8
Is This the Day?
Late August 2004
Lord, is this the day I will take the life of another human to save my own life or to protect the life of my soldiers? Is this the day I will die in combat? After a couple months in Iraq I was asking myself these questions as I awakened each day. I was a combatant, not a healer, at Abu Ghraib. But still, I had taken an oath to “do no harm.”
I asked myself these questions usually after having “the dream,” as I came to call it. The demons would come for me nearly every time I went to sleep. No matter how well I felt as I lay down to sleep, I awoke with nightmares. Night after night, I woke up in a panic, startled and confused, my heart racing. I always calmed down quickly, but in the early days I rarely had a good idea what had frightened me so much. What am I so upset about? I would ask myself. What is my struggle?
I had asked these questions off and on since arriving in Iraq, but now they went round and round in my head each night, after I awakened soaking wet from sweat. I knew it had something to do with the psychological impasse of pain, a moral dilemma I could never seem to resolve in Iraq’s dark abyss. Oddly, my nightmares were never about the sights and awful events, like seeing a soldier’s guts blown out and lying on the ground, a charred body, or an Iraqi terrorist with his torso ripped open, blood pouring out. They were about me making the right decisions, finding a way to do the right thing in a wrong situation. My moral compass during the night seemed to be stuck in these nightmares, my mind stuttering like a VHS tape perpetually on pause at the critical juncture in a movie. As I considered the nightmares more, trying to piece together the bits I remembered as I lay in bed trying to catch my breath, their subject became clearer to me. They all tied in to the question that had been bothering me, in a much more conscious way, for some time now: how could I, as a doctor, a healer, knowingly kill another man? I was an Army officer in a combat zone. I might, at any moment, need to kill another human being. How could Dr. Larry James do that?
This quandary held me in a motionless pause each night, yet the nightmares spurred me to face this dilemma head-on in my waking hours, forcing me to cope with a predicament that I had always considered theoretical, something I could push to the back of my mind. I could not run from this question in Abu Ghraib, and unlike back home, sleep was not the customary respite period from such worries. Slumber catapulted me each night into a dialogue with my moral compass. In my head and in my heart, I was stuck on pause. I couldn’t get past this.
For two months I had awoken each morning at about 5 or 5:30 a.m., showered, and then headed to the chow hall, for breakfast and to visit with soldiers. By the time I returned to my hooch at night at about 6 or 7 p.m., I would simply be flat-out exhausted. I showered again, cleaned my weapon, reloaded it, got on my knees and said my prayers. Within a minute I fell into a deep sleep. I slept deeply and soundly. But the nightmares still came, and after a few weeks in which I made a point of trying to remember them and analyze them, “the dream” became more consistent and clearer to me.
In this dream, it was as though I was up in the clouds on a beautiful sunny day—but I was hovering over Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C., watching my own funeral. I could see soldiers from the Old Guard firmly raise the American flag from my coffin. Though it was gloriously sunny up in the sky where I was, my wife sat with the other mourners in the quietness of a dreary, cloudy, rainy day. Taps played and the bugler’s sound echoed in the chill of the Arlington sky. I vividly saw the painful agony, the sadness in my wife’s face, heard her cries and almost tasted the loneliness upon her lips. Surrounded by friends, family, and loved ones, she found difficulty in doing the simplest of things on this day. Then the color guard sergeant did an about-face, faced my wife, and slowly, in a deliberate manner, walked toward her with the American flag from my coffin. He extended his arms and, gently, with the flag in his hands, moved toward her with pensive steps. He stopped exactly one step in front of her, methodically and slowly leaned forward, and said, “Ma’am, from a grateful nation,” as he extended his hands and presented her with the American flag from my coffin. He came to attention, saluted my wife, my flag, and returned to his post with the color guard.
