted  into 
a  crowd. 

Despite  the  horror  inflicted  on  someone  else,  the  trip  excited  him.  He  an- 
nounced that  he  liked  driving  on  the  convoys  better  than  working  in  mainte- 
nance. He  asked  me  if  he  could  stay  on  the  escort  mission  for  the  rest  of  our 
tour.  I  said,  "hell,  no,"  and  that  he  could  join  the  Goddamned  infantry  later, 
after  we  were  safely  back  home.  That  exchange  has  become  our  second  rou- 
tine. He  asks  to  go,  I  say,  no.  We  both  laugh  and  he  leaves  on  another  mission. 
He  said  he  really  likes  it. 

That  was  until  last  night. 

I  was  eating  dinner,  like  I  usually  do,  when  he  appeared,  interrupting  me 
in  the  middle  of  a  forkful  of  coleslaw.  Something  dark  had  happened.  He  was 
somber,  deliberate  and  scared.  Before  I  could  say,  "Welcome  back,"  and 
"hell,  no,  you  can't  be  an  infantryman,"  he  blurted  out:  "Sir,  can  I  talk  to  you 
for  a  second?"  When  people  say  that  to  me  there's  a  problem.  Soldiers  don't 
usually  talk  to  me  unlessthey  are  bitching  or  have  something  troubling  them. 
God,  mom,  I've  heard  that  phrase  so  many  times. 

He  said  he  was  driving  back  in  a  column  of  12  armored  gun  trucks,  se- 
cured by  the  fantasy  that  the  enemy  would  never  dare  attack  such  a  bristling 
display  of  American  industrial  might— replete  with  machine  guns  and  auto- 
matic grenade  launchers.  He  was  thinking  this  when  a  huge  roadside  bomb 
exploded,  engulfing  a  semi  truck  in  flames,  killing  the  driver  and  his  passen- 
ger and  spraying  my  man's  HMMV  with  dirt. 

The  experience  didn't  rattle  him.  Worse,  it  changed  him.  He  realized  that 
this  is  not  a  game.  He  understands  that  there  are  people  who  are  trying  to  kill 
him,  and  me,  and  anyone  else  unfortunate  enough  to  stray  down  the  wrong 
street.  I  think  he  wanted  me  to  pull  him  off  the  mission  and  tell  him  he  didn't 
have  to  go  out  on  the  road  anymore. 

But  I  didn't.  He's  become  proficient,  more  of  an  expert  on  the  tactics  and 
tells  of  the  enemy  than  anyone  I  could  replace  him  with.  So  I  made  him  stay. 
It's  a  cold  decision,  but  the  right  one.  Again,  I  felt  like  his  father.  "I  think  he's 
learning  what  this  is  all  about,"  my  sergeant  said.  Maybe  we  all  are. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  279 

This  morning  I  went  to  work  and  found  a  VFW  magazine  on  the  confer- 
ence table.  On  the  front  cover  was  a  picture  of  an  injured  20-something 
solider,  his  face  and  forehead  purpled  with  bruises,  his  lips  swollen  and  cut, 
his  left  eye  half-closed,  his  arm  in  a  sling,  fingernails  black  with  dried  blood, 
his  thighs  blotched  with  red  abrasions  and  his  leg  wrapped  in  an  ace  bandage, 
amputated  below  the  knee.  He  was  sitting  in  a  hospital  bed  with  a  half  smile 
on  this  face.  A  blazing  bold  yellow  headline  scrawled  across  his  chest  read 
"wounded  vets  rebound."  I  opened  the  magazine  and  flipped  to  the  story  and 
saw  a  second  picture  of  a  wounded  amputee.  This  one  was  of  a  young  Navy 
guy  lying  in  a  hospital  bed.  His  wife  was  sitting  beside  him.  She  was  not  smil- 
ing. 

The  caption  under  the  picture  read:  "Navy  Corpsman  Joe  Worley  visits 
with  his  wife,  Angel,  while  recovering  at  Walter  Reed.  A  rocket-propelled 
grenade  ripped  off  his  left  leg,  but  he  said  it  was  'a  fair  trade  for  getting  out  of 
Iraq  alive/  "  The  cut-line  continued:  "His  sense  of  humor  and  positive  out- 
look make  him  a  favorite  on  the  amputee  ward." 

Christ.  What  a  terrible  attempt  at  positive  spin. 

Tell  everyone  that  I  miss  them.  I  think  about  them  and  you  every  day.  I 
hope  I'll  be  home  soon.  Peace  is  such  a  great  and  delicate  thing. 

Kelly  returned  to  the  United  States  in  November  2005. 


CLUSTERS 

Poem 

Captain  Robert  W.  Schaefer 


Just  as  troops  find  it  cathartic  to  write  letters  and  e-mails  to  friends  and 
loved  ones,  many  servicemen  and  women  express  their  emotions  through  po- 
etry. A  formidable-looking  Green  Beret  who  has  been  deployed  around  the 
world,  thirty-seven-year-old  Captain  Robert  W.  Schaefer  jotted  down  the 
first  draft  of  the  following  poem  only  days  after  the  launch  of  Operation 
Iraqi  Freedom  (he  would  make  only  slight  changes  when  he  returned  to  the 
States).  It  relates  to  an  incident  that  Schaefer  observed  firsthand. 


280  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

Yellow 
or  were  they 
blue?  White,  red 
ribbon  everywhere  — 
Stay  out. 

But  they  were  so  small,  plastic,  barely  three 
inches  across.  They  didn't  look  deadly.  Two 
soldiers  wandered  in  curious.  One 
said:  "I  wonder  what  would  happen  if .  .  ." 
and  gingerly  tapped  one 
with  the  toe  of  his  boot 

which  then  evaporated  in  a  pink  frothy  cloud, 
a  bubble  gum  pop,  then  cotton  candy  chunks 
arcing  lazily  through  the  air 
landing  with  little  wet  thumps 
muffled  by  the  sand. 

Then,  he  died— just  like  that 

just  that  quickly. 

One  moment  he  was  alive  and  curious 

and  the  next,  he  was  just  a  scattering. 

But  the  second  was  still  alive 
And  so,  to  help  him,  without  thinking 
others  ran  into  that  minefield 


pop 
pop 


We  too  now  running,  and  I,  fastest,  first,  frozen 
by  the  sight  of  so  much  crimson-soaked  clothing. 
I  didn't  know  where  to  start. 

Covered  with  the  blood  of  others, 

later,  I  was 

mistaken  as  a  casualty  myself. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A    GAME  2  =  1 


But  I  would  not  let  them  take  my  uniform 
they  would  still  live  as  long  as  evidence 
of  them  remained  on  my  sleeves, 
torn  as  they  grasped  for  a  few  extra  moments. 


THE  VIRTUAL  SOLDIERS 

Poem 

Private  First  Class  Allen  J.  Caruselle 


"When  we  first  got  to  Baghdad,  the  [Iraqi;  men  spread  rumors  that  we  had 
X-ray  vision  in  our  sunglasses  and  we  would  defile  their  women"  U.S.  Armx 
Sergeant  James  A.  Christenson  wrote  on  April  5.  2004.  "Trie  kids  would 
come  up  to  us  and  ask  to  try  on  our  glasses"  Christenson  continued, 

all  the  while  looking  for  secret  buttons  that  would  turn  on  the  X-ray 
vision.  They  would  walk  around  staring  at  each  other  uith  confused 
looks  on  their  faces.  My  favorite  one  was  the  rumor  about  Marines 
being  robots.  Thev  had  no  other  explanation  for  the  Marines  being 
able  to  wear  all  of  the  hot  and  heaw  clothes  in  this  heat. 

The  comparison  is  an  understandable  one;  decked  out  in  full  battle  gear 
with  audio/video  communication  systems,  night  vision  goggles,  laser  scopes, 
and  other  high-tech  equipment  American  soldiers  and  Marines  often  ap- 
pear, especially  to  the  Iraqis  or  Afghans  thev  encounter,  like  futuristic  fight- 
ing machines.  In  the  summer  of  2003,  while  stationed  in  one  of  Saddam 
Husseins  former  vacation  palaces  in  Babvlon,  a  twenty-one-year-old  private 
first  class  named  Allen  J.  Caruselle  wrote  the  following  poem  reflecting  on 
the  degree  to  which  technology  had  permeated  and  influenced  military  cul- 
ture. Caruselle,  a  third-generation  Marine  and  infantry  rifleman  in  the  1st 
Battalion,  yth  Marine  Regiment  was  on  his  first  deployment  to  Iraq.  He 
would  be  redeployed  twice  over  the  next  two  years.  (The  "digital  camou- 
flage"  Caruselle  mentions  refers  to  the  battle  dress  uniforms,  or  "cammies" 
most  Marines  now  wear,  which  have  a  camouflage  pattern  that  appears  to 
be  made  up  of  digital  pixels.) 


282  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

We  are  the  soldiers  of  the  new  millennium. 

Our  digital  camouflage  a  testament  to  changing  times, 

Our  ranks  filled  with  the  lost  generation  of  video-pacified  children, 

Looking  for  the  next  great  adventure. 

We  train  on  virtual  simulators 

To  learn  the  proper  methods  of  dealing  with  enemy  tactics; 

Civilians  and  children  hiding  machine  guns  behind  teddy  bears. 

Disconnected  from  the  battle  zone  by  constant  and  clever  training, 

We  are  taught  to  live  only  in  the  between  hours  of  liberty  and  leave, 

Silicon  knights  out  to  save  the  world 

From  the  newest  threat  of  terror  and  disorder. 

We  step  into  the  darkness. 

Situation:  Unclear; 

Mission:  Unknown. 

This  is  the  tenet  by  which  we  throw  the  dice, 

And  our  very  lives,  into  the  raging  storm. 


ASHBAH,  THE  BAGHDAD  ZOO,  and   THE  HURT  LOCKER 

Poems 
Sergeant  Brian  Turner 

Inspired  by  both  his  father,  an  Army  soldier  during  the  Cold  War,  and  his 
grandfather,  a  Marine  who  fought  in  almost  every  major  campaign  of  the 
Pacific  Theater  during  World  War  II,  Brian  Turner  joined  the  military  in 
1998  and  eventually  became  a  sergeant  in  the  U.S.  Army  with  the  yd 
Stryker  Brigade,  2nd  Infantry  Division.  Turner  crossed  the  border  into  Iraq 
on  December  3,  2003,  and  spent  almost  eleven  months  in  Baghdad  and 
Mosul.  Nicknamed  "the  professor,"  Turner  had  earned  a  master's  degree 
in  poetry  from  the  University  of  Oregon  and  composed  numerous  works 
during  his  deployment.  (After  the  war,  he  returned  to  the  States  and  be- 
came a  teacher  in  California.)  Turner  kept  the  poems  to  himself,  however, 
as  he  didn't  want  his  men  to  think  he  was  writing  about  "flowers  and 
stuff."  In  fact,  Turner's  poems  offer  profound  reflections  on  the  haunting 
and  nightmarish  realities  of  warfare  and  the  immense  pain  military  oper- 
ations can  inflict  on  troops  and  civilians  alike.  "Ashbah,"  which  is  also 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  283 

the  title  of  the  first  poem,  is  the  transliteration  of  the  Arabic  word  for 
u  ghosts." 

The  ghosts  of  American  soldiers 
wander  the  streets  of  Balad  by  night, 

unsure  of  their  way  home,  exhausted, 
the  desert  wind  blowing  trash 
down  the  narrow  alleys  as  a  voice 

sounds  from  the  minaret,  a  soulful  call 
reminding  them  how  alone  they  are, 
how  lost.  And  the  Iraqi  dead, 
they  watch  in  silence  from  the  rooftops 
as  date  palms  line  the  shore  in  silhouette, 

leaning  toward  Mecca  when  the  dawn  wind  blows. 

The  following  poem,  "The  Baghdad  Zoo"  is  loosely  based  on  stories  that 
Turner  heard  concerning  the  damage  and  looting  done  to  the  city's  main 
zoo  during  the  March  2003  invasion  of  Iraq  (ubarchan  dunes"  are  crescent- 
shaped  sand  dunes). 

An  Iraqi  northern  brown  bear  mauled  a  man 
on  a  street  corner,  dragging  him  down  an  alley 
as  shocked  onlookers  cried  for  it  to  stop. 

There  were  tanks  rolling  their  heavy  tracks 
past  the  museum  and  up  to  the  Ministry  of  Oil. 
One  gunner  watched  a  lion  chase  down  a  horse. 

Eaten  down  to  their  skeletons,  the  giraffes 

looked  prehistoric,  unreal,  their  necks 

too  fragile,  too  graceful  for  the  21st  Century. 

Surreal.  Dalmatian  pelicans  and  marbled  teals 

flew  over,  frightened  by  the  rotorwash 

of  Black  Hawk  helicopters  touching  down. 


284  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


One  baboon  even  escaped  from  the  city  limits. 
It  was  found  wandering  in  the  desert,  confused 
by  the  wind  and  the  sand  of  the  barchan  dunes. 


The  final  poem  is  "The  Hurt  Locker." 


Nothing  but  the  hurt  left  here. 

Nothing  but  bullets  and  pain 

and  the  bled-out  slumping 

and  all  the  fucks  and  goddamns 

and  Jesus  Christs  of  the  wounded. 

Nothing  left  here  but  the  hurt. 

Believe  it  when  you  see  it. 

Believe  it  when  a  twelve-year-old 

rolls  a  grenade  into  the  room. 

Or  when  a  sniper  punches  a  hole 

deep  into  someone's  head. 

Believe  it  when  four  men 

step  from  a  taxicab  in  Mosul 

to  shower  the  street  in  brass 

and  fire.  Open  the  hurt  locker 

and  see  what  there  is  of  knives 

and  teeth.  Open  the  hurt  locker  and  learn 

how  rough  men  come  hunting  for  souls. 


A  CASE  FOR   BEING  THERE 

Personal  Narrative 
Major  Paul   D.   Danielson,   MD 


In  May  2003,  thirty^-six-year-old  Dr.  Paul  D.  Danielson  said  goodbye  to  his 
pregnant  wife  and  eleven-month-old  son  in  Massachusetts  to  deploy  to  Iraq 
with  the  U.S.  Army  Reseme,  Medical  Corps,  912th  Forward  Surgical  Team 
(FST).  Like  many  professionals  who  have  to  deal  with  intense  stress  and 
suffering  on  a  daily  basis,  Danielson  and  his  unit  used  gallows  humor  as  a 
kind  of  emotional  defense  mechanism.  But  even  though  they  were  often 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  285 


cracking  jokes  in  the  heat  (literally)  of  combat  surgery,  they  were  passion- 
ately dedicated  to  providing  the  best  care  possible  to  critically  injured  troops 
in  and  around  Baghdad.  Danielson  wrote  the  following  account  about  one 
especially  memorable  patient  months  after  returning  home. 


akey,  wakey,  boyzzzz,"  Butter  purred.  "Someone  mixed  it  up  with 
Ha j ji  and  we've  got  us  some  casualties  comin'  in."  Butter  was  our 
overtattooed  trauma  nurse  who  earned  his  nickname  on  account  of  the  gold 
second-lieutenant  bars  he  wore.  He  was  different.  Most  men  who  experience 
a  midlife  crisis  quit  a  respectable  job  and  go  out  and  buy  a  Harley.  Butter  did 
it  backwards.  He  woke  up  when  he  was  forty  and  decided  enough  with  the 
Jack  Daniel's  and  motorcycle  set.  He  figured  he'd  join  the  Army  Reserve,  and 
six  months  later  he  found  himself  in  Mesopotamia. 

The  casualties  turned  out  to  be  from  an  armored  cavalry  unit.  These  fel- 
lows always  earned  our  respect.  After  dark  they'd  mount  up  and  drive  through 
the  bad  sections  of  town.  They  were  trying  to  draw  fire  so  that  they  could 
shoot  back  and  put  the  hurt  on  the  insurgents.  Success  with  this  tactic  relies 
upon  poor  aim  by  the  enemy  and  superior  firepower  by  the  Cav  troopers.  Un- 
fortunately, during  this  particular  mission  an  IED  blew  up  one  of  their 
Humvees. 

I  batted  my  way  out  from  under  the  mosquito  netting  and  slipped  on  my 
flip-flops.  I  had  stopped  wearing  my  boots  to  trauma  codes  for  two  reasons. 
First,  it  got  too  difficult  to  wash  the  blood  out  of  them.  Second,  it  was  too 
damn  hot.  Our  two  field  operating  tables  were  set  up  in  a  glorified  closet  in 
one  part  of  the  aid  station.  When  you  got  an  OR  team  in  there  and  all  the 
lights  and  equipment  going,  the  temperature  would  be  over  100  degrees 
Fahrenheit.  Consequently,  my  uniform  for  patient  care  consisted  of  shorts,  a 
T-shirt,  and  a  sidearm.  We'd  add  Kevlar  and  flak  vests  if  the  war  came  knock- 
ing a  little  too  close.  It  went  against  all  Army  regulations.  It  was  also  against 
common  sense  as  far  as  avoiding  contact  with  bodily  fluids.  However,  I 
viewed  it  as  a  calculated  risk.  Two  of  my  cosurgeons  were  similarly  clad, 
which  did  little  to  improve  the  reputation  of  the  reservist  medical  corps  in  the 
eyes  of  the  regular  Army.  Every  time  the  sergeant  major  from  the  battalion 
walked  through  we  had  to  have  the  defibrillator  ready  since  he  almost  had  an 
arrhythmia  just  looking  at  us. 

The  trio  of  yawning  surgeons  staggered  down  the  hallway  to  the  trauma 


286  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

bay.  It  was  an  open  area  in  the  front  corner  of  the  aid  station  with  two  litter 
stands  in  the  center.  The  harsh  fluorescent  glow  of  two  Bruce  lamps  strung 
from  the  ceiling  illuminated  the  workspace. 

While  Butter's  staff  was  spiking  bags  of  IV  fluid  and  opening  up  packs  of 
dressings,  the  FSTs  first  sergeant,  Cueball,  came  in  wearing  his  combat 
boots.  We  figured  he  slept  in  them;  no  one  could  lace  up  a  set  that  fast.  Cue- 
ball  loved  his  docs  and  his  enlisted,  and  all  of  us  respected  him.  He  was  in  his 
familiar  role  of  playing  bouncer  in  the  trauma  bay.  He  was  giving  the  heave- 
ho  to  various  wallflowers  and  rubberneckers  who  hoped  to  see  some  blood 
and  guts.  I  never  knew  how  all  these  trauma  groupies  got  to  the  aid  station  so 
quickly.  Of  course,  I'm  being  unfair  in  labeling  them.  They  showed  up  to 
pitch  in,  and  their  assistance  in  moving  patients,  guarding  EPWs,  or  just 
being  "gofers"  was  indispensable. 

The  medical  service  corps  lieutenant  came  over  to  meet  us. 

"Morning,  El  Tee."  Warthog,  my  partner  in  general-surgery  crime, 
grinned.  "What  are  you  doing  up  so  early?" 

"Sir?"  the  youngster  replied,  still  no  more  certain  on  how  to  interpret  us 
than  the  day  we  first  met  him  in  Kuwait.  "I  just  came  over  from  the  TOC.  I 
can  report  three  or  four  definites  coming,  maybe  more." 

Warthog  was  about  to  ask  him  how  many  "definites"  three  or  four  actually 
meant,  but  decided  it  was  too  early  to  tease  the  young  officer. 

Our  banter  was  interrupted  as  the  walls  rattled  from  the  roar  of  a  low- 
flying  helicopter.  There  was  a  mass  movement  of  people  to  the  rear  of  the  aid 
station. 

I  glanced  over  at  Warthog,  who  looked  positively  meditative  as  we  waited. 

"The  last  moment  of  tranquillity,  huh?"  I  observed. 

His  mind  was  on  other  thoughts.  "I  hope  I  covered  up  my  pillow,"  he  said, 
referring  to  the  fine  layer  of  silt  that  coated  everything  in  the  aid  station  after 
a  helicopter  landing. 

Any  sense  of  calm  was  gone  a  moment  later  as  the  first  of  the  four-man  lit- 
ter teams  burst  through  the  door. 

"I  was  worried  he  wouldn't  make  it  to  the  CSH,"  the  flight  medic  reported 
as  he  followed  behind  the  second  litter.  "Two  urgent  surgicals.  The  first  is  an 
Iraqi  interpreter  with  shrapnel  all  over.  The  second  is  a  Cav  officer  with  a 
near-amputation  of  his  right  upper  extremity." 

We  followed  the  teams  into  the  heart  of  the  aid  station,  taking  care  not  to 
slip  on  the  blood  trail.  We  exploded  into  the  light  and  openness  of  the  trauma 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  287 

bay,  and  then,  just  as  a  hush  follows  the  roar  of  a  wave  crashing  onto  a  beach, 
a  soft  hum  filled  the  room  to  replace  the  clamor  of  our  arrival. 

I  headed  toward  the  second  litter:  white  male,  midthirties,  eighty  kilos, 
awake  but  looking  "shocky."  His  uniform  had  already  been  cut  away  by  the 
time  I  reached  him.  A  new  IV  was  being  started  and  vital-sign  monitors  were 
being  slapped  onto  his  pale  skin.  My  quick  primary  survey  revealed  that  his 
right  forearm  was  nearly  amputated  and  his  left  foot  had  caught  a  sizable 
piece  of  shrapnel. 

"We  are  going  to  take  good  care  of  you,  Major,"  I  said  to  the  wounded  of- 
ficer. "But  you're  going  to  need  an  operation  on  your  arm  and  foot." 

"OK,  sir,"  he  said  simply. 

I  was  impressed  by  his  calm.  If  my  severed  arm  was  hanging  by  a  sinew,  I 
would  have  been  screaming  my  head  off  and  crying  like  a  baby.  Not  him.  No 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  only  a  grunt  here  and  there  as  we  adjusted  his  tourni- 
quet. He  was  100  percent  warrior. 

Pooh,  the  orthopedic  surgeon,  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  litter.  As  big  as 
a  bear  and  as  gentle  as  the  A.  A.  Milne  character,  he  had  left  his  lucrative 
sports-medicine  private  practice  to  come  over  to  Iraq. 

"He  needs  your  magic,  Pooh,"  I  said. 

"Nerves  intact?" 

He  was  already  trying  to  decide  whether  to  try  to  salvage  the  upper  ex- 
tremity or  just  amputate. 

I  frowned. 

"We'll  see."  Pooh  shrugged  and  shuffled  off  toward  the  OR  to  get  ready. 

Warthog  and  I  turned  away  from  our  patients  to  confer  in  the  narrow  aisle 
between  the  litters. 

"Mine's  stable,"  he  said.  "But  needs  lots  of  debridement.  He  keeps  asking 
about  your  guy." 

It  turned  out  that  the  Iraqi  national  was  an  interpreter.  He  had  been 
studying  to  be  a  doctor  until  Saddam  closed  all  the  medical  schools.  When 
the  U.S.  Army  arrived,  the  young  man  decided  to  put  his  English  skills  to 
work.  On  this  particular  evening,  it  was  his  knowledge  of  first  aid  in  control- 
ling hemorrhage  that  had  kept  the  major  alive  long  enough  to  reach  us. 

I  walked  a  few  steps  down  the  corridor  to  the  adjoining  makeshift  operat- 
ing room.  Looking  in,  I  found  the  OR  techs  opening  pans  of  instruments  and 
the  nurse  anesthetists  drawing  up  their  induction  medications. 

"We're  all  ready  for  you,"  Mookie  greeted. 


25:  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"It's  Pooh's  show  tonight"  I  replied. 

I  felt  a  bit  disappointed.  First,  I  was  thinking  about  the  major  who  was 
about  to  lose  his  arm.  Second.  I  was  depressed  bv  the  prospect  of  being  idle. 
Pooh  would  be  doing  the  amputation,  and  Warthog  would  be  cleaning  up 
the  Iraqi  interpreter's  wounds.  I  could  kill  a  little  time  doing  some  paperwork, 
coordinating  the  post-op  evacuation  of  the  casualties,  and  communicating 
with  the  CSH  to  give  them  a  heads-up.  After  that,  however,  I  would  be  back 
to  thinking  about  home. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  self-medicating  mv  self-pitv  bv  eating  an  MRE.  I 
had  saved  the  peanut  butter  tube  from  one  meal  and  the  bag  of  shelled  and 
salted  peanuts  from  another.  Now  I  could  mix  the  two  together,  add  them  to 
the  standard  chow  mein  packet  and  season  it  with  Tabasco.  It  gave  the  entree 
a  little  Thai  flair.  It  was  perfect  comfort  food  at  two  in  the  morning. 

Cueball  came  round  the  corner. 

"You've  got  to  have  some,"  I  offered,  desperate  to  talk  to  anvone  as  a  dis- 
traction. 

\  0  thanks,  sir."  he  grimaced.  "But  I  was  sent  to  find  vou.  Thev  want  you 
to  poke  vour  head  into  the  OR." 

My  mood  immediately  improved.  I  left  the  doctored  MRE  and  thoughts 
of  mv  familv  behind  and  headed  to  the  OR. 

Pooh  looked  up  from  the  major's  arm. 

"His  elbow  is  blown  awav."  he  said.  "I  think  the  onlv  thing  holding  his 
forearm  on  is  a  bridge  of  skin  and  his  median  and  ulnar  nerves.  I  can't  find 
his  radial.  And  I  think  that  this  is  his  transected  brachial  artery." 

I  peered  over  at  the  sterile  field.  There  was  a  huge  gaping  hole  where  the 
elbow  joint  should  have  been.  The  sharp,  fractured  ends  of  the  bones  of  his 
arm  and  forearm  protruded  menacingly  into  the  wound  area.  The  stump  of 
his  brachial  artery  was  in  spasm.  It  stood  up  on  end  throbbing  with  each 
puht 

It  was  a  sticky  situation.  It  is  often  possible  to  restore  blood  flow  to  an  am- 
putated limb.  However,  the  efforts  are  useless  unless  the  nerves  will  work. 
The  nerves  earn"  the  messages  to  the  muscles  to  make  them  move.  They  also 
cam  sensory  information  back  to  the  brain.  There  is  little  use  in  saving  an  ex- 
tremity that  won't  work  or  that  will  constantly  be  getting  injured  without  the 
owner's  awareness.  Moreover,  the  technology  of  prosthetic  limbs  had  ad- 
vanced so  much  that  many  patients  have  a  better  long-term  outcome  by  hav- 
ing a  mangled  extremity  amputated. 


THIS     IS    NO"     - 


"Think  we  should  try?"  Pooh  asked. 

With  two  out  of  the  three  nerves  identified  and  intact,  I  thought  it 
worth  a  shot.  If  it  didn't  work  out  they  could  always  just  take  the  forearm  off 
back  at  Landstuhl  or  Walter  Reed. 

"I'll  scrub/'  I  replied. 

Once  gowned  and  gloved,  I  started  dissecting  through  the  mess  of  dam- 
aged muscle  and  tendons  to  find  the  ends  of  the  brachial  artery.  A  portion  of 
the  vessel  had  been  destroyed  by  the  blast.  In  addition,  the  distal  segment  in 
the  forearm  had  retracted  several  centimeters.  It  was  apparent  that  the  two 
ends  would  not  reach  one  another.  I  needed  a  graft  to  bridge  the  gap. 

Warthog  showed  up  having  finished  with  his  patient. 

"I  could  use  your  help.  You  want  to  get  to  work  on  this  guy's  gro 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  indignantly.  "He  hasn't  even  bought  me  din- 
ner yet.  Let  me  also  remind  you  that  I  wear  Army  green  and  not  Navy  w 
I  will  not  be  a  part  of  any  of  those  don't  ask,  don't  tell'  activities  no  matter 
how  .  .  ."  His  words  trailed  off  as  he  went  out  for  a  quick  scrub.  A  few  minutes 
later,  Warthog  was  flaying  open  the  patient's  thigh  to  harvest  a  piece  of  the 
saphenous  vein.  We  would  use  it  to  replace  the  missing  segment  of  arte  - 
continued  to  clean  up  the  elbow  area  and  tie  off  some  bleeders. 

The  game  was  on  and  everything  else  was  secondary.  I  became  focused 
on  the  operation  and  lost  touch  with  much  of  what  was  going  on  around  me. 
I  remember  Cueball  coming  in  asking  for  updates  so  that  he  could  plan  the 
timing  of  the  medevac  chopper.  The  anesthesia  team  asked  about  blood  loss 
a  few  times. 

I  sewed  in  the  b\pass  and  removed  the  clamps.  The  patient's  hand  im- 
mediately pinked  up.  and  the  distal  side  of  the  wound  started  to  ooze  blood. 
I  rested  the  pad  of  my  gloved  index  finger  on  the  shiny  segment  of  vein  and 
felt  the  thrill  of  blood  coursing  through  the  vessel.  The  graft  was  ope~  7~ le 
repair  was  working.  It  was  a  moment  to  savor. 

Mv  silent  celebration  was  interrupted  by  Mookie  slapping.  latha 
painfully.  a  loaded  needle  driver  into  my  other  hand.  It  was  his  not-so-subde 
way  of  drawing  me  back  to  reality. 

"Four-O  nylon,  sir."  he  announced,  as  he  handed  me  the  suture  I  would 
need  for  closing  the  skin. 

"Screw  you,  Mookie."  I  shot  back.  "This  is  the  closest  thing  Fve  had  to  sex 
in  four  months.  Don't  ruin  the  moment." 

W  e  finished  quickly  and  dressed  the  wounds  as  Pooh  put  the  final  touches 


290  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

on  the  external  fixation  device.  I  then  broke  scrub  as  the  recovery-room  team 
came  in  to  help  package  the  patient  for  transport  to  the  CSH. 

I  sat  down  on  a  medical  chest  in  the  corridor  between  the  trauma  bay  and 
the  operating  room.  After  draining  my  CamelBak  of  tepid  water,  I  leaned 
back  against  the  wall  and  sighed.  I  am  certain  that  I  smelled  to  high  heaven. 
I  didn't  notice,  and  it  didn't  really  matter.  By  that  point  in  the  war  everyone 
reeked. 

Over  the  next  few  days  we  tried  to  figure  out  what  happened  to  the  major 
and  his  arm.  Unfortunately,  because  casualties  were  evacuated  out  of  the 
country  so  rapidly,  the  answer  eluded  us.  In  some  ways,  it  was  better  not  to 
know.  Everyone  was  willing  to  assume  that  the  arm  was  saved.  Morale  was  so 
high  that  to  consider  the  other  possibility7  would  have  been  too  depressing,  es- 
pecially since  that  night  was  such  a  powerful  justification  for  our  being  there. 

Several  months  after  getting  home  I  was  back  at  my  civilian  hospital  sit- 
ting in  my  comfortable  office  when  Pooh  telephoned. 

"Did  you  happen  to  see  Oprah  yesterday?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  missed  it,"  I  replied,  worried  that  he  had  some  psychological  scars 
left  over  from  the  war  that  were  driving  him  to  watch  daytime  television. 
"Pooh,  why  in  God's  name  were  you  watching  Oprah?" 

"No,  no,  I  wasn't,"  he  clarified.  "But  someone  told  me  that  she  did  a  fea- 
ture on  some  of  the  wounded  U.S.  soldiers  being  treated  at  BAMC  in  San  An- 
tonio. She  interviewed  a  major  who  had  had  his  arm  saved.  I  pulled  the 
transcript  off  the  Internet,  and  I'll  e-mail  it  to  you.  The  name  and  dates  seem 
to  correspond.  I  think  it's  our  guy,  and  it  looks  like  his  limb  was  salvaged!" 

I  swelled  with  professional  pride  that  our  operation  had  succeeded.  How- 
ever, it  was  what  this  officer  said  during  the  television  interview  that  moved 
me.  When  I  got  home  that  night,  I  helped  my  wife  put  our  two  sons  to  bed 
before  sharing  the  transcript  with  her.  She  sat  down  at  the  kitchen  table  to 
read.  It  was  only  a  couple  of  pages  of  text,  but  in  it  the  officer  described  lying 
on  the  battlefield  after  being  wounded.  He  was  staring  up  at  the  Iraqi  night- 
time sky  bargaining  with  God  for  the  chance  to  see  his  daughter  again.  Then, 
later  in  the  transcript,  the  major  went  on  to  share  his  feelings  of  joy  once  he 
made  it  home  safely  and  wrapped  both  of  his  arms  around  his  family. 

My  wife  looked  up  and  dabbed  her  cheeks  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  She 
had  never  complained  to  me  about  my  mobilization  although  I  knew  how 
hard  it  had  been  on  her.  She  had  managed  all  the  challenges:  child  care, 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  291 

work,  pregnancy— you  name  it.  She  is  a  strong  and  optimistic  individual,  but 
even  at  that  moment  I  knew  she  was  dreading  the  day  when  I  would  be  called 
for  a  second  tour. 

"You  know,"  she  said  trying  to  smile.  "I  hated  every  minute  of  that  de- 
ployment." 

"I  know,"  I  said. 

"But  it  was  worth  it,  wasn't  it?" 


MEDEVAC  MISSIONS 

Journal 
Captain  Ed  Hrivnak 


After  wounded  troops  are  treated  in  a  field  hospital,  those  in  need  of  addi- 
tional care  are  flown  out  of  Iraq  or  Afghanistan  to  a  larger,  more  modern 
medical  facility  in  another  country  (usually  Germany  or  Spain).  In  many 
cases,  they  are  patched  up  and  returned  to  their  units.  But  if  their  injuries 
are  more  serious,  they  are  sent  back  to  the  United  States  for  long-term  assis- 
tance and  rehabilitation.  Thirty-four-year-old  U.S.  Air  Force  Captain  Ed 
Hrivnak,  assigned  to  the  491st  Expeditionary  Aeromedical  Evacuation 
Squadron,  Air  Mobility  Command,  was  a  fireman  living  in  Washington 
State  with  his  wife,  Jennifer  (who  is  an  Air  Force  Reserve  flight  nurse),  be- 
fore serving  in  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom.  Hrivnak  was  a  veteran  of  the  Gulf 
War  in  1991  and  had  assisted  in  peacekeeping  missions  that  flew  into 
Rwanda,  Somalia,  Bosnia,  and  other  countries.  But  despite  all  that  he  had 
seen  as  a  firefighter  and  during  his  previous  military  deployments,  Hrivnak 
was  still  profoundly  moved  by  the  (mostly)  young  casualties  he  tended  to 
day  after  day  as  part  of  a  medevac  crew.  The  following  excerpts,  which  span 
from  late  March  to  mid-July  2003,  are  from  Hrivnak's  journal.  (CCATT 
refers  to  the  critical  care  air  transport  team,  which  treats  patients  with  life- 
threatening  conditions.) 

First  Mission 

Our  patient  load  is  11  -  7  +  2  and  a  duty  passenger.  That  means  eleven  litter 
patients,  seven  walking  wounded,  and  two  attendants.  Some  can  take  care  of 


292  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

themselves,  some  need  lots  of  help.  All  have  been  waiting  for  us  for  a  long 
time  and  need  pain  medicine  and  antibiotics.  The  patients  include:  gunshot 
wound  |  GSW  I  to  the  stomach,  partial  amputations  from  a  land  mine,  open 
fractures  secondary  to  GSW,  head  injury/struck  by  a  tank,  blast  injuries, 
shrapnel  injuries,  and  dislocations.  The  patients  are  mainly  from  the  Marines 
and  101st  Airborne  (Screaming  Eagles).  Many  were  involved  in  ambushes. 

One  trooper  confides  in  me  that  he  witnessed  some  Iraqi  children  get  run 
over  by  a  convoy.  He  was  in  the  convoy  and  they  had  strict  orders  not  to  stop. 
If  a  vehicle  stops,  it  is  isolated  and  an  inviting  target  for  a  rocket-propelled 
grenade.  He  tells  me  that  some  women  and  children  have  been  forced  out 
onto  the  road  to  break  up  the  convovs  so  that  the  Iraqi  irregulars  can  get  a 
clear  shot.  But  the  convoys  do  not  stop.  He  tells  me  that  dealing  with  that 
image  is  worse  than  the  pain  of  his  injurv. 

Back  in  Germanv.  the  patients  are  off-loaded  and  we  clean  up  our  mess. 
Then  a  sergeant  comes  out  and  declares  that  we  have  to  sign  a  paper  stating 
we  will  not  drink  and  drive  in  Germanv.  We  look  at  him  with  anger.  Our  mis- 
sion from  start  to  finish  was  twenty-nine  hours  long.  Most  of  us  were  up 
twelve  hours  prior  to  that,  minus  catnaps.  Forty-one  hours  later  and  someone 
in  peaceful  Germanv  is  worried  we  might  drink  and  drive. 

The  field  where  we  picked  up  the  patients,  we  find  out  later,  came  under 
rocket  attack  six  times  after  we  left. 

Another  Mission  "Domti  Range" 

Ive  noticed  that  the  most  seriouslv  injured  are  the  youngest.  The  older,  ex- 
perienced soldiers  do  a  better  job  of  staying  alive  and  avoiding  the  flying 
metal.  One  soldier  I'm  treating  looks  like  a  young  boy.  We  talk  for  a  bit  as  I 
assess  him.  I  medicate  him  for  his  pain.  It  is  the  first  of  many  infusions. 

The  morphine  is  not  working,  but  it's  the  strongest  stuff  I've  got.  At  some 
point  during  these  adjustments  I  accidentallv  dislodge  a  Hemovac  suction 
unit  from  one  of  his  infected  wounds.  Foul-smelling,  reddish-yellow  fluid 
drains  from  the  tube  and  drips  off  the  litter.  I  start  looking  at  his  bandages  to 
find  the  other  end  of  the  tubing.  I  open  one  bandage  and  find  sand  fleas 
where  his  toes  use  to  be.  I  trv  my  best  to  keep  a  straight  face,  but  the  sight  nau- 
seates me.  Scott,  one  of  my  level-headed  medics,  finds  the  tubing  and  resets 
the  suction,  then  cleans  up  the  mess  I  made. 

We  finally  get  this  soldier  comfortable.  Because  we  moved  him  so  much, 


THIS    IS    NOT    A    GAVE 

I  decide  to  reassess  his  extremities.  I  know  there  are  parts  of  his  leg  and  thigh 
missing  from  reading  his  medical  record,  but  I  cant  tell  from  the  thick  ban- 
dages. The  wounds  were  left  open  to  allow  them  to  drain.  The  dressings  are 
wet  and  covered  in  a  light  layer  of  sand.  I  ask  the  soldier  to  wiggle  the  toes  he 
has.  On  one  side  his  toes  move  fine;  on  the  other  side  there  is  no  movement 
What  is  left  on  that  side  is  cold  and  hard  to  the  touch.  He  looks  at  me  and  our 
are  locked.  His  eyes  ay,  "Tell  me  I'm  going  to  be  okay.  Tell  me  that  I'm 
going  to  be  fine,  tell  me  I'm  going  to  be  whole  again.  .  .  ."  These  are  some  of 
the  longest  seconds  of  my  life  because  I  know  he  is  counting  on  what  I  say  to 
him. 

