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.

What I Would Have Said (Had I Known What I Now Know)

During the summer of 2003, my unit had its annual training at FT Pickett, VA. I was still rather fresh in my uniform and felt rather gawkish and unsure of what to do and how to fit in. Most of the time I was there I spent it following up on Red Cross messages for soldiers, listening to stories from some of our Vietnam era aviators, and performing worship services in the field.

The most emotional intensity I had during this Annual Training came from a soldier who told the story of placing the Bronze Star that he had earned in Vietnam into his son's casket. He obviously needed to tell me this for reasons I only attribute the the title of "Chaplain." A Vietnamese pilot told me the story of how he flew one of the very last Huey's off the mainland out toward the sea until he ran out fuel and was rescued off shore by the U.S. Navy. I caught glimpses of the relationship between the chaplain and the enlisted assistant who was a "Joe"but embodied the wisdom and loyalty of all Joes. I attempted to get used to being saluted and returning salute.

As I was there I was told that an infantry platoon of young soldiers whose company was just mobilized to be deployed to Iraq. I was asked to perform a worship service for them. It was an opportunity to practice in-the-field ministry. I went by the camp while it rained lightly. The young soldiers in their woodland camouflage were huddled under a short lean-to. I attempted to lead them in a traditional hymn, but there were few takers. This is a generation that is less exposed to some of these idioms and are searching for their own manner of worship. I forget what text I used and remember that I awkwardly attempted to address their situation. I failed to connect probably because I was a bit nervous and knew little of where they'd been or what they were now facing.

When we drove away from the camp I expressed my doubts to the female soldier who was accompanying me that morning. She said not to pay it any mind and keep moving forward. So I did. Later that week, I was one of the very last soldiers to leave the tarmac as I watched about a dozen of our helicopters, both attack and transport. I had entered a world I knew little about, but trusted that all that was necessary to be part of it was to keep moving forward.

The first request to deploy to Kosovo stressed me. I was still working with a difficult congregation and this seemed like a difficult jump for me at the time. It would have required that I drop everything and go directly to school and from there to Kosovo. I declined and felt guilty for it.When the time came and I was asked to consider a deployment to Iraq I immediately responded, "Yes."Partly, I was now very ready spiritually, emotionally and physically. The other part was a matter of deciding to do it--move forward.

Forward I went for two years through tough training, boring classrooms, navigating the good-ol' boy system, chemical suits, mortars, sand storms, trauma, praying, memorializing, convoying and living out "Groundhog's Day." Why did I do it? I believed that I had a responsibility to my self and to those whom I served. I think of myself as somewhat insecure. Yes, I needed the mission for my own development. But that wasn't the primary focus. Whatever gene or nexus of personal experience that makes for "responsible types" -- I've got it. So I met would be brothers, sisters, fathers and uncles and did my best to take care of them and work with them as a chaplain. In a few instances,I failed. But for the lion's share, I among and beside many in the midst of confusion and pain and the many idiosyncratic relationships that the military has. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I am not a Hawk. I am Pro-people and I believe that we all have a responsibility to serve our country in a manner that is best fitting to our character. As far as I am concerned, there will always be individuals who are called to soldiering and the profession of arms. Their experiences are among the most trying and dramatic in the human experience. Is it often sad and seemingly pointless?Yes. And all the more reason for prayer, companionship and the much needed grace of God.

I discovered that I love soldiers and that soldiers come in all shapes, sizes, color, gender and stations in life. In my last unit there was a wide hipped black woman mother of a teenager who had an infectious laugh and wore cloying perfume.She was a legal assistant who took her job very seriously and had processed many actions for discipline. She was a soldier. And there was the young man from PA who was a PV2 for far too long in an MP unit that handled many frightening situations and helped to remove the dead from the streets.Sometimes bodies were booby trapped. He was very bright, but like many bright persons, he was indecisive because he didn't let himself be governed by his superiors or the unit. I met endless regular "Joes" who were"on" and ready to do almost anything asked of them because it was a job that needed to be done. Nothing more. Even though I was close to many of the effects of fear, terror and pain I was not there when the IED went off or the sniper's bullet landed. I am a witness and minister.

