Reintegration and Epilogue
While the 92nd Military Police Battalion was busy putting new coats of paint on the walls of the plywood buildings which held headquarters and other company offices, SGT James and I were making several trips to the post office. The central one was always busy and seemed to be picky about what could and could not be mailed. The post office on the periphery was less busy but they would take every item out of the package. I had to throw away tooth paste and lotion. Then I in my guilt not to waste, I retrieved it out of the trash and decided to carry it home with me. The new chaplain was busy posting up his scriptural thought for the day and doing everything that I should have done to make the chapel more “churchy” and more like a coffee shop including free cookies. (Too bad, I was busy traveling around theater and visiting troops and doing counseling sessions.) In my jaded state I would think to myself, “He’ll learn.” There is nothing like baptism by fire. And although I would not wish hardship on anyone, it seemed to me that the new chaplain was going to learn the hard way the difference between ministries in a war zone versus in the comforts of the garrison environment. Luckily his chaplain assistant had been deployed to Iraq before.
We had the usual ceremonies to transfer authority. The colonel was an articulate man who didn’t sugar coat the language of his speech. He praised the 372nd as being highly important in the fight to secure Baghdad. We had been the largest MP BN to date with many valuable missions. Our Commander, LTC Aaron Dean, a light skinned African-American with a firm yet conversational manner was recognized as a leader who could be counted on. The weather was brighter and warmer for the December day—it didn’t just seem that way, either. The speeches were short. The respective SGM's for the 372nd and the 92nd furled and unfurled flags and we were done.
On the last week when most of the 372nd was housed in a tent behind our original pad, there was a knock on my door by MSG Abraham, who informed me that one of our female SGT’s sister had died back home. Our company commander, 1LT Bridges, MSG Abraham, SGT James, and a battle buddy awakened SGT B from her slumber. She was very calm in receiving the news and indicated that she had the feeling that this was the case when she spoke with her mother on the telephone earlier that day. Her mother was very sad but did not say why. SGT B’s homecoming became sadder as we had to deliver bad news a second time just as we were approaching Washington, DC on the bus. Her grandmother who was in her 90’s didn’t live to see her return.
The one frustration that had become my constant harp was taken away from me at the Baghdad International Airport. No longer would I be one of the only two 1LT chaplains in all of Iraq. Major Fulford had arranged that I would be promoted at the airport on Iraqi soil where I had given most of my service. Many of us were napping in the big quansit hut when we were called to formation. MAJ F found a spot in an open area out of view of the phone center and the latrines so that some good pictures could be taken. About 30 or so soldiers of the 372nd gathered in formation. We were facing west toward Camp Liberty and Baghdad.
When I was called out of formation and to post by MAJ Fulford and CPT Bolen, MAJ Fulford pinned his old captain’s bars on my chest. I saluted and was offered an opportunity to speak. I mostly spoke about how my life was not a “straight line” and that I had many people around me that supported me. These were persons who encouraged me to keep my eye on relationships. I told the soldiers that I knew that they mostly did not go through life in a straight line. I mentioned how proud I was to belong to a predominantly African-American unit and how welcomed they made me feel. I also mentioned that even though I considered myself a progressive man, they allowed me to live out that commitment in reality by working side by side during tough times. I also joked that I now had “Peeps” and that I was probably the only white chaplain in the whole U.S. Army that could say that!
The next few days in Kuwait seemed like limbo. Soldiers spent a lot of time on the internet and telephones. I kept stopping by the “free books” cart in front of the Camp VA library and adding to my already “too many to read in camp” collection. One was about Jewish comedians. One evening, I stepped inside and listened to a classical music CD and read articles from two ethics and religion type magazines. I commented to the librarian on how amazing I thought this little library was. It turns out that he was a retired Roman Catholic chaplain. He invited me to a Mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I gently declined.
As our bus sat outside the airstrip we were allowed to briefly get off and take a break. One of the security guards started speaking Greek into his radio, so I answered him back. I had to ask what a pair of Greeks were doing pulling security for the U.S. military. Obviously, they had signed on with some security company. We chatted about Greece and I mentioned that I had spent my leave there.
