It's My Country Too

by Jerri Bell, Tracy Crow

  More than 280,000 women served in Iraq and Afghanistan during the “Long Wars.” As of October 2015, 161 women have died and 1,016 were wounded in action. More than 9,000 received Army Combat Action Badges for “actively engaging or being engaged by the enemy.” Two—Army Spc. Monica Lin Brown, a medic, and Kentucky Army National Guard Sgt. Leigh Ann Hester, a military policeman—were awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action against an enemy. Three women earned the Distinguished Flying Cross, thirty-one earned the Air Medal, and sixteen earned the Bronze Star.

  Not only were military women engaged in combat operations in the most recent wars; when they returned, they began telling their stories in print. In 2006 former Arabic linguist Kayla Williams published Love My Rifle More Than You: Young and Female in the U.S. Army, a memoir of her experiences in Iraq. Navy psychologist Heidi Squier Kraft published her Iraq memoir in 2007, and former Marine Jane Blair published hers in 2011. A number of women veterans took advantage of GI Bill funds to attend master of fine arts programs and sought to elevate accounts of their wartime experiences to the level of literary art. Unlike women of earlier generations, who often spend parts of their narratives apologizing for their effrontery in violating social norms for women’s behavior and taking on traditionally masculine roles, women veterans of recent wars assertively claim their wartime experiences, demand to be heard, and insist on being taken as seriously in print as they were in uniform.

  Miyoko Hikiji

  (1976–)

  U.S. Army

  In 2003 author and writing instructor Miyoko Hikiji published a memoir of her 2003–2004 Iraq deployment with the 2133rd Transportation Company. Hikiji holds BS degrees in journalism, mass communication, and psychology from Iowa State University. Her interviews and book reviews have been broadcast nationwide on NPR’s “Tell Me More” and published in USA Today, Marie Claire, and Stars and Stripes. She is a member of the National Women Veterans Speakers Bureau and the military sexual trauma project director for the Iowa nonprofit group Veterans National Recovery Center. The following are excerpts from her memoir, All I Could Be: My Story as a Woman Warrior in Iraq.

  This is my war story. It’s part military history, part personal revelation, part therapy. . . . Though it maintains a high degree of factual integrity, my story is partly a creative endeavor and solely my own truth. In war, like in life, truth is a reflection, a perspective on past events. My memories of these events were shaped by years of examination.

  I began this book during the deployment. . . . In reading the initial drafts, I realized that some incidents simply did not make sense because war does not occur in a logical sequence and people often act “out of character.” While I was deployed, my struggle to piece together “life as I knew it” with “life as it was” led to moments of sheer craziness. When I came home, these times persisted. My initial hope was to heal myself through writing my story. Through this cathartic undertaking, reliving the painful events of my deployment. . . . produced further traumatic stress.

  There are days my deployment seems so long ago and so far removed that I can hardly believe it happened at all. Then one morning at the kitchen table, I finish my breakfast and instinctively reach under my chair for my rifle and panic when I come up empty-handed before realizing that there are no insurgents in my backyard and I no longer carry a weapon. In effect, all of my experiences, real and imagined, are part of my real life. I now believe there is no cure, per se, or route back to who I was. The only path is forward and by telling my story I can apply a comforting salve to wounds that will never heal.

  • • •

  Iraq was a beautiful hell. I roasted atop a stone retaining wall listening to music through my head phones. I watched the Euphrates dance of water bugs and emerald birds with triangular wings. Behind me stretched a green grass courtyard that, despite the desert environment, was able to flourish through a river-fed sprinkler system. At the tip of my platoon’s pie slice of land was one of the former palaces of Saddam Hussein, who was currently hiding. Its dome, now toppled and upside-down, had been blown off by a missile whose partial casing (now festooned with a Ron Jon Surf Shop sticker) lay at the center of the ruins. The front of the palace had a gaping, jagged hole through which we could see a crumbling marble staircase. The thought occurred to me that maybe only a few months before Saddam had climbed that staircase to peer through the window in the rotunda as if he were, and always would be, king of his world.