I  bend  down  below  the  litter  to  break  eye  contact  I  act  like  I'm  adjusting 
some  of  the  medical  equipment  attached  to  him.  My  mind  is  racing.  I  have 
always  been  honest  with  my  patients.  Do  I  lie  or  tell  him  the  truth?  The  sec- 
onds move  so  slowly  as  I  fight  my  internal  battle  on  what  is  right  I  stand 
straight  up  and  there  are  his  eyes.  I'm  at  the  end  of  the  litter  and  with  the 
noise  of  the  plane  there  is  no  way  he  could  hear  me  speak.  We  are  now  com- 
municating solely  with  our  eyes  and  facial  expressions.  I'm  sure  less  than  two 
seconds  passed  before  I  gave  him  a  big  smile  and  a  thumbs-up.  Those  two 
seconds  felt  like  an  hour.  He  broke  into  a  big  smile  of  relief  and  I  felt  broken 
for  lying  to  him.  He  motioned  to  me  and  I  walked  to  the  head  of  the  litter.  I 
leaned  in  so  he  could  yell  into  my  ear  over  the  jet  noise.  "A\hy  do  my  feet  feel 
so  cold?  he  asked.  I  veiled  back,  "There  is  a  lot  of  swelling  in  your  feet  and 
the  blood  circulation  is  not  so  good  because  of  the  swelling.  It  is  way  too  early 
in  the  game  to  tell  how  w ell  you  are  going  to  heal.  The  swelling  is  going  to  a£- 
fect  your  senses  and  ability  to  move."  These  were  all  true  statements.  I  felt  re- 
assured with  mv  answ  er.  It  is  too  earlv  to  sav  how  this  soldier  will  recover.  But 
I  still  feel  bad  about  King. 

Ea<ter  Dar 

Some  come  onto  the  plane  with  the  thousand-vard  stare.  Some  come  on  with 
Eyes  darting  about  assessing  the  new  environment  maybe  looking  for  an  am- 
bush or  a  boobv  trap.  Some  walk  with  a  nervous  jitter,  some  wulk  on  like  zom- 
bies. Some  have  eves  glazed  over  from  a  morphine-induced  stupor.  Once  we 
are  at  cruising  altitude,  you  can  feel  the  tension  drop  within  hie  aircraft 

I  thought  I  was  doing  a  decent  job  at  nursing  when  my  medical  crew  dis- 
covered a  cure-all  on  our  Easter  Dav  mission.  We  had  collected  monev  at  our 


294  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

staging  base  and  bought  frozen  pizzas  and  cookie  dough.  Halfway  through 
the  flight  we  started  cooking  the  pizzas.  I  walked  from  patient  to  patient  and 
asked  them  if  they  would  like  a  pizza.  There  were  many  looks  of  disbelief. 
These  boys  had  seen  nothing  but  MREs  (field  rations)  for  over  three  months. 
Then  the  smell  of  pizza  started  to  drift  from  our  aircraft  ovens.  (We  have  five 
small  convection  ovens  on  the  plane.) 

Our  crew  passed  out  the  pizza  to  the  faces  of  eager  boys.  They  did  not 
look  like  combat  veterans  anymore.  Most  of  them  had  gleeful  looks  like 
young  children  at  an  Easter  egg  hunt.  It  was  like  we  just  gave  them  a  little 
taste  of  home  and  America.  They  started  to  joke  and  laugh  with  each  other. 
After  the  pizza  we  brought  out  the  fresh-baked  cookies  (which  takes  a  little 
skill  in  a  pressurized  cabin).  The  cookies  were  hot  and  dripping  chocolate.  I 
weaved  between  the  seats  and  litter  stanchions  and  let  the  boys  grab  the 
gooey  cookies.  You  should  have  seen  the  looks  on  their  faces.  It  was  on  this 
mission  that  I  realized  that  there  is  more  to  treating  the  casualties  of  war  than 
pushing  drugs  and  dressing  wounds. 

A  Mission  to  Baghdad 

We  were  in  Bravo  alert  and  had  been  told  that  not  much  was  going  on.  A 
crewmate  and  I  were  passing  the  time  in  our  room  watching  BBC  World 
News  when  a  news  flash  came  on  describing  multiple  ambushes  and  fire- 
fights  around  Baghdad.  Several  hours  later  we  were  alerted  for  an  urgent  mis- 
sion to  that  very  place.  We  ended  up  loading  thirty-eight  patients,  the 
majority  of  them  combat  injuries.  The  worst  patient  assigned  to  me  was  a 
Ranger  who  was  nineteen  years  old,  but  looked  to  be  about  fifteen.  He  was  on 
the  litter  prone,  facing  the  two  critical  patients.  His  arms  dangled  over  the 
side  of  the  litter.  As  I  walked  by,  his  left  arm  reached  up  and  grabbed  my  calf. 
He  was  loaded  with  morphine  and  difficult  to  understand.  He  was  rambling, 
"Take  care  of  my  buddies.  .  .  .  TAKE  CARE  OF  MY  BUDDIES,  don't  worry 
about  me  and  are  they  going  to  be  okay?  Are  they  going  to  live?"  The  critical 
patients  he  was  facing  were  his  friends.  When  we  loaded  the  patients  we  had 
no  time  to  take  into  consideration  their  relationships  to  one  another.  He  was 
looking  directly  at  his  buddies  while  the  CCATTs  worked  desperately  to  keep 
them  alive. 

As  the  flight  continued,  I  got  bits  and  pieces  of  what  happened.  Five  Army 
Rangers  were  on  patrol  when  a  remote-control  homemade  bomb  was  deto- 
nated under  them.  Hidden  Iraqi  irregulars  then  sprayed  the  soldiers  with 


THIS     IS     NOT    A    GAME  295 

small-arms  fire.  One  Ranger  died  at  the  scene,  and  another  died  at  the  field 
hospital.  We  got  the  three  survivors.  My  patient  was  the  only  one  still  con- 
scious. Each  time  I  walked  by  him,  he  reached  up  and  grabbed  my  leg,  al- 
ways asking  about  his  friends.  I  went  over  to  the  CCATT  nurse,  Brian,  and 
asked  him  how  they  were  doing.  He  told  me,  "I  got  one  guy  who  is  shot 
through  the  neck  and  is  paralyzed.  The  other  guy  has  multiple  shrapnel 
wounds  and  a  severe  brain  injury.  These  guys  are  messed  up.  I  hope  they 
killed  the  fuckers  that  did  this." 

Halfway  home,  I  finally  caught  up  on  my  other  patients.  I  sat  down  to  jot 
some  notes  on  a  patient's  chart  and  fell  asleep  for  a  moment.  Instantly  I 
started  dreaming  and  then  woke  up  with  a  start.  I  had  never  felt  so  exhausted. 
I  looked  up  to  see  the  prone  Ranger  waving  for  help.  He  was  in  pain.  I  gave 
him  a  touch  of  morphine.  As  I  leaned  into  him,  he  lamented  about  his 
friends  again.  I  told  him  they  were  still  alive.  He  then  vomited  on  me.  It  was 
the  perfect  capper  to  an  arduous  flight.  I  have  no  memory  of  the  patient  off- 
loads—I  was  on  autopilot  at  that  point.  We  got  into  crew  rest  midday  and  I 
had  disturbing  dreams. 

Faces  of  War 

The  Humvee  is  like  the  Pinto  of  the  1970s:  it  burns  quickly  when  hit  by  a 
rocket.  One  GI  told  me  he  saw  a  Humvee  burn  down  in  less  than  three  min- 
utes. You  can't  get  out  of  the  vehicle  fast  enough  when  it  is  hit.  I  was  trans- 
porting a  medical  officer  who  was  stuck  in  such  a  situation.  He  was  hauling 
medical  supplies  to  Iraqi  civilian  hospitals  when  they  were  ambushed  by  an 
RPG.  He  was  burned  on  most  of  his  upper  body  and  face.  The  tops  of  his  ears 
were  burned  off.  His  arms  and  hands  were  covered  in  heavy  bandages  and 
ointment  covered  his  red,  peeling  face.  I  sat  and  talked  with  him  as  we  waited 
for  an  ambulance.  This  officer  was  prior  enlisted,  married,  and  has  three  chil- 
dren. He  decided  to  become  a  medical  officer  to  provide  better  for  his  family 
and  to  get  out  of  the  field.  He  told  his  family  not  to  worry  about  him,  because 
he  would  be  serving  in  the  rear  with  medical  logistics.  He  would  not  be  fight- 
ing on  the  front  lines.  (Where  are  the  front  lines  in  Iraq?) 

He  was  not  concerned  about  his  burns,  but  he  was  worried  about  what  his 
children  were  thinking.  He  said,  "I  talked  to  them  on  the  phone  yesterday. 
They  didn't  understand  why  I  was  burned.  I  promised  them  I  was  going  to  be 
okay— that  I  would  be  safe.  The  kids  don't  get  it  and  I'm  not  sure  how  to  ex- 
plain it  to  them."  I  stared  at  his  face  and  burns  the  whole  time  he  was  talking. 


296  OPE  RATION     HOMECOMING 

His  face  was  an  expressionless  mask.  I  couldn't  tell  if  he  was  tired  like  the  rest 
of  the  patients  or  if  the  burns  were  causing  his  unvaried,  mask-like  appear- 
ance. The  tone  of  his  voice  when  speaking  of  his  children  was  his  only  sign  of 
emotion. 

What  does  the  future  hold  for  these  men  who  go  home  to  their  families 
mentally  and  physically  different?  And  what  of  the  critically  injured  who 
have  a  long  future  of  VA  hospitals  followed  by  VA  disability?  How  do  they 
cope?  How  do  they  adjust?  I  feel  obligated  to  stay  out  here  and  take  care  of 
the  wounded.  I  want  to  do  all  I  can  to  help  them. 

Battle  Buddies 

These  Marines  and  soldiers  are  good  at  waiting.  They  see  we  are  doing  our 
best  and  rarely  complain.  One  soldier,  trying  to  be  patient,  went  too  long  be- 
tween morphine  shots.  He  tried  to  gut  it  out.  He  did  not  want  to  slow  the 
loading  of  the  airplane.  We  loaded  him  on  the  bottom  rack  and  he  immedi- 
ately grabbed  onto  the  litter  above  him.  I  looked  down  at  him  and  saw  his 
knuckles  turn  white  with  a  death  grip  on  the  litter  crossbeam.  Tears  poured 
down  his  face  but  he  did  not  make  a  sound.  I  grabbed  the  primary  flight  nurse 
and  told  him  to  give  this  kid  some  of  the  good  stuff.  The  nurse  said  he  would 
get  the  morphine  when  we  were  done  loading  the  rest  of  the  litter  patients. 

I  can't  blame  this  nurse.  It  was  his  first  real  casualty  mission  in  the  war.  It 
is  easy  to  lose  sight  of  one  patient  and  get  caught  up  in  what  is  going  around 
you.  I  told  the  nurse  to  toss  me  a  syringe  of  morphine  and  I  would  take  care 
of  him  myself.  WTien  I  returned  to  this  GI,  a  battle  buddy  was  holding  his 
hand  and  talking  softly  to  him.  Their  hands  were  locked  like  they  were  ready 
to  arm-wrestle.  I  quickly  pushed  the  morphine  into  his  vein  and  apologized 
for  letting  his  pain  get  to  such  a  level.  I  felt  like  I  had  failed  him.  His  buddy 
stayed  with  him,  talking  to  him,  consoling  him,  until  the  pain  medicine  took 
effect  and  the  soldier's  hand  relaxed.  These  two  were  not  in  the  same  unit. 
They  were  not  wounded  in  the  same  part  of  Iraq.  They  were  brought  together 
and  bonded  by  their  wounds.  Their  injuries  made  them  part  of  a  fraternity,  a 
private  brotherhood  I  felt  privileged  to  witness. 


THIS     IS    NOT    A    GAME  297 


ALARM   RED 

E-mail 

Captain  Lisa  R.  Blackman,  Ph.D 


Even  if  troops  emerge  from  a  firefight  or  attack  physically  unscathed,  the 
emotional  damage  can  nevertheless  be  substantial  Watching  buddies  get 
killed  or  hideously  maimed  and  realizing  how  close  they  might  have  come 
to  dying  as  well,  many  servicemen  and  women  are  understandably  trauma- 
tized by  the  experience.  Dr.  Lisa  R.  Blackman,  a  thirty-two-year-old  U.S. 
Air  Force  captain  from  New  England,  worked  as  a  clinical  psychologist  at 
the  Al  Udeid  Air  Base  in  Qatar,  with  the  yjyth  Expeditionary  Medical 
Group,  y/tyth  Air  Expeditionary  Wing,  from  September  2004  to  February 
2005.  During  her  six-month  deployment,  Blackman  regularly  spoke  with  in- 
dividuals who  were  suffering  from  the  mental  aftershocks  of  combat.  Al- 
though she  was  limited  in  what  she  could  reveal,  occasionally  she  would 
offer  her  family  and  friends  a  glimpse  of  what  the  troops  were  going  through 
in  her  (often  short)  e-mails  home.  'A  quick  word  on  guilt,"  Blackman  wrote 
in  a  message  dated  October  u: 

No  one  ever  feels  like  they  are  doing  enough.  If  you  are  in  a  safe  lo- 
cation, you  feel  guilty  that  your  friends  are  getting  shot  at  and  you 
aren't.  If  you  are  getting  shot  at,  you  feel  guilty  if  your  buddy  gets  hit 
and  you  don't.  If  you  get  shot  at  but  don't  die,  you  feel  guilty  that  you 
lived,  and  more  guilty  if  you  get  to  go  home  and  your  friends  have  to 
stay  behind.  I  have  not  seen  one  person  out  here  who  didn't  [check  off] 
"increased  guilt"  on  our  intake  form. 

What  most  struck  Blackman,  however,  was  the  extent  to  which  the 
troops  were  unaware  of  their  own  psychological  wounds.  She  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing e-mail  about  these  less  visible  injuries  on  October  29. 


ately  I  have  had  a  string  of  combat  trauma  evaluations.  Several  have 
been  Army  troops  passing  through  for  R  &  R— they  come  here  for  a  bit 
and  then  go  back  to  Iraq  or  Afghanistan.  As  if  this  is  a  glamorous  vacation  site. 


298  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

But  they  are  grateful  to  be  someplace  safe  (and  someplace  with  alcohol, 
which  I  will  surely  complain  about  at  a  later  date).  Anyway,  each  one  pre- 
sented with  a  different  complaint.  One  guy  wasn't  sleeping,  one  gal  was  angry 
about  "sexual  harassment"  in  her  unit,  one  gal  was  depressed,  one  guy  just 
wanted  to  go  home.  Standard  stuff. 

I  had  no  initial  clue  that  the  problems  were  combat  related  and  no  idea 
that  I  should  be  assessing  for  acute  stress  disorder  or  PTSD.  None  of  these 
guys  or  gals  said  "I  was  in  combat"  or  "I  saw  someone  die."  None  connected 
these  experiences  to  their  symptoms.  It  was  as  if  they  didn't  remember  how- 
hard  and  unusual  it  is  to  be  at  war.  They're  used  to  the  danger.  They've  been 
out  here  too  long.  Why  would  a  war  mess  with  your  mood,  right? 

Each  evaluation  started  with  the  typical  questions:  "What  brought  you  in 
today?"  "When  did  the  problem  start?"  "Have  you  ever  experienced  these 
symptoms  before?"  "How's  your  sleep?"  etc.  etc.  etc.  I  kept  asking  questions 
and  thinking  that  the  symptoms  did  not  add  up.  Something  wasn't  right.  I 
wasn't  getting  the  right  reactions.  Stories  were  incomplete.  Affect  was 
blunted.  Level  of  distress  did  not  match  presenting  complaint.  Alarm  red, 
people,  alarm  red. 

At  home  I  ask  people  if  they  have  ever  experienced  or  witnessed  a  trau- 
matic event  or  abuse.  But  out  here  I  ask,  "Have  you  ever  been  in  combat?" 
Apparently,  this  is  a  question  with  the  power  to  unglue  .  .  .  because  all  four  of 
these  troops  burst  into  tears  at  the  mention  of  the  word  "combat." 

And  when  I  sav  burst,  I  mean  splatter— tears  running,  snot  flowing,  and  I 
literally  had  to  mop  my  floor  after  one  two-hour  session.  In  other  words,  I 
mean  sobbing  for  minutes  on  end,  unable  to  speak,  flat  out  grief  by  an  other- 
wise healthy,  strong,  manly  guy  who  watches  football  on  the  weekends  and 
never  puts  the  toilet  seat  down. 

Each  time  I  sit  there  with  not  a  clue  what  to  say .  .  .  offering  tissues  .  .  . 
saying  I'm  sorry  .  .  .  trying  to  normalize  .  .  .  trying  to  say,  "It  was  not  your  fault 
that  so  and  so  died"  and  "If  you  could  have  done  differently,  you  would  have" 
and  "You  had  a  right  to  be  scared."  And  even  worse,  "You  had  to  shoot  back"  and 
"Yes  you  killed  someone,  and  you  still  deserve  to  go  back  to  your  family  and 
live  your  life." 

Next  time  vou  are  hanging  out  with  a  friend,  think  about  what  you  would 
do  if  he  turned  to  you  and  said,  "My  boss  made  me  kill  someone,  and  I  know 
I'm  going  to  hell  for  it  so  why  bother?"  What  would  you  say  to  "normalize" 
that? 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  299 

I  will  probably  never  see  these  folks  again.  I  have  no  idea  if  I  have  been 
helpful.  Maybe  I  planted  a  seed  of  reprieve  that  will  grow  into  self- 
forgiveness.  Maybe  I  did  absolutely  nothing  but  sit  here.  Who  knows? 

I  can't  stop  thinking  about  the  fact  that  these  folks  have  lost  something 
that  they  will  never  get  back— innocence  (and  a  life  free  of  guilt).  My  heart 
hurts  for  them. 

Wish  us  well, 
Lisa 


TO  THE  FALLEN 

E-mail 
Sergeant  John  McCary 


At  some  point  during  their  deployment,  many  servicemen  and  women  un- 
derstandably become  overwhelmed  by  the  unrelenting  strain  of  living  in  a 
combat  zone.  Twenty-seven-year-old  U.S.  Army  Sergeant  John  McCary  was 
serving  in  a  human  intelligence  team  attached  to  Task  Force  1-34  Armor,  1st 
Infantry  Division,  in  A/  Anbar  province  in  Iraq.  In  late  January  2004,  after 
a  month  of  heavy  casualties  in  his  unit  (several  of  whom  were  friends), 
McCary  vented  in  an  e-mail  to  his  family  back  in  North  Carolina  about  the 
increasing  ruthlessness  of  the  insurgents  and  the  random,  horrific  violence 
claiming  the  lives  of  his  fellow  soldiers.  But  despite  his  palpable  sense  of 
anger  and  frustration,  McCary  emphasized  that  he  knew  more  than  ever 
what  he  was  fighting  for  amidst  the  chaos  of  war. 

Dear  all, 

We  are  dying.  Not  in  some  philosophical,  chronological,  "the  end  comes 
for  all  of  us  sooner  or  later"  sense.  Just  dying.  Sure,  it's  an  occupational  haz- 
ard, and  yeah,  you  can  get  killed  walking  down  the  street  in  Anytown,  USA. 
But  not  like  this.  Not  car  bombs  that  leave  craters  in  the  road,  not  jeering 
crowds  that  celebrate  your  destruction.  We  thought  we  had  turned  the  tide, 
turned  the  corner,  beaten  the  defensive  rush  and  were  headed  upheld,  strid- 
ing into  the  home  stretch.  But  they  are  still  here.  They  still  strive  for  our 
demise.  It's  never  been  a  fair  fight,  and  we  haven't  always  played  nice. 


300  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

But  not  like  this.  No  one  leaves  the  gate  looking  to  kill,  or  looking  to  die. 
No  one  wakes  up  in  the  morning  and  says,  "I  sure  hope  blowing  up  a  whole 
group  of  Iraqis  goes  well  today."  You  may  be  worn  out,  hounded  by  hours  on 
end  of  patrols,  investigations,  emergency  responses,  guard  shifts,  but  you 
never  wake  up  and  think,  today's  the  day  we'll  kill  a  whole  bunch  of  'em. 
There's  no  "kill  'em  all  let  God  sort  'em  out."  That's  for  suckers  and  cowards, 
people  afraid  to  delve  into  the  melee  and  fight  it  out,  to  sort  it  out  like  sol- 
diers. 

They've  killed  my  friends.  And  not  in  some  heroic  fight  to  defend  sover- 
eign territory,  not  on  some  suicide  mission  to  extract  a  prisoner  or  save  a  fam- 
ily in  distress.  Just  standing  out  directing  traffic.  Just  driving  downtown  to  a 
meeting.  Just  going  to  work.  All  I  can  think  is,  "Those  poor  bastards.  Those 
poor,  poor  bastards." 

And  the  opposition,  they've  damned  anyone  with  the  gall  to  actually  leave 
their  homes  in  the  morning,  because  they've  killed  their  own,  too.  Indiscrim- 
inate is  one  word.  "Callous"  does  not  even  suffice.  What  battle  cry  says 
"Damn  the  eight  year  old  boy  and  his  little  sister  if  they're  in  the  area!  Damn 
them  all!?"  What  do  you  say  to  your  men  after  you've  scraped  up  the  scalps  of 
an  entire  Iraqi  family  off  the  road,  right  next  to  the  shattered  bodies  of  your 
soldiers,  held  together  only  by  their  shoelaces,  body  armor  or  helmets?  "We're 
fighting  the  good  fight?"  I  don't  think  so.  We're  just  fighting.  And  now  we're 
dying. 

It's  nothing  new,  not  really.  I  know  what  that  look  is  now,  the  one  on  the 
faces  of  WWII  soldiers  coming  back  from  a  patrol,  Vietnam  vets  standing  at 
the  Wall.  But  now  it's  us.  You  know  the  little  blurb  from  Connie  Chung  that 
says  "2  Coalition  Soldiers  were  killed  at  a  checkpoint  today  after  a  car  bomb 
exploded  while  waiting  in  line?"  And  you  think,  "ah,  just  two.  At  least  it 
wasn't  like  thirty.  At  least  it  wasn't  in  a  movie  theatre,  or  the  town  square." 

Yeah  ...  I  changed  my  mind  about  that  one.  When  you  sit  at  the  memo- 
rial service,  gazing  down  at  the  display:  a  pair  of  laced  tan  combat  boots,  a 
hastily  printed  8"  x  10"  photo,  their  service  rifle,  barrel  down,  their  Kevlar  hel- 
met set  on  top  of  the  buttstock,  and  you  hear  their  friends  say,  "he  talked 
about  his  son  every  night.  He's  two.  He  can  hardly  talk  but  his  Dad  just  knew 
he  would  be  a  great  linebacker."  Or,  "his  wife  is  currently  commanding  a  pla- 
toon elsewhere  in  Iraq.  She  will  accompany  the  body  home  but  has  chosen 
to  return  to  her  own  flock,  to  see  them  home  safely  though  her  husband  will 


THIS     IS     NOT    A    GAME  301 

not  join  her.  Our  thoughts  go  out  to  their  families."  WHAT  THOUGHTS?! 
What  do  you  think?  What  good  will  you  do  knowing  this?  What  help  will  you 
be,  blubbering  in  the  stands,  snot  drizzling  from  your  nose,  wishing  you 
could  have  known  beforehand,  wishing  you  could  have  stopped  it,  pleading 
to  God  you  could  have  taken  their  place,  taken  the  suffering  for  them? 

What  do  you  say  to  the  fathers  of  the  men  responsible,  when  you  find 
them  relaxing  in  their  homes  the  next  day,  preparing  for  a  meal?  Should  you 
simply  strike  them  down  for  having  birthed  such  an  abomination?  Or  has  the 
teeth-shattering  punch  in  the  face  crunch  of  seeing  a  fallen  comrade  laid  to 
rest  sated  your  lust  for  blood  and  revenge? 

Resolve,  resolute,  resolution,  resoluteness.  You  feel . .  .  compelled,  to  re- 
spond. To  what?  On  whom?  Why?  Will  your  children  someday  say,  "I'm  sure 
glad  Dad  died  to  make  Iraq  safer?"  No.  They  died  standing  with  their  friends, 
doing  their  jobs,  fulfilling  some  far-flung  nearly  non-existent  notion  called 
duty.  They  died  because  their  friends  could Ve  died  just  as  easily,  and  know- 
ing that .  .  .  they  would  never  shirk  their  duties,  never  call  in  sick,  never  give 
in  to  fear,  never  let  down.  When  you  Ve  held  a  conversation  with  a  man, 
briefed  him  on  his  mission,  his  objective  and  reminded  him  of  the  potential 
consequences  during  the  actioning  of  it,  only  to  hear  he  never  returned,  and 
did  not  die  gracefully,  though  blessedly  quickly,  prayerfully  painlessly  .  .  .  you 
do  not  breathe  the  same  ever  after.  Breath  is  sweet.  Sleep  is  sweeter.  Friends 
are  priceless.  And  you  cry.  There's  no  point,  no  gain,  no  benefit  but  you  are 
human  and  you  must  mourn.  It  is  your  nature. 

It  is  also  now  undeniable,  irrevocable,  that  you  will  see  your  mission 
through.  You  will  strive  every  day,  you  will  live,  though  you  are  not  ever  again 
sure  why.  Ideals .  .  .  are  so  .  .  .  far,  far  away  from  the  burnt  stink  of  charred 
metal.  I,  we,  must  see  it  through  to  the  end.  They  have  seen  every  instant, 
every  mission,  every  chore,  every  day  through,  not  to  its  end  but  to  theirs. 
How  can  you  ever  deny,  degrade,  desecrate  their  sacrifice  and  loss  with  any- 
thing less  than  all  you  have?  Their  lives  are  lost,  whether  as  a  gift,  laid  down 
at  the  feet  of  their  friends,  or  a  pointless  discard  of  precious  life  ...  I  doubt  I'll 
ever  know. 

I'm  ok,  Mom.  I'm  just  a  little  .  .  .  shaken,  a  little  sad.  I  know  this  isn't  any 
Divine  mission.  No  God,  Allah,  Jesus,  Buddha  or  other  divinity  ever  decreed 
"Go  get  your  body  ripped  to  shreds,  it's  for  the  better."  This  is  Man's  doing. 
This  is  Man's  War.  And  War  it  is.  It  is  not  fair,  nor  right,  nor  simple  ...  nor  is 


302  OPF.  RATION     HOMECOMING 

it  over.  I  wish  the  presence  of  those  responsible  only  to  dissipate,  to  transform 
into  average  citizens,  fathers,  sons  and  brothers.  I  don't  care  about  bloodlust, 
justice  or  revenge.  But  they  .  .  .  they  .  .  .  will  not  rest  until  our  souls  are  wiped 
from  this  plane  of  existence,  until  we  no  longer  exist  in  their  world.  Nothing 
less  suffices.  And  so  we  will  fight.  I  will  not  waiver,  nor  falter.  Many  of  my  fel- 
lows will  cry  for  no  mercy,  no  compassion.  For  those  responsible,  for  those 
whose  goal  is  destruction  purely  for  effect,  death  only  as  a  message,  for  whom 
killing  is  a  means  of  communication,  I  cannot  promise  we,  or  I,  will  give  par- 
don. With  all,  we  will  be  harsh,  and  strict,  but  not  unjust,  not  indiscriminate. 
And  we  will  not  give  up.  We  cannot.  Our  lives  are  forever  tied  to  those  lost, 
and  we  cannot  leave  them  now,  as  we  might  have  were  they  still  living. 

We  have  ...  so  little  time  ...  to  mourn,  so  little  time  to  sigh,  to  breathe, 
to  laugh,  to  remember.  To  forget.  Every  day  awaits  us,  impatient,  impending. 
So  now  we  rise,  shunning  tears,  biting  back  trembling  lips  and  stifling  sobs  of 
grief .  .  .  and  we  walk,  shoulder  to  shoulder ...  to  the  Call  of  Duty,  in  tribute 
to  the  Fallen. 

—  John 


McCary  himself  survived  his  tour  of  duty  and  returned  home  in  September 
2004.  He  was  honorably  discharged  from  the  Army  in  April  2005. 


IN   DUE  TIME 

E-mail 
Captain  Daniel  Murray 


Regardless  of  their  patriotism  or  commitment  to  the  cause,  over  time  and 
with  few  exceptions,  combatants  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan  begin  to  long  for 
one  thing  above  all:  to  return  home  to  the  United  States.  This  expectation 
is  the  emotional  ballast  that  helps  them  weather  the  hardships  and  dangers 
of  war.  And  if  this  hope  is  suddenly  dashed  because  of  an  unforeseen  post- 
ponement, the  blow  to  morale  can  be  crushing.  Twenty-seven-year-old  U.S. 
Army  Captain  Daniel  Murray  deployed  to  Baghdad  in  February  2004  and 
served  in  what  became  known  as  the  Multi-National  Security  Transition 


THIS     IS     NOT    A    GAME  303 

Command-Iraq.  Murray  worked  closely  with  the  new  Iraqi  Army  and  was 
tasked  with  sustaining  and  controlling  access  to  the  Taji  Military  Training 
Base,  which  had  a  five-mile  perimeter  and  was  a  prime  target  for  the  insur- 
gency. On  August  i,  2004,  Murray  sent  the  following  e-mail  to  his  wife 
when  he  learned  that  he  would  not  make  it  hack  in  time  for  them  to  cele- 
brate their  third  anniversary  together. 

Dear  Sabina, 

I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that  I  won't  be  home  on  the  15th,  as  I've  been  ex- 
tended with  a  few  other  soldiers. 

I  spent  the  first  5  months  here  so  busy  I  didn't  even  have  time  to  use  the 
bathroom  on  numerous  occasions.  I  heard  my  name  today  at  least  100  times 
before  lunch.  Everyone's  problem  was  the  most  important.  And  after  dinner, 
ALWAYS,  and  after  everyone  else  has  gone  home,  was  when  the  real  emer- 
gencies happened.  Unannounced  shipments  of  100  or  more  vehicles  were 
not  uncommon,  nor  were  power  outages  for  entire  sections  of  the  base.  Iraqi 
medics  had  to  be  escorted  to  their  own  hospitals  with  injured  or  sick  pa- 
tients. There  was  another  riot  at  the  dining  facility,  Central  Issue  Facility, 
and  fuel  point.  There  were  people  freeloading  on  the  base  and  consequently 
had  to  be  removed.  These  things  have  all  happened,  and  they  were  all  my 
problems.  The  staff  was  11  people  on  a  good  day.  I  had  to  hide  like  a  fugitive 
in  order  to  get  some  of  my  work  done.  I  gave  way  to  not  answering  my  door 
when  people  knocked.  When  this  failed  and  they  started  coming  in,  I  placed 
a  sign  on  the  door,  forbidding  entry.  I  then  replaced  this  with  a  bar  across  the 
door.  My  only  solace  became  the  hours  between  0600  and  0730.  If  I  was 
lucky,  no  one  would  talk  to  me  during  that  time.  I  kept  telling  myself  that  on 
the  15th  of  August,  I  would  be  able  to  rest.  The  days  where  I  was  too  tired  to 
think  straight  or  sleep  amplified  my  anticipation.  I  had  a  job  to  do  and  a  mis- 
sion to  accomplish,  and  I  did  it  gladly,  knowing  that  it  couldn't  last  forever. 
Dreams  of  you  and  times  past  brought  tears  to  my  eyes  as  I  reflected  on  my 
inability  to  experience  them  firsthand  at  the  time.  The  final  day  kept  me 
going. 

Contingent  upon  my  release  was  the  thing  I  mistakenly  placed  my  trust 
in,  that  somebody  was  going  to  ensure  that  I  could  leave  on  the  15th. 

But  the  above  conditions  pale  in  comparison,  no,  are  happy  compared  to 
the  rest  of  this  letter. 


304  0PERATI0NH0MEC0MING 

Fighting  for  my  survival  is  exhilarating,  but  demands  without  mercy  a 
strong  personal  fortitude.  It  doesn't  stop  simply  because  I  am  tired. 

In  the  last  6  months,  people  have  been  trying  to  kill  me,  employing  vari- 
ous methods.  They've  shot  rockets  at  me.  They've  fired  mortars  at  me,  even 
while  I  talked  to  you  on  the  phone.  I  now  know  what  a  bullet  sounds  like 
when  it  flies  over  my  head;  I  know  what  it  sounds  like  when  it  comes  out  of  a 
gun  when  it  is  flying  toward  an  enemy.  I  know  how  it  feels  to  have  to  hide  be- 
hind a  pile  of  dirt  while  someone  tries  to  shoot  me,  helpless  to  do  anything 
about  it,  because  if  I  did,  I  would  put  myself  and  my  men  at  risk.  Two  times, 
I've  cleaned  up  blast  sites,  where  propane  explosions  have  claimed  the  lives 
of  9  people  and  have  destroyed  an  area  of  16  feet  around  them.  But  that's  only 
ground  zero,  as  the  entire  facilities  are  now  useless.  The  people  who  died  did 
so  quickly.  I've  identified  their  body  parts,  usually  gobs  of  blood,  tissue,  and 
hair,  up  to  90  feet  away.  I've  seen  these  people  dragged  out  from  under  piles 
of  debris.  I've  seen  and  stepped  in  pools  of  human  blood,  trying  to  help  wher- 
ever I  can.  I've  held  an  Iraqi  survivor  and  my  friend  while  he  cried.  I  pulled 
a  dead  person  killed  by  the  blast  and  asphyxiated  by  deadly,  burning  chemi- 
cals out  from  under  his  personal  debris  pile.  We  put  him  in  a  bag  first.  I  lifted 
the  body  into  the  bed  of  a  pickup  truck  with  people  crowded  around,  making 
it  difficult  to  maneuver  around.  I  dropped  it  like  I  would  a  normal  suitcase  or 
other  heavy  object  from  habit,  remembering  that  it  was  a  body  only  too  late. 
And  the  worst  part  is  that  it  was  the  best  I  could  manage. 

I  smelled  it.  Gas,  metal,  adrenaline,  sweat,  tears,  torn  building  materials, 
fresh  meat,  unwashed  blown-up  body  parts.  I've  seen  hair  and  brains  picked 
up  onto  a  dustpan,  scraped  onto  it  with  a  stick  and  handed  to  me  because  no 
one  knew  what  to  do  with  it.  I've  had  to  think  about  securing  the  site  later  so 
thieves  wouldn't  come  and  steal  the  salvageable  equipment  and  the  dogs 
wouldn't  eat  any  body  parts  we  couldn't  discover  until  the  day  time. 

I've  been  on  foot  in  the  palm  groves  outside  the  base.  I  went  to  the  bridge 
where  16  people  have  been  gunned  down  over  the  last  3  months.  One  of 
them  I  knew  well— we  had  worked  together  for  6  months— he  died  of  a  hole 
in  his  head.  I  had  to  be  there  for  his  workers  when  they  were  left  without  a 
leader.  I  had  to  provide  for  them  at  the  same  time  hoping  and  praying  they 
would  make  it  back  to  work  alive  after  their  customary  three  days  of  mourn- 
ing so  they  could  continue  payroll  for  the  Iraqi  Army. 

And  I  did  all  of  this  because  it  was  my  duty. 

I  watched  everyone  but  two  other  soldiers  leave  when  they  were  sched- 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  305 

uled  to.  I  kept  telling  myself  that  I  could  see  you  in  due  time.  I  held  onto  this, 
not  knowing  how  else  to  put  one  foot  in  front  of  the  other.  But  someone  has 
robbed  me  of  this  hope.  Someone  decided  that  I  didn't  warrant  enough  at- 
tention to  be  sent  home  to  normal  life  with  you.  It  was  better  for  someone  to 
be  negligent,  carelessly  shirking  the  responsibility  of  making  sure  everyone 
else  had  replacements  except  me  and  a  few  of  the  soldiers. 

The  way  it  works,  sweetie,  is  that  I  have  to  have  someone  to  replace  me 
before  I  leave.  At  headquarters,  the  person  responsible  for  this  puts  together  a 
list  called  a  RFF,  or  Request  for  Forces.  This  document  tells  how  many  peo- 
ple we  need  and  when  we  will  need  them.  The  person  who  submits  it  must 
do  it  three  months  ahead  of  time.  Sadly,  that  person  has  not  done  that.  That 
person  is  home  now,  with  his  family.  I  am  still  here.  I  wouldn't  mind  as  much 
if  I  was  still  here  because  my  job  isn't  finished  and  I  had  to  complete  it.  I 
mind,  however,  because  the  fact  remains  that  I  am  paying  the  bill  for  some- 
one else's  negligence.  I,  and  more  importantly,  you  and  those  I  love  and  who 
didn't  volunteer  to  join  the  Army,  have  been  forced  to  bear  bitter  disappoint- 
ment upon  hearing  news  of  my  failed  homecoming.  The  feeling  of  loss  and 
permanence  imbues  my  even'  thought.  I  try  to  shake  it,  but  can't.  I've  learned 
that  the  only  thing  I  can  do  to  deal  effectively  with  this  is  to  withdraw  from 
the  world  for  a  day,  not  being  able  to  do  anything  else.  Brooding  seems  the 
only  comfort.  And  not  caring  about  anything  helps. 

Sabina,  I'm  not  sure  when  I'll  be  home.  It  could  be  an\-where  from  30  to 
90  more  days  over  here.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I  find  out. 

I  love  you. 

Dan 

The  extension,  in  fact,  lasted  just  over  three  months;  Murray  did  not  return 
home  to  North  Carolina  until  November  2004. 


VETERANS 

Personal  Narrative 

Second  Lieutenant  Brian  Humphreys 


A  platoon  commander  with  2nd  Battalion,  jth  Marines,  Second  Lieu- 
tenant Brian  Humphreys  served  in  the  vicinity  of  Hit,  Iraq,  for  seven 


306  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

months,  beginning  in  February  2004.  After  surviving  his  first  ambush, 
Humphreys  described  his  visceral  response  to  the  incident  once  it  was  over 
(the  excerpt  is  from  a  longer  narrative  about  his  deployment,  most  of  which 
Humphreys  wrote  in  the  present  tense): 

We  have  been  under  fire  for  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half  We  have  fired 
over  2,500  rounds  at  enemy  positions  not  more  than  fifty  yards  from 
our  vehicles.  None  of  my  Marines  has  been  hit.  None  of  the  vehicles 
has  been  hit.  Not  a  broken  windshield.  Not  a  dent  in  an  armored 
panel.  Nothing.  We  have  fought  for  our  lives,  and  can  scarcely  believe 
it.  Did  that  just  happen?  I  think  as  we  pull  out  of  the  traffic  circle  to 
the  south,  our  weapons  pointed  in  every  direction,  our  pulses  pound- 
ing. Another  thought  enters  my  mind  before  I  have  the  chance  to  shut 
it  out:  That  was  fucking  awesome. 

Humphreys  is  hardly  alone  in  writing  about  the  initial  thrill  of  being  in 
a  war  zone.  As  with  previous  American  conflicts,  troops  on  the  front  lines 
frequently  wrote  in  their  journals  and  letters  (and  now  e-mails)  about  the 
almost  intoxicating  rush  they  experienced  during  their  first  days  and  weeks 
in-country.  And  for  many  combatants,  whether  they  fought  in  the  Civil 
War,  World  War  II,  Korea,  Vietnam,  Desert  Storm,  Afghanistan,  or  Iraq, 
these  feelings  often  changed  over  time.  They  would  for  Humphreys  as  well. 


ANG,  BANG,  BANG.  The  sheet-metal  door  amplifies  the  sound  of  the 
large  fist  striking  it.  Sergeant  Graham  is  standing  in  the  doorway,  sil- 
houetted by  the  white-hot  afternoon  sunlight. 

