Ruff's War

by K. Sue Roper

  I was also tired of being ordered around by senior enlisted personnel who had no real positional authority and were often misinformed. We all had the same information, and history had shown that that information was, more often than not, unreliable and sometimes totally invalid. Having been bullied and push around by senior enlisted during the early days of my career, and now being an exhausted commander on the verge of retirement who had just survived many brutal and harrowing days of war, I was finished with being jerked around. I just wanted to go back to sleep. I woke up long enough to say “Go to hell” to the chief petty officer yelling at me, and to tell my running buddies that I wished them a safe trip and I would see them in Kuwait. Then, I simply rolled over in my sleeping bag and went back to sleep, thinking, “What’s one more day?” and believing that tomorrow would be better. Lt. Cdr. Necia Williams would also stay behind, and she became my new battle buddy.

  On Sunday, 11 May (Mother’s Day), I awoke at 5 AM still lying on the concrete tarmac underneath the wide-open skies of Iraq. I watched as a wild dog wandered around the area in search of whatever scrap of food it could find. Responding to the call of nature, I got up from my sleeping area and wandered to a nearby bush to relieve myself. Fortunately, the wild dog was not aggressive toward me and seemed to be only a little curious.

  Approximately sixty Bravo Surgical Company personnel remained on the tarmac, and as we began the process of packing up our gear, we all wondered how long we would wait for a flight or whether there would even be a plane that would take us to Kuwait that day. It seemed ironic that our travel back to the beginning would be so similar to our transport experience leaving Kuwait and flying to Iraq—get up, hurry up, wait for transportation, wait some more, and then wait even longer. We all hoped the similarity between that experience and the one we were currently enduring would end with the dawning of this new day.

  Once our gear was packed and we again attired ourselves in full gear, including carrying our Alice packs on our backs, we began the process of waiting once again. This time, however, we were the only personnel at the airstrip, so our chances of actually boarding a flight looked hopeful. Our hopes were temporarily dashed when C-130s began to land but, instead of taking us on board, they started loading up outgoing cargo. Finally, shortly after noon, another C-130 landed, and we actually began to board the plane. Because I had given up my stix position the previous night, I was “punished” for this uncooperative behavior by being placed in the last stix group to board. Frankly, I did not give a damn. We were all going to be boarding the plane, and it mattered little to me that I would be the very last one on.

  Thirty hours after arriving at the runway tarmac, we clambered up the plane’s rear loading ramp and found a place to settle within the plane’s cavernous and sparsely furnished interior. The day was brutally hot; the temperature exceeded 120 degrees. This heat, compounded by the heat of the plane’s engines and the fact that we were all attired in full gear, made us all sweat profusely. Still, the plane was not as crowded as the one on which we had flown into Iraq on 2 April, forty long, torturous days earlier, nor did we zigzag our way through the sky to avoid being targets of ground-to-air missiles. No one vomited on him- or herself or onto a nearby buddy, and within forty-five minutes we landed in Kuwait on a sand airstrip immediately outside the perimeter of Camp Okinawa (one of many small camps within our original larger encampment called Camp Coyote). We had finally returned to the beginning. And even though we did not desire this delay in our progress toward returning to our real homes in the United States, what we found there—what we would experience and discover about ourselves—ultimately made our transition stateside the best it could possibly have been.

  23

  WELCOME TO THE “HOLIDAY INN”

  When we landed in Kuwait, the seven-ton trucks were there on the man-made airstrip waiting to transport us to our new temporary home at Camp Okinawa. Not having to endure yet another transport delay surprised us, and we almost did not know how to cope as we were smoothly transported to our new location. Various refinements and enhancements had been made to Camp Okinawa while we had been in Iraq, and it was definitely not the same place we had previously visited. Alpha Surgical Company, who had remained there throughout the official combat days of Operation Iraqi Freedom, might not have appreciated the rather rustic and rudimentary luxuries offered at Camp Okinawa on a daily basis, but we members of Bravo Surgical Company thought we had arrived at the Holiday Inn!

  Upon arriving at Camp Okinawa, we were nicely and even politely told to line up and place our gear in a designated area. Instead of being yelled at or harshly ordered to do this or to do that, we were being talked to in a kind, respectful, and civil manner. After receiving a warm welcome by those greeting us and managing our arrival, we were invited to go to the chow hall tent where we could consume as much soda and ice cream as the human system could tolerate. We were also told that soda and ice cream would be available twenty-four hours a day and that we need not hesitate to come back for more. Being treated with such respect and kindness was almost overwhelming.

  Instead of wanting to go to the chow hall to partake in the delectable treats being offered, though, what I desired most was to find Cdr. Vanessa Noggle, a family nurse practitioner and friend I had known for eighteen years. Vanessa and I had developed a true bond of friendship over those many years that could not be broken or shaken despite the many miles that often separated us when we were assigned to various duty stations throughout the States and overseas. We stayed close through frequent phone calls, letters, and visits with one another, spending hours sharing the stories of our lives and simply being there for each other during the good times and the bad. I had received a letter from her weeks earlier telling me that she had been assigned to a reservist surgical company that had deployed to Kuwait. I hoped to find her among the ranks of Fox Company, now based somewhere within the compound of Camp Okinawa, to hug her and be hugged in return.

