Changing Scenery
It was the truly the “eleventh hour” when my orders arrived. The 228th FSB was at Camp Arafjan spending the last few days before redeploying. I kept checking my email to find out if my extension was a “go” or not. The dust storms were cinematic at times with wild hot winds beating sand on us as soldiers went from tent to tent or tent to chow hall. During the evenings the winds would often completely die down and the sky would clear. Soldiers would come out and play volleyball under mercury lights into the early morning hours. I had the chance to attend worship with some of my soldiers and sit in the pews near with them. I sat with one couple who had been reprimanded for being together on off hours. They welcomed me as we sat and listened to an Korean preacher who was difficult to understand.
Just as a reminder of how small the Army is the brigade Captain handling my transition turned out to be an officer that shared the same barracks back at Camp Shelby the year before. When my orders arrived, CPT Martin told me that I could make the drive with him to Ar Aseleem in my PT uniform. I didn’t realize we were just going up the road. It was truly a ghost ride. We drove by “Death Highway” where in the first Gulf War; many were killed here while sitting in their vehicles along the highway near the boarder with Kuwait. There were dozens of burnt out hulks of vehicles front to back-partly covered in sand. Signs along the highway instructed that photography was forbidden. It was as if I were looking at hell frozen in time.
Once again I was in an in-between time as I waited for my flight. From being among the many, now I would be among the very few wearing the Keystone patch upon my sleeve. Once again, I carried the weight of duffle bags and books with which I couldn’t part. And the laptop, of course. The flight was short, and the scenery was new. I was now on the outskirts of Baghdad where there were more soldiers and far more civilian contractors than I had ever seen before. CH (MAJ) Kenworthy, a tall thin Episcopal priest picked me up with his Chaplain Assistant, SGT Jones. We drove by a couple of lakes and a bunch of trees. The next day, after meeting the BDE Chaplain, CH (MAJ) Williamson I got a more complete picture of the base(s).
“Here” was actually (at least) a couple of distinct bases: Camp Liberty and Camp Victory. Camp Liberty was mostly flat with some small hills, trees and lakes. And miles of trailers! This area was once one of Saddam’s game preserves where he and his fellow Baathists would come to hunt. (I believe they kept the area stocked.) Camp Victory has a complex of faux palaces around a lake. One is now the Multi National Head Quarters. All of these were Baathist retreats.
CH Williamson keeps his office in one of the Division “palaces” on the waterfront. He is a squat talkative man from Louisiana. When I stepped inside his office, I noticed from floor to ceiling dozens of bags and cans of coffee. He explains that this is part of his ministry. But at first glance it looks like he is running an import-export business. Later, in conversation with other chaplains, I refer to him as Chaplain (Juan) Valdez. CH Williamson gives me his rules of operation talk and then shows me what he does to de-stress. He tosses me a couple of single packs of Apple-Jacks cereal and we walk outside on to the concrete platform next to the lake. There is a sculpture of three dauphins about 50 feet out. He starts tossing some of the cereal into the water. Dozens of large carp come near the surface of the water and gobble up the cereal. I join in. It is a joyful moment. So much abundance! CH Williamson explains that the fish used to eat a special grass that grows in the pond. But now, due to the fact that soldiers have been generously feeding the fish the grass must be harvested because the fish have stopped eating it.
On a regular basis one can see a couple of Iraqis in a boat tearing out the grasses. Many of them choose to fish here as well. Once in a while an American soldier will tell them that fishing really isn’t allowed. Iraqis have replied that it is their birthright since they endured under Saddam’s regime. What could anyone possibly reply to such a statement?
I didn’t get too comfortable in my new surroundings. A few days after meeting the staff members of the 372nd MP BN from Washington, DC I was off again. The 372nd is 90% African American. They are in charge of several companies of MP’s. The companies are “add-on” and sometimes get handed off to other BN’s. Right now we are in the process of adding more companies to our BN in order to “secure Baghdad.” I was “asked” by the brigade chaplain if I would be willing to “cover down” for a chaplain who was going on leave.