The color guard sergeant, now back at his post, called everyone to attention. As the soldiers fired a volley from their rifles for the twenty-one-gun salute, my wife collapsed. That is the moment where, in a frenzied terror, I would awake gasping for air as though I were drowning. I sat up in my bed, drenched, soaking wet with sweat, heart racing, and tried to find my bearings in the darkness of my room. My watch would read 3 a.m. It would be a long time, almost three years after my return from Abu Ghraib, before I learned that my soul mate of thirty-one years also carried the burden of this same dream with her each night. Like me, my wife was never awakened with the image of her husband blown apart, nor visions of her double-amputee husband trying to walk again at Walter Reed. Rather, just as with my own nightmare, she would awaken at the moment the last volley was fired from the twenty-one-gun salute. As the sound from the rifle reverberated across the Arlington sky, she would awake in a night terror, gasping for air. I would learn that her panic was caused by a fear for my safety. My terror, on the other hand, was driven not by my potential death, but by my potentially doing the morally wrong deed as a doctor.
As time went on, I actually began to welcome the nightmares. They became my moral compass: as long as I had nightmares I knew that I was struggling with the wrongness of what I saw and the notion of how any psychologist could torture a human being. Better to struggle with doing the right thing than to blithely go about your business and not even wonder, never giving yourself a gut check about what you were doing.
But seeing the meaning behind my nightmares was for the daytime, in the light, when I could calmly assess them as I would for a patient. In the dark night, all alone, they were simply terrifying. When the demons came for me, I would reach for my weapon and check to ensure that it was loaded with the safety off. Then, after calming myself, I would drift back into the darkness of night, only to soon find myself haunted all over again by another nightmare. The second nightmare was usually different from the one about my funeral. It would involve an all-out attack on Abu Ghraib in which the perimeter walls had been breached by the enemy. Once again, in this dream I would find myself at the moral crossroads, standing with my M16 rifle with the safety off. As I leave the building to get in the fight, I see an enemy soldier stop, face me, and put his hand on the trigger of his AK-47, ready to blow my brains out. I position myself to kill the enemy and I squeeze the trigger. As the bullet leaves the gun’s barrel, I awake again in a cold sweat.
After the second nightmare was over, I would climb out of my rack and get a drink of water, calm myself, and get down on my knees and pray the same prayer I prayed many nights. “Heavenly Father, thank you for not having me kill another human being today. Please wrap your gentle arms around me, keep me safe and calm at all times with a good heart, a steady hand, and a stable mind. Father, I would also ask that you not have me take the life of another human being tomorrow. In the event that you decide that on the battlefield I must take the life of another human being in the course of performing my duties, please forgive me.”
In a way, this prayer would absorb my pain, soothe my disquiet for the moment, and calm the turmoil deep in my soul. I would get up to my knees, check my weapon, make sure the safety was off, get back in bed, and drift away into a deep, sound sleep all over again.
Early in my tour, I often wondered what it would feel like to get shot. What was it going to feel like if I got a leg blown off or had to spend the rest of my life with half of my skull blown apart? Would I find new strengths in order to function if I became blind from having my eyes blown out during an intense firefight? Would I recover? Would I be a better human being? Those thoughts had begun running through my head on the Air Force C-130 from Kuwait into Baghdad and in my early days at Abu Ghraib. But by late August I rarely thoug
ht about getting killed, shot, or blown up myself; I thought more about whether I would have to kill someone else. It was clear to me that I was no longer a doctor but rather a combatant with the sole purpose of helping the Army kill or capture the enemy. I knew that was appropriate in a combat zone, but it still troubled me as a doctor. What’s the difference now? I would ask myself. I’ve been a military officer for over twenty years. Why is it so difficult this time?
In many ways the reason was simple. This was perhaps the first time in our nation’s history where hundreds or thousands of doctors and nurses were put on the front lines in this manner. Doctors and nurses had been in combat before but most likely not in the same manner and with the large number of health care professionals we had far, far forward in the fight. In particular, for mental health professionals it was indeed a change. Simply because of their proximity to the front lines and being smack dead in the middle of the fight, the options were clear and the choices few: kill or be killed. On a convoy, all soldiers were soldiers and the enemy bullets didn’t care if I was a doctor or a Green Beret, nor could they discern the difference.