"Sir,  we  have  a  unit  in  contact,  two  friendly  KIA.  The  platoon  is  getting 
ready  downstairs." 

"You've  got  to  be  shitting  me"  is  my  first  response  after  being  woken  out 
of  a  sound  sleep.  Death  has  visited  us  before,  but  it  is  not  ubiquitous  enough 
to  have  lost  its  shock  value.  I  throw  my  uniform  and  flak  jacket  on,  grab  my 
rifle,  and  head  down  a  flight  of  stairs.  The  platoon  is  already  on  the  vehicles, 
ready  to  roll  with  an  ambulance. 

"Interrogative,  are  you  still  in  contact?"  I  ask  by  radio  as  my  column  of 
Humvees  speeds  north. 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  307 

"Negative,"  comes  the  reply.  That  guy  always  has  an  impeccable  bearing 
even  in  one  word,  I  think  to  myself  while  watching  the  sides  of  the  road  for 
wires  and  triggermen.  He  is  the  company  executive  officer.  I  am  the  boot 
lieutenant.  The  Marine  Corps  has  yet  to  beat  my  slovenly  tendencies  out  of 
me.  Fate,  cruel  as  it  is,  put  us  in  the  same  company  together. 

The  palm  groves  to  our  east  that  line  the  Euphrates  River  whip  by.  To  the 
west  of  the  asphalt  ribbon  are  the  scorched  wadis  used  by  insurgents  to  stage 
their  attacks.  Up  ahead  I  see  the  telltale  cluster  of  Humvees  and  Marines.  I 
pull  up  to  the  first  vehicle  and  find  the  patrol  leader. 

"Where  do  you  want  the  ambulance?"  I  ask. 

"Just  have  it  pull  up,  we'll  guide  it  in,"  he  replies,  as  if  we  have  arrived  to 
help  fix  a  flat  tire.  The  ambulance  in  the  middle  of  my  six-vehicle  column 
pulls  forward,  and  I  get  out  to  find  where  the  casualties  are. 

"What  the  hell  is  that?"  I  ask  a  Marine.  Perhaps  the  explosion  had  some- 
how killed  a  farm  animal  of  some  sort  who  wandered  out  on  the  road.  A  sheep 
maybe?  Or  a  cow.  No,  not  big  enough.  Well,  what  is  that  and  how  did  it  hap- 
pen? The  Marine  gives  his  buddy's  name  and  asks  me  to  help  find  his  head. 
Fuck. 

We  do  not  want  the  stray  dogs  that  occupy  Iraq  with  us  to  find  our 
brothers.  The  corpsmen,  with  their  blue  latex  gloves  and  body  bags,  scour 
the  bushes  for  the  last  scraps  of  human  tissue  as  waves  of  heat  rise  from  the 
desert.  The  Associated  Press  dutifully  reports  that  three  Marines  were 
killed  in  Al  Anbar  province  in  Iraq.  Names  have  not  been  released  by  the 
Defense  Department  pending  notification  of  next  of  kin.  We  will  not  read 
the  two-sentence  notice  for  several  days.  The  Internet  Room  is  always  pad- 
locked while  we  wait  for  somebody  to  get  a  knock  on  the  door  half  a  world 
away. 

At  one  point  the  casualties  got  so  bad  that  it  seemed  the  room  was  closed 
for  a  week  at  a  time  while  notifications  were  made.  Iraq  is  coming  apart  at  the 
seams.  Pictures  of  flag-draped  coffins  being  unloaded  from  Air  Force  trans- 
ports surface  on  the  back  reaches  of  the  Internet,  as  if  they  were  a  grainy 
celebrity  sex  video  that  decent  people  should  avoid  looking  at.  But  I  think 
otherwise.  The  images  of  flag-draped  coffins  show  the  end  of  war  as  we  are 
meant  to  see  it,  and  as  we  are  meant  to  believe  it.  Uniforms,  flags,  patriotism, 
honor,  sacrifice.  In  these  images  we  are  not  street  fighters  struggling  to  sur- 
vive and  kill  in  a  distant  gangland,  but  soldiers  in  the  nation's  service.  They 


308  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

will  help  the  families,  I  think.  They  will  help  us.  In  our  own  way,  we  too, 
need  to  believe. 

Today,  the  Marines  will  have  to  wait  to  log  on  to  their  chat  rooms, 
HotOrNot.com,  MilitarySingles.com,  and  the  online  shopping  sites.  I  myself 
have  become  something  of  a  spendthrift  in  Iraq,  ordering  more  books  and 
CDs  than  I  normally  would.  I  have  seen  death  enough  times  among  people 
who  had  been  indestructibly  living  only  the  day  before.  It  is  better  to  go  ahead 
and  buy  the  CD  you  have  been  meaning  to  get.  There  are  reminders  wher- 
ever you  care  to  look.  For  instance,  the  pile  of  blood-soaked  flak  jackets  sitting 
in  the  company's  combat  operations  center,  a  low-tech  jumble  of  maps  and 
radios.  The  flak  jackets'  owners  are  either  dead  or  in  the  hospital  recovering 
from  their  wounds. 

The  executive  officer  reminds  us  that  the  flak  jackets  need  to  be  sent  back 
through  the  Marine  Corps's  supply  chain  as  soon  as  possible.  Somewhere, 
somebody  will  wash  them  and  inspect  them  for  damage,  filling  out  all  the 
necessary  paperwork.  It  is  the  banality,  even  more  than  the  carnage,  that 
shocks.  Our  occupation  grinds  on.  Others  will  assign  meaning  to  our  lives 
here,  noble  or  otherwise.  For  us,  though,  there  is  a  close  meanness  to  the 
fight.  There  are  no  flags,  no  dress  uniforms.  We  are  fighting  a  rival  gang  for 
the  same  turf,  while  the  neighborhood  residents  cower  and  wait  to  see  whose 
side  they  should  come  out  on. 

Imperceptibly,  we  are  coming  to  the  end  of  our  deployment.  Time  has 
stood  still  for  months,  with  days  and  nights  fusing  together  in  the  burning  hot 
air  of  the  desert.  But  now,  our  deployment  is  being  measured  in  finite  units  of 
time.  It  takes  getting  used  to. 

Echo  Company  will  remain  in  our  forward  operating  base  as  a  deterrent 
to  the  insurgents,  but  otherwise  will  have  no  dealings  with  the  Iraqi  people. 
Our  only  other  mission  is  to  keep  our  own  supply  lines  open.  One  of  the  lieu- 
tenants jokes  acidly  that  he  knows  a  way  to  shorten  our  supply  lines  by  fifteen 
thousand  miles.  Our  forward  operating  base  is  still  the  target  of  the  occa- 
sional mortar  shell.  Sometimes,  if  we  are  asleep,  we  do  not  even  wake  up,  but 
death  never  quite  leaves  us,  still  creeping  along  the  highways  and  wadis  as  we 
wear  out  the  days. 

Returning  from  a  patrol  with  my  platoon,  I  find  a  blue  sedan  riddled  with 
bullet  holes  on  the  side  of  the  highway.  There  are  a  few  Iraqi  soldiers  stand- 
ing around  when  we  find  it.  We  quickly  learn  the  car  belonged  to  Captain 


THIS     IS     NOT    A     GAME  309 


Laithe,  one  of  the  senior  men  in  the  local  police  force.  Connected,  calculat- 
ing, and  English-speaking,  he  had  collaborated  with  the  Americans  since  the 
fall  of  Baghdad.  I've  wondered  since  I  first  met  him  why  he  cast  his  lot  with 
us,  what  calculation  he  made,  and  whether  we  could  even  understand  it— 
what  mix  of  nobility  and  venality  it  contained.  His  future,  however  he  imag- 
ined it,  ended  with  the  finality  of  death  in  a  hail  of  bullets  on  the  highway  less 
than  a  mile  from  our  forward  operating  base. 

Not  long  before  we  leave,  I  am  awakened  out  of  a  sound  sleep  again,  this 
time  at  midnight.  The  company  executive  officer  is  at  the  door.  We  have  an- 
other KIA.  I  feel  the  same  shock  I  did  the  first  time,  only  a  certain  numbness 
has  developed,  like  a  nerve  deadened  by  repeated  blows.  Our  turn  had  almost 
passed,  and  now  this.  I  nod,  and  begin  collecting  my  gear.  One  of  my  fellow 
platoon  commanders  is  outside  in  the  pitch  black.  It  is  the  body  of  one  of  his 
Marines  that  we  will  go  out  in  the  dead  of  night  to  recover.  I  ask  him  if  he  is 
all  right.  I  ask  him  if  his  Marines  are  all  right.  The  worst  thing,  he  says,  is  that 
by  now  they  are  used  to  it.  It  is  better  and  worse  at  the  same  time.  I  realize 
that  we  have  all  come  to  accept  the  loss  of  familiar  faces,  to  live  with  it,  and 
cross  the  line  of  departure  again  the  next  morning.  It  is  this  acceptance, 
rather  than  the  thud  of  hidden  bombs,  that  has  finally  made  us  veterans,  and 
will  finish  the  words  on  the  obscure  page  of  history  we  occupy. 

We  head  off  in  the  pitch  black,  navigating  the  highway  through  the  grainy 
green  glow  of  our  night  vision  goggles.  We  move  north  to  a  point  just  north  of 
the  place  where  we  lost  the  two  Marines  in  the  bomb  explosion  months  be- 
fore. One  of  the  Humvees  in  the  patrol  struck  a  land  mine  a  short  distance 
from  the  Iraqi  National  Guard  post  the  Marines  had  been  tasked  with  pro- 
tecting. 

The  sun  is  rising  above  the  river  palm  groves  when  the  trucks  arrive  to  re- 
move the  wrecked  vehicle.  The  dead  Marine's  remains  are  loaded  in  another 
truck  and  driven  north  toward  Al  Asad  Air  Base.  The  remains  will  be  laid  in  a 
flag-draped  coffin  and  then  secured  in  the  cargo  hold  of  a  transport  plane  to 
be  flown  back  to  the  United  States.  We,  too,  will  soon  go  to  Al  Asad.  We  will 
then  strap  ourselves  into  the  cargo  hold  of  an  identical  plane  to  begin  our  own 
journey  home.  The  scrawled  memorials  on  barracks  walls  to  fallen  buddies 
will  stay  behind  for  the  troops  who  replace  us.  They  might  read  the  awkwardly 
worded  poems  and  epitaphs  written  in  loving  memory,  and  half-wonder  who 
we  were. 


310  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

In  the  beginning  of  September  2004,  Echo  Company  is  finally  packing  up 
to  leave,  and  Humphreys  concludes  his  journal  with  the  following  entry. 

We  are  flying  out  of  Iraq  tonight,  seven  months  after  we  arrived  to  crush 
the  insurgency.  We  are  leaving.  The  insurgents  will  remain  behind  without 
us.  The  contents  of  my  pack  and  seabag  are  on  the  floor.  To  the  left  and 
right  of  me,  fifty-five  other  Marines  — privates,  sergeants,  and  officers— have 
also  dumped  their  worldly  belongings  onto  painted  squares  for  inspection 
by  military  police  at  Al  Asad  Air  Base.  Somehow,  every  transition  in  the  Ma- 
rine Corps  involves  dumping  your  trash  on  the  deck.  The  first  night  of  boot 
camp  the  drill  instructors  rooted  through  our  measly  belongings,  the  relics 
of  the  civilian  world  we  were  leaving  behind.  They  used  white  latex  gloves, 
as  if  they  might  catch  something  from  the  sticks  of  beef  jerky  and  playing 
cards. 

The  military  police  just  use  black  leather  gloves.  They  do  a  perfunctory 
search  for  contraband,  as  defined  by  the  1st  Marine  Division  on  the  "this- 
means-you"  poster  plastered  to  the  wall.  No  lottery  tickets  or  advertise- 
ments. No  flags  of  foreign  countries  not  manufactured  for  sale  or 
distribution.  No  lizard  hides.  No  sex  toys.  No  rocks  of  any  sort,  no  matter 
how  sentimental.  No  shrapnel.  No  personal  effects  of  enemy  soldiers,  to  in- 
clude body  parts. 

The  drill  instructors  guarding  the  gates  of  the  Corps  were  meant  to  keep 
us  from  bringing  the  civilian  world  into  the  war  world.  The  military  police 
are  here  to  make  sure  we  take  nothing  from  the  war  world  back,  except  our- 
selves. Many  of  the  Marines  are  short-timers,  with  only  a  few  months  left  in 
the  Corps.  They  will  return  home  and  cross  back  over  to  the  other  side  to 
continue  their  lives  with  friends  who  barely  noticed  they  were  gone. 

For  the  rest  of  us,  Iraq  will  be  waiting  for  our  return.  We  can  leave,  but  the 
country  and  its  war  will  remain.  The  war  that  began  after  the  president's  Mis- 
sion Accomplished  speech  is  too  diffuse  for  us  to  make  a  noticeable  mark  on 
it.  There  is  no  end  to  where  we  are  going.  There  is  no  Berlin,  no  Tokyo  out 
there  for  us  to  push  toward.  We  are  simply  part  of  a  larger  historical  process 
that  unfolds  slowly  and  unpredictably,  like  rising  smoke.  How  long  the  fire 
underneath  us  will  smolder,  or  what  the  earth  will  look  like  when  it  has  ex- 
hausted itself,  is  impossible  to  know  for  those  of  us  who  are  in  it. 

The  flight  attendants  on  the  chartered  747  parked  at  the  edge  of  Kuwait 


THIS     IS     NOT     A     GAME  311 

City  International  Airport  greet  us  with  hand  clapping  and  squealed  congrat- 
ulations. I  grunt  some  type  of  reply  and  make  for  a  window  seat.  Back  home, 
Sunday  football  kicks  off  with  flags,  uniforms,  and  exhortations  to  support  our 
brave  troops  serving  overseas,  and  to  remember  those  who  have  made  the  Ul- 
timate Sacrifice.  I  wonder  numbly  whether  I  am  expected  to  bask  in  the  adu- 
lation. I  am  weary.  We  fought.  We  survived,  but  some  did  not. 
I  do  not  need  to  be  told  to  remember. 


CHAPTER    SIX 


JTT  v_y  1\L  £L 


RETURNING  TO   THE   UNITED   STATES 


Twenty-two-yea r-old  U.S.  Marine  Corps  Lance  Corporal  Robert  E.  Gordon  III 

hugging  his  wife,  Diana,  after  returning  in  February  2005  from  his  second 

six-month  deployment  to  Iraq. 

Photo  by  his  mother,  Christine  N.  Gordon;  used  by  permission. 


This  week  he's  due  home,  this  son  of  mine.  I  wonder:  Is  he  nervous?  Is  he 
excited?  This  child  who  was  so  kind  and  sensitive,  so  caring  of  his  mother.  I 
can't  even  imagine  what  war  has  done  to  him.  Is  he  expecting  everything  to 
be  just  the  same  as  when  he  left?  I  remember  some  veterans  saying  they 
wanted  everything  to  be  exactly  the  same  when  they  came  home,  and  when 
it  wasn't,  it  was  a  nasty  shock.  This  week  is  full  of  questions,  full  of  doubts, 
full  of  excitement.  I  walk  around  with  a  smile  on  my  face.  Despite  my 
concerns,  I  get  to  see  him,  and  hug  him.  To  count  his  fingers  and  toes.  To 
sit  near,  and  just  watch  him  sleep,  and  remember  all  the  times  I  did  the 
same  thing  when  he  was  two,  and  ten,  and  fifteen.  To  pretend,  just  for  a 
while,  that  he  is  not  a  grown-up  soldier,  in  a  war— that  he  is  just  my  son, 
here,  back  in  my  home. 

—Becky  Ward-Krizan,  writing  in  April  2005  about  the  return  of  her  son, 
twenty-five-year-old  U.S.  Army  Reserve  Specialist  Richard  Ward. 


Just  before  getting  on  the  plane  that  would  take  us  stateside,  a  young  airman 
said  to  us:  "This  flight  is  now  an  HR  flight.  HR  means  human  remains.  We 
have  two  deceased  soldiers  on  this  flight."  I  couldn't  help  but  feel  choked  up 
by  this  news.  We  boarded  the  plane  thirty  minutes  later,  and  then  taxied  out 
and  did  our  usual  combat  takeoff,  very  fast,  hard  turns,  and  then  leveled  out 
far  away  from  the  airport.  One  soldier,  a  major,  stood  up  and  walked  to  the 
front  cabin.  He  returned  later  with  a  crew  chief.  They  stopped  by  the  caskets 
and  the  major  pointed  to  the  bags  in  front  of  them.  One  piece  of  civilian 
luggage  had  rolled  over  and  was  pressed  up  against  the  corner  of  the  casket. 
That  bothered  the  major  enough  to  do  something  about  it.  When  the  bags 
were  cleared  the  major  sat  down  again.  He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
wiped  his  eyes.  I  could  see  his  chest  rise  and  fall.  He  took  one  big  sigh, 
rested  his  head  and  arms  on  his  knees.  I  don't  know  if  he  knew  the  two 
soldiers  going  home.  But  in  a  way  it  didn't  matter.  I  think  we  all  knew  them. 
We  had  just  come  from  Iraq. 

—Twenty-five-year-old  U.S.  Army  Sergeant  James  A.  Christenson, 
writing  about  his  flight  home  in  May  2004  from  the  Middle  East. 


314  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


GOODBYE,  AFGHANISTAN 

Personal  Narrative 
Captain  Cameron  Sellers 


Born  in  South  Korea  and  adopted  at  a  very  young  age  by  an  American  cou- 
ple, Cameron  Sellers  was  brought  to  the  United  States  in  igyo  and  raised 
in  Arizona.  Inspired  by  both  a  love  for  his  new  country  and  his  adoptive  fa- 
ther's own  military  service,  Sellers  joined  the  Arizona  National  Guard  im- 
mediately after  high  school.  (Tens  of  thousands  of  individuals  serving  in  the 
U.S.  military  are  foreign  bom.)  His  first  overseas  tour  of  duty  came  in  2000, 
when  he  was  sent  to  Bosnia  with  a  peacekeeping  force.  After  the  September 
11  attacks,  he  was  stationed  at  the  U.S.  Embassy  in  Kabul,  Afghanistan,  be- 
ginning in  the  spring  of  2002.  During  his  four  months  in  the  Afghan  capi- 
tal, the  thirty-three-year-old  Army  captain  served  in  the  Office  of  Military 
Cooperation,  which  was  tasked  with  rebuilding  the  Afghan  National  Army. 
Sellers  kept  a  journal  that  recorded  everything  from  the  more  humorous  mo- 
ments—such as  teaching  armed  Marines  how  to  swing-dance— to  a  har- 
rowing mortar  attack  on  the  embassy.  In  the  final  entry  to  his  journal, 
Sellers  wrote  about  his  seventeen-hour  trip  to  the  States,  which  proved  to  be 
an  unforgettable  one. 


he  timing  couldn't  have  been  worse.  Although  my  deployment  was 
over  and  I  was  cleared  to  leave,  finding  a  ride  home  was  proving  diffi- 
cult. Security  had  been  amped  up  everywhere  because  the  September  11  an- 
niversary was  approaching,  and,  only  a  few  days  before,  a  member  of  the 
Taliban  had  pretended  to  be  part  of  President  Hamid  Karzai's  own  security 
team  and  tried  to  assassinate  him.  There  was,  however,  one  flight  available  — 
a  U.S.  Air  Force  crew  was  taking  the  American  ambassador  to  Afghanistan, 
Robert  Finn,  and  President  Karzai  to  the  States,  where  Karzai  would  address 
the  United  Nations  and  then  the  U.S.  Congress.  After  quickly  calling  some 
contacts  I  knew  at  the  embassy,  I  was— miraculously— placed  on  the  flight 
manifest. 

On  Sunday  morning,  September  8,  Ambassador  Finn  and  I  were  raced 
through  the  city  to  an  unidentified  location  on  the  presidential  palace 
grounds.  The  atmosphere  was  tense  at  the  helicopter  pickup  site  in  light  of 


HOME  315 

recent  events,  and  when  I  saw  President  Karzai's  palace  guards  in  their  dress 
uniform  I  wondered  if  there  might  be  an  assassin  among  them.  An  Apache  at- 
tack helicopter  appeared  and  began  circling  the  palace  as  a  Chinook  landed 
to  pick  us  up.  Before  I  could  even  blink,  the  president's  party,  the  ambas- 
sador, and  I  were  whisked  aboard  the  helicopters.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye 
I  noticed  a  Navy  SEAL  I  knew,  and  I  was  relieved  because  I  had  heard  that 
he  had  been  shot  in  the  head  during  the  assassination  attempt  against  Karzai. 
First  reports  are  often  wrong,  and  it  was  great  to  see  that  he  was  alive  and  un- 
injured. 

As  Kabul  was  becoming  a  distant  view,  I  realized  that  this  was  it.  My  ad- 
venture in  Afghanistan  was  about  to  become  a  memory.  From  three  thousand 
feet,  the  scars  of  war  were  hidden  and  Kabul  looked  like  any  southwestern 
adobe  town.  Looking  out  the  window,  I  saw  the  dry  Kabul  riverbed  snake 
through  the  middle  of  the  city.  I  saw  the  old  Ghazi  stadium  that  was  built  to 
draw  the  Olympics,  but  was  later  used  by  the  Taliban  to  execute  prisoners. 

The  helicopters  flew  parallel  to  the  Jalalabad  Road  and  then  turned  north 
above  the  new  Bagram  road  that  the  Soviets  built  in  the  1980s  as  a  secondary 
supply  route  from  Bagram  to  Kabul.  I  was  as  familiar  with  that  road  as  with 
the  ones  back  home  because  I  usually  traveled  it  every  week.  I  felt  that  I  knew 
every  pothole  and  bump.  I  remembered  the  illegal  checkpoints  where  mili- 
tias would  shake  down  drivers  for  "tolls,"  the  overcrowding  of  a  refugee  camp, 
and  the  kids  running  from  their  homes  to  wave  to  us  as  we  drove  by. 

The  Bagram  road  went  through  the  Shamali  plains.  Someone  had  told 
me  that  the  valley  used  to  have  hundreds  of  orchards  and  the  plains  were  fer- 
tile for  agriculture.  And  then  the  Russians  cut  the  orchards  down  and 
scorched  the  agricultural  fields  to  eliminate  potential  ambush  sites.  You 
could  travel  for  miles  and  the  only  thing  you  would  see  were  the  dust  clouds 
swirling.  Once  you  trekked  through  the  mountain  pass  from  the  Kabul  plains 
to  the  Bagram  Valley,  the  only  signs  of  life  were  explosives  specialists  placing 
red-painted  rocks  around  the  land  mines.  Once  in  a  blue  moon,  we  would 
witness  a  camel  caravan  of  Pashtun  tribesmen  traveling  through  the  valley 
and  wonder  how  they  managed  to  navigate  through  the  active  minefields. 

We  touched  down  on  the  airstrip  right  next  to  the  flight  line.  Once  we 
landed,  we  immediately  transferred  to  a  C-17.  While  the  layover  at  Bagram 
was  pretty  quick,  I  still  had  time  to  look  out  the  window  and  reminisce  about 
when  I  first  arrived  there,  when  it  was  just  a  lonely  outpost.  Soon  after  it  be- 
came the  main  hub  for  the  war  on  terror.  Within  minutes,  we  were  at  thirty- 


316  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

five  thousand  feet  flying  away  from  Afghanistan.  As  the  plane  leveled  off,  the 
U.S.  Air  Force  showed  President  Karzai  how  we  treat  all  foreign  heads  of 
state.  For  lunch  we  fed  him  a  "Jimmy  Dean,"  which  consisted  of  a  small  can 
of  ravioli,  tuna  fish,  chips,  and  soda.  While  the  food  was  lacking,  the  C-17 
crew  was  hospitable,  and  they  did  the  best  they  could  under  the  circum- 
stances to  make  our  flight  enjoyable. 

The  ambassador  had  told  me  that  President  Karzai  was  easy  to  work  with, 
and  he  appreciated  America's  help  for  his  people  in  rebuilding  his  country. 
While  he  was  pro-American,  he  was  not  a  patsy.  A  couple  of  friends  of  mine, 
who  were  in  the  initial  meeting  with  President  Karzai  and  the  JTF  (Joint  Task 
Force)  commander  after  a  wedding  party  had  been  shot  up  by  an  AC-130  gun- 
ship  in  Tarin  Kowt,  told  me  that  the  president  berated  the  JTF  commander  for 
not  informing  him  of  this  mission  as  the  previous  commander  had  done.  As 
quick  as  he  was  to  chastise  the  JTF  commander,  he  was  just  as  quick  to  forgive 
and  forget.  The  president  told  him  that  mistakes  happen  and  "Let's  move  on." 

Even  though  he  is  a  Pashtun  from  the  Kandahar  area,  I  was  told  that  he 
loved  Masoud,  the  late  Northern  Alliance  commander,  and  he  wept  when 
they  visited  his  tomb  in  the  Pan j shir  Yallev.  Watching  him  interact  with  peo- 
ple on  the  plane  only  confirmed  what  I  had  heard  about  Karzai.  He  had  what 
we  in  the  military  call  "command  presence."  He  attracted  the  attention  of 
those  around  him  without  making  a  scene;  his  very  presence  radiated  a  kind 
of  quiet  power,  dignity,  and  strength.  He  transcended  ethnic  and  regional  pol- 
itics, and  people  from  all  walks  of  life  felt  comfortable  around  him  but  were 
also  respectful.  I  finally  worked  up  the  nerve  to  approach  him  myself,  and  he 
could  not  have  been  more  gracious.  In  my  later  years,  when  my  grandkids  ask 
me  what  I  said  to  the  George  Washington  of  Afghanistan,  I  will  reply,  "Hey, 
can  I  get  a  photo  taken  with  you?"  Oh  well. 

We  flew  to  Rhein-Main,  Germany,  and  transferred  to  Air  Force  Two  for 
the  flight  to  New  York.  Someone  told  me  that  President  Bush  had  sent  the 
plane  for  Karzai  to  use  as  a  courtesy,  and  talk  about  first  class!  Wide  aisles, 
plush  seats,  and  tables.  Evenihing  had  Air  Force  Two  inscribed  on  it,  and  I 
was  contemplating  stealing  some  of  it  for  keepsakes,  but  settled  for  just  shoot- 
ing some  pictures.  The  only  downside  was  the  meal.  It  was  chicken  and  rice. 
Hmmm,  where  had  I  had  that  dish  before?  Oh  right,  every  day  since  the  mo- 
ment I  had  arrived  in  Afghanistan.  The  Navy  SEALs  just  rolled  their  eyes 
when  they  found  out  what  was  for  dinner. 


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Once  we  got  to  New  York,  the  pilot  flew  past  the  New  York  skyline.  What 
a  fitting  ending  to  a  remarkable  journey.  The  flyby  of  Manhattan  put  every- 
thing into  perspective.  I  thought  of  the  thousands  of  lives  lost  a  year  ago,  and 
it  was  hard  to  fight  back  the  tears.  Once  we  landed,  I  stepped  out  on  the  stair- 
case to  breathe  the  air  and  to  step  on  American  soil.  I  could  not  believe  my 
eyes. 

In  two  days  we  would  observe  the  first  anniversary  of  September  n.  I 
thought  about  everything  I  had  seen  and  experienced  in  Afghanistan,  and 
why  I  was  there.  As  a  reservist,  I  volunteered  for  this  deployment  when  ter- 
rorists attacked  my  adopted  country.  A  year  ago,  I  wrote  to  my  closest  friends 
and  relatives  why  I  was  volunteering  for  the  war: 

By  now  you  have  heard  that  the  Army  has  called  me  back  to  active  duty. 
For  me,  duty,  patriotism,  and  service  started  long  before  September  n. 
And  my  values  started  long  before  my  parents  instilled  them  in  me  when 

I  was  a  little  kid.  It  started  fourteen  years  before  I  was  born  when  43,000 
American  servicemen  were  willing  to  die  on  a  peninsula  called  Korea. 
For  most  of  my  life,  I  have  been  an  average  American  who  grew  up  with 
a  pretty  common  life  except  for  the  first  two  years:  I  was  born  in  Seoul, 
South  Korea  as  an  orphan.  I  was  discovered  in  an  alley  and  placed  in  an 
orphanage.  A  loving  American  family  picked  me  to  be  part  of  their  family 
when  I  was  one  year  old,  and  they  fought  for  me  to  come  to  the  United 
States.  Thus  began  the  great  life  I've  lived  so  far.  But  all  of  this  would  have 
never  happened  if  the  United  States  didn't  come  to  the  defense  of  South 
Korea  in  1950.  Every  Korean  of  that  generation  knows  their  freedom  was 
won  by  American  blood.  I,  as  a  Korean  immigrant,  know  I  am  indebted  to 
those  43,000  Americans  who  didn't  come  home.  I  am  indebted  to  their 
wives  and  kids  for  the  scars  they  have  endured  because  their  husbands  or 
fathers  were  no  longer  in  their  life.  Our  grandparents  fought  World  War 

II  so  the  Baby  Boomers  would  never  have  to  live  through  another  Pearl 
Harbor.  Now  our  generation  will  fight  terrorism  so  that  our  kids  will  not 
have  to  live  through  another  World  Trade  Center.  I  have  all  the  confi- 
dence in  our  generation  to  rise  to  this  occasion  and  exceed  the  expecta- 
tion of  our  fathers  and  grandfathers.  I  have  no  doubts. 

Coming  home,  my  feelings  are  as  strong  as  they  were  one  year  ago. 


318  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


SEA  VOYAGE 

E-mail 
Captain  Guy  W.  Ravey 


While  the  majority  of  troops  return  to  America  on  commercial  and  military 
aircraft,  some— mostly  Marines  and  sailors— make  the  long  journey  home 
by  ship.  Thirty-year-old  U.S.  Marine  Corps  Captain  Guy  W.  Ravey,  who 
had  been  flying  combat  missions  in  the  Middle  East,  enjoyed  the  leisurely, 
seven-week  voyage  back  to  Hawaii  on  the  USS  Constellation.  The  time 
aboard  ship  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  reflect  not  only  on  his  own  wartime 
experiences,  but  on  those  of  other  family  members  who  had  served  in  the 
military  as  well.  While  sailing  through  the  jungle  islands  of  Indonesia  on 
his  way  home,  Guy  Ravey  saw  something  that  sparked  a  powerful  emo- 
tional reaction,  and  on  the  evening  of  May  10,  2003,  he  sent  the  following 
e-mail  from  aboard  ship  to  loved  ones  in  the  States. 

Dear  Family  and  Friends, 

Tonight  was  special.  Tonight  we  passed  by  the  island  of  Halmahera.  It  is  a 
seemingly  insignificant  blob  of  tropical  land  sitting  right  on  the  equator  near 
New  Guinea  and  the  Philippines,  but  it  holds  a  great  deal  of  significance  to 
the  Ravey  family.  This  is  the  island  where  First  Lieutenant  Will  Ravey,  US 
Army  Air  Corps,  was  shot  down  in  August  of  1944. 

Grandpa  Ken  Ravey  had  mentioned  the  island  to  me  a  few  times  as  I  was 
growing  up.  He  rarely,  if  ever,  brought  the  subject  of  his  brother  up.  Even  as 
a  child  I  could  sense  how  raw  and  painful  the  memories  of  his  loss  still  were 
to  him.  However,  he  would  proudly  and  reverently  tell  me  the  stories  of  his 
big  brother,  and  once  or  twice  he  mentioned  how  his  brother  had  died  in 
combat  over  an  island  I  had  difficulty  finding  in  any  atlas  because  it  was  so 
small. 

I  have  hacked  away  at  the  subject  of  Great  Uncle  Will  from  time  to  time. 
I  eventually  did  find  Halmahera  on  an  atlas  and  quickly  determined  there 
was  probably  very  little  chance  I  or  anyone  else  I  knew  would  ever  go  there.  I 
found  out  through  family  ties  that  he  had  been  a  fighter  pilot  flying  P-38 
Lightnings  with  the  8th  Fighter  Group  and  had  been  on  a  mission  escorting 
bombers  attacking  Japanese  positions.  The  B-24  bombers  were  lumbering, 
slow  giants  that  were  easy  prey  for  Japanese  fighters  unless  the  American  es- 


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cort  fighters  intervened.  It  was  the  P-38  pilots'  job  to  pick  fights  and  protect 
the  bombers  (B-24's  had  a  crew  of  10,  P-38's  had  only  one).  The  specifics  of 
the  story  are  probably  known  better  by  those  closer  to  Will,  but  as  far  as  I  can 
gather,  he  jumped  into  a  fight  where  he  was  desperately  outnumbered  and 
shot  down  a  plane  or  two  before  he,  himself,  was  shot  down.  Later  it  was  dis- 
covered that  he  had  survived  the  shoot  down  only  to  be  captured  and  exe- 
cuted by  the  Japanese.  His  remains  were  recovered  in  the  1950's. 

I  learned  from  Grandpa  that  Will  had  been  married  and  his  wife  was  ex- 
pecting a  child  when  he  died.  That  son  has  grown  up  and  had  his  own  chil- 
dren now  (one  son  is  my  age).  The  Heises,  though  answering  to  a  different 
name,  are  a  dear  part  of  our  Ravey  family. 

The  circumstances  surrounding  Will's  death  remain  tragic.  They  are  haunt- 
ingly  similar  to  those  concerning  the  death  of  my  friend,  Dan  McCollum,  last 
year  in  Pakistan.  Dan  was  my  roommate  in  flight  school  and  one  of  my  best 
friends  in  the  Marines.  His  loss  hurts  me  everyday  that  I  live.  In  a  bittersweet 
parallel  to  Will's  story,  Dan's  wife,  Jenn,  was  four  months  pregnant  with  their 
son  when  his  KC-130  transport  went  down  near  Shamsi,  Pakistan.  Daniel  Junior 
is  a  bubbly  and  happy  infant  who  has  his  father's  arctic-blue  eyes  and  easy  smile. 

I  went  up  on  the  signals  bridge  tonight  and  looked  out  at  the  dark  silhou- 
ette of  Halmahera  on  the  horizon.  I  tried  to  imagine  what  it  was  like  to  be  in 
this  area  fifty-nine  years  ago.  The  pilot  in  me  wondered  what  the  P-38  was  like 
to  fly,  and  how  exciting  it  must  have  been  to  be  where  Will  was  and  to  do 
what  he  was  doing.  The  combat  I  experienced  was  very  different  from  his.  He 
most  likely  endured  malaria,  unsanitary  conditions,  oppressive  heat  and  hu- 
midity, and  a  determined,  well-equipped  enemy.  Not  to  mention  there  was  a 
war  that  endured  four  long  years,  not  three  short  weeks.  I  felt  a  kinship, 
though,  and  not  just  because  Will  is  my  flesh  and  blood.  Will  was  a  fighter 
pilot,  and  he  died  doing  what  he  loved. 

I've  often  wondered  how  any  person  could  sacrifice  himself  for  others.  I 
know  it  wouldn't  be  my  first  choice,  but  I  think  that  the  perspective  I've 
gained  over  this  deployment  has  given  me  a  clearer  picture  of  why  it  hap- 
pens. I'm  sure  that  it  was  not  Will's  intent  to  "die  bravely  while  valiantly  fend- 
ing off  hordes  of  enemy  aircraft."  That's  the  sort  of  stuff  that  gets  written  up  in 
awards  and  history  books  to  help  assuage  the  loss  his  loved  ones  feel.  What  I 
think  is  closer  to  the  truth,  and  much  more  difficult  to  comprehend,  is  that 
he  didn't  want  to  "foul  up."  We  use  a  different  "F-word"  nowadays  when  we 
talk  amongst  ourselves  in  the  ready  room.  It  wasn't  pain,  torture,  serious  in- 


320  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

jurv,  nor  even  death  that  we  feared  most:  it  was  failing.  Failing  to  do  our  jobs. 
Failing  to  complete  the  mission.  Failing  to  help  our  friends  in  the  air  or  on 
the  ground.  Will  dove  into  that  formation  of  Zeros  because  it  was  his  job.  The 
fact  that  he  died  is  tragic,  but  many  bomber  crews  were  probablv  saved  that 
day  because  of  what  he  did.  The  Ravey  family  endured  a  loss  that  day  so  that 
other  families,  families  we  will  never  know,  could  have  their  loved  ones  home 
to  produce  families  of  their  own. 

Dan's  mission  was  to  fly  supplies  and  troops  throughout  Afghanistan  and 
Pakistan  during  Operation  ENDURING  FREEDOM.  He  and  his  crew  flew 
in  perilous  and  demanding  conditions  not  because  they  were  trving  to  im- 
press anvone.  but  because  it  was  their  job.  The  missions  they  flew  helped 
feed,  transport,  and  equip  the  forces  responsible  for  crushing  the  Taliban  and 
liberating  Afghanistan.  Thev  died  so  that  others  could  be  free. 

The  weather  at  this  latitude  is  hot  and  sticky,  even  at  midnight,  so  I  only 
stayed  outside  for  a  little  while.  I  said  a  silent  prayer  for  Will  and  for  Dan,  and 
then  I  went  below.  I  felt  strange.  I'll  tell  you  all  this  now  and  hope  you  un- 
derstand: I  felt  happv.  Being  near  Halmahera  is  the  closest  I've  been  to  fam- 
ilv  in  seven  months.  It  felt  warm  and  soothing.  There  are  manv  more 
emotions  I  felt,  and  maybe  somedav  I'll  be  able  to  express  them  better. 
Tonight,  though,  I  am  "proud  to  have  closed  the  loop  within  our  familv.  I 
called  Grandpa  Ravey  on  the  sailor  phone  aboard  ship  and  spoke  to  him  for 
four  minutes:  long  enough  to  hear  the  lump  in  his  throat  when  I  told  him 
where  I  was.  I  am  proud  to  have  been  able  to  set  eyes  upon  this  place.  In  a 
way,  I  feel  as  though  I'm  bringing  a  part  of  \\  ill's  spirit  home  with  me. 

Love  to  all, 
Guy 


3   A.M.    IN   BANGOR,    MAINE 

Personal  Narrative 

Sergeant  Michael  A.  Thomas 


Beginning  in  Februan-  2003,  hvenh -nine -year-old  U.S.  Army  Sergeant 
Michael  A.  Thomas  was  stationed  in  Tallil  with  the  220th  Military  Police 
Company  from  the  Colorado  National  Guard,  which  was  attached  to  the 


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220th  MP  Brigade.  Thomas  had  been  raised  in  a  family  with  strong  roots  in 
the  military;  his  father  had  been  a  first  sergeant  in  the  Army,  his  uncle  was 
one  of  the  famed  Tuskegee  Airmen,  and  his  stepmother  was  an  Army  re- 
cruiter. Thomas  himself  enlisted  in  the  Army  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  As 
proud  as  he  was  to  serve  his  country,  by  February  2004  (after  having  served 
a  full  year  in  Iraq),  Thomas  was  more  than  ready  to  head  back  to  the  States 
and  be  reunited  with  his  wife,  Wendy.  In  the  following  account,  Thomas  re- 
lates how  exasperating  the  journey  was— and  how  meaningful,  in  the  end, 
it  turned  out  to  be. 