What might I have said to those young soldiers sitting under the tarp, had I had this experience prior to meeting them? I would have told them that some of what they are facing is too big of a mystery to understand. That by their own choice, chance, and the needs of the nation (whether some agree or not),they are heading to war. They will not come back the same. Some will lose arms and legs. A few will return under the draped flag. To many they will remain nameless and your experience not understood.They have great dignity because they have chosen to face ugliness, mayhem and pain so others might be spared of it. I would remind them that being a soldier is a spiritual calling, yet that calling is founded on primarily their humanness. Being human in an inhumane world is the greatest weapon against savagery of all. And that God's power, strength, grace and love and always and everywhere available to them. And that in the darkness of any evil, God's light can still be seen.

This is what I might have said, had I known what I know now.

Not Toy Soldiers

In the early afternoon of 9 November a squad from the 410th MP company was on patrol in their humvees along Route Vernon at the overpass of Route Irish when an Explosively Formed Projectile tore through the first vehicle in the convoy. Apparently the insurgents took advantage of the fact that this was the only in and out of sector. The projectile came through the passenger’s side and was catastrophic. Those in the vehicle behind couldn’t see through the smoke, but notice on the ground near them PFC Howard Zachary, the gunner who was blown out of the turret. The turret and gunner separated in the air. Members of Stryker unit came and supplied force protection as medics tended to the broken bodies of SGT Gregory McCoy and SPC Courtland Kennard.

I wasn’t aware of what had happened until I return from an office visit at personnel affairs to have my ID card updated. SGT James had gone ahead to the Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH) to follow up on the survivor and help support the unit in its crisis. I stayed behind and called to find out when other soldiers from the unit would be returning so I could be present if they wished to talk. SGT James returned a bit earlier than what I expected and we proceeded to Camp Stryker.

No sooner than we had arrived, CPT Whittenberger, Commander of the 410th MP Company “Bravo Spirit” arrived. CPT W, a broad and somewhat stoic man accepted as I offered my condolences. We met and sat with a young LT and SFC who were part of the convoy that underwent the attack. They were emotionally bruised and saddened. CPT W. advice to them was to stay inside the wire and take care of them selves a while. He stated that all the soldiers would handle the loss differently. One thing he said that struck me as genuine was “I don’t believe in toy soldiers.” I took this to mean that he values soldiers as individuals and this loss was very real to him. I later discovered that at one time he was an enlisted soldier in Field Artillery (Cannon Crewmember), was given an Honorable Discharge, went to college where he earned a BS, and is now completing a Master’s degree.

We had the company members gather in the chapel after dinner so to formally announce the loss and talk about what would happen next. I briefly offered my sympathies and explained that I was there to help them through this time of grief. I told them that one thing that I believe is helpful is to gather as friends and informally share the stories that might not be told publicly, so that they won’t feel “short changed” at the formal memorial ceremony. As the soldiers were ushering out, a tall SPC asked to speak to me alone. He stated that this loss reminded him how much he had strayed and that he felt that he was in danger of losing his faith. Part of what I was able to understand was that he was raised in fundamentalist environment that made him feel guilty for not believing the way his family did. He saw much evil in the world. We talked about different ideas of what faith is. I tried to lighten his load as best as I could. I walked out into the night. Melancholy and weariness were about me. The next morning I told myself that I was definitely ready to go home for a while.


My memorial message for SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Kennard (promoted posthumously):


Grace and peace to you my fellow soldiers and friends. As we take time to honor and remember SSG Gregory W. McCoy and SGT Courtland A. Kennard, I hope that you know that you are not alone in your grief and that the prayers of fellow enlisted, officers, friends and family are with you here in this very place. They are offered fervently and with great care that you may find solace and strength in the midst of this tragedy. As far as I am concerned, all soldiers lives are spiritual quests—some parts more difficult than others. SSG McCoy’s and SGT Kennard’s quests have ended, but yours members of the 410th continues.