Spirits among the soldiers were high as we ascended in the chartered commercial jet-liner. Most cheered when the plane left the ground. And cheers came again when the stewardess mentioned that there would be one free alcoholic beverage for each of us. Since no alcohol had been allowed in theater, this was a big deal. I chose a red wine. After dinner was served, I was continued to read my book on Jewish comedians. I began to feel nauseated and had the urge to go to the restroom. When I went into the small cabin, I slumped backward and passed out for a moment. As I pulled myself from the floor I had become very sweaty and my pulse was rapid.
As I walked forward through the aisle pulling my uniform together, no one seemed to know which seat our medic was in. As luck would have it, he was located on the other end near the front of the plane. Our medic was an islander from Jamaica. He was wearing earphones and taking a nap. There were no IV’s on board so it was a matter of getting some hydration and taking my vitals. I had people concerned, but felt a little sheepish for the attention. But I hadn’t remembered ever fainting before and I’ve always flown well.
Our next stop was in Germany. An ambulance was waiting for me and a female specialist who had a reputation as a problem child. She was loveable, but exasperating for most. I think she complained of a severe headache and nausea. A doctor and the ambulance crew ran an EKG on me. Normal. The doctor said that just because I was showing normal at that moment didn’t mean that I hadn’t had a heart related event. They wanted to take me to the hospital to run some further tests. I declined and signed some papers releasing them of any responsibility.
We had a 4AM stop at a small NH airport where we were greeted by dozens of local veterans and members of other groups. They lined the hallways on either side in various outfits of red, white and blue. They let us use free phones and offered all sorts of snacks. It was impressive that a large group (about 40 or more) would get up on an early Sunday morning to come and welcome us home. They gathered us in an atrium gave a few remarks, took our picture, offered a prayer and let us return to the plane. The man who gave the prayer was a veteran who was wearing a chaplain’s cross. I took him to be a chaplain, but it turned out that he was a “chaplain” to his VFW unit. He offered the general prayer in Jesus’ name… I didn’t have time to get into it with him about the First Amendment rights of the soldiers who weren’t Christian. Some things you just let roll. And the soldiers didn’t seem to mind anyway. The “Amen” was loud. They were just grateful to be home. Praise Jesus, the Buddha, Allah and Vishnu!
We landed at Fort Dix early on a sunny December morning. The unit lived in a barracks built in the 1950’s. I shared a room with our Intelligence Officer who was looking forward to seeing his fiancee. Most of our time was consumed with medical and Veterans Affairs briefings. I used down time to go over to the Community Center and use the free computers to get a fix for my internet addiction. A day or two later we hosted family members there. I roamed freely among the soldiers and guests admiring all the family resemblances and saying good things about the soldier with whom they were reunited. It was easy and very pleasant. Since the battalion was mostly African-American, our gathering had the feel of a Baptist social, complete with aunties, nieces and nephews.
On the morning of our bus ride back to D.C., we packed faster than I had ever seen us pack before. Aside from having to break bad news to Sgt B. about her grandmother, our trip went quickly. It was a bright December day. We arrived at the D.C. armory to a dozen or so officers and soldiers who shook our hands and welcomed us home. After about an hour of unloading and practicing our march into the armory, we got the signal to go in. LTC Dean was strutting and beaming as he led us into the cavernous armory. In the one corner played a band and the bleachers were full of at least a couple hundred people. A few speeches were given including Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton. I don’t recall anything of what she said other than “Welcome Home” and her warm demeanor. I, too, was called upon to mention those whom we lost. I did and added a few words about our brotherhood with all soldiers who have been killed.
Reunion was sweet. While in formation, I could not see my father and sister. If someone had planned that my view be blocked, they couldn’t have done it any better. I quickly found them after we were released. Dad wore an Air Force windbreaker that I bought for him. My sister was a little grayer, but her face was as warm as ever. CH Kenworthy was there with his family. I made all the proper introductions. SGT James’ family was there, too. We mixed and mingled briefly before looking for the parking lot and driving back to PA. Dad was tired, so he slept in the back seat. He looked older, but still healthy and crusty. I was still in my uniform, but had no duty other than reacquainting myself with my family and dogs.