After  months  of  extending  our  stay  in  Iraq,  our  unit  was  finally  going 
home.  The  year  had  felt  long  enough.  We  had  missed  birthdays,  births, 
anniversaries,  Thanksgiving,  and  Christmas,  and  when  the  plane  that  was 
scheduled  to  take  us  back  to  the  States  was  hit  by  a  de-icing  truck  in  Ger- 
many, we  were  left  feeling  as  though  we'd  never  return  to  our  families. 

We  were  ordered  to  deplane  and  had  to  wait  for  the  next  flight. 

Sitting  in  the  airport  throughout  the  night,  we  called  our  families  with  the 
bad  news.  We  waited  for  what  seemed  like  an  eternity  before  finally  catching 
another  plane. 

Thirty-six  hours  after  our  scheduled  arrival,  we  landed  in  Bangor,  Maine. 
It  was  3  a.m.  We  were  tired,  hungry,  and  as  desperate  as  we  were  to  get  to  Col- 
orado, our  excitement  was  tainted  with  bitterness.  While  we  were  originally 
told  our  National  Guard  deployment  would  be  mere  months,  here  we 
were  — 369  days  later— frustrated  and  angry. 

As  I  walked  off  the  plane,  I  was  taken  aback;  in  the  small,  dimly  lit  airport, 
a  group  of  elderly  veterans  were  there  waiting  for  us,  lined  up  one  by  one  to 
shake  our  hands.  Some  were  standing,  others  were  confined  to  wheelchairs, 
and  all  of  them  wore  their  uniform  hats.  Their  now-feeble  right  hands  stiff- 
ened in  salutes,  their  left  hands  holding  coffee,  snacks,  and  cell  phones  for  us. 

As  I  made  my  way  through  the  line,  each  man  thanking  me  for  my  ser- 
vice, I  choked  back  tears.  Here  we  were,  returning  from  one  year  in  Iraq 
where  we  had  portable  DVD  players,  three  square  meals,  and  phones,  being 
honored  by  men  who  had  crawled  through  mud  for  years  with  little  more 
than  the  occasional  letter  from  home.  A  few  of  them  appeared  to  be  veterans 
of  the  war  in  Vietnam,  and  I  couldn't  help  but  think  of  how  they  were  treated 
when  they  came  back  to  the  U.S.,  and  yet  here  they  were  to  support  us. 


322  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

These  soldiers  — many  of  whom  who  had  lost  limbs  and  comrades  — 
shook  our  hands  proudly,  as  if  our  service  could  somehow  rival  their  own. 

We  later  learned  that  this  VFW  group  had  waited  for  more  than  a  dav  in 
the  airport  for  our  arrival. 

When  the  time  came  to  fly  home  to  Colorado,  we  were  asked  bv  our  com- 
mander if  we  would  like  to  join  the  Veterans  of  Foreign  Wars.  Every  hand  in 
the  unit  went  up  eagerly— including  mv  own. 

Looking  back  on  my  year  in  Iraq,  I  can  honesdy  sav  that  mv  perception  of 
the  experience  was  changed;  not  so  much  by  the  soldiers  with  whom  I 
served— though  I  consider  them  my  saving  grace— but  bv  the  soldiers  who 
welcomed  us  home.  For  it  is  those  men  who  reminded  me  what  serving  mv 
country  is  truly  about. 

Thomas  remains  in  the  Colorado  National  Guard  and  was  promoted  to 
staff  sergeant  in  August  2004.  He  is  also  now  a  proud  member  of  his  local 
VFW  chapter. 


THEODORE 

Personal  Narrative 
Captain   Montgomery  Granger 


As  eager  as  returning  servicemen  and  women  are  to  see  their  friends  and 
family  members,  reunions  can  be  fraught  with  tension  and  anxiety.  Jet- 
lagged  troops  are  sometimes  too  exhausted  to  demonstrate  the  enthusiasm 
that  their  loved  ones  had  been  expecting.  Couples  who  have  argued  via 
e-mail  or  over  the  phone  during  the  deployment  can  be  harboring  hurt  feel- 
ings that  flare  up  once  they're  together.  And  military  parents  can  find  that 
their  children  are  timid  and  even  resentful  when  they  first  see  their  moms 
and  dads.  Troops  who  have  left  behind  newborn  infants  are  often  especially 
concerned  that  their  son  or  daughter  wont  remember  them  at  all.  Thirh- 
nine-year-old  U.S.  Army  Captain  Montgomery1  Granger,  who  was  stationed 
in  Cuba  from  January  through  June  2003,  wrote  the  following  account  after 
saying  goodbye  to  his  wife  and  three  young  sons  in  New  York,  including  one 
child  who  had  been  bom  only  days  before  Granger  departed. 


HOME  323 


he  night  before  I  deployed,  I  cuddled  with  Harrison  and  Benjamin  and 
read  them  their  favorite  story  (okay,  my  favorite  story  to  read  them): 
Stop  That  Pickle!  It's  a  fun,  silly  book  about  a  wayward  pickle  who  faces  cer- 
tain .  .  .  well,  "consumption,"  but  narrowly  escapes  due  to  his  incompatibil- 
ity with  ice  cream.  I  read  it  like  a  seasoned  actor,  and  the  boys  chuckled  and 
laughed  along.  At  the  end  of  each  page  there  was  a  refrain  that  we'd  all  ex- 
claim together:  "Stop  that  pickle!" 

Sandra  came  downstairs  and  saw  us  together.  "Why  don't  you  record  that 
for  the  boys,  honey?"  she  suggested. 

I  smiled  and  said,  "Sure,  that's  a  great  idea.  What  do  you  say,  boys?" 

"Again!"  Harrison  said  excitedly. 

"Cool,"  said  Benjamin. 

"Great,"  I  said.  And  we  had  a  blast  doing  it  once  more  — bigger,  bolder, 
and  better  than  before. 

It  got  late,  and  I  said  good  night  to  the  big  boys,  and  told  them  to  be  good 
to  their  mother  and  helpful  with  their  new  baby  brother,  Theodore.  They 
promised  they  would.  Kisses  and  hugs  followed,  and  Sandra  put  them  to  bed. 
I  went  to  peek  on  our  newest  boy  and,  quietly  leaning  against  the  door  to  his 
room,  watched  the  rise  and  fall,  rise  and  fall  of  his  tiny  chest  as  he  slept. 

"Yup,"  I  thought,  "he  works.  Our  little  miracle  works." 

Sandra  came  in  and  we  hugged  for  a  while,  kissed  gently,  and  then  walked 
downstairs. 

"I  miss  you  already,"  she  said. 

"Me,  too,"  I  told  her.  "And  the  little  fellas.  I'm  so  scared  Theodore  won't 
know  me  when  I  get  back,  Sandra." 

"He'll  know  you,"  she  told  me,  with  an  intuitive  wisdom  that  had  me 
questioning  my  insecurity.  But  it  bothered  me,  still. 

"He  won't  know  my  smell,"  I  said,  "or  my  voice.  I'll  scare  him  when  I  get 
back,  and  he'll  cry,  and  then  I'll  cry  ..."  I  was  beginning  to  ramble. 

"Don't  worry,"  she  said.  "It'll  be  fine.  I  promise."  There's  one  thing  about 
my  wife.  She  always  keeps  her  promises.  But  this  one  was  different. 

I  left  my  family  forty-eight  hours  after  Theodore  was  born.  I  wouldn't 
see  him  — or  the  rest  of  the  family— again  for  six  months.  My  second  acti- 
vation since  September  n,  2001,  would  take  me  to  the  U.S.  Naval  Base  at 
Guantanamo  Bay,  Cuba,  or  GiTMO,  as  we  called  it,  as  the  field  medical 


324  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

assistant  for  the  Joint  Detainee  Operations  Group  (JDOG),  to  help  run 
Camp  X-Ray. 

The  toughest  part  about  the  mission  was  being  away  from  home.  But, 
thanks  to  modern  technology,  my  family  and  I  used  e-mail,  snail  mail,  and 
care  packages  to  stay  in  touch. 

For  Father's  Day,  Sandra  sent  me  a  "talking"  picture.  It  was  a  small,  black 
plastic  clamshell  frame,  with  a  picture  of  all  three  boys  on  one  side  and  a 
speaker/microphone  on  the  other.  The  older  boys  said  together,  and  I  could 
see  them  smiling  and  giggling  as  they  recorded  it,  "HI,  Daddy!  We  LOVE 
You!  Happy  FATHER'S  Day!"  I  kept  the  frame  open  for  a  few  more  seconds, 
thinking  that  Sandra  might  have  had  something  to  say,  and  then  I  heard  it: 
"Gggruuurgle,  ggaaaaa,  guh!"  It  was  Theodore!  These  were  the  first  sounds  I 
had  heard  since  listening  to  his  soft,  sweet  whispering  breath  the  night  before 
I  deployed. 

The  tour  felt  much  longer  than  it  was,  but  in  late  June,  we  finally  re- 
turned stateside.  All  I  could  think  of  was  how  the  boys  would  react,  having 
not  seen  me  for  almost  half  a  year.  I  wasn't  too  worried  about  Benjamin,  who 
was  six,  but  I  was  a  bit  concerned  about  Harrison,  who  was  only  three.  Would 
he  be  mad?  Would  he  recognize  me?  Would  he  even  want  to  hug  me? 

As  for  Theodore,  I  really  had  no  hope  whatsoever.  I  felt  sure  he  would  cry 
if  I  tried  to  hold  or  nuzzle  him.  I  had  purposely  left  behind  a  shirt  I  had  worn 
for  several  nights  straight,  which  I  asked  my  wife  to  wrap  Theodore  in  each 
night  so  that  he  would  remember  my  scent.  Sandra  told  me  that  she  had 
cleaned  it  after  a  few  weeks.  "It  got  bad,"  she  said,  after  sensing  my  disap- 
pointment. 

I  had  clung  to  that  as  my  only  hope,  and  now,  in  my  dreaded  vision,  I  saw 
myself  home  and  Theodore  wake  up  next  to  me,  notice  this  completely  un- 
familiar monster,  and  then  start  one  of  those  high-pitched  baby  screams  that 
begins  with  a  few  moments  of  silence  as  he  sucks  more  and  more  air  into  his 
tiny  lungs  before  letting  out  a  wail  that  would  pierce  my  ears  and  heart. 

Due  to  the  uncertainty  of  my  travel  arrangements,  my  wife  and  the  chil- 
dren weren't  able  to  meet  me  when  our  unit  arrived  at  the  airport,  so  I 
hitched  a  ride  with  another  soldier.  Pulling  up  to  our  house,  I  saw  trees 
adorned  with  yellow  ribbons,  and  sidewalk  chalk  greetings  in  big  bold  letters: 
welcome  home,  daddy.  Next  to  that  were  smiling  faces,  an  airplane,  and  a 
drawing  of  me  in  uniform. 

But  no  one  was  there.  I  sat  on  the  porch  with  my  duffel  bags  and  waited 


HOME  325 

for  my  wife  and  children.  Hours  passed  in  my  mind  but  only  fifteen  minutes 
had  really  gone  by  when  I  saw  our  minivan  suddenly  come  into  the  driveway. 
I  could  see  Sandra  smiling  broadly  through  the  driver's  side  of  the  wind- 
shield. She  was  first  out  of  the  van— and  first  to  get  a  welcome-home  hug  and 
kiss,  squeezing  me  oh  so  tightly,  and  whispering  in  my  ear,  "I'm  so  glad  you're 
home." 

And  then  Benjamin  jumped  out,  screeching,  "Daddy,  Daddy,  Daddy!"  I 
hugged  him  hard,  and  kissed  his  cheeks,  and  held  his  head  against  my  belly. 

Harrison  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  van,  pouting.  He  looked  at  this 
strange  man  holding  his  brother  and  pretended  to  be  angry.  I  knelt  down  to 
his  eye  level,  smiling,  and  said,  "Hi,  Harrison.  I  missed  you." 

Harrison  hesitated,  and  then  I  saw  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  as  he  dove  for  me, 
crying.  I  held  him  a  while,  kissed  his  forehead,  rubbed  his  back,  and  whis- 
pered to  him,  "It's  okay,  it's  all  okay.  Daddy's  home  now."  We  broke  our  em- 
brace, and  I  saw  a  crack  of  a  smile  form  on  his  chubbv  little  face.  I  started 
tickling  his  tummy  and  actually  got  a  laugh  out  of  him. 

Then  I  saw  baby  Theodore,  strapped  in  his  car  seat.  He  had  rosy,  fat,  pink 
cheeks,  a  button  nose,  and  blue  eyes .  .  .  looking  at  me.  I  stopped  breathing 
for  a  moment. 

I  approached  him  cautiously,  waiting  for  the  crying,  the  tears,  and  the 
struggle  to  get  away  from  this  stranger.  I  carefully  released  the  seat  belt  and 
moved  slowly,  as  if  I  were  about  to  pick  up  a  rattlesnake.  I  was  sure  he  would 
sense  my  nervousness  and  spring  "the  scream"  on  me. 

I  braced  myself  for  the  inevitable.  He  looked  at  me,  blinked  a  few  times, 
and  then  started  twitching  in  the  arms  of  this  clumsy  man  who'd  obviously 
forgotten  how  to  lift  him  up  like  his  mommy.  He  moved  his  lips  and  wiggled 
his  body  ever  so  slightly.  But  he  wouldn't  look  away  from  my  eyes.  He  seemed 
entranced,  fascinated,  almost  as  if  he  were  in  love. 

I  slowly  took  him  from  the  car  seat,  and  prayed  my  little  prayer  of  forgive- 
ness: "Oh,  Lord,  please  help  this  little  person  forgive  me  my  absence.  And  set 
me  on  the  path  of  redemption  and  full  fatherhood.  .  .  ."  Theodore  gurgled, 
which  made  my  heart  jump,  and  I  drew  him  closer. 

I  braved  a  kiss  on  his  puffy  cheek  and  then  pressed  his  tiny  body  to  my 
chest,  with  his  head  on  my  shoulder.  I  could  swear  I  heard  him  sigh.  He 
didn't  cry.  He  didn't  squirm.  He  just  rested  there,  gently,  as  if  it  were  the  most 
normal  thing  in  the  world.  As  if,  I  realized  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  had  never 
gone  away. 


326  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

More  than  hvo  rears  later.  Granger  would  leave  his  family  for  a  fourteen- 
month  deployment  to  Iraq.  After  he  returned  in  late  November  2005. 
Granger  added  a  brief  epilogue  to  his  account:  "Afv  final  homecoming  was 
wonderful,  celebratory,  and  relieving.  Theodore  became  attached  to  my  hip. 
and  was  constantly  giving  me  hugs  during  the  first  several  weeks  of  my  ar- 
rival. It  was  a  dream  come  true  for  me.  Who  wouldn't  love  constant  hugs 
from  a  three-v ear-old?" 


WAITING   FOR  SHAWN 
Personal  Narrative 
Paula  M .  Andersen 


From  the  dav  her  husband,  twenh'-five-vearold  U.S.  Army  Specialist 
Shawn  Andersen,  was  mobilized  for  dufc  in  Iraq  in  April  2003.  Paula  An- 
dersen pictured  in  her  mind  the  precise  moment  he  would  be  back  in  her 
arms.  She  envisioned  herself  at  McCord  Air  Force  Base  in  Washington  with 
her  young  son.  Andrew,  and  all  the  other  families,  each  of  them  holding 
sigris  and  flags  and  balloons  as  thev  waited  with  a  growing  sense  of  excite- 
ment and  relief.  Although  Shawn  was  expected  to  ser\-e  in  Iraq  for  a  year 
with  the  555th  Combat  Fngineer  Group  'attached  to  the  ^th  Infantn  Divi- 
sion), l^th  Battalion.  Alpha  Company.  Paula  was  elated  to  receive  nws  in 
the  middle  of  August  2003  that  Shawn  was  returning  from  Iraq  early.  She 
would  soon  discover,  howler,  that  the  homecoming  she  had  so  desperately 
yearned  for  would  be  nothing  like  the  one  that  she  had  imagined. 


Cn  August  16,  Alpha  Companv's  Family  Readiness  Group  (FRG)  leader 
phoned  me  and  said.  "Paula,  vour  husband  is  on  his  way  home."  My 
hands  started  trembling,  and  I  asked  her.  "Are  you  sure?  Are  you  sure?" 
Shawn  was  only  about  halfway  through  his  deployment,  but  the  FRG  leader 
assured  me  that  it  was  absolutely  true,  and  that  a  few  other  soldiers  from 
.Alpha  Company  were  all  traveling  home  on  the  same  commercial  flight.  The 
FRG  leader  said  she  would  call  back  with  more  details  when  she  had  them. 
I  went  to  the  store  to  buy  Shawn  his  fa\orite  foods  and  candies,  as  well  as 
a  sweatshirt  and  sweatpants,  knowing  he'd  need  to  adjust  to  the  colder 


HOME  327 


weather  in  the  Pacific  Northwest.  I  also  got  him  a  bath  sponge,  figuring  he 
probably  couldn't  wait  to  take  a  long  hot  shower. 

On  August  17,  the  FRG  leader  left  a  message  telling  me  when  the  soldiers 
were  due  to  arrive  at  SeaTac  Airport  in  Seattle.  The  scheduled  time  was  12:15 
a.m.  that  next  morning.  After  calling  her  and  confirming  the  flight  informa- 
tion, I  told  our  two-year-old  son  that  his  dad  was  on  a  big  airplane  flying  home 
to  see  us.  He  replied,  "Dada  is  coming  home?  Oh  wow!" 

Just  before  midnight,  we  walked  into  the  airport  with  flowers,  a  disposable 
camera,  and  a  small  American  flag.  I  noticed  other  soldiers  in  uniform  and 
family  members  holding  flowers,  welcome  home  signs,  and  flags  as  well.  One 
woman  was  holding  a  large  sign  that  read  welcome  home  62ND  medical.  I 
knew  that  there  would  be  other  soldiers  from  other  units  on  the  plane;  still  at 
this  point  I  did  not  recognize  anyone  around  me. 

About  ten  minutes  later,  I  heard  the  crowd  start  screaming  and  clapping, 
and  then  I  watched  as  wives  and  husbands  ran  to  their  spouses.  I  saw  a  lovely 
lady  hug  her  husband  for  what  seemed  like  five  minutes  and  cry  loudly.  "I 
missed  you,"  she  said  over  and  over.  Soon,  the  line  of  passengers  getting  off 
the  plane  started  to  dwindle. 

No  one  else  was  arriving.  I  began  to  feel  embarrassed.  An  officer  came  up 
to  me  and  asked  me  if  my  husband  was  a  part  of  the  555th  Combat  Engineers. 
I  said,  "Yes."  He  told  me  that  those  soldiers  had  gone  down  to  baggage  claim 
where  he  said  he  thought  many  family  and  friends  had  also  been  waiting.  I 
replied,  "How  could  I  have  missed  him?"  By  this  time,  my  entire  body  was 
shaking.  I  don't  remember  what  I  was  thinking  except  that  Shawn  had  to  be 
down  there. 

A  soldier  who  had  overheard  me  ask  someone  for  Shawn  Andersen,  yelled 
out,  "Hey  Andersen,  your  wife  is  here." 

"Oh,  thank  God,"  I  thought.  I  didn't  see  him  walking  towards  us  at  first, 
but  finally  he  emerged  through  the  crowd.  And  there  he  stood.  He  wore 
glasses,  was  quite  tall,  and  had  sandy  brown  hair,  like  my  husband.  But  it 
wasn't  Shawn. 

"Oh  my  God,  oh  my  God,"  I  started  saying  aloud. 

A  short,  dark-haired  man,  who  had  come  to  greet  some  of  his  fellow  soldiers 
home,  could  tell  I  was  distraught  and  asked  me  who  I  was  looking  for.  I  said, 
"Sergeant  Shawn  Andersen."  (He  had  been  promoted  while  he  was  in  Iraq.) 

He  asked,  "What  company  is  your  husband  in,  ma'am?" 

"Alpha,"  I  told  him. 


328  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

"This  is  Charlie  Company."  He  then  asked  me,  "Who  contacted  you 
about  your  husband  being  on  the  flight  home?" 

"The  company's  FRG  leader,"  I  replied. 

He  said,  "Well,  someone  has  made  a  very  big  mistake." 

Shawn  was  not  on  the  plane.  He  was  not  coming  home.  I  turned  and 
started  walking  very  quickly  to  the  escalators,  running  into  a  mother  and  her 
two  small  boys.  I  apologized  and  she  let  me  past.  "Oh  God.  Oh  my  God,"  I 
repeated  to  myself.  I  couldn't  stop  saying  it.  My  arms  were  tired  from  holding 
Andrew  and  all  of  our  things,  and  I  just  wanted  to  get  to  our  car.  I  wanted  to 
hide.  I  tossed  the  roses  that  we  had  for  Shawn  in  a  nearby  garbage  can.  It  took 
me  what  seemed  like  an  eternity  to  pay  for  our  parking  ticket  before  walking 
to  the  car.  Frustrated,  confused,  I  couldn't  find  my  cash,  and  then  I  couldn't 
find  the  ticket.  I  put  Andrew  in  his  car  seat  and  called  Shawn's  parents  to  tell 
them  what  had  happened.  I  talked  with  Shawn's  father,  who  said,  "Paula,  you 
have  got  to  calm  down  for  Andrew's  sake."  That  is  when  I  realized  what  my 
son  had  been  saying  to  me  all  along:  "Mama,  I'm  scared.  Mama,  what's  the 
matter?"  I  then  knew  I  needed  to  keep  my  composure. 

Over  the  next  few  days,  I  spent  hours  on  the  phone  and  even  drove  out  to 
Fort  Lewis  to  visit  the  555th  Combat  Engineer  Group's  main  administrative 
building  to  find  out  what  had  happened.  No  one  had  any  answers.  And  then, 
on  Thursday,  August  22, 1  received  a  call  from  Shawn's  father.  The  first  thing 
he  told  me  was,  "Paula,  Shawn  is  coming  home."  I  was  so  confused.  Obvi- 
ously I  had  heard  that  before.  "Now  wait,"  he  said.  The  tone  of  his  voice  in- 
dicated that  something  terrible  had  happened.  "Shawn  has  been  injured.  All 
I  know  is  that  he  has  burns  to  his  hands,  legs,  and  face.  He  just  called  me 
from  Kuwait."  He  didn't  have  any  other  information,  and  we  didn't  know  how 
bad  the  injuries  were.  Later  I  heard  from  a  notification  officer  who  gave  me 
a  toll-free  number  I  could  call  to  get  updates  on  where  Shawn  was  being 
treated.  After  receiving  initial  care  in  Kuwait,  he  was  transported  to  Germany. 

On  August  23,  Andrew  and  I  drove  to  Montana  and  stayed  with  my  par- 
ents. I  dialed  another  1-800  number  that  the  casualty  office  had  given  me,  and 
this  connected  me  to  the  hospital  in  Germany.  A  nurse  called  for  Shawn, 
then  handed  the  phone  to  him.  Shawn's  hands  were  wrapped,  so  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  get  a  good  grip,  but  at  long  last  we  were  able  to  talk.  Hearing  his 
voice  made  my  heart  skip  a  beat,  but  he  didn't  sound  the  same.  He  was  in 
deep  pain.  As  hard  as  it  was  for  him  to  talk,  he  wanted  to  make  sure  that  we 
could  see  each  other  when  they  transferred  him  to  the  Brooke  Army  Medical 


HOME  329 

Center  in  San  Antonio,  Texas.  "I'll  be  leaving  in  a  couple  days/'  Shawn  said, 
his  voice  alternating  between  sounding  normal  one  minute  and  distant  and 
melancholic  the  next.  I  was  now  beginning  to  worry  about  his  mental  state. 

After  two  days  in  Germany,  Shawn  was  flown  to  the  medical  center  in  San 
Antonio,  where  he  was  quarantined  for  a  few  days  before  he  was  ready  to  re- 
ceive regular  visitors.  On  August  31, 1  flew  to  San  Antonio,  and  when  I  arrived 
at  the  airport,  I  was  met  by  the  man  who  would  be  my  liaison.  He  told  me  if 
I  needed  anything,  he  was  the  man  to  reach.  I  couldn't  have  asked  for  a  more 
supportive  person.  After  helping  with  my  luggage  and  escorting  me  to  the 
van,  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  hospital,  where  I  would  be  seeing  my  husband 
for  the  first  time  in  six  months.  "Are  you  ready?"  he  asked  me. 

My  heart  started  beating  so  fast,  and  I  choked  out  the  word  "Yes." 

We  took  the  elevator  to  the  fourth  floor  where  the  Burn  Unit  was.  He  went 
to  the  nurses'  station  in  the  ward  and  told  them  that  he  was  here  bringing  me 
to  see  Sergeant  Shawn  Andersen.  He  was  first  to  walk  into  Shawn's  room.  I 
heard  him  say,  "I  have  someone  here  to  see  you.  .  .  ."  Before  I  even  stepped 
in  the  room,  I  started  to  cry.  And  there,  in  a  hospital  bed,  lay  the  love  of  my 
life.  He  reached  out  to  me,  and  his  hands  up  to  his  elbows  were  wrapped. 
There  were  flash  burns  to  his  face  and  on  his  lips,  and  his  hair  was  singed.  I 
also  couldn't  help  but  notice  how  skinny  he  was.  It  looked  like  he  had  not 
eaten  for  months.  I  went  to  give  him  a  light  hug.  I  was  afraid  that  if  I  hugged 
too  hard  I  would  hurt  him  in  some  way.  Shawn  cried.  We  said  "hello"  and  "I 
love  you"  to  each  other. 

The  military  liaison  gave  me  his  phone  number  and  told  Shawn  to  get 
well.  He  then  left  us  alone  to  talk.  Shawn  kept  repeating,  "I'm  so  happy  you're 
here  with  me."  We  talked  for  about  an  hour.  He  asked  about  Andrew  and  the 
flight.  He  told  me  about  the  wonderful  nurse  that  he  had  and  explained  what 
the  doctors  had  been  telling  him  about  his  injuries.  The  main  question  was 
whether  they  would  have  to  do  skin-graft  surgery  on  his  hands.  It  was  getting 
late,  so  I  said  that  I  would  let  him  sleep,  and  I'd  be  back  in  the  morning. 

Every  day  we  would  talk  on  the  phone  with  Andrew,  who  was  staying  with 
his  grandparents,  and  he  would  say  to  Shawn,  "Dada,  you  have  boo-boos  on 
your  hands." 

Shawn  would  say,  "Yes  I  do." 

Andrew  would  ask  when  he  was  coming  home.  Shawn  would  always  tell 
him  that  Mama  and  Dada  would  be  flying  to  Grandma  and  Grandpa's  house 
soon  and  that  he  couldn't  wait  to  see  him. 


330  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

In  the  days  that  followed,  I  would  visit  Shawn  in  the  morning,  leave  for  a 
little  while  so  he  could  nap,  go  with  him  to  physical  therapy,  and  then  walk 
laps  with  him  around  the  ward.  The  nurses  had  insisted  he  get  up  and  walk 
to  keep  his  legs  from  getting  stiff.  We  must  have  done  a  thousand  laps,  but  it 
was  my  favorite  time  with  him.  We  talked  with  each  other,  and  we  chatted 
with  the  nurses.  It  was  an  experience  that  I  will  never  forget. 

Shawn's  primary  nurse,  Ms.  Mary,  showed  me  how  to  clean  his  burns  and 
apply  antibacterial  cream  to  them.  At  first  I  had  to  turn  my  head  away,  and 
even  after  a  few  times  I  found  it  hard  to  look  at  his  wounds.  Sometimes 
Shawn's  meds  were  already  working  and  sometimes  he  didn't  get  them  until 
later,  so  the  scrubbings  were  very  painful  for  him.  He  said,  "Honey,  you  are 
going  to  have  to  look."  He  was  right.  I  would  need  to  be  able  to  do  this  when 
he  wasn't  in  the  hospital. 

Slowly  he  made  progress,  and  he  was  becoming  much  happier.  Day  by 
day  I  felt  I  was  getting  my  old  Shawn  back.  After  about  two  weeks  in  the  hos- 
pital, Shawn  was  told  he  was  well  enough  to  leave  (it  turned  out  that  surgery 
wasn't  necessary),  so  he  said  his  goodbyes  to  the  nurses  and  we  packed  his 
things.  As  we  walked  down  the  hall,  I  could  see  into  the  rooms  of  other  burn 
victims,  many  of  whom  were  much  worse  off  than  Shawn.  I  couldn't  imagine 
what  their  pain  was  like.  I  thought  of  the  tiny  burns  I'd  had  from  an  iron  or  a 
hot  pan,  but  to  have  that  all  over  your  body  seemed  unbearable. 

Thanks  to  a  kind  lady  who  traded  seats  with  me,  I  was  able  to  sit  next  to 
Shawn  during  our  flight  to  Great  Falls,  Montana.  When  we  got  off  the  plane, 
I  walked  slowly  so  that  Shawn  was  ahead  of  me.  I  wanted  Andrew  to  see  him 
first.  The  nice  lady  on  the  plane  walked  alongside  of  me,  and  she  was  excited 
for  Shawn  herself.  She  knew  that  this  father  was  going  to  be  reunited  with  his 
little  boy  again. 

The  anticipation  of  seeing  our  son  was  agonizing  for  Shawn.  He  worried 
that  when  Andrew  saw  him,  he  might  be  scared  to  approach  him.  As  soon  as 
we  turned  the  corner,  I  saw  Andrew  there  with  his  welcome  home  dada  sign 
and  I  burst  into  tears.  Shawn  kneeled  down  toward  Andrew,  who  rushed  to 
him  without  hesitation.  Shawn  hugged  him  and  then  lifted  him  up,  and  the 
two  of  them  had  never  looked  happier.  I  gave  Shawn's  parents  and  sister  a 
hug,  and  I  watched  as  they  all  embraced  him.  I  saw  how  thrilled  they  were 
that  he  was  back  and,  although  injured,  at  least  still  alive. 

A  month  later  we  returned  to  Washington,  and  in  November  2004  Shawn 
was  awarded  his  Purple  Heart.  It  wasn't  until  then  that  I  found  out  that  the 


HOME  331 


five-ton  truck  he'd  been  traveling  in  near  Tikrit  had  been  lifted  into  the  air 
when  a  roadside  bomb  exploded  underneath  it.  Miraculously  no  one  was 
killed,  but  everyone  inside  was  badly  wounded. 

It  took  many  months,  but  Shawn,  except  for  some  scarring,  fully  recuper- 
ated. He  has  stayed  in  the  military,  and  he  now  works  as  a  special  agent  in  the 
Army's  Criminal  Investigation  Division.  At  any  time,  he  could  be  sent  to  Iraq 
again.  If  asked  about  going  back  to  Iraq,  Shawn  will  say,  "If  I  have  to  go  again, 
I  have  to  go.  It's  my  job."  I  couldn't  bear  to  watch  him  leave  a  second  time, 
especially  for  a  war  that  I  do  not  agree  with.  And  I  definitely  couldn't  handle 
waiting  for  him  to  return.  One  homecoming  is  enough. 


A  JOURNEY  TAKEN  WITH   MY  SON 

E-mails 
Myrna  E.  Bein 


For  every  serviceman  or  woman  killed  in  Iraq,  it  is  estimated  that  seven 
times  as  many  are  wounded.  Many  of  these  troops— who  return  home  par- 
alyzed or  with  missing  limbs,  terrible  bums,  major  head  trauma,  loss  of 
vision,  or  other  catastrophic  injuries— face  enormous  physical  and  psycho- 
logical hardships.  They  rely  heavily  on  their  families  to  help  with  their  re- 
habilitation, and  the  process  can  be  excruciating  for  their  loved  ones  as 
well.  At  about  7:00  a.m.  on  the  morning  of  May  2,  2004,  Myma  Bein 
learned  from  her  ex-husband  that  their  twenty-six-year-old  son,  Charles,  a 
U.S.  Army  infantryman,  had  barely  survived  an  ambush  in  Iraq  a  few  hours 
earlier.  Charles  had  been  riding  in  a  five-truck  convoy  in  Kirkuk  when  in- 
surgents detonated  a  roadside  bomb  and  then  unleashed  a  barrage  of  gun- 
fire on  the  American  soldiers  scrambling  out  of  their  crippled,  flaming 
vehicles.  One  soldier  was  shot  in  the  head,  and  ten  others  were  injured. 
Metal  fragments  from  the  initial  blast  shredded  the  lower  half  of  Charles's 
right  leg,  and  he  was  ultimately  flown  to  the  Walter  Reed  Army  Medical 
Center  for  long-term  care.  Charles's  mother  and  his  stepfather,  Tom,  visited 
him  regularly  in  the  hospital,  and  from  the  morning  she  heard  the  news 
about  her  son,  Myrna  Bein  began  e-mailing  friends  and  family  with  up- 
dates on  Charles's  progress— as  well  as  her  own  state  of  mind.  (Bein  also 
grew  fond  of  another  soldier,  Specialist  J.H.,  who  had  been  with  her  son 


332  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

when  they  were  attacked.)  The  first  time  that  Bein  saw  Charles  was  on  Sun- 
day, May  9,  2004— Mother's  Day. 

May  10 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  was  finally  able  to  see,  touch,  hug,  kiss  and  comfort  my 
precious  son.  He  arrived  at  Walter  Reed  Army  Medical  Center  in  Washing- 
ton, D.C.,  on  Saturday  evening,  May  8,  at  around  11  p.m.  I  got  a  call  from  the 
Red  Cross  informing  me  he  was  there  within  thirtv  minutes  of  his  arrival. 
Charles  called  me  around  6  a.m.  on  Sunday,  May  9,  to  tell  me  he  was  sched- 
uled for  yet  another  surgical  procedure  that  day  and  for  Tom  and  I  to  delay 
our  initial  visit  until  afternoon.  .  .  . 

When  I  first  saw  my  son,  I  did  not  recognize  him.  His  face  was  very  thin 
and  drawn  and  he  had  about  a  week's  growth  of  beard.  There  was  a  lot  of  pain 
in  his  eyes.  He  grabbed  my  hand  and  would  not  let  it  go.  .  .  .  I'm  a  Registered 
Nurse  and  I've  seen  a  lot  of  people  with  amputations,  so  I  know  what  to  ex- 
pect. But  seeing  my  son's  less  than  half  a  leg  for  the  first  time,  wrapped  up  in 
that  big,  bulky  surgical  bandage,  was  an  experience  of  indescribable  grief. 
Seeing  him  maneuver  so  awkwardly  in  bed,  and  seeing  the  pain  that  he  was 
experiencing,  just  to  do  the  simplest  activity,  was  something  I  had  tried  to  pre- 
pare myself  for,  but  now  I  don't  think  I  could  have  ever  been  prepared. 

Once  he  was  settled  and  medicated  with  morphine  again,  the  pain  began 
to  ease  to  what  he  described  as  a  constant  4  out  of  10.  He  never  really  com- 
plained about  anything.  He  just  gritted  his  teeth  and  did  what  he  had  to  do. 
"Mom,  don't  try  to  help  me  unless  I  ask  you,"  he  said,  "I  need  to  learn  to  man- 
age everything  for  myself."  His  left  leg  is  also  very  painful  as  he  has  numerous 
smaller  shrapnel  wounds,  which  are  sutured  and  the  leg  bandaged  from  toes 
to  hip.  Charles  said  he's  had  many  larger  shrapnel  pieces  removed,  but  some 
of  the  smaller  pieces  will  just  be  left. 

Charles  held  my  hand  and  talked  extensively  to  Tom  and  me.  Much  of 
what  he  said,  including  thoughts  and  impressions,  he  did  not  want  repeated 
to  anyone.  He  has  begun  to  express  that  he  would  like  to  stay  in  the  Army,  if 
possible,  after  he  is  fitted  with  his  prosthesis  and  finishes  his  rehabilitation. 
According  to  Charles,  his  orthopedic  surgeons  have  told  him  they  believe  he 
could  do  that,  with  a  different  MOS  other  than  Infantry. 

After  several  hours  Charles  asked  to  be  taken  to  the  Medical  Intensive 
Care  Unit  to  try  to  see  Spc.  J.H.  We  called  to  the  MICU  and  got  permission 
to  bring  Charles  down.  It  took  Charles  approximately  30  minutes  of  pain  and 


HOME  333 

maneuvering  to  get  himself  dressed  in  shorts  and  a  T-shirt,  put  a  sock  and 
shoe  on  his  left  foot,  and  manage  his  transfer  from  his  bed  to  his  wheelchair. 
His  determination  and  courage  astound  me.  After  another  dose  of  morphine, 
Charles  held  onto  his  IV  pole  and  pump  in  front  of  him,  while  Tom  and  I  got 
his  wheelchair  down  the  hall,  into  the  elevator,  and  down  another  set  of  hall- 
ways to  the  MICU. 

I  tried  to  prepare  Charles,  and  myself,  for  what  we  could  expect  to  find 
with  Spc.  J.H.  Again,  I've  spent  a  lot  of  hours  in  ICU's  in  my  time  and  seen  a 
lot  of  heartbreaking  situations,  but  nothing  can  compare  to  what  I  experi- 
enced yesterday.  Spc.  J.H.  remains  very  ill  and  highly  sedated.  Charles  asked 
me  to  get  him  as  close  to  Spc.  J.H.'s  bed  as  possible  where  he  was  able  to 
touch  his  hands,  arms,  and  face.  He  talked  to  him  for  about  thirty  minutes. 
Charles  was  deeply  affected  by  Spc.  J.H.'s  condition.  Spc.  J.H.  and  Charles 
were  side  by  side  when  the  IED  exploded  under  their  HMMWV.  Listening 
to  Charles  speaking  to  Spc.  J.H.,  I  know  that  if  he  survives  this,  there  will  be 
a  bond  between  Charles  and  him  that  will  never  be  broken. 

May  15 

I  thought  I'd  take  the  time  to  send  another  missive  regarding  Charles'  condi- 
tion. Unfortunately,  he  has  had  some  very  rough  days  since  Friday.  He  went 
to  surgery  that  day  for  what  he  thought  would  be  his  last  procedure  on  his 
right  leg,  to  create  the  best  stump  possible  for  his  prosthesis.  However, 
Charles  has  had  an  infection  set  in,  caused  by  an  organism  common  in  sol- 
diers returning  with  wounds  from  Iraq.  The  organism  is  Acinetobacter  bau- 
mannii.  It's  a  very  nasty  creature  and  resistant  to  almost  all  antibiotic  therapy. 
The  orthopedic  surgery  team  working  with  Charles  was  only  able  to  do  part 
of  the  procedure  they  had  planned,  since  the  infection  in  the  wound  has 
caused  too  much  inflammation  in  the  soft  tissues  to  proceed  further  at  this 
point.  The  infection,  coupled  with  the  trauma  of  all  the  surgeries,  is  also 
causing  Charles  to  feel  very  sick  and  to  have  very  severe,  unrelenting 
pain.  . . . 

