166 Days: My Journey Through The Darkness (6 page)

18 May 2008

Exactly one year ago on this day I was commissioned as First Lieutenant as I graduated from PA school with my Master’s degree. Who would have thought I would be spending the anniversary of such a monumental day in my life over 7,000 miles away from home? It could not have been more fitting that on this anniversary I attended an officer professional development briefing with a Brigadier General as our guest speaker. During his prepared speech he talked about what we, as officers, needed in order to be successful in leading our troops.

“The key traits of successful leaders are simple; they consist of courage, caring, competence, and a valid interpretation of the truth. Without any of these things you will fail your troops,” he said. “Equally important is loyalty and sense of duty. These things are imperative for any effective officer.”

His speech was typical of what I expected; motivational yet not anything I hadn’t heard before. “Sir,” a Lt. Col asked, “can you please elaborate on what to say to all the young officers who are getting out of the service so quickly into their careers. How can we convince them to stay?” The General’s response was undoubtedly unexpected and as I listened to his words I felt he was speaking directly to my heart.

“Well, this might surprise some of you, but I am not the type of person to try to keep people in the service any longer than they want to be in; I’m just grateful they served their country at all.” The tone of the room shifted. He had everyone’s full and undivided attention. He continued, “I completely understand why young officers are getting out. Let’s face it; we’re in the military in a time of war, a war that is not ending any time soon. This is a truth that is extremely difficult to deal with. Since 9/11 I have deployed a total of four times, each tour lasting fifteen months. I can’t even begin to count the number of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and special occasions I have missed because of this job.”

I couldn’t even imagine having to sacrifice that much of myself.

He continued, “As if those sacrifices weren’t enough, let’s talk about what realities we all face while we’re here. In my previous command I lost twenty-nine soldiers and in my current command I have already lost eleven. People’s
lives
are gone forever
.
This job has no material rewards, and the compensation we do receive is far less than the sacrifice we are asked to make every day.” His words pierced the silence in the room. As painful as it was to hear, we all knew he was right.

“The only thing we can really take from our service is knowing we are a part of something much bigger than ourselves. In just 2001, they were taking women in this country to the sports arena and blowing their heads off because they showed their ankles, or slitting men’s throats because they allowed their daughters to go to school. In that short time ago, less than 10% of Afghan people had access to healthcare, and now, seven years later, over 80% do. Little girls were once completely banned from school, now we are building schools especially for these same girls. Women are slowly gaining back the respect they once had before the Taliban,” he said.

As I listened to him talk about the women and little girls, my eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t imagine having to live in such fear and oppression.

“But we all know that this positive impact doesn’t come without a cost,” he went on. “Our soldiers are dying. Let me tell you the story of two young Lieutenants I once commanded. They were very motivated individuals who often came to me for advice on their careers, and eventually I convinced them that becoming Special Forces was a great opportunity. Now both of those men are dead. They were killed in action. And don’t any of you think that a day goes by I don’t think about how I was responsible for their deaths.”

“Sir, can you tell us how you balance your life?” another person from the audience asked. “Specifically your work and sense of duty with your family, and what advice could you give to us on how we can do so as well?”

The General looked at him and laughed. “Balance?” he asked. “What balance? You ask my wife and children about the balance and you will see who has gotten the short end of the deal for twenty-five years. In my job, as in so many of ours, there is no balance,” he said. “There is just an understanding the military comes first. This is a huge thing to ask of people and it is an even bigger sacrifice for the family members to make year after year.”

I found so much of my own thoughts to be completely in sync with his. I’d always promised myself as long as I got out of the military what I had put in to it, then I would stay, and when that changed it would be time for me to explore other options. Looking back on my career I could see that promise held true and I had been fortunate to get what I had out of my military experience. Hell! I’d just finished my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees and got paid to do it! I had known deep down I needed to deploy and serve my country to repay everything I had gotten from the Air Force; and this deployment was giving me the opportunity to reach out and make a real difference to a population of people, specifically the women and little girls, that had no previous healthcare. But this opportunity did not come without cost. Being away from family for six months was cost enough, but it was dangerous as well. Some of the potential places they were asking me to go to were extremely active with Taliban and there was a very real possibility I could encounter their actions firsthand.

I knew once this experience was over, I would never want to come back. That voice deep inside my gut was telling me on this date, in the year 2011, it would be time for me to turn in my combat boots and begin a new life. My priorities were different now. They constantly ingrained in us we had to put the mission first, before anything, and some people are able to do that for twenty years and beyond. I couldn’t anymore. My family was much too important to me. I was proud to be able to say I had spent time in Afghanistan and made my contribution, but life was too short, and I knew I couldn’t spend much more of mine making these sacrifices.

