Black Knights, Dark Days

by Fisk, J. Matthew;

  He turned around, “Who are you?”

  Aguero, hurting and ill-tempered, shot back, “Who are you?

  “This is the 1-12 TOC.”

  “Where is the 2-5 TOC?”

  “Over there,” the captain said with a disinterested wave.

  “Where is ‘over there’?” The L-T was alarmed at how quickly his temper threatened to take over.

  The officer regarded him for a moment, “The big red building.”

  Aguero then recalled that the Change of Command had happened a few hours earlier and his Battalion’s TOC had moved. Cursing in frustration, the battered L-T limped toward the headquarters building. He saw a familiar face along the way: Captain Gerhardt, commander of the Battalion’s Forward Support Company.

  “Lieutenant Aguero!” Gerhardt exclaimed.

  “Hey, Sir. What’s up?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

  “No, no, here, let me help you.”

  Captain Gerhardt tried to help support Aguero’s weight with a side carry, but Comanche Red 1 was irate. “Get away from me!” Aguero limped toward the large, two-story structure in the center of camp. He opened a door leading into a room and hallway on the first floor and found no one. He called out and heard nothing in reply. He stepped outside and ran into a face he vaguely knew.

  “Where’s the TOC?” he asked.

  “It’s upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” The L-T looked up the abnormally tall flight of steps attached to the outside of the building. A door at the top of the landing had a small window from which glowed a faint light. Of course, upstairs. Cursing his luck and his aching leg, he grabbed the railing and took the steps one at a time.

  He saw the familiar face of Captain Battle—the Battle Captain by title—who greeted him with warm surprise, “Lieutenant Aguero, holy crap. You’re here!”

  “Yeah, where’s my platoon?” He didn’t feel like exchanging pleasantries; he just wanted to find his men.

  “What? You don’t know where your platoon is at?”

  “No. The tanks are supposed to bring them, and they hadn’t arrived yet. I’ve got Davis, Rob, and Sergeant Bellamy looking for them. And some E7 said that you needed to talk to me and I’m supposed to be here. Where is my platoon?”

  Battle said, “I don’t know where your platoon is.”

  “Goddam it, where is my platoon?” The captain ignored him and walked off. Captain Gerhardt, who had never been far away, approached him. “Your platoon is inside the FOB.”

  “What?”

  “They returned to the FOB. They’re over there somewhere.”

  “Well, let me go see them.”

  The Operations Officer, a major, walked back over and said, “No, you’re going to stay here. You need to tell me what went on.”

  So Lieutenant Aguero gave him the rundown, delivering it in a dead tone that belied the rage beneath. The Ops Officer made small vocalizations like punctuation. “OK, OK, uh-huh,” while writing notes and shaking his head.

  When Aguero finished, the major snapped his green notebook closed and exclaimed, “Great job. Now, go find your platoon.”

  “Captain Gerhardt, where is my platoon?”

  He said, “I’ll take you there.”

  They went downstairs slowly. Gerhardt took the L-T’s weapon so that he could move easier. Aguero saw that they were heading to the aid station.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Your platoon is at the aid station.”

  “OK.”

  

  Swope had returned even as the crafty Captain Gerhardt attempted to lead the half-mad Lieutenant Aguero into a medical ambush. As soon as the battered remnants of Red Platoon entered the FOB, the NCO directing traffic at the entrance said, “Hey, man, you’ve got to take your vehicles over here for maintenance.”

  Swope took a look at the smoking wrecks that had been in great shape a few hours earlier and thought the man was having fun with him. He laughed to himself and said, “All right. I guess the paint could use a touch-up.”

  Swope ordered everyone out of the vehicles except the drivers. Medics swarmed the rest, asking who had been wounded. We walked through the gate, victorious and weary.

  

  “You lied,” Aguero accused Gerhardt, “My platoon’s not at the aid station.”

  Gently, the good captain replied, “You need to see the Doc. You’re all bloody.”

  “Screw you. Where is my platoon?”