  I was on a week-long mission in the provincial capital of Ar Ramadi supporting a Florida National Guard infantry unit that was in charge of the city’s security. The outpost was about the size of three city blocks. The infantry lived in a partially destroyed building that had also been part of the palace grounds. My co-driver Nick [whose name, like others in the book, has been changed] and I shared one of the four frame tents with another truck team. The second and third tents held four other truck teams including Di, the only other woman on the mission, and the last tent housed the platoon sergeant and his driver. That tent doubled as an office. A cleverly crafted patio area had been constructed using scavenged pallets covered with scrap wood for a floor. Camouflage bits stretched and tied between and the open spaces of low tree branches provided relief from the relentless sun. Waving atop a few extra tent poles in the center of our compound was the Iowa state flag.

  It was July 2003 and we had just moved to this forward operating base in preparation for our fourth mission since arriving in Iraq. With nothing to do beside clean my M16 and kick the tires on my truck, I moved languidly about trying to find the least miserable spot in which to endure the day’s heat. I circled from my bunk to the patio to the retaining wall and back like one of the emerald birds.

  A small rusty pick-up truck pulled alongside the tents. It was a local Iraqi merchant selling blocks of ice as long and thick as railroad ties. Three soldiers would share the cost of an eight-dollar block and then use their bayonet knives to chip it into sections that fit in their small coolers. I grabbed my cooler, put in my ice chips, then, packed two Fanta sodas, a tuna kit, three energy bars and a handful of jerky around it. The ice would be melted by evening, then thrown out on the grass. But in the meantime, I could enjoy cold food and drinks.

  • • •

  The cooks worked miracles with powdered eggs and canned meats, and often incorporated locally grown produce into the menu, except on days like today, when the delivery truck got blown up by an improvised explosive device (IED), scattering our salads all across the street. Lunch was an MRE (meal ready-to-eat). . . . Hot, hungry, and forever needing energy, I was careful never to miss chow. I needed all the strength I could get—we all did.

  I ate alone while the other male soldiers strutted around like peacocks. They were okay Joes for the most part, but they were hopelessly hormonally charged. This made it difficult for me to participate in their discussions of whores, strip clubs, and no-boundaries masturbation. The privates gathered around the platoon sergeant asking, “When was your first combat jerk?” like kids gather around grandpa to hear “’Twas the Night before Christmas.” Whenever they spotted me walking toward the patio, they tried to change their topic of discussion to something less offensive, like music or movies, but it rapidly fizzled into an uncomfortable stretch of silence, as it wasn’t nearly as interesting as what they just been razzing about. I ate alone while the other male soldiers strutted around like peacocks.

  My team leader, Lowman, jumped up and suggested a swim to cool off. The others agreed and bolted off toward the water’s edge with shirts and boots flying. As Lowman caught up with me, he slowed to talk.

  “You comin’ with?”

  “Not this time,” I said in a sad tone.

  “Live a little,” he said with disgust. “You should be diving in head first every chance you get a chance. Don’t know how many more of those chances you’ll have, you know.”

  Then, he turned to run off and join the lot.

  I headed for my bunk to sulk over the fact that the thi
ck pad soaking up a heavy period made a dip in the river impossible. Maintaining my dignity required privacy, so I kept my feminine products out of sight and my reasons for not swimming to myself. Live a little reverberated in my head. I’m living it like everybody else—full color, 3-D, surround sound—except that this shitty movie has been playing for 137 days now without a single barrel of extra-butter popcorn or quart-sized Coke.

  I looked out over the palace lawn at my buddies, jumping off a makeshift diving platform, splashing the others in the water below. Near the platform was our open-air latrine—a 55-gallon metal drum topped with a sheet of plywood with a hole cut in its center. In front of the drum was a heavy door from Saddam’s bombed out palace that was positioned on its side to conceal me, or any other soldier using the latrine, for some privacy. But, it did not allow for complete privacy, only from one angle and waist high. Yesterday, when sitting upon this throne, a river patrol boat roared up from behind, allowing them a full view of me partially naked sitting there doing my business. I turned to see a soldier standing up in the boat with binoculars, drawing nearer. There was nowhere to hide, so sheepishly I waved. He returned a quick wave back. As the boat continued down river, I shimmied my cargo pants up and hustled back to my tent.