I  know  Charles  is  having  moments  of  despair  and  I  can  now,  two  weeks 
after  the  event,  see  the  inevitable  depression  creeping  in  around  his  edges. 
The  Walter  Reed  staff  tell  me  that  they've  now  seen  enough  amputees  come 
through  there  from  Afghanistan  and  Iraq  to  know  that  the  depression,  and  its 
resolution,  will  generally  follow  a  pattern.  Apparently,  Charles  is  on  sched- 
ule. All  of  the  wounded  are  followed  by  psychiatry  and  receive  appropriate 


334  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

medication  and  counseling  throughout  the  course  of  their  care  to  deal  with 
this  life-changing  event  and  the  fear,  anxiety,  and  grief  that  inevitably  follow 
this  type  of  injury.  Thank  God  for  that.  I  know  the  Army  has  learned  a  lot 
about  taking  care  of  the  whole  soldier  since  the  days  of  Vietnam.  Charles  told 
me  tonight,  "I  know  this  will  get  better/'  Tom  and  I  are  trying  our  best  to  sup- 
port him  through  this  horrible  ordeal.  Most  of  the  time  we  feel  pretty  help- 
less, but  we  do  what  we  can  both  in  prayer  and  in  practical  matters  to  assist 
him  where  he  needs  it. 

In  spite  of  what  I  can  see  he's  going  through,  I've  never  once  heard 
Charles  whine  or  complain.  When  the  nurses  and  physicians  ask,  he  rates  the 
pain  on  a  scale  of  o-io,  but  he  basically  just  grits  his  teeth  and  waits  for  it  to 
eventually  subside.  He  doses  himself  with  morphine  from  his  patient  con- 
trolled IV  pump  and  gets  in  his  wheelchair  and  goes  down  to  check  on  Spc. 
J.H.  every  day,  because  he's  his  buddy  and  they  are  in  this  together.  He's 
pushing  himself  in  physical  therapy  to  do  as  much  as  he  can,  as  soon  as  he 
can.  My  admiration  for  his  courage  and  determination  is  so  profound.  .  .  . 

There's  great  news  about  Spc.  J.H.  My  husband,  Tom,  and  I  saw  him  on 
May  15,  along  with  Charles.  We  rolled  Charles  and  all  his  associated  intra- 
venous pumps  and  tubes  downstairs  to  visit  Spc.  J.H.  and  his  family.  Spc. 
J.H.'s  mother  and  brother  were  both  with  him.  He  had  been  transferred  to  an 
intermediate  care  unit,  from  the  Medical  Intensive  Care  Unit,  and  was  being 
prepared  for  further  transfer  to  a  regular  care  unit  as  we  were  there.  He  was 
awake  and  for  the  first  time  he  absolutely  recognized  Charles.  As  Charles 
rolled  through  the  door  of  his  room,  you  should  have  seen  the  look  on  Spc. 
J.H.'s  face!  He  lit  up  like  a  Christmas  tree.  He  was  able  to  motion  for  Charles 
to  come  in.  Spc.  J.H.  still  cannot  speak,  but  I  believe  that  will  come  in  a  bit 
more  time.  The  nurse  in  charge  of  the  unit,  a  Major,  said  he  was  extremely 
encouraged  by  the  progress  that  Spc.  J.H.  had  made  over  the  past  48  hours. 
Spc.  J.H.  nodded  his  head  in  response  to  questions,  gave  a  thumbs-up  sign, 
grasped  Charles'  hand  very  strongly  and  wouldn't  let  go,  and  made  excellent 
eye  contact.  He  was  sitting  up  in  a  chair.  He  still  has  one  nasogastric  tube  in 
place  and  many  tubes  for  intravenous  fluids,  but  when  I  touched  him  he  did 
not  feel  as  if  he  had  a  fever.  He  still  has  the  evidence  of  manv  abrasions,  etc. 
from  the  blast  on  his  face  and  upper  body.  He  was  moving  about  in  the  chair 
to  make  himself  more  comfortable. 

At  times  he  would  get  a  sort  of  panicked  look  in  his  eyes,  which  his 
brother  attributed  to  "flashbacks."  When  that  would  happen,  his  brother  and 


HOME  335 


mother  would  speak  very  soothingly  to  him  and  he  would  return  to  normal. 
His  brother  said  that  Spc.  J.H.  has  only  just  begun  to  realize  that  he  is  back  in 
the  U.S.  and  in  a  hospital.  Charles  emphasized  to  Spc.  J.H.  that  they  are  both 
out  of  Iraq  and  "we  made  it."  Charles  updated  Spc.  J.H.  on  Spc.  J.S.  and  Pfc. 
C.F.  Charles  also  told  Spc.  J.H.  that  he  had  lived  for  a  short  time  in  Wash- 
ington, D.C.  and,  "I  know  this  town,  man."  I  think  that  means  he  knows 
where  the  "chicks"  are,  but  some  things  a  mother  is  probably  better  off  not  in- 
quiring about  in  too  much  detail  ©. 

Last  night,  Charles  wanted  to  try  to  go  outside  into  the  fresh  air,  so  Tom 
and  I  got  permission  from  his  nurse  to  take  him  out  onto  the  hospital  grounds 
in  his  wheelchair.  It  was  the  first  time  since  the  incident  that  he's  been  out- 
side of  buildings,  aircrafts,  or  vehicles.  I  thought  it  was  very  telling  that 
Charles  said  that  it  felt  "totally  weird"  to  be  outside  without  a  weapon  in  his 
hand.  He  said  he  would  have  to  get  used  to  not  feeling  as  if  he  had  to  be  con- 
stantly alert  to  watching  his  back  and  the  backs  of  others  around  him.  He  said 
he,  too,  is  having  flashbacks  and  that  noises  similar  to  the  sound  of  the  explo- 
sion are  very  upsetting.  He  knows  all  of  this  is  a  normal  progression  of  his  re- 
covery from  this  event  and  injury.  I  think  that  talking  about  it  is  probably  the 
best  thing  for  him. 

May  25  [to  First  Sergeant  R.J.,  in  Kirkuk,  Iraq] 

The  expected  depression  and  anxiety  have  now  very  obviously  kicked  in  with 
Charles.  His  whole  world  has  been  totally  turned  inside  out  and  he's  having 
a  lot  of  uncertainty  about  what  he's  going  to  be  able  to  do  in  the  Army,  or  out 
of  the  Army  if  he  has  to  take  a  medical  discharge.  He  fears  that  he  is  not  far 
enough  advanced  in  rank  and  that  the  Army  doesn't  have  "enough  invested 
in  me  yet"  to  really  want  to  keep  him.  Charles  has  never  been  one  to  gravitate 
toward  jobs  that  don't  have  a  certain  amount  of  adrenaline  rush,  so  he  fears 
the  loss  of  his  leg  will  very  much  limit  him  in  doing  what  he  would  like  to  do 
in  the  Army.  I've  tried  to  remind  him  that  he  is  an  exceptionally  intelligent 
young  man  and  the  Army  must  value  that.  I  don't  know  if  you  may  have  any 
eventual  influence  over  what  happens  with  Charles'  Army  career,  but  if  so, 
he  could  certainly  use  all  the  help  he  can  get.  I  hope  that  once  Charles  actu- 
ally gets  up  on  a  prosthesis  and  is  walking  again,  he  will  have  a  brighter  out- 
look. I  also  know  that  his  depression  is  normal  and  a  part  of  the  process  he  has 
to  work  through  to  deal  with  this  loss  of  his  leg  and  change  in  his  body  image 
and  lifestyle. 


336  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Donald  Rumsfeld  visited  Charles  a  few  days  ago  when  he  came  to  Walter 
Reed.  Usually  Charles  opts  out  of  the  visits  by  the  football  players,  Congress- 
men and  Congresswomen,  and  others  who  pay  frequent  visits  to  Walter  Reed. 
He  has  had  limited  energy  and  also  has  said  he  really  doesn't  care  to  be  part 
of  their  "photo  ops."  However,  he  said  that  Rumsfeld  came  without  press,  just 
with  his  security  personnel,  and  he  did  see  him.  He  said  his  impression  was 
that  Rumsfeld  was  much  older  and  smaller  in  physical  stature  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  said  that  the  visit  to  the  injured  troops  at  Walter  Reed  seemed  to 
be  a  sort  of  "decompression"  for  Rumsfeld;  a  time  without  reporters,  photog- 
raphers, and  probing,  hostile  questioning.  It  encourages  me  that  Rumsfeld 
was  taking  the  time  to  go  and  see  for  himself  the  ravages  of  this  war.  I  know 
he  must  lose  sleep  at  night  over  the  cost  of  it.  I  hope  he  does  anyway. 

May  2j  [to  First  Sergeant  R.J.,  in  Kirkuk,  Iraq] 

Dear  ist  Sgt.  J.,  I  have  wonderful  news  regarding  Spc.  J.H.  I  saw  him  last 
night,  along  with  his  mother  and  brother,  when  James  and  I  visited  Charles 
at  Walter  Reed.  Spc.  J.H.  looked  fabulous!  He  is  talking  up  a  storm  now  and 
appears  totally  normal,  neurologically.  Just  before  we  saw  Spc.  J.H.,  the  psy- 
chiatrist who's  following  both  Charles  and  Spc.  J.H.  stopped  by  Charles' 
room  to  tell  him  that  Spc.  J.H.  had  begun  speaking  again  that  day.  He 
thanked  Charles  for  his  support,  regular  visits,  and  continued  communica- 
tions with  Spc.  J.H.  while  he  was  so  critically  ill  and  coming  out  of  his  men- 
tal fog  after  the  incident.  .  .  . 

Spc.  J.H.  continued  to  have  a  lot  of  questions  and  conversation  with 
Charles  regarding  the  specifics  of  the  May  2  incident.  Basically,  Spc.  J.H.  re- 
members nothing  except  that  he  heard  the  explosion  of  the  IED,  and  then 
found  himself  lying  on  top  of  Charles  feeling  pain  in  his  abdominal  area. 
Then  he  said  he  looked  at  his  abdomen  and  saw  "my  guts  hanging  out."  He 
could  remember  that  he  began  firing  his  weapon.  He  has  no  memory  of  any- 
thing after  that  until  he  woke  up  at  Walter  Reed.  He  said  he  did  realize  that 
it  was  Charles  coming  to  see  him  in  the  intensive  care  unit,  even  though  he 
seemed  only  semi-responsive.  ...  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  a  true  miracle  has 
occurred  with  Spc.  J.H.  There  have  certainly  been  many,  many  people  all 
over  the  world  praying  for  his  recovery.  When  I  first  saw  him  in  the  intensive 
care  unit  at  Walter  Reed,  I  had  real  doubt  that  he  would  survive;  or,  if  he  did 
survive,  that  he  would  ever  be  able  to  live  a  normal  life.  After  seeing  him  last 
night,  I  now  believe  he  will  make  a  full  recovery. 


HOME  337 


June  1 

It's  strange  and  ironic  how  my  perceptions  of  what  is  "good"  have  changed 
since  May  2.  I  don't  have  the  awful  feeling  of  personal  dread  watching  the 
news  on  television  or  reading  the  newspaper  now,  because  my  son  is  not  over 
there  anymore  in  that  hell  hole.  He's  no  longer  trying  to  survive  the  politics 
or  the  fanaticism  or  the  insanity  that  is  Iraq  and  Afghanistan.  Now,  when  I  go 
to  Walter  Reed,  I  think  how  fortunate  he  is  to  have  "only"  lost  his  leg.  As  I've 
gone  to  visit  him  at  Walter  Reed,  I've  walked  many  times  by  the  neurotrauma 
unit  and  said  a  prayer  of  thanks  that  he's  not  in  there  with  a  brain  or  spinal 
cord  injury.  Over  the  past  three  weeks  on  the  orthopedic  surgery  ward,  I've 
seen  so  many  beautiful  young  men  with  such  horribly  mutilating  injuries 
from  this  war:  the  Marine  across  the  hall,  with  both  arms  gone  up  to  his  el- 
bows plus  a  leg  gone  below  the  knee  from  a  rocket  propelled  grenade;  the 
young  man  in  the  patient  computer  room,  typing  out  his  E-mail  with  the  one 
hand  he  has  left.  The  almost  ghostly  apparition  of  a  20-something  soldier  I 
met  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  hospital  one  dusky  evening,  with  a  pros- 
thesis on  his  left  arm  almost  up  to  his  shoulder,  and  his  other  arm  absent  at 
the  same  level,  so  affected  me  I  had  to  stop  and  compose  myself  before  I  went 
in  to  Charles. 

I'm  not  a  sage,  or  a  politician,  or  anyone  with  answers  to  all  the  hard  ques- 
tions. I'm  just  a  mother.  I  know  what  I'm  feeling  down  in  my  soul  is  what 
countless  other  mothers  have  felt  over  the  centuries.  I  know  the  mothers  in 
Iraq  and  Afghanistan  feel  the  same  thing.  It's  a  timeless  and  universal  grief.  I 
see  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  women  I  meet  at  Walter  Reed;  that  semi- 
shocked,  "I'm  trying  to  be  brave  and  hold  it  all  together"  look.  We  recognize 
each  other. 

I  know  I'm  going  through  a  "normal"  emotional  process,  but  it  feels  pretty 
awful  at  times.  It's  not  always  like  this;  I  know  I'm  tired  and  I  had  a  bad  night. 
I  do  feel  God's  love  all  around  me,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  suffering.  I  know 
that  things  will  get  better  and  that  there  will  be  blessings  that  spring  from  this 
experience  for  Charles,  for  me,  and  for  others.  There  are  already  blessings 
and  I  am  so  thankful  for  each  and  every  one  of  them.  Most  of  all,  I'm  thank- 
ful to  still  have  my  son. 

June  10 

A  sock  did  me  in  a  few  nights  ago,  a  plain  white  sock.  I'm  doing  so  much  bet- 
ter with  the  grief,  but  sometimes  I  just  get  blindsided  again  in  a  totally  unex- 


338 


OPERATION     HOMECOMING 


pected  way.  Some  memory  or  sharp  realization  will  prick  at  the  places  heal- 
ing in  my  heart,  and  I  feel  the  grief  wash  over  me  in  a  massive  wave.  Some- 
times I  almost  feel  I  could  double  over  with  the  pain  of  it.  That's  what 
happened  with  the  sock. 

I  had  brought  Charles'  soiled  clothes  home  from  Walter  Reed  to  wash. 
Everything  had  gone  through  the  wash  and  dry  cycles  and  I  had  dumped  the 
freshly  laundered  clothes  onto  the  bed  to  fold  them.  It  was  late  and  I  was 
quite  weary,  so  I  wanted  to  finish  and  get  to  bed  to  try  for  a  better  night's  sleep 
than  I've  been  having  lately.  I  found  one  sock  .  .  .  just  one.  I  folded  all  the 
rest  of  the  clothes  and  still,  just  one  sock.  Without  even  thinking,  I  walked 
back  to  the  laundry  room  and  searched  the  dryer  for  the  mate.  Nothing  was 
there.  I  looked  between  the  washer  and  dryer  and  all  around  the  floor,  in  case 
I'd  dropped  the  other  sock  somewhere  during  the  loading  and  unloading 
processes.  Still,  my  tired  and  pre-occupied  brain  didn't  get  it.  As  I  walked 
back  to  the  bedroom  with  the  one  sock  in  hand,  it  hit  me  like  a  punch  to  the 
gut.  There  was  no  other  sock.  There  was  also  no  other  foot,  or  lower  leg,  or 
knee.  I  stood  there  in  my  bedroom  and  clutched  that  one  clean  sock  to  my 
breast  and  an  involuntary  moan  came  from  my  throat;  but  it  originated  in  my 
heart. 

I  guess,  as  a  nurse,  I  know  too  much.  I  know  all  the  details  of  the  physical 
difficulties  and  long-term  complications  of  life  for  an  amputee  that  most  oth- 
ers have  no  reason  to  comprehend.  I  know  about  the  everyday  activities  of 
daily  living  that  the  rest  of  us  take  for  granted,  and  for  which  we  never  give  a 
moment's  consideration,  that  Charles  will  now  always  have  to  struggle  to  ac- 
complish. I  do  know  he  will  eventually  win  the  struggle;  he  is  made  of  very 
strong  stuff.  I'm  in  awe  and  so  proud  of  his  strength  and  determination.  But 
my  "mother's  heart"  still  feels  very  tender  and  sore.  The  wounds  there  are 
fresh  and  bleed  easily  when  disturbed.  God's  peace  to  you  all.  Myrna. 


August  20 

It's  now  been  sixteen  weeks  since  Charles  was  wounded  in  Iraq.  Life  goes  on 
and  things  settle  down.  Charles  is  very  stable  physically  now.  His  right  leg  is 
totally  healed  and  the  stump  continues  to  atrophy  and  decrease  in  size.  The 
scars  on  both  of  his  legs  from  the  surgeries  and  the  shrapnel  remain  red  and 
very  noticeable,  but  are  beginning  to  fade  a  bit.  He  has  put  on  a  bit  more 
weight  and  looks  much  healthier.  Now  he's  in  the  midst  of  the  long  hard  slog 
of  learning  to  live  with  the  chronic  remaining  pain,  adapting  to  a  prosthetic 


HOME  339 


leg,  and  learning  to  achieve  an  active  life  again.  On  August  ist,  he  was  in  New 
York  City  with  about  twenty  other  soldiers  from  Walter  Reed  who  were  in- 
vited there  by  the  Achilles  Track  Club  to  participate  in  a  5K  race.  Charles 
participated  in  the  race  on  a  hand  cycle,  as  he's  not  yet  able  to  attempt  run- 
ning. He  finished  the  course  and  enjoyed  the  trip  very  much. 

Charles'  attitude  remains  generally  very  positive  and  he  considers  himself 
to  be  one  of  the  "lucky  ones."  I  know  that's  true  as  I  travel  back  and  forth  to 
Walter  Reed  and  see  more  and  more  wounded  there.  There  are  so  many  of 
them  with  terrible  burns,  often  multiple  amputations,  deep  and  ragged  scars, 
and  mutilations.  I  still  find  myself  especially  shocked  when  I  see  the  young  fe- 
male soldiers  who  are  so  severely  wounded.  This  war  has  no  front  line  and 
everywhere  is  a  combat  zone.  There  is  no  "safer  place." 

As  more  and  more  wounded  come  into  Walter  Reed,  especially  with  so 
many  traumatic  amputations  from  improvised  explosive  devices  and  rocket- 
propelled  grenades,  the  Prosthetics  Department  is  fairly  overwhelmed.  The 
sheer  number  of  amputees  from  all  the  explosive  injuries,  all  needing  artifi- 
cial limbs  made  and  adjusted  frequently,  means  that  there  are  long  waits  of 
days  to  weeks  for  Charles,  back  on  his  crutches  and  in  his  wheelchair  when 
his  "leg  is  in  the  shop."  When  this  happens,  his  rehabilitation  progress  more 
or  less  comes  to  a  standstill,  until  his  prosthesis  is  ready  again  and  returned  to 
him.  I  see  his  spirits  sag  when  he  is  forced  back  into  this  mode  and  is  unable 
to  continue  moving  forward  toward  his  goals. 

At  times  I  have  to  stop  and  compose  myself  before  I  go  into  Mologne 
House  to  meet  Charles.  Last  week  I  had  one  of  those  times  when  I  met  a 
young  father  out  with  his  two  little  sons.  He  had  all  of  a  leg  missing  and  was 
pushing  himself  along  in  a  wheelchair.  His  younger  son,  about  three,  was  sit- 
ting on  the  young  father's  lap,  while  his  brother,  about  five,  skipped  along  be- 
side the  moving  wheelchair.  There  are  many  other  heart-rending  sights  and 
many  shocking  mutilations,  but  I  will  spare  you  the  details.  It's  a  humbling 
experience  to  move  about  the  Walter  Reed  complex.  The  gritty  determina- 
tion of  these  wounded  and  the  support  they  offer  to  each  other  puts  a  lot  of 
the  other  details  of  daily  life  in  clearer  perspective.  Regardless  of  your  politics 
or  how  you  may  feel  about  this  war,  these  wounded,  and  the  dead,  are  an  in- 
escapable reality.  I  pray  to  God  that  we  as  a  nation  don't  forget  the  sacrifices 
that  are  being  made  on  our  behalf.  From  now  on,  Veteran's  Day  will  be  a 
great  deal  more  meaningful  to  me  than  just  a  day  to  take  off  from  work  and 
to  fly  the  flag,  if  I  remember. 


340  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

I  keep  thinking  a  time  will  come  when  it  doesn't  hurt  so  much  to  watch 
Charles  struggling  to  recover.  Watching  what  is  left  of  his  right  leg  withering 
up  and  growing  ever  smaller  is  something  I  know  is  normal,  but  in  my  dreams 
at  night  I  see  him  at  about  seventeen,  running  so  smoothly  and  beautifully, 
and  when  I  awake  to  reality  I  know  how  cruel  this  new  "normal"  is.  Some- 
times, still,  when  I  see  him  I  find  my  heart  clutching  and  I  have  to  take  a  deep 
breath  and  swallow  hard  to  keep  the  tears  at  bay.  My  tears  won't  help  him; 
hopefully  my  support  and  encouragement  will. 

God's  peace  to  you  all, 
Myrna 


In  January  2005,  a  review  board  of  Army  physicians  recommended  that 
Charles  be  medically  discharged  because  of  his  disability.  Charles,  how- 
ever, successfully  appealed  the  decision,  and  received  a  waiver  so  that  he 
could  stay  in  the  Army.  (He  was  promoted  to  sergeant  in  April  2006.)  Know- 
ing that  he  couldn't  continue  serving  as  an  infantryman,  he  changed  his 
specialty  to  military  intelligence  and  was  selected  to  begin  studying  to  be- 
come an  Arabic  translator.  His  goal  is  to  serve  in  a  combat  unit  in  Iraq, 
Afghanistan,  or  wherever  else  he  is  needed. 


DEAR  NEIL 

Letters 
Daniel  Uhles 


"You're  back  home  this  morning,  sleeping  in  your  own  bed,  and  while  that 
may  not  seem  like  much  to  some  people,  it  is  heaven  on  earth  to  me," 
Daniel  Uhles  wrote  on  May  11, 2004,  to  his  twenty-four-year-old  soldier  son, 
Neil.  While  many  parents  have  just  one  child  in  the  armed  forces  to  worry 
about,  Daniel  Uhles  had  two;  Neil  and  his  younger  brother,  Drew,  had 
both  joined  the  military  when  they  turned  eighteen.  (Their  older  sister, 
Melissa,  had  served  in  the  Gulf  War  and  was  later  honorably  discharged.) 
Neil  enlisted  in  the  Illinois  Army  National  Guard,  Drew  joined  the  Marine 


HOME  341 


Corps,  and  in  late  2003  through  early  2004,  both  hoys  were  in  Iraq  at  the 
same  time.  And,  to  the  absolute  joy  of  their  parents,  they  were  both  stateside 
by  May  2004.  Daniel  Uhles  continued  his  letter  to  Neil: 


While  I'll  never  be  able  to  get  into  that  psyche  of  yours,  I  know  you've 
brought  home  some  baggage  you'll  carry  around  for  the  rest  of  your 
life.  You  told  us  from  the  first  days  you  were  in  Iraq,  as  did  Drew,  that  the 
news  accounts  of  the  war  were  very  inaccurate  and  that  there  was  a  more  mel- 
low side  to  those  people.  However,  when  you  describe  "incoming,"  it  both- 
ered us  immensely,  and  I,  for  one,  wondered  why  someone  was  trying  to  hurt 
such  a  nice  person  like  our  son.  The  only  thing  worse  was  multiplying  that  by 
two  when  Drew  was  there  also. 

You're  down  the  hall  sleeping.  You're  resting.  We're  resting.  And  now  — 
finally— all  seems  right  with  the  world  for  the  Uhles  family.  When  morn- 
ings and  moments  like  these  present  themselves  to  me,  I  feel  so  guilty  for 
having  such  a  perfect  family.  Your  brothers  and  sister  and  you  were  worth 
the  wait  for  these  moments.  They're  like  rare  diamonds  to  be  enjoyed  with 
a  touch  of  misunderstanding.  By  way  of  defining  that,  I  remember  Jack 
Buck  was  asked  in  an  interview  what  he  would  ask  God  when  he  got  to  see 
him.  His  answer,  "God,  why  have  you  been  so  good  to  me?"  The  answer  ap- 
plies to  me  also. 

You're  down  the  hall  in  your  own  room.  Mom's  at  work.  Melissa,  Sean, 
Heather,  and  Kelly  are  out  there  doing  the  same.  And  Drew  is  still  holding 
vigil  with  his  M-16,  only  for  right  now  it's  in  the  California  desert.  The  cat's 
in  my  chair  asleep,  and  I  can  hear  the  gurgling  water  in  the  fountain  out 
front.  A  new  day  is  dawning.  My  prayer  is  that  never  in  your  lifetime  will 
you  ever  have  to  tell  your  children  goodbye  as  they  enter  into  that  eternal 
nightmare  we  call  war.  Enjoy  the  solitude  and  beauty  of  the  sun  coming 
up,  coffee  perking,  the  sound  of  the  wrens  building  their  nest  for  the  com- 
ing season,  and  above  all,  embrace  those  you  love  like  there  will  be  no 
tomorrow. 

Neil,  welcome  home! 

I  love  and  salute  you!! 

Love, 
Dad 


342  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

Uhles's  happiness,  however,  would  be  short-lived;  in  August  2004,  Drew  was 
redeployed  to  Iraq  for  his  second  tour  of  duty.  On  September  15,  2004,  two 
uniformed  Marines  appeared  at  the  Uhles  home  in  Illinois  and  informed 
the  family  that  earlier  in  the  day,  Lance  Corporal  Drew  Michael  Uhles 
had  been  killed  in  AlAnbar  province  by  a  rocket-propelled  grenade.  He  was 
four  days  shy  of  his  twenty-first  birthday.  Neil,  who  had  fulfilled  his  com- 
mitment to  the  Guard,  volunteered  to  go  back  to  Iraq.  Shocked  by  the  deci- 
sion, Daniel  implored  his  son  to  reconsider. 

November  3,  2004 

Dear  Neil, 

Fm  writing  this  letter  knowing  what  I  want  to  say  but  not  knowing  how  to 
say  it,  so  stick  with  me  on  this  for  awhile. 

You  already  know  that  your  mother  and  I  really  don't  want  you  to  volun- 
teer for  Iraq  again,  so  that  goes  without  saying,  but  our  reasons  for  this  are 
probably  different  than  you  can  possibly  realize,  having  been  "over  there" 
and  not  here  in  the  good  old  US  of  A. 

Fm  sure  you've  jumped  ahead  and  thought  about  what  Christmas  will  be 
like  without  Drew,  so  try  to  imagine  another  one  without  BOTH  of  you  here. 
Yes,  Fm  thinking  of  myself,  but  also  Fm  thinking  of  our  family  and  extended 
family  beyond  our  home,  yard,  village,  and  country.  No  one  will  think  less  of 
Neil  Uhles  if  he  says  "No,  Fve  done  my  share  and  now  it's  someone  else's 
turn.  My  entire  family  has  given  enough."  You're  a  hero,  plain  and  simple!! 

You've  given  a  foreign  country  a  jump  start  our  country  never  had.  You've 
given  the  Iraqi  people  a  vision  of  working  together  to  rid  THEIR  country  of 
insurgents  just  as  we  did  our  country  centuries  ago  in  the  United  States.  What 
more  could  they  ask  for  than  a  year  of  a  stranger's  time  to  help  them  attain 
freedom? 

Your  feelings  are  not  lost  upon  us,  your  mother  and  me,  but  please  con- 
sider the  consequences  upon  our  older  family  members.  I  ask  that  you  ease 
their  burden  in  their  last  years  here  with  us,  and  let  them  join  Drew  comfort- 
ably and  free  of  everyday  worry  for  you  in  your  mission. 

Lastly,  I  would  ask  you  to  take  a  deep  breath,  look  at  your  ENTIRE  life  — 
past,  present,  and  future  — and  say  "Now  I'm  going  to  do  something  for  my- 
self! If  it's  school,  so  be  it.  If  it's  a  career,  so  be  it."  I  guess  what  Fm  saying  is, 
plan  for  YOUR  future!  "Will  another  year  away  be  beneficial  for  what  I  want 


HOME  343 

and  not  what  someone  else  wants,  or  will  it  only  help  fill  a  void  in  a  battalion's 
troop  list?"  My  four  years  in  the  Air  Force  gave  me  the  money  I  needed  to  go 
to  school,  plus  it  literally  saved  my  life  when  the  military  found  a  tumor  in  my 
chest.  But,  your  future  is  ready  and  waiting,  and  the  "after-burners"  are  ready 
to  kick  in  for  a  very  intelligent  twenty-five  year  old  with  an  entire  life  ahead  of 
him.  (That's  an  Air  Force  term.)  Will  another  year  impede  the  take-off  or  put 
it  on  hold  for  yet  another  year?  Don't  be  afraid  of  the  future,  and  I  certainly 
know  you're  not  afraid  of  ANYTHING.  All  I'm  asking  is  for  you  to  take  into 
consideration  a  multitude  of  other  things  and  consider  making  a  decision 
with  the  help  of  those  who  love  you  and  of  those  you  love  the  most. 

Love, 
Dad 


Despite  his  dad's  plea,  Neil  could  not  be  persuaded  and  was  unable  to  ex- 
plain to  his  father  why  he  felt  so  certain  about  the  matter.  Struggling  to 
make  sense  of  his  sons  reasons,  Daniel  asked  his  daughter,  Melissa,  and 
her  reply  was:  uDad,  you  just  have  to  have  been  there  to  understand."  In 
May  of  2005,  Neil  embarked  for  Iraq  and  was  stationed  in  Baghdad.  He  re- 
turned home  in  April  2006  and  re-enrolled  in  college. 


SHALLOW  HANDS 

Fiction 
Corporal  Michael  Poggi 


While  some  troops  adjust  relatively  easily  to  postwar  life  and  even  express  a 
desire  to  return  to  Iraq  or  Afghanistan,  many  struggle  with  everything  from 
flashbacks,  frequent  nightmares,  and  aggressive  behavior  to  substance 
abuse,  persistent  depression,  and  thoughts  of  suicide.  A  comprehensive 
2006  study  by  the  Army  reported  that  one  out  of  every  three  soldiers  and 
Marines  sought  counseling  for  mental  health  problems  within  a  month  of 
coming  home  from  Iraq  (the  percentage  is  not  as  high  for  veterans  of  the  war 
in  Afghanistan)  and  thousands  indicated  that  they  had  contemplated 
killing  themselves.  Some  veterans  don't  even  realize  that  they  are  suffering 
from  post-traumatic  stress  disorder  (PTSD)  until  they  have  a  total  break- 


344  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 


down.  Twenty-seven-year-old  U.S.  Marine  Corporal  Michael  Poggi,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  elite  ist  Reconnaissance  Battalion,  ist  Marine  Division,  fought  in 
Iraq  as  part  of  a  team  of  u ambush  hunters"  whose  mission  was  to  seek  and 
destroy  enemy  forces  lying  in  wait  for  U.S.  convoys.  When  Poggi  came  back 
to  the  States  in  the  summer  of  2003,  he  saw  many  of  his  friends  afflicted  by 
PTSD,  and  he  knew  that  he,  too,  was  not  unaffected  by  his  months  of  in- 
tense combat.  Poggi  found  it  cathartic  to  write  about  the  psychological 
repercussions  of  war,  and  a  year  after  he  returned  home  he  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing story,  which  is  based  on  real  events  and  characters  but  is  not,  he  em- 
phasizes, purely  autobiographical. 


I've  been  drinking  steadily  since  coming  back  from  the  war.  There's  a 
caustic  aftertaste  in  my  mouth  aggravating  the  queasiness  in  my  stomach. 
Making  my  way  through  San  Diego  traffic  to  get  to  the  airport,  I  know  I 
shouldn't  be  driving  like  this.  I  park  in  the  overnight  lot  and  walk  to  the  na- 
tional terminal  to  catch  a  flight  to  Boston.  This  trip  will  be  the  first  time  I've 
been  home  in  a  long  while. 

I  hate  crowds,  maybe  because  I  am  hung  over,  or  maybe  because  they 
make  me  a  critic  of  all  humankind.  I  just  can't  help  but  think  people  are 
spoiled  lambs  walking  around  with  their  heads  up  their  hinds,  oblivious  to 
the  goings-on  in  the  world.  It  makes  me  so  damn  sad.  I  look  around  the  ter- 
minal and  see  people  bitching  and  moaning  about  their  flights.  I  don't  know 
any  Iraqi  kids  who  complain  about  waiting  for  shit;  they  dream  about  not  get- 
ting shot  dead  or  killed  by  an  explosion.  Over  there  is  some  woman  buying 
her  kid  a  whole  damn  armful  of  candy  while  she  holds  her  cup  of  Starbucks 
in  the  other  hand.  Some  kid  in  Afghanistan  just  got  his  leg  blown  off  by  a  land 
mine,  but  go  ahead  and  pamper  your  ankle-biters  with  more  shit  they  don't 
need!  Half  the  world  is  starving!  I  watched  people  kill  each  other  for  dollar 
bills,  why  should  you  care?  Fucking  lamb. 

I  have  been  back  from  the  war  for  a  month.  I  spent  most  of  it  cruising  around 
Southern  California,  harassing  college  girls  with  my  tattoo  stories  and  getting 
drunk.  Thankfully  I  haven't  woken  up  in  a  pool  of  urine  lately.  Nonetheless, 
I  feel  more  alive  than  ever.  Everything  seems  so  different,  so  colorful.  The  sky 
is  so  vividly  blue  and  white  now,  sunsets  are  beautifully  orange,  and  the 
ocean  a  glimmering  pool  of  I  don't  even  know  what.  I  don't  ever  recall  notic- 


HOME  345 


ing  things  this  much.  It's  funny  what  being  shot  at  does  to  a  man.  Yet,  for 
some  reason  I  can't  stand  to  be  in  the  presence  of  people  anymore.  Little  in- 
conveniences rub  me  raw,  those  polite  phony  smiles  make  me  want  to  rip 
someone's  face  off  when  they  say  "excuse  me"  in  that  perky  inaudible  voice. 

I  eye  everyone  in  the  terminal  as  a  potential  threat,  every  nook  and  cranny 
an  ambush.  I  want  to  stand  in  the  center  of  the  concourse  and  scream  at  the 
top  of  my  lungs.  So  loud  they  burst,  so  loud  all  the  cigarettes  will  purge  them- 
selves from  my  body.  But  I'm  too  damn  tired  to  stand  on  a  soapbox  today;  be- 
sides, it's  a  quiet  anger,  a  pearled  soreness  beneath  the  breastbone  that  drives 
me  insane,  sore  with  every  breath  and  with  ever)7  swallow  like  the  feeling  of 
vomit  in  your  throat.  I  don't  know  why  I  feel  the  way  I  do.  It's  not  the  booze. 
I  know  that  for  certain.  It's  something  else,  something  that  will  have  to  wait 
until  later.  I  hand  over  my  ticket  and  board  the  plane.  As  I  jostle  into  my  seat, 
I  quickly  turn  my  head  toward  the  window  and  try  to  think  of  other  things. 

Being  there  was  pure,  in  the  dust  storms  and  blazing  heat,  the  children 
looking  up  at  you  like  you  were  God  himself  come  to  deliver  them.  Things 
were  simple.  The  enemy  is  everywhere,  hiding  in  every  building,  ever}'  palm 
grove,  waiting  to  pounce  on  you  when  you  let  your  guard  down.  The  chil- 
dren, tugging  at  your  leg,  look  up  with  desperate  eyes.  They  will  be  slaugh- 
tered when  they  go  home  for  collaborating  with  us.  Still  they  hang  on  to  the 
hope  that  for  that  brief  moment  we're  there  we  will  save  them.  Sometimes  it 
is  almost  a  nuisance  when  they'd  crowd  the  vehicles  and  follow  the  patrols.  I 
can't  help  but  pity  them;  I'd  give  all  I  had  to  them  if  I  could.  Instead,  it  seems 
we're  always  leaving  them  when  they  need  us  most. 

I  landed  at  Logan  International  five  hours  later  and  took  a  cab  to 
Bukowski's  just  off  Boylston  Avenue,  by  the  Prudential  Center.  I  love  that 
place.  No  one  knows  it's  there  really,  its  windows  naturally  blend  into  the 
urban  foliage,  and  you  can  watch  the  people  wandering  about  on  Boylston, 
oblivious  to  your  observation.  A  great  place  for  a  thought  or  two,  and  getting 
drunk  of  course.  I  got  smashed  there  that  night.  I  was  supposed  to  meet  this 
girl  I  dated  for  drinks,  but  she  never  showed.  I  ended  up  calling  my  brother 
and  my  buddy  Tim.  We  proceeded  to  get  drunk.  I  kicked  over  a  mailbox  in 
front  of  a  cop  and  began  my  "lamb"  speech  to  everyone  on  the  road.  The  cop 
just  gave  my  brother  the  old  "get  him  the  fuck  out  of  here"  look.  I  nearly 
fought  a  few  people  on  the  way  to  the  train  station.  I  felt  bad  that  my  brother 
and  Tim  had  to  struggle  with  me  to  cooperate,  but  that  passed  quickly. 

A  few  months  before  the  war,  I  went  to  a  palm  reader.  I  don't  know  why, 


346  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

but  I  thought  she  might  shed  some  light  on  things;  curiosity  I  suppose.  I  don't 
remember  how  she  looked,  although  I  remember  she  wasn't  some  quack  fat 
lady  wearing  purple.  I  do  remember  how  she  took  my  hand,  how  relaxing  it 
felt  when  I  gave  it  to  her.  Holding  it  gently,  brushing  the  lines  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  plying  it  ever  so  slowly,  she  told  me  things  about  my  character  I 
knew  were  true.  Ever  since,  I  look  at  my  hands  in  a  different  light.  I  realize 
how  soft  and  shallow  the  lines  are,  and  how  odd  it  is  that  someone  you  don't 
know  could  shake  your  hand  and  tell  you  when  you're  going  to  die,  it  was  all 
so  fascinating.  Even  if  it  was  all  bullshit. 

They  say  the  line  running  from  your  index  finger  that  follows  the  fleshy 
tissue  down  around  your  thumb  to  the  midpoint  of  your  palm  is  the  lifeline. 
It's  supposed  to  tell  you  how  long  you'll  live.  I  noticed  mine  stops  halfway.  I 
know  a  lot  of  guys  in  my  unit  with  hands  like  rocks,  deep  crevices  in  them  like 
they've  been  chapped  or  wind  burnt  for  ages.  It's  supposed  to  be  long.  But 
mine  isn't. 

After  days  of  drinking,  I  was  strewn  out  on  the  floor  of  my  brother's  apart- 
ment in  a  bloody  mess.  When  I  finally  came  to  in  the  morning,  I  felt  like 
killing  myself.  Not  because  I  was  depressed,  or  regretful,  but  because  I  was 
hallucinating  and  delirious.  I  thought  I  was  going  crazy.  Spiraling  down  into 
the  void,  I  stumbled  around  the  apartment,  completely  disoriented  and  con- 
fused, slamming  down  water  and  vitamins,  hoping  that  the  delirium  would 
pass,  and  it  did  not.  I  started  to  scream,  first  in  my  head,  where  the  battle  was, 
then  out  loud.  So  loud  my  brother  came  running  down  from  his  bedroom  to 
see  what  was  going  on.  I  can  only  imagine  what  he  was  thinking  when  he  saw 
me  balled  up  in  the  corner,  quivering  and  weeping  assurances  to  myself. 

It  took  me  two  days  to  get  over  the  breakdown.  I  just  walked  around  in  a 
trance  and  sat  watching  television  on  the  couch.  My  brother  came  home 
from  work  one  afternoon  and  put  an  end  to  it.  He  sat  next  to  me  and  told  me 
that  our  dad  had  called  and  wanted  to  see  me.  He  wanted  me  to  go  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  had  been  waiting  for  this  to  happen.  I  was  ashamed  to  look  and  feel 
this  way  in  front  of  my  father. 