  The FSC commander sighed, “OK; hold on.” Gerhardt produced an ICOM radio, a fancy, military-grade walkie-talkie, and made a call. A second later came the crackly reply. “They’re all back. Your commander is consolidating everyone at the chow hall. Go check on them and get yourself seen, Shane.”

  Aguero nodded and limped toward the DFAC. It took a seeming eternity to cross a very short distance. When he arrived he saw that most of his platoon was indeed assembled there.

  Captain Denomy saw him and waved him over. “Looks like you had a rough day, Shane,” said the commander.

  “Yeah.”

  Denomy said, “There blood’s running out of your ear.”

  Aguero shrugged, “Oh, it’s not mine. It’s other people’s blood.”

  Denomy half believed him for a second until he saw a little more blood ooze out of his ear. “You need to go get that looked at.”

  “I’ll do it later.”

  “You’re going to do it now, Lieutenant.” The captain smiled and said gently, “Shane, that’s an order.”

  Shane sighed, “Let me talk to my platoon first.”

  Denomy nodded, “You’ve got five minutes.”

  Lieutenant Shane Aguero, Platoon Leader and warrior, limped over to where his soldiers, his men, were gathered. Aguero felt a welling pride that left him in imminent danger of weeping over their bravery. He wanted to tell them something that conveyed how proud he was to fight with them; to what great extent they had kicked ass. Something cool like that. He stood in front of them and felt that any word that came out of his mouth would cheapen their gallant actions. He stood for a second in front of them and let the moment pass. He began to sway on his feet and was suddenly aware that he was no longer inside the cafeteria but was being escorted to the aid station by his company commander.

  Denomy sat him down inside on a litter and caught the attention of one of the scrambling medics. “Take care of this man,” he said.

  All the lights were off in the clinic, presumably to remove a potential targeting method for the numerous mortar teams. One of the attendants squatted down and began to look him over, “Where are you hit?”

  “I don’t know,” Aguero said truthfully. He hadn’t had time to think much about it.

  The Medic was incredulous, “How do you not know?”

  “I don’t know. My whole left side is numb and my head hurts. Let’s start there.” Aguero felt like he would rather have another cigarette right then.

  “Take off your gear so we can evaluate you.” Aguero began to peel off layer after layer of bloody equipment and clothing. The doc began checking the armor plating for holes with the help of a small, powerful flashlight. Finding nothing, they told him to take off his Kevlar helmet. When he did a fine powdery, white substance fell out onto the floor. “What is that?” asked the medic.

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “Dude, you got shot in the head!”

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Aguero dismissively. “It didn’t penetrate.”

  The medic carefully felt around the L-T’s cranium to see if that was indeed the case. “You’ve got a big lump right here. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

  “My whole leg and arm.”

  By this time, another combat medic had joined the examination. They both helped the Lieutenant take off his DCU top and then his tee shirt. “You’ve got a small wound here.” They put a Band-Aid on it. When the med
ic spun him around to examine his legs, he sucked in a breath.

  “Whoa,” they said. Aguero had blood all over his leg and rear end.

  “Sir, you need to take your pants off.”

  “What, right here? I’m going commando today,” said Aguero, using the common infantry euphemism of the underwear-less.

  “Oh, OK. Hold on.” They moved him into a holding area where two soldiers were both asleep. They were lying on the floor in the fetal position.

  The Doc said, “Take off your pants in here.”

  Aguero stripped un-self-consciously, if a little stiffly. The medic left the room to gather medical supplies, leaving the L-T with his pants around his ankles. About that time one of the wounded soldiers awoke to find a naked man standing over him.

  Aguero, aware of how he would feel in that situation, said, “I’m sorry, guy; the medics just told me to take off my pants.”

  “All right,” the wounded man said groggily. Nevertheless, the man backed into a corner. Then the other man awoke and likewise noted the new, bare-ass neighbor. The soldier got up and left the room.