  Despite my eagerness to find Vanessa, I went with the group to the chow hall and enjoyed a delicious cold Coke, something I had not tasted in several long weeks. I was in awe as I looked around. The chow hall had a clean wooden floor, numerous tables adorned with plastic decorated tablecloths, and chairs with backs. We even had the option of sitting at a table in a real chair outside the mess tent if we so desired! The sodas and other refreshments were ice cold and were stored in a real temperature-controlled cooler. Food, real food vice MRE food, was prepared on grills. In the center of the messing facility was a buffet table where different cereals, fruits, drinks, and other nourishment would be set out and available for the taking at various mealtimes. The sight of all this luxury was mind-boggling.

  After thoroughly enjoying our sodas and ice cream treats, we returned to gather our gear and then were graciously and politely escorted to our berthing tents. Some of my battle buddies in Bravo Surgical Company who had departed for Kuwait on the first plane had made special arrangements for my sleeping area to be near the door of the tent. I was deeply touched by their thoughtful and considerate gesture.

  Our berthing tents had a wooden floor and electricity, and although no cots were available to us, we really did not care. Lying on the wooden floors was a lot cleaner than lying directly on the ground, and the overall conditions were much more pleasant than what we had had for forty harrowing days amidst the sparse, hostile, coarse land of Iraq. Eventually, even air-conditioning would be installed in our berthing tents and would be greatly appreciated as the outside temperature began to soar well above 100 degrees every day.

  Still very eager to find Vanessa, I quickly dropped my Alice pack and other miscellaneous gear on the floor of my new berthing space and asked whether anyone knew where I might be able to find Fox Company’s. I was told they lived on the other side of the berm, but this made no sense to me until I began walking around the camp’s compound.

  Camp Okinawa had significantly expanded during the days we were in Iraq. Now serving as the home of approximate
ly twelve thousand personnel attached to various surgical support companies (Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Echo, and Fox), it was like a little city carved out of the sand in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert. One of the sand berm walls that had originally enclosed the camp now ran through the middle of it, for the camp had doubled in size. An opening in this sand wall allowed access to the other side, and I found that walking through this opening was similar to leaving one city and entering another.

  As I made my way through the berm’s opening, I saw tents and people everywhere; everyone seemed to be involved in one of a wide array of activities. Some were moving in and out of tents on their own personal missions, walking toward some specific destination. Others were sitting, relaxing, reading, or engaged in conversation. Still others were running, playing volleyball, or participating with their friends in some other outdoor sport or recreational activity. It was an unbelievable sight, and it represented such normalcy, something I had not experienced or witnessed in a very long time. Although we had tried to re-create a relatively “normal” American way of life at the various camps while in Iraq, what I had just entered into was the real thing. Everyone was relaxed, unafraid, and, most striking of all, free to be and to do whatever they desired.

  Wandering through this “mini city,” I would stop at various tents and ask, “Where’s the female officers’ tent?” Even when I was given directions, I was still not sure I knew where I was going because all the tents looked alike, with the exception of one tent that displayed an inflatable swimming pool in the front yard that someone had brought with them from the States. The sight of that swimming pool sitting ridiculously, yet so proudly, before one of the berthing tents made me laugh. It was such an unexpected sight, so cute and so very American. I thought, “This is really great! This is Club Med!”

  Rounding one corner after another, all the while asking the location of the female officers’ tent, I began to feel frustrated. Then, as I turned one final corner, I noticed a tent that had erected a web-netting roof to serve as cover for an outside patio area. Several people were sitting there in chairs, and I caught a glimpse of Vanessa getting up from her chair and starting to enter the tent. While her back was to me, I said, “Hey, girl.” When she turned around and saw me, her expression was one of confusion, followed by shocked recognition, and then warm, loving smiles. I immediately started crying, and as we hugged one another I felt the comfort, love, and all-encompassing sense of safety of being home. That day, Mother’s Day of 2003, was the happiest day I had experienced since first arriving in Kuwait on 17 February.

  Vanessa, whom I fondly call “Ness,” would later tell me, “When I looked at you, all I thought was that you looked like death.” I had lost a lot of weight, my eyes were sunken in, my clothes were filthy, I was filthy, and my sand-filled hair was in total disarray. While Ness was hugging me on that special and memorable day in Kuwait, she said, “Come on. We’re getting out of here,” and she immediately guided me away from those gathered on the patio. Not until later would I realize that one of those sitting there was Lt. Cdr. Mike DiBonaventura, who had been stationed with me as an ensign twelve long years prior on board the USNS Mercy. The navy was indeed a very small world.

