Soldier Girls

by Helen Thorpe

  Otherwise, the missions were hot, boring, and interminable. By the time she returned to Q-West, Desma had little energy to put into corresponding with friends who were living comfortable lives back home. Michelle had been sending long, chatty emails to Desma for weeks, but Desma did not respond until May 3, 2008. She kept it short and sweet. She just said:

  I do miss you so very much. Things here have been very crazy and getting to the MWR to get a computer is nearly impossible. I am having a satellite set up in the morning so that I can use my Internet from the house. That will make things so much easier. So, how are things with you? Billy doing alright? Still loving your job? Well, got to go, try to catch you tomorrow. Love Des

  Michelle knew from experience that it was difficult to communicate with people back home while living in a war zone. She mailed Desma a box of cupcakes. Then she wrote back:

  It’s okay, just glad to hear that you’re alright. . . . Things are good with me. I love my job, and I’m getting to meet some really awesome people. Billy and I are doing—okay—not great. He is doing his thing and I am doing mine and they aren’t really similar. . . .

  I miss you tons, Des. I hope you’re getting along okay and things aren’t too bad. What do they have you doing there? Is Charity nearby??

  Love and hugs

  Michelle

  Desma did not reply—they had missions to run. Mama and Papa and Peaches had become her new family, and Michelle lived back in a place where people did not scan the sides of the road, and had never heard the jubilation of a soldier who had ducked flying shrapnel. Michelle wrote again one week later; she had just gotten some bad news. A friend’s husband had been killed in another part of Iraq when a truck rolled over and crushed him. In an email dated May 13, 2008, Michelle wrote to Desma, Debbie, and Patrick Miller, the three people she had been closest to in the 113th Support Battalion, all of whom were now serving in various parts of Iraq:

  I am filled with so many emotions about it, especially since the last time I saw him was their wedding in June. I feel bad but the biggest relief was that the news wasn’t about one of you three.

  It’s going to be such a long fucking year. I know this isn’t much comfort but I wanted to let you all know that a) I love you very much; b) I keep you in my thoughts; and c) I will never take for granted the things you have given me in life. It’s a lot; a big part of who I am comes from my experiences and friendships with you.

  I know you are all busy and it’s hard to keep in touch with everyone. I hope you’re safe and that your days are going by swiftly.

  Much love, I miss you.

  The soldier who died had been in the 152nd, another infantry regiment that was part of their brigade. Desma had not known him well, but it was all too easy to imagine herself at the wheel and Peaches up in the turret. This was more than she could put into an email. Michelle wrote long, heartfelt missives, but Desma kept most of her responses to three or four sentences. They did not match up as closely by email as they had in person, sharing a tent surrounded by pink flamingos. It was Patrick Miller who responded to Michelle. He was stationed at a base in Tikrit, to the south of Al Qayyarah. He did not mention the recent death—people back home needed to be reassured. On May 19, 2008, Patrick wrote:

  Hey Doll,

  Hope you’re doing alright. Things here ain’t bad. Just getting by and waiting to come home. Hope things work out for the best between Billy and you. You know I got a shoulder ANYTIME you need it. Lord knows you’ve been there for me more than once.

  We got Internet now in our rooms finally. Not the greatest but it works. I don’t know how to use any of those messenger things except Yahoo, but if you’re ever on, look me up. Love to talk to you some.

  Miss you Doll.

  Patrick

  It was not what Michelle would have predicted, that Patrick Miller would become her most faithful correspondent, during the year when everybody she knew in the National Guard had to do a second deployment. “I have been working on a paper letter for you for about a week now, I’ll probably finish it up and mail it soon,” she wrote in her next email. “I need some beers with you bad. Who knew that was what was keeping me sane all these years?” In the same email, she sounded almost wistful about the time she had spent in the military. “I did some backcountry camping this weekend, it was awesome. I really miss some things about the army, like being forced to camp, and getting free gear. I’d kill to have back my army sleeping bag. Actually I guess I shouldn’t use that phrase, if it were true I’d just reenlist. . . . Someone stop me it actually sounds like I miss the army. It’s probably just because I miss you. Hope you’re well over there. Write back.”

