The Angels

I usually have very little difficulty sleeping. Every once in a while, after I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom I will drum my fingers on the mattress to lull me back to sleep. Or sometimes I will let my curiosity get to me and I will turn on the television. Tuesday night, I turned on the TV around 0100 AM and then turned it off again. I was still unusually restless and then the knock on my door came. “Sir?!” “Yes!” “We have an angel.” Angels are what we call our fallen soldiers. This soldier came from one of our attached units.

SPC Hargrave retrieved a vehicle while I put on my gear. Due to the fact that we keep light discipline on base, the ride over was dark and dusty. It’s a little difficult to see some of the dirt road turns as well partly because of the dark and partly because of the limited visibility the humvees have. Mortuary Affairs is located in an old concrete hangar. It is run by the Marines. It is one of the very few buildings on post that have exterior lights. When its lights are on, it is for the purpose that they can be easily located for those who have business there. In the day one can read from far away the sandbags that have been placed on the roof to outline the words “No One Left Behind.”

I entered the door and was greeted by a Marine who showed me the way to the chaplain’s office. Chaplain Rivera, a U.S. Navy chaplain is assigned to Mortuary Affairs. He takes care of all the Marine casualties that come through and the MA team members. Unit chaplains come in for the Army so that we can “take care of our own.” It is partly a matter of duty and continuity of pastoral care. The fallen soldier or “angel” was from our brigade, but it is too dangerous for chaplains at other bases to make the trip down so I go on behalf of all the units in the brigade.

CH Rivera, SPC Hargrave and I spent a few minutes together in his office before we were told that the team was ready for me. On the floor in front of me was a box draped with an American flag. Around the coffin gathered about a dozen Marines at a slight distance. I read Psalm 139 and a short prayer for fallen soldiers. Even though I had done many funeral services, I was a bit shaky doing all this. It seemed very intimate and more “real” than before. It must have been that I understood that this was another man who also wore the uniform and that the only real difference between us at the moment was I was standing and he was in a box going home.

I was visited an angel of a different sort a few days later. He came in the form of an infantry soldier (a sergeant) who was part of a unit that got caught in an ambush at a hardend structure. He was one of at least five soldiers who had to be evacuated. He had no outward injuries other than a likely concussion. He also had been treated for smoke inhalation. What he did have was some post traumatic stress. He was referred to me by an infantry captain.

He was about 6’1”, 200 lbs with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken from football or wrestling. He came from Pottsville, PA. His two greatest concerns were his one year old daughter and the men of his unit. As I attempted to assess how stressed he was, I saw that his thinking was very clear. However, he had some small ticks of rubbing his head and lightly rubbing his face. It may have been from the phantom feelings of debris or something else entirely. He also had some difficulty sleeping.

Since WWI the wisdom that has prevailed is that soldiers with combat stress do better when they have the chance to return to their unit as quickly as possible. That’s what he wanted. And he was a few days away from leave when he would get to go home and see his child. He had been separated from his wife who also has made a career of the service. There was something very solid about this man. He was part of a world so very different from my own. He seemed duty bound and yet already had the kind of eyes that have known suffering. I wanted to touch him in order to reassure and comfort (as I sometimes do), but restrained because I felt that I might break a plane that would possibly suggest that I thought he belonged in a different world than the one he chose.

I told him that I would check with him the next day. I ran into the SGT at the internet café and we began to talk again. I asked about his sleep and made no mention of the ticks that I observed. He told me that he was still restless, but got some sleep during the day. As he rubbed his right arm, he adjusted his t-shirt sleeve to cover a tattoo (an act of modesty.) I told him that at this point I was far too curious and that he had to show me. He revealed a Jesus about 5” tall in a white gown with his arms outspread. Then he showed me his other arm, a tattoo of an upside down Satan in free fall. At that moment I remembered that I had seen an engraving tool in the supply sergeant’s room. I went and looked for it and brought back a small Celtic cross with his name engraved on it as a gift from his chaplain. I told him to put it in his pocket, but he chose to put it on his chain with his dog tags.

