WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ
1330 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL
“Anthony… .” I hear someone yell my name. It's Sergeant Cardoza, Torres's girlfriend and my fifth roommate.
“What's up?” I yell back.
“Do you remember when you were in the bunker during the mortar attack for the incident you got your CAB?” I pause for a second as if I truly might not be able to remember a time I was almost killed.
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“OK, good. Now in the bunker with you… . I know it was you, Staff Sergeant Elwood, and Specialist Boredo… . but was there anyone else in the bunker?”
“No.”
“Are you sure there was no one else in the bunker… . ?”
“What? No. Why?” I ask, confused. I'm not sure if I understand what Cardoza is asking. I'm not sure if she wants me to say something like God was in the bunker with me.
“Wasn't Specialist Bane in there with you?”
Boredo's girlfriend? “Cardoza, what the hell are you talking about? No, she wasn't in there with us,” I reply.
“Are you sure?”
It's been several months since the attack, but I can still see all the details in my mind, and besides, they have my written story….
“Yes, I'm sure she wasn't there. I'm one hundred percent positive she wasn't. Why? What's going on?”
Cardoza looks over both her shoulders, grabs me by the arm, and takes me to the corner of a building.
“Specialist Bane …” Cardoza begins as she once again looks over both her shoulders. “She is saying that she was in the bunker with you, Elwood, and Boredo when the attack happened, and now she's filling out paperwork so that she can get a Combat Action Badge as well. Boredo has changed his story and said that she was there. I talked to Elwood, too, and he said he doesn't care; he'll go along with whatever.”
Unbelievable.
“I'm not telling you to do it, Anthony. Personally I wouldn't do it.”
“Absolutely, unequivocally, NO, I won't do it. These fucking people tried to not include me in their stories and now they want me to lie so that Boredo's girlfriend can get an award,” I say, disgusted.
I know it's not Cardoza's doing, but I don't feel like looking at her anymore. I don't feel like looking at anyone.
I am unable to comprehend how people would give up their integrity and self-respect just to receive an award.
All I can think about is a quote I once heard by Napoleon: “A man will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.”
WEEK 4, DAY 5, IRAQ
0100 HOURS, MY ROOM
I'm laying in bed and my eyes are wide open. I can't sleep; the Ambien isn't working. I'm not hallucinating or seeing things, and I'm not falling asleep. My mind is too wired. I'm scared. I'm really scared. More scared than thinking I might go to jail, more scared than all the nights I spent hunched over in a bunker as mortars landed all around me.
I'm scared about the future. What happens when I get home? I'm twenty-one, and I don't know what I want in life. Sure, I can go back to college, but that's only delaying the inevitable. I think about all the people in my unit. I see people who are respected in society. They're doctors, nurses, pharmacists, anesthesiologists, and since we're reservists some of them also have different jobs in the civilian world. They're police officers, teachers, and firefighters. But they don't have respect for themselves and one another. I'm scared because I don't want to end up like any of these people, and I really don't know how to prevent it. I remember someone once telling me something about finding a mentor or finding someone that has what I want in life and then modeling that person's behaviors and attitudes. I tried finding someone; I really did. But I couldn't find a single person in my unit that had what I wanted. I'm appalled by the majority of them. But I'm no better than them, I know that.
I'm twenty-one years old and I have lived on my own since I was eighteen. During surgical training I assisted in delivering almost a dozen babies. I left home to go to war. I've seen people die and grown men cry. I've cowered in a bunker for hours at a time, fearing for my life. I've gone days without sleep and have assisted in hundreds of surgeries. I've survived all of this, but I'm still afraid to go back to the real world. In the Army and in Iraq I don't have to worry about anything; three square meals a day are provided, and I've got shelter over my head and a steady paycheck. I don't have to worry about what I'll do on any given day because I already know — I work. All decisions are made for me. The only thing I have to worry about is the possibility of dying.
