Remembering…

Been a long time since anything new went up here. Deployments kinda do that. Anyway, I received an email from our guest author who wished to tell the story of how he is dealing with the things that happened to him on deployment. So, I agreed to let him tell his story here in hopes it might help someone else.

Anyone else who would like to get a story out, feel free to email me.

For the last eight years, September 20 has been a tough day for me. On September 20, 2003 I was stationed at Abu Ghraib as part of a medical jump team that had been assigned to help augment the few, and overworked, medics at the prison. This was in the days before the abuse scandal, it was before that unit ever set foot in that shithole.

Our days were long, meds for the chronically ill at first light and then breakfast and routine sick call for soldiers and prisoners the rest of the day. Sometimes a few minutes for a catnap in the afternoon so we’d be fresh for the nightly mortar attacks,sometimes it was a barrage, sometimes it a few random shells, but almost always we caught some kind of incoming.

On the evening of September 20, we were gathered around the TV watching Shallow Hal. Just as we were all discovered that Li’i Boy was actually a not very svelte Polynesian we heard four massive explosions from right outside. I later learned that it had only been two explosions but that the echo of the concussion sounded like another round. There was total silence for what felt like two minutes but was in fact probably only a few seconds, and then we heard it from outside, weak at first and then growing frenzied, cries of “medic… medic…” Most of us, there were seven enlisted medics and our PA, were already getting our aid bags, some of us putting on body armor, some helmets, some running out in their PT gear.

The cries were coming from a frame tent about 40 yards away,heaving smoke was coming out of it. It lingered like fog. There were injured soldiers staggering out but the first of us to get there pushed past them to get an idea of the scene inside. It was bad. I don’t remember how many guys were in there but as I entered the tent I started working on him. The next 45 minutes were a battle to stop the bleeding. My buddy, Luke, helped get pressure on the wounds and relieved me so I could get our ambulance for evac to the LZ.

It took about an hour to get everybody on the birds and send them out. I know it didn’t look good for me and Luke’s patient, the chaplain had given him last rights and we both knew that a combo brachial and femoral bleed was bad news. We washed the blood off and tried to get status updates with everyone else, who had lived, who had died. We found out the next morning that our mandidn’t make it. We found out later that he had a three month-old daughter he would never see.

Since 2003, September 20th has been a tough day for me, and probably a hell of a lot tougher for a few other families. It is a day I usually spent in a fog,drinking to forget but only remembering the scene more vividly. September 20 became an inescapable black hole on my calendar that I stared at every day between the end of August and the beginning of October.

When the calendar turned to September this year, I talked to my wife about it. She suggested I find something to take my mind off of it. It seemed like a ridiculous suggestion, what could possibly distract me from the memory of my failure to perform my job in combat and save the life of my brother soldier?

The next day I got an email.

After my discharge in 2008 I had a hard time finding work,so to keep myself busy I volunteered with various street teams on the Internet,promoting new music by hanging posters, putting stickers in record stores,making postings my facepage and reviewing albums on amazon. The email was from the Tom Morello FancorpsStreet Team. Instead of the usual record promotion, it asked people to volunteer at a food pantry or homeless shelter and then provided links to ones in my area. Something clicked, it felt right. I would volunteer at a homeless shelter.

September 20th, 2011 started off in the kitchen of Central Iowa Shelter and Services, picking through almost-expired donated food, finding sliceable tomatoes. As the day progressed I sliced more veggies, cooked corn, hot dogs and fish and did prep work for lunch. We prepared 150 meals and by the end of the day, we had served them all. Some of the people who came through the line were polite, looked me in the eye and were glad for a smile in return, others were clearly so embarassed at their circumstances that they avoided eye contact still many others were obviously mentally ill, some questioned why someone new was serving meals and when they found out that I had volunteered (as opposed to being court ordered) I was accused of being an agent of the government sent to spy and I was accused of “slumming.” At first this bothered me but by the end of the lunch shift and post-meal cleanup, I was too tired to care. All I was left with was the knowledge that however small, I had helped someone.

My next stop was the Des Moines Catholic Worker house. There I served an afternoon meal to the poor and indigent and when that food was gone, I trimmed beans for canning and sliced peppers in the kitchen. All of the Catholic Worker staff called each other and those we fed “brother” and “sister.” I was again faced with the fact that many of those receiving assistance were not thankful in the least, and in many cases, were antagonistic, ordering me around like I was their waiter. It was explained to me that this is one of the last defense mechanisms left to preserve dignity. Being short with me and criticizing the help they were receiving was their way of maintaining the tiniest bit of control over their circumstances.
When my day had ended I had been on my feet doing kitchen work for around 12 hours and I could feel every minute of it in my back and knees. I could also feel a bit of that same gnawing September 20th feeling I got every year, but it was more muted than ever before. When I went to sleep that night I felt truly good about myself and the fact that all day I knew that I was helping the hopeless in their memory. The work I did that day in no way brings back any of those lost but it does start balancing the ledger. I may never atone for my inability to save those men but I know that I’ll also never stop trying.