This day was the most fitting anniversary of my commissioning. I received a message from a General that made all of the thoughts I had been feeling for such a long time okay for me to feel.

25 May 2008

The Special Forces Groups finally made the switch and we met the majority of the people who would be in charge of the Med Shed. They all seemed nice, not at all the “cocky” guys we had been told to expect. The man in charge was a Family Practice Physician we all learned to call “Doc”. Once the new group was settled in, we got official word of where we were going. After one month of waiting….we were assigned to Firebase Anaconda. It was the more violent of the two firebases in the Uruzgan Province. The location we had suspected was now certain. It was a very dangerous area, but we were informed the clinic had already been well established and were reassured we would be well taken care of.

I was also informed Becky would be accompanying me. I had grown to like her very much and respected her eagerness to learn and grow as a medic. My initial impression of her back in our ACST training, prior to the deployment, was validated. I knew we would work well together and had pushed to get her assigned to go with me. We still had no definite date of departure, but it tentatively would be in the next seven to ten days.

As the location of our destination was revealed, word spread throughout the camp, and Becky and I faced shocked faces and reactions of disbelief. “They are sending YOU to
THAT
place?
Are you kidding?”

The more we heard that reaction, the more uneasy we became. We were asked to conduct an interview for Public Relations requested by the Group Commander to discuss the Female Treatment Team (FTT) and our role in it. The interview apparently was for a press release to disclose the valuable asset the FTT was to both the Afghanistan people and our forces in their country. The PR representative said she would likely follow the press release with a full article about us in the future and asked for our contact information to follow up. She asked us questions on what we were feeling, knowing we would be the only females out there in such a forward location, and what it meant to us personally to know we were going to be a part of something so much bigger than ourselves.

As I answered her questions, it hit me just how big this was. Yes, it was potentially very dangerous but it was an experience of a lifetime. If, God forbid, something did happen to me out there, I felt I could take comfort in knowing I was making a difference in the most direct way imaginable.

After the interview we finished talking with our leadership and took in all the stories of previous experiences and advice they had to offer. “An important thing for you both to remember is to avoid wearing perfume all together when you are out there,” said Don, a new male PA.

“Why?” I asked. “Is it due to the bugs?”

“No, it will likely be yet another distraction to the team guys, and the last thing you want to do is bother them,” he explained. I never would have thought of that as a distraction, but it seemed to make sense. “Now that we know you guys are going to one of the most violent firebases in Afghanistan, it is vital that you get as much training on the equipment out there as you can. You need to become so familiar with the various buttons and switches in the vehicles that you could operate them blindfolded if need be.”

“Can you elaborate?” Becky asked.

“Think of it this way, most attacks will occur at night. You need to be prepared to defend yourselves.”

Becky and I listened, exchanging “Oh my God” looks, knowing we would be all each other had for the next five months. The more we talked to Don, the more we realized how ill-prepared we were. As we discussed the gear we would need for what we would be doing, Don shook his head in frustration. “You guys don’t have the equipment I think you need to go out there. I want to get you issued what you don’t have and replace some of the items you do have.”

“What do you think we need to replace?”

“Your body armor, cold weather gear, individual first aid kits (IFAKs) to start. You were sent here with standard issue items, but this is not a standard place you are going. You need to be equipped with the same equipment as the guys you’re going out with.”

“Thanks Don. I appreciate you making sure we are ready,” I said.

It was in the remaining days we were at BAF we got all of our new and improved gear squared away, continued our medical training with a stronger emphasis on trauma, and packed up our belongings. Don continued to ensure we had everything we needed to go out, which was interesting because we later found out he had grown to “hate” all females that were attached to their teams because they all seemed to be “easy” and a huge distraction for the team guys. We thankfully managed to change his perception, which was a godsend, as we desperately needed his help to prepare for what was ahead of us.

I wished I could find the exact words to describe what I was feeling as I prepared mentally and physically for my upcoming adventure…but I couldn’t because there weren’t any.

30 May and 1 June 2008

30 May 2008

I knew in the back of my mind it was likely to happen, but I prayed it wouldn’t. Doc came into the Med Shed with a look of shock and disbelief that morning.

“Are you ok?” I asked him. However, I knew full well he was far from ok.

“No, I’m not Jennifer. We lost one of our own from our unit yesterday,” he said. Up until then, all of the Fallen Comrade ceremonies had been for someone outside of the Special Forces personnel; making them distant enough for me to dissociate, but this one was much different. He had been on a mission and was killed in action due to a secondary blast from an IED. Because he was in our unit, our participation in the Fallen Comrade ceremony was much more intimate. Instead of lining the sides of the main street of the base, we formed up on the flight line to be present when the remains entered the aircraft that would fly him home.