He  had  always  been  proud  of  my  service.  He  served  with  the  Army  in  Viet- 
nam, and  he's  seen  his  share.  He  was  of  the  old  school  that  seems  withering 
today,  one  that  preaches  conservative  compassion  mixed  with  blue-collar 
sense  of  duty.  He  taught  me  about  nature,  from  back  when  I  was  a  little  boy  in 
the  car  seat  pointing  at  the  hawks  circling  the  highways,  to  the  days  as  a  teen 
when  we  took  long  walks  in  the  woods  and  talked  philosophy.  The  musty  pic- 


HOME  347 

tures  of  a  bearded  adventurer  line  a  desk  stacked  with  nature  guides  and  ani- 
mal skulls,  a  living  tribute  to  the  man.  I  would  spend  lots  of  time  at  his  desk  as 
a  kid,  picking  up  and  staring  at  the  skulls,  reading  the  guides,  and  playing  with 
the  samurai  swords  he'd  bought  so  many  years  ago  in  Southeast  Asia. 

Now  I  was  supposed  to  put  myself  before  his  expecting  eyes  and  hide  the 
shame  and  booze.  It  was  almost  too  much  to  bear  as  I  stood  on  his  porch  and 
rang  the  bell  after  minutes  of  hesitation.  He  opened  the  door,  hugged  me  in 
a  powerful  embrace,  and  then  led  me  in. 

The  living  room  was  as  I'd  remembered  it,  but  the  fireplace  mantel  had 
been  transformed  into  a  shrine  to  me,  and  I  winced.  We  moved  to  the  kitchen 
and  sat  down  for  coffee.  He  could  barely  contain  his  excitement,  but  I  could 
see  his  intuition  told  him  something  was  wrong. 

"You  look  good,  Tommy,"  he  said,  grabbing  my  shoulder.  I  thanked  him 
and  sipped  my  coffee,  but  I  knew  he  was  lying.  I  looked  like  shit  and  felt  like 
the  sewer. 

"So  you've  been  back  for  a  few  days  I  hear.  Staying  with  your  brother .  .  . 
How's  your  head?"  he  asked  with  a  smirk. 

"It's  doing  fine  now,  Pop,"  I  replied  quietly. 

"Good,  just  go  easy,  Tom,  you  know  you  get  out  of  hand  with  that  stuff." 

"I  know,  Pop.  I  know,"  I  said.  He  had  no  idea. 

"So  did  you  .  .  .  you  know." 

"Kill  anyone?"  I  answered. 

He  nodded. 

"Yes,"  I  said  blankly.  Truthfully,  it  hadn't  bothered  me  that  I  had  killed 
someone,  or  more  than  one  for  that  matter.  It  was  us  or  them  and  the  fact  that 
it  was  them  means  I  am  here  drinking  coffee  with  my  dad  and  not  buried  in 
the  sand  thousands  of  miles  from  here  and  that's  that. 

"You  did  the  right  thing,  boy."  He  sighed.  "If  you  ever  want  to  talk  about 
it,  I  know  where  you  are  coming  from.  I  had  to  do  the  same  in  my  day." 

"Thanks,"  I  said.  The  room  went  quiet,  and  I  could  hear  someone  raking 
leaves  two  houses  down.  It  made  me  smile  for  a  moment.  I  always  liked  this 
time  of  year.  The  smells  and  sounds  seemed  more  alive  in  autumn,  even  as 
the  leaves  were  dying;  another  paradox  to  ponder. 

We  talked  about  the  family  for  a  long  while,  and  then  I  looked  at  my 
watch. 

"It's  getting  late,  Dad,  I  think  I  better  get  going,"  I  said,  standing  up.  "I'll 
be  back  tomorrow." 


348  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

Dad  grabbed  me  on  both  shoulders  and  forced  me  to  look  him  in  the  eye. 
I  noticed  the  calloused  old  hands;  I  noticed  the  grooves  in  them  as  they 
reached  for  me,  deep  and  wise  .  .  .  unlike  mine. 

"Not  everyone  is  going  to  understand  what  you've  done,  Tommy.  It's  your 
job  to  be  patient.  You've  got  to  understand  that  most  people  in  this  country 
have  never  left  it.  They  never  will.  But  you,  you  have  seen  what's  out  there. 
It's  up  to  you  to  make  them  understand.  So  take  it  easy  with  the  booze.  Relax 
and  clear  your  head  out."  He  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  as  I  stepped  out.  I 
waved  goodbye  and  started  the  two-mile  walk  to  my  brother's  apartment  in 
the  moonless  cool  night. 

Most  of  the  trees  were  bare  now,  and  I  couldn't  avoid  the  childlike  draw 
of  kicking  through  the  coating  of  dry  leaves  on  the  streets  as  I  walked  down 
the  neighborhood's  narrow  roads,  my  hands  shoved  deep  in  my  pockets.  I 
traced  the  shallow  lifeline  of  my  right  palm  over  and  over  again  with  my  fin- 
gers, and  I  couldn't  shake  off  the  thought  of  mortality  that  it  caused.  I  re- 
member the  palm  reader  told  me  to  "live  every  day  to  its  fullest"  and  to  "enjoy 
every  moment"— the  kind  of  shit  you  tell  to  someone  with  terminal  cancer.  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  I  wasn't  meant  to  live  for  long,  and  my  life  was  a 
void  of  nothing,  except  the  anger  and  frustration  of  not  knowing  what  I  was 
doing  with  it.  I  felt  contempt  for  everyone  around  me,  and  I  knew  it;  I  carried 
it  like  a  loaded  pistol  just  aching  to  pull  the  trigger. 

I  began  drinking  heavily  again.  I  tried  to  escape.  I  spent  a  night  in  jail. 
How  it  happened  I  couldn't  recall  in  truth.  All  I  know  is  what  patchwork 
memories  I  can  muster  through  the  inebriated  haze  and  what  they  tell  me 
about  when  I  did  pull  that  trigger.  I  guess  I  had  taken  too  many  shots  too  fast 
and  assaulted  the  barroom  in  a  tirade.  My  friends  had  called  the  police.  Can't 
blame  them,  but  I'll  never  go  back  to  that  shit  hole  again. 

My  brother  bailed  me  out  to  take  me  to  the  hospital,  then  left  since  he 
had  to  get  to  work  early.  The  doctor  in  the  emergency  room  looked  at  my 
hand,  then  back  up  at  me  with  a  disappointed  look.  "It's  definitely  broken,  my 
friend.  There  appear  to  be  several  hairline  fractures  spiderwebbing  off  of  the 
major  point  of  impact.  Luckily  there  are  only  minor  contusions  on  the  outer 
edges  and  on  your  palm  when  you  obviously  braced  a  fall."  He  sighed  and  in- 
jected more  Novocain  into  my  wrist  as  he  swabbed  the  cuts  with  Betadine  so- 
lution. I  tried  to  look  away,  but  out  of  some  grisly  curiosity  I  watched  as  he 
cleaned  the  wounds,  cutting  and  peeling  the  skin  back.  I  wanted  to  see  what 


HOME  349 

had  become  of  the  hand  that  told  so  much.  It  wasn't  telling  shit  now.  It  was 
wrapped  up  and  numb. 

I  stumbled  out  of  the  emergency  room  at  four  a.m.  and  hailed  a  cab,  my 
hand  in  a  splint,  arm  in  a  sling.  Fuck  if  I'd  go  back  to  my  brother's  place.  He'd 
been  pretty  cool  with  everything,  I  owed  him  that,  but  he  didn't  need  my  bag- 
gage. I  checked  my  wallet  to  make  sure  I  had  enough  funds,  and  told  the  cab- 
bie to  take  me  to  the  Adams  Inn  in  Quincy.  It's  an  old  motel  down  by  the 
Neponset.  I  could  get  a  room  facing  the  river  and  watch  the  muddy  water  and 
highway  traffic. 

I  went  back  to  my  brother's  apartment  later  that  day,  after  some  sleep  and 
some  Percocets.  I  grabbed  all  my  bags  and  penned  a  note  telling  him  where 
to  reach  me.  I  found  a  message  from  my  dad.  He  wanted  to  see  me  today.  I 
tossed  it  in  the  trash  on  the  way  out  the  door.  There  was  no  way  I  could  see 
him  like  this.  There  was  no  way  I  could  face  anybody  like  this. 

I  did  end  up  in  a  room  overlooking  the  river.  I  set  up  my  laptop  on  a  night- 
stand,  and  with  my  good  hand  began  typing  furiously.  I  imagined  my  hand 
blown  off  in  the  war.  The  thought  made  me  laugh  out  loud  at  the  irony.  I 
hadn't  been  wounded  in  combat,  yet  here  I  was  at  home,  hand  split  open  and 
broken. 

Everything  I  typed  was  angry.  I  thought  that  after  I  had  the  opportunity  to 
vent  a  little,  it  would  end  — it  would  stop  — but  it  did  not.  It  kept  going;  from 
the  lambs  in  the  airport  and  their  spoiled  children  to  my  mom's  death,  to  my 
brothers'  success  and  my  failure,  to  my  credit  card  bills  and  my  high  car  in- 
surance. Everything  was  fucked  up.  I  wrote  page  after  page  and  stopped  only 
when  I  had  to  urinate  or  refill  my  whiskey-coke.  On  the  way  back  from  the 
bathroom,  I  paused  to  read  the  last  page  of  what  I'd  written: 

Fuck  it.  Fuck  it  all.  Fuck  the  lady  bitching  at  the  line  in  the  DMV  ...  a 
few  hours  out  of  your  life  isn't  going  to  kill  you.  Fuck  my  ex-girlfriend  and 
all  her  boring  ass  phone  calls  about  her  brother  and  friends  and  back- 
aches and  fucking  cramps.  Fuck  that  wannabe  businessman  yacking  on 
his  cell  phone  like  he  is  somebody.  It's  all  just  so  amazing  to  me.  All  of 
them,  heads  stuck  so  far  up  their  asses  they  can't  see  daylight.  I  hate  them 
for  their  ignorance;  their  bliss  .  .  .  yet  I  am  amazed  that  in  our  country,  we 
can  have  a  war  with  a  thousand  casualties,  and  nobody  hardly  notices. 
I  FUCKING  NOTICE.  I  notice  the  kid  in  the  wheelchair  rolling 


350  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

through  the  mall  with  his  Dad  proudly  pushing  and  his  Mom  tearing  up. 
I  notice  the  guy  with  the  fake  leg  at  the  bar  who  I  used  to  serve  with  and 
buy  his  beers  and  recall  old  times.  I  notice  the  ones  without  the  scars  and 
prostheses,  the  ones  with  the  eyes  that  stab  right  into  you,  the  eyes  that  see 
through  you.  I  notice  because  I  have  them  too  .  .  .  and  every  time  I  notice 
one  of  them,  I  notice  ten  mindless  ignorant  people;  people  who  talk 
about  birthday  parties  and  dry  cleaning,  and  meetings  at  work.  People 
who  go  home  to  sit  down  for  dinner  and  ask  their  kids  how  school  was, 
and  never  once  consider  that  their  kid  could  be  in  Iraq  in  a  year  and  that 
chair  would  be  empty  forever.  You  can't  talk  to  them  about  the  horror  of 
a  dead  child's  lifeless  mutilated  body  staring  back  at  you  from  the  void, 
knowing  you  took  part  in  that  end,  or  laugh  at  the  humor  and  terror  in 
your  weapon  jamming  in  a  firelight  where  every  crack  and  pop  of  the  in- 
coming rounds  has  you  shaking  and  ducking  for  cover.  You  know  they 
don't  even  know  what  you  really  do  in  the  military  in  the  first  place,  so 
when  you  talk  about  the  chow  and  the  bullets  and  the  asshole  Gunny, 
they  just  look  at  you  and  nod.  So  you  just  sit  there  and  smile  politely, 
thank  them  for  their  homecoming,  and  try  to  get  out  of  there  as  soon  as 
you  can,  before  the  bitterness  and  anger  seep  through.  I'm  bitter  at  their 
weakness  and  their  ingratitude.  I'm  bitter  at  their  fucking  lives  and  their 
petty  complications.  I'm  bitter  I  couldn't  be  ignorant  as  well.  FUCK  IT 
ALL. 

It  was  amazing  how  it  flowed  from  my  fingertips,  and  into  this.  Though 
"this"  wasn't  anything.  I  knew  I'd  delete  it  tomorrow  when  I  woke  up,  but  I 
was  shocked  at  how  true  it  was  to  me.  I  turned  to  the  bureau  mirror  and  stared 
into  the  face  of  the  man  looking  back  at  me.  I  saw  an  animal— a  predator  no 
doubt— but  I  saw  a  pathetic  excuse  for  a  man  first. 

I  looked  at  the  bottle  of  whiskey  I'd  emptied  while  I  typed,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment of  clarity,  realized  — I  am  an  alcoholic.  The  thought  bothered  me  more 
than  anything  I  could  have  ever  imagined.  A  wound  a  thousand  times  deeper 
and  more  painful  than  any  shrapnel  or  bullet  graze,  it  was  a  wound  to  the 
heart.  I  started  to  weep  apologetically  to  my  reflection,  seeking  some  re- 
sponse but  getting  none.  The  people  we  killed,  the  shit  that  went  down.  It  all 
rushed  back  to  me  in  a  moment.  I  questioned  some  of  the  kills.  I  thought  of 
the  civilians  caught  in  the  crossfire.  I  wept  more.  I  looked  down  to  my  iodine- 
stained  wrappings,  I  envisioned  the  lifeline's  shallow  groove  tainted  brown, 


HOME  351 

and  I  wondered  again  why  it  was  so  weak.  Maybe  the  palm  reader  was  right 
to  say  I  should  live  life  to  its  fullest.  I  won't  live  long  this  way  at  all. 

Poggi  is  still  in  the  Marine  Corps  and  was  promoted  to  sergeant  in  January 
2004. 


DOVER 

Personal  Narrative 
Colonel  Marc  M.  Sager 


Home  to  the  active-duty  436th  Airlift  Wing  and  the  reserve  512th  Airlift 
Wing,  Dover  Air  Force  Base  in  central  Delaware  is  the  largest  and  busiest 
military  cargo  port  in  the  United  States.  Dover  s  C-5  Galaxy  aircraft,  which 
are  almost  as  long  as  a  football  field  and  weigh  up  to  a  million  pounds,  pro- 
vide one  quarter  of  the  nations  entire  strategic  airlift  capability.  But  Dover 
AFB  is  unique  not  only  for  its  aircraft,  but  for  what  happens  on  the  base  it- 
self in  times  of  war  and  other  national  crises:  U.S.  servicemen  and  women 
killed  in  Iraq  and  Afghanistan  are  brought  to  Dover's  Charles  C.  Carson 
Center,  the  largest  mortuary  in  the  U.S.  military,  to  be  identified  and  pre- 
pared for  burial.  The  Center,  named  after  one  of  its  former  directors,  oper- 
ates seven  days  a  week  and  can  handle  up  to  eighty-five  bodies  a  day.  While 
stationed  at  Boiling  AFB  in  Washington,  D.C.,  Marc  M.  Sager,  a  fifty- 
three-year-old  colonel  in  the  U.S.  Air  Force's  medical  service  corps,  had  an 
opportunity  to  visit  the  Center  in  the  spring  of  2004.  Despite  all  that  Sager 
had  seen  during  his  almost  twenty-two  years  in  the  military  as  a  medical  ad- 
ministrator, he  was  still  overwhelmed  by  the  experience.  Immediately  after 
leaving  Dover,  Sager  began  writing  the  following  account. 


o  say  a  mortuary  is  beautiful  sounds  odd,  but  the  Charles  C.  Carson 
Center  truly  is.  Once  inside  the  main  doors  you  are  immediately  struck 
by  the  large  curving  wall  in  front  of  you  with  several  engraved  panels  of  names 
and  dates  chronicling  many  of  our  nation's  most  memorable  and  tragic 
events— Beirut,  Space  Shuttle  Challenger,  Desert  Storm,  Somalia,  USS  Cole, 
Pentagon  September  11,  2001,  and  so  on.  There  is  a  vaulted,  translucent  ceil- 


352  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

ing  above  that  lets  in  the  sunlight  and  illuminates  a  large,  bubbling  fountain 
underneath. 

We  were  met  by  the  mortuary  director,  Karen  Giles,  and  Lieutenant 
Colonel  Susan  Hanshaw  from  the  Armed  Forces  Institute  of  Pathology.  It  was 
immediately  apparent  how  proud  they  were  of  the  new  facility,  but  even  more 
so,  in  being  part  of  this  necessary,  but  by  no  means  glamorous,  aspect  of  ser- 
vice to  our  country.  Every  time  they  referred  to  a  deceased  soldier,  sailor,  air- 
man, or  Marine  it  was  always  "the  fallen  hero."  At  first  this  seemed  like  one 
of  the  politically  sanitized  phrases  that  many  of  us  have  used  in  various  set- 
tings over  the  years,  but  as  the  visit  continued,  it  became  clear  to  me  that  this 
was  the  phrase  everyone  used,  and  that  it  was  also  the  most  appropriate. 

The  mortuary  is  located  on  the  flight  line  so  aircraft  can  pull  up  directly 
to  the  receiving  area.  Once  the  transfer  cases,  which  contain  the  fallen  he- 
roes, are  off-loaded,  they  are  taken  into  an  explosive  ordnance  disposal  room 
that  has  walls  about  ten  inches  thick.  The  transport  case  cover  is  taken  off  and 
the  remains  checked  for  any  loose  ordnance  that  might  have  been  missed 
overseas.  The  remains  are  then  run  though  an  X-ray  machine  that  looks  like 
the  ones  at  airports  to  inspect  checked  baggage.  The  value  of  this  screening 
became  clear.  Just  the  week  before  a  live  grenade  was  found  in  the  body 
armor  on  the  remains  of  one  of  the  soldiers. 

Once  the  remains  have  been  determined  to  be  safe,  they  are  taken  to  the 
fingerprint  area,  where  we  met  two  FBI  personnel  from  Quantico,  Virginia, 
who  rotate  every  six  days  to  work  at  the  mortuary.  The  day  before  remains  ar- 
rive at  Dover,  the  names  and  other  information  are  provided.  The  agents 
then  pull  fingerprint  files  from  an  FBI  computer  in  Martinsburg,  West  Vir- 
ginia, which  contains  all  active-duty  military  and  literally  millions  of  other 
sets.  From  fingerprints  the  remains  are  taken  to  dental.  Here  again,  all  of  our 
dental  records  are  on  file  and  can  be  used  as  a  match.  Everything  is  state-of- 
the-art.  The  radiology  techs,  who  do  the  full-body  X-rays,  told  me  that  the 
new  system  was  eight  to  ten  times  faster  than  the  old  film  method,  and  images 
can  now  be  captured  on  a  CD-ROM.  When  we  were  finished  in  radiology,  it 
marked  the  end  of  the  "easy"  part  of  the  tour,  as  no  remains  were  being 
processed  while  we  were  there.  That  was  not  the  case  as  I  looked  across  the 
hall  into  the  autopsy  room,  our  next  stop. 

A  full  autopsy  is  performed  on  all  the  fallen  heroes.  No  longer  can  we  sim- 
ply provide  families  with  the  statement  "Killed  in  Action."  Families  want  to 
know  exactly  what  happened  to  their  loved  ones,  so  for  medical  and  legal  rea- 


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sons  a  full  autopsy  is  performed.  Again,  as  an  MSC,  I  wasn't  sure  how  well  I 
would  handle  this,  but  knowing  what  these  brave  men  had  sacrificed,  my 
concerns  seemed  pretty  trivial.  There  were  two  autopsies  being  conducted 
when  we  arrived.  The  medical  teams  performing  them  were  very  professional 
and  careful  how  they  handled  the  remains.  The  room  itself  had  ten  bays,  a 
high  ceiling  with  bright  lighting,  and  lots  of  air  circulation.  When  we  exited 
this  room  we  entered  the  embalming  area  that  is  a  mirror  of  the  autopsy 
room.  Here  two  of  the  staff  were  preparing  the  remains  of  another  fallen 
hero.  It  sounds  odd  to  say,  but  I  could  see  the  pride  these  professionals  took 
in  their  work.  Everything  that  can  be  done  to  make  the  remains  look  "nor- 
mal" is  done.  From  here  the  remains  go  to  "cosmetology,"  where  expert 
makeup  personnel  restore  the  faces  to  look  as  natural  as  possible. 

It  was  comforting  to  see  Critical  Incident  Stress  Management  team  mem- 
bers at  the  mortuary.  These  CISM  teams  are  there  to  support  mortuary  team 
members  at  the  point  of  stress.  Even  the  most  seasoned  staff  members  have 
moments  when  the  blunt  trauma  of  war  is  overwhelming,  and  there  is  a  con- 
stant need  for  a  calming,  healing  presence  for  the  caretakers. 

Our  fallen  heroes  are  now  ready  to  be  put  back  in  uniform.  Since  almost 
all  the  deaths  are  combat  related,  no  one  arrives  with  their  dress  uniform. 
Here  another  group  of  dedicated  experts  goes  to  work.  Service  records  are 
used  to  verify  rank,  branch  of  service,  and  medals.  There  is  a  complete  "mil- 
itary clothing  store"  at  this  location.  Shirts,  socks,  underwear,  pants,  blouses 
are  all  available  from  every  branch  of  the  service,  in  any  size  you  can  imag- 
ine, and  they  also  have  every  ribbon  from  every  service.  Unit  patches  and  pins 
are  also  on  hand.  The  staff  can  make  the  ribbon  rack  and  name  tags  right 
there  in  less  than  a  day.  When  we  walked  through,  eight  fallen  heroes  from 
the  Army,  Navy,  and  Marines  had  just  finished  being  put  back  in  uniform. 

On  separate  racks  are  the  personal  items  that  each  of  these  fallen  heroes 
was  carrying  at  the  time  of  death.  To  me,  this  was  the  most  poignant  aspect  of 
the  visit:  pictures,  money,  keys,  watches  still  on  Baghdad  time,  AT&T  calling 
cards,  driver's  licenses,  and  military  photo-ID  cards— they  all  brought  home 
how  young  and  vibrant  these  individuals  were  and,  most  of  all,  that  they  were 
real  people,  not  statistics.  The  staff  explained  that  the  personal  items  accom- 
pany the  remains. 

We  had  noticed  in  the  clothing  area  a  trash  can  filled  with  Marine  dress- 
uniform  coats.  We  later  met  the  master  gunnery  sergeant  responsible  for  en- 
suring each  fallen  Marine's  uniform  is  properly  prepared.  He  had  inspected 


354  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

the  coats,  he  felt  the  workmanship  was  not  up  to  par,  and  he  was  not  going  to 
allow  his  comrades  to  be  sent  home  in  anything  less  than  perfection.  Every 
extra  step  to  honor  these  fallen  heroes  is  accomplished;  every  oak-leaf  cluster, 
star,  and  device  is  polished  before  being  put  on  the  ribbon.  Every  belt  buckle 
and  badge  gets  a  luster  to  it.  Uniforms  are  altered  and  pressed  to  fit  as  per- 
fectly as  possible. 

Once  the  remains  are  dressed,  they  are  moved  to  the  final  preparation 
area  and  placed  in  caskets.  There  are  even  coffins  that  contain  no  metal  for 
Jewish  personnel  or  anyone  else  who  wants  a  wooden  coffin.  There  were  cre- 
mation urns  available  too,  if  that  is  the  family's  desire.  No  detail  is  over- 
looked. That  day  there  were  seven  caskets  waiting  for  escorts  to  take  them 
home.  They  would  be  gone  by  the  next  evening. 

As  we  came  back  up  front,  Ms.  Giles  took  the  time  to  explain  how  impor- 
tant some  of  the  other  people  in  the  process  were,  such  as  the  folks  who 
arrange  for  airline  tickets  for  the  escorts  and  handle  the  arrangements  for  the 
caskets.  Over  and  over  we  heard,  "We  are  a  zero-defects  operation.  We  can't 
let  anything  go  wrong  because  the  families  of  these  fallen  heroes  are  waiting." 

It  was  a  day  of  many  emotions.  Most  people  will  never  get  a  chance  to  see 
what  we  saw,  and  probably  would  not  want  to.  I'm  glad  I  did.  I  realized  once 
more  that  casualty  numbers  are  the  sanitized,  amorphous  representation  of 
what  I  had  just  seen.  Each  number  was  in  fact  an  individual  person— some- 
one's spouse,  parent,  sibling,  sweetheart,  or  friend— who  had  joined  the  mil- 
itary to  serve  his  or  her  country  and  paid  the  ultimate  price.  I  especially 
thought  of  the  parents  of  these  fallen  heroes.  The  remains  I  viewed  that  day 
were  kids  as  young  as  my  two  sons,  both  in  their  twenties,  and  I  kept  thinking 
of  their  mothers  and  fathers  waiting  for  these  bodies  of  their  children,  their 
babies,  to  come  home. 

Every  person  I  met  at  the  mortuary  exuded  pride  in  what  they  did  and 
their  role  in  ensuring  the  families  got  back  their  loved  one  in  the  best  man- 
ner possible;  appropriate  and  in  keeping  with  the  sacrifice  they  performed  for 
this  country.  It  is  obviously  a  highly  stressful  working  environment,  but  the 
core  mortuary  staff,  along  with  the  temporary  duty  personnel  and  those  from 
other  agencies,  are  focused  on  their  duty. 

They  have  to  be— there  were  eight  more  fallen  heroes  arriving  the  next 
day. 


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TAKING  CHANCE 

Personal  Narrative 

Lieutenant  Colonel  Michael  R.  Strobl 


After  they  are  brought  to  Dover  Air  Force  Base,  all  fallen  soldiers,  Marines, 
airmen,  and  sailors  are  escorted  home  to  their  families  and  loved  ones  by  a 
uniformed  member  of  the  U.S.  armed  forces.  In  mid-April  2004,  thirty-eight- 
year-old  U.S.  Marine  Lieutenant  Colonel  Michael  R.  Strobl,  a  manpower 
analyst  assigned  to  the  Combat  Development  Command  in  Quantico,  Vir- 
ginia, accompanied  the  body  of  a  young  Marine  killed  in  Iraq  to  his  final 
resting  place  in  Wyoming.  Strobl  wrote  the  following  description  of  his  jour- 
ney to  Wyoming  in  a  small,  spiral  notebook  on  his  way  back  to  Virginia. 


Chance  Phelps  was  wearing  his  Saint  Christopher  medal  when  he  was 
killed  on  Good  Friday.  Eight  days  later,  I  handed  the  medallion  to  his 
mother.  I  didn't  know  Chance  before  he  died.  Today,  I  miss  him. 

Over  a  year  ago,  I  volunteered  to  escort  the  remains  of  Marines  killed  in  Iraq 
should  the  need  arise.  Thankfully,  I  hadn't  been  called  on  to  be  an  escort 
since  Operation  Iraqi  Freedom  began.  The  first  few  weeks  of  April,  however, 
had  been  tough  ones  for  the  Marines.  On  the  Monday  after  Easter  I  was  re- 
viewing Department  of  Defense  press  releases  when  I  saw  that  a  Private  First 
Class  Chance  Phelps  was  killed  in  action  outside  of  Baghdad.  The  press  re- 
lease listed  his  hometown  as  Clifton,  Colorado— which  is  near  where  I'm 
from.  I  notified  our  battalion  adjutant  and  told  him  that,  should  the  duty  to 
escort  PFC  Phelps  fall  to  our  battalion,  I  would  take  him. 

I  didn't  hear  back  the  rest  of  Monday  and  all  day  Tuesday  until  1800.  The  bat- 
talion duty  NCO  called  my  cell  phone  and  said  I  needed  to  be  ready  to  leave 
for  Dover  Air  Force  Base  at  1900  in  order  to  escort  the  remains  of  PFC 
Phelps.  I  called  the  major  who  had  the  task  of  informing  Phelps's  parents  of 
his  death.  The  major  said  that  the  funeral  was  going  to  be  in  Dubois, 
Wyoming.  (It  turned  out  that  PFC  Phelps  only  lived  near  my  hometown  dur- 
ing his  senior  year  of  high  school.)  I  had  never  been  to  Wyoming  and  had 
never  heard  of  Dubois. 


356  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

With  two  other  escorts  from  Quantico,  I  got  to  Dover  AFB  at  2330  on 
Tuesday  night.  First  thing  on  Wednesday  we  reported  to  the  mortuarv  at  the 
base.  In  the  escort  lounge  there  were  about  half  a  dozen  Army  soldiers  and 
about  an  equal  number  of  Marines  waiting  to  meet  up  with  "their"  remains 
for  departure.  PFC  Phelps  was  not  ready,  however,  and  I  was  told  to  come 
back  on  Thursdav.  Now  at  Dover  with  nothing  to  do  and  a  solemn  mission 
ahead,  I  began  to  get  depressed. 

I  didn't  know  anything  about  Chance  Phelps;  not  even  what  he  looked 
like.  I  wondered  about  his  family  and  what  it  would  be  like  to  meet  them.  I 
did  push-ups  in  my  room  until  I  couldn't  do  any  more.  On  Thursday  morn- 
ing I  reported  back  to  the  mortuary.  This  time  there  was  a  new  group  of  Army 
escorts  and  a  couple  of  the  Marines  who  had  been  there  Wednesday.  There 
was  also  an  Air  Force  captain  there  to  escort  his  brother  home  to  San  Diego. 

We  received  a  brief  covering  our  duties  and  the  proper  handling  of  the  re- 
mains, and  we  were  shown  pictures  of  the  shipping  container  and  told  that 
each  one  contained,  in  addition  to  the  casket,  a  flag.  I  was  given  an  extra  flag 
since  PFC  Phelps's  parents  were  divorced. 

It  turned  out  that  I  was  the  last  escort  to  leave  on  Thursday.  This  meant 
that  I  repeatedly  got  to  participate  in  the  small  ceremonies  that  mark  all  de- 
partures from  the  Dover  AFB  mortuary. 

Most  of  the  remains  are  taken  from  Dover  AFB  by  hearse  to  the  airport  in 
Philadelphia  for  air  transport  to  their  final  destination.  When  the  remains  of 
a  service  member  are  loaded  onto  a  hearse  and  readv  to  leave  the  Dover  mor- 
tuary, there  is  an  announcement  made  over  the  building's  intercom  system. 
With  the  announcement,  all  service  members  working  at  the  mortuary,  re- 
gardless of  branch,  stop  work  and  form  up  along  the  driveway  to  render  a  slow 
ceremonial  salute  as  the  hearse  departs.  On  this  day,  there  were  also  some 
civilian  workers  doing  construction  on  the  mortuary  grounds.  As  each  hearse 
passed,  they  would  stop  working  and  place  their  hard  hats  over  their  hearts. 
This  was  my  first  sign  that  my  mission  with  PFC  Phelps  was  larger  than  the 
Marine  Corps  and  that  his  family  and  friends  were  not  grieving  alone. 

Eventually  I  was  the  last  escort  remaining  in  the  lounge.  The  master  gun- 
ner}" sergeant  in  charge  of  the  Marine  liaison  there  came  to  see  me.  He  had 
a  pouch  with  Chance  Phelps's  personal  effects.  He  removed  each  item:  a 
large  watch,  a  wooden  cross  with  a  lanyard,  two  loose  dog  tags,  two  dog  tags 
on  a  chain,  and  the  Saint  Christopher  medal,  which  was  on  a  silver  chain.  Al- 
though we  had  been  briefed  that  we  might  be  earning  some  personal  effects 


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of  the  deceased,  I  was  taken  aback.  Holding  his  personal  effects,  I  was  starting 
to  get  to  know  Chance  Phelps. 

Finally  we  were  ready.  I  grabbed  my  bags  and  went  outside.  I  was  some- 
what startled  when  I  saw  the  shipping  container,  loaded  three  quarters  of  the 
way  into  the  back  of  a  black  Chevy  Suburban  that  had  been  modified  to  carry 
such  cargo.  This  was  the  first  time  I  saw  my  "cargo,"  and  I  was  surprised  at 
how  large  the  shipping  container  was.  The  master  gunner}-  sergeant  and  I 
verified  that  the  name  on  the  container  was  Phelps's,  and  then  they  pushed 
him  the  rest  of  the  way  in  and  we  left.  Now  it  was  PFC  Chance  Phelps's  turn 
to  receive  the  military— and  construction  workers'  — honors.  He  was  finally- 
moving  towards  home. 

As  I  chatted  with  the  driver  on  the  hour-long  trip  to  Philadelphia,  it  be- 
came clear  that  he  considered  it  an  honor  to  contribute  to  getting  Chance 
home.  He  offered  his  sympathy  to  the  family.  I  was  glad  finally  to  be  moving, 
yet  I  was  apprehensive  about  what  things  would  be  like  at  the  airport.  I  didn't 
want  this  container  to  be  treated  like  ordinary  cargo,  but  I  knew  that  the  sim- 
ple logistics  of  moving  around  something  this  large  would  be  difficult. 

When  we  got  to  the  Northwest  Airlines  cargo  terminal  at  the  Philadelphia 
airport,  the  cargo  handler  and  hearse  driver  pulled  the  shipping  container 
onto  a  loading  bay  while  I  stood  to  the  side  and  executed  a  slow  salute.  Once 
Chance  was  safely  in  the  cargo  area,  and  I  was  satisfied  that  he  would  be 
treated  with  due  care  and  respect,  the  hearse  driver  drove  me  over  to  the  pas- 
senger terminal  and  dropped  me  off. 

As  I  walked  up  to  the  ticketing  counter  in  my  uniform,  a  Northwest  em- 
ployee started  to  ask  me  if  I  knew  how  to  use  the  automated  boarding-pass 
dispenser.  Before  she  could  finish,  another  ticketing  agent  interrupted  her. 
He  told  me  to  go  straight  to  the  counter,  then  explained  to  the  woman  that 
I  was  a  military  escort.  She  seemed  embarrassed.  The  woman  behind  the 
counter  already  had  tears  in  her  eyes  as  I  was  pulling  out  my  government 
travel  voucher.  She  struggled  to  find  words  but  managed  to  express  her  sym- 
pathy for  the  family  and  thanked  me  for  my  service.  She  upgraded  my  ticket 
to  first  class. 

After  clearing  security,  I  was  met  by  another  Northwest  Airlines  employee 
at  the  gate.  She  told  me  a  representative  from  cargo  would  be  arriving  to  take 
me  down  to  the  tarmac  to  observe  the  movement  and  loading  of  PFC  Phelps. 
I  hadn't  really  told  any  of  them  what  my  mission  was  but  they  all  knew.  When 
the  man  from  the  cargo  crew  met  me,  he,  too,  struggled  for  words.  On  the  tar- 


358  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

mac,  he  told  me  stories  of  his  childhood  as  a  military  brat  and  repeatedly  said 
that  he  was  sorry  for  my  loss.  Even  here  in  Philadelphia,  far  away  from 
Chance's  hometown,  people  were  mourning  with  his  family. 

On  the  tarmac,  the  cargo  crew  was  silent  except  for  when  they  gave  occa- 
sional instructions  to  each  other.  I  stood  to  the  side  and  saluted  as  the  con- 
veyor moved  Chance  to  the  aircraft.  I  was  relieved  when  he  was  finally  settled 
into  place.  The  rest  of  the  bags  were  loaded  and  I  watched  them  shut  the 
cargo-bay  door  before  heading  back  up  to  board  the  aircraft.  One  of  the  pilots 
had  taken  my  carry-on  bag  himself  and  had  it  stored  next  to  the  cockpit  door 
so  he  could  watch  it  while  I  was  on  the  tarmac.  As  I  boarded  the  plane,  I 
could  tell  immediately  that  the  flight  attendants  had  already  been  informed 
of  my  mission.  They  seemed  a  little  choked  up  as  they  led  me  to  my  seat. 

About  forty-five  minutes  into  our  flight,  I  still  hadn't  spoken  to  anyone  ex- 
cept to  tell  the  first-class  flight  attendant  that  I  would  prefer  water.  I  was  sur- 
prised when  the  flight  attendant  from  the  back  of  the  plane  suddenly 
appeared  and  leaned  down  to  grab  my  hands.  She  said,  "I  want  you  to  have 
this,"  as  she  pushed  a  small  gold  crucifix,  with  a  relief  of  Jesus,  into  my  hand. 
It  was  her  lapel  pin  and  it  looked  somewhat  worn.  I  suspected  it  had  been 
hers  for  quite  some  time.  That  was  the  only  thing  she  said  to  me  the  entire 
flight. 

When  we  landed  in  Minneapolis,  I  was  the  first  one  off  the  plane.  The 
pilot  himself  escorted  me  straight  down  the  side  stairs  of  the  exit  tunnel  to  the 
tarmac.  The  cargo  crew  there  already  knew  what  was  on  this  plane.  They 
were  unloading  some  of  the  luggage  when  an  Army  sergeant,  a  fellow  escort 
who  had  left  Dover  earlier  that  day,  appeared  next  to  me.  His  "cargo"  was 
going  to  be  loaded  onto  my  plane  for  its  continuing  leg.  We  stood  side  by  side 
in  the  dark  and  executed  a  slow  salute  as  Chance  was  removed  from  the 
plane.  I  then  waited  with  the  soldier  and  we  saluted  together  as  his  fallen 
comrade  was  loaded  onto  the  plane. 

My  trip  with  Chance  was  going  to  be  somewhat  unusual  in  that  I  had  an 
overnight  stopover.  We  had  a  late  start  out  of  Dover  and  there  was  just  too 
much  traveling  ahead  of  us  to  continue  on  that  day.  (We  still  had  a  flight  from 
Minneapolis  to  Billings,  Montana,  then  a  five-hour  drive  to  the  funeral  home. 
That  was  to  be  followed  by  a  ninety-minute  drive  to  Chance's  hometown.) 

I  was  concerned  about  leaving  him  overnight  in  the  Minneapolis  cargo 
area.  My  ten-minute  ride  from  the  tarmac  to  the  cargo  holding  area  eased  my 
apprehension;  just  as  in  Philadelphia,  the  cargo  guys  in  Minneapolis  were  ex- 


HOME  359 

tremely  respectful  and  seemed  honored  to  do  their  part.  While  talking  with 
them,  I  learned  that  the  cargo  supervisor  for  Northwest  Airlines  at  the  airport 
is  a  lieutenant  colonel  in  the  Marine  Corps  Reserve.  They  called  him  for  me 
and  let  me  talk  to  him. 

Once  I  was  satisfied  that  all  would  be  okay  for  the  night,  I  asked  one  of  the 
cargo  crew  if  he  would  take  me  back  to  the  terminal  so  that  I  could  catch  my 
hotel's  shuttle.  Instead,  he  drove  me  straight  to  the  hotel  himself.  At  the  hotel, 
the  lieutenant  colonel  called  me  and  said  he  would  personally  pick  me  up  in 
the  morning  and  bring  me  back  to  the  cargo  area.  Before  leaving  the  airport, 
I  had  told  the  cargo  crew  that  I  wanted  to  come  back  to  the  cargo  area  in  the 
morning  rather  than  go  straight  to  the  passenger  terminal.  I  felt  bad  for  leav- 
ing Chance  and  wanted  to  see  the  shipping  container  where  I  had  left  it  for 
the  night. 

