by Brooke King
I could love him.
*
It was the end of February. I was late coming back into base. He was worried. I heard it in his voice as I stood outside his bedroom window. It was dark. The streetlight, no longer working, left the alleyway littered with long black shadows. I whispered that I hadn’t taken a shower, but I knew he didn’t mind. I told him that I didn’t want to stay, but he insisted, showed me the food he’d brought me from the DFAC, and I couldn’t help but smile. I joked that he really did love me and that he shouldn’t. He did his best Scarlett O’Hara, batting his eyelashes and waving his hand like a fan, and he sassed back with an “I do declare” before I handed him my rifle. In through the window now, I stood in his room. He flicked the desk lamp on and stared at me. I wondered what he was looking at. He sat me down in the chair next to his bed and handed me the Styrofoam plate of food. I was not hungry, but I appeased him by choking down some of the salad and half a grilled cheese. He asked me if I was okay, but I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know if I was okay, so I shrugged. He nodded, picked the plate up from my lap, and set it down on the desk. He pulled me up from the chair and wrapped his arms around me, gently making forgiveness for something that was clearly not his fault, so I did not hug him back. I couldn’t. He whispered into my ear that it would be okay, and it was then that I lost my balance, an invisible weight pushing down on my shoulders. My knees buckled. I surrendered and slowly sank to the floor. He knelt down next to me and asked me to look him in the eye. I couldn’t. He asked me to stand, but my legs didn’t seem to move. He lifted me and set me on the bed. One after another, he removed each piece of my clothing until each undone Velcro, zipper, and button had stripped me down to nothing. I sat on the edge of his bed naked as he rummaged around in his wall locker and produced a PT shirt and shorts for me to wear. He helped me dress and laid me down on the bed. It wasn’t until the next morning when I woke that I realized I had slept in the bed alone. He took the floor. Next to the door was my dirty uniform. I walked over and picked it up. The blouse was punctuated with black char marks. I can’t remember now what it was that I had been doing before I went to his room, but the blouse I remember. I dropped the uniform back down onto the floor and walked over to his place on it and lay down beside him, wrapping my arms around his ribcage, pulling the weight of his love toward my chest. I had realized that night how bad I was at pretending I was fine. I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all James. And what was even worse about James trying to help me was that I didn’t think I was worthy of his help or his love. But of all of the people in the world, only he could save me, only he could keep the skin from collapsing.
Wishes
The children didn’t crowd around me like they used to, but they still called after me with “mister, mister” as I walked away. I didn’t take my black Oakley glasses off anymore, even in the chow hall. I didn’t carry my M4 at the ready. It was heavy now, a burden to lug around. I put a rifle sling on it and carried it on my back. James and I barely talked anymore. My journal had too many empty pages. I hadn’t cracked the spine in more than a month. Even if I had been able to bring myself to write, the words would come out heavy-handed and displaced on the page.
But there were things that hadn’t stopped.
The convoys kept coming in and going out the gate. The medevac Humvees still barreled down the main road, sirens blaring. The helicopters still lifted off the pad behind my hooch every night at half-hour intervals. I still went to see James. He was my one comfort. I lay awake, still stared out the window at the sky until dawn came and I had to leave. I still dressed for formation and rolled out on a recovery mission to pick up blown-out trucks, and I did this every day without fail because it was what I was programmed to do; it was what they had trained me for; it was the only reason I was here. Fuck everything else they tell you about war. It’s all about training and how you fit perfectly into that military machine that produces death and destruction because that’s all they knew how to do. It’s all I knew how to do, too; they had made sure of that.
*
I sat outside my hooch most nights smoking cigarettes, wishing it was anything that would make me feel a euphoric high, something to counter the dissonance that was slowly building up inside me. I wished for many other things. The will to pick up my pen and write again. Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies or Sugar Daddy pops. My dignity. A place to lay my head that wasn’t accompanied by the sounds of helicopters and sirens, the clacking of a bolt sliding back and a bullet entering the chamber. A semblance of who I used to be or maybe someone else entirely different.
