I volunteered for the service. She just volunteered to love me.
Postscript
This essay was originally due to appear in the May 2012 issue of OutServe Magazine. Barely a few weeks before it was due to print, I received a call from my commanding general to discuss the piece. There were concerns that I would be retroactively charged with potential violations of the UCMJ based upon some of the writing so I revised the essay to clarify those identified portions. Follow up calls then resulted in the CG issuing a direct order to rescind the essay from publication. This came after President Obama on May 9, 2012, made known his support for gay marriage. The CG thought that publishing the essay would have potential negative consequences on my career in the current political climate at the time. She added that now that the president had made his statement, in an election year, the issue of gay marriage was part of the political process and as such, my essay was potential “prohibited speech” since serving members of the military are restricted from any public endorsements or statements that are partisan. The essay was pulled from publication at the last minute.
I was not sure if the CG truly had acted out of concern for my career wellbeing or if there was another agenda in play. Regardless, I had received an order and would comply with 100 percent support to my commander regardless of personal belief or feelings in the matter. It was a legal, moral, and ethical order. I would soldier on and comply.
Months later in August 2012, I attended the change of command for that commanding general, who was about to retire. We had a few moments to speak privately at the farewell dinner. Grasping my hand in both of hers, she told me how personally proud she was for the work I was doing to bring full equality to all military families and the importance of my participation in the suit challenging the constitutionality of the Defense of Marriage Act. That she was very proud of me for these actions and for standing up for GLBT soldiers. She reiterated her concern that publishing the essay when it had been planned would have resulted in significant possibility for negative actions against me. (After my retirement might be better timing.)
I retired in December 2012 after thirty-three years of service. In my last three assignments, I commanded battalions but only in the last one was my family visible and known. During my final change of command, my wife was honored with the traditional roses of farewell from her Army family, the soldiers of the battalion I commanded. She was thanked from the podium by the brigade commander and personally by many of the soldiers I had led. And during my own retirement ceremony, the presiding general officer specifically honored Monika for her devotion, dedication, and service as a military spouse.
After two years of application, the Veterans Administration has recently acknowledged Monika as my spouse. The Army has accepted her inclusion as beneficiary for my Survivor’s Benefit Plan. Finally, she carries her own military dependent spouse identification card which she proudly uses every opportunity when an ID is requested. She is a proud Army wife.
Donna Doe
(n.d.–)
U.S. Army
“Donna Doe,” a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom, survived a violent sexual assault when she was a cadet in an ROTC program. She was offered the opportunity to disenroll from ROTC after the assault, but when she recovered, she chose to complete her bachelor’s degree and accept a commission in the Army. She subsequently earned a law degree. She is still on active duty as of 2016, and she publishes nonfiction about her experiences and about military policy on sexual violence and mental health under the pen name “Donna Doe” to maintain her privacy. The following is an original essay submitted for inclusion in this collection.
“If you bury this, it will haunt you,” the social worker said the fifth and final time as I threw her out of my hospital room, my tray clanging after her after she shut the door. Truer words were never spoken, and her curse followed me across time zones and continents. But I had no time to talk, no need to itemize the injuries and insults. I only wanted to go home, the same as my first night there, as I begged the orderly not to call my parents. “Please,” I sobbed, “please let me go home.”
And so it should not have come as a surprise to me, a few years later, law degree in hand, when I completely unraveled. Though I saw it as my destiny to become an avenging spirit, tipping the scales of justice towards the victim, the truth was that their stories rang in my ears like a gong, rattling my brain and wearing away on my psyche. Sitting beside them, holding their hands, promising them it was not their fault but being careful not to promise anything else eroded the brick and mortar between advocate and survivor. I became like an exposed nerve, painful and raw. Unconsciously I tensed my shoulders and stomach as they related the details of their assault, like a person waiting to be struck.
Inevitably I’d have to ask them the questions we both were dreading, the ones the defense attorney would use to carefully shred their credibility and their souls. “And then what happened?” Over and over. “And why did you do that?” Gingerly asking the same questions they’d no doubt asked themselves dozens of times. Why? Why? Why?