The  next  morning,  the  lieutenant  colonel  drove  me  to  the  airport,  and  I 
was  met  again  by  a  man  from  the  cargo  crew  and  escorted  down  to  the  tar- 
mac. The  pilot  of  the  plane  joined  me  as  I  waited  for  them  to  bring  Chance 
from  the  cargo  area.  The  pilot  and  I  talked  about  his  service  in  the  Air  Force 
and  how  he  missed  it. 

I  saluted  as  Chance  was  moved  up  the  conveyor  and  onto  the  plane.  It 
would  be  a  while  before  the  luggage  was  loaded,  so  the  pilot  took  me  up  to 
board  the  plane  where  I  could  watch  the  tarmac  from  a  window.  With  no 
other  passengers  yet  on  board,  I  talked  with  the  flight  attendants  and  one  of 
the  cargo  guys.  He  had  been  in  the  Navy  and  one  of  the  attendants  had  been 
in  the  Air  Force.  Everywhere  I  went,  people  were  telling  me  about  their  rela- 
tionship to  the  military.  After  all  the  baggage  was  aboard,  I  went  back  down 
to  the  tarmac,  inspected  the  cargo  bay,  and  watched  them  secure  the  door. 

When  we  arrived  at  Billings,  I  was  again  the  first  off  the  plane.  The  fu- 
neral director  had  driven  five  hours  up  from  Riverton,  Wyoming,  to  meet  us. 
He  shook  my  hand  as  if  I  had  personally  lost  a  brother. 

We  moved  Chance  to  a  secluded  cargo  area,  and  it  was  now  time  for  me 
to  remove  the  shipping  container  and  drape  the  flag  over  the  casket.  I  had 
predicted  that  this  would  choke  me  up,  but  I  found  I  was  more  concerned 
with  proper  flag  etiquette  than  the  solemnity  of  the  moment.  Once  the  flag 
was  in  place,  I  stood  by  and  saluted  as  Chance  was  loaded  onto  the  van  from 
the  funeral  home.  I  picked  up  my  rental  car  and  followed  Chance  for  five 
hours  until  we  reached  Riverton.  During  the  long  trip  I  imagined  how  my 
meeting  with  Chance's  parents  would  go.  I  was  very  nervous  about  that. 


360  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

When  we  finally  arrived  at  the  funeral  home,  I  had  my  first  face-to-face 
meeting  with  the  casualty  assistance  call  officer  (CACO).  It  had  been  his 
duty  to  inform  the  family  of  Chance's  death,  and  I  knew  he  had  been  through 
a  difficult  week. 

Inside  I  gave  the  funeral  director  some  of  the  paperwork  from  Dover  and 
discussed  the  plan  for  the  next  day.  The  service  was  to  be  at  1400  in  the  high 
school  gymnasium  up  in  Dubois,  population  about  nine  hundred,  some 
ninety  miles  away.  Eventually,  we  had  covered  everything.  The  CACO  had 
some  items  that  the  family  wanted  inserted  into  the  casket,  and  I  felt  I  needed 
to  inspect  Chance's  uniform  to  ensure  everything  was  proper.  Although  it  was 
going  to  be  a  closed-casket  funeral,  I  still  wanted  to  make  certain  his  uniform 
was  squared  away. 

Earlier  in  the  day  I  wasn't  sure  how  I'd  handle  this  moment.  Suddenly, 
the  casket  was  open  and  I  got  my  first  look  at  Chance  Phelps.  His  uniform 
was  immaculate— a  tribute  to  the  professionalism  of  the  Marines  at  Dover.  I 
noticed  that  he  wore  six  ribbons  over  his  marksmanship  badge;  the  senior  one 
was  his  Purple  Heart.  I  had  been  in  the  Corps  for  more  than  seventeen  years, 
including  a  combat  tour,  and  was  wearing  eight  ribbons.  This  private  first 
class,  with  less  than  a  year  in  the  Corps,  had  already  earned  six. 

The  next  morning,  I  wore  my  dress  blues  and  followed  the  hearse  for  the 
trip  up  to  Dubois.  This  was  the  most  difficult  leg  of  our  trip  for  me.  I  was  brac- 
ing for  the  moment  when  I  would  meet  his  parents  and  hoping  I  would  find 
the  right  words  as  I  presented  them  with  Chance's  personal  effects.  We  got  to 
the  high  school  gym  about  four  hours  before  the  service  was  to  begin.  The 
gym  floor  was  covered  with  folding  chairs  neatly  lined  in  rows. 

There  were  a  few  townspeople  making  final  preparations  when  I  stood 
next  to  the  hearse  and  saluted  as  Chance  was  moved  out  of  the  hearse  and  into 
the  gym.  A  Marine  sergeant,  the  command  representative  from  Chance's  bat- 
talion, met  me  inside.  His  eyes  were  watery  as  he  relieved  me  of  watching 
Chance  so  that  I  could  go  eat  lunch  and  find  my  hotel. 

At  the  restaurant,  the  table  had  a  flyer  announcing  Chance's  service. 
Dubois  High  School  gym,  two  o'clock.  It  also  said  that  the  family  would  be 
accepting  donations  so  that  they  could  buy  flak  vests  to  send  to  troops  in  Iraq. 

I  drove  back  to  the  gym  at  a  quarter  after  one.  I  could  have  walked;  you 
could  walk  to  just  about  anywhere  in  Dubois  in  ten  minutes.  I  wanted  to  find 
a  quiet  room  where  I  could  take  Chance's  things  out  of  their  pouch  and  un- 


HOME  361 


tangle  the  chain  of  the  Saint  Christopher  medal  from  the  dog-tag  chains  and 
arrange  everything  before  his  parents  came  in.  I  had  twice  before  removed  the 
items  from  the  pouch  to  ensure  they  were  all  there  — even  though  there  was 
no  possibility  anything  could  have  fallen  out.  Each  time,  the  two  chains  had 
been  quite  intertwined.  I  didn't  want  to  be  fumbling  around  trying  to  separate 
them  in  front  of  his  parents.  Our  meeting,  however,  didn't  go  as  expected. 

I  practically  bumped  into  Chance's  stepmom  accidentally  and  our  intro- 
ductions began  in  the  noisy  hallway  outside  the  gym.  In  short  order  I  met 
Chance's  stepmom  and  father,  followed  by  his  stepdad  and,  at  last,  his  mom. 
I  didn't  know  how  to  express  to  these  people  my  sympathy  for  their  loss  and 
my  gratitude  for  their  sacrifice.  Now,  however,  they  were  repeatedly  thanking 
me  for  bringing  their  son  home  and  for  my  service.  I  was  humbled  beyond 
words. 

I  told  them  that  I  had  some  of  Chance's  things  and  asked  if  we  could  try 
to  find  a  quiet  place.  The  five  of  us  ended  up  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  com- 
puter lab  — not  what  I  had  envisioned  for  this  occasion.  After  we  had  arranged 
five  chairs  around  a  small  table,  I  told  them  about  our  trip.  I  told  them  how, 
at  every  step,  Chance  was  treated  with  respect,  dignity,  and  honor.  I  told  them 
about  the  staff  at  Dover  and  all  the  folks  at  Northwest  Airlines.  I  tried  to  con- 
vey how  the  entire  nation,  from  Dover  to  Philadelphia,  to  Minneapolis,  to 
Billings  and  Riverton  expressed  grief  and  sympathy  over  their  loss. 

Finally,  it  was  time  to  open  the  pouch.  The  first  item  I  happened  to  pull 
out  was  Chance's  large  watch.  It  was  still  set  to  Baghdad  time.  Next  were  the 
lanyard  and  the  wooden  cross.  Then  the  dog  tags  and  the  Saint  Christopher 
medal.  This  time  the  chains  were  not  tangled.  Once  all  of  his  items  were  laid 
out  on  the  table,  I  told  his  mom  that  I  had  one  other  item  to  give  them.  I  re- 
trieved the  flight  attendant's  crucifix  from  my  pocket  and  told  its  story.  I  set 
that  on  the  table  and  excused  myself.  When  I  next  saw  Chance's  mom,  she 
was  wearing  the  crucifix  on  her  lapel. 

By  1400  most  of  the  seats  on  the  gym  floor  were  filled  and  people  were 
finding  seats  in  the  fixed  bleachers  high  above  the  gym  floor.  There  were  a 
surprising  number  of  people  in  military  uniform.  Many  Marines  had  come 
up  from  Salt  Lake  City.  Men  from  various  VFW  posts  and  the  Marine  Corps 
League  occupied  multiple  rows  of  folding  chairs.  It  turned  out  that  Chance's 
sister,  a  petty  officer  in  the  Navy,  worked  for  a  rear  admiral— the  chief  of 
naval  intelligence— at  the  Pentagon.  The  admiral  had  brought  many  of  the 


if!  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

sailors  on  his  staff  with  him  to  Dubois  to  pay  respects  to  Chance  and  to  sup- 
port his  sister.  After  a  few  songs  and  some  words  from  a  \a\y  chaplain,  the  ad- 
miral took  the  microphone  and  told  us  how  Chance  had  died. 

Chance  was  an  artillery  cannoneer  and  his  unit  was  acting  as  provisional 
military  police  outside  of  Baghdad.  Chance  had  volunteered  to  man  a  .50- 
caliber  machine  gun  in  the  turret  of  the  leading  vehicle  in  a  convoy.  The 
convoy  came  under  intense  fire  but  Chance  stayed  true  to  his  post  and  re- 
turned fire  with  the  big  gun,  covering  the  rest  of  the  convoy,  until  he  was  fa- 
tally wounded. 

.After  the  admiral  spoke,  the  commander  of  the  local  \"FVY  post  read  some 
of  the  letters  Chance  had  written  home.  In  letters  to  his  mom,  he  talked  of 
the  mosquitoes  and  the  heat.  In  letters  to  his  stepfather,  he  told  of  the  dangers 
of  convoy  operations  and  of  receiving  fire. 

The  service  was  a  fitting  tribute  to  this  hero.  When  it  was  over,  we  stood 

the  casket  was  wheeled  out  with  the  family  following.  The  casket  was 
placed  onto  a  horse-drawn  carriage  for  the  mile-long  trip  from  the  gym,  down 
the  main  street  then  up  the  steep  hill  to  the  cemetery.  I  stood  alone  and 
saluted  as  the  carriage  departed  the  high  school.  I  found  mv  car  and  joined 
Chance's  convoy. 

All  along  the  route,  people  had  lined  the  street  and  were  waxing  small 
American  flags.  The  flags  that  w  ere  otherwise  posted  were  all  at  half-staff.  For 
the  last  quarter  mile  up  the  hill,  local  bov  scouts,  spaced  about  twenty  feet 
apart  all  in  uniform,  held  large  flags.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  I  could  look  up 
and  back  and  see  how  enormous  the  procession  was.  I  wondered  how  many 
people  would  be  at  this  funeral  if  it  were  in,  saw  Detroit  or  Los  Angeles  — 
probably  not  as  many  as  were  here  in  little  Dubois.  \\ \ oming. 

The  carriage  stopped  about  fifteen  yards  from  the  grave,  and  the  military 
pallbearers  and  the  family  waited  until  the  men  of  the  VFW  and  Marine 
Corps  league  were  formed  up  and  the  school  buses  had  arrived,  earning 
many  of  the  people  from  the  procession  route.  Once  the  entire  crowd  was  in 
place,  the  pallbearers  came  to  attention  and  began  to  remove  the  casket  from 
the  caisson.  As  I  had  done  all  week,  I  came  to  attention  and  executed  a  slow 
ceremonial  salute  as  Chance  w  as  being  transferred  from  one  mode  of  trans- 
port to  another. 

From  Dover  to  Philadelphia,  Philadelphia  to  Minneapolis,  Minneapolis 
to  Billings,  Billings  to  Riverton,  and  Riverton  to  Dubois,  we  had  been  to- 
gether. Now,  as  I  watched  them  carry  him  the  final  fifteen  yards,  I  was  chok- 


-  :      : 


ing  up.  I  felt  that  as  long  as  he  was  still  moving,  he  was  somehow  still  alive- 
Then  they  placed  him  at  his  grave.  He  had  stopped  moving, 

:hough  my  mission  had  been  officially  complete  once  I  turned  hrm 
over  to  the  funeral  director  at  the  Billings  airport,  it  was  his  placement  at  his 
grave  that  really  concluded  the  mission  in  my  mind.  Now,  he  was  home  to 
stay  and  I  suddenly  felt  at  once  sad,  relieved,  and  useless. 

The  chaplain  said  some  words  that  I  couldn't  hear  and  two  Marines  re- 
moved the  flag  from  the  casket  and  slowly  folded  it  lor  presentation  to  Ins 
mother.  When  the  ceremony  was  over.  Chance  s  father  placed  a  ribbon  hum 
his  service  in  Vietnam  on  Chance's  casket  His  mother  removed  something 
from  her  blouse  and  put  it  on  the  casket  I  later  saw  that  it  was  the  flight  at- 
tendant's crucifix.  Eventually  friends  of  Chances  moved  closer  to  the  grave. 
A  young  man  put  a  can  of  Copenhagen  on  the  casket  and  many  others  left 
flowers. 

Finally,  we  all  went  back  to  the  gym  for  a  reception-  There  was  enra^i 
food  to  feed  the  entire  population  for  a  few  days.  In  one  comer  of  the  gvm 
there  was  a  table  set  up  with  lots  of  pictures  of  Chance  and  some  of  his  sports 
awards.  People  were  continually  approaching  me  and  the  other  Marines  to 
thank  us  for  our  service.  Almost  all  of  them  had  some  story  to  teO  about  their 
connection  to  the  military.  About  an  hour  into  the  reception,  I  had  the  mi- 
pression  that  every  man  in  Wyoming  had,  at  one  time  or  another,  been  in  the 
service. 

It  seemed  like  every  time  I  saw  Chances  mom,  she  was  hugging  a  defer- 
ent well-wisher.  After  a  few  hours  at  the  ~  I  went  back  to  the  hotel  to 
change  out  of  my  dress  blues.  The  local  \T\V  post  had  invited  everyone  oner 
to  "celebrate  Chance's  life."  The  post  was  on  the  other  end  of  town  from  my 
hotel  and  the  drive  took  less  than  two  minnles  The  crowd  was  somewhat 
smaller  than  earlier  at  the  gym  but  the  place  was  packed. 

.  he  largest  room  in  the  post  was  a  banonet^Junug^dancing  area  and  it  was 
now  being  renamed  "The  Chance  Phelps  Room'  Above  the  entry  were  two 
items:  a  large  portrait  of  Chance  in  his  dress  bines  and  a  wooden  carving  of 
the  Eagle.  Globe,  and  .Anchor,  the  Mar; :.;  J  :  ~  •  e  —  ; .  e  —  ~  r  :  r.  e  ; :  —  e  -  : : 
the  room  there  was  another  memorial  to  Chance  Inere  ek  rwwMr 
ing  around  another  picture  of  him  in  his  blues.  On  the  table  surrounc 
photo  were  his  Purple  Heart  citation  and  Ins  Purple  rleartmerbi  -. :  n 
was  a  television  that  was  playing  a  photomontage  of  Chance  s  life  fror 
boy  to  proud  Marine. 


364  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

As  had  been  happening  all  day,  indeed  all  week,  people  were  thanking 
me  for  bringing  Chance  home.  I  talked  with  the  men  who  had  handled  the 
horses  and  horse-drawn  carriage  and  learned  that  they  had  worked  through 
the  night  to  groom  and  prepare  the  horses  for  Chance's  last  ride.  They  were 
all  very  grateful  that  they  were  able  to  contribute. 

After  a  while  we  all  gathered  in  the  Chance  Phelps  Room  for  the  formal 
dedication.  The  post  commander  told  us  of  how  Chance  had  been  so  looking 
forward  to  becoming  a  life  member  of  the  VFW.  Now,  in  the  Chance  Phelps 
Room  of  the  Dubois,  Wyoming,  post,  he  would  be  an  eternal  member.  We  all 
raised  our  beers  and  the  room  was  christened. 

Later,  a  staff  sergeant  from  the  reserve  unit  in  Salt  Lake  grabbed  me  and 
said,  "Sir,  you  gotta  hear  this."  There  were  two  other  Marines  with  him  and 
he  told  the  younger  one,  a  lance  corporal,  to  tell  me  his  story.  The  staff 
sergeant  said  the  lance  corporal  was  normally  too  shy  to  tell  it,  but  now  he'd 
had  enough  beer  to  overcome  his  usual  modesty.  As  the  lance  corporal 
started  to  talk,  an  older  man  joined  our  circle.  He  wore  a  baseball  cap  that  in- 
dicated that  he  had  been  with  the  ist  Marine  Division  in  Korea.  Earlier  in  the 
evening,  he  had  told  me  about  one  of  his  former  commanding  officers,  a 
Colonel  Puller. 

So,  there  I  was,  standing  in  a  circle  with  three  Marines  recently  returned 
from  fighting  with  the  ist  Marine  Division  in  Iraq  and  one  not-so-recently  re- 
turned from  fighting  with  the  ist  Marine  Division  in  Korea.  I,  who  had  fought 
with  the  ist  Marine  Division  in  Kuwait,  was  about  to  gain  a  new  insight  into 
our  Corps.  At  that  moment,  in  this  circle  of  current  and  former  Marines,  the 
differences  in  our  ages  and  ranks  dissipated— we  were  all  simply  Marines. 
The  young  lance  corporal  began  to  tell  us  his  story. 

His  squad  had  been  on  a  patrol  through  a  city  street.  They  had  taken 
small-arms  fire  and  had  literally  dodged  a  rocket-propelled  grenade  that 
sailed  between  two  Marines.  At  one  point  they  received  fire  from  behind  a 
wall  and  had  neutralized  the  sniper  with  a  SMAW  (shoulder-launched  mul- 
tipurpose assault  weapon)  round.  The  back  blast  of  the  SMAW,  however, 
kicked  up  a  substantial  rock  that  hammered  the  lance  corporal  in  the  thigh, 
missing  his  groin  only  because  he  had  reflexively  turned  his  body  sideways  at 
the  shot. 

Their  squad  had  suffered  some  wounded  and  was  receiving  more  sniper 
fire  when  suddenly  he  was  hit  in  the  head  by  an  AK-47  round.  I  was  stunned 
as  he  told  us  how  he  felt  like  a  baseball  bat  had  been  slammed  into  his  head. 


HOME  365 

He  had  spun  around  and  fallen  unconscious.  When  he  came  to,  he  had  a  se- 
vere scalp  wound  but  his  Kevlar  helmet  had  saved  his  life.  He  continued  with 
his  unit  for  a  few  days  before  realizing  he  was  suffering  the  effects  of  a  severe 
concussion. 

The  staff  sergeant  finished  the  story.  He  told  how  this  lance  corporal  had 
begged  and  pleaded  with  the  battalion  surgeon  to  let  him  stay  with  his  unit. 
In  the  end,  the  doctor  said  there  was  just  no  way;  he  had  suffered  a  severe  and 
traumatic  head  wound  and  would  have  to  be  medevac'd. 

The  Marine  Corps  is  a  special  fraternity.  There  are  moments  when  we  are 
reminded  of  this.  Interestingly,  those  moments  don't  always  happen  at  awards 
ceremonies  or  in  dress  blues  at  Birthday  Balls.  I  have  found,  rather,  that  they 
occur  at  unexpected  times  and  places  — next  to  a  loaded  moving  van  at  Camp 
Lejeune's  base  housing,  in  a  dirty  tent  in  northern  Saudi  Arabia,  and  in  a 
smoky  VFW  post  in  western  Wyoming. 

After  the  story  was  done,  the  lance  corporal  stepped  over  to  the  old  man, 
put  his  arm  over  the  man's  shoulder,  and  told  him  that  he,  the  Korean  War 
vet,  was  his  hero.  The  two  of  them  stood  there  with  their  arms  over  each 
other's  shoulders,  and  we  were  all  silent  for  a  moment.  When  they  let  go,  I 
told  the  lance  corporal  that  there  were  recruits  down  on  the  yellow  footprints 
tonight  who  would  soon  be  learning  his  story. 

I  was  finished  drinking  beer  and  telling  stories.  I  found  Chance's  father 
and  shook  his  hand  one  more  time.  Chance's  mom  had  already  left,  and  I 
deeply  regretted  not  being  able  to  tell  her  goodbye. 

I  left  Dubois  in  the  morning  before  sunrise  for  my  long  drive  back  to 
Billings.  It  had  been  my  honor  to  take  Chance  Phelps  to  his  final  post.  Now 
he  is  on  the  high  ground  overlooking  his  town. 

I  miss  him. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

Letters 
DeEtte  and  Rex  Wood 


Late  in  the  evening  on  November  1,  2004,  U.S.  Marine  Lance  Corporal 
Nathan  Wood  e-mailed  his  family  from  Iraq  to  let  them  know  that  he  was 
about  to  participate  in  a  massive  operation.  "Hey  guys  whats  up,"  he  began, 


366  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

im  doing  good  dont  worn'  so  much  the  big  hit  hasnt  gone  on  yet  but 
very  very  soon  within  the  next  week  or  so.  I  cant  tell  vou  the  exact  date 
over  the  internet  but  its  coming  soon.  Technically  i  cant  even  tell  vou 
the  city  but  you  already  know  wich  one  im  talking  about.  It  is  going 
to  be  very  interesting  to  see  how  this  turns  out  because  im  not  even 
sure  anymore,  but  dont  worry.  .  .  .  if  vou  hear  on  the  news  about  3/1 
Lima  company  thats  me  and  my  guys  so  keep  an  eve  out.  .  .  .  Also  lis- 
ten for  stuff  about  a  train  station.  .  .  .  lfi  dont  get  to  talk  to  you  all  for 
awhile  i  love  you  and  ill  rry  to  write  or  call  when  i  get  a  chance. 

The  city  was  the  insurgent  stronghold  ofFallujah,  and  the  train  station 
was  going  to  be  transformed  into  a  fonvard  base  by  the  Marines.  Eight  davs 
had  passed  since  Nathans  last  message,  and  there  was  still  no  word  from 
him.  On  November  9,  his  mother,  DeEtte,  sent  him  the  following  e-mail 
with  the  subject  heading  "Are  you  still  alive": 

It  is  11.30  am  Tuesday  the  gth.  I  watched  the  news  till  1:00  last  night 
and  there  was  nothing  new.  I  woke  up  at  yoo  and  still  nothing  new. 
At  10:00 1  watched  a  news  conference  and  heard  that  there  were  quite 
a  few  casualties.  I  searched  the  internet  and  could  not  find  anything 
specific.  I  did  find  that  there  were  3  marines  and  6  soldiers  killed.  One 
soldier  interviewed  said  there  were  a  lot  of  troops  injured.  I  hope  you 
are  ok.  All  I  can  do  is  watch  and  hope  no  one  knocks  on  our  door.  Ac- 
cording to  the  neM?s  conference  they  sav  vou  are  ahead  of  schedule. 
That  gives  me  hope  that  the  heavy  fighting  will  be  over  soon  but  I 
know  you  will  still  not  be  safe  till  you  come  home.  Til  keep  prov- 
ing. .  .  . 

The  knock  that  DeEtte  feared  more  than  anything  in  the  world  came  al- 
most twelve  hours  later;  a  few  minutes  after  11:00  p.m.  on  November  9, 
2004,  three  casualty  notification  officers  arrived  at  the  Kirkland.  Washing- 
ton, home  of  DeEtte  and  Rex  Wood  and  informed  them  that  their  nineteen- 
year-old  son  had  been  killed  in  Fallujah.  Nathan  had  been  shot  while 
conducting  a  door-to-door  sweep  through  an  apartment  complex  the  morn- 
ing (Iraq  time)  of  the  ninth,  and  he  died  instantly.  For  parents,  like  the 
Woods,  confronted  with  the  trauma  of  losing  a  child,  the  grief  can  seem  end- 
less and  all-consuming.  Some  rry  to  cope  with  the  pain  by  writing  a  letter  to 


HOME  367 

the  deceased,  expressing  how  much  he  (or  she)  is  still— and  always  will 
be— loved  and  missed.  On  the  first  Memorial  Day  after  Nathans  death, 
both  of  his  parents  wrote  letters  to  their  son  after  visiting  the  Garden  of  Re- 
membrance in  Seattle.  His  mothers  letter  follows. 

Dear  Nathan, 

Today  is  May  30,  2005,  Memorial  Day.  You  have  been  gone  for  almost  7 
months.  Sometimes  I  still  don't  believe  it.  I  never  really  understood  what 
Memorial  Day  was  about  until  this  weekend.  I  was  browsing  through  the 
mall  and  felt  so  angry  that  the  stores  were  taking  advantage  of  this  holiday  to 
push  their  sales.  I  wish  I  was  still  naive  and  could  celebrate  as  though  it  were 
a  "holiday  weekend."  I  will  never  look  at  this  weekend  the  same.  Today  I 
share  in  the  grief  that  many  other  families  have  known  since  losing  someone 
they  love  fighting  for  their  country.  Your  name  has  been  added  to  the  Garden 
of  Remembrance  in  Seattle.  There  are  more  than  8,000  names  listed  on  this 
wall  since  WWII.  I  am  very  proud  to  see  your  name  among  so  many  other 
American  Hero's.  I  want  you  to  know  that  seeing  your  name  in  stone  will 
never  replace  the  real  memories  I  have  of  you.  I  will  always  miss  your  crooked 
smile,  your  red  cheeks  and  freckles,  your  smell  and  most  of  all  I  will  miss 
never  being  able  to  hug  you  again. 

Since  you  have  been  gone  I  have  been  in  contact  with  some  of  your  fel- 
low marines.  Your  friend  Derrick  has  adopted  your  father  and  I  to  be  grand- 
parents of  his  wonderful  boys.  Derrick  and  his  wife  had  a  baby  boy  on 
February  16, 2005.  They  thought  so  much  of  you  that  they  now  have  a  Nathan 
of  their  own.  We  will  enjoy  watching  Nathan  and  his  big  brother  Trent  grow 
up.  Jacob  and  his  wife  Priscilla  will  soon  be  having  a  child  of  their  own.  Gar- 
ret too  is  doing  well.  His  parents  call  us  often  to  see  how  we  are  doing. 

Anne  Larson,  Nick's  mother  and  I  email  often.  She  too  is  taking  the  loss 
of  her  son  just  as  hard.  We  do  take  some  comfort  knowing  that  you  and  Nick 
died  together.  I  have  recently  been  in  contact  with  Michael's  mother,  Karen. 
I  am  hoping  that  some  day  we  can  all  get  together  to  share  memories  of  our 
brave  son's. 

Not  a  day  goes  by  that  I  don't  think  of  you.  I  never  knew  that  love  could 
hurt  so  much.  There  are  so  many  things  that  spark  a  memory  of  you— a  song, 
a  boy  in  a  baseball  cap  and  baggy  pants,  a  skateboarder.  I  wish  I  could  spend 
another  summer  at  the  cabin  with  you.  I  know  that  when  you  were  there  you 
were  in  heaven.  When  I  think  of  you  now  I  know  that  you  are  on  the  lake  fish- 


368  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

ing  with  your  friends  and  I  know  that  someday  I  can  join  you.  Until  then  lit- 
tle man  I  love  you  and  I  hold  you  close  to  my  heart. 

Love, 
Mom 


Nathans  father  wrote  the  following: 

To  my  son,  my  hero  Nathan  R.  Wood 

With  memories  of  a  little  boy  who  brought  me  such  happiness  playing  in 
the  yard  with  his  dog,  playing  catch  in  the  back  yard  and  trying  his  best  to 
help  his  father  in  anyway  he  could. 

To  the  little  boy  who  wore  my  shoes  and  gloves  that  were  five  times  the 
size  of  his  own  hands  and  feet  trying  to  be  like  me.  One  who  would  ride  with 
me  in  the  mountains  of  Montana  on  my  motorcycle  and  spend  all  day  with 
me  just  being  happy  to  be  in  those  mountains  and  to  do  a  little  fishing  and 
talking. 

As  you  got  older  into  your  teens  I  lost  you  because  I  couldn't  seem  to  re- 
member what  it  was  like  to  be  a  teenager  and  we  grew  apart.  You  became 
your  own  man  and  became  a  Marine.  On  that  day  of  graduation  at  MCRD  I 
felt  so  proud  of  you,  you  had  made  it  and  you  knew  you  would,  you  were  a 
true  Marine. 

As  I  told  you  on  the  phone  while  you  were  in  Iraq,  it  is  strange  how  the 
farther  away  you  are  the  closer  that  we  seem  to  be  getting.  I  longed  for  the  day 
that  you  would  come  back  home  so  that  we  could  start  again  and  be  close 
once  again  but  that  day  will  never  come. 

Today  as  we  stand  in  front  of  this  memorial  wall  with  your  name  etched 
into  it,  I  feel  a  great  emptiness  inside  knowing  that  I  will  never  get  to  tell  you 
I  love  you  and  to  thank  you  for  all  that  you  have  done.  You  have  given  the 
greatest  sacrifice  for  your  family  and  your  country.  You  have  given  more  in 
your  short  life  then  I  will  ever  be  able  to  give  in  my  entire  lifetime  and  that 
son  is  why  you  are  my  hero. 

When  I  see  the  pain  and  loss  in  your  mother  since  your  passing  I  would 
gladly  change  places  with  you  so  that  she  could  hug  you  and  smile  once 
more.  I  will  never  forget  you  and  I  hope  that  you  are  in  a  better  place.  I  miss 
you. 

Dad 


HOME  369 


THE  HARDEST  LETTER  TO  WRITE 

Journal 
Staff  Sergeant  Parker  Gyokeres 


Members  of  Staff  Sergeant  Parker  Gyokeres  s  family  have  served  in  every 
major  American  conflict  since,  in  his  words,  uthe  defense  of  Jamestown  in 
1609."  Gyokeres  himself  was  deployed  to  Iraq  to  provide  "force  protection" 
for  the  air  base  in  Tallil  from  November  2003  through  March  2004  with  the 
U.S.  Air  Force's  332nd  Fighter  Wing.  His  younger  brother,  Zachary,  also  a 
staff  sergeant  in  the  Air  Force,  was  assigned  as  a  flight  engineer  on  a  com- 
bat rescue  helicopter  in  Afghanistan  shortly  before  Parker  left  for  Iraq.  Dur- 
ing his  five  months  in  Tallil,  Parker  Gyokeres  wrote  hundreds  of  pages  of 
journals,  all  of  which  he  e-mailed  to  his  wife,  relatives,  and  other  loved  ones 
back  home.  (He  has  another  excerpt  featured  on  pages  134-39.)  Gyokeres 
downplayed  the  risks  he  faced,  and  the  majority  of  his  journals  detailed  the 
more  offbeat  and  humorous  incidents  that  helped  him  endure  the  monot- 
ony of  life  on  an  air  base  in  the  middle  of  the  desert.  But  there  are  also  mo- 
ments in  his  journals  when  the  true  nature  of  war  reveals  itself  in  all  its 
cruelty.  Perhaps  the  most  serious  of  his  entries  is  the  final  one,  which,  even 
after  he  e-mailed  it  to  friends  and  family  months  after  returning  home,  he 
continued  to  edit.  Gyokeres  was  no  longer  writing  for  them.  He  was  writing 
for  himself. 

Hello  all, 

This  has  been,  by  far,  the  hardest  letter  to  write.  I  returned  home  to  the 
dichotomy  of  being  universally  welcomed  with  open,  respectful,  grateful 
arms— by  a  country  that  is  increasingly  against  why  I  was  ever  in  Iraq.  I  per- 
formed my  mission  well  and  have  great  pride  in  my  actions,  and  those  of  my 
peers,  but  I  can  also  understand  why  people  are  questioning  if  there  is  any  long- 
term  hope  for  Iraq  and  its  people.  The  reason  we  were  sent  there  in  the  first 
place  will  require  a  lot  more  study,  but  that's  another  book  for  another  person. 

The  main  issue  for  me  has  been  adjusting  to  a  life  without  the  dear 
friends  I  served  with  and  whom  I  grew  to  love  — and,  without  whom,  I  felt 
lost,  alone,  and  unable  to  relate  to  others.  I  am  told  this  is  normal.  That  did 
not,  however,  make  it  easier.  And  I  know  I'm  doing  better  than  many  for 
whom  I  care  deeply.  They  hide  it  well,  but  they  are  struggling. 


370  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

The  world  I  returned  to  was  disorienting,  confusing,  and  frustrating  to 
me.  The  racket  and  clutter  of  daily  life  gave  me  a  tremendous  headache.  I 
now  know  why  some  people  choose  to  simply  unplug  and  move  into  the 
woods.  Obviously  we  heard  our  share  of  noise  in  Iraq,  some  of  it  sudden  and 
terrifying,  but  overall  it  wasn't  so  incessant.  Wherever  I  walk  today  I  feel  like 
I'm  surrounded  by  a  barrage  of  electronic  trash  — music  blasting  everywhere, 
cell  phones  ringing,  people  chatting  away  and  having  the  most  inane  conver- 
sations, and  all  of  it  louder  than  when  I  left  for  Iraq.  Over  there,  we  had  the 
comforting  simplicity  of  a  routine.  There  was  a  purify  to  our  lives.  There  were 
life-and-death  implications  to  our  actions,  but  all  we  had  to  worry  about  was 
our  friends  and  ourselves.  I'm  not  saying  that  either  we  or  our  jobs  are  any 
better  or  worse  than  anyone  else's  back  here,  but  just  different.  I'm  slowly  ac- 
climating to  a  civilian  world  and  the  speed  of  modern  life,  but  it  has  not  al- 
ways been  pleasant. 

For  a  while  I  truly  wished  I  was  still  in  Iraq.  As  much  as  I  looked  forward 
to  leaving,  when  I  got  back  to  the  U.S.  a  part  of  me  wanted  to  return  imme- 
diately. My  wife  was  upset  to  hear  me  say  that,  for  a  while,  I  preferred  a  war 
zone  to  a  home  life.  Again,  I  am  not  alone.  Some  of  my  friends  and  other  re- 
turning veterans  I  know  have  talked  about  this  as  well.  Departing  Tallil  was 
like  leaving  a  family.  We  also  left  behind  memories,  some  of  them  beautiful 
and  some  horrific,  that  left  a  deep  impression  on  us. 

Traumatic,  life-changing,  or  profoundly  spiritual  events  can  bond  people 
together  in  ways  that  are  hard  to  explain.  My  friends  and  I  shared  all  three.  I 
do  not  want  to  overstate  my  own  situation  or  suggest  I  was  in  grave  danger.  I 
was  not.  But  there  are  experiences  I  had  and  things  I  saw  that  were  extremely 
disturbing.  The  worst,  by  far,  came  only  two  days  after  we  arrived  at  Tallil, 
when  I  had  my  first  opportunity  to  work  in  our  visitor  control  center  at  the 
base.  I  had  been  on  duty  for  only  a  few  hours  when  a  call  came  over  the  radio 
that  there  was  a  local  ambulance  en  route  to  pick  up  an  Iraqi  bombing  casu- 
alty. Moments  later  an  Army  Humvee  arrived  carrying  two  soldiers  who  iden- 
tified themselves  as  the  ones  tasked  to  meet  the  ambulance.  They  explained 
to  me  that  they  were  there  to  transfer  to  the  Iraqis  a  body— the  body  of  an 
eight-week-old  infant  killed  by  a  bomb  set  off  by  insurgents. 

I  will  never  forget  the  sight  of  those  soldiers  reaching  into  a  grossly  over- 
sized body  bag,  folded  into  quarters,  and  then  removing  a  package  no  bigger 
than  a  travel  pillow.  It  was  anointed  in  oils  and  wrapped  in  ceremonial  muslin 
dressings  for  a  religious  burial.  Instantly  a  hush  fell  over  the  small  group  as 


HOME  371 

the  child  was  gently  carried  from  the  back  of  that  beaten-down,  ugly  Humvee 
and  solemnly  placed  on  a  nest  of  blankets  inside  the  Iraqi  ambulance.  Both 
vehicles  then  slowly  pulled  away,  leaving  a  semicircle  of  terribly  scarred  peo- 
ple in  its  wake.  I  felt  like  somebody  had  punched  me  hard  in  the  stomach. 

You  do  not  forget  moments  like  these. 

Just  over  a  week  later,  a  critically  wounded  man  arrived  at  the  base  in  a 
gutted  Iraqi  ambulance  with  four  other  men.  One  of  his  companions,  whom 
we  were  told  was  his  brother,  whispered  into  his  ear,  and  held  the  man's  head 
and  smoothed  his  matted  hair,  while  he  rocked  back  and  forth,  clearly  in 
great  emotional  distress.  The  man's  injuries  were  sickening.  His  hands  were 
stumps,  and  all  his  wounds  were  terribly  infected.  His  breathing  was  very 
slow,  incredibly  labored,  and  punctuated  with  large,  gasping  heaves.  There 
were  black  flies  everywhere,  and  he  looked  sallow,  sunken,  and  transparent,  a 
husk  of  a  man  covered  in  fresh  scabs  and  badly  drawn  tattoos.  I  recognized 
some  of  the  tattoos  as  those  of  the  infamous  Fedayeen,  the  brutal  terror  thugs 
of  Saddam's  regime.  If  there  was  ever  a  "Bad"  guy  I  would  encounter  in  my 
life,  those  tattoos  told  me  all  I  needed  to  know.  Here  was  a  man  who  looked 
fifty  but  was  probably  only  thirty,  and  would  never  see  thirty-one.  He  had 
lived  a  hard  life  and  would  meet  a  hard  death,  and  I  stood  and  watched,  with- 
out remorse. 

One  of  my  fellow  force  protection  escorts  (who  is  a  medic  at  Wilford  Hall, 
the  AF's  largest  hospital)  did  an  appraisal.  While  snapping  off  her  gloves,  she 
said,  "This  man  is  going  to  die  whether  he's  given  treatment  or  not,  and  there 
isn't  a  single  thing  any  hospital  can  do  about  it.  It's  too  late."  It  was  a  brutal 
statement,  totally  lacking  in  compassion,  but  it  was  an  honest  and  logical  one 
that  we  all  at  the  time  readily  accepted.  There  was  one  among  us,  however, 
who  felt  that  even  if  the  man  was  going  to  die,  he  wasn't  beyond  mercy.  As  the 
first  medic  climbed  out  of  the  ambulance,  the  second  one  quietly  placed 
gloves  on  her  hands  and  with  grim  determination  climbed  into  that  reeking, 
fly-infested,  and  urine-soaked  ambulance,  alone.  She  looked  at  us  with  cold 
flint  in  her  eyes,  as  if  daring  us  to  do  something  different,  and  began  waving 
a  small  piece  of  cardboard  over  the  dying  man's  face  to  keep  the  flies  away.  As 
we  stood  there  stunned  by  her  compassion,  she  began  to  do  the  unthinkable, 
as  a  small,  lone  female  in  a  vehicle  full  of  hostile,  frustrated  Muslim  men. 
She  began  to  pray  for  him. 