The other night when I visited with you, I repeated what your commander CTP Whittenberger had said, “That everyone will react in their own way to this loss.” Some will be brokenhearted, others will be angry and some will feel numb or somehow unconnected to this loss. Others of you will simply be relieved that it wasn’t you. All of us have been created uniquely and each of us have different life experiences to help us cope with what you face. You have full permission to go through this in your way, but for your own sake and the sake of those around you, don’t go it alone. There is no need to. You have put so much work into bonding with each other as a unit. Stay connected with each other and walk forward as best as you know how.

When asked what scripture would be meaningful for you to hear at this ceremony, the friends of SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard chose the 23rd Psalm. Some of you may know it very well while others of you may have heard it only once or twice. In the 23rd Psalm, which SPC Nicholas read for us, the psalmist gives us the image of God as a shepherd—someone who guards, tends, and guides. In the face of how fearful our existence can sometimes be, the image of the good shepherd is most comforting. The fears that we all face at one point or another is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You as soldiers of the 410th and countless others do not need to be told that what you face day in and day out is being in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You deal with mortality regularly. Your courage is seen every day as you put on your boots, body armor and kevlars go out there and face what there is to face.

I believe that Harold Kushner, rabbi and author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People, is right when he says that the idea that we are going to die one day is NOT what scares us. It is the anticipation of death, the sense that our time is limited that gives us fear. It is death’s shadow, not death itself that is fearful. Out of all creatures, we are the only ones that know that there will be a day when we will not be here. Frightening, but when we consider it closely, we can frame our minds and ask ourselves about how we choose to use this time.

No one can take away your memories of the good that SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard did. No one can take away the effect of their identity, their values, their sense of humor. No one can take away their service and commitment in the face of dicey prospects. No one can take away the honor that they placed in the uniform. No one can take away the sense of camaraderie or even the frustrations that you had with one another. These belong to SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard and to you all forever and death has no power over it.

One thing we may feel is that God isn’t with us in the darkness of the valley. But, the psalmist speaks of drawing comfort from God’s presence and his rod and staff. I believe most, if anything, we more often struggle with the absence of God. It is OK to ask “Where are you Lord when I most need you?” “Show your face, lend me your rod and staff that I might not walk without something to protect me and something to lean on.” If this God is worth anything, he must be a God big enough to handle our doubts, fears, tears, grief, anger and our feelings of being orphaned. He must equip us somehow to face the valley. Otherwise, he would not be a good shepherd at all. He would be neglectful of his creation and our efforts to make meaning out our lives—the good and the tragic—­­­would be in vain.

One last thing I need to share with you is the depth to which CPT Whittenberger took this loss. I have seen his grief. He has shown great concern for you all. I have seen the dignity with which he has sought to bring to all the details surrounding this tragedy. This is true of all the leaders of the 410th that I have met.

Friends, find hope in whatever good SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard were and did. Determine what good you want to pass on in this life and do it. Don’t put it off for tomorrow. Tell the ones you love that you love them. Put your heart on the line. For today is a gift and tomorrow is not promised to us. Amen

Please stand with me in silent tribute to SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Courtland Kennard.

----SILENCE----
Lord, we thank you for the life SSG Gregory McCoy and the life of SGT Courtland Kennard of and we lift up all that they were to your mercies. Amen.

A couple days later, I once again saw the 410th. There spirits were high as the unit and CPT Whittenberger was being honored in Change of Command Ceremony where I delivered the invocation. There is something about the resiliency and camaraderie of soldiers that is truly amazing. There were smiles and laughter as they were standing tall in a magnificently bright Iraqi morning with a cool breeze that lifted their guidon and brought life to Old Glory. I can only pray that my part has been sufficient for these men and women as I begin to leave this place. There is so much that I will never forget.