Going back to the real world is what scares me. Getting a job, paying the bills, putting food on the table; I will have to do that now that no one is giving it to me. Somebody tell me what to do?! I've been ordered around and can't stand it. I'm looking for the time where I call the shots — and I'm worried it could be worse. I'll have no one to blame but myself. Soon I'll no longer have to worry about death; now it's life I have to worry about. It's now time for me to be a man, and it's the scariest thing I'll ever do. It really scares me. It really scares me that I won't have what it takes. That's a scary thought.
MONTH 12
“THE GODDAMN ARMY MADE ME A MAN.”
WEEK 1, DAY 6, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
“Anthony, guess what the GOBs are up to now?” Torres yells as I open the door to the hospital. “They want us to look like the perfect unit that doesn't have everyone sleeping with each other. CSM Lavaled even went up to Cardoza and told her that we have to cool it.
“They're cracking down on couples. We're supposed to set a good example for the unit that's going to replace us. Do you believe that? After letting everyone do whatever they wanted for the past year, now they want to crack the whip so they can look good. They've got their bitch, CSM Lavaled, doing all of the dirty work.”
Laveled has been making the rounds telling everyone to cool their jets, and everyone has been complying. That is until Lavaled comes across an officer in the pharmacy section named Captain Welch. He's six feet tall, 100 percent Scottish. He's also married and having an affair with a married woman, Colonel Gollen, who is an Asian doctor in the ICW.
“Excuse me, Sergeant Major Lavaled, stand at attention when you talk to me,” Captain Welch yells. “Sergeant major, you are in charge of the enlisted for your section. What makes you think that you can give me an order? I am an officer. I take my orders from Colonel Jelly, not from some enlisted soldier.”
Sergeant Major Lavaled is now standing erect at the position of attention.
“Sir, my orders are coming direct from Colonel Jelly,” he replies.
“Sergeant Major, I don't think you understand the chain of command. If Colonel Jelly wants to give me an order he can do it himself. I don't need to follow orders given or relayed by you. Do you understand that?”
Sergeant Major Lavaled bites his lip. He's used to being in charge of enlisted soldiers and making everyone act subservient around him. Now he has to do the same to the officer.
Sergeant Major Lavaled goes straight back to Colonel Jelly's office. Jelly tells Lavaled to handle the problem with Welch and Gollen and to let them know it's a direct order from him. Lavaled pages Welch and Gollen, and they come to his office.
“I need to speak to you one at time please,” Lavaled begins.
“I don't think so; you can speak to both of us at the same time,” Welch retorts.
“Listen, sir, it is a direct order from Colonel Jelly.”
“We don't need to talk to you,” Gollen jumps in.
“Fine, whatever, I'll talk to you,” Welch says and walks inside Command Sergeant Major Lavaled's office.
“I'm coming too then,” Gollen protests, and follows Welch toward the office. Lavaled jumps in front of her and pushes her back, closing the door behind him. Stunned, Gollen stands there, and ten seconds later she opens the door to find Welch and Lavaled holding each other by their shirts, ready to hit one another.
“What are you two doing�
�?” Gollen screams and grabs Welch by the arm and pulls him away.
WEEK 2, DAY 3, IRAQ
1700 HOURS, OR
“Hey Anthony, you heard about Sergeant Major Lavaled and Colonel Gollen?” Reto asks me as we wrap surgical tape around a broom handle and get ready for another day of indoor OR baseball.
“I heard about Lavaled and Welch almost getting into a fight. Is that what you're talking about?”
“Nah, man, haven't you noticed how Lavaled and Jelly haven't been around for a few days?”
“Yeah.”
“It's because Lavaled is at a hearing in Baghdad. Gollen filed a sexual harassment claim against him saying that he showed her his penis.”
“Haha, what are you talking about?”
