I pondered how I had come to this predicament. This was surely as unpleasant a job as any in recent human history. But alas, it was mine and mine alone. And so I burned on, stirring, pouring diesel, igniting, repeat—until all the shit was burned away, the shit of 150 fighting men who for months ate a consistent diet of MREs, beef jerky, Pop-Tarts, Top Ramen and Rip-its. The foul mass would slowly burn away pound by pound, until nothing was left but a thick ashy clump that could be thrown away into a bigger burn pit.

And then again the next day, and the next.

A few months past my 19^th birthday, I found myself in an infantry platoon in Iraq. It had all started about a year and a half prior to my current situation. I had enlisted in the Army, went to basic training, graduated and was sent to Ft. Lewis, Washington. A year or so afterwards, we deployed to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. The deployment had its fair share of ups and downs, and now it was at its lowest point thus far. Each day I woke up, I dreaded, for I knew that soon I would be under the blistering sun. The essence of war, death, and decay would soon assail all my senses and pervade my very being.

For an entire month in 2007, this was my life. I was paying a severe penance for a breach in military protocol, something that had seemed so minor for the punishment that ensued. I had told a newly promoted Specialist, who just previously had been the same rank as me, to go fuck himself. He was already feeling the effects of rank, turning on his former peers with an enthusiasm which delighted the leadership in our platoon and disgusted the lower enlisted men. This case certainly was not unusual, as far as guys going on power trips whenever they suddenly had a little significance on their chest. However, on one particular day, I was in no mood for getting flak from a newly promoted Specialist, especially one who was not very admirable or proficient at his job.

So it was little regret at the time when I heartily told him to go fuck himself, in the most direct way possible, to ensure that even someone with as low intelligence as he could understand.

Unfortunately, my squad leader, Staff Sergeant Ena, did not agree with my assessment that SPC Dickbag could go fuck himself.  SSG Ena was a big, mean, pissed-off Samoan from Vallejo, CA. He was one of the few soldiers I had ever met who had fought in two wars: the first Gulf War and the second Iraq War. He was a hard core, seasoned combat veteran and was a stickler for military bearing. He was definitely a man I wanted on my side in a firefight (of which we went through several together), and he was definitely not a man who I would want pissed off at me. That is exactly where I found myself that day. And so, after a loud and heated ass-chewing, I found myself banished to the shit pits, to forever stir and burn human shit for all of eternity, much like Sisyphus and his large boulder. Sisyphus, however, had the advantage of not having a burning pyre follow his every movement, smothering his every breath and searing his lungs. I discovered that time has a peculiar way of slowing down whenever life takes a downturn. It was certainly a setback in the morale department. And so for one month, every damn day after a four hour guard shift in a guard tower, I would download my gear, trudge to the shit pits, and begin my unenviable chore.

Pulling the drums out of the outhouse was the first step. There was always the risk of spillage, as I had discovered the hard way months before when first taught to burn shit. Caution had to be exhibited when pulling out the heavy cans. Looking into the barrel was always a disgusting spectacle, but one to which I quickly grew accustomed and subsequently indifferent. Shit of all shapes, sizes, colors, consistencies, viscosity, and fragrances. Piss soaked throughout the entire can, with crumpled toilet paper and baby wipes covered in every human bodily fluid imaginable floating in clumps. It was always covered by a vast cloud of flies, which buzzed around the entire latrine area incessantly. The only relief from the writhing mass of parasitic bastards was once the waste barrel was lit. The thick noxious smoke would roll over the area, vanquishing the hated flies like the campfire smoke cleared away mosquitoes back home in Washington. It is a strange human sensation to have one miserable condition replaced by another, one that makes me look back and chuckle at it. I remember visiting my father in California after basic training, and we watched the movie Jarhead  together. We laughed at Swafford’s predicament in the movie, where he is made to burn all the shitters in his battalion’s AO as punishment for drinking contraband alcohol. Little did I know that I too would one day burn shit, although my infraction was not nearly as serious as Swafford’s. In that same scene from Jarhead, a major approaches Swafford as he stirs the flaming shit canisters. He orders Swafford to replace one so he can partake in his “morning glory.” I had a similar experience when a platoon sergeant from another platoon approached me and berated me for not leaving one shit can available for use. From that day on, I left one can on active duty at all times, ready to be used when needed–which was often, because soldiers do not stop having bowel movements.

During my time in the Pit, my comrades would come to use the latrine, and I would often hold conversations with them. Most had empathy for my plight, while others would laugh and crack jokes at my misfortune. I would often join in the laughter, as some hilarious and insightful discussions would follow. One would think that having to do such a terrible job every day would leave me pissed off and hostile, but misery loves company.  I got to know many members of my company during this time, as well as knowing the specific shit schedules of certain members of the company. The First Sergeant would arrive daily like clockwork. He had a rigorous schedule, and his daily visit to the latrine was as predictable as the sunrise.

“I shit once a day, twice if I have the runs,” he would say in his gruff voice, before shuffling off to go about his day. He would often be chomping on an unlit cigar, and would toss the stub into whichever can I happened to be stirring at the time.

I had about a week left in the month-long ordeal when I came to the realization that if I simply poured the cans into the adjacent trash-burning pit I could finish the job much faster. My only qualm was that if SSG Ena should come by and see me taking a shortcut in the work, he would go ballistic and assign me more grueling punishment. However, my fears were overcome by my desire to be done and away from the burning shit cans, and so I began pouring the cans into the burn pit. This made the task much simpler. Instead of taking two or sometimes even three hours to burn it all down into a crispy chunk of incinerated fecal matter, it now took me fifteen minutes to drag all the cans to the edge of the burn pit, empty their foul contents into the fire, replace the cans and walk away. Life became much more enjoyable after this, although I still always had an eye open for SSG Ena.

On the last day of my sentence, I went about my chore as I usually did, dragging the cans to the edge of the burn pit. As I did, I saw SSG Ena walking toward the latrine area.

Busted.

As he approached, I sadly looked about the Pit and realized I would probably be burning shit every day until we went home. As I prepared for the verbal assault sure to come my way, I closed my eyes and tried to accept my grim fate. SSG Ena walked up to the edge of the burn pit.

“Are you tossing it into the burn pit?” he asked. Seeing no point in lying, I admitted I had been. “Hell, man,” he said. “Why the hell weren’t you doing this the whole time? Would’ve saved you hours.”

I could only numbly nod my head as SSG Ena walked away.

“Work smarter, not harder, Campos,” were his parting words.

All in all, I would say that this experience, while humbling, also left me with the knowledge that there’s not a whole lot worse I could face than burning shit for a month straight. I use this fact to motivate myself whenever I am worn down by the toils of life that are stressing me out. It could always be worse. I could always be stuck back in Iraq, stirring a burning shit can down to nothingness.

Tick… My eyes dart from the clock on the wall, to the door, down to my desk and back to the clock. Tick… My heart pounds faster and faster against my chest; I can feel it in my throat and my head. It restricts my breath. Tick… I glance back up to the clock, then the door. Tick…  My right foot furiously fidgets up and down; my hands are dampening and sweat starts to form at my temples. Tick… I breathe in deeply to try and calm myself; I glance once more at the clock then the door. Tick… I grab my backpack and move quickly for the door, towards freedom.

I have only been sitting in class for five minutes, but I just can’t take it. I can’t take the panicked feeling of being trapped and the accompanying weight of the anxiety. I have to remove myself from the desk against the back corner of the classroom, the classroom that doesn’t have any windows and has only one door, the classroom that is full of young adults, the classroom that I just cannot be in.

I have to flee.

As I make my way to my truck, my pounding heart beats slower and slower and my nerves settle with every step I take away from the classroom. I sit in the driver’s seat of my truck with the engine off and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, all the while searching through my head what had just taken place back in that classroom and wondering how I will deal with all this when I’m back in that classroom. The slowing of the second hand on the clock, the racing of my heart, the damp hands and sweaty brow, the panic will all happen again, three more times to be exact, before I fully remove myself from the situation. This leads to drinking and hiding myself in my apartment with the windows closed during the day, waiting for night to come and the dimness of light it brings with it. Then I will turn to the bottle to suppress the fleeting feeling of wanting to run from the panic of every social situation.

For over a year I suffered greatly from this problem, not knowing why. Why me? I had survived Iraq. I survived combat. I was shot at and put in a position of life and death and came out alive and stronger in the end. I volunteered to serve in the Marine Corps and I chose to fight in the Infantry. It had been two years since I was honorably discharged from the Corps, and I had been going to college during the day and bartending nights without incident. I felt strong and I felt like a normal person and college student. But now I can’t bear to sit in class, go to the grocery store, go out to bars with friends, ride in cars or be around people without this intense grip of anxiety suffocating me. Why is this happening to me and why now?

I never did figure out exactly what was happening to me and why, or why it was happening to me then. But I was able to mostly conquer my anxiety through talking about it with the brothers I served with and other combat veterans. I was definitely not the only one struggling. Talking about it and listening to other stories of the same struggle helped me to understand it a bit more than I did before.

Furthermore, talking about all this helped me to deal with it and stopped me from trying to treat it with alcohol. I consider that period the worst part of my life; I’d much rather get shot at and blown up or deal with any kind of physical pain than struggle with the psychological and emotional pain of feeling weak and panicked.