  • • •

  We pulled rear security for the patrol convoy. Over my rifle sights, I tried to draw a mental map of streets and landmarks, especially alleys that were too narrow for turning around a vehicle. The city was full of trapdoors—dark windows and rooftops perfect for snipers, narrow streets ideal for an ambush, and sidewalks piled high with rubble and trash that made it hard to distinguish IEDs. Along the street curbs sat stagnant ponds of human waste, the result of an unmaintained sewer system.

  A volley of small arms fire and heavy return fire reverberated from the city’s center throughout the night. Radio transmissions scripted a dismal scene. Fortunately, all was quiet on our street just a few blocks away. The locals remained inside their darkened homes.

  [The convoy encounters a group of men in the middle of a card game, and after careful investigation, the convoy moves on. This type of scenario will play out several times while her unit is on its security patrol.]

  The pop, whir and whiz of small arms fire brought my mind back to focus. A glowing red tracer round ricocheted off the road ahead of our vehicle. We made a sharp turn, then slowed to a crawl as the infantrymen leapt out of the truck, fanned out across the street and disappeared in the dense palms and vegetation. I pulled my night vision goggles down from my helmet, clicked the safety switch to auto and scanned my sector, waiting for movement or another shot to reveal my target. The infantrymen called this quarter-mile stretch of road near the river’s edge “Sniper Alley.”

  “It’s nothin’,” one of them finally called out, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah, just some bastard that thinks it’s the 4th of July or something,” said another as they began re-emerging from the foliage.

  “You’ve got our attention now,” our driver mumbled. “One more shot and we’ll light you up like a Christmas tree.”

  Iraqi women, outside past curfew to wash the human waste from the gates to their homes, hurry back inside when they spot the Americans.

  My finger relaxed from against the trigger. I looked back to get a thumbs up from Nick and saw that he was dripping wet—doused in slushy feces. . . . “Oh shit,” I said.

  “That’s right, I’m covered in human poop,” he said, wiping his face with the back of one hand.

  “Fucked up sewer!” I shouted over the wind as we picked up speed.

  “Fucked up country!” he shouted back.

  • • •

  As we approached summer’s end, fights ignited across the entire platoon. When we were on a mission, we complained; when we were on base, we complained. Our list of things to hate exploded from heat and danger to food, rooms, duty roster, waiting at the phone center, waiting at the washing machines, waiting at the PX, items at the PX, no hot water, broken generators, busted trucks, inept squad leaders, lazy platoon leaders and fat platoon sergeants. Hate spread like wildfire. Had we been the 4077 M*A*S*H, psychiatrist Sidney Freedman would have recommended the whole platoon get together to torch the place for therapy and start over again.

  As our camaraderie slowly dissolved, it seemed only a commitment to real soldiering could get us back together, which required true leadership. We needed inspiration, vision, a renewal of pride, and an example of discipline and self-control before we tore each other to pieces.

  The lieutenant’s leadership plan to raise morale is to have the entire unit watch the film “Gettysburg” and write a self-reflective essay about it. No one is happy about this assignment, and everyone tries to find excuses out of it.

  I don’t recall much from the movie. I may have been sleeping with my eyes open or I may have been lost in the mental construction of my essay, which would be less about Gettysburg and more about Al Asad. The movie was just a launching pad for a rant that I had to let loose.

  I didn’t want to cash out in Iraq, but the odds didn’t seem to be on my side—or rather, the randomness of death didn’t give me much faith in them. Truck drivers had the most dangerous job in Iraq. The roadways were filled with IEDs and our convoys were a large and slow moving target. There was always KIA (“Killed-In-Action”) announced during the morning intel briefing. About 50 from the 3d ACR had already died here. Yesterday it was a guy from Florida. Today it would be a guy from Colorado. Tomorrow it could be a gal from Iowa.