The day leading up to the ceremony was melancholy. I sensed such pain in the faces and eyes of the soldiers I worked with, especially Doc. His grandfather had been a prisoner of war, and he took all of what we were doing out there very much to heart. He was quiet the whole day; preoccupied with ensuring the fallen soldier’s team members, who were also injured in the mission, were taken care of to the best of everyone’s capabilities. He wanted someone greeting them at the hospital, at the flight line when they were arriving, and when they were leaving.

The ceremony was held at 0001 (12:01am) due to the flight schedule of the aircraft. As we lined up waiting, we watched the color guard practice over and over again to make sure they had their job down flawlessly. I watched them stand at parade rest and a senior NCO walked behind them and checked their pant legs were properly bloused and their hands behind their backs were all at the same level and looked exactly the same. He brushed off their uniforms and made sure their hats were on straight. Every small detail was important.

A cordon was formed of the soldiers who worked closely with the deceased that led from the flight line to the rear of the C-130 that would be flying him home. I looked at the plane and noticed the flight crew sweeping the floor and straightening the bay and lastly hanging an American flag facing outside. The pallbearers consisted of the members on his team who were not injured. They wore their green berets and white gloves and their duty uniforms. As I watched them standing there waiting on their friend I noticed not a word was spoken between them. They had blank stares on their faces, trying not to show any emotion at such a hurtful time. The band members lined up to the right of the cordon and prepared their instruments while a soldier with a bagpipe stood 100 meters down the flight line, alone at parade rest waiting for the vehicles.

As the vehicles turned onto the flight line the soldier with the bagpipe snapped to position and began playing “Amazing Grace”. As we stood there listening, I became overwhelmed with emotion for someone I had never met. Tears welled up in my eyes as the vehicle slowly passed in front of me. I was honored to be present for the heartfelt ceremony sending him home. The HMMWV that carried his casket drove past us and parked just to the side of the pallbearers. They stood at attention until it reached a complete stop and ceremoniously took their friend from the bed of the vehicle and slowly marched up through the cordon to the plane. As they did the band began to play with the bagpipes. Once they lowered the casket, they stepped off the plane and the door slowly closed. As we walked back to our camp I was speechless with emotion. It was a beautiful tribute, yet I never wanted to see another one again.

1 June 2008

At 0900 the memorial service was given for our fallen friend. We listened to the invocation and opening remarks by the presiding two-star General. Then each of his team members spoke about memories of their good friend. They talked about his personality, his work ethic, and his wife and two sons he left behind. It was heartbreaking to listen to these men, who are the toughest of the tough, men who were fearless to face any battle, break down into tears in front of hundreds of people.

I couldn’t imagine the loss they must have felt. These guys worked together on these teams for years and years and became a family. They saw and did things no one outside of their own team could truly understand. When all the speeches were finished, we prayed again and then a roll call commenced. It was started by the senior ranking officer of the battalion who called the names of the team members. Each soldier replied with a “Here Sir!” until he reached the name of the deceased. He called his name and waited; he called again and waited, and then again one last time.

After the final failure of response, the ceremony closed with a 21 gun salute. The music began to play and a line formed, filled with people who wished to pay their respects, which was headed by the men on his team. The line led to the front of the flagpoles which had his boots, weapon, helmet, dog tags, and several pictures of him honorably displayed.

Before I got in line, I stood and watched the team say one last goodbye. They marched up in pairs and stopped six feet in front of his belongings, saluted, and proceeded forward. When they arrived in front of his things, they took a knee and had a moment of silence. One of the guys reached forward and grabbed his friend’s dog tags and instantly began to sob. He stayed on his knee for several minutes, struggling with the knowledge that when he let go of the dog tags he would be letting go of his friend as well. He finally managed to stand, and they backed up and stopped again at six feet away and saluted one last time. Once the entire team had completed this, they stood to the side and allowed everyone else to say goodbye.

I stood at the end of line, feeling so much emotion for everyone involved. I felt almost out of place; I had no concept whatsoever of what these guys did or the true sacrifices they made with their frequent deployments and losses of friends. Regardless, I absolutely wanted to pay my respects and patiently waited while the line slowly moved forward. Before I knew it I was standing six feet away, saluting, moving forward and taking a knee.

As I looked at his face I began to cry for this man who was a complete stranger to me. He’d made the ultimate sacrifice, and finally seeing the face behind the name moved me beyond words. As I stood, backed up and saluted one last time, I looked at his team standing off to the side. I felt compelled to go to them. I shook their hands one by one. There was so much I wanted to say, but no words would come. Looking into their eyes I realized that no words were necessary. It was an unspoken moment between service members that needed no explanation. After shaking the last hand, I sighed deeply, wiped away my tears and went back to work. We all did.