It is a feeling I’ll never forget, and though I am much better today, it’s still a feeling I live with.

As I prepared to go to basic training, Jeremy told me to keep my head down and to never volunteer for anything. He taught me how to pack my ruck, how to study for boards, and tips on how to be a leader.

Yes, I had an advantage thanks to Jeremy. But I would soon learn that I also had a disadvantage.

I am a woman.

My First Duty Station

I was assigned to my first duty station in July 2013, the 518^Th Tin Company at Fort Gordon, GA. My platoon consisted of 50 soldiers, less than ten of whom were females. When I arrived I was greeted constantly by every male who wanted to know who I was. The first couple weeks were overwhelming. I didn’t like the attention being sized up every time I walked into a room. After meeting a few girls, I was warned what was happening: the males were trying to sleep with me as a competition.  I couldn’t believe it. I thought I would be surrounded by mature men and women who joined the Army for the same reason I did. I expected professionalism and discipline. Once I knew what was happening, I became more aware of my surroundings and of what I said.

When I met my Platoon Sergeant, he immediately told me we were going to deploy in a year. I remember this moment because I could tell he was trying to scare me or get some reaction out of me. I didn’t panic with this news because I was told early on that my job deploys a lot.

So six months before deployment we started to train and prepare. The United States had not yet begun withdrawing troops from the Middle East, and we learned that our deployment would either be to Afghanistan or Kuwait. When the list came out for who was going where, we noticed that all of the females were being sent to Kuwait. We inquired about this and learned this decision was made to reduce the likelihood of females being sexually harassed or assaulted, which had become a problem for the Army. Personally, I didn’t mind deploying to Kuwait because it was not a combat zone like Afghanistan.

A few months before deployment, I kept hearing that my name was on the Afghanistan list. I didn’t believe my friend when he told me. I thought he was just kidding around. Eventually I asked my Sergeant, and she assured me I was on the Kuwait list. As deployment grew closer, my friend became agitated because I still did not believe him. So one day he dragged me to our Platoon Sergeant

“You’re for sure on the list to deploy to Kuwait,” he said.

So even my friend had to admit this was settled.

But then two weeks before our ship out date, I had just climbed into my car when my company commander signaled from the next car over to roll down my window.

“I cannot be seen talking directly to you, so act natural,” he said in a low voice. “You’re on the list to go to Afghanistan and I need to have a talk with you before you go.”

The frustrating part is that he never had the time to talk with me. I told my Sergeant and she did nothing, so then I went to my Platoon Sergeant and he was still insisting that I was on the Kuwait list.

At this point I was panicking. I couldn’t get any of my superiors to communicate. It was ridiculous that neither my leader nor my platoon sergeant couldn’t take ten minutes to set up a time to talk to my commander. If they had, everything would have been cleared up. I wanted to drag them to his office, but as a private first class that was not my place and I had to follow what they said.

I wasn’t sure how to pack because the packing lists for both locations were different. For Kuwait, you didn’t need to bring multi-cam uniforms because they are only worn in combat zones, so we were told to bring only the standard issue Army Combat Uniform.  I ended up packing both. I was angry about this because I looked like a typical girl who couldn’t decide what to bring and over packed.

Deployment

All of the platoon flew to Kuwait where we were briefed, including those who would fly on into Afghanistan.  Once in Kuwait, we were split up for our briefings. The Kuwait briefing was inside a building and the Afghanistan briefing was outside. I was 30 minutes into the Kuwait briefing when I heard my name called out. I was being yelled at by my Platoon Sergeant for being in the wrong briefing. It turned out I was on the list for Afghanistan. The confusion had occurred because another soldier also had the last name of Taylor. He was male, but our names were mixed up. My company did this with another female, too, named Rodriguez. This was a relief to me because it meant I wasn’t going to be the only female on the team to Afghanistan.

Before we left on the plane to Bagram Air Base, Rodriguez and I were told that our chain of command wanted to speak with us. They spoke to us about the importance of sticking together while we were there. We were told we couldn’t go anywhere without the other and that we had a curfew of 8 p.m. We were warned about how males like to target women walking alone, that they will drag you into bunker to assault you, and we were told to avoid groups of men because that’s usually how it happens.

Were also told that foreign military people were dangerous and to stay away from them; apparently there were reports of Bulgarian soldiers raping women. At first we didn’t mind this rule because we thought it would pertain to everyone going to Afghanistan. I also think we didn’t think anything of it because we were scared. After the first day we realized that our male colleagues didn’t have to follow the same rules: they were walking around by themselves and staying out past curfew. Rodriguez and I ended up going to our leader and complaining, but we were told nothing could be done and it was for our protection.

Then, less than a week later, we received the upsetting news that we were being separated. I was being sent to Camp Phoenix. Rodriguez and I were so upset that we were close to tears. Our command scared us so much that we were not sure how to handle being in Afghanistan without each other. How could they stress the importance of us sticking together, and then suddenly tell us they needed to separate us so a certain number of people were at each location? I felt like I didn’t have my protection anymore. To make matters worse, they did not know if there were any females at Camp Phoenix.

Fortunately, when I arrived, two other females were also stationed there. But now I did not have a designated job at Camp Phoenix. My MOS (military occupational specialty) was 25L, a cable system installer and maintainer. Our deployments consisted of teams being sent to different areas of Afghanistan to do cable missions. The team there was full, so I was instructed to hang around until they found a place for me. Eventually I was put in the operations area. I was just helping whoever needed the help. After a couple of days I found out the cable team needed one more person for the job, and I asked if I could be placed there. I was told I couldn’t because it was an all-male team. Instead, they selected someone in maintenance who was not qualified to do the job of a 25L.

The company we were replacing was getting ready to leave country, so they were training my company on how things were run in their office. They had a drive team coordinator and a flight coordinator. Their jobs were to make flights for military personnel to get around Afghanistan and the drive team coordinator scheduled out a team of three vehicles with two personnel in each vehicle.  I ended up doing both of these jobs; it was supposed to be a temporary job for me. I was just a private first class and this job is slotted for sergeants and higher ranks. The sergeant slotted for this spot didn’t have a secret clearance and was trying to obtain one from Bagram. I was told I had to learn everything and train the sergeant who would be coming to replace me. Well, that never happened. I was never replaced.

Doing the Work of a Sergeant

It was very stressful for me as a young soldier to do this job. As a PFC you’re not supposed to make strategic decisions. You’re given tasks and you carry them out. All the heavy thinking is left up to the leaders, people who were in for more years than I had been.  For my job I had to relay the mission plans to the convoy commander who was a Staff Sergeant. This was an unusual situation. I was a PFC telling a Staff Sergeant what he had to complete every day. So basically I was his boss. In the beginning it worked out. I was respectful of his rank and I knew my place. I never tried to boss him around and I would work with his suggestions he gave me. I trusted his advice and we slowly became good working partners. This did not last long.

But before I recount what happened next in this relationship, I want to share about the type of work I was doing in Kuwait.

I learned how to coordinate a drive team. I planned routes for teams of soldiers who patrolled roads in military vehicles. I mapped out what roads to take and what time they had to be at each destination. We couldn’t use real street names because we didn’t want the enemy to know our location or where we were going. Each street name was coded by colors. The maps I prepared would say something like “left on orange then orange to right on black and black to end point.”  I designed a chart to make it easier for me to plan. I had to make sure I got my colors right to the corresponding roads because I couldn’t simply say turn left on main street over the radio because that would give away our location. I also had to plan routes differently every day so the enemy couldn’t see a pattern with our movements. My day always started before everyone else’s in my company; I would have to get up around 0430 to read all the Intel reports before the drive team was ready to roll out. I had to make sure the roads were clear for them to drive safely. In addition, while they were out, I had to monitor Intel reports to make sure they were not coming into danger.

I will always remember the two times the drive team came close to danger and there was nothing I could do. One of those times I was credited by the drive team for saving their lives, even though I don’t see it that way. It was just luck on my part. Here’s what happened: As I said earlier, I always came in before the drive team and scheduled when they had to leave. One morning I scheduled them to leave later than usual so they could get a little more sleep; I also didn’t mind the extra sleep. I contacted their convoy commander the night before and let him know I pushed the start time an hour forward from the original time. Little did I know the life-and-death results of this extra hour of sleep: this adjustment caused them to miss an IED planted along their route. They missed it by 10 minutes. In fact, a vehicle ahead of them rolled up on it, which killed a couple of locals standing nearby.

The other incident almost made me sick because I was worrying so much. I got Intel that a woman was wearing a suicide vest outside our gate and was waiting for a vehicle to roll up so she could try to run in and bomb our gate. As this was happening, my vehicles were scheduled to arrive back. Yet I couldn’t get a hold of them on their radio to warn them. For some reason the signal would not pick up. I remember pacing and my stomach was turning. I couldn’t focus on anything because I was so panicked. Luckily they didn’t leave their location because they couldn’t reach me to see if they were okay to drive back. The woman with the suicide vest decided not to attack and eventually left. So once again it was luck that saved them.

