Unspoken Abandonment (16 page)

Many of the people I talk to tell me stories of war, tragedy, death, and loss. Many of the younger workers are orphans,
with
some having lost their parents when they were just five or six years old. Most of them are still homeless, and they struggle to survive.
This is
the most
heartbreaking
thing I
ha
ve ever experienced
.

The day shift
is
very busy, but nothing of interest seems to happen. All of the gunshots, rockets, and bombings happen at night, and there are
n
o
t very many missions on this shift.
The foot patrols outside of the compound are
n
o
t too bad anymore either. Most of the things that used to keep me on edge have become
less worrisome and far
more routine. Maybe I
a
m just getting used to it, but they do
n
o
t worry me so much anymore. I think I
ha
ve surrendered to the fact that whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I can be vigilant and I can do the best I can to stay safe, but there is no use in overly worrying about every little thing. It is what it is, and it will be what it will be.

April 11,
2003
:

Around ten-
thirty tonight, I was sitting
in the OP
at checkpoint two, and it was very quiet.
Out of nowhere, there was a massive boom that shook the whole guard shack. I looked out of the window
,
to see if I could see anything, because I could tell the explosion was very close. As the radio lit up with activity, there was another massive exp
losion. I dropped to the ground
and as I did
,
there was another explosion so stro
ng that it shook the guard shack
with enough force to knock my water bottle to the floor
. Within three or four seconds, there was yet another explosion. I curled into a ball in the corner of the guard shack, as another one hit. I covered my head with my arms, holding my breath in between each explo
sion, praying I would
n
o
t be hit
as rocke
ts number five, six, and seven
exploded over the
course of the
next minute and a half to two minutes. As each one hit, I prayed it was the last. After
the
seven
th explosion
, they
finally
stopped.

Once the explosions stopped,
I just laid still for a minute. I was unsure if it was really over or just a pause before the next round.
Our compound just got hammered, and I had n
o idea how much damage was done
or where the rockets actually hit.
My only thought was wondering how many of my friends just died.

The compound erupted into activity and everyone was running to man the fighting positions. Throughout the chaos, everyone was also trying to find out what was hit and if the
re were any injuries or deaths.

We quickly learned that the first explosion was a bomb placed about fifty feet from our gate. Just seconds before the bomb exploded, guards at the north gate saw somebody walking, but it was too dark t
o see what they were doing. The guard
went to grab a portable spotlight, and that is when the bomb detonated.

The remaining explosions were
part of
a mortar attack that was likely carried out from just a few blocks away. Not a single mortar landed inside of the compound, but their aim was only off by about one hundred and fifty feet. The mortars landed to the south of the compound, just behind the Iranian safe house.

Once again, hours and days of utter boredom san
dwiching seconds of pure terror;
t
hat is
life in
Afghanistan.

April 12,
2003
:

Last night’s bombing left everyone shaken up.
My squad
ended up
being
stuck on shift until four in the morning, and I did
n
o
t get to bed until almost six. I slept for a few hours,
and then
had to be back up to go out on
a
patrol outside
of
the compound. The day has been overall uneventful, and just another typical day here. It
i
s just after nine forty-five at night, and I
a
m on my shift in the OP as I
a
m writing this.

When I was on the midnight shift, I used to write about the previous day
,
during my shift, to give me something to do to pass the time. Since we changed shifts, I
ha
ve been writing in here at the very end of the night, just before
I go to
bed.
T
onight
though
, I
a
m writing early because I made a decision. This will be the last
night I write in this thing. I ha
ve
already
written about more than I ever car
e to remember, and I really do no
t see a point to it anymore.
I a
m done.

After reading my journal
for the first time since it had been written, the memories came rushing back. Some had never faded
,
but others,
more
minor details, had managed to crawl into that spot in the back of my mind where they could have remained hidden forever
and never given another thought
. I sat crouched on the garage floor, tears
rolling
down my face, remembering
th
ose
details tha
t had long been
forgotten
.