  Patrick wrote back regularly. Once or twice that summer he even surprised her with a telephone call. “Things have been hectic here,” he said in another email. “Long hours, stupid people, you know the deal.” Michelle replied by saying that she had a care package for him sitting on her table, but didn’t have enough money for postage—yeah, she was that broke. “I hope you’re well and have no soldier as bad as me under your command,” Michelle wrote. “I’d like to keep that title if I may.”

  To her surprise, Patrick replied:

  I wish I could say that you were the worst soldier I have ever had, but after this one . . . You are far, far away from that. I’d trade four or five of them for one Specialist Fischer in a heartbeat. . . .

  I miss you a lot doll. I give just about anything to have a beer and a dance with you (to Willie Nelson’s Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground of course) about now.

  In her next email, Michelle suggested to Patrick that they plan a reunion after he and Debbie and Desma returned home. Maybe she could rent a cabin for them to share. Michelle told Patrick that Akbar Khan had gotten a visa that would allow him to live in the United States, and had written to say he was thinking of moving there—maybe Akbar could join them. She was sorry to hear that Patrick was dealing with dumbasses, but that was the army. “Debbie is doing okay, checking locals into the FOB or something,” she told Patrick. “Security crap. I haven’t heard from Des in a while but I’m sure she’s doing fine as well. I am busy working and saving the world. It should be in tip-top shape by the time you get back.”

  Michelle was surrounded by civilians who seemed to have forgotten that the two wars continued at all, and simultaneously in contact with half a dozen soldiers who were presently serving in both of them. That year, James Cooper surprised her at unpredictable intervals by calling from Kandahar, and Akbar Khan continued to write regularly from Kabul; meanwhile, she had Debbie, Desma, and Patrick spread up and down the Tigris River valley. She showered them all with letters, emails, and care packages, whether or not they found time to reply. Debbie wrote to her faithfully. In her frequent emails, Debbie maintained her habitual cheerfulness, but reading between the lines, Michelle thought her friend sounded forlorn.

  Earlier that spring, Debbie Deckard had arrived at Forward Operating Base Diamondback in the city of Mosul to learn that she was the only woman from the National Guard working on the headquarters side of the post. A young woman named Kathleen, who was serving full-time in the army, also worked in the same office, but Kathleen was in her twenties and was having a not-so-secret affair with an unmarried lieutenant, which kept her rather busy. Debbie had gotten to live in a CHU by herself, which she considered a great luxury, but she made no real friends. Her male colleagues outranked her significantly, and they only socialized with each other. Captain Mark Buchanan mentored her kindly when she struggled to master unfamiliar computer software, but he never spent time with Debbie outside of working hours. The only people eager to talk to her were the foreign national workers who cooked, cleaned, and did construction work on the post. In all her life, Debbie had never been so isolated. She tried to put a positive spin on the experience. “It wasn’t the worst time in my life,” she would say later. “Probably the best part about all of that was I got my own CHU. I mean, that would be the highlight. I had it all alone, and that wa
s fine. I didn’t mind being by myself. I mean, it was hard because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. But the Turkish guys were really nice. I met a lot of really neat Turkish guys there.”

  Debbie assuaged her sense of solitude by writing to people at home frequently. On March 30, 2008, right after she arrived, she sent a long email describing her circumstances to about a dozen close friends and relatives, including Michelle.

  hi everyone.

  well I have finally arrived to my destination here in iraq. . . . its been a long road coming here with all the training in georgia that we went through. much more difficult than when we were going to afghanistan.

  i have been actually feeling my age imagine that!

  i started out going to be a convoy security driver. and that is what i trained to do, but it was extremely stressfull for me, i said if it had been 10 years ago maybe i would of been a bit more hooah. . . .

  my job here is very simple im at a help desk directing people to the right people and places. . . . we do hear the mortars and the guns shooting, we do carry our weapons and ammo. we are close enough that they send little or rather big presents our way. the alarm goes off but so far its been ok.

  i got to meet the combat stress dog, he is a black lab and he lavished me with all kinds of slobbers, so it certainly made my day. i guess we can go and visit whenever we want to so i will probably do that often. . . .