Deterioration of My Working Relationship

As I noted earlier, my relationship with my Staff Sergeant was initially very good. But three months into our deployment, he started to change. He became too friendly and would joke around and say I was his work wife and he would try to hug me all the time. He told me I belonged to him and had to listen to whatever he told me. I didn’t think anything of this at first; I thought it was innocent fun. I started to notice that every time I talked to another person he would get upset with me. For some reason he didn’t want me to make friends with other people. I eventually confronted him about it. I walked into his office:

“Hey Staff Sergeant, are you mad at me about something? I’ve noticed that you have been acting different lately.”

“Yes,” he responded. “I’m not happy that you’re making new friends.”

I laughed and said, “Are you serious?”

“Yes I am.”

“You can’t expect me to only have one friend,” I said. “We’re here for nine months. We can’t keep within ourselves or we will go crazy!”

I left the room.

I talked to another member of the drive team and he said my staff sergeant was upset with me because he had developed feelings for me and didn’t know how to show it. I was very shocked by this because the staff sergeant and I were both married.  He had been married for 13 years and had three children, and he knew I was in a loving relationship with my husband.

Once I found this out, I made the mistake of going back and confronting the staff sergeant: “This is only a professional relationship and I am sorry if I came off differently,” I said. This upset him and he responded that if I didn’t reciprocate his feelings, he was going to make the rest of my deployment “hell.”

He said he would make sure I was on every detail possible so I could get no rest and to keep me working at all times. He said if I didn’t do everything he said or gave him attitude or looked at him wrong he was going to give an Article 15. As I stood in front of him listening to what he was saying, I could feel my nails cutting my palm because I was clenching my fists so tight. I wanted to yell at him. My mind was racing with everything I wanted to say. I wanted to swear at him. I’m the kind of person who says what’s on my mind, so it was hard for me not to tell him he was a piece of shit.

As I spoke to him, I realized I was not standing in the right position, so I switched from standing casually to parade rest, and I told him, “If you feel like that’s the right thing for you to do to me then fine because I don’t have feelings for you.”

I went to my commander and reported what had taken place. He said he couldn’t do anything about it because he couldn’t replace me or the staff sergeant. I cried and was shaking because I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t do anything…I was helpless.

My Staff Sergeant Keeps his Promise

As he had threatened, the staff sergeant did everything he said he would: I never had a day off; I worked from 5 am to 11 pm every day. I had to work on Thanksgiving and even on Christmas. Everyone else was enjoying their time off from work and I was sitting alone at my desk, working. The stress from this experience began to affect my health. I went from weighing 125 pounds to 110 pounds. I always looked tired.

But I made the best of what I had been dealt. Since I was at work all the time I was able network better with other flight coordinators to make my job easier to schedule what I needed. This enabled me to get flights that were impossible and I could get helicopters to take routes that weren’t normal.  I could get the pilots to wait for my passengers or cargo if the timing went wrong. Passengers I scheduled flights for appreciated this so they would bring me stuff I couldn’t get at my base like pizza and energy drinks. One person even gave me a refrigerator and television for my room.

Final Thoughts

At the end of my deployment what I was going through became normal for me. I stopped stressing because I perfected my job and it showed. By the end of my deployment I completed 300 drive team missions and over 700 flight missions. I received an award that reflected my hard work; I was awarded the Army Commendation Medal which is usually not given to someone with my rank. I learned that even though I got treated unfairly and didn’t get to do the job I was trained for, I did something more important: I made sure that everyone I scheduled made it safely to their destination.

What I learned during my deployment is that I can do anything I set my mind to and that I have a strong personality that won’t let people or things get me down. I don’t regret anything that happened to me on my deployment because even though in many ways being a woman is a disadvantage in the military, I am stronger for all I experienced.

]]> http://www.lpcvetstories.com/veteran-stories/a-desert-ten/feed/ 0 http://www.lpcvetstories.com/uncategorized/wandering-in-deaths-shade-a-military-spouses-story-2/ http://www.lpcvetstories.com/uncategorized/wandering-in-deaths-shade-a-military-spouses-story-2/#comments Fri, 27 May 2016 22:03:52 +0000 http://www.lpcvetstories.com/?p=318 Four years old, so I was told, the slap of my bare feet on our floor, mitigated by my slow motion. Maneuvering through the rooms, maybe she didn’t feel like humming, maybe her throat was sore, maybe she used this day, this time to contemplate her departure. No such luck. Mommy is gone.

I was born in El Salvador and lived there until I was eleven. My memories of the clean breeze and the swaying trees surround the myriad children who kicked up dust as we navigated the rough terrain with ease. Free to run, climb on fruit trees, and roam the river banks without adult supervision, this was the norm. Now reminiscing, I realize how free in a third world country one could be. We kids swung from tree to tree like monkeys, grabbing this mango or that papaya, fighting over the ripest. The entire cluster of children in Tasmanian devil-like manner slowly made our way up and down our endless play pen until the sun was no more.

Suddenly it hit me. For weeks the grownups conversed and these key words came to mind, America, support, departure dates, be strong. Be strong? All these words dripped slowly down my cheek. I wondered where my mother was going, why she was going. I was small so I did not understand. I asked my older sister who was six where mommy was going; she said “to the U.S.” and I still didn’t understand. But what I do remember is that I didn’t want her to leave. Every morning she was always in the kitchen making tortillas by hand, or she would be by the lavadero, a manual washing machine where she washed clothes and dishes. Since I knew she was leaving soon, every morning I would wake up to check the specific spots where I knew she would be. Days went on until she was gone . . . when she was there no more I said to myself ya se fue and went about my day of playing and having many adventures under the mango trees, chasing chickens and running from chanchos.

Years later, after my sisters and I had moved to America to live with our mother, I fell in love with the man of my dreams, and little did I know that he too would leave me, causing yet another scar to my heart.

When I met him in 2002, I was sixteen and he was twenty. Later that year he decided to join the military. We quickly found ourselves in a long distance relationship since recruit training was hours away. During his training, he had orders to deploy with his first unit RCT1 or First Marines. With no time to spare, we were married in November 2003. Nothing about our relationship was “normal” by the time we got married. I was a senior in high school with a husband soon to be deployed.

That First Deployment would change our lives forever.

The agony, sleeplessness, anxiety while he was gone was unbearable. I would cry and cry myself to sleep every night. No one could relate to my situation around me. Distressed about another human being’s life, wishing to be in his place in case something bad were to happen—this is an inexpiable feeling. I watched the news nonstop, hoping to get a glance in case he was interviewed or shown on camera to reassure me that he was alive. I did not want to look out the window whenever a car engine stopped since I had seen movies where a red car pulls up to a driveway, and two men in uniform approach your door because your loved one is dead. And for weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds you prepare yourself to receive the worst news of your life, all the while praying with all of your heart and hoping it’s not them at all.

Senior Ball? What? I am married and my husband might be killed! I had no time to worry about a stupid party or homecoming games or the senior picnic. Hand written letters became a priority in my life. I secluded myself from my friends and hardly spoke to my family about what I felt. Broken, suffering in quietness, and not knowing what to do with myself. Praying constantly for my other half to be free from danger and return complete to my arms. As time went on, a mix of emotions developed: resentment, feeling confounded, feeling out of place, no strong reason to act or accomplish anything. Never-ending distress everywhere, no matter where I went and no matter what I did.

Then the first battle of Fallujah began and I lost my sanity. Everywhere I turned the topic of over there and Marines are getting killed left and right was all I heard in the news. I wished to fast forward to a happier time. I questioned as he wandered in death’s shade if I would ever hug and hold my better half again. I shed tears under my sunglasses as I drove my Honda Accord to school and to work, trying my best to put on a delighted face as I whirled on the four-lane, burned out and wanting to let go of the steering wheel so the pain would go away. I didn’t want to imagine my life without him. Darkness and wanting to see the end of the tunnel, perhaps if someone would have told me not to watch the news or had informed me that no news meant good news, then maybe I would have not slid into a lasting depression.

As the white buses got closer, life felt dreamlike as if everything stopped. I remember the image still of us running into each others arms as if only we existed at that moment, pressing my hands on his chest to see if he was real and looking into his eyes and wondering if he was really there. Finally my love was home.

As expected, we moved in together outside of base into a one-bedroom apartment. We started our lives as husband and wife. It felt as if I had deposited all my fears and feelings and emotions into a savings account, afraid to share any of them now for fear that he might withdraw. After all, he could easily leave if he wanted to. He tried to help me, to go see the chaplain or a counselor or anyone I could open up to. No hope. I was stubborn. I was reminded about a particular time when I was about eight years old in El Salvador when I wanted to end my life for no good reason. Maybe I’d wanted attention. My mother would call from America and tell me how important I was and how everyone loved me. So why? Why did I want to end my life then, and why was I considering it now? I had a knife in my hand and all . . .

Living together for the first time as a married couple was a struggle. We both had changed, and I was not okay. Neither was my love, but at least one of us had to remain stable.

And then came a second deployment, in 2005. He was leaving me again. He waited a long time to tell me he had volunteered to fight overseas. This time around, though, after the initial shock, I was more experienced with living apart. This lifestyle had become the norm for us, the military life. Technology and social media were now more available to communicate with each other. It seemed in some ways we were closer when he was gone, even though our first years of marriage we lived far apart.