EPILOGUE
My days include cleaning out closets, taking dogs to vet appointments, going to the Lebanon VA Hospital for follow up, filing two years worth of taxes, substitute teaching, pulpit supply and projects around the house. I’ve given a few talks and presentations to community faith groups. I’m visiting friends and relatives. I’ve enrolled in some dog training classes. Life seems more “normal” than before I left. It’s orderly and I don’t expect too much from myself.
There have been some sleepless nights. There were a few nightmares that have since gone away. There has been sadness and high degree of free floating irritation. I hate television news reports about Iraq. I read it instead and take it in by small doses. Some people ask me, “How was it?” Usually I answer that it was “tough” but that I was inspired by the resiliency of our soldiers. I explain that my first duty was the care of the soldiers and that is what keeps me from any bitterness. I get regular calls and emails from SGT James and SPC Hargrave. I've talked at length with a chaplain buddy of mine who came home to some tough marital issues. I’ve even met up for dinner with a soldier who visited my office often in Baghdad. It got uglier for him after I left. I don’t say anything about how grateful I am that he is alive given the missions he ran and the losses his unit took. He is young and optimistic. As I sit across from him over fried chicken and Yuengling, I am confident that his eyes will dart less from side to side after he puts in his last year stateside. He will go to college. He will be so different than most. This too will require resiliency. He deserves success and joy.
Sometime in the middle of the winter I had some business to conduct at Fort Indiantown Gap. As I drove down a small hill past the Joint Headquarters, there is a now an old air bomber to my left. I really didn’t notice it, though. On the other side of the road stands the metal obelisk with crazed glass and dog tags on chains hanging inside. It had been made in Rhamadi. I saw it shortly after it had been dedicated over there. I knew that it was going to be sent home, but I really didn’t know where it would end up. The brass plaques with soldiers’ names and units are displayed at the base. I recognize many of the names. I stand there at the foot of the memorial for what seems like an eternity. The sun is bright. It is cold outside with a slight breeze. The dog tags inside the structure tinkle like a wind chime. It was designed this way. It’s a dynamic, not static memorial. There are “blast holes,” broken glass, twisted metal all worked into a familiar shape. It is both one of the most ugly and most beautiful things I have ever seen. I weep and return to my car and go home where I have wept even more.
We had the usual ceremonies to transfer authority. The colonel was an articulate man who didn’t sugar coat the language of his speech. He praised the 372nd as being highly important in the fight to secure Baghdad. We had been the largest MP BN to date with many valuable missions. Our Commander, LTC Aaron Dean, a light skinned African-American with a firm yet conversational manner was recognized as a leader who could be counted on. The weather was brighter and warmer for the December day—it didn’t just seem that way, either. The speeches were short. The respective SGM's for the 372nd and the 92nd furled and unfurled flags and we were done.
On the last week when most of the 372nd was housed in a tent behind our original pad, there was a knock on my door by MSG Abraham, who informed me that one of our female SGT’s sister had died back home. Our company commander, 1LT Bridges, MSG Abraham, SGT James, and a battle buddy awakened SGT B from her slumber. She was very calm in receiving the news and indicated that she had the feeling that this was the case when she spoke with her mother on the telephone earlier that day. Her mother was very sad but did not say why. SGT B’s homecoming became sadder as we had to deliver bad news a second time just as we were approaching Washington, DC on the bus. Her grandmother who was in her 90’s didn’t live to see her return.
The one frustration that had become my constant harp was taken away from me at the Baghdad International Airport. No longer would I be one of the only two 1LT chaplains in all of Iraq. Major Fulford had arranged that I would be promoted at the airport on Iraqi soil where I had given most of my service. Many of us were napping in the big quansit hut when we were called to formation. MAJ F found a spot in an open area out of view of the phone center and the latrines so that some good pictures could be taken. About 30 or so soldiers of the 372nd gathered in formation. We were facing west toward Camp Liberty and Baghdad.