  At about that time, the new battalion chaplain appeared in the doorway. “Well, how are you doing today, soldier?” he said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Sir,” Aguero said while shaking his hand. The L-T added, “I never thought I’d ever shake hands with a chaplain with my junk just hanging out.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the chaplain with perhaps a touch of discomfort, “That’s pretty unusual. That’s pretty unusual, Soldier. Well…good job.” The good chaplain turned on his heels and left.

  Medics returned with antiseptic swaps and Band-Aids. “Sir, you caught a lot of grenade shrapnel, but you’ll be just fine.”

  “Are you going to take it out or what?”

  “No, it’ll work its way out,” the medic said.

  Lieutenant Aguero was not at all pleased to learn that he would be carrying around more than the USDA recommended daily allowance iron and minerals. “Like when?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  “OK,” the L-T said dubiously and thought, Easy for you to say. He was amused to note that the entirety of his medical treatment consisted of Band-Aids and Motrin.

  

  The Company gathered in the Dining Facility to rest, recover, and regroup. The 1SG, XO and the rest had returned after witnessing the destruction of Muqtada Al Sadr’s headquarters building as M1 Abrams tanks rammed the building like bulldozers dancing on a concrete grave.

  Denomy called us all together quietly. He was not a fire and brimstone kind of guy. He was solid, kind, and decent. He was the sort people listened to when things were tough. His firm jaw and honest Midwestern features lent an automatic credence to whatever he was saying. Now he was telling us that it was all right to be sad, to mourn. He explained what was happening outside the fence. He told us that we may have been kicked in the teeth, but that those responsible were going to know our names real soon. He didn’t promise us that we would take some time off to gather ourselves or to lick our wounds. He promised us that we would soon go back out into the fight.

  When he made that promise, a glad cry erupted from a hundred throats. On this day we had our first taste of battle and wanted more. Soldiers had fallen, never to rise again, but we would avenge them. War was no longer an abstract concept; it was our profession and trade. Bonds of brotherhood had been forged with blood and sweat. We had been made to bleed, but we could not be made to quit. This was our first day as true warriors.

  After Captain Denomy said his piece, we bowed our heads to remember a good man fallen too soon. The macho sense of ego-preservation was markedly absent. No posturing. No pretending that we were too strong to need the comfort of another human being. Tough, strong warriors wept uncontrollably in each other’s arms, grieving for a friend. Not all, but most. Others mourned in silence, content to take strength from each other’s company.

  Death is something that every soldier learns how to deal but seldom learn to deal with. It’s hard enough steeling yourself to the act of taking a human life, no matter what any of these hard-charging knuckle draggers will tell you. It’s a hard thing. Not hard to do. Hard to live with once it’s done. It’s even more difficult to process the simple fact that a man you have lived with, trained with, and fought with has gone to the long hall of his father’s leaving you to grope about in the dark. He has become the gaping hole in your formation. He has become the letter home to grief-stricken loved ones. He has become the one you might have saved if you had trained harder, fought more ferociously, or made wiser decisions in the heat of the moment.

  When I felt able, I went outside to the refrigerated van that was tasked to contain the last remains of the fallen until they could be sent home. Bellamy, Bourquin, and Wild were gathered around Chen’s body, saying goodbye with words I couldn’t hear. I was glad that I couldn’t hear. I waited until they left and then said my own goodbyes, hoping that Chen could hear me. I told him that we were going back out soon and that I would try to make him proud when it mattered. I told him again that I was sorry. I was sorry.

  I saw other bodies in the truck stuffed into their tidy black cocoons. In the gloom I couldn’t make out exactly how many were there. Horror struck my heart when I realized that these were fallen heroes who had, no doubt, died coming out to our rescue. These men had died for our sake. For me. The weight of their sacrifice, the smothering nobility of it, was too great for my heart to bear. I turned away from them, appalled, and almost ran back inside. Of everything that I had endured that day, I had just faced the worst.

  And our year-long deployment had only just begun.