Hearts Abound

I’ve now been witness and taken part in several award ceremonies that included the presentation of the Purple Heart. The best of these are “Return to Duty” with the soldier who has been injured and recovered standing in the company of others. At the other end of the presentation spectrum is the Purple Heart presented posthumously laid upon a presentation table along with a photograph of the soldier. Recently, I was called to the CSH (Combat Support Hospital) when one of our subordinate units reported having been attacked. We had five soldiers there. Two soldiers had minor injuries; one had smoke inhalation and was slated for observation for a couple of days. Two soldiers needed surgery. A small group that included the company commander, our XO and a couple of unit NCO’s and fellow squad members came and visited with the first soldier who had come out of surgery. SPC S, was like many soldiers—lanky and earnest. What struck me most about our visit with him was how immediate our access was and how quickly the unit wished to conduct honors for him.

A piece of surgical tape was affixed to the Purple Heart. As the XO reached forward to give the medal to him, a ripple of emotion crossed the face of SPC S. I could see the apprehension in his eyes. This is not an award anyone seeks to receive. SPC S. is lucky. The shrapnel in his leg was easily removed. It was given for him to keep. His buddies will eventually welcome him back to the fold.

It was SPC B who was on everybody’s mind, however. He was in surgery when we arrived. He sustained extensive damage to his legs from shrapnel wounds. The surgeons were hopeful that they would be able to save both his legs. Unit members as well as we from the battalion waited a couple of hours before he was brought down. We all gathered in the ICU. This was so different from a civilian hospital. We were all gathered near his bed while doctors and nurses worked on him. He was in a semi-conscious state and I was able to pray with him. SPC B. was encouraged by his buddies as well. As nurses used ultrasonic devices to help blood flow to his extremities, we helplessly listened as SPC B. from time to time would cry out in pain. Morphine was on hand.

Eventually we were told that SPC B. would have to go back in for surgery due to a possible blood clot. I took it as a poor sign whether he would get to keep the affected leg.
All along I had been holding the Purple Heart with another piece of surgical tape attached to it. (Later I would discover that in the early history of the U.S. Army there were no medals. They were considered too reminiscent of continental nobles who were given medals for just being who they are instead of earning them. George Washington cut some purple cloth into heart shapes and gave them to his most courageous men.) We left the Purple Heart with SPC B.'s unit NCO's and fellow soldiers. A couple weeks later I learned that SPC had lost his leg and sent to Walter Reed. His life, like many of our soldiers, will be radically different than how it was before they came to Iraq.

I have seen bravery up close. It is a quality of the heart. It bleeds and the cost is great. Nothing can be traded for it. The next times I would see a Purple Heart was at both of the memorial services in which I had part as soon as I returned from leave in October. One soldier was 20 years old, the other was 21. I barely can remember what was in my heart at their age.

Bats in Flight II

Military chaplains often refer soldiers to Combat Stress Control (mental health). Fortunately, the CSC CPT, CPT C is a very versatile man. He was educated at Boston University, is an ordained minister in the Methodist tradition and a licensed Social Worker. He has a keen and broad mind, an absurd sense of humor and the gift of Zen in basketball lay up shots. He wears BCG’s (ugly army issue eyeglass frames called “birth control glasses”) that give him that intellectual look ala Henry Kissinger. He helps to run the Warrior Restoration Program where soldiers spend a few days in group sessions at a retreat called Freedom Rest. The previous chaplain called it a “white collar prison,” but it is a good respite for the right persons. There is a pool and private rooms where soldiers can decompress a bit so they can get some distance from their issues.

CPT C is astute and asked some good questions regarding the dynamics some of the companies that I serve. For example, there was a company of MP’s from the VAANG who had some friction with the post command on the FOB where they were. There also had been some drinking and soldiers reduced in rank. Upon visiting, the Co. commander, a competent man who graduated from UVA told me about some negligent discharges when soldiers were reentering the FOB. He also told me about some of his own personal frustrations as well as the perception that the BN commander was keeping them from doing more complex missions. CPT C recommended that I share the unit issues with the BN commander. When I did, I learned more about how discharges point to lack of discipline at the non-commissioned officer level and that the unit has a mindset that they are fully trained because they were schooled by the Navy SEALS. The BN commander told me that, yes, they are well trained for a particular kind of mission, but if they wanted broader responsibilities in the fight, they would have to train more.