And yet I still experienced excruciating emotions from thousands of miles away. No wonder I had become so unbalanced. I had not signed up for this! When was this going to end? I thought about it a million times. I just wanted a normal life, but I found myself in a complicated one where my love was called on the rising of the sun and was sent half away around the world to fight a war, not one time, but three times. His last deployment in 2010 was fourteen months and was twice as hard as his first deployment since we had become parents not long after he returned home from his second time.

Deployments sometimes can serve as a catalyst for positive change, for re-unification, for a better appreciation. Not realizing what you have until it’s gone is a horrible feeling. Being able to express this appreciation when he returned would make it almost worth it. Yet he was not home yet. Would we part ways forever with our last communication being a fight? My overwhelmed, overworked, underappreciated heart could not—would not—tolerate this anymore. The savings account was full. No more deposits allowed. Tears as I walked from the grocery store to my car. Tears as I cooked for my daughter. Tears as I ran to the bathroom so no one could know, no one could see. I was reaching a point where I might explode in a river of pent up tears, an ocean of emotion, the dam losing structural integrity.

I stayed with my mother in law while he was gone. Never mind that I did not feel comfortable in his mom’s house, never mind that I had one room for myself and my daughter. I went from living on top of Camp Pendleton’s San Onofre Housing with a beach view from my backyard to a small dungeon deprived of light, deprived of life. Life is hard enough as a Marine wife. This time the dynamic was different.  During the other deployments I had stayed with my mother. This time I didn’t. During the other deployments we had no child; now we did, a constant reminder of him attached to my hip. My three-year-old princess Jasmine would have played and played, enjoying these new relatives, my husband’s mother, sisters and nephews. As I watched her play ever so innocently, the serious eyebrow scowl would come out, identical to her father’s, her mannerisms hinted more and more of him. I smiled as I cried and cried as I smiled, for that blessing was a curse. Blessing for my princess, a curse for the beautiful reminder.  “Mommy, where is Daddy?” It is a good thing she was so young; she would forget the strained veins throbbing on my neck and forehead as I tried with all my might to hold back the Pacific, as I failed to do when I explained that Daddy was working.

“On the white bus?”

“Yes, mamas,” I told her.

I thought back to that day when the white bus had ripped him away from us for those fourteen months in Afghanistan before he finally came home and left his military service. I remember how he struggled to hold back his tears as he called his platoon to attention, as he counted his Marines as they stepped onto that bus.

He was the last one on, but first he snuck over for one more kiss.

Then he was gone.

I hear this phrase from numerous people. The first time I heard it, I felt ashamed, defeated, and dishonest. I couldn’t make sense of the words. What service were they thanking me for? I didn’t understand because I felt like my military experience was fake and dishonorable.

Every veteran has a story, and better yet, a voice.

I joined the military to escape my civilian life at the age of 19 on Thanksgiving of 2005. I was shipped out to Ft. Leonardwood, Missouri, on January 4, 2006. This was my new home for the next five months—five months that would change the way I thought about the military.

Near the end of Basic Training (BCT), I was approached by my drill sergeant who asked if I wanted a cigarette. As a private with a nicotine fix, I jumped at the opportunity and followed him to the basement to share and sneak a cigarette. I trusted my drill sergeant, but this was the beginning of what I call the trail of mistakes because one day my whole world turned.

As I sat and smoked with him one evening, enjoying the amazing taste of Marlboro lights and soaking in an ounce of freedom for one minute, he grabbed me and sat me on his lap. He began touching me. At that moment several emotions—both good and bad—ran through my head. I liked the attention of someone being attracted to me, but I felt like his behavior was crossing a boundary I hadn’t established. I blamed myself for walking down to the basement that night. I’d let him lure me in with nicotine, and soon after it became alcohol. I was now 20 years old and still underage for drinking, but he made a pact with me: If I would hang out with him, he would give me alcohol. So I did.

At the time, I blamed myself for being so naive and stupid. And I knew he was taking advantage of other women under his command. I will never forget the day he gave me alcohol and made me drive while he and my battle buddy—another female solider—messed around in the back of his maroon jeep.

The day finally came when I graduated BCT, and I was off to my job training for the military at Advanced Individual Training school. But instead of moving to another base, my school was on the same military base as my BCT. This meant that my former drill sergeant knew when I got weekend breaks to go off base. So he would wait for me around the corner from my barracks where taxis usually picked up soldiers on their way to weekends off post. So instead of hanging out with my fellow soldiers, I would hop into his jeep and he’d drive me to remote training sites on base. He’d hand me a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Southern Comfort and tell me to drink. He would prey on my drinking and strike when I became intoxicated.

It got to the point where he told me not to tell anyone what was going on, or he would kill me.

This threw me for a loop, so I started avoiding him. Of course I wasn’t going to tell anyone; I was deathly afraid of him. He was the scariest drill sergeant. So I kept this secret from all my military family until eventually my secret caught up with me when I was in Airborne school in the heat of the summer at Ft. Benning, Georgia. I was approached by the commander. He said I needed to pack my stuff. He made a few phone calls and suddenly I was on the next flight to Missouri. I didn’t know why until I got to Missouri when I was then approached by the battalion commander. He screamed at me, saying he knew I was lying about what had taken place. Unable to keep it in any longer, I shared everything that ever went on between me and my predator. Now that the truth was free, my drill sergeant was arrested, prosecuted, and eventually sent to prison.

Fast forward to my duty station where my new home would be for the next 1.5 years. My superiors selected me and another female to be the first females in an all-male combat unit in the 2/319th 82nd ABN division. At first my new battle buddy and I thought it was great because there would be no drama with other females. But many of the male soldiers started to treat us as if we were foreigners, objects, prisoners—as if we were their “property.” As they got to know us, they found our weaknesses, and they found it was easy to get their way with us if they fed us enough alcohol. There were times when my battle buddy and I woke up not knowing where we were, or how we got there, even though sometimes we could have sworn we only drank one alcoholic beverage. We never told anyone about these encounters because we thought we were just making new friends and being a part of our unit. We were beginning to “fit in” and “bond” with our family/friends. We didn’t know about their schemes for how the next male soldier was going to get what he wanted. They would hand us off, as if we were batons in a race.

Years later I would tell some of this to my counselor, or draw it out in Art therapy, but at the time I thought this was somehow my fault, that this was normal military behavior. I started to degrade myself and believe some of what the males were telling me. I was ashamed and started feeling depressed. I was even beginning to think I didn’t deserve to even breathe.

These episodes and real life nightmares happened every weekend, and I finally ended up in the hospital, stressed and strung out with physical pain and depression. For the pain, I was introduced to Percocet, which became my new best friend and outlet. I could swallow it, or to get a quicker effect I could even chew it or snort it. It was there for me when I was alone and depressed. In addition to Percocet, I would sometimes ask my male friends—my so-called friends—to bring me alcohol. They would of course bring me the alcohol and say that they would stay to “take care of me.” But they were only doing this to take advantage of my weakened situation. I began to dig a deep dark hole and climb into it.

Time went on and I was scheduled for my first jump in the 82nd ABN division on August 16, 2006. The jump was at 2 a.m. and I was the “last man” out of that C17 plane. My turn came and I jumped. I couldn’t see anything except for one soldier who had parachuted before me. He ended up sky-sharking me in mid-air, meaning he ran into me mid-flight. And because other soldiers had jumped right before me, they ended up right underneath me, unintentionally blocking the air needed to fill my parachute which caused me to fall fast and hard. A tree, luckily, broke my fall, but I ended up shattering my ankle as I landed in a ditch. I remember laying there for a long time in the early morning darkness, screaming in pain for help. When I heard someone walking through the bushes, I thought I’d be rescued. But all this solider did was give me a chem light—a type of glow stick used in the military. Mind you, he was also a Medic, but all he did was hand me a damn chem light at 2 o’clock in the freakin’ morning. He told me to raise my arm in the air, be quiet, and wait. So that’s what I did. I held the chem light above my head until I started to go into shock. No one found me on the drop zone until an hour and 45 minutes later. Getting to the hospital, pale as a ghost, feeling as if my ankle had fallen off, I was injected a few times with morphine. The next day, the doctors had to re-break my ankle to prepare it for surgery. After the surgery, I stayed in the hospital one week, and during my recovery I quickly became addicted to Dilaudid and Morphine. A month later, I’d received no physical therapy because my unit looked down on soldiers who went to doctors’ appointments. So instead I quietly met with the doctor in my unit, during work hours, and he prescribed me a 90-day supply of Percocet every month for 3 months. Once again Percocet was my best friend and like before I would swallow, chew, or snort it, but this time combining it with alcohol.

Time came when the 82nd needed to be ready to deploy within 36 hours, so as a group we got our pre-shots and medical examinations. Our Major asked if I was healed from my Airborne accident. It was obvious he was ignoring the 10-pound boot strapped on my ankle. He then asked me: “If someone is chasing you with a knife, will you be able to defend yourself?” I told him, “Of course because I was trained to do so.” Then that was that: I was deployable. The next couple months I medicated myself for as long as I could get away with it with my prescribed supply of narcotics. So not only was I addicted to pain medication, I was also drinking excessively all the time. This kept on for the next four months. Finally it was New Year’s Eve and we got orders to deploy to Iraq within 24 hours. We packed up on a plane and were in Kuwait by January 6, 2007. We trained in Kuwait for the next month, and then shipped off to Baghdad, Iraq.