When I was called out of formation and to post by MAJ Fulford and CPT Bolen, MAJ Fulford pinned his old captain’s bars on my chest. I saluted and was offered an opportunity to speak. I mostly spoke about how my life was not a “straight line” and that I had many people around me that supported me. These were persons who encouraged me to keep my eye on relationships. I told the soldiers that I knew that they mostly did not go through life in a straight line. I mentioned how proud I was to belong to a predominantly African-American unit and how welcomed they made me feel. I also mentioned that even though I considered myself a progressive man, they allowed me to live out that commitment in reality by working side by side during tough times. I also joked that I now had “Peeps” and that I was probably the only white chaplain in the whole U.S. Army that could say that!
The next few days in Kuwait seemed like limbo. Soldiers spent a lot of time on the internet and telephones. I kept stopping by the “free books” cart in front of the Camp VA library and adding to my already “too many to read in camp” collection. One was about Jewish comedians. One evening, I stepped inside and listened to a classical music CD and read articles from two ethics and religion type magazines. I commented to the librarian on how amazing I thought this little library was. It turns out that he was a retired Roman Catholic chaplain. He invited me to a Mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I gently declined.
As our bus sat outside the airstrip we were allowed to briefly get off and take a break. One of the security guards started speaking Greek into his radio, so I answered him back. I had to ask what a pair of Greeks were doing pulling security for the U.S. military. Obviously, they had signed on with some security company. We chatted about Greece and I mentioned that I had spent my leave there.
Spirits among the soldiers were high as we ascended in the chartered commercial jet-liner. Most cheered when the plane left the ground. And cheers came again when the stewardess mentioned that there would be one free alcoholic beverage for each of us. Since no alcohol had been allowed in theater, this was a big deal. I chose a red wine. After dinner was served, I was continued to read my book on Jewish comedians. I began to feel nauseated and had the urge to go to the restroom. When I went into the small cabin, I slumped backward and passed out for a moment. As I pulled myself from the floor I had become very sweaty and my pulse was rapid.
As I walked forward through the aisle pulling my uniform together, no one seemed to know which seat our medic was in. As luck would have it, he was located on the other end near the front of the plane. Our medic was an islander from Jamaica. He was wearing earphones and taking a nap. There were no IV’s on board so it was a matter of getting some hydration and taking my vitals. I had people concerned, but felt a little sheepish for the attention. But I hadn’t remembered ever fainting before and I’ve always flown well.
Our next stop was in Germany. An ambulance was waiting for me and a female specialist who had a reputation as a problem child. She was loveable, but exasperating for most. I think she complained of a severe headache and nausea. A doctor and the ambulance crew ran an EKG on me. Normal. The doctor said that just because I was showing normal at that moment didn’t mean that I hadn’t had a heart related event. They wanted to take me to the hospital to run some further tests. I declined and signed some papers releasing them of any responsibility.
We had a 4AM stop at a small NH airport where we were greeted by dozens of local veterans and members of other groups. They lined the hallways on either side in various outfits of red, white and blue. They let us use free phones and offered all sorts of snacks. It was impressive that a large group (about 40 or more) would get up on an early Sunday morning to come and welcome us home. They gathered us in an atrium gave a few remarks, took our picture, offered a prayer and let us return to the plane. The man who gave the prayer was a veteran who was wearing a chaplain’s cross. I took him to be a chaplain, but it turned out that he was a “chaplain” to his VFW unit. He offered the general prayer in Jesus’ name… I didn’t have time to get into it with him about the First Amendment rights of the soldiers who weren’t Christian. Some things you just let roll. And the soldiers didn’t seem to mind anyway. The “Amen” was loud. They were just grateful to be home. Praise Jesus, the Buddha, Allah and Vishnu!