“Well, apparently Gollen filed a complaint, and no one took it seriously because they had all heard about how she broke up a fight between Welch and Lavaled. She then went on record and said that Lavaled has a tattoo of Winnie-the-Pooh, slightly above and to the right of his penis.”
“Winnie-the-Pooh?”
“True story, I swear. So once Gollen says this they check out Lavaled, and sure enough he's got the tattoo in the exact same spot she described. Winnie-the-Pooh in all his glory, and Gollen described it in detail, too, right down to the jar of honey.”
“So what, they had sex or something?”
“No, man. Here's the best part. A few weeks ago, Lavaled was at the gym and he ran into Gollen. They started talking about abdominal muscles, and Lavaled lifted up his shirt to show off his abs. Gollen saw just the top of the tattoo. She asked him to pull down his shorts at an angle, so as to still cover his cock but show off the rest of the tattoo.”
“That's insane.”
“It's his word against hers.”
WEEK 3, DAY 2, IRAQ
1100 HOURS, POST OFFICE
I grab my boxes and head to the post office. Send it home: movies, clothes, books, everything. On the way out I see Sergeant Cost coming in. She's got a cart full of fifteen large packages. I begin to wonder how much stuff she could actually have.
1130 HOURS, MY ROOM
“Hey, man, did you get all your stuff mailed out?” Torres asks me as I walk back into our room.
“Yeah I did, it was crazy. Sergeant Cost goes in there with like fifteen packages to send home.”
“Were they on a cart and wrapped in white paper?”
“Yeah.”
“She did that yesterday, too, a cart full of packages — ”
Torres and I begin discussing all the different possibilities of what she could be mailing home in all of those packages.
“You guys talking about Cost?” Markham is saying.
“Yeah.”
“You know, I was at the post office three days ago and, I'm not even kidding, she was mailing like twenty packages home. I was curious what she was mailing home so I ask around the hospital. You know those Soldier's Angels packages we're always getting?”
Torres and I nod our heads.
Soldier's Angels is a group of caring and concerned citizens who send supplies to the soldiers overseas. Throughout the year, we've received hundreds and hundreds of packages from them that we keep with the other surplus goods: soaps, shampoos, candy, cookies, razors, lotions, anything and everything.
“So I asked around,” Markham says as he picks up his guitar and begins to play. “And it turns out she's been saving all of the Solider's Angels packages she's received throughout the year here.
She's sending them home so that she won't have to buy anything for years. She's raided the surplus supply room at the post office, too.”
WEEK 4, DAY 5, IRAQ
1100 HOURS, OR
The unit that is replacing us is all finally here. Colonel Reke and Gagney are giving the soldiers a tour as well as their commander, sergeant major, and a handful of colonels. In the OR break room, me, Reto, Torres, Denti, Chandler, Hudge, Elster, Sellers, Waters, and Cather are standing around, I suppose saying goodbye. It's our last day here. Colonel Reke and Gagney bring the tour past us; we're all talking and having fun with each other. The soldiers from the new unit ask us questions. Reto grabs two Snapples out of the refrigerator. He hands one to me and pops the top off of the one for himself, reading the fun little fact that's printed on the inside of the cap. Across the room, Gagney sees him and wants to show Reke and all the other colonels that he's friends with his troops. He yells across the room, “Hey Reto, what does the cap say?” The room goes silent. Pleased that everyone is paying attention to him — and how hip he looks in front of the other soldiers — Gagney, and everyone, wait patiently as Reto reads out the fact:
“On average a human will spend up to two weeks kissing in his/her lifetime.”
Gagney, looking to take his coolness up a notch, says, “Wow, ha ha, I guess I've already had more than my lifetime's worth of kissing. Hell, I'll do that my first month back.” There are a few stifled laughs, and you can smell the awkwardness in the air. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, I get a brilliant idea. It might get me in trouble, but I just don't care. It's too perfect, I've got to do it … I might get in trouble….
I've got to say it, quick, before the moment passes… . Patience…. Wait for the right moment…. Now! Go! Say it!