  its not like when i was in afghan where i had Will with me this is all new people that im still getting use to.

  god bless

  love to all

  debbie

  At work, Debbie recorded the passport number of any individual who was granted regular access to the base—foreign national workers who did janitorial work, Iraqi landlords who owned the buildings they were renting, soldiers from other countries who were collaborating with the American forces—then issued them the proper badge. Debbie received many indications that people valued her warmth and courtesy. Within a short time, various Turkish men were bringing Debbie small gifts—fruit, candy, flowers, snacks. A major told Debbie that he was pleased with her work; before she came, he said, they had gotten a lot of complaints about how people had been treated.

  Debbie worked second shift, from twelve noon until 10:00 p.m. Being a night owl, the hours suited her. After work she often stayed up late watching movies, sometimes until 5:00 a.m. or 6:00 a.m. Then she slept until 10:00 a.m., and returned to work at noon. She also staffed a weekly meeting of the top brass every Monday morning. The post functioned like a small city, and the meetings resembled the work of a city council; the men who handled fire, safety, traffic, and morale took turns delivering reports. Before Iraq, Debbie had never used PowerPoint, but Captain Buchanan taught her how to put the slides into slide show presentations. As the officers spoke she pushed the buttons on the laptop to change the slides. Sometimes Captain Buchanan used the private time when they drove to and from the meetings to express his frustration with certain leaders, but Debbie knew better than to reciprocate.

  Debbie had constant access to a computer and began writing to Michelle right after she got to Mosul. She rarely complained. Instead she asked Michelle about her life, or shared the latest news about her granddaughter. In April, Debbie wrote:

  Jaylen will be three on the 28th this month. Hard to believe it was only three years ago we were in Afghanistan. She is quite the pistol. A funny story she was riding with her other grandparents and she was a bit fussy so her grandpa said to her grandma she must be T I R E D only he spelled it to her. Jaylen a few minutes later yelled from the backseat I am not tired. . . .

  She does know all her letters and colors, numbers not bad for three.

  EA has done a good job with her.

  Michelle wrote back the same day:

  Things are good out here. I am working with Mile High Youth Corps, a nonprofit that works with at risk youth in Denver doing education and community service. We have energy and water conservation programs, trail building programs, and low income housing construction programs. We help kids get their GEDs and scholarships for college etc. . . .

  How are things going there with you? I hope you’re making some good friends, that is so important to having a sane and healthy year. Did Desma get sent somewhere else? She [doesn’t] respond to my emails so I worry for her. . . . I miss everyone a lot; we will have to get together when you guys get back. . . . Life goes by so fast, you really have to grab time with people.

  After Debbie had been working on the base for several months, one of the younger Turkish workers began making a point of dropping by to see her. He had an Arabic-sounding name but Debbie just called him Smiley. She figured he was perhaps twenty-two. Debbie was fifty-five. Smiley started coming to see Debbie most evenings, ostensibly to get the key to a soccer field on the post. One evening, however, he asked how late Debbie was working. Probably until 11:00 p.m., she said. Smiley asked if he could talk to her after she got off. “Why?” Debbie asked. “I just want to talk to you,” he said. They sat outside, in an area in front of the building where there were some trees, and chatted for about an hour. Technically, Debbie wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the foreign nationals, but she figured an innocent conversation would not cause a problem.

  Smiley wanted to know if Debbie was married.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  “But are you happy?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m happy,” Debbie said. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I really like you,” Smiley told her. “I just want to get to know you a little bit.”

  “Well, you mean, get to know me as a friend?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to be your friend—I want to learn about the United States.”

  They talked about Indiana. Smiley returned the following night, and the night after that. Eventually he confessed that he hated working on the post, and he missed the company of women. “You know, you’ve just got to tell your husband that you’re going to run away with a Turkish man!” he declared. “Honey, I’m too old for you,” Debbie said. Smiley insisted Debbie was not too old. “Yeah, I am,” Debbie replied. “I’m really way too old.” This went on for a while. In the end, Debbie had to tell Smiley firmly that they could only meet again if he could accept that the relationship would remain platonic. Friendship was enough for the young man for several weeks—but then he announced that he was in love. “I really, really, really do love you,” he told Debbie. “I really would like to be with you.”