Sometimes I wished for far less pleasant things. For my aim to be on point that day. The urge to stay awake. My Hemingway book to be used as a doorstop. Another canister of bullets for that motherfucker shooting at me. The need to stop carrying a cross around my neck. The fear of dying to go away. Not living past tomorrow. Or at least, to run out of body bags. For that soldier to eat a bullet instead of me. Soon I would stop wishing, but on most nights I dragged that smoke long and hard, wishing for all those things and more.
*
In the DFAC I sat down to a table with a full plate of food, and though I was tired, dirty, and didn’t feel like eating, I tried to enjoy the first sit-down hot meal I had had in several months. The steak was boiled—not char-broiled, boiled. The mashed potatoes were gritty and the green beans tasted like rubber. The soda from the fountain was almost out of sugar syrup, making my drink taste more like fucked-up ginger ale than Pepsi. On the walls big-screen TVs broadcast CNN, some shitty cooking show, and an episode of Seinfeld. I looked down at my meal and then up at the cooking show, watching as a woman sliced onions and put them into a pan with butter. I could hear the sizzle as she slid them from the cutting board into the pan. On another screen Jerry was yelling at Kramer and Elaine was sitting on the couch staring at the two with a cruel scowl of disappointment on her face. CNN was running some nightly news about the war in Iraq. I stopped watching the TV and focused my attention on my soft serve ice cream that I had layered with chocolate syrup and sprinkles. There was no way they could fuck up ice cream. I picked up my spoon and took a bite, and for a moment I was content enough to look back up at the TV with the cooking show. The onions were caramelizing.
Show and Tell
One of the guys from the Personal Security Detachment team was showing off pictures from his camera while we sat in the motor pool smoke area. It was passed around. Anderson handed it to me. I looked down at the picture. It was Firdos Square. The statue of Saddam was not there. The picture showed only a pillar with green bronzed feet and half a leg adorning the top. A piece of the pillar was missing from the center. Weeds had grown around the cracks and creases at the base, and what was left of the fountain bottom was chipped and cracked. Around the outside edge of the base graffiti posters plastered with propaganda were scrawled in black lettering, plastered in rows of four, nearly covering the bottom. There was no statue, no bronze dictator in the picture to signify that this was where, three years ago, Americans had torn down the statue of Saddam, trying to symbolize his removal from power. But it was only a symbol. Saddam was still at large when the statue came down, and his son Uday was still trying to bomb his way out of Baghdad. Years later I looked at the picture on a small LCD screen, seeing what looked like the soldier posing in front of where the statue used to be. He pointed out everything about the square in the background of the picture—the large round Grecian pillars that surrounded the circular epicenter, the large mosque-like building, the hajji who wouldn’t stop staring at them, and the soldier’s shit-eating grin, but I looked at the photo, told him it was cool, and passed the camera back to him. But what the soldier didn’t point out from the photo was how the statue was in fact still there. Remnants of Saddam’s legs still clung to the top of the pillar in defiance of our presence. Inside the fountain, at the bottom, stagnant algae-filled brown water had pooled next to one of the cracks at the base, leftovers from the rainy season. Decay had s
et in there in the foreground, and yet the pillar still stood there surrounded by the city and its people. Cars no doubt passed it daily, but did the people remember when the statue had stood at the top? Did they think about a time when they only had to fear one government in their country and not half a dozen? Did they shake their heads and wish for those days again? Or did they simply pass it as though it were just another eyesore in their city filled with wartime destruction?
MEMORANDUM FOR RECORD
SUBJECT: Mandatory Safety Briefing for All Incoming Females in Adherence to Joint Task Operations While in Theater
It is the recommendation of the U.S. Army in accordance with the Joint Task Force that all female soldiers adhere to the following Standard Operating Procedures for AOR Baghdad.
*
They will tell you that you won’t see combat.
Separate your uniforms from your whites, put in different bags. Buy tampons only on Tuesdays when the stateside shipments come in. Don’t wear mascara on convoy. Better yet, don’t wear makeup at all. If you get to take a warm shower, wash your hair first; the warm water won’t last long. Don’t go to the latrine by yourself. Don’t dye your hair. Hang up your uniforms; turn your boots upside down. When buying new sheets, don’t buy white.
They say you won’t see combat.