This case was like all of the others. A private first class, barely out of her teens, decided to trust the untrustworthy. In this case it was her squad leader. She thought she was among friends, battle buddies and team mates. The ones who are supposed to have your back when the shit hits the fan. The alcohol, the predator, the set-up. It was always the same. Over and over again, these shattered women sat beside me. And over and over again, the system betrayed them.
Though not a great speaker, I was thorough. I wanted to get it right. I memorized dates and details. Practiced cross-examinations and openings. I had a duty to right what had once been wronged. The day before trial I would practice in front of my boss, a kind man who wasn’t afraid to give honest feedback.
As I stood at the lectern, inhaling deeply, staring at an imaginary judge, I said these words: “This is a case about a young woman who just wanted to go home.” And I could say no more. The grief rent the earth open, and swallowed me whole. I cried for four hours. I cried when my boss asked me if I wanted to go to Landstuhl. I cried when we stopped at my house to pack some clothes. I cried when they had me turn over my dog tags and bootlaces, lest I hang myself.
By the morning of the day after I was horrified at my loss of composure, clamoring to break free of inpatient treatment and return to do the case. The SJA, leaning in and speaking in hushed tones, as if speaking of the dead, assured me the case was in good hands. By that time I was shuffling around in a hospital gown and slipper socks brought by well-intentioned ladies from the Red Cross who were unsure how to talk to us or where to focus their eyes. I was on “Nine Charlie,” the euphemism they used when talking about the looney bin.
I wanted, I needed, to be back at work. That was the only way it all made sense: God had let this happen to me because it was my destiny to fight for justice. It imbued me with a sense of purpose. Without my profession, without the dais and the jury and the verdicts, none of it made sense. The hours I’d laid in the rain, crawling my way toward the light. The nagging ache in my hips and back reminding me of where and how I’d been broken. Without my job my assault had no meaning.
So at night when the psychiatric nurse asked me if I needed Valium to help me sleep, I said “Yes.” Because on top of potentially losing my career, on top of the pain in my heart, lying in the hospital bed at Landstuhl gave me flashbacks to the last time I was in the hospital: the Indian doctor exclaiming, “It’s cut all the way to the bone!” as she stitched up my arm. The nurse who held my hand as evidence was collected. The tears. The pain.
A lot of what happened at Landstuhl is fuzzy. I alternated between doing pushups and situps beside my bed to stay in shape and weeping uncontrollably over what I believed was the loss of my career. The second day a Red Cross therapy dog visited us, tail wagging ferociously as he deposited a saliva-soaked tennis ball in my lap. I remember an Air Force chaplain relating how he’d been hit by a
car while bicycling, leading him to question his faith. “And I’m here to tell you,” he said, looking directly into my eyes, “it’s going to be okay.”
I wasn’t so sure.
In terms of “okay-ness,” it’s all relative. There are good and bad days. I didn’t get medically retired, mainly because I downplayed my symptoms to get out of treatment and convince my chain of command I was “okay-enough.” That is the fundamental problem when you link treatment with employment status.
I wish I were better. I know that I cannot now and probably will never be able to try sexual assault cases, though I’d love to be involved with informing military policy on the treatment of victims. It’s just too painful. I’ve learned the value of tactical patience, learning when to lie in wait for my symptoms to diminish and when it’s no-kidding time to talk to someone again. The best I can do is be self-aware, to know when to suck it up and when it’s time to take a knee.
I’ve learned we all are haunted: the missed opportunity, the lost loved one. We must be kind to ourselves and our fellow travelers along this spooky journey. For those of us who hear the howling winds and rattling chains of our past, we must remember to reach out and cling to those who love us. The dawn always comes eventually.