“I think they mean kissing someone on the lips, not on the ass.”
A few seconds pass in silence. Everyone looks at each other and takes in the comment. Then the entire room bursts into gut-wrenching laughter; all the colonels (even Reke) start laughing, and, of course, Reto and I do, too. After seeing everyone else, Gagney tries to fake a laugh.
Gagney's power over us is gone, and now those with actual character and personality are back in charge.
Tomorrow we leave for Kuwait, then Wisconsin for a week to do out-processing, and then we leave to go back home — for good.
THE LAST DAY
0900 HOURS, FLIGHT HOME
“I think I'm going to be sick,” says Reto.
Our entire unit, both the northern and southern hospitals, are on one plane ride home, and Reto comes by to tell me what he just heard.
“Why, what's up?” I say.
“So I was in my seat sitting behind Sergeant Blett, and she was sitting with Hikenski and Travis and they were all telling each other how they can't wait to be home with their husband and kids.”
“They've been cheating on their husbands this entire time!”
“They were all laughing and crying,” Reto says.
“This is fucking incredible. They acted like they could have cared less about their families while they were here, now they're all giddy about seeing them. I fucking hate people.”
“I'll go back to my seat. It looks like Denti wants to sit here.”
“No, stay here. I don't want fucking Denti sitting here again. I had to sit with him the entire first part of the flight,” but Reto ignores me.
0915 HOURS, FLIGHT HOME
When Denti sits down next to me, I see a pillow go flying across the aisle, then another one, then another one. A minute later almost the entire plane is throwing pillows around and having a giant pillow fight. I look at them all and I see everyone smiling and laughing and having a good time. None of them seem like the people I've just spent a year with. I begin to feel nostalgic. These are my brothers and sisters. We've shared a journey that few people in the world will ever know about, much less be able to relate to.
1015 HOURS, FLIGHT HOME
The plane makes a stopover in Germany, where it refuels, and then we get back onto the plane. The entire stopover consisted of me yelling at Denti: “No, that's a bidet, not a water bubbler….”
“Hey, smell my breath,” Denti says as we get back on the plane.
“What? I'm not going to smell your breath; go sit somewhere else,” I reply.
“No. Me and this guy stole some nips of absinthe out of the gift shop. I feel all warm and tingly. Hey, man, do you want to play cards? We can play poker, Rummy 500. Do you want to watch a movie on my
DVD player? Do you want to sit here and talk? I can't believe we're almost home. I can't wait.”
I begin to notice why absinthe is illegal in the States. Not because it has a high level of toxicity and can make people hallucinate, but because it makes people annoying as fuck. “Denti, shut up. I'm trying to go to sleep.”
“Hey, man, let me get some of your Ambien. You have like a whole bag left; let me get one.”
“I'm not going to give you a whole one.”
“Fine, whatever; give me something so I'll just pass out.”
I give Denti half (approximately 5 mg) of an Ambien pill.
1025 HOURS, FLIGHT HOME
“Hey, man, I'm not tired. I'm wired. Give me another half a pill. This shit isn't working,” says Denti.
“Listen! It takes twenty minutes to a half-hour to kick in. Just wait.”
Denti then proceeds to poke my arm. “Come on, man, give me another half one … come on.”
“Fine, but that's it. Wait for it to kick in.”
1035 HOURS, FLIGHT HOME
“Hey, man, this shit sucks. I'm still wide awake. Give me another full pill and I promise I'll leave you alone.”
“Denti, seriously, shut the fuck up; I'm trying to sleep.”
“I swear, man, give me one more. A full pill and I'll shut up. This shit doesn't even work. Just give me one more; I'm buzzed, man. All I want to do is sleep. Come on … come on … come on….”
“All right, Denti, but if you ask one more time, I'm going to suffocate you with my miniature airplane pillow.”
Mass Casualties Page 17