This next chapter of my life is the most crucial. We went on missions every two days. I was a truck driver, so I drove on every mission. I worked most closely with my platoon sergeant and a co-soldier. My platoon sergeant and I were close. We did everything together. I looked up to him as my mentor. He was smart and took me under his wing. My other team member was a male who hated females in the military all together. He made sexual harassment jokes and some of what he said broke me. He called me the “unit whore,” “the mascot,” “the pet.” I couldn’t tell anyone because my first sergeant was also a culprit of bad behavior. There were times when he made sexual comments to me. He had me drive him places to see what he could get away with. I wasn’t promoted because I refused to have sex with him. By now my female battle buddy and I had been split up, so I was the only female in my unit overseas at that time. I felt alone and stuck and unable to do anything about it. Eventually, a few more women joined our unit, but the ratio was 1:25, so we were still the minority. I didn’t feel a connection with them. Most of them had heard stories of me, so they assumed I was this military whore. It killed me inside. It broke me.

By November 2007, I was still stationed in Baghdad and not feeling good at all. At least I had a boyfriend at the time who was stationed on the same Forward Operating Base as I was. But I started feeling tired and weak, and during a visit to the medical center I found out I was pregnant. I feared telling my first sergeant, and after I did, I became the talk of companies. I wasn’t surprised about the gossip, but I was surprised that I was treated as if I were an adulterer who had committed the worst crime. My company and my unit looked down on me because I wasn’t married and as if I had gotten pregnant on purpose. Within two weeks, I was on a flight back to the states. I arrived in North Carolina in the middle of the night and in the freezing winter. Being pregnant and alone on the 82nd ABN base was miserable. My first sergeant—who was still overseas—was ordering the rear attachment to kick me out of the barracks to force me to find somewhere else to live. To make matters worse, at the time the soon-to-be father—who had left Iraq a month before I had—was living within walking distance of my barracks but had completely abandoned me.

So I decided to part ways with the military.

After being honorably discharged on March 13, 2008, I moved back to my home in California. I had my baby girl on May 5, 2008. Her father was supposed to be there for the birth, but he told me his unit wouldn’t let him take leave from Ft. Bragg for any reason. So my father stepped up and was in the room with me while I gave birth to my daughter. When it came time to pick a name for my daughter and to sign her birth certificate, I was the only parent who could sign, so I contacted her father and to let him know he would not be on the birth certificate. He was on the next flight to sign.

A couple of months later he got two weeks of leave in the summer and he came to spend time with our daughter. We decided we would work on things between us and make our relationship official. After those two weeks he left. I didn’t hear from him until I picked up the phone one day and called him five times in a row because I was furious. He finally answered and told me, “I can’t do this.” He couldn’t be with me; he couldn’t be a father. Nothing. I felt abandoned. I felt alone.

Life after the military was rough. I became alcohol-dependent, narcotics were still my best friend, and I was dependent on looking for love, as the song says, in all the wrong places. This got so bad that I ended up in an abusive relationship that left me broke and physically beat up. My daughter was there to witness this at two years old.

With that abusive relationship I hit rock bottom. I wanted to die. But I knew I needed help, so I went to the VA hospital and on my first visit I became emotional. A counselor began to help me pin-point my emotions. I told the counselor bits and pieces of situations that happened while in the military and before military life, including a sexual assault when I was 13 years old. I didn’t know how to process everything I was telling the counselor. I was scared of my own shadow and was fearful of the girl I once was. The therapists, counselors, and medical professionals diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, depression, insomnia, and military sexual trauma. Despite the help from counselors, I was a mess, and I acted out like I was a child having a temper tantrum. I felt like I was literally outside of my own body disrespecting and blaming everyone else but myself. I was also disrespecting my temple that God’s given me. Soon the days turned into months and months into years. I relapsed and became reliant on alcohol as my main source of medicine. It was so bad that I fell into another trap and was sexually assaulted again.

I finally became aware that I was truly out of control. I needed real help—help that I needed to actually participate in. In retrospect, I had only been going through motions in therapy. I was emotionally numb to every situation. Thankfully I had the phone number of a favorite family therapist. I met with her and became consistent with my appointments. I also have the most amazing therapist at the Livermore VA. She has helped me work through everything.

She has opened my eyes to life. She has helped me start to love life. I am now a part of something greater. I am consistent with therapy and I actually look forward to getting help. I am beginning to feel emotions again. I actually have started to tear up lately. I encourage all veterans to cry when they want to cry. Don’t ever fight it. Once it’s out it feels like healing is truly happening. I think of tears as flushing out the old me from my system. I also encourage all of my co-veterans to become a part of Wounded Warrior project and other organizations such as the VFW, or Warriors Watch riders. Anything to help the healing process from all of the difficulties we all went through.

Looking back, I sometimes ask myself how could I have let all these things happen in my life. But then I remember that I was just a teenager when I signed that dotted line to give my life to the military. I was little more than a girl when I first walked down into that dark basement and was led along a trail of many mistakes.

In the military, everyone has a call sign. Today I am so honored to have my call sign be SMV, for single mother veteran. I like this call sign because I am a single woman, I am a mother, and I am a Veteran.

It feels good, and now I can finally start to renew the value of my life because I am worth it.

To send a message to Frankie, email jott@laspositascollege.edu. Professor Ott will pass your message along to her.

You watch in a classroom as planes fly into The World Trade Center. As you watch, people jump, plummeting to certain death rather than burning alive. Something inside you catches fire. You were bullied once, by your father. You learned never to let that happen again. Now you find yourself drawn to a coming battle; you realize at that moment you will be part of that battle, but you don’t realize the cost that will be associated.

It was in 2004 that you finally make the decision to enlist. For a long time you have planned to join the military, but that was sadly as far as your planning has gone. You don’t know the difference between the branches other than boats, planes, and tanks. You are ill prepared to make such a life decision, especially at seventeen. You have done no research besides watching Black Hawk Down and Saving Private Ryan, yet you still walk into the Army office, but only because the Marines happened to be at lunch. You tell the lone recruiter in the office you want to join. He tells you to fill out this card with your info, and he will call you back. It feels very anti-climactic. He calls after a week and in a blur you are in Basic Combat Training at Fort Benning, Georgia, to become an Infantryman. You learn to hate that place.

You end up in Fort Drum, New York, with the 10th Mountain Division. This is where the real training begins. You are to be a light fighter, a name steeped in history. You are training to be a damn dirty leg. You make friends, party your ass off, and sleep in the mud. They are training you to be a killer, or as your squad leader puts it, a human chain saw. You fall in love with machine guns. The firepower excites something deep inside you. It allows you to unleash that slow burning rage that’s been there for so long in three to five round bursts. You try out for a gun team, and they make you an ammo bearer. It’s the lowest position, but you’re that much closer. You eventually move up to gunner and find your home. For two years you train your ass off, impatiently waiting for orders for your unit to send you overseas.

It’s February 2006 and you are finally getting on a civilian commercial plane headed for Afghanistan. They take everyone’s lighters and make everyone pack their knives before boarding, but you’re allowed to take your unloaded M-16 into the cabin. This still confuses you today. Since you have arrived in the winter the battlefield is quiet. You will learn that Afghanistan has a fighting season. The insurgents lack the equipment to fight in the low winter temperatures. They still attempt to hit your base with rockets and mortars almost daily. At first you are nervous, but with the frequency, they quickly become a nuisance.

Spring has come to the Bermel Valley and with it Third Platoon came into contact with the enemy. You are, of course, jealous. No one was hurt, and it seemed that they caught the enemy by surprise.

Two weeks later I’m in a fight for my life. My platoon is caught in a textbook L-shaped ambush. I’m a gunner in the turret of a Humvee. All hell breaks loose and at the same time, time slows to a crawl. I duck down and look up, watching tracers from a RPK pass inches over me as well as ricochet off the armor. RPG’s explode off my vehicle. I can feel their hate from every shot fired.

I’m terrified.

If I could run or hide, I would. It’s a terrifying feeling when someone tries to violently end your life. My Platoon Sergeant shoves me back up through my hole and tells me to shoot. When shooting a machine gun, you’re supposed to shoot in bursts.

Well I pull the trigger down and don’t let go.

We fight through the ambush and limp home with our tail between our legs.

That day my sense of safety was taken away.

I thought killing someone would be hard. It wasn’t. A simple squeeze of the trigger and a human being becomes a lifeless corpse. Living with it is the hard part. It makes you different from other people. You have no one to relate to about it. Those that have don’t talk about it, and those that haven’t wouldn’t know what to say. It’s a burden that we carry around secretly. Even though I always returned fire, and never shot first, who was right and wrong doesn’t feel as important after the fact: just who lived. That day my innocence was taken.

A medevac call comes over the radio from Third Platoon. A vehicle has hit a mine. My platoon rushes to their position to provide aid. All five occupants are injured, but one is critical. We spread out and pull outer security as we wait for the medevac, but all eyes are on Cole. I watch as he struggles to breathe. I can tell he will die, and I feel guilty for condemning him.