What I am discovering is that I am mostly sustained by the rich stories soldiers have to share with me. Many are difficult stories, but most reflect something eloquent about adversity and inner strength. I don’t think I would rather be anywhere else right now as crazy as that sounds.

The Mission to Habaniya

Last Tuesday I was given my first mission to go “outside the wire.” Basically, the mission was to visit Habaniya, an old Iraqi airstrip with large hangars, and several beat up buildings. The purpose of the mission was to visit our Delta company (They prefer to be called 779th, because they are mostly a TN unit that is attached to us.) Delta Co. is a maintenance company run by a short female captain with a heavy Tennessee draw. The Commander sent me on this mission to basically assess morale among the soldiers.

Preparing to leave the wire takes work, paperwork, that is. All trips outside the wire must be in a convoy of no fewer than two vehicles. Originally, I was going to catch a ride with a Logpac (supply line) so as to make the trip as easy as possible. On the day I was preparing to go, we learned that a five ton truck (with crew) and two soldiers from the signal corps needed to go to Habaniya, as well. This meant we could take our own (shared) vehicle and that I would be driving. When we approached one of the sergeants from whom we usually borrow a vehicle, she stated, “Oh, Habaniya...” with an ominous tone.

The two soldiers who accompanied me and SPC Hargrave had made this trip before. They sat in the back seats and the one sergeant handled the trip ticket through the window of the humvee when we approached the gate. I asked him directions. He pointed out the curving road ahead of us and then told me that a bridge followed. “Once you hit the bridge, give it all you got.” With that said, he instructed the occupants to charge their weapons. I hit the bridge and gave all that the engine had. We raced across it at 25-30 mph. (Remember these are up-armored humvees.) As I was driving, I looked to the left and right of me on to the highway below and further on through the reeds of the Euphrates in order to spot any snipers. As we came toward the end of the bridge, I asked the sergeant for more directions. He said straight ahead and in less than a minute we were at the gate to Habaniya. “Is that all it is?” “Yes.” The drive over must have taken less than two minutes! All joking aside, however, vehicles do sometimes shoot from the underpass and snipers from the reeds. The Euphrates where we are is no wider than some parts of the Conestoga Creek.

Camp Habaniya has grass and palm trees and experiences regular (almost daily) mortar attacks and small arms fire. Our camp is mostly barren and experiences infrequent mortar attacks. When we finally located our soldiers on the sprawling and deteriorating complex, they were really glad for our visit. A handful of soldier/college student types (male and female) were working on the engine of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. They loved what they were doing because they were getting to do their MOS (job description) and “learning something new every day.” We went around and spoke with many others who seemed relatively happy with how their deployment was going. I appreciated their attitude and the way bonds seemed to be forming. I noticed one soldier who was not feeling all that well lying back on a chair. He had stomach cramps. Apparently everyone went through a touch of diarrhea, but no one was worse for wear. The next day at dinner, one of the soldiers approached me in the mess hall and said cheerfully, “Since you visited us we decided to visit you.”

The Freeport Flag Ladies

Remembering…

The day we flew in order to deploy to Iraq, we left from MS and initially flew into Freeport, ME for a brief rest and refueling stop. As we deplaned we were greeted by at least a few dozen veterans, citizens and well-wishers. There were middle aged and older folk who seemed like the wholesome New Englander types. They stood in two rows flanking us as we came down the aisle and they all shook each of our hands. They made sure we did not miss any one. Some were wearing their legion hats, several ladies had American flag pins or red, white and blues ribbons on. I was moved by this display of support, not so much out of the patriotism, but simply that they cared about us. They cared enough to come out and greet us. It was clear that on many of the veterans faces that this was an act of duty and an acknowledgement that they had been “there” once. And what they faced and what we were about to face was real.