Soon after our return to Camp Liberty, we had an incident with one of our newest and youngest companies. While on convoy a soldier lost control of his vehicle and ran through a small building killing a local national. It is most likely that he was using excessive speed. The company’s 1SG sent the driver and trip commander to come see me shortly after the accident. The young soldier who was driving was obviously distraught. All that I could really say to them is that what happened was about as serious as it gets (in terms of the value of another’s life) and that there would, of course, be an investigation. The tragedy of all was that this was part of the unintended—but always present—consequence of war. What is to be done here? Give absolution? Try to press the soldier to realize the depth of his guilt? Leave it to others? What is this compared to the hundreds of tortured bodies found each day? I can feel the awkward expression on my face as I try to remind them of the gravity, the upcoming investigation, and some platitudes about not being too harsh with one’s self. God grant me wisdom, I pray.

The next couple of days include a visit from a black female soldier who is trying to get out of the Army because the recruiter lied about her eligibility for a signing bonus. Her unit has tried to help her, but keeps getting stone walled. She has begun to be disaffected to the point where I later learn she has decided not to come out of her room. Now she faces disciplinary action. I spend time with a SGT who has just been relieved of his duty in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). He sobs in realizing he must now let go. He feels shamed. I embrace the large man as I sit next to him on a bench. Another soldier comes to me seeking “Compassionate Reassignment” to a duty station in West Texas as he is the only child of a woman dying of cancer. He needs to go home and take care of her. I meet a Major who worked with my previous brigade who tells me of a sad episode of a higher ranking officer who regularly dispensed intimidation and humiliation. This man is the son of a Vietnam vet who told him not come to war and leave his family. I attempt to offer consolation in the fact that he took his own path and faced what he had to face here.

Another trip to a subordinate unit includes an invitation to go to visit Iraqi Police stations outside the wire. SGT J was not fully prepared for this and neither was I. He gets nervous and reminds me that we aren’t required. I explain that the commander said that these places had not seen any activity for a couple weeks and can ensure our safety. He reluctantly agrees to come out with me. I have probably acted to hastily, but since these soldiers have not seen a chaplain in months, let alone a chaplain who is willing to meet them where they cover for 24 hours at a time, I go. The conditions are tough and the stations are barely decent. And SGT J. comes with me. We have very good visits with the soldiers (many want to talk) and tours of IP stations that include photo ops. As we are waiting for a chopper to return us to Camp Liberty, SGT J. brings up his discomfort about not being totally prepared. He is mostly right, but I’m not hearing it. We table the discussion for the next day. We skip a day and meet together with a Master SGT. We get it out on the table and our relationship grows stronger out of this minor conflict. Thank God we are both mature and reasonable enough to come to terms. The last thing either of us need is unnecessary friction between us. He offers prayer at my modest service. I attend the huge Gospel service with him. He is full of infectious praise. I feel stilted and white.

One more visit on a FOB south of Baghdad takes us near the place where an alleged rape occurred of an Iraqi teenager by an American soldier. We initially get off at the wrong stop. It is far too “tip of the spear” country. We were told the 5th stop. When we finally reach our proper destination (Falcon), the 1SG is among the most hospitable I have yet to meet. We are given plenty of free access, briefing time, prayer time, and private time with soldiers. I meet some tough looking soldiers as they are cleaning their weapons and speak to them of God’s love and how chaplains can be helpful if they are devoid of it. I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy who is about to be turned into a well baked dinner roll. They listen attentively. One even challenges me on my interpretation of the Pope’s “clumsy attempt at dialog.” “Wasn’t he just quoting someone, chaplain?” “Yes, but…” My enlightened liberalism doesn’t fly in light of their day to day experiences with the tactics of the “Muslim Extremists.” Considering the world in shades of gray here is a luxury that will get a soldier killed here and is best left to non-combatants, like the chaplain. They are respectful. I see spiritual hunger in their eyes and some wariness. I feel privileged to be able to walk into so many worlds and carry symbols that I sometimes forget—community, family, morality, faith, forgiveness, and hope. I can only pray to be worthy of this responsibility.

