“I WASN'T PREPARED FOR THIS.”
WEEK 1, DAY 4, ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, NEW BASE
We're finally at our new base. The luscious trees and chirping birds we lived with in the northern part of Iraq are gone. They've been replaced with two trees and lots of sand. This is the Iraq that people picture in their heads if they've never been here: open spaces, buildings no higher than two stories, and massive sandstorms.
This former Marine base is much bigger and the buildings are more spread apart than what we've been used to. The dining facility and the hospital are now further away from our rooms. Actually, our new hospital still hasn't been built yet. One of the supply lines bringing us the parts was hit and it delayed the whole process. We were told to sit tight and relax given that there's nothing to do — and to check in twice a day with Gagney. He has decided that we need to check in with him whenever we go anywhere and then every couple of hours even if we don't. In the morning before and after breakfast we check in, the same for lunch, dinner, and when we go to the gym or the community room.
WEEK 1, DAY 7, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, MY ROOM
Torres and Denti are now my roommates, along with Markham. There are four of us, or I suppose five of us. Torres's girlfriend, Cardoza, has decided to spend most her nights with him, bunking in our room. They spend most of their time watching movies and giggling.
A National Guardsman named Tom, who lives next door to us and has been here sixteen months with two more left on his tour, is starting to make me afraid:
“We'd been in Iraq for a year and it was time to go home. We sent all of our stuff back — books, uniforms, movies, laptops, radios — everything. We loaded all of our gear onto the plane, had our orders in hand, and then it happened. An officer came aboard the plane, looked at us, and said, ‘Unlock boys, we just got extended for another six months.’ That was four months ago. A television station even did a story on us, after a bunch of our families complained back home. But nothing happened; you know how it is. It's the military. We have no choice.”
Tom keeps talking, and I don't want to hear what he has to say. I don't want to even imagine getting extended another six months. I want a choice.
WEEK 2, DAY 2, IRAQ
1700 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
Mandatory meeting: While our hospital is being built, the GOBs have decided to do some unit restructuring. We're waiting for the changes to be announced. Reto is sitting next to me, and we started playing tic-tac-toe. He won one game, I've won once, and we've tied eleven times.
“Let's give a big round of applause for Command Sergeant Major Ridge,” Colonel Jelly says from the stage. There are two hundred of us in the room and six people clap. Colonel Jelly announces that Command Sergeant Major Ridge is retiring and that we're getting a new command sergeant major in a few days.
“You know what's really going on, right?” Reto says as he places an X at the top right.
“No, what?” as I place an O in the middle.
“The unit that replaced us in Mosul made a complaint to the IG about us. They complained that we took all the equipment and left them with nothing.”
It's true; we did take everything with us: from coffee makers and televisions to tongue depressors and bandages — anything that we could fit into our bags. When we first arrived in Mosul, it was completely stocked, but when we left, we weren't sure if the new base and hospital would be supplied, so we took everything with us. Reto and I start another game.
I place an O at the bottom left.
“They're forcing him out. You can't retire a sergeant major while in-country.”
Colonel Jelly announces that First Sergeant Powell will be leaving us, too, and will be doing an administrative job in another unit — which is another way of firing someone and also using that person as a scapegoat without specifically saying so.
“So that's three,” Reto says to me.
I'm not sure if he's talking about tic-tac-toe or what.
“That's three — two command sergeant majors and one first sergeant axed,” Reto goes on.
“They got rid of CSM Fellows — ”
“Powell and Ridge. That just doesn't happen — ”
A soldier in front of us turns around. She's an older lady, a major, and she doesn't look pleased, either because Reto and I are talking or because someone we mentioned is a friend.
Colonel Jelly's glasses are falling toward the tip of his nose and he is staring at his note cards that lie on the podium. His eyes don't look up.
“And, with first sergeant Powell leaving, the southern hospital will no longer have its own First Sergeant, or command sergeant major. Instead, in a few days we will have one sergeant major for hospitals, north and south. Also, on a personal note I would like to congratulate Staff Sergeant North and Captain Dillon on their wedding. Unfortunately Captain Dillon will no longer be our company commander, but let's give her a round of applause; she's done a great job. And also let's give a round of applause for your new company commander, Captain Cardine.” Three people clap, and two yell sarcastically. I remember her well from signing the CAB papers for her.
Colonel Jelly is referring to Captain Dillon, our company commander, and her husband, Staff Sergeant North. Captain Dillon got her position by lying. Before we left for Iraq, our unit had to do inventory. Our company commander was Captain Bodan. He did the inventory and found that we were almost a million dollars short. When he brought his concerns up to the GOBs, they told him to sign for it anyway. Bodan refused. Captain Dillon (at the time she was a lieutenant) overhears all of this and comes up with a plan. She told the GOBs that if they promote her to captain and then company commander, she will sign for the equipment saying it's all there, even when it's not. The GOBs agreed, and that's how she became our company commander.