  Lauren Kay Halloran

  (1983–)

  U.S. Air Force

  A former Air Force public affairs officer, Lauren Kay Halloran served in the West African Republic of Mali and deployed to Afghanistan as part of a Provincial Reconstruction Team working to build governance and development in southeastern Paktia Province. After her discharge, she earned her MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston. Her work has been widely published and has been used in the creation of dance and theater productions. She lives in Boston with her husband, a fellow veteran-writer; two cats; and hundreds of books. The following is from her memoir-in-progress, The Fine Art of Camouflage. It first appeared in the December 2016 issue of Drunken Boat.

  Inheritance of War

  I don’t remember much from the time Mom was at war. I was seven years old; the memories blur into a fuzzy background, punctuated by snapshot images of clarity. I know my world expanded that winter. I learned new words like “Desert Storm,” “Saddam Hussein,” and “Hate.” Dad pointed out Saudi Arabia on our office globe. Mom was there, inside the little star that represented the capital of Riyadh. It didn’t look very far away.

  I remember cheese quesadillas—“cheese pies,” I called them—cooked in the microwave. A mom from school served them to us while we waited at her house for Dad to pick us up after work.

  I remember crying in bed every night after Mom’s tape-recorded voice finished reading a bedtime story, and my sister—a more silent griever—shushing me from across our shared bedroom. I saw the school counselor for a few weeks. I don’t recall her name or what she looked like, or even what we talked about, but I remember staring out her window at the snow-crusted ground. My classmates were at recess, throwing snowballs, having fun.

  Despite our proximity to multiple military bases outside Seattle, we were the only local kids who had a parent deployed. Our neighbors took turns babysitting and delivering meals. A yellow ribbon hugged the big maple tree in front of our elementary school. When she returned, Mom would cut the ribbon off to a whooping chorus of cheers from our classmates. But while she was gone it hung there, through rain and wind and snow. I saw the ribbon every day, and I hated it.

  I didn’t learn until years later that the deployment orders had been for an undetermined length of up to two years. I didn’t know that because of the threat of chemical weapons and the size of Mom’s medical unit—which made them an appealing target—it was thought to be a suicide mission. In her phone c
alls and letters home, Mom didn’t discuss her terror at the nightly air raids, or her aching loneliness, or her doubts about her ability to handle combat. I didn’t know she carried trauma with her every day, even after she returned home. All I ever saw was her strength.

  • • •

  The elementary school, my Girl Scout troop, and Mom’s college roommate showed up at McChord Air Force Base on the morning of March 12, the date my mother returned.

  The Tacoma, Washington, military base, near the Army hospital where Mom’s unit worked, was overrun with hundreds of family members, local residents, community leaders, and media. We stood behind a chain link fence, watching the empty runway. My sister and I held homemade signs. My brother, just two years old, didn’t understand where Mommy had been or why; he just knew today was the day she was coming home. He coiled his tiny hands around the fence and rocked back and forth, back and forth, eyes glued to the tarmac. His expectant face, framed by a puffy black and red jacket, became a popular clip on local news segments.

  I don’t know how long we waited before we heard the drone of an approaching aircraft. The crowd hushed, twisted heads frantically and shielded eyes from the sun, pointed at a dark speck on the horizon, then erupted into a cacophony of cheers. The dark speck got bigger and turned into a plane that drifted slowly across the landscape. As it inched closer, the crowd grew wild. We screamed and shook the fence. My dad scooped up my brother. Someone, a grandparent maybe, grabbed my hand. Reporters yelled into their microphones. We were supposed to stay behind the fence, but when the plane landed and the first camouflaged figure emerged, we stampeded onto the runway. All I could see was legs. Jeans and khakis and sweats, then a trickle of camouflage moving upstream, then a pair of legs that stopped and dropped a bag and bent and hugged and cried, then I was in her arms and nuzzling my face into her permed curls and the world was whole again.