Pressing the flesh is now a bigger part of this chaplaincy. This is primarily because this battalion is about the size of a brigade and we are spread about. We even have Airmen (Security Forces) attached to us in our mission. I was given the opportunity to address a squadron during an awards ceremony. I gave them my standard talk that gives credit to a Navy chaplain I once heard on TV. “What can a chaplain do for you? A chaplain can help you answer three questions: Is it ok with God to be a warrior? Am I ok with God? And is it ok to be afraid? I also add my four points of how to survive a deployment. 1. Find something to grow into (courses, books, etc). 2. Look for goodness and beauty. It exists even in an ugly situation like this. 3. Stay in touch with family. But don’t try to control your home life from a distance. 4. Form positive friendships. With a chaplain, you can always have 100% confidentiality (the only profession in the military that can say this) unless you intend to harm someone or yourself.” I always try to be succinct, knowing that this is not my pulpit.

I often eat alone, but allow the possibility of conversations by sitting with a variety of soldiers inside and outside of our unit. Recently, I had dinner with two field grade officers. They spoke of how quick and impressive our Stryker Brigades are in terms of a conventional battlefield. We talked about the frustration of allowing enemies sanctuary under the umbrella of religion. We dissected the current state of the government and its ties to Sadr and his militia. We argued about our own naïve optimism and the depth of hatred this enemy has for us. It was good to speak with knowledgeable and engaging men. Most of their business was war planning. Some of their speech reflected the specialized nature of military professions: data, tactics and strategy. Everything is compartmentalized. It helps us stay sane when we focus on “our lane.” After the dinner one remained behind a bit. “I am tired, chaplain…” He looked at me as if seeking someone to trust.

I leave the chow hall before sunset and a little too early for the masses of bats. I try to scope a few out and I succeed in finding some just beginning to come out and do their sky dances. This evening I walk along the man made “Z” lake, called “Z” lake due to its form. The sun reflects off the waters and turns some of the tall grasses along the edges into silhouettes. I walk under a few date palms along the dirt (!) path. A bird swoops by me from behind and I recognize it as a white crane as it spreads its wings and lands near the adjacent edge. I say to myself, “Thank you. Show me more beauty, Lord.” Show us all more beauty, more peace, dear God.

Bats In Flight I

Most evenings around the time of sunset, I am now usually walking to or from our chow hall. It is the better of a ten minute walk complete with dust, rocks, and various military vehicles noisily rolling by. The air is usually warm, dry and pleasant. A certain stillness envelopes all but it is broken by the activity of hundreds of bats flying every which way. I really love this meditative time watching the weird and wonderful activity of these creatures. I think about how scattered they seem, yet nature has given them a keen sense of location.

So many experiences lately, they seem to fly about me like bats. I get little time to really integrate it, but I do pray. I respond to what comes my way and then march on. I can only guess that it is even more difficult for the warriors from whom much is demanded. A steady stream of soldiers seeking counseling passes through my door. Some have issues for which I can only provide a listening ear. Others need some sort of intervention whether it is for an emergency leave, or a tough situation.

Like watching bats in flight, there are so many issues and going in many different directions. In most situations, I believe that most of my job is simply watching and acknowledging what is happening and not necessarily try to “fix things.” Yet, there come the moments where intervention is needed.

One incident where it was clear to me that I needed to intervene was an evening when a female SGT from our headquarters brought over a female specialist whom she found sitting on a stoop crying. Apparently she had run away from a SGT who had put her on extra duty and was now demanding after some “corrective training” (jumping jacks while wearing Kevlar vest) to fill sand bags. She balked, said “No,” walked off toward a darkened shipping container. Apparently, her SGT tried to pull her out. Touching is a big no-no.

I took the soldier over to the CSM (Command Sergeant Major) and had her tearfully recount the story. Although the CSM avoids getting into company business, he highly regards the chaplaincy, so he took time to listen. Eventually we ended up visiting a 1SG whose company filled with many young soldiers recently hit the ground. We got our message across and I was probably heavy handed when I told the 1SG that I already had several “odd” situations coming out of his company and that I was “going to keep an eye on them.” He took this as a threat and the next day I had a visit from the company commander. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to let some chaplain throw his weight around in his area. I made it clear that my concern was the welfare of soldiers (like himself) and that I was “eyes and ears of the BN commander.” A few days later while visiting the motor pool, I saw the young specialist. She told me she was put on a new team. I thought that was a good idea—a fresh start for her. After a couple more positive and neutral interactions with the commander and 1SG, we all settled into a more cordial relationship.

