The airfield was on a plateau, which was strategically smart. Razor and concertina wire circled the base. There were guard houses or posts along the periphery of the camp. Each guard post was staffed with two Marines who kept watch. Also along the perimeter were holes in the ground from where the grunts kept watch so the rest of us could sleep at night and function during the day.
The camp was so big it was divided into sections. There was an initial area, a processing center, where Marines were sent when they first came in to get set up and reorganized and regrouped. Tent City was the main part of the base, where the majority of people lived, at least initially. There was another large area on base set up for mechanics to work on the gear that broke down. Where else could we keep the gear that was down? We didn’t want to keep it where anyone who wanted to could see it. Perhaps it was because we had civilians on base. We did not want the locals to see what gear we had or which pieces of it were down, so most of our equipment was kept in a separate area of the base.
The locals were contracted by the U.S. to help us. They took care of us. They assisted us when we set up the Internet, for example. They did our laundry. They got rid of our trash and helped set up the tents and the trailers. They helped set up the water systems. There were Turks who came in to help set up the port-a-johns and to perform maintenance. Also, there was a local restaurant that, like the airport, had been there prior to our arrival and had stayed. The U.S. asked those Iraqis to cook food for the Marines. They lived and worked there and prepared loads of Iraqi food for us, such as shawarma, which were slabs of lamb on vertical skewers that would rotate while cooking. The Iraqi cooks would slice off the outside of the meat and serve it with bread they baked in a stone oven.
Other locals would sell DVDs and trinkets from tiny stores and still others comprised working details, groups of manual laborers who we’d have to watch while they worked. We were instructed to keep our weapons loaded and on fire and aimed at them the entire time that they were working. Then we’d have lunch with them. It was a strange feeling aiming a loaded weapon at other human beings engaged in an activity as innocent and mundane as eating lunch. When we had our lunch, they would offer us their food, though they were the ones without much food, whose entire lives were in turmoil. They would say, in broken English, “You’ve been working so long, you’ve been working so hard, when are you going to eat?” And we would say, “We eat later.” They offered us what ever they were eating and shared it with us as we pointed our weapons at them. The other Iraqis who were on base were nice too, like the men who worked at the restaurant. In my off time, I would play soccer with them.
Mortuary Affairs had our own bunker in an old Iraqi Air Force hangar, which was one of the safest locations on base. The roof of the bunker was part of the ground, rising up from the sand. We could get up onto the bunker’s roof by going out and walking along the ground, which rose gradually and became the roof. We arranged green sandbags on the sloping roof to spell out what we believed and what we lived: “No One Left Behind,” and “Honor, Respect, Reverence.” From the back, sides and top the bunker resembled a sand hill or berm. From straight on, it was a building, with a wall and doors. When the sun was behind the facility a narrow shadow was cast along the façade. That sliver of shade lowered the desert temperature by only a few degrees, but that was sufficient to draw us to it. Eventually, we built and set up picnic tables covered with camouflage netting along the shaded margin of sand. We would sit and talk and, as our deployment wound down, smoke cigars and think of home.
When we first entered the bunker, it was completely empty inside. We had to set up everything from scratch. We designed and built the rooms we needed, made the tables we’d use for processing, ran electrical wires, and hooked up the lights and phone. Having received generators we connected them to the air conditioning so the place would be cooler, adjusting the refrigerators and the coolers to be as cold as they had to be. We needed a room in which Marines could stand post. We needed a room for The Sir. A conference room was required in order to interview survivors. There were three bedrooms with cots in them: one for Sergeant Johnson, another for Sergeant Cotnoir, and a third, containing a bunk bed, for random, exhausted Marines to sleep in when processing was particularly long. The bodies started coming in. And we kept getting bodies and we kept getting bodies, so we never really finished the construction work.
This is where we worked inside the bunker. The bunker was empty when we arrived. It was our platoon that built the walls, rooms, and work stations. Marines in our platoon ran the wires and hooked up the electricity along the perimeter of the bunker. On the work tables can be seen biohazard bags, goggles, scissors, and gauze. Black body bags are on litters with saw dust to absord any liquids and sand bags to support the litters. (Author collection)
4
Processing
In Operation Enduring/Iraqi freedom, USMC Mortuary Affairs (MA) personnel were tasked with the “processing” of dead bodies. The processing involved the collection of remains, collecting and cataloguing personal effects, making the bodies as presentable as possible, and in the case of U.S. personnel, getting them ready for transport to Dover Air Force Base where further processing takes place. The dead included U.S. military personnel, civilians (including an embedded American journalist), and enemy military personnel.