On one August convoy to Camp Victory for some meetings and other work, I saw a good example of how some medical professionals can take a while to realize what became clear to me in my first weeks at Abu Ghraib. After my work at Camp Victory, I was getting ready to join the convoy back to Abu Ghraib. We had about five new doctors and nurses who asked to ride with us back to Abu Ghraib. Staff Sergeant Jackson from Boone, North Carolina, was going from vehicle to vehicle prior to our departure to check the weapons of the medical personnel and field their questions. The Humvee in front of mine had a female nurse and a male physician in it. Neither had locked and loaded their weapons. The sergeant couldn’t help but notice that the nurse didn’t even have her 9mm pistol with her. It was at the bottom of her backpack.
“Where’s y’all’s weapons?” Sergeant Jackson asked.
The nurse replied in a condescending tone, “I try to never touch that thing. It’s too heavy. We won’t need it, anyway.”
Without hesitation, this young soldier looked them both in the eyes and spoke plainly. “Ma’am, sir, with all due respect, you need to get the fuck out of my goddamn convoy because when the shooting starts, you shoot back or you’re dead. Or even worse, people around you may get their goddamn heads blown off because of your moral dilemma. These hajis, frankly, don’t give a shit if you’re a doctor or nurse. All they know is they want to put a bullet right between your eyes. So you either lock and load your weapon or keep your butts out of my convoy.”
They both got their pistols and loaded them.
We convoyed from Baghdad back to the compound at Abu Ghraib without a gunfight, but there was one incident that got my attention. A group of ten- to thirteen-year-old kids threw rocks and bottles at our vehicles as we drove by—not an unusual occurrence, but this time it triggered a question for me. As I watched one of the little bastards throw a rock, I asked myself, Suppose that thirteen-year-old kid was throwing a hand grenade at your vehicle. Would you be able to shoot that child? I decided that if it meant saving my life or the lives of my fellow soldiers, Colonel Larry C. James could shoot the boy and would. But Dr. Larry C. James couldn’t. If it actually ever happened, both the colonel and the doctor would be haunted by it for the rest of my life. I was terrified by that scenario and it occurred to me that I was never prepared psychologically, nor emotionally, to deal with this possibility, let alone cope with the reality of shooting a child. When the convoy arrived I went back to my hooch and dropped off my gear. It was now about 5 p.m., suppertime.
As I left my building and headed for the chow hall I bumped into one of the intelligence officers. This tall, lanky guy with dirty blond hair and wire-framed classes said, “Colonel! Welcome back. I’m glad I saw you because I need to talk with you.”
We stepped to an area where we could talk with some privacy, and the intel officer passed on some interesting news.
“Sir, I was talking with some of the intel officers in our brigade back in Camp Victory and I have been briefed that you’re on the most wanted list.”
“Captain, what the hell are you talking about?” I asked, looking him right in the eyes.
“Well, you know Al Zarqawi, right?” he continued, referring to the most wanted man in Iraq at the moment, a high-level terrorist leader. I was quite familiar with him. “Well, he has a most wanted list and I was told that the four Army colonels at Abu Ghraib were named on this list. You’re one of the four Army colonels here, so you’re on the list.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. What does a person say in this situation? I just said something about how I appreciated the heads-up and left it at that. As I turned to walk away, the captain seemed to think that he hadn’t really gotten his message across.
“Sir, you should be careful out here,” he called after me. “There is also a $25,000 bounty on your head.”
That got my attention again. “What in the hell does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, sir,” he said, “if the perimeter wall on this post gets breached during an attack, the bad guys are gonna come looking for you with their machetes. Colonel, the first one to capture you and cut your head off with their machete will get $25,000 from Al Zarqawi.”
Well shit . . . there’s a thought that’ll keep you up at night, I thought to myself. But after a moment, I considered that maybe, probably even, this young captain was embellishing the facts. Still not good news, but probably not as bad as the captain was saying. So I thanked him for his information and headed toward the chow hall.
Before I got halfway to the chow hall, I was soaking wet with sweat and it seemed to be unusually humid and hot that evening. I stopped for a moment, took my helmet off, and wiped the sweat out of my eyes. Before I put my helmet back on and buckled the chinstrap, I could see the intel center commander moving quickly toward me. He called out as soon as he was within earshot.