I lost a friend that day.

I made it through 17 months of deployment, 17 months of walking up and down mountains carrying hundreds of pounds of gear, 17 months of getting shot at by rockets, AK’s and machine guns. And none of that was as hard as the loneliness I felt after getting out. While you’re in you have brothers that serve as a pseudo support group. Since you are all fucked up together, it seems normal, but out in the real world you seem to be alone.

I have always hated asking for help; to me it was weak. In the Infantry weakness is something you can never show. I would rather sit and suffer than admit I need help. So I did, and of course nothing got better; in fact, only worse. I let the lights dim until I was alone in darkness. I had made a plan to kill myself. To be more specific, I bought a gun to blow my head off.

Suicide is very selfish, but I couldn’t see that at the time. I forgot about all the great things in my life, especially my wife, who has been there for me more than any other. It sadly took a friend killing himself to cast a light on my decisions. I saw myself in his exact shoes only a couple months away. I got to live through suicide in his death. He saved my life. He allowed me to see the pain I would inflict on everybody if I followed through. That’s not the guy I was, or am.

This isn’t a story I wrote so you would feel sorry for me. You can keep your pity. I wrote this story for anybody else than stumbles in this journey of life. Obviously I didn’t do it. I set aside my hubris, a weakness, and found help.

I will leave you with the motto of the Infantry:

Follow Me!

After sitting at the drop off for maybe 15 minutes, I picked up my pack and began the hike. I always hated the walks high up in Afghanistan’s mountains, but I loved them as well. The strain of the hike was brutal. The heavy gear and pack would test every muscle, and that long hike in the cold darkness would take us higher up the mountain as we hoped to gain a vantage point. As we climbed along the loose rock and dirt, we periodically stopped to study the shadows. We would then set into position and wait for the dawn to break.

I was just 20 years old at the time, assigned as a gunner on the 240-Bravo machine gun team. Sweating and tired, I was ready for the break and to sneak in a little morning breakfast. At daylight we would be off again in just a few hours.

I sat there in my rocky uncomfortable position watching the sun rise above the mountain ridge across from me. This was one of the reasons I loved the early morning hikes. Afghanistan, while a dangerous country, was beautiful, and high up in the mountains early in the morning watching the sun fill the green valley below was a sight I will always remember. With the sun came the heat, and with the heat would come the sweat. Nothing moved but the occasional goat herder. No enemy to be seen as time moved slowly. I told my assistant gunner, or “AG” for short, “Keep a sharp eye out because you can bet that they are watching you.”

Finally the time came to move and make our way down the mountain. On the way we would search out Taliban fighting positions and mark them for future fights. I watched carefully in front of me, noting where to step because one bad move up here and you could fall for a while over some rough terrain. In the daylight we moved constantly because we didn’t want the enemy to maneuver onto or around us. I remember between the heat, weight, and boredom sometimes I wished for something interesting to happen. I wished for anything so I could feel like the mission would have a sense of purpose. I knew these wishes were dumb and best not wished at all. Quiet days have less risk, but I know most of us still wished strangely for that action.

Then up on the side of that mountain as we crossed a seemingly peaceful and terraced meadow, it happened.

Shots came down from where my platoon had been only hours before. I ran to the nearest cover and prepared my gun for a fight. A large boulder makes a nice place to be when gunfire is raining down. Next I heard yelling as we tried to figure out where the enemy was and if everyone was okay. My assistant gunner screamed “Contact 9 o’clock, 300 meters, small arms fire!” Then the obvious order “Shoot back!” my LT barked out impatiently. I was no longer thinking about how tired I was or if I was hot or if my pack was too heavy. All of that had gone out of my mind as I focused every thought and instinct on this fight. The reason for the mission seemed now at least to have purpose. Now I felt the adrenaline running through my system as I pulled the trigger to my machine gun, sending rounds back at an enemy—this enemy who was sending rounds at me and at my platoon.

“Keep the rounds linked and coming fast,” I told my AG as I could hear them whizzing and zinging by ricocheting off nearby rocks. Minutes raced by, seeming like seconds in a situation like this. Before I knew it, 45 minutes had gone by. At this point the thrill and rush was over and I just wanted it to end.

As the end of the fight neared, Kiowa helicopters appeared in the bright blue sky and started firing their rocket payload to cover us as we began to move. This stopped the fighting as it usually did. Now realistically all I and my friends could think about was getting back to base to relax and get some food.

But as we descended the mountain with the base in sight, another set of shots rang out and another fight ensued. This was common up here in this hostile terrain. My squad leader this time casually said, “Here we go again boys. Pour it on them thick and don’t let up.” I replied with a simple “Roger Sergeant,” and set up and began to fire once again. I was relieved that after just 15 minutes of fighting we got some artillery rounds for support. The fighting stopped for good and we continued on.

Whenever I saw the beat-up iron gates of our base, I felt a sense of relief. I knew the day was done. I had done my job and came back. I remember we would all gather inside to clear weapons, talk of the day’s events, and clear the rocks from our boots. This would happen for a few minutes before we headed off to our little wooden rooms for some well-needed rest.

But soon we would gather again to prepare our equipment to head back out the next day to do it all over again. To me and many other combat veterans who were deployed in Afghanistan, this was our job. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. It was expected. It was just another day until we could come home.

Panic throughout the camp. Military personnel shuffle to and fro in a frenzy, our pace quickening, the intensity increasing as our anxiety builds from rumors circulating via the unofficial intelligence source dubbed the Lance Corporal Underground—the frightfully accurate rumor mill of the lower ranking Marines.

My team, a Quick Reaction Force or QRF, forms up outside the aid station where day after day we’ve been sleeping and bullshitting. We gather in the scorching heat under the sand-blasted, camouflaged netting intended to disrupt any enemy radar. The wind cakes the station’s canvas walls with a new layer of brown moon-dust, then blows onward to the next building until all you see is tiny dust particles placed on every millimeter of everything in sight.

In the camp, our chairs consist of empty communication wire spools, empty ammo cans, and boxes of meals-ready-to-eat, or MREs. These boxes, once emptied and reinforced with duct tape, served as our toilets.

I wonder what my grandfather would say if he could see me here, a 20-year-old private first class deployed to Iraq. Apparently I was his favorite grandson. He never told me this in person. I had to hear it from my grandma, and I didn’t believe her. He’d said he wanted to bathe the rest of his grandchildren in my urine for being worthless. I saw none of this admiration. A man like my grandfather who grew up in Mexico and was left for dead in a ditch in the 1950s from a gunshot wound after a poker game does not show emotion. No wonder my father acted in this same machismo fashion.

Our gun trucks are Humvees. Some are for transport; some have machine guns; some are ambulances placed strategically so we can leave base as fast as possible. The war chariots creak as they struggle to maintain the weight of the added cheap armor we bolted on in Kuwait. Some Humvees are green and some are tan, and that’s okay because they match our flak vests. Perhaps the Pentagon ran out of uniformity. Now the higher ups come out to confirm or deny the rumors of the impending firefight ahead of us.

The Lance Corporal Underground is reporting that 500 civilian vehicles are convoying in our direction. So we anxiously wait for the rumors to be confirmed or denied.

“The rumors are true,” Corporal Kimmons reports to us. This convoy is full of military-aged males donning small arms, RPGs, and a pissed-off attitude as they shout at our helicopters while raising their weapons. Corporal Kimmons is a stocky, dark-green Marine whose accent suggests he was raised by rich hippies. I ask him why our air power hadn’t blasted these fine young gentlemen into the fucking Stone Age. He replies that the Al-Jazeera news network would surely be video-taping this event and spin the aggressive civilians in Bill O’Reilly fashion as a peaceful extended family heading toward a re-union. Then he nonchalantly says, “It’s very well we’re fucking dead,” and he leans towards the driver seat of his Humvee for his gloves. His helmet, raised to his forehead like a construction worker’s hard hat, reveals stress lines not indicative of a 22-year-old. The way he accepts death so casually and offers me no explanation bewilders me.

Death. Accepting death. In five years my grandfather would be on the precipice of death, but of course I don’t know this here in Iraq as I myself wander in death’s shade. How could I know that in five years I would be a platoon sergeant for 44 Marines, that on a long weekend I’d come home and my mother would urge me to visit my grandfather?

“We don’t have much time left with him,” she would say.

But I would not visit him, and I would not allow myself to see his weakened state, his incoherence.

No.

I would instead be waiting for an announcement from President Obama. I would be part of a Marine Expeditionary Brigade who would augment our ground forces in Helmand Province in Afghanistan. I knew my grandfather might die while I was gone, but I could not see him. I spared myself the opportunity to seek closure.

We are all covered in moon dust and permeated with frantic anxiety. Everyone is. As we wait, we check our vehicles. Only so much to check. The sun continues its relentless harassment. All of our Wiley X sunglasses bead with sweat and dust. If only they came with wipers. That would have been grand. The vibrant stars, the mischievous wind, the gravel at my feet, the salt slowly soaking through my dirty stained cammies—all these things are now null and void as a factor for complaint. Fear has replaced the complacent normality of the day-to-day chaos. A new chaos has appeared; the bar is raised; a new norm established.