OIF MORTUARY AFFAIRS DE-BRIEFINGS:
“HELPING THOSE WHO HANDLE THE DEAD,”
Captain Joseph Pecorelli, MSC, USNR, Captain Mark
Long, MSC, USNR, Captain James Young, MC,
USNR, Commander (SEL) Victor Sheldon, CHC,
USNR, and Captain Richard Frederick, MSC, USNR
—Department of Navy online document, 2004
They brought in the first body. The grunts brought him in. There weren’t lights in the middle of the bunker yet, only along the side of the wall, so we put the body there and then we … did nothing. Although we had been trained, we didn’t know what to do next. We were taught, but we didn’t know. They took the time to tell us what to expect, but when the first body came in, several of us froze. We became inept and couldn’t do anything, really. We just didn’t know … we just couldn’t…. We knew how to complete the paper work and what had to be done, but when it’s real, when it’s no longer an abstract thought and when it’s in your face, in front of you, you stand there, motionless, wondering, What do I do?
The Sir had called in every person in our platoon and designated people to particular tasks. He said, “You two are going to carry, you two are going to turn the body over, and you two are going to do the paper work.” He wanted all of us there, I’m certain, so that we could help each other out, help each other deal with it, because I’m sure that the Sir thought that we might panic and maybe we weren’t going to be able to do this. After all, most of us were eighteen and twenty year old kids still. If we didn’t know it, The Sir did.
He gave us step-by-step instructions. “Roll him over to document his wounds.” We may have known that a Marine was hit by bullets or a grenade, but we may not have known where. But when we tried to turn him over, we couldn’t. Rigor mortis was setting in and he was already beginning to stiffen, except for his waist, which was like a pivot point. Even when we strained to turn him over, we could not. It was awkward and we were silent except for The Sir’s slow, calm, firm instructions. “C’mon guys, you were trained on this and you know what to do,” he reassured us. And so, eventually, we did it. “Okay,” The Sir said, “now write down any distinguishing marks, any tattoos.” So we did. “Now, write down which body parts are missing and shade the missing parts black on the outline of the body.” So we did. We followed The Sir’s directions, marking the wounds, drawing the tattoos, shading the missing parts black. We had to be told throughout what to do next and how to do it.
After the first body, the processing went smoother. The Sir organized us into teams of four, which were usually then divided into two members who would be the “hands on” for the body and two who would co
mplete the paper work. In time, a process of sorts evolved. A body would come in and we’d remove every item from the pockets and inventory all of the gear that was on him. We couldn’t assume that all of his gear was on him. They don’t always have two boots. They don’t always have Kevlar helmets or a flak jacket or the things that might be expected to be there. They are gone. Missing. The body parts they covered may be missing too. We then conducted an inventory of all the items that were in the pockets. Exactly what they had on them when they died can then be verified. When down the road the family asks, “Where is this picture? We know he always carried this picture with him,” we could report that he did or he did not have it on him when he died. Or if money wasn’t there that someone thought was, we could check our inventory. If there had been a pen in their pocket, or a note, if there were two twenties and two ones, we documented it. We would precisely document what he did and did not have on him at the time of his death.
We would inventory everything. Every body had a copy of The Rules of Engagement in their left breast pocket. Some would have knives or earplugs, food, a spoon. Pens. Rolled up pieces of paper, a scribbled reminder to ask their mother to send Skin So Soft or Blue Star Ointment to keep the sand fleas away, a scrunched up wrapper, trash that wasn’t thrown away—trash that would now become part of a family’s lasting memories of a son, husband, brother, father, hero.
There were pictures. A man and his wife and daughter. A farm-house and barn in Iowa. Many were the pictures teenagers would carry back home. A high school student with his football teammates. A young man in a sleeveless t-shirt leaning against a 1983 Camaro. A letter in which a Marine tells his widow that he is now dead, but that he loves her still, and he wants her to give their daughter a kiss from him.
Some items were uncommon, like the sonogram of a fetus. Some were not uncommon enough, like a suicide note.
We would examine the remains for distinguishing traits such as birthmarks, scars and tattoos. Where are they on the body? What is their approximate size? How can they be described? We would write down the wounds that were on the body. If there are bullet wounds, where on the body are they? If they are in the head, where in the head? How many? We would get the appropriate form and mark the outline of the body with dots or Xs where the Marine was hit. Where body parts were missing, we would shade those parts of the outline black. If a part of the head was missing, we’d shade that area black.
We tried to identify each body, but that wasn’t always easy. They may have their dog tags on, they may not. It was not unusual for a body to have missed-matched dog tags. It could be that a kid was wearing someone else’s dog tags, even though it was against regulations. Maybe they have their military ID in their wallet, but maybe they don’t. Their name might be on their blouse or trousers or cover, but it might not be readable, if it is there at all. When you share a tent or small hole with others, belongings get mixed up. Items such as these do not always match up, which is why we would write down everything a person had on them. Initially, we fingerprinted them but did not continue the practice for very long because it became too difficult. There were not always fingers. Or the fingers were stuck in the position they were in when the Marine died, as if still holding his M-16, for example, and we could not unbend them easily.