Staff Sergeant North, who got caught reading someone else's mail, and Dillon have been married for over a year, but when they left for Iraq they said they weren't married. That way they were able to get separate BHAs (basic housing allowance: a military program that helps pay your mortgage or rent while you're fighting). North and Dillon, who are paying the mortgage on the house that they lived in, filed separate BHAs and thus got twice the money for their mortgage. Because this is illegal, someone rightly complained. It is also illegal for North and Dillon to be in the same chain of command and married. The military really frowns on this. Since Captain Dillon was the company commander she was North's boss. It's the commander's job to hand out orders, and during a time of war those orders could often mean the difference between life and death. If there's a dangerous mission, a commander isn't going to send his or her spouse on it; the commander is going to send someone else. Fortunately, though, the IG found all of this out and Dillon will be relieved of command.
“You know she's not getting in trouble either,” Reto says to me, forgetting to whisper.
“Shhh. What do you mean?”
The soldier in front of us looks back again.
“Well, she's getting relieved of her position, yeah. But that's it.”
Her and North have cheated the government out of tens of thousands of dollars and they lied to the Army, but she's only being moved to an administrative job in the unit command.
“And look over there.” Reto points his finger to the left of the room at Staff Sergeant North and Captain Dillon. “The GOBs even allowed Sergeant North to come up here from the southern hospital so that they can be together.”
“Will you please be quiet, I am trying to listen,” the woman in front of us says to Reto.
“That's four,” I whisper, holding up four fingers.
“Four what?” Reto replies.
“Soldier, you heard me!” the woman repeats. Reto and I are silent. Even though we are being relieved of two command sergeant majors, one first sergeant, and one company commander, we know nothing will change. The GOBs are the problem. The meeting continues, and Colonel Jelly ends by telling us that our new command sergeant major is Sergeant Major Lavaled.
WEEK 2, DAY 4, IRAQ
1730 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
Command Sergeant Major Lavaled has a slight resemblance to Command Sergeant Major Ridge. He has a muscular jawbone and a slowly wrinkling face, but the similarities end there. His hair is a dark gray color that could pass for black, and he has a tiny sliver of a patch of white hair on the top left side of his head. He's from the southern part of the United States. His laugh is fake and not infectious — and when he gives a speech no one is moved. He tells us about the little things in our unit that he's going to change, but he's trying to make it sound like a big deal.
“Also, soldiers, I have a few things that I want to bring up with you,” Lavaled says.
“From now on when you go to the dining facility, I want you all to eat with your weapons strapped on you at all times. NO putting them on the ground or putting them in the weapons rack. You must keep them on you at all times. And also, I know that some of you are excited about the fact that there is no more guard duty here because the Ugandan soldiers have taken it over, but I want all sergeants and below to still do guard duty. Just watch the Ugandan soldiers and make sure they do everything right. Besides, I've heard about your unit, and it might not be the worst thing if some of you don't have too much free time.”
Reto and I turn to look at each other. One of the things we had been looking forward to about our new base was that there'd be no more guard duty.
The hospital will be open in a few days.
WEEK 2, DAY 5, IRAQ
2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
“This better be good!” Denti says to Reto and me as we enter the auditorium. There's a talent show scheduled for tonight, and I had to convince these two to come with me.
“First up, we will have John and Blake singing and playing the guitar,” the emcee announces. Two Marines get on stage and they begin singing and playing the song “Cold” by Crossfade.
2030 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
“Next up we have Captain Tarr singing a song by Janis Joplin.”
Reto, Denti, and I laugh as five Marines in the back of the room begin hollering and calling Captain Tarr by her first name — which the emcee hadn't mentioned.
Captain Tarr sings, and she's as good as last time. The emcee then gets back on the mic and announces the next performer.
“And next up we have Colonel Lessly, who will be singing ‘Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears and ‘Any Way You Want It’ by Journey.”
Colonel Lessly gets on stage and looks in the audience at Reto, Denti, and me. We are the only other members of our unit that are here.
“This song goes out to a friend of mine, Larry,” Lessly says. Larry is Specialist Wilson's first name.
Reto and I look at each other and a chill goes up my spine. Those are the same songs Wilson sang at the last talent show. Lessly begins singing and dancing just the way Wilson danced on stage when everyone cheered him on.
“Let's get the hell out of here,” Denti says.
It's too creepy to watch an old man sing a song dedicated to a mentally challenged kid whose dick he tried to suck, so the three of us grab our weapons and leave the auditorium.
WEEK 3, DAY 1, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, OUR NEW HOSPITAL
“Our hospital is now officially open and ready for business… . We have a fully functioning four-bed OR that is ready to go … along with… .”
Actually that's BS.
Colonel Jelly is standing on a makeshift stage in front of a crowd of three hundred people. Everyone from our unit is here as well as dozens of military commanders — from one-, two-, and three-star generals to colonels and sergeant majors from all the bases in Iraq.