As  I  realized  what  she  was  up  to,  I  became  concerned  for  her  safety— a  lit- 
tle at  first,  and  then  more  so  as  each  second  passed.  She  was  female,  and  if 


372  OPERATIONHOMECOMING 

these  men  became  offended  it  would  be  very  hard  to  get  her  out  of  that  am- 
bulance uninjured.  As  I  moved  closer  to  the  door  of  the  ambulance  to  reach 
in  and  snatch  her  out  if  things  went  south,  I  discreetly  slid  my  weapon  sling 
into  my  hands,  behind  my  back.  The  men  asked  our  interpreter  what  she  was 
doing.  He  said,  "Praving."  Immediately,  they  all  laughed  out  loud  at  her  for 
being  so  foolish.  Our  interpreter  shot  back  at  them,  "No,  no,  don't  laugh, 
she's  doing  this  because  she  believes  only  God  can  help  him.  She's  trying  to 
help  your  brother.  \\  nere  is  your  faith?" 

At  that,  the  men  instantly  fell  silent  and  looked  chastened.  The  man's 
brother  shakily  took  off  his  shoes  and  knelt  inside  the  tiny  ambulance  with  his 
forehead  against  the  filth v  floor  and  began  to  pray  for  his  dying  brother.  The 
other  three  took  off  their  shoes  where  they  stood,  amongst  at  least  fifteen 
armed  escorts,  medics,  and  translators,  and  knelt  on  the  ground  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mecca  and  began  to  pray  to  Allah.  The  fearless  faith  of  one  person 
changed  the  hearts  of  four  angrv  men  with  a  single  silent  praver.  Those  men 
were  humbled  and  suddenly  very  different  as  they  prayed  fervently  to  Allah. 

Later,  when  I  asked  her  how  she  could  do  what  she  did,  all  alone  and 
oblivious  to  her  safety,  she  said  to  me  in  a  strong  voice,  "I  wasn't  alone  in  that 
ambulance." 

It  took  a  week  of  wearing  a  mask  of  brittle  bravado  for  me  to  finally  begin 
talking  with  my  friends  about  what  I  had  seen.  I  had  been  furious  with  God 
for  allowing  so  much  pain  into  our  world,  for  allowing  people  to  act  like  soul- 
less animals  and  kill  infants,  for  allowing  all  of  this  to  happen  in  the  first 
place,  and  I  felt  physically  sick  having  witnessed  what  evils  man  is  capable  of. 
The  courage  of  this  extraordinary  woman  gave  me  something  to  cling  to. 

These  are  the  people  I  left  behind. 

Many  of  us  also  came  to  admire  and  even  love  some  of  the  Iraqis  we  met. 
Yes,  there  were  troops  who  grew  to  distrust  and  hate  them,  especially  as  ten- 
sions escalated  and  it  was  harder  to  tell  the  good  guys  from  the  bad  guys.  But 
a  lot  of  us  had  very  positive  experiences  with  the  locals.  They  genuinely 
wanted  us  to  remember  them  as  happy,  intelligent,  fun-loving  people  and, 
most  importantly,  as  friends.  I  have  heard  many  times,  "You  need  to  come 
back  years  from  now  and  visit  us  with  your  family."  To  be  torn  from  a  place 
that  has  become  so  much  a  part  of  your  own  life  and  where  so  many  intense 
memories  are  rooted  is  much  harder  than  people  might  imagine. 

As  difficult  as  things  were  when  I  got  home,  sitting  here  now  I  fully  real- 
ize how  blessed  I  am  — and  was  over  there.  Our  base  in  Tallil  was  relatively 


HOME  373 

safe,  far  from  constant  mortar  attacks,  car  bombs,  and  truly  wicked  people  try- 
ing to  do  desperate,  vicious  things  to  us.  Others  had  it  much,  much  worse. 
They  are  the  true  heroes  of  this  war.  And  they  are  the  ones  I  think  of  most  as 
I  write  this. 

One  friend  of  mine  at  Tallil,  who  was  very  full  of  life  and  sang  in  the  little 
church  choir  we  had  organized,  was  temporarily  transferred  to  a  base  closer 
to  Baghdad  and  in  a  considerably  more  dangerous  area.  When  I  saw  her 
again,  it  was  as  if  only  her  ghost  had  returned.  She  never  came  back  to  the 
church  — or  to  us.  She  pretty  much  kept  to  herself,  and  it  was  painful  to  watch 
this  once  gregarious  woman  become  so  distant  and  reserved.  Others  reached 
out  to  her,  but  to  no  avail. 

I  saw  her  in  passing  one  day,  and  I  finally  asked  her  how  she  was  doing.  I 
was  genuinely  interested  to  hear  the  truth,  her  truth;  for  it  was  obvious  that 
there  was  a  real  event,  or  perhaps  many,  that  had  caused  her  to  withdraw .  She 
suddenly  grew  dark,  and  a  cold  expression,  like  the  sudden  remembrance  of 
a  lost  loved  one,  came  across  her  face.  Instantly  I  knew  I  had  screw  ed  up  and 
had  carelessly  trampled  on  an  unseen  line.  I  w  anted  to  take  it  back,  but  it  was 
too  late.  The  awkward  silence  was  broken  by  her  curt  reply,  which,  in  so 
many  words,  was  not  only  her  answer  to  the  question  but  an  indication  that 
the  conversation  was  over  entirely:  "I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it."  She  then 
turned  and  walked  away. 

We  never  spoke  again. 

In  hindsight,  and  knowing  the  subject  might  still  be  raw,  I  should  have 
waited  before  asking— or  given  her  time  to  approach  me  or  someone  else. 
Until  I  came  home  and  watched  as  other  friends  wTestled  with  their  emotions, 
it  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  how  debilitating  weeks  of  trauma  and  stress  can 
be.  It  was  a  sobering  realization,  and  I  wondered  how  many  others  like  her 
have  we  created  in  these  last  few  years?  How  many  others  live  with  the  shock- 
ing and  barbaric  images  of  war  that  are  seared  into  ones  memory  forever?  I 
pray  that  they  will  find  someone  they  can  confide  in  and  unload  this  burden 
so  that  the  pain  they  cam'  with  them  is  lessened  over  time.  My  writing  gave 
me  an  outlet  while  I  was  over  there,  and  it  continues  to  help  me  now. 

I  was  fortunate  not  only  because  I  had  it  easy  compared  to  so  many  other 
troops,  but  because  my  wife  supported  me  during  my  angry,  confused,  and 
sleepless  times.  I  cannot  thank  her  enough  for  this,  and  she  has  always  been 
there  for  me  and  never  stopped  loving  me.  This  is  all  that  matters,  and  I  do 
not  want  to  leave  her  again  or  make  her  go  through  all  the  anxieties  and  w  or- 


374  OPERATION     HOMECOMING 

ries  that  she  silently  endured  as  well.  My  wife  could  not  understand  how  I 
could  become  so  close  to  people  I  had  served  with  for  such  a  relatively  short 
period,  and  she  was  upset  about  my  apparent  inability  to  leave  it  all  behind. 
But  it  was  for  my  own  well-being  that  she  was  concerned,  and  not  out  of  jeal- 
ousy. Most  importantly,  she  knew  when  to  listen  and  when  to  let  me  work 
through  my  emotions. 

This  is  perhaps  the  most  important  thing  any  loved  one  or  friend  can  do. 
Those  of  us  coming  back  from  Iraq  or  Afghanistan  are  not  looking  for  sym- 
pathy. We  might  be  reluctant  at  first  to  talk  about  what  we've  been  through, 
good  or  bad,  and  some  troops  might  never  be  able  to  open  up,  which  is  cer- 
tainly their  right.  There  are  also  things  about  war  that  people  will  never  com- 
prehend unless  they  have  experienced  them  firsthand.  But  I  hope  that  those 
who  need  to  will  reach  out,  and  it's  helpful  knowing  that  there  are  people 
who  care  about  us  and  are  at  least  making  an  effort  to  understand. 

Your  support  has  made  this  journey  an  incredible  one  for  me,  and  I 
couldn't  have  gone  through  it  alone.  Thanks  for  joining  me  — and  thanks, 
above  all,  for  listening. 

Parker 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


The  morning  after  National  Endowment  for  the  Arts  Chairman  Dana  Gioia 
launched  Operation  Homecoming,  our  agency  received  a  heartfelt  thank- 
you  letter  from  former  NEA  literature  fellow  Richard  Currey.  Having  served 
as  a  medic  in  Vietnam,  Currey  knew  well  the  benefit  of  unburdening  oneself 
through  story  about  the  trauma  of  war.  His  letter  was  soon  followed  by  more 
from  World  War  II,  Korean  War,  and  Vietnam  War  veterans.  They  com- 
mended the  NEA  for  creating  a  program  that  they  wished  had  been  available 
following  their  combat  years. 

Currey  soon  joined  our  team  of  thirty-four  distinguished  writers  who 
taught  workshops,  recorded  war  literature,  penned  essays  for  our  website,  and 
evaluated  the  writing  submitted  to  the  program. 

While  it  is  hard  to  reduce  fifty  workshops  to  a  few  examples,  we  recall  in 
particular  Mark  Bowden's  brilliant  explication  of  Orwell's  "A  Hanging"  and 
how  he  had  constructed  Black  Hawk  Down;  Victor  Davis  Hanson  taking  a 
room  of  Marines,  soon  to  deploy  to  Iraq,  back  in  time  to  how  the  Greek 
hoplites  fought  in  phalanxes;  on  the  USS  Carl  Vinson  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Jeff  Shaara's  passionate  discussions  of  historical  fiction  and  his  re-creation  of 
the  boyhood  moment  with  his  father  at  Gettysburg  when  Killer  Angels  was 
born;  Marilyn  Nelson,  with  her  quiet,  calming  voice  of  peace,  talking  about 
the  kinship  of  poetry  and  meditation,  and  the  responsibility  to  oneself  and 


376  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

one's  community  to  be  a  chronicler;  Bobbie  Ann  Mason's  reflections  at 
Camp  Lejeune  on  the  Vietnam  Veterans  Memorial  and  the  stories  beneath 
the  carved  names,  including  those  of  the  families  left  behind;  at  Fort  Bragg, 
Stephen  Lang's  evocative  reading  of  a  workshop  poem  about  a  fallen  soldier's 
empty  boots,  written  by  a  Special  Forces  troop  too  overcome  by  tears  to  recite 
it  himself.  For  such  exchanges,  we  are  deeply  grateful  to  every  writer  who  par- 
ticipated. 

But  the  greatest  thanks  goes  to  the  men  and  women  in  uniform,  and  their 
families,  who  welcomed  Operation  Homecoming  into  their  lives.  They  read- 
ily accepted  instruction  about  the  craft  of  writing  as  well  as  critiques  of  their 
own  efforts.  Though  it  was  often  heartbreaking  to  read  the  ten  thousand 
pages  produced,  the  most  difficult  task  for  our  editorial  panel  was  evaluating 
the  submissions  with  the  knowledge  that  only  5  percent  could  be  included  in 
the  anthology. 

After  an  intensive  reading  of  the  panel's  recommended  pieces,  Andrew 
Carroll  conceived  of  the  anthology  as  an  epic  narrative,  ordered  the  entries 
accordingly,  edited  them  for  length  with  the  approval  of  the  submitters,  and 
wrote  insightful  headnotes  to  establish  historical  context— all  this  and  more, 
without  compensation.  A  true  man  of  letters,  Carroll  exhibits  in  his  writing  a 
scholar's  intellect  and  a  war  correspondent's  immediacy. 

Following  a  competitive  process  skillfully  managed  by  literary  agent 
Miriam  Altshuler,  Random  House  was  chosen  as  our  publisher  and— to  our 
good  fortune— Nancy  Miller  as  our  editor.  Senior  vice  president  and  execu- 
tive editor  at  Random  House,  Nancy  has  an  exceptional  ability  to  discern 
where  a  narrative  is  waning.  And  to  anyone  who  says  editors  don't  know  how 
to  line  edit  anymore,  we  offer  Nancy  as  clear  proof  that  Maxwell  Perkins  has 
his  inheritors.  We  also  appreciate  the  support  of  Gina  Centrello,  president 
and  publisher  of  Random  House;  Tom  Perry,  associate  publisher;  Sally  Mar- 
vin, director  of  publicity;  Jynne  Martin,  assistant  director  of  publicity;  and 
Sanyu  Dillon,  director  of  marketing. 

Without  the  financial  support  of  The  Boeing  Company,  Operation 
Homecoming  would  have  been  a  modest  program  that  reached  a  handful  of 
bases  rather  than  an  international  program  of  lasting  importance.  In  particu- 
lar, we  would  like  to  thank  Jim  Albaugh,  president  and  CEO  of  Boeing  Inte- 
grated Defense  Systems;  Mary  Foerster,  vice  president  of  communications; 
and  Pat  Riddle,  director  of  advertising  and  branding,  for  their  unfailing  sup- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  377 

port.  Their  commitment  to  enhancing  the  lives  of  our  nation's  service  mem- 
bers is  readily  apparent. 

At  the  Southern  Arts  Federation,  Executive  Director  Gerri  Combs  has 
embraced  our  program  and  its  mission;  Betsy  Baker  played  a  key  role  in  se- 
lecting the  publisher;  and  David  Dombrosky  worked  seamlessly  with  us  on 
base  logistics. 

Of  course,  this  program  would  not  have  been  possible  without  the  coop- 
eration of  the  Department  of  Defense.  The  DOD  allowed  the  NEA  to  solicit 
writing  directly  from  the  troops  but  had  no  role  in  selecting  submissions  for 
this  anthology.  Without  the  efforts  of  more  than  one  hundred  DOD  and  civil- 
ian base  employees,  this  program  would  not  have  succeeded. 

The  National  Council  on  the  Arts,  the  NEA's  advisory  board,  has  been  an 
unwavering  supporter  of  Operation  Homecoming.  NEA  Senior  Deputy 
Chairman  Eileen  Mason  and  Government  Affairs  Director  Ann  Guthrie 
Hingston  provided  valuable  guidance  in  executing  the  program.  Communi- 
cations Director  Felicia  Knight  and  her  staff  attracted  unprecedented  na- 
tional media  attention  to  the  project.  Thanks  also  to  NEA  staff  Claudia 
Nadig,  Hope  O'Keeffe,  Dan  Stone,  and  especially  Rebecca  Turner  Gonzales 
and  Monica  Glockner. 

Most  important,  the  success  of  Operation  Homecoming  is  the  direct  re- 
sult of  the  vision  and  commitment  of  NEA  Chairman  Dana  Gioia.  In  a  small 
federal  agency  of  150  employees,  he  created  an  artistic  program  for  military 
communities  during  a  time  of  war.  There  was  no  road  map  for  how  to  do  such 
a  thing  successfully;  he  found  a  way  nevertheless.  Refusing  to  allow  this  pro- 
gram to  be  politicized,  Gioia  stressed  from  the  first  day  that  our  responsibili- 
ties were  to  the  troops  and  their  families— and  to  the  freedom  of  artistic 
expression. 

—Jon  Parrish  Peede 
Director,  Operation  Homecoming 


GLOSSARY 


A-io 

ANA 

Apache 

ASOC 

B1AP 

Black  Hawk 

C-130 

CENTCOM 

Chinook 

CJTF 

CPA 

CSH 

DOA 

EPW 

FOB 

HEI/HE 

Hero  mission 

HH-60 

HUMINT 

Humvee 

IBA 

IED 

JAG 


(Thunderbolt  Warthog)  Ground  support  aircraft 

Afghan  National  Army 

(AH-64)  attack  helicopter 

Air  support  operations  center 

Baghdad  International  Airport 

(UH-60)  combat  helicopter 

Military  transport  aircraft 

U.S.  Central  Command 

(CH-47)  tandem  rotor  helicopter 

Combined  Joint  Task  Force 

Coalition  Provisional  Authority 

Combat  support  hospital 

Dead  on  arrival 

Enemy  prisoner  of  war 

Forward  operating  base 

High-explosive  incendiary  rounds 

Recovery  of  deceased  troops 

Special  operations  helicopter 

Human  intelligence  collector  (interrogator) 

(HMMWV)  High-mobility  multipurpose  wheeled  vehicle 

Individual  body  armor 

Improvised  explosive  device 

Judge  advocate  general 


380 


GLOSSARY 


KIA 

LZ 

MCRD 

Medevac 

M-4 

M-16 

MI 

MOS 

MRE 

NVG 

OEF 

OIF 

PTSD 

PUC 

RPG 

S2 

SAF 

Stryker 

TOC 

WIA 

Zulu 


Killed  in  action 

Landing  zone 

Marine  Corps  recruit  depot 

Medical  evacuation 

Military  assault  rifle 

Military  assault  rifle 

Military  intelligence 

Military  occupational  specialty 

Meals  ready  to  eat  (field  rations) 

Night  vision  goggles 

Operation  Enduring  Freedom  (the  War  in  Afghanistan) 

Operation  Iraqi  Freedom 

Post-traumatic  stress  disorder 

Person  under  control  (prisoner) 

Rocket-propelled  grenade 

Battalion  or  brigade  intelligence  staff  officer 

Small-arms  fire 

Infantry  carrier  vehicle 

Tactical  operations  center 

Wounded  in  action 

Greenwich  mean  time 


Military  Ranks 

A  list  of  common  abbreviations  in  text,  in  alphabetical— not  rank— order. 


CO 

Commanding  officer 

COL 

Colonel 

CPL 

Corporal 

CPT 

Captain 

iLT 

First  lieutenant 

LTC 

Lieutenant  colonel 

NCO 

Noncommissioned  officer 

PFC 

Private  first  class 

PVT 

Private 

iSG 

First  sergeant 

SPC 

Specialist 

SSG 

Staff  sergeant 

XO 

Executive  officer 

CREDITS  AND  PERMISSIONS 


The  editor  is  grateful  to  the  troops  and  their  family  members  who  have  granted  permission  to  publish 
the  following  works:  "The  Outsider"  ©  2006  by  Richard  Acevedo,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Richard 
Acevedo;  "My  Son"  ©  2006  by  Paul  Adkins,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Paul  Adkins;  "The  Cat" 
©  2006  by  Ryan  Alexander,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Ryan  Alexander;  "Combat  Musician,"  "Lost 
in  Translation,"  and  "The  Circle"  ©  2006  by  Sharon  Allen,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Sharon  Allen; 
"Waiting  for  Shawn"  ©  2006  by  Paula  Andersen,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Paula  Andersen;  "The 
Life  We  Used  to  Live"©  2006  by  Kari  Apted,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Kari  Apted;  "In  the  Hangar" 
©  2006  by  Sandra  Austin,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Sandra  Austin;  "Pvt.  Murphy"  ©  2006  by  Mark 
Baker,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Mark  Baker;  "A  Journey  Taken  with  My  Son"  ©  2006  by  Myrna 
Bein,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Myrna  Bein;  "The  Smell  of  Fresh  Paint"©  2006  by  Tina  Beller, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Tina  Beller;  "Reclamation"©  2006  by  John  Berens,  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  John  Berens;  "Down  the  Road"  ©  2006  by  Anne  Miren  Berry,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Anne 
Miren  Berry;  "Alarm  Red"©  2006  by  Lisa  Blackman,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Lisa  Blackman; 
"DeAr  mOM  aNd  dAd"  ©  2006  by  Colby  Buzzell,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Colby  Buzzell;  "The 
Virtual  Soldiers"  ©  2006  by  Allen  Caruselle,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Allen  Caruselle;  "X-Ray  Vi- 
sion" and  "HR  Flight"  ©  2006  by  James  Christenson,  reprinted  by  permission  of  James  Christenson; 
"I  Remember"  ©  2006  by  Gregory  Cleghorne,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Gregory  Cleghome;  "Too 
Much  Reality"  ©  2006  by  Pamela  Clemens,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Pamela  Clemens;  "Six  Weeks 
In"  and  "Khost-Gardez"  ©  2006  by  Ross  Cohen,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Ross  Cohen;  "Dear  Boys" 
©  2006  by  Chris  Cohoes,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Chris  Cohoes;  "Only  the  Beginning"  ©  2006  by 
Frank  Correa,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Frank  Correa;  "Friendly  Fire"  ©  2006  by  Michael  Daftar- 
ian,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Michael  Daftarian;  "A  Case  for  Being  There"  ©  2006  by  Paul  Daniel- 
son,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Paul  Danielson;  "Lunch  with  Pirates"  ©  2006  by  Clint  Douglas, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Clint  Douglas;  "Album"  ©  2006  by  Kathleen  Furin,  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  Kathleen  Furin;  "What's  Going  on  Over  Here"©  2006  by  Timothy  Gaestel,  reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Timothy  Gaestel;  "Worlds  Apart"  ©  2006  by  Edwin  Garcia-Lopez,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Edwin  Garcia-Lopez;  "Here  Among  These  Ruins"©  2006  by  Helen  Gerhardt,  reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Helen  Gerhardt;  "VTC"  and  "Happy  Australia  Day"©  2006  by  Steven  Givler,  reprinted  by- 
permission  of  Steven  Givler;  "Theodore"  ©  2006  by  Montgomery  Granger,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Montgomery  Granger;  "Camp  Muckamungus"  and  "The  Hardest  Letter  to  Write"  ©  2006  by- 
Parker  Gyokeres,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Parker  Gyokeres;  "Aftermath"  ©  2006  by  Sangjoon  Han, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Sangjoon  Han;  "Solidarity"  and  "Our  War"  ©  2006  by  Stephanie  Harper, 


382  CREDITSANDPERMISSIONS 

reprinted  by  permission  of  Stephanie  Harper;  "The  Kids  Sit  and  Learn"  ©  2006  by  August  Hohl, 
reprinted  bv  permission  of  August  Hohl;  "Buzz  Saw"  ©  2006  by  Billie  Hill-Hunt,  reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Billie  Hill-Hunt;  "Medevac  Missions"  ©  2006  by  Ed  Hrhnak,  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Ed  Hrivnak:  "Regarding  Tigger"  ©  2006  by  Jennifer  Huch-Gambichler,  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Jennifer  Huch-Gambichler;  "Veterans"  ©  2006  by  Brian  Humphreys,  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Brian  Humphreys;  "Safekeeping"  ©  2006  by  Kathleen  Toomey  Jabs,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Kath- 
leen Toomey  Jabs;  "Life  on  the  USNS  Comfort"  ©  2006  by  Edward  Jewell,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Edward  Jewell;  "One  Small  Village"  ©  2006  by  Jared  Jones,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Jared  Jones; 
"A  Quick  Look  at  W  no  Is  Fighting  This  War"  and  "This  Is  Not  a  Game"  ©  2006  by  Ryan  Kelly, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Ryan  Kelly;  "The  Land  of  Abraham"  ©  2006  by  Donna  Kohout,  reprinted 
by  permission  of  Donna  Kohout;  "Wednesday  2/23/05"  ©  2006  by  Krishna  Kolodziejski,  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Krishna  Kolodziejski;  "No  Time  for  Snowmen"  ©  2006  by  Zoltan  Krompecher, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Zoltan  Krompecher;  "Reflections"  ©  2006  by  Michael  Lang,  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Michael  Lang;  "The  Menorah"  and  "December  15"  ©  2006  by  Simone  Ledeen, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Simone  Ledeen;  "Road  Work"  and  "Purple-Hearted"  ©  2006  by  Jack 
Lewis,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Jack  Lewis;  "The  Day  of  the  Dragon"  ©  2006  by  Robert  Lindblom, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Robert  Lindblom;  "To  Colonel  Lisagor"  ©  2006  by  Sara  Lisagor,  reprinted 
b\  permission  of  Sara  Lisagor;  "Dearest  Son"  £  2006  by  Carla  Lois,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Carla 
Lois;  "Manning  the  Home  Front"  ©  2006  by  Peter  Madsen,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Peter  Madsen; 
"Force  Pro\ider"  and  "TIC"  ©  2006  by  Stephen  McAllister,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Stephen 
McAllister;  "Dear  Baby"  £  2006  by  Sharon  McBride,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Sharon  McBride; 
'To  the  Fallen"  ©  2006  by  John  McCary,  reprinted  by  permission  of  John  McCary;  "Timeless"  © 
2006  by  Christy  De'on  Miller,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Christy  De'on  Miller;  "JAG  in  the  Sand- 
box" ©  2006  by  Tern'  Moorer,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Terry  Moorer;  "Hurtful  Words"  ©  2006  by 
Ruth  Mostek,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Ruth  Mostek;  "In  Due  Time"  ©  2006  by  Daniel  Murray, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Daniel  Murray;  "In-Country"  ©  2006  by  Brian  D.  Perry,  Sr.,  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Brian  D.  Pern,  Sr.;  "Shallow  Hands"  ©  2006  by  Michael  Poggi,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Michael  Poggi;  "Distant  Thunder"  ©  2006  by  Denis  Prior,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Denis  Prior; 
"Sea  \  byage"  ©  2006  by  Guy  Ra\ey,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Guy  Ra\ey;  "Emily,  Updated"  ©  2006 
by  Kathryn  Roth-Douquet,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Kathryn  Roth-Douquet;  "Do\er"  ©  2006  by 
Marc  Sager,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Marc  Sager;  "Spin"  and  "Flight"  ©  2006  by  Richard  Sater, 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Richard  Sater;  "Clusters"  ©  2006  by  Robert  Schaefer,  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  Robert  Schaefer;  "Goodbye,  Afghanistan"  ©  2006  by  Cameron  Sellers,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Cameron  Sellers;  "A  Couple  Hours  After  We  Landed"  ©  2006  by  Andrew  Simkewicz,  reprinted  by- 
permission  of  Andrew  Simkewicz;  "Moore  Thoughts"  and  "Girl  Interrupted"  ©  2006  by  James  Sos- 
nicky,  reprinted  by  permission  of  James  Sosnicky;  "Get  Some"  ©  2006  by  Paul  Stieglitz,  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Paul  Stieglitz;  "Taking  Chance"  ©  2006  by  Michael  Strobl,  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Michael  Strobl;  "Try  Not  to  Worn,-  about  Me"  £  2006  by  Michael  Sulliyan,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Michael  Sulliyan;  "Proliferation"  ©  2006  by  Robert  Swope,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Robert 
Swope;  "3  a.m.  in  Bangor,  Maine"  ©  2006  by  Michael  Thomas,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Michael 
Thomas;  "Antoinette"  ©  2006  by  William  Toti,  reprinted  by  permission  of  William  Toti;  "Ashbah," 
"The  Baghdad  Zoo,"  and  "The  Hurt  Locker"  ©  2006  by  Brian  Turner,  reprinted  by  permission  of 
Brian  Turner;  "Dear  Neil"  ©  2006  by  Daniel  Uhles,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Daniel  Uhles;  "Broth- 
erhood" ©  2006  by  Dena  Van  den  Bosch,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Dena  Van  den  Bosch;  "Another 
Bump  in  the  Road"  £  2006  by  Michael  Viyirito,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Michael  Viyirito;  "Life 
on  the  USS  Rainier"  ©  2006  by  Todd  Vorenkamp,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Todd  Vorenkamp;  "This 
Week  He's  Due  Home"  ©  2006  by  Becky  Ward-Krizan,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Becky  Ward- 
Krizan;  "Memorial  Day"  ©  2006  by  DeEtte  and  Rex  Wood,  reprinted  by  permission  of  De  Ette  and 
Rex  Wood;  "Night  Flight  to  Baghdad"  §  2006  by  Thomas  Young,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Thomas 
Young:  "Letter  of  Condolence  to  Mrs.  Miller"  ©  2006  by  Douglas  Zembiec,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Douglas  Zembiec. 


INDEX  OF  CONTRIBUTORS 


Acevedo,  Richard     178 
Adkins,  Paul  D.     234 
Alexander,  Ryan     159 
Allen,  Sharon  D.     153 
Andersen,  Paula  M.     326 
Apted,  Kari     192 
Austin,  Sandi     151 

Baker,  Mark     169 
Bein,  Myrna  E.     331 
Beller,  Tina     261 
Berens,  John     97 
Berry,  Anne  Miren     203 
Blackman,  Lisa  R.     297 
Busch,  Benjamin     66 
Buzzell,  Colby     133 


Cohoes,  Chris     232 
Correa,  Frank     251 

Daftarian,  Michael  S.     17 
Danielson,  Paul  D.     284 
Douglas,  Clint     73 

Furin,  Kathleen     197 

Gaestel,  Timothy  J.     252 
Garcia-Lopez,  Edwin     228 
Gerhardt,  Helen     56 
Givler,  Steven     140 
Gordon,  Christine  N.     312 
Granger,  Montgomery     322 
Gyokeres,  Parker     134,  369 


Caruselle,  Allen  J.     281 
Christenson,  James  A.     313 
Cleghorne,  Gregory  S.     2,  3 
Clemens,  Pamela     194 
Cohen,  Ross     85 


Han,  Sangjoon     114 

Harper,  Stephanie  Metzger     167 

Hill-Hunt,  Billie     196 

Hohl,  August    68 

Hrivnak,  Ed     291 


384 


INDEX     OF    CONTRIBUTORS 


Huch-Gambichler,  Jennifer    226 
Humphreys,  Brian     305 

Jabs,  Kathleen  Toomey    209 
Jewell,  Edward  W.     50 
Jones,  Jared  S.     68 

Kelly,  Ryan     23,  275 
Kohout,  Donna     172 
Kolodziejski,  "Ski"     112 
Krompecher,  Zoltan     235 

Lang,  Michael     166 
Ledeen,  Simone  A.     174 
Leicht,  Paul     132 
Lewis,  Jack     123, 184 
Lindblom,  Robert  A.     265 
Lisagor,  Sara     202 
Lois,  Carla  Meyer     191 
Lois,  James     190 

Madsen,  Peter    217 
McAllister,  Stephen     14, 143 
McBride,  Sharon     215 
McCary,  John     299 
Miller,  Christy  De'on     239 
Moorer,  Terry  F.     107 
Mostek,  Ruth     222 
Murray,  Daniel     302 

Perry,  Brian  D.,  Sr.     9 
Poggi,  Michael     343 
Prior,  Denis     25 


Ravey,  Guy     318 

Sager,  Marc  M.     351 
Sater,  Richard     162 
Schaefer,  Robert  W.     279 
Sellers,  Cameron     314 
Simkewicz,  Andrew     67 
Sosnicky,  James  R.     126 
Stieglitz,  Paul  A.     38 
Strobl,  Michael  R.     355 
Sullivan,  Michael  P.     258 
Swope,  Robert    255 

Thomas,  Michael  A.     320 
Toti,  William  J.     4 
Turner,  Brian     282 

Uhles,  Daniel     340 

Van  den  Bosch,  Dena  Price     188 
Vivirito,  Michael     230 
Vorenkamp,  Todd     147 

Ward-Krizan,  Becky     313 
Wood,  DeEtte     365 
Wood,  Nathan     365 
Wood,  Rex     365 

Young,  Thomas  W.     59 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Aftermath  (fiction)     114 
Alarm  Red  (e-mail)     297 
Album  (personal  narrative)     197 
Another  Bump  in  the  Road  (e-mail)     230 
Antoinette  (personal  narrative)     4 
Ashbah  (poem)     282 

Baghdad  Zoo,  The  (poem)     283 
Brotherhood  (poem)     188 
Buzz  Saw  (poem)     196 

Camp  Muckamungus  (journal)     134 
Case  for  Being  There,  A  (personal 

narrative)     284 
Cat,  The  (poem)     159 
Circle,  The  (personal  narrative)     153 
Clusters  (poem)     279 
Combat  Musician  (personal  narrative)     153 

Day  of  the  Dragon,  The  (personal 
narrative)     265 


Dear  Baby  (letter)     215 
Dear  Boys  (e-mails)     232 
Dear  Neil  (letters)     340 
December  15  (e-mail)     174 
Distant  Thunder  (personal  narrative) 
Dover  (personal  narrative)     351 
Down  the  Road  (personal  narrative) 

Emily,  Updated  (poem)     xx 


25 


203 


Flight  (personal  narrative)     162 

Force  Provider  (personal  narrative)     143 

Friendly  Fire  (personal  narrative)     17 

Get  Some  (fiction)     38 

Girl  Interrupted  (personal  narrative)     128 

Goodbye,  Afghanistan  (personal  narrative) 

3H 

Happy  Australia  Day  (e-mail)     140 
Hardest  Letter  to  Write,  The  (journal) 
369 


386 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


Here  Among  These  Ruins  (e-mail)     56 
Hurtful  Words  (journal)     222 
Hurt  Locker,  The  (poem)     284 

In-Country  (personal  narrative)     9 
In  Due  Time  (e-mail)     302 
In  the  Hangar  (lyrics)     151 
I  Remember  (poem)     3 

JAG  in  the  Sandbox  (personal  narrative) 

107 
Journey  Taken  with  My  Son,  A  (e-mails) 

331 
Khost-Gardez  (fiction)     92 

Land  of  Abraham,  The  (personal 

narrative)     172 
Life  on  the  USNS  Comfort  (journal)     50 
Life  on  the  USS  Rainier  (journal)     147 
Life  We  Used  to  Live,  The  (e-mail)     192 
Lost  in  Translation  (personal  narrative) 

153 

Lunch  with  Pirates  (personal  narrative)     73 

Manning  the  Home  Front  (personal 

narrative)     217 
Medevac  Missions  (journal)     291 
Memorial  Day  (letters)     365 
Menorah,  The  (e-mail)     174 
Moore  Thoughts  (personal  narrative)     126 
My  Son  (poem)     234 

Night  Flight  to  Baghdad  (personal 

narrative)     59 
No  Time  for  Snowmen  (letter)     235 

One  Small  Village  (journal)     68 

Our  War  (poem)     167 

Outsider,  The  (personal  narrative)     178 

Proliferation  (journal)     255 


Purple-Hearted  (personal  narrative) 
Pvt.  Murphy  (cartoons)     169 


184 


Quick  Look  at  Who  Is  Fighting  This  War, 
A  (letter)    23 

Reclamation  (personal  narrative)    97 
Reflections  (poem)     166 
Regarding  Tigger  (e-mail)    226 
Road  Work  (personal  narrative)     123 

Safekeeping  (fiction)    209 

Sea  Voyage  (e-mail)     318 

Shallow  Hands  (fiction)     343 

Six  Weeks  In  (fiction)     85 

Smell  of  Fresh  Paint,  The  (e-mail)     261 

Solidarity  (poem)     167 

Spin  (personal  narrative)     162 

Taking  Chance  (personal  narrative)     355 
Theodore  (personal  narrative)     322 
This  Is  Not  a  Game  (letter)    275 
TIC  (journal)     14 
3  a.m.  in  Bangor,  Maine  (personal 

narrative)     320 
Timeless  (personal  narrative)     239 
To  Colonel  Lisagor  (poem)     202 
To  the  Fallen  (e-mail)     299 
Too  Much  Reality  (letter)     194 
Try  Not  to  Worry  About  Me  (e-mail) 

258 

Veterans  (personal  narrative)  305 
Virtual  Soldiers,  The  (poem)  281 
VTC  (e-mail)     140 

Waiting  for  Shawn  (personal  narrative) 

326 
Wednesday  2/23/05  (personal  narrative)     112 
What's  Going  On  over  Here 

(e-mail)     252 
Worlds  Apart  (e-mail)     228 


ABOUT    THE    EDITOR 

Andrew  Carroll  is  the  editor  of  several  critically  acclaimed 
and  nationally  bestselling  books,  including  Letters  of  a  Nation, 
Behind  the  Lines,  and  War  Letters,  which  was  also  made  into  a 
PBS  documentary.  Carroll  is  the  founder  of  the  Legacy  Project 
(www.warletters.com),  a  national,  all-volunteer  effort  that  honors 
veterans  and  active-duty  troops  by  seeking  out  and  preserving  their 
letters  and  e-mails  for  posterity.  He  edited  Operation  Homecoming 
entirely  on  a  pro  bono  basis. 


ABOUT   THE   TYPE 

This  book  was  set  in  Electra,  a  typeface  designed  for  Linotype  by 
W.  A.  Dwiggins,  the  renowned  type  designer  (1880-1956).  Electra 
is  a  fluid  typeface,  avoiding  the  contrasts  of  thick  and  thin  strokes 
that  are  prevalent  in  most  modern  typefaces. 


"Andrew  Carroll  has  given  America 

a  priceless  treasure." 
— TOM  BROKAW,  on  War  Letters 


ANDREW  CARROLL  is  the  editor  of  several  critically 
acclaimed  and  nationally  bestselling  books,  including 
Letters  of  a  Nation,  Behind  the  Lines,  and  War  Letters, 
which  was  also  a  PBS  documentary.  Carroll  is  the 
founder  of  the  Legacy  Project  (www.warletters.com), 
a  national,  all-volunteer  effort  to  honor  veterans  and 
active-duty  troops  by  seeking  out  and  preserving  their 
letters  and  e-mails.  Carroll  lives  in  Washington,  D.C. 
He  edited  Operation  Homecoming  on  a  pro  bono  basis. 


Proceeds  from  this  book  will  be  used  to  provide 

arts  and  cultural  programming  to 

U.S.  military  communities.  For  more  information, 

please  go  to  www.OperationHomecoming.gov. 


Jacket  design:  Victoria  Allen 
Jacket  photograph:  Joe  Raedle/Getty  Images 

Join  our  nonfiction  e-newsletter 
by  visiting  www.rh-newsletters.com 

Random  House 

New  York,  N.Y. 

©  2006  by  Random  House,  Inc. 


"Operation  Homecoming,  a  project  sponsored  by  the  National  Endowment  for  the 
Arts  (NEA),  is  encouraging  soldiers  to  tell  their  stories.  .  .  .  [These  writings]  help 
us  gain  a  fuller  appreciation  of  those  fighting,  and  dying,  in  a  war  so  far  away  and 
requiring  so  little  sacrifice  at  home." 

— USA  Today 

"This  anthology  is  the  honest  voice  of  war.  The  variety  of  voices  is  astonishing,  from 

those  who  fight  to  those  who  sit  home  and  wait,  from  those  who  repair  broken 

bodies  to  those  whose  lives  will  be  changed  forever  by  their  experiences.  In  the  end, 

they  are  all  one  voice,  a  voice  we  must  hear,  and  must  not  forget.  It  is  our  voice." 

— JEFF  SHAARA,  author  of  Gods  and  Generals  and  The  Rising  Tide 

"[Captures]  what  journalists  cannot,  no  matter  how  close  they  get — firsthand 
accounts  from  the  warriors  and  the  families  thev  leave  behind." 

— Chicago  Tribune 

"It  is  crucial  that  our  warriors  tell  their  stories,  that  they  find  the  therapeutic  outlet 
of  writing  down  their  wartime  experiences.  And  it  is  just  as  important  for  the  rest 
of  us  to  learn  what  the  men  and  women  of  the  military  have  gone  through.  These 
voices  are  stirring,  chilling,  and  unforgettable." 

— BOBBIE  ANN  MASON,  author  of  In  Country  and  An  Atomic  Romance 

"The  goal  of  the  project,  beyond  providing  an  emotional  and  expressive  outlet  for 
military  personnel  and  their  families,  and  getting  the  basic  eyewitness  facts  of  his- 
tory down  on  paper,  is  to  add  to  a  long  tradition  of  war  literature." 

— The  Washington  Post 


*  among  the  writers  who  visited  military  bases  * 
and  worked  with  operation  homecoming  contributors: 

Richard  Bausch    *    Mark  Bowden   *    Andrew  Carroll 

Tom  Clancy  *    Barry  Hannah 

Victor  Davis  Hanson   *    Bobbie  Ann  Mason    *    Marilyn  Nelson 

Jeff  Shaara   *    Tobias  Wolff 


ISBN    1 


78  1  4 


562-3 


622