Always bring a hijab when on convoys. When frisking a local national woman, wear thick gloves; some hide razor blades in their garments. Always be polite and accept local food. The wheat rolls are best with the chai tea. Never shake with the left hand. Stay away from the left. Don’t speak to local men. Always carry a knife. When on base, walk like a man so the male soldiers think you’re gay. Don’t ask for help from the hajjis or the infantrymen or the Cav scouts; they all like fucking with women. Don’t leave your neck exposed while manning the machine gun; the bullet casings will fall down your vest and burn your skin.
You will see combat; it’s not like the movies.
This is how to load a magazine into your weapon while being shot at. This is how to clear it. This is how to stack the bullets. This is just how it’s done. Don’t forget your knife; keep it in your boot and not your belt loop; trust me, don’t ask. This is how to take a piss while on convoy.
This is not a joke.
Keep tampons in your grenade pouch for bullet wounds. This is how to bag and tag bodies. Make sure to drink plenty of water; make sure it’s only bottled water. Don’t let them see you weak. This is how to say “yes” when what you really mean is “fuck you.” Never give the local national kids candy. Don’t even think of fucking an infantry dude. Don’t fuck a married man. Better yet, don’t fuck anyone. Keep your list of close female soldier friends short. Don’t take shit from anyone lower ranking than you, especially if it’s a man. Take a shower every day; crotch rot is real. Yes, you can use baby wipes; no, don’t use just water. This is how to ask for help. When using a port-o-shitter, squat or hover, never sit. Lift with your knees when stacking sandbags. On second thought, don’t piss on convoys—you’re not a man. This is how to avoid male soldiers. Don’t ever lie on a mound of sand.
You will see combat.
Do not get shot. This is how to not get caught. Do not fucking die. Braid your hair into a bun; don’t just put it up. Do not get blown up. This is how to treat a male soldier; this is how they’ll treat you. This is how to shoot while running. Do not fucking die. This is how to listen for mortars. This is what it sounds like. This is what they won’t teach you. This is what you have to learn.
THIS is how to be a woman in a combat zone.
James (#4)
He leaned out of the window of his hooch, his military ring in his hand. I stood there stunned, unable to understand the words he had said.
“Marry me.”
I asked him if that was a question or a statement. He laughed, but I was still confused. It had been only a few weeks since I told him that I loved him and actually meant the words. In full battle rattle I stood there in between hooches in an alleyway, waiting for him to clarify, but I heard my name being called by Sergeant Lippert, who was looking for me. Another barrier mission to bum fuck nowhere that I didn’t want to go on, but as I heard the convoy trucks rumbling to life, I knew that I had go.
He asked me this time.
“Will you marry me?”
I looked back at the convoy and said that I had to go. He begged for an answer, but all I could say was that I had to leave. He repeated his question louder as I walked away, but I kept walking. Half falling out his window, he shouted the question again.
“Will you marry me?”
I turned to look at him. I loved him, but I was still married to another, not yet legally allowed to answer him, and yet I did.
“Yes.”
He smiled and motioned for me to come back. There wasn’t time to come back for the ring. I told him to hold onto it. He belted his “I love you” loud enough that it echoed out to the convoy staging area. I couldn’t say it back. I was too far out in the open. Someone might’ve heard me, but I smiled and nodded a silent “I love you.”
One-Way Ticket
I could not stop throwing up.
*
They all lay stacked next to each other on my nightstand. They all read positive. They all spelled trouble for me, but I could not stop smiling. My ticket out of here. My freedom from bullets, body bags, and barrier missions. It was the beginning of April. James had been gone for two weeks. His time in service was up; his positive piss test for cocaine and a two-star general who told James to get the fuck out of his army had made sure of that. I could hear him giggling through the phone. He was in Kuwait waiting for his flight to Germany. I smiled as he said that he was excited. I knew what was waiting for me when I returned to rear detachment, but it was too late. There was a knock at the door. First Sergeant. He asked me point blank if I had anything to tell him, and with a smile on my face I told him I was pregnant. He nodded his head, said okay, and walked away.
The next few days were spent writing sworn statements and answering questions by a battalion headquarters butter bar that could barely say my name without stumbling over his words let alone ask me the hardball questions like who was the father. I denied everything, except for my one-way ticket back to Germany, back to rear detachment.