So, I was off to Rustamiyah--by convoy. Camp Rustamiyah is in Southern Baghdad behind a garbage dump and next to a sewage plant. The flies were relentless. But the 519 MP BN was among the warmest units that I have come across. They were lead by a no-nonsense LTC, whose name was Bazzonotti. He was from Boston and looked like Alfonse D’Mato, but had a much better sense of humor as far as I could tell. He enjoyed giving awards to the troops but didn’t hold back his criticism either. I knew that we were going to get along fine when he asked me during a large meeting if I had any thoughts on suicide prevention. I told him “Just say no.” “Just say no.” he replied dryly. “Is that it, chaplain? Just say no?” And then I gave a few more words on how those considering suicide don’t always give the classic indicators. A couple weeks later a young specialist, who had all sorts of plans for the future and who was known as a happy and capable person, shot himself on being jilted by his girlfriend. (I will write more on this in a later piece.)
The chaplain, CH Keough was an energetic former Roman Catholic turned Southern Baptist. He was a surfer dad and injected his sermons with hang-loose hand signals. The sermons, of course, were held after long “sing in the dark in front of the projection screen hymns. Attendance was very good at these Wednesday night as Sunday worship services. (In the chaplaincy, every day is Sunday because of the missions and various schedules of the troops.) This was an active duty unit from FT Hood. They were thoroughly soldiers and loved what they were doing (for the most part). CH Keough was amazingly relaxed and warm with me. He is an active chaplain. In other words, he goes out on missions regularly. He had in a previous life been an enlisted soldier and he knows the ways and wants of soldiers. I was to simply stand-in for him while he was away. For some reason, the BDE chaplain, Williamson wanted to keep coming down and do CH Keough’s service even though it involved a potentially dangerous drive over. I just couldn’t see sitting around and being passive, so I spoke with him and we agreed that I would lead one service. He still emailed back to CH Keough to see if it was OK… I think there is a little suspicion of a “liberal” chaplain. I have my biases as well, but I try project Christian tolerance and trust, by letting go to serve practicality and to serve the whole. I doubt if a couple of sermons from a conservative preacher in a liberal congregation would “change” people, just as it is on the other side of the coin.
So, Rustamiyah with its mortar attacks, smell of fish heads mixed with the aroma of fabric softener from the large laundry facility, latrines at 150 degrees, and occasional fires due to Iraqi wiring and overworked air conditioners became my temporary home. And I loved it…because of the soldiers.
Just as a reminder of how small the Army is the brigade Captain handling my transition turned out to be an officer that shared the same barracks back at Camp Shelby the year before. When my orders arrived, CPT Martin told me that I could make the drive with him to Ar Aseleem in my PT uniform. I didn’t realize we were just going up the road. It was truly a ghost ride. We drove by “Death Highway” where in the first Gulf War; many were killed here while sitting in their vehicles along the highway near the boarder with Kuwait. There were dozens of burnt out hulks of vehicles front to back-partly covered in sand. Signs along the highway instructed that photography was forbidden. It was as if I were looking at hell frozen in time.
Once again I was in an in-between time as I waited for my flight. From being among the many, now I would be among the very few wearing the Keystone patch upon my sleeve. Once again, I carried the weight of duffle bags and books with which I couldn’t part. And the laptop, of course. The flight was short, and the scenery was new. I was now on the outskirts of Baghdad where there were more soldiers and far more civilian contractors than I had ever seen before. CH (MAJ) Kenworthy, a tall thin Episcopal priest picked me up with his Chaplain Assistant, SGT Jones. We drove by a couple of lakes and a bunch of trees. The next day, after meeting the BDE Chaplain, CH (MAJ) Williamson I got a more complete picture of the base(s).
“Here” was actually (at least) a couple of distinct bases: Camp Liberty and Camp Victory. Camp Liberty was mostly flat with some small hills, trees and lakes. And miles of trailers! This area was once one of Saddam’s game preserves where he and his fellow Baathists would come to hunt. (I believe they kept the area stocked.) Camp Victory has a complex of faux palaces around a lake. One is now the Multi National Head Quarters. All of these were Baathist retreats.