  After Ness and I walked, talked, laughed, and savored this incredible and very special time of togetherness, I went to clean up. We soon met up again at the mess tent. As we moved through the line to get our food, the food server asked, “Commander, what would you like? A hamburger or a hot dog?” It was a hard choice for me because I truly wanted to eat everything. When I responded, “May I have both?” I was told that I had to make one choice. I ultimately chose the hamburger. As soon as we sat down to eat, Ness immediately took the hot dog off her plate and placed it on mine. As I tried to object to this kindness, she stopped me and said, “Cheryl, just eat it.” And so I would, along with my own hamburger, baked beans, potato chips, ketchup, mustard, and just about anything else in sight. I would experience some painful gastrointestinal issues later in the evening, but that food—the first real food I had eaten in six weeks—tasted so good going down.

  The three weeks I spent at Camp Okinawa were important and meaningful ones. Life was good, and every day I would discover and enjoy many wonderful amenities available at this compound. I had been deprived of so many simple, yet meaningful, aspects of normal living; the days spent at Camp Okinawa gave me an opportunity to rediscover them—gradually, and with a greatly renewed appreciation. While I had been in Iraq, I had thought many times of several friends’ pets whose lives were much better than mine, but now those days of deprivation were truly over.

  This “Holiday Inn” in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert, in addition to having the luxurious wooden floors on which to sleep and real food that could be consumed in a warm, friendly, and laid-back atmosphere, also had shower facilities that were in enclosed solid-sided trailers. The water that sprayed from the shower nozzles was warm and plentiful, and the shower stalls were private and clean. Our access to these shower facilities may have been restricted to taking one shower every other day, but gradually we began to feel clean again.

  Our days of locating a bush, digging a hole in the desert dirt, or visiting a fly-infested and crudely erected wooden pooper in order to relieve ourselves or to change tampons were also over. Scattered throughout the compound were multiple modular, commercially constructed, plastic-sided molded portajohns that provided privacy and comfort. These “restrooms” truly did provide an opportunity to rest versus swatting at flies or trying to ensure that the canvas flap door did not fly open or into your face. I was so excited about the portajohns that I found myself describing them twice in the same letter to my sister.

  One of the tents had been converted into a small workout gymnasium that contained free weights, a rowing machine, a stationary bike, and a treadmill, all donated to the camp by the fleet hospital from Portsmouth, which had also been briefly detailed here. Also included in this tent, in an area separated by a line on the floor, were a television, several small card tables, and chairs. This section was set up as a place to sit back, relax, watch television, or do whatever leisure activity we desired. The only regulation associated with this free-time recreational area was that we had to be in uniform. Also, we were not allowed to cross that designated line on the floor if we were in gym clothes.

  It was from the television located in this recreation area that I learned the fate of Jeff, the young marine I had helped at Camp Anderson. Although I was not a direct witness to it, Dave Sheppard informed me that while he was watching a news broadcast, he recognized Jeff as this very special patient of mine. The broadcast showed Jeff at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, being presented a Purple Heart by President Bush. It was such a wonderful ending to that story; I could not have been more delighted, knowing that Jeff had made it home to the States safe and alive.

  Shortly after we arrived, our mail was delivered. I received close to thirty care packages, many postmarked mid-February. Our mail had obviously been held while we were in Iraq, which was unfortunate because we could have benefited greatly from the many wonderful personal care items and savory treats we were now receiving but did not necessarily need. Opening all of those packages was wonderfully exciting, even better than opening gifts on Christmas morning. My thoughtful and generous friends and family had really been thinking of me and had sent a lot of great stuff.

  Others in the Bravo Surgical Company were also beginning to receive their mail, and one day a total of seventy-six boxes were delivered to our berthing tent. Because we knew we would be limited in what we could take back home with us, we set up a mini “Sam’s Club” and invited all of our buddies to come over and “shop.” It was actually much better than any such store stateside, for all our merchandise was free for the taking. After those desiring to do so had rummaged through the contents of this store, we carefully packaged many of the remaining items and sent them north into Iraq for use by the sailors and marines left behind.

&nbs
p; Our mission while at Camp Okinawa was simple. We were to decompress, await the arrival of our equipment from Camp Geiger, either discard or clean that equipment for repackaging into the ISO containers, and simply wait our turn to fly home to the United States. After discovering all the luxuries and the fun to be had with my buddies at Camp Okinawa, I did not care whether we would be leaving in two days or two weeks. I was doing fine physically, and I felt much more human and in great spirits. So were the rest of my colleagues who had been in Iraq. It was easy to identify those from Bravo Surgical Company; we were the ones who considered the camp to be a Holiday Inn and had absolutely no complaints.

  The numerous berthing tents, chow halls, administration, postal services, and recreational centers of Camp Okinawa were nicely laid out. We had plenty of room in between the tents to erect makeshift outdoor patios or to develop a “yard of sand”—or even to display an inflatable pool. We also had a large perimeter area where we could walk or run. Once again, I began a daily regimen of walking and running and would often be joined by my former battle buddies Dave Sheppard and Steve Wingfield. Even though I would need to get up at 4:30 AM in order to avoid the tremendously hot and stifling heat of the day, it was great to be running or power walking again. These activities added just another element to my sense of feeling normal again.