I was transferred to HHC, located near the brigade headquarters, so that the brigade could keep tabs on my comings and goings. I was ordered by the company commander to report to the CASH, take a pregnancy test to confirm my status, and go back to my hooch. I was to be confined to my hooch until I was summoned or whenever they figured out what to do with me. Eventually they sent me back to the motor pool, stuck me behind a desk, and made me push paperwork until they could get me out of country. It took them until June.
Redeployment Packing Checklist
Pack your army combat uniforms first. Military roll. Cram the black under armor sports bras, the tan undershirts, and the lucky convoy socks around the bottom inside edges of your green army-issue duffel bag. Tuck the laminated photo into the bag, but don’t look at it. You don’t want to look at it. It’s the picture that you held every day since your first recovery mission in the sandbox after three soldiers burned alive when their Stryker rolled over a pressure-plate IED. Your brother’s smirk and your father’s wide grin, the picture taken before you left for the war, all three of you standing in front of the house, each one of you pretending that nothing will change when you get back from Iraq. It helps you fall asleep at night. You can’t help yourself; you unpack the photo to look at it once more. The corner edges are falling apart. The girl in the photo used to be you, but that’s not the face you see in the mirror anymore.
Pack your camo-covered army Bible. The pages have to be rubber-banded shut, otherwise it opens to Psalm 23. Pack the tan Rite in the Rain combat notebook, another sort of bible: the name and rank of every soldier you ever placed into a black body bag are written on its pages. Poems. Letters to your father that you never mailed. Pack the maroon prayer r
ug you stole while raiding a house in Sadr City. Unpack the prayer rug. Kneel on it while you pack the empty M4 magazines, the pistol holster, ammo pouches, and desert combat boots. Pick up your aviator gloves, the feel of manning the .50 cal machine gun on convoy. Pick up the shell casing from your “first confirmed kill.” One of six M2 rounds fired into a fifteen-year-old boy’s chest. He was shooting an AK-47 at you. You shouldn’t have the shell casing. You shouldn’t have the gloves. Women aren’t supposed to see combat. Pack it all into the duffel.
Pack the hours spent in a concrete bunker waiting for mortar rounds to stop whistling into base. Pack the hate and the anger. Pack the fear. Pack the shame and disenchantment for a job done too well. Pack the back-to-back months spent going out on convoy without a day off. Pack your Combat Lifesaver bag, your hajji killing license, and the rest of your dignity. Pack them all next to the army core values and the bullshit promise your government made to protect innocent civilians. Pack your worn copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Pack the tattered American flag you picked up off the ground outside Abu Ghraib. Pack the fucks and the goddamns tightly next to it should’ve been me. Pack the green duffel until there isn’t room for anything else. Fold over the top flaps. Shut it up tight. Lock it. Heave it onto your back. Carry it all home.
Part 4
Frag Out
Schweinfurt, Germany
There was a no contact order, a plea agreement, an Article 15, a sonogram with two fetuses on it, and an engagement ring on my finger.
*
We saw each other anyway. We lived in the same house in Iphofen, Germany. We went to every doctor visit together. The two fetuses were boys. James was so happy he was crying. Dad was elated, Nana was laughing in excitement, and James’s parents did not even know I existed. I hated it. I wanted them to know that I was here, that I loved their son, and that we were going to be together not because I was pregnant but because we were meant to be together. But the court-martial, the pregnancy, the not knowing me long enough made James reluctant to mention me to his parents. Hell, he waited until I was back in Germany to tell me that he was being forced to leave the army because he had pissed hot for cocaine, but then again there were a lot of things that James didn’t tell me. When I got back to Germany, I worried that he was having doubts about our relationship, that he thought he had made a mistake getting me pregnant, but I knew that he would do the right thing and marry me; it was the way he was raised—a Southern Baptist good ol’ boy from Florida. Maybe in the beginning, deep down, he truly loved me, but I know now that our happily ever after was manufactured and that our sort of love was not meant to last a lifetime. It wasn’t built on a foundation sturdy enough. It was built on the idea of love, survival, the need to not feel alone. The stability, intimacy, and personal depth that a marriage should be founded on were not present in the marriage we were building when I returned to Germany, but I was twenty-one and so blinded by the happiness that I had craved for so long that not much mattered about my distant future. I was enamored with the idea of playing house because it helped me focus on something other than Iraq, if only for a brief moment.