A couple nights later, one of our more mature companies dealt with some ugliness that reflects the baseness to which conflict can bring people. Our MP’s frequently most accompany the IP’s (Iraqi Police) when they are recovering bodies off the streets. In this case one of the dead bodies was booby trapped with an IED. The after math was some decontamination for the squad. It could have been much worse, because a vehicle nearby sustained some damage while the soldiers were unscathed. I was called to the medic station by the 1SG. The soldiers had yet to arrive when I got there. I waited outside the clinic with the Co. Commander, 1SG, and one other SGT. Quiet was all about so I took the opportunity to ask CPT A. how things were going in general. Soon three vehicles arrived and soldiers were ordered to drop their gear so it could be cleaned and to not mix what didn’t need cleaning with what did. I hung around in the clinic as two soldiers who took the brunt of the blast were being examined. Both seemed fine and I was amazed at how resilient many of these soldiers are. Sometimes it takes a little while for the effects of trauma to be revealed. But, in this case I think we were generally lucky.

I am now nominally responsible for the spiritual well-being of at least eleven companies of soldiers. So, I now have to travel to various FOBs in order to visit with some of these companies. One visit took me to the IZ (what often is referred to as the “Green Zone”). I met with a Field Artillery unit from Kansas that is serving as MP’s. Their 1SGT was a crusty sort. He actually had been in the Vietnam War. He was highly effective in maintaining order and safety in the unit. “Top” was amazed at the fact that the unit was put in housing where four soldiers shared a trailer with shower, internet, a refrigerator, and a telephone. The Co. Commander, Major G. was an educator and easy going. He took us through one of Saddam’s palaces and current site of the American Embassy. Being here amidst the State Department personnel, big brass, pool, alcohol and even an orchestra of woodwinds was a little disorienting. Add two huge sculptured metal heads of Saddam facing down in the back yard and it was surreal.

One of the highlights of my ministry among our soldiers in Iraq occurred unit members took me to their training site at the “Crossed Swords.” This was a military reviewing stage most famous for its huge Crossed Sword sculptures at each end of the field. Saddam was tapped here on many occasions including once on a white horse and another time prior to the war wearing a fedora and shooting a shotgun. At one end was the Iraqi memorial of the Unknown Soldier. After some training maneuvers, the 30+ soldiers were called together to have me address them. I invited them to stay for a worship service. We were joined by about a dozen Fijian security forces. I set up a communion table on top of a HMMWV (hummer). My homily was a reflection on the Beatitudes and how Saddam was once “King of the Hill” but now they are. I told the soldiers that given what the Beatitudes say, there is no evidence in this world that “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Jesus was not setting up a new civil code; he was blessing those who walk in faith despite the ugliness of the world. I reminded them that they have an awesome responsibility wherever they fall in the ranks. The Fijians sang a beautiful hymn for all of us. We even held hands in prayer as we dismissed.

Later the Co. Commander, Major G. took us to the top of the memorial. We were escorted by an Iraqi soldier. Under what can only be described as a huge metal clamshell, was the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The raised coffin was visible through colored glass. From there we were led into the base of the structure. It was dark. We used our flashlights to seek out the empty glass sarcophagi that the Baathists had set aside for the expected dead.

Hand Holding, Things Held, and Being Held

It’s been ten years since I entered ordained ministry. One day when I served as a chaplain on campus I remember expressing resentment about “having to hold people’s hands.” My resentment came from what seemed to me to be simple matters of decision making. Never mind the fact that I often sought out counsel from mentors, professors, and pastors to help me through my tough times. I sometimes felt entitled because I had “difficult” or “special” issues—things that were very real to me. I deserved hand holding…

I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.

Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.

As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.

As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.

While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.

In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.

I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.