We would then put the remains into a clean body bag and put the bag into a metal box we called an aluminum transfer case, similar to a coffin. We then placed the case in a reefer where it stayed cool. When it was time to take it to the flight deck to go home, we would drape an American flag over it and carry out a processional, a separate one for each set of remains. Four of us, one at each corner of the case, would walk it through two rows of Air Force personnel who were there to do the flying. They would all salute the remains as we walked them through. They would salute as if they were saluting the President of the United States, as if they were saluting their own fallen family members. Ramrod straight backs, their arms at a 45-degree angle. There was such a strong emotion contained in that salute, such a fierce intensity embedded in the ritual, that it never subsided, even after too many processionals. In fact, it got stronger. Each time we came away from it knowing in our hearts that we were all Marines, and that we were in this together. Each time we’d walk back to the bunker ready once more to go on.
If each processional strengthened our resolve, it also removed us a bit further from the mainstream of the Camp. As the causalities in creased, so did the possibility of death and the awareness of what it was that the men and women of Mortuary Affairs did. Our platoon was to the Marines what the Marines are to much of America: we did things that had to be done but that no one wanted to know about.
The processionals and the nature of our work in general also impacted us as individuals. Before the Corps and the war and Mortuary Affairs, death seemed to occur rarely and to people who were old; another’s body was off limits, often sacred, not to be touched without permission, and certainly not to be pieced together like a sad, gruesome puzzle; social isolation was temporary and voluntary, and ostracism was unheard of except when someone had done something unspeakably wrong. All of these taken for granted understandings changed for us.
The army set up a perimeter and stood post while we tried our best to change our socks, use the head, brush our teeth, and find a place to sleep. (Photo courtesy of Bill Thompson)
5
Pressure
Up to one in five of the American military personnel in Iraq will suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, say senior forces’ medical staff dealing with the psychiatric fallout of the war … At least 22 US soldiers have killed themselves—a rate considered abnormally high—mostly since President George Bush declared an end to major combat on 1 May last year. These suicides have led to a high-level Department of Defense investigation, details of which will be disclosed in the next few weeks.
From: “Stress Epidemic Strikes American Forces in Iraq,”
Peter Beaumont, The Guardian (UK),
January 25, 2004
Every Marine has the responsibility to maintain the Corp’s body composition regulations. Two times a year, at least, Marines are weighed and if our weight exceeds the maximum allowable, our body fat is measured. If we do not meet regs, we’re enrolled in a body composition program. Marines also have to be physically fit, combat ready. This is essential to self-discipline and character. If Marines are not physically fit, we are a detriment to our unit. Our fitness is measured by our performance during a series of events, involving pull-ups, abdominal crunches, and a three mile run. Official measurements and sanctions are in place to keep Marines within regs—including, theoretically, discharge from the Corps. Informal sanctions exist as well.
An overweight Marine really isn’t fat, and an out-of-shape one isn’t actually unfit; if they were in the outside world, if they were civilians walking down Main Street, no one would find them disgusting. Here, they are and it is not acceptable. They are not acceptable as Marines. In the Corps and on base they are called “fat nasties” and “shit bags” and they are told they must change.
At one time we had a Marine with us who was overweight. He was an E3. The higher ranked E4s said to him, “You need to be squared away, marine. And do you know who is going to square you away? The platoon is going to square you away.” The E4s approached those of us who were lower ranking but who held billets or certain authority responsibilities, and told us we needed to square that Marine away. He became a virtual slave to whomever he was assigned and, as such, he was made to do all of the nasty things, all of the dirty things, all of the most disgusting things. If he mouthed off or talked back, we had him do push-ups. When one of us wore him out, we handed him off to another.
The corporals put us in charge of this Marine and we did what was expected of us. We made him dig a hole—a fire hole or fox hole—with his e-tool that was exactly one rifle wide and two rifles long, dimensions specific enough to imply the hole had some specific purpose. Then we would have him fill it up again. Nonsense
.
Terrible, miserable nonsense. Because this Marine couldn’t run fast enough, he was assigned to the runners of the platoon, to those of us who could run well. We were in charge of running him and wearing him out. And so we ran him until he puked. If he didn’t puke, we hadn’t done our job, we hadn’t run him long enough, we hadn’t run him fast enough, or the run wasn’t vigorous enough. It was like hazing. Heck, it was hazing. We calculated the length of a football field and made him bear crawl to the end and back. We had him do monkey fuckers all the way down the field and star jumps all the way back. All very demanding exercises. The bear crawl necessitated walking on all fours, with the knees off the ground. The monkey fuckers required bending down and grabbing your ankles, then crouching down like a baseball catcher, standing back up, then dropping back down. Star jumps involved squatting down, then jumping high into the air, and throwing out your hands and feet so that your body forms the rough outline of a star. By the end of each session, when this Marine was beat, completely whipped, he’d be told that he had five minutes to shower and get back to the field, which was impossible to do.
When he returned, not showered and foul-smelling, every other Marine would be screaming in his face that he’s a fucking fat nasty and he fucking smells and is fucking disgusting and that he is a shit-bag Marine. This treatment continues and does not stop until every single Marine in the platoon is on his back and down his neck.
If anything would square away a shit bag, this would. You would think. But it didn’t. In fact, I’ve never seen it work. I’ve only seen it make a Marine fake it, fake like he gives a fuck. I’ve also seen it not work, like it didn’t for this one Marine whose remains we processed.
Jessica Goodell & John Hearn Page 3