We landed at Fort Dix early on a sunny December morning. The unit lived in a barracks built in the 1950’s. I shared a room with our Intelligence Officer who was looking forward to seeing his fiancee. Most of our time was consumed with medical and Veterans Affairs briefings. I used down time to go over to the Community Center and use the free computers to get a fix for my internet addiction. A day or two later we hosted family members there. I roamed freely among the soldiers and guests admiring all the family resemblances and saying good things about the soldier with whom they were reunited. It was easy and very pleasant. Since the battalion was mostly African-American, our gathering had the feel of a Baptist social, complete with aunties, nieces and nephews.
On the morning of our bus ride back to D.C., we packed faster than I had ever seen us pack before. Aside from having to break bad news to Sgt B. about her grandmother, our trip went quickly. It was a bright December day. We arrived at the D.C. armory to a dozen or so officers and soldiers who shook our hands and welcomed us home. After about an hour of unloading and practicing our march into the armory, we got the signal to go in. LTC Dean was strutting and beaming as he led us into the cavernous armory. In the one corner played a band and the bleachers were full of at least a couple hundred people. A few speeches were given including Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton. I don’t recall anything of what she said other than “Welcome Home” and her warm demeanor. I, too, was called upon to mention those whom we lost. I did and added a few words about our brotherhood with all soldiers who have been killed.
Reunion was sweet. While in formation, I could not see my father and sister. If someone had planned that my view be blocked, they couldn’t have done it any better. I quickly found them after we were released. Dad wore an Air Force windbreaker that I bought for him. My sister was a little grayer, but her face was as warm as ever. CH Kenworthy was there with his family. I made all the proper introductions. SGT James’ family was there, too. We mixed and mingled briefly before looking for the parking lot and driving back to PA. Dad was tired, so he slept in the back seat. He looked older, but still healthy and crusty. I was still in my uniform, but had no duty other than reacquainting myself with my family and dogs.
EPILOGUE
My days include cleaning out closets, taking dogs to vet appointments, going to the Lebanon VA Hospital for follow up, filing two years worth of taxes, substitute teaching, pulpit supply and projects around the house. I’ve given a few talks and presentations to community faith groups. I’m visiting friends and relatives. I’ve enrolled in some dog training classes. Life seems more “normal” than before I left. It’s orderly and I don’t expect too much from myself.
There have been some sleepless nights. There were a few nightmares that have since gone away. There has been sadness and high degree of free floating irritation. I hate television news reports about Iraq. I read it instead and take it in by small doses. Some people ask me, “How was it?” Usually I answer that it was “tough” but that I was inspired by the resiliency of our soldiers. I explain that my first duty was the care of the soldiers and that is what keeps me from any bitterness. I get regular calls and emails from SGT James and SPC Hargrave. I've talked at length with a chaplain buddy of mine who came home to some tough marital issues. I’ve even met up for dinner with a soldier who visited my office often in Baghdad. It got uglier for him after I left. I don’t say anything about how grateful I am that he is alive given the missions he ran and the losses his unit took. He is young and optimistic. As I sit across from him over fried chicken and Yuengling, I am confident that his eyes will dart less from side to side after he puts in his last year stateside. He will go to college. He will be so different than most. This too will require resiliency. He deserves success and joy.
Sometime in the middle of the winter I had some business to conduct at Fort Indiantown Gap. As I drove down a small hill past the Joint Headquarters, there is a now an old air bomber to my left. I really didn’t notice it, though. On the other side of the road stands the metal obelisk with crazed glass and dog tags on chains hanging inside. It had been made in Rhamadi. I saw it shortly after it had been dedicated over there. I knew that it was going to be sent home, but I really didn’t know where it would end up. The brass plaques with soldiers’ names and units are displayed at the base. I recognize many of the names. I stand there at the foot of the memorial for what seems like an eternity. The sun is bright. It is cold outside with a slight breeze. The dog tags inside the structure tinkle like a wind chime. It was designed this way. It’s a dynamic, not static memorial. There are “blast holes,” broken glass, twisted metal all worked into a familiar shape. It is both one of the most ugly and most beautiful things I have ever seen. I weep and return to my car and go home where I have wept even more.
posted by Chaplain (CPT) Fokas at 2:30 PM