The Freeport Flag Ladies had a small USO operation where they had a bank of cell phones for free use so that soldiers could call home. In their little storefront they also had some cookies and other goodies for us. On the walls were photographs from soldiers on their deployments in various group poses some with military equipment and others without. You could tell that these folks had made an impression with soldiers and in turn soldiers showed their thanks by sending tributes of photographs and combat patches.

On the door was a picture of Stephen King’s home. Apparently his residence was in the vicinity and was a local attraction. Out in the center of the small terminal was a real estate display. There were many handsome Maine properties, some beach and lakefront. They were all a small fortune, but it was fun to imagine what life might be like in one of these storybook like homes. Our layover was long enough for soldiers to make phone calls, have a snack (maybe even a lobster roll), and look through the magazine rack. One soldier lamented out loud that “girlie” magazines were forbidden in Iraq. From Freeport we flew to Dublin, Ireland where they serve Guiness for breakfast. “Just black coffee, for me. Thank you.” I tried to say it like I really meant it.

For many soldiers the deprivation of access to alcohol and fleshly media was a bit surreal for them. We have been told that it is very important to respect the norms of the host nation and that violations will be severely punished. Also, from the Army’s point of view alcohol use affects readiness. In a hostile environment, one never knows when they will be asked to be “on.” The expectation is that one is stone sober when handling weapons. Some of the soldiers that have come up to me and declare that they are giving up smoking as well. The first thing I always ask is, “Why do you want to put more pressure on yourself?” Often one will answer that they weren’t feeling that great smoking anyway. At that point I congratulate them and tell them that they have my full support.

Now that we are here, I am getting into a regular routine with almost all aspects of my life. Military institutions recognize that humans in order to feel secure need a routine and a degree of discipline. Aside from minor inconveniences of mindless bureaucracy and the occasional a**hole (obstructionist), what I am experiencing here at this place and time is mostly good. And a lot of it. Today, I watched Platoon on my computer. In the movie, Charlie Sheen’s character says something to the effect that soldiers are often viewed as the throwaways in society. They are called “grunts,” but when you want something done you know that you can count on them because they know what it’s like to deal with adversity and not complain about it. Thank God for grunts. They are beautiful in ways that others often miss. I know I am a soldier every time I learn of a loss of one. I pay close attention because I feel for soldiers. I know for certain a soldier would never accept or want pity, but when I see the photograph of a dead soldier I see someone who strove with God and Man. And I see something beautiful that has been lost.

Send Me, Lord

I wrote the following piece for the August battalion newsletter:

As our days at Camp Beuhring in Kuwait were coming to a close, many of us were beginning to receive our assignments to either go by convoy or to fly. There were mixed emotions for many because this was the first time that they would be entering hostile territory. As the serials for the convoys lined up in the staging areas, Chaplain Assistant SPC Andre Hargrave and I went from vehicle to vehicle to talk and pray with soldiers. Many were very optimistic and ready for the three day trek to Camp Taqaddum near Ramadi. A number of soldiers said, “I am finally getting to do what I came here to do.” These were confident souls who have trusted their training and were more than ready for the “clock to start ticking” (so that the time to go back home would come).

Our Commander, LTC Glen Nissley lead the convoy to its destination. When I spoke with him about his decision to convoy rather than fly, he stated that it was important for soldiers to know that leaders are willing to “lead the way.” It is critical for soldiers as well as family members to be able to see meaning in the call to service. When one says, “Send me” they may be responding to something so deep that they cannot name it, but know that their gut is telling them it is what I must do. Saying “Send me” can be a dangerous act.

There is much about wars that are dangerous and devoid of any meaning. But many soldiers speak of the bonds with their unit members and “buddies” as something very sacred and full of meaning. When one accepts the call to service, one is not necessarily going it alone. Often there are others who go before us and beside us. We draw courage and inspiration from those around us. The 228th FSB is full of soldiers who said at sometime and someplace, “Send me.” I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and I witness it in their actions every day.