10
Desert Storm
“Women Could Not Be in Combat”
The fourth day of Operation Desert Storm was so cold that Maj. Rhonda Cornum could see her breath when she woke up. That afternoon the Army flight surgeon—the mother of a teenage daughter—and seven of her colleagues went out to a UH-60 Black Hawk for a routine passenger shuttle flight. After they were airborne they received a new mission. Air Force fighter pilot Bill Andrews had been shot down behind enemy lines and was stranded with a broken leg. En route, still several kilometers from Andrews’s position, the helo began taking enemy fire.
The helicopter went down rapidly. Cornum thought about her grandfather, a Marine who fought at Iwo Jima, who had told her that living with dishonor was a lot worse than dying. Her last thought was, At least I’m dying doing something honorable.
She regained consciousness after dark. She saw the wrecked helicopter and a body. Part of the helicopter pinned her down. She dug some sand out to release her right leg, which was immobile, and then pushed herself out from beneath the wreckage with her left leg. When she tried to stand, her arms didn’t respond. Oh, this is very bad, she thought. She tried again to turn over, and when she looked up, five Iraqi soldiers had their guns pointed at her head. She was a prisoner of war.
One of the soldiers reached down and stood her up. She knew from the pain that her arms were broken. Her knee was injured and she had been shot in the shoulder. She saw no other survivors, and assumed she was alone. The soldiers took her to a bunker and questioned her.
When they emerged, they dragged her to a group of soldiers and tossed her into the center of the circle with another soldier: Spc. Troy Dunlap, another survivor of the crash. The soldiers put pistols to the backs of the prisoners’ heads. Cornum and Dunlap thought they were about to die. The sound of a trigger—click. But no bullets.
The Iraqis pulled Cornum and Dunlap to their feet and took them to another bunker. They began removing the prisoners’ gear: flak vests, survival vests, and weapons. When they pulled Cornum’s helmet off, her long hair spilled down and the excited Iraqis realized she was a woman. Soon they loaded Cornum and Dunlap onto a truck.
Cornum tried to relax. Then the soldier sitting next to her put his hands on her face and kissed her.
Well, how bizarre! Cornum thought in disbelief. Surely he can do better! How can he possibly want to do this? She was bloody, dirty, and smelly.
The soldier unzipped her flight suit and began fondling her breasts and genitals. She couldn’t fight back because her broken arms were swollen. She thought about biting him, but didn’t want to make him angry. She resisted only when he tried to force her head into his lap. The pain in her arms was excruciating, and she screamed. The soldier knew, she thought, that he was not supposed to touch her; if she screamed, he quit. He seemed not to want the men in the front of the truck to know what he was doing.
Around thirty minutes later the soldier stopped groping Cornum and zipped up her flight suit.
The Iraqis took Cornum and Dunlap out of the truck and into an underground prison, where they and the third survivor of the helo crash remained for eight days. Cornum and twenty-three other prisoners were then repatriated in a prisoner exchange.
Asked about the sexual assault after her release, Cornum said simply, “In the hierarchy of things that were going wrong, that was pretty low on my list.” She decided that whatever didn’t prevent her from getting out of prison, didn’t pose a risk of death, wouldn’t result in permanent disability or disfigurement, and wasn’t excruciating simply wasn’t important.
Army policy supposedly prevented women who deployed in Desert Storm from assignment at the battalion level, under the assumption that higher command echelons were sufficiently protected from exposure to combat situations. Low-intensity conflicts in the 1980s and early 1990s had already demonstrated that the assumption was false.
In 1983 military rebels deposed and murdered the prime minister of the Caribbean island of Grenada. On October 25 the United States deployed some 7,000 troops in Operation Urgent Fury to reclaim the government, purportedly at the request of the island’s governor general. Around 170 women soldiers filled support billets in intelligence, military police, transportation, and communication roles. One, a captain, was responsible for detonating unexploded ammunition. Four women MPs, upon arriving in Grenada, were ordered back to North Carolina; when they arrived, the commanding general of the Eighty-Second Airborne ordered them to return to Grenada. Coast Guard women crewed vessels patrolling nearby waters; women flew operational missions on OH-58 helicopters over Grenada; women served as flight engineers and loadmasters on other aircraft that took part in the operation. A woman pilot, Lt. Celeste Hayes, delivered troops from the Eighty-Second Airborne to Salinas Airfield when there was fighting in the area. Around two hundred Army women took part in the operation.