CH Williamson keeps his office in one of the Division “palaces” on the waterfront. He is a squat talkative man from Louisiana. When I stepped inside his office, I noticed from floor to ceiling dozens of bags and cans of coffee. He explains that this is part of his ministry. But at first glance it looks like he is running an import-export business. Later, in conversation with other chaplains, I refer to him as Chaplain (Juan) Valdez. CH Williamson gives me his rules of operation talk and then shows me what he does to de-stress. He tosses me a couple of single packs of Apple-Jacks cereal and we walk outside on to the concrete platform next to the lake. There is a sculpture of three dauphins about 50 feet out. He starts tossing some of the cereal into the water. Dozens of large carp come near the surface of the water and gobble up the cereal. I join in. It is a joyful moment. So much abundance! CH Williamson explains that the fish used to eat a special grass that grows in the pond. But now, due to the fact that soldiers have been generously feeding the fish the grass must be harvested because the fish have stopped eating it.
On a regular basis one can see a couple of Iraqis in a boat tearing out the grasses. Many of them choose to fish here as well. Once in a while an American soldier will tell them that fishing really isn’t allowed. Iraqis have replied that it is their birthright since they endured under Saddam’s regime. What could anyone possibly reply to such a statement?
I didn’t get too comfortable in my new surroundings. A few days after meeting the staff members of the 372nd MP BN from Washington, DC I was off again. The 372nd is 90% African American. They are in charge of several companies of MP’s. The companies are “add-on” and sometimes get handed off to other BN’s. Right now we are in the process of adding more companies to our BN in order to “secure Baghdad.” I was “asked” by the brigade chaplain if I would be willing to “cover down” for a chaplain who was going on leave.
So, I was off to Rustamiyah--by convoy. Camp Rustamiyah is in Southern Baghdad behind a garbage dump and next to a sewage plant. The flies were relentless. But the 519 MP BN was among the warmest units that I have come across. They were lead by a no-nonsense LTC, whose name was Bazzonotti. He was from Boston and looked like Alfonse D’Mato, but had a much better sense of humor as far as I could tell. He enjoyed giving awards to the troops but didn’t hold back his criticism either. I knew that we were going to get along fine when he asked me during a large meeting if I had any thoughts on suicide prevention. I told him “Just say no.” “Just say no.” he replied dryly. “Is that it, chaplain? Just say no?” And then I gave a few more words on how those considering suicide don’t always give the classic indicators. A couple weeks later a young specialist, who had all sorts of plans for the future and who was known as a happy and capable person, shot himself on being jilted by his girlfriend. (I will write more on this in a later piece.)
The chaplain, CH Keough was an energetic former Roman Catholic turned Southern Baptist. He was a surfer dad and injected his sermons with hang-loose hand signals. The sermons, of course, were held after long “sing in the dark in front of the projection screen hymns. Attendance was very good at these Wednesday night as Sunday worship services. (In the chaplaincy, every day is Sunday because of the missions and various schedules of the troops.) This was an active duty unit from FT Hood. They were thoroughly soldiers and loved what they were doing (for the most part). CH Keough was amazingly relaxed and warm with me. He is an active chaplain. In other words, he goes out on missions regularly. He had in a previous life been an enlisted soldier and he knows the ways and wants of soldiers. I was to simply stand-in for him while he was away. For some reason, the BDE chaplain, Williamson wanted to keep coming down and do CH Keough’s service even though it involved a potentially dangerous drive over. I just couldn’t see sitting around and being passive, so I spoke with him and we agreed that I would lead one service. He still emailed back to CH Keough to see if it was OK… I think there is a little suspicion of a “liberal” chaplain. I have my biases as well, but I try project Christian tolerance and trust, by letting go to serve practicality and to serve the whole. I doubt if a couple of sermons from a conservative preacher in a liberal congregation would “change” people, just as it is on the other side of the coin.
So, Rustamiyah with its mortar attacks, smell of fish heads mixed with the aroma of fabric softener from the large laundry facility, latrines at 150 degrees, and occasional fires due to Iraqi wiring and overworked air conditioners became my temporary home. And I loved it…because of the soldiers.
posted by Chaplain (CPT) Fokas at 10:52 PM
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