“Hey, Colonel James! Good to see you back. Larry, we need to talk about some pretty serious shit. The four colonels here, including you and me, have shown up on a pretty serious hit list.”
Maybe it was my denial, but by this time I really wasn’t in the mood for any more discussion about my name being on a hit list and getting my head chopped off, so I just told the commander I’d already heard and started to move on toward chow. The commander stopped me in my tracks, looked me in the eyes, and made sure he had my full attention.
“Colonel James, you’re not tracking with me. So let me say this so you receive this message loud and clear. First, you need to know that you and I are high-value targets here and there’s a goddamn bounty on our heads. You need to take your nameplate off of your front door, because trust me, the enemy already knows where you live, and if they come through the wall tonight, you better be ready because they’re coming for you,” he said, frustrated that I wasn’t taking this seriously. “Larry, here’s the deal: if you’re captured, first those bastards are going beat you beyond recognition. Your wife will not recognize your face ever again. Then the fuckers are gonna butt-fuck you to the point where the docs will have to sew your asshole back together. Your asshole will be literally ripped apart. Man, after they’re done with their group orgy with you, while you’re still breathing, they’ll get out the video camera and tape your execution. They will put you on your knees and cut your head off with their machetes and film every minute of it. After that, they’re going to cut your nuts and your dick off with that very same machete and stick them in your mouth. Then they will take your head with your testicles and dick stuffed in your mouth and put it all in a paper sack and drop it off on the front steps of the Red Cross. This will be the special gift these bastards will give to your wife just in time for Christmas. Colonel James, from here on out you’re ordered to always keep your weapon locked and loaded at all times. Are you tracking with me now?!”
I was. I got the picture clearly. This wasn’t some bullshit threat that would never a
mount to anything. I really was on Zarqawi’s hit list. (Our intelligence community would erase any lingering doubts in the coming weeks, confirming that Zarqawi had me in his sights.) I could be the next grisly video shown on CNN and downloaded all over the world. If I still had any second thoughts about being a combatant, the intel center commander helped me get my head on right that night. After we finished our chat and I walked to the chow hall, I kept thinking about what the commander had described.
Is this the night that they will come for me? On this night will I have to kill another human being?
Clearly this was a new mind-set for me. This was a new way of thinking that I had never ever considered before. I wasn’t worrying any more about whether I would have to kill or might be killed as a consequence of being here to do my job as a psychologist, sort of an unwanted side effect of just doing my job. No, this was now about me in a very personal way. I personally, Larry James, Biscuit 1, was now a specific high-value target for the enemy. It was freeing in a way, because the enemy had made it crystal clear that to them, I was a soldier, indisputably, no qualifications. My moral dilemma over being both a soldier and a doctor didn’t mean shit to them. Part of me understood that already, but having your name on a terrorist hit list has a way of bringing the issue into great clarity.
My 9mm and M16 became permanent parts of my body and I could not follow the usual rule of always keeping my weapon on safe and not having a bullet locked and loaded until the shooting started. With what the commander described still ringing in my ears, I considered that for me, every single moment was now like being in a convoy. I had to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice. My orders from the commander were clear: be locked and loaded at all times and don’t keep your weapon on safe. But this created an additional layer of anxiety for the rest of my deployment that I had not anticipated. After a couple of days walking around with my gun always loaded I couldn’t help thinking about a conversation I had with a former student of mine who used to be a Honolulu homicide policeman. John had retired after twenty-six years on the police force. I asked him once whether he had a pistol at home for personal protection, and he said, “Hell no, I couldn’t wait to get rid of that damned gun. Dr. James, having a gun on your hip all the time is like having an extra-big dick. You always worry about whether it’s hanging out. Is it showing or did you forget it somewhere?” I understood now what he meant. Every soldier has to be mindful of his or her weapons, but carrying a locked and loaded weapon all the time creates a burden of vigilance that soon will wear you down.
Fixing Hell Page 16