  

  SO Note by Rodriguez, Jennifer @ 09 DEC 2010

  37 year-old Active Duty USA Captain currently assigned to HHC 3SB presented to CSC-JBB December 2010 reporting worsening of anxious and depressive symptoms related to writing a book about his first OIF deployment in 2004-2005. Several mental health evaluations in 2008, 2009 for similar symptoms with a diagnoses of Anxiety NOS and Adjustment Disorder. Psychological testing for reported concentration/memory problems with RBANS and CPT. Seen at old CSC-JBB June 2010 and diagnosed with major depressive episode and initiated on Celexa which patient discontinued after 2 weeks due to nausea/fatigue and general reticence of pharmacotherapy.

  Patient states that his “flipping out” due to recurrence for the last several months of re-experiencing nightmares now occurring almost nightly (often alternated with anticipatory dreams), intrusive thoughts, hypervigilence, irritability, physiologic reactivity when thinking of past combat exposure. States that he has had these symptoms off and on since 2005 but would be able to suppress due to significant avoidance. However, with goal of finishing his book (300 pages complete) he is “having to pull things out I don’t want to.”

  Reports depressed mood (described as “a dark weight settling on me” for the last 6 months with feeling like he could cry at any moment.

  A/P: 1. POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER

  ACT III: LANCER LEGACY RANCH

  From Under Fire: Haunted by Memories of War, a Soldier Battles the Army

  By Lynne Duke, Washington Post Staff Writer

  Monday, November 1, 2004; Page C01

  An Army survey, completed last December, found that 17 percent of soldiers and Marines who’d returned from duty in Iraq reported symptoms of major depression, anxiety or PTSD. The number is expected to go higher with time, as more soldiers return from duty in this conventional war that has become a harsh counterinsurgency campaign. And Matthew J. Friedman, executive director of the National Center for PTSD, predicts that many more PTSD cases will go unreported; the Army survey also found that soldiers still are intensely reluctant to divulge their symptoms because of fear of being stigmatized as weak.

  April 9th, 2004, FOB War Eagle

  In the early hours of April 5th, we launched a counter-offensive to take back the city. I don’t remember much of i
t except that I hardly ever felt tired and my leg hurt like the dickens. It took almost a week to put the enemy back on their heels and another 81 days of daily, sustained combat to bring the insurgents to the peace table. We stayed busy which kept us from imploding under the weight of our memories.

  About a week after that first engagement, our battalion took a knee briefly to remember our dead and honor their sacrifice. It is tradition to erect a small monument to the fallen using their own personal effects. We attach the soldier’s bayonet to their weapon and stand it up, barrel down, into a wooden base. The dog tags of the fallen hang from the pistol grip. We complete the memorial by placing their boots in front of and their helmet on top of the rifle. Perhaps you’ve seen pictures.

  The day we paused to pay our last respects there were eight memorials, eight soldiers who had paid the final price for freedom. Most of them had died on the 4th while trying to rescue our platoon. Trying to rescue me. We honored each one in turn, the First Sergeant of the dead warrior calling their name as part of a roll call that began with the two soldiers immediately preceding the deceased in alphabetical order according to their assigned company.

  First Sergeant Casey Carson called out a name that I don’t recall. He would have been the man in our company who immediately preceded Chen alphabetically. The soldier responded smartly, “Here, First Sergeant!”

  The First Sergeant called out, “Chen.” Silence.

  “Sergeant Chen!”

  “Sergeant Yihjih Lang Chen!” The silence was horrible.

  Once all the names were called from the Roll of the Dead, the bugle played “Taps” while a detail fired three volleys of seven shots. To this day I can’t bear to hear that awful, irrevocable song. We all bowed our heads as the chaplain led us in prayer. Many tough, tough men openly wept. When the “amen” was given we filed by the memorials one by one. I stopped at each shrine, held the dog tags in my hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

  I lingered long in front of Eddie Chen’s boots. They were clean enough to make me suspect that they weren’t his or that perhaps they had chosen another pair. Clean, without spot. I looked down at the blood on my boots. Chen’s blood. Eddie was gone. All that I had left were memories and blood.