In 1987 Defense Advisory Committee on Women in the Services (DACOWITS) members traveled to the Pacific theater and found low morale among women, sexual harassment, job discrimination, and lack of communication between Navy leadership and enlisted women. Their report and the resulting bad press led to creation of the Department of Defense Task Force on Women in the Military that September. The task force found that services applied the combat exclusion rules differently; it had never been clear whether the combat exclusion laws were intended to prevent women from serving in combat roles, or to protect them from harm. The task force, therefore, recommended that the Department of Defense write an unambiguous statute evaluating positions to be closed to women.
This statute was the 1988 DoD Risk Rule: noncombat positions could be closed to women if the risk of exposure to direct combat, hostile fire, or capture equaled or exceeded that experienced by combat units in the same theater of operations. Thirty thousand noncombat positions opened to women. However, the Risk Rule did not fully resolve ambiguities, and the underlying assumption was fundamentally flawed: service in higher echelons and support roles does not guarantee safety from enemy fire, especially in modern warfare.
The following year, U.S. troops deployed again. On December 15, 1989, the Panamanian legislature declared dictator Manuel Noriega president and declared that a state of war existed between the United States and Panama. President George H. W. Bush ordered 25,000 troops to Panama to arrest Noriega and bring him to the United States for trial. More than eight hundred Army and Air Force women participated in the operation. Often under enemy fire, women pilots flew Black Hawk helicopters in with supplies and troops; women in the Air Force flew cargo and refueling missions. Women also served in intelligence, administrative, and communications positions. On December 20, Army Capt. Linda Bray led a company of military police in a firefight against Panamanian Defense For
ce troops defending a weapons cache.
Afterward, Pentagon and service spokesmen downplayed women’s contributions in an attempt to defuse the issue of whether or not implementing the Risk Rule prevented women from participating in combat. Conservatives and many senior military retirees declared that women were weakening the armed forces; some claimed that feminists had exaggerated women’s contributions in Grenada and Panama, and that military leaders who knew the truth about women’s performance were being silenced in the interest of so-called political correctness.
On August 2, 1990, Iraqi troops invaded Kuwait. The United States responded with a force buildup in Saudi Arabia—Operation Desert Shield. On the eve of the American invasion five months later, women accounted for about 11 percent of the active duty force and nearly a third of the reserve force. The press initially responded to the deployment of women by running human interest stories that featured military mothers bidding farewell to husbands and children. Many men resented the suggestion that deployment was more emotionally difficult for women; women resented being portrayed as emotional and unprofessional.
Combat began on January 17, 1991, with aerial bombing; the ground war began on February 15. Women served in theater in every military occupational specialty except those considered “direct combat” specialties. They flew on airplanes and helos over the battle area, maintained aircraft and vehicles, loaded ordnance, drove trucks and heavy equipment, manned .50-caliber machine guns, and guarded bases and enemy prisoners of war. Navy women deployed to the Gulf on auxiliary vessels, which often sailed without escort and were vulnerable to Silkworm and Exocet missiles and naval mines—but they were prohibited from serving on aircraft carriers protected by both the air wing and the ships of the battle group. Women in the Coast Guard provided harbor security. Women commanded support brigades, battalions, companies, and platoons. They staffed medical facilities afloat and ashore. They were assigned to Patriot missile batteries, which the Army designated “defensive” rather than “offensive combat” units. Some commanders simply ignored the Risk Rule and assigned women where they were needed. Others transferred women to “noncombat” duties even if they were the best qualified for a “combat” job. By the end of Desert Storm, nearly 41,000 women had served in theater. Thirteen were killed; the Iraqis captured two, Maj. Rhonda Cornum and Spc. Melissa Rathbun-Nealy, and held them as prisoners of war.
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