  She said, “Honey, you’re just too young. I’m very flattered, but I cannot do that.”

  Smiley announced dramatically that his heart was broken.

  “There’s plenty of young women in the world,” Debbie told him.

  “But you’re always so nice,” Smiley told her.

  Debbie told Jeff about her suitor. “Well, I guess I’ve got an Iraqi boyfriend,” she said during one of their phone calls. Jeff started laughing when she told him the story of the smitten twenty-two-year-old construction worker. Before they said good-bye, however, he turned serious. “Honey, I know you have to be nice to people,” Jeff said. “But you do walk home by yourself at night. And it is dark when you leave. Will you please just be careful?”

  “Well, what do you think I’ve got a gun for?” Debbie told him. “I’ll just shoot him if he gives me trouble.”

  Jeff started laughing again. “Okay,” he said. “But just be careful.”

  Later, Debbie went to take a shower by herself one evening late at night. She had been warned never to walk around the post alone when it was dark, but she did not want to bother anyone else, and routinely went by herself to shower at midnight or even 1:00 a.m. That night, she encountered another woman she knew in the women’s bathroom. The other female soldier also worked second shift, and also took showers at night. “If you ever come in here by yourself at night you may want to lock that door,” the woman told Debbie. “I had somebody come in here and assault me.” Debbie did not press for details, bu
t assumed the other woman had been raped. She knew that rapes occurred on a disturbingly regular basis across the post, because the information was included in the statistics that came through her office, and the senior officers who worked there had warned her about the phenomenon.

  In the end, though, the hazards that Debbie faced in Iraq were simply not those kinds of dangers. No man ever jumped her at night, and she never found herself presented with any physical threat. Rather the difficulty of Iraq, for Debbie, was entirely emotional. She never left the post, she never met anybody like Akbar Khan, and she did not share a rich communal life with people she had known for years. During her first deployment, she had forged some of the deepest friendships of her life and done work that struck her as meaningful. In Iraq she had a desk job and had been hit on by a besotted twenty-two-year-old, and that was perhaps the most meaningful interaction she had with another human being.

  Everybody from the 113th Support Battalion was finding the deployment to Iraq far more difficult than the deployment to Afghanistan, both because the wars had taken an ugly turn and because they were separated from each other. Desma had Charity, but they had jumped into an intimate relationship hastily, and after two months of constant contact, their closeness had started to fray. Desma was living with, working with, and reporting to her lover while surrounded by other people she had only known for a short time. When the new relationship began to founder, Desma found she had nowhere to turn.

  During the grinding slog of missions, maintenance, missions, and more maintenance, Desma had grown disenchanted with Charity’s leadership and her lack of emotional accessibility. Out on the highways of Iraq, Desma decided that Charity was a lax truck commander. It bothered Desma that Charity did not require their gunner to wear his body armor, as he was supposed to. Of course, they all hated the gear. With every passing day, the temperature climbed another notch or two, and the gear was hot, heavy, and irritating. They wore flight suits made of flame-resistant material, ballistic vests with heavy ceramic plates, Kevlar helmets, and angel wings (ballistic shields they strapped around their arms). “Well, after you’ve sat in a truck for so long, it doesn’t matter what you do, that stuff is just not feasible to move in,” Desma would say later. But she wore it, as she was told. Peaches took his off, however, and Charity did not reprimand him. Nor did she require Peaches to shower as often as Desma would have liked. The rank odor of the gunner’s body filled the truck; it smelled as though he put on the same filthy, sweat-stained clothes over and over, without washing them. They had little to distract them during the interminable hours they spent inside the ASV, and sometimes Desma fixated on the stink, sometimes on Charity’s failure to remedy it. Inside their CHU, Desma found that she and Charity had less and less to say to each other. Charity was not forthcoming, and although their physical relationship remained satisfying, Desma did not feel as close to her as she did to Mary, Stacy, or Michelle. There was one other person at Q-West who had served with them in the 113th, but Charity got mean every time he showed up. Jealous, Desma figured. In her own way, Desma felt almost as isolated as Debbie.