All day Camp Fallujah Marines run back and forth to do god-knows-what. I only know that every soul that day is operating on overdrive as a new source of intensity seeps into each step and the constant crunch of gravel from running boots makes deeper moon prints than yesterday, raising more dust in each thrust. More sweat beads. Heavier breathing. Then more. Just more.

We finally get the command to go. But the 500-vehicle Iraqi convoy has broken up into smaller groups, each determined to take their protest to other camps, to combat out-posts, and to forward operating bases. The bulk of these vehicles ends up blocking our main route into the city, so we take an alternate route. We re-enforce the highway clover leaf with equipment and personnel. The civilians park their vehicles roughly three hundred meters from the clover leaf, which is also our last military presence before entering Fallujah. They begin walking toward our main dirt road that connects into the entrance of the base, which is why we have to take an alternate route. They are blocking access to the main road.

Hundreds of Iraqis have come to protest the United States occupation of Iraq. I leap from my vehicle, now parked at the clover leaf, and I walk about 10 meters away from it. I do this in case the vehicle itself attracts bullets because of its sheer size. I don’t want to be too close if this happens. I point my M-16 toward the two buildings ahead of me, toward the city of Fallujah.

My grandfather will die from colon cancer as we welcome the 2010 New Year, just as President Obama announces that 10,000 Marines will be sent to re-enforce the province. I’ll have 48 hours to rush, rush, rush home to Oakland, California, to my Padrino, to the grandfather who baptized me, who now was gone. I will come to the viewing at the wake—el velorio. He was beloved and popular, but stubborn, hard drinking. His casket will be a beautiful wood finish. Hall full of friends, family, and more family. Mom will cry, grandma will be strong. I would leave for Afghanistan in less than 24 hours. I would not conjure enough courage to say goodbye to his resting soul. I drank tequila feeling the sense of urgency. Was he coherent enough to understand that I did not say goodbye while he still had breath? Did he know in his confused state that I would be flying to combat while he would be placed to rest?  Was I indeed his favorite and, if so, why could he not tell me in person?

Now I hear sporadic gunfire, yet my sights stay true, fixed toward the road that looks like a road leading into the city of an objective in one of those video games. The feeling of nervousness as light armored vehicles to my left lie in wait, traversing their bushmaster cannons left and right, then left again. Pieces of gravel fall on my helmet from overhead and hit my rifle as the Humvees rumble above on the overpass. Still, I stay focused on those buildings that provide such good cover. Freeway dividers lie herringboned 50 meters in front of me as if to act as a shield against a vehicle suicide bomber. I think, “What if they just go around those dividers?” I keep my question to myself; perhaps this will not dawn on the enemy. No one said there would be a divider, the enemy might say, maybe turning and heading back toward the city.

I walk back and mount up on our valiant steed, a steed that will not stop urinating. As we swing around, we leave the shade of the overpass and again the antagonist, a kind of Sauron, sets its eye on us, ever so brilliant. Slicing through the cracked up road, I see a black blur in front of us, coming in and out of focus as the heat emanating from the road surface confuses my gaze. The blur is amorphous, the vehicles parked as disorderly as possible. If they have a leader, shame on him. They are smack in the center of our entry dirt road which runs about 600 meters to the actual camp gate. Camp Volturno lies to the right of the protestors, later dubbed Camp Baharia. Camp Mercury will later be called Abu Ghuraib and it lies to the left of the protestors. Our Camp—named the Mech by the 82^nd Airborne whom we had relieved—sits in front of the protestors. The 82^nd seemed thrilled to give this Area of Operation over to us. Then I wondered why. Now I understand. We renamed it Camp Fallujah.

As we drive back to the camp the way we came, I consider that everyone on my team has made peace with the possibility of death. I had never seen so many NCOs and higher-ups so nervous. They had been calm, cool, and collected. Not anymore. Now stress seeps from their pores. Their demeanor is serious. Weapons and personnel checks are not as casual as before. A lot of us place an ammunition round in our left breast pockets. I do this too. Be advised: this private first class was not built to be captured.

Night falls. We sleep like sardines in a dark back room of the Fallujah aid station. But now are woken from our slumber. We gear up, load our vehicles, perform communications checks, and head toward the front gate. Keep in mind, our camp was being attacked damn near every day and night like clockwork. We are fish in a barrel since the city of Fallujah was untouched during the initial invasion a year ago, and this being spring 2004, the city continues to be a safe hub for the Sunni Insurgency.

Corporal Perez says, “Let’s go.” My 50 Cal Gunner, Manny, says, “Come on, Boot, let’s go get some.” He racks his fifty and smiles; he seems to feed off of my nervousness. This is his second deployment while I have been in the Corps less than a year. Apparently to the whole team my name is Boot meaning new fish, cherry, fucking new guy, combat virgin, whatever. It doesn’t bother me. First time I was shot at was in junior high. I was headed to my buddy’s house when a radio-flyer red Impala ‘66 cut the corner, pulled out a rifle, and started shooting. I’ve been there and done that. So I thought.

Nearly six years from now I will leave my grandfather’s ceremony to catch my flight to Afghanistan.  But worse, leaving with me will be my wife, my daughter, my mother, my stepfather, sister, brother-in-law, and nephews. I will drink on my way to 29 Palms because I will be buried, buried with guilt, with shame because I am causing the family pain while they are suffering painfully. I will be flying to Afghanistan, regretting that my immediate family came to see me off rather than see my grandfather buried. I will feel I am betraying him by stealing his audience. Not only will my grandmother have to say goodbye to her husband; she will have to say goodbye to her grandson.

I will be in the viewing room when I hug my grandmother.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go, Ma.”

She will sobbingly bless and pray for me. Frail and short, this 100-pound, 75-year-old woman with the typical Spaniard look will put on a strong face for show. I feel I should have refused orders and stayed home another day, tried to explain and seek understanding in the chain of command. Should I have fought to stay? Me, now in charge of more than 40 Marines, most of whom had not deployed before? Should they—could they—go on without me for a few days? I will be torn.

But that will be then, years from now, and today only the immediate future is my concern. So on one of our runs we head to re-enforce the clover leaf currently under attack. The drivers use night vision goggles so as to not alert the protestors still at our doorstep. The vehicle in front of me crashes into a huge cement post, and so do we. Both vehicles, now with broken axles, have concertina wire tangled all over the undercarriage. The truck in front of us is what we call a high back, used as a troop transport so the Marines can jump out and provide 360-security while my gunner orients his gun toward the protestors. Thank God we do not drive with lights lest we alert the protestors of our predicament and location.

We are stuck.

Corporal Kimmons gives me his night vision goggles. “Go to the top of the berm,” he says. “Don’t give yourself away. This is your sector. Keep eyes on the creeping enemy.” I do as I am told. Suddenly we can see the clover leaf being lit up; explosions and spectacular flashes backlight the dark sky. Then artillery from 1st battalion 11^th Marines behind us starts going off. Now the protestors have shed their robes and uncovered small arms. The sky above my berm lights up with tracer rounds. It seems Darth Vader and his minions have joined the fight. Red and white illumination rounds sway left and right, working their way across the battle space. Illuminating them, us, the trash-filled streets, the miles of concertina wire, and the endless mounds of dirt and sand that could serve as micro terrain.

The boneyard—a military-vehicle junkyard next to Camp Fallujah and behind our position on the opposite side of my berm—starts to see some action. The opposing force likes to use the hundreds of broken-down military vehicles, tanks, and trucks as cover as they slither toward an optimum attacking position. Here we are, sandwiched between two berms. Ten Marines, one fifty cal. machine gun, and hundreds of military-aged males who do not know we are here.

The hurricane starts.

We are ordered not to open fire. The convoy pushes ahead without us and we are fully engaged at the clover leaf; thus, we are on our own. Amphibious tracked vehicles rumble by us. Goddam they are loud. If we open up they might engage us. Five hundred insurgents against ten Marines are great odds; however, we neglect to test the water, and we wait. Pinned down. We are caught handicapped in the eye of the storm, unable to act, pursue, engage or retaliate. The front gate and protestors exchange, while a­­rtillery from behind us rages on. The camp ahead of us lodges mortars and small arms, while the clover leaf fights for its existence. The tracer-round gods clash in a violent unchecked raging romance and consummate right above our heads. It would be beautiful if it was not so frightful. I pray while I scan my sector, my legs continue to dig deeper in the berm. I cannot stop moving them. Fucking blurry night vision goggles procured by the lowest bidder are perched on my face. The rest is a blur. Not being able to shoot back is the worst feeling in the world.

Well, almost the worst feeling, because one day I will arrive at 29 Palms with a feeling worse than this after driving all night to prepare to deploy to Afghanistan. At 4 a.m. I will rush to pack my gear; I must be at the armory at 0530 to draw weapons. I will get dressed and proceed toward base.

I had told no one that I did not expect to return home. I was truly scared of deploying this time because Afghanistan is not Iraq, and this would be my first time in Afghanistan.