I look over at Reto, then at Denti, Torres, Chandler, and Hudge; down the line everyone shakes their head no to me. Colonel Jelly is lying to everyone here, but we were told to keep our mouths shut. Jelly and the GOBs want to open the hospital early so they will look good — that's why we're having this ceremony. The fact of the matter, however, is that we only have two OR beds. We're still waiting on parts for the fourth, and the third one is only partially set up. Colonel Jelly knows this, but instead he has chosen to lie.
I know I should say something, but I can't. Who would I talk to? I only know that if we have more than two patients at a time we're screwed. It's been a while since I've done this, but I close my eyes and pray. I pray and I don't ask for an end to the war. I simply ask that we don't get more than two surgical patients at a time.
In his speech, Command Sergeant Major Lavaled says, “I'd like to thank all the soldiers out there who helped make this possible. I know we couldn't have gotten the chance to open this hospital if we hadn't done such a great job in Mosul. We deserve this, and I'm glad with our hard work we can open this hospital early.”
Even though Command Sergeant Major Lavaled has only been in our unit for a few days, already he is acting as though he has been with us the whole time, as if he was in all those surgeries with us. He's another one I'll try to give the benefit of the doubt.
WEEK 3, DAY 2, IRAQ
0900 HOURS, OR
I can handle doing surgeries on Iraqis and Americans because we put ourselves in this mess … but a dog? After seeing it lying on the table, brought over from the K-9 unit, its big brown eyes wide open, I almost start crying. I forget to block my emotions. Then a nine-year-old Iraqi child is brought in. She's got shrapnel wounds to the stomach and leg. I wasn't prepared for this.
WEEK 3, DAY 7, IRAQ
1600 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE OR
As Laveled approaches, I get into the position of parade rest — hands behind my back, legs shoulder-width apart.
“Good evening, command sergeant major.”
“Good evening, soldier. Hot day out today. Good thing I'm not wearing any underwear.”
I know that I should laugh as a sign of respect, but I can't. Command Sergeant Major Lavaled says nothing. We both stare at each other, holding the other's eye contact. I'm in no mood to play this game.
Twenty seconds goes by: What the hell is going on? Is he going to just stand here staring at me?
Thirty seconds: Why didn't I just laugh at his stupid joke?
Forty-five seconds: It's too late now. I can't laugh; I'll just look like an idiot.
Fifty-five seconds: I'm insane. I need to do something.
“At least I don't get any wedgies this way,” he says after almost a minute of eye contact.
I continue to stare at him. Why is he just staring at me?
Twenty seconds: What is this guy's fucking problem? Leave me alone you freak show!
Thirty seconds: Maybe I don't understand the joke.
Forty-five seconds: I wonder what he's thinking. Is the whole underwear wedgie thing some type of gay code?
One minute: If it is some type of code, then maybe I shouldn't be staring at him. He'll think I'm leading him on. I'm sure Gagney will love that. The CSM will think I'm a tease.
“I mean sometimes I get swamp ass, so I just do lunges and dry it up,” he says.
What the fuck is going on? This doesn't even make sense. I don't think he's gay.
Ten seconds: I can't believe I'm having a staring contest with the new CSM.
Twenty seconds: Does this fucking guy really need my approval that bad that he'd have a staring contest with me until I act subservient and laugh?
Thirty seconds: Oh my god, my eyes are watering. I can't let him see me cry or avert eye contact. I heard somewhere that in prison that means you're someone's bitch.
Thirty-five seconds: I've got to do something.
Forty seconds: I've got it!
I move the right side of my mouth up a half centimeter into what could be called a smirk.
Five seconds….
Lavaled looks at me and smiles.
“All right, very well, soldier; carry on with the day's work.”
Oh dear God, I need to get out of here.
WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ
1400 HOURS, OR
I notice that if I smoke four Camel Light cigarettes one after the other and try to walk, I get all woozy and I feel like I'm drunk. Although it's been a while since I bought my first pack of cigarettes, I just bought my first carton. The feeling that I get when I down four Camel Lights is amazing. It relaxes me and puts me in my head — but there's really no point unless you're going to smoke a few right in a row.
“Hey, you want to go grab a smoke?” Reto asks me, already knowing the answer. I love smoking a cigarette and writing in my journal. I love smoking during smoke breaks. I love smoking after a good meal. I love smoking before I go to bed. I love smoking in the morning.
Reto and I take a ladder outside at the back of the OR and go up on the roof.
“Hey, someone give me a hand up,” Denti yells up to Reto and me. We help him up and finish our cigarettes. We call this our clubhouse.
1445 HOURS, OR
“Did you step in something?” Reto looks.
“I didn't step in anything.”
We're emptying a small trash bucket from the bathroom into a larger one.
“Eww — ”
“What is that, toilet paper?”
Inside the trash barrel there are dozens of rolled up pieces of toilet paper with shit on them.
“Who's been throwing their toilet paper into the trash? Why don't they just flush it?”