As my 44 Marines arrived, I would hold formation and take role. I would instruct my platoon to briefly say goodbye to their loved ones and proceed to the bus. I knew that some of them would not be coming home. I took role as they boarded the bus. I hugged my wife and daughter. After all my Marines were on board, I would be the last to climb onto the bus.

It would all happen so fast. I would not see my grandfather before he died, even though I would have the chance. I would regret not arguing my necessity to attend his burial. I would regret giving my family yet another reason to be sad. My mother, sister, nephews, step-dad, brother-in-law—none of them would attend the funeral of my grandfather because they came to see me off to war.

And even though my family would tell me not to feel that way, for that I would feel an unending regret.

So here in Iraq, pinned down in the shadow of my own possible death as illumination rounds dance their tango through the beautiful starlight Iraqi sky, the reality of consequences sets in. This private first class had volunteered for everything so he could live up to his seniors’ stories, so he could crush any perceived shortcomings of us new guys. But now, after a couple of months, I just want to go home. I’ve had enough of getting shot at, of losing friends. The reality has transcended the romance of combat innately inherent in every boy. My youth perceptions are now shattered; the beauty of young omnipotence, of blissful ignorance, of naivetés in all their glory are no more. I have a family to get home to. A grandfather I want to see again.

For the first time in my life I really might die.

]]> http://www.lpcvetstories.com/veteran-stories/nor-shall-death-brag-2/feed/ 3 http://www.lpcvetstories.com/veteran-stories/no-end-in-sight/ http://www.lpcvetstories.com/veteran-stories/no-end-in-sight/#comments Sat, 30 May 2015 02:36:05 +0000 http://www.lpcvetstories.com/?p=202 As if it was yesterday, I can still remember the day I enlisted in the Army. It’s like a dream that replays in my sleep every night and which once seemed like an adventure to a once young man. Now, however, being in the Army seems to be a necessary evil I can never quit.

Once upon a time I had an adolescent mindset that was naive enough to think I could join the Army, follow in my older brother’s footsteps, and bring honor to my family’s name. I thought I could become a hero that lives happily ever after.

What a croc.

If only I knew at 18 what I know now–I could have told myself I was wrong. Yet I wouldn’t go back and tell young me not to join. No, not ever because I have no regrets for joining because it gave me the beautiful woman I have today, and that gave me my daughter. Instead I would have just told young me I was a fool to believe that bullshit video that the recruiter let me watch, not to mention all the stupid childish fantasies I created in my head from growing up watching American action films. But unlike a movie, at the end of the day life continues on for a soldier and the action-packed heroic war scenes are just fiction.

After basic training and scout school, I arrived at my first duty station in Fort Hood, Texas, where I was interviewed by E-6 Staff Sergeant Sample who said he was looking for good soldiers who could be members of his Personal Security Detachment, or PSD team. I remember the question that he asked me and the other new scouts that arrived with me:

“What did you all join the Army for? What is more important to you—money or honor?”

I didn’t hesitate to answer, and after I gave my response, Staff Sergeant Sample looked at me, smiled, and nodded in approval. He then quickly looked over my most recent physical fitness and weapons qualification scores and for reasons still unknown to me today, he selected only me and my battle buddy, Gonzales.

The two of us had only been with the PSD team for about seven or eight months before we were deployed to Iraq where we finally got to experience the side of the military that we originally enlisted for. Life as a soldier is nothing if you never get to experience the exciting adrenaline-fueled thrill of combat which is ultimately the real driving force behind why young men first join the military.

My deployment, which seemed like a lifetime, was filled with hundreds of experiences that randomly spark memories in my mind today and at times I least expect: the glow of a cigarette on a dark and quiet starlit night or a wave of heat that takes my breath away when I get off the plane from California to Texas to see my family—just like the heat when I walked off a C-130 and took my first steps on an airfield runway in Iraq.

Thankfully, even with all the mortar rounds and improvised explosive devises that my platoon found in our paths, no one was killed. Yet Jex, one of my good battle buddies who I met in basic and scout school, was killed in Mosul, Iraq, the same time I was deployed. He and I met in training and bonded because we both had family from a little town near Buffalo, New York, called Hamburg Village. We were even stationed together in Fort Hood at the same barracks, though in different squadrons of the same unit.

Oddly enough, Jex was also placed on the PSD team. His truck drove over an IED and he was killed along with the rest of his crew—the gunner, the driver, and the truck commander who was a lieutenant colonel. When I first became aware of Jex’s death, I was in shock for many reasons, but mainly because the war in which I had been living for months without any incident was now a very real and very dark place that showed me it can take my life whenever it wishes.

Six years have passed since I returned from deployment, and even with all of my experiences and friends that I have lost and all the reasons I have told myself I would never continue a life in the Army—I foolishly find myself still needing some reason to hold on to it, and for that reason I am still bound by it. Now almost a decade and counting, I am serving in the Army today because—unlike the Army which doesn’t need me—I still need it. And until that changes, I’ll be replaying over and over that first day I enlisted.

My desktop finally loads up and the screen flashes 2130 March 15, 2011. I never quite feel like I know what day it is out here; working seven days a week in the middle of the Arabian Sea is taking its toll. I spend what little time I have before my flight, reading emails from home while waiting for my crew to arrive for our flight brief at 2200. Tonight we are scheduled to fly for three hours on patrol, which is the same thing we have been doing since we arrived here about a month ago. Having the only helicopter attached with a night camera in the whole battle group, we’ve been placed on the graveyard shift for overwatch.

The phone next to me breaks the silence in the room; I answer “Aircrew Shop, AWR3 Bertelson Speaking.” An unfamiliar voice comes over the phone: “Report immediately to the Combat.” Click! The conversation is over. My mind begins to race. I know this could only mean one of two things: my flight is canceled or we are getting a mission passed over from the USS Enterprise, what we call The Big E. I make my way up to what we call Combat, silently hoping our flight has been canceled due to maintenance so I can have a much needed night off. As I open the heavy steel door and enter Combat, I realize immediately that tonight isn’t going to be a night off. Everyone is buzzing.

Hastily I make my way over to the TAO watch station. I can see that Lieutenant Gleason and Lieutenant Junior Grade Perry have received a similar call and are standing together around the Tactical Action Officer discussing what I can image are orders from The Big E. Moments after I arrive, Mrs. Perry—a short female pilot with a witty sense of humor—notices I have arrived and am standing behind them.

“Hey Squirt!” she says. “We got word from The Big E of an ongoing pirate attack south of here.”

Mr. Gleason, a tall male pilot with the an older brother type persona, cuts in: “USS Leyte Gulf has been ordered to depart the battle group and head south where we will launch to provide assistance and relay video back to Combat for further analyzing. We have an hour till we are in range.”

That hour flies by. Preparing for a flight normally takes two hours at a minimum, but with the help of another aircrewman, we are able to complete all preparations on time for launch. As I climb into the cabin moments before starting up our helicopter, my mind starts flashing through hundreds of scenarios that we might be flying into. Have the pirates taken the ship yet? What might happen to the crew? If so, will we be able to help them? These are just some of the main thoughts that flash through my mind. Mr. Gleason breaks the silence and the tension: “Aircrewman Prestart checks!”

“Complete!” I report back.

The engine begins to roar over our heads, and the rotor slowly creeps around. I watch the blades move round and round. They move faster and faster until they become a blur and an unsteady beating sound. A moment passes and the sound becomes evenly spaced. It has reached speed. “Harness check, harnesses locked left!” Mr. Gleason starts a chain reaction.

“Harness locked right,” Mrs. Perry replies.

“Harness locked back,” I instinctively reply.

I feel the helicopter kick as we lift off the narrow flight deck. The nose begins to turn out to the left, and now we are face-to-face with seemingly impossible darkness. We push our head down and rapidly move forward into the darkness. The black ocean and night sky are seemingly impossible to differentiate on this dark moonless night. We are forced to rely solely on our instruments to distinguish between the two. As I look back at the USS. Leyte Gulf, watching it shrink as we get farther and farther away until it becomes nothing more than another shining dot on the horizon. And then it completely disappears.

Thirty minutes after liftoff, we are approaching the coordinates where the ship is intended to be. I know my next job is going to be marking all contact on my radar, and we will have to call out to pin point the distressed ship. My radar illuminates three different ships in the general area. Mr. Gleason calls out over his radio: “Distressed Ship, this is US Naval Helicopter 514, responding to distress call.” The radio quietly cracks for a few moments. Finally a response comes across in a thick Australian accent: “Navy helo 5-14 we have been boarded by pirates. The entire crew is held up in our citadel.”

“How many crewmen are there and do you have control of the ship?” Mr. Gleason asks.

The Australian crewman replies: “We have 19 crewmen and we have control of the ship, but we don’t have a compass or map–”
Blaring heavy metal abruptly ends our communication. We have run into this problem with pirates before. Pirates like to disrupt conversations and make it impossible for information to be passed during rescue efforts.

All of a sudden one of the three ships erupts in a large plume of blazing light. It’s almost as if the pirates know we are not sure which ship is in distress and are sending us some sort of signal. Briefly, in a misplaced moment, the effect is beautiful. The fire places brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow all mixed together on the ocean surface, spreading around like paint on the black ocean canvas.

Then all at once, reality hits me.

The pirates are trying to burn the crew out of hiding.