Every Day,
I had written in th
at
journal
until I stopped writing one random day
for no specific reason.  I originally decided to keep the journal to document and remember what I thought would be the most incredible
adventure
of my life. Instead
,
it became page after page of details that I knew I would trade anything to erase from existence. So on
e day
,
I
just
decided to
simply stop writing.

Several weeks
after I stopped writing, I was injured in Afghanistan and
flown home to recover. My injury
w
as
n
o
t terrible, but
it was
bad enough that I knew my time in combat was
complete
.
Although my
days
in
Afghanistan
were behind me
, my
next
battle was about to begin.

I arrived in Fort Drum, New York about
four
days after leaving Afghanistan. I was now assigned to a medical recovery battalion for the purpose of recovering and going through physical therapy. My equipment
and gear
w
ere
still
with my unit
in Afghanistan, and I had only one uniform and one set of boots. My instructions directed me to the battalion’s Sergeant Major for assignment and
further
orders. I wish I could remember his name, but it has long since escaped me.

“Specialist Wood reporting as instructed, Sergeant Major,” I announced as I entered his office.

“At ease
,
Wood. Welcome back home
,
son.”

“Thank you, Sir. It’s certainly nice to be back.”

The Sergeant Major gave me my next order
by saying
, “You’re going to be assigned to Company A. The First Sergeant there will get you squared away, and he’ll make sure you get what you need.”

I thanked the Sergeant Major and asked for directions to Company A.  The Sergeant Major handed me a map of the base
,
and
he
quickly penned a circle around the area where I needed to go. “Head over there, and they’ll take care of you.”

Thankfully, I was able to get my car from home before reporting to Fort Drum. Having a vehicle
on base
made
life much easier.

I drove through the densely forested areas of Fort Drum, making my way toward my temporary new home. I had the windows down
,
and I took deep breaths
,
taking in as much fresh air as possible. The air was clean and smelled so
refreshing
as it filled my lungs.
It was such a stark contrast to the dank air in
Afghanistan that
I
realized I
had
almost
forgotten what clean air
even
smelled like. My experience at Fort Drum had so far been very simple, and I was optimistic for the future.
That is, u
ntil I arrived in Company A.

I found Company A to be in the old section of the base. The area is made up of World War II error barracks, which are essentially open bay
-style
barracks with no private rooms, no private showers, and no private toilets.
The bathroom
s
are one
long row of toilets, directly across from one long row of sinks,
and
two shower nozzles at the end.

I found one bar
rack with a large plywood sign
leaning aga
inst the front facing wall. The board had
“Company A Office
”
spray painted
on
it
s surface
.
I entered the
makeshift
office and introduced myself to the admin soldier, “Hi, I’m Bryan Wood. I was instructed by the Sergeant Major to report here.”

“Welcome to Company A,” he replied. “The First Sergeant isn’t here at the moment, but I’ll assign you a barrack and bunk number. First Sergeant will take care of the rest tomorrow.”

I was assigned to Barrack 374
,
bunk 12-Upper.  I made my way to Barrack 374 and entered a dilapidated, single story, wooden structure.  The inside was lined with
fifteen
sets of bunk beds on either side,
and
each
set of beds had a
small wall locker
beside them
.  The barrack had a musty, foul sme
ll.  My first thought was, “T
his must be a mistake.”

A voice called out, “What’s up, man? You new?”

I replied, “Yeah. I’m not sure if this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“If you’re assigned to Barrack 374, you’re here.” He continued, “I’m Kevin.”

I told him my name and stuck my hand out towards his. Kevin was sitting on his bunk and made no motion to move towards my hand. He said, “I’d shake your hand, but you
’re going to need to come to me,
”
a
s he glanced at the crutches leaning against his bed.

Kevin’s crutches were the kind that attach to your forearms and have a grip nearly half way down the crutch. I leaned towards Kevin to shake hands. Kevin quietly said, “You’re going to wish you were back where ever the fuck you came from
,
soon enough. This shit is horrible.”

I looked perplexed, not fully certain how to respond. Kevin told me to go to my bunk if I needed further explanation.

I made my way down th
e row of bunk beds
,
until I came to bunk 12. I was assigned
to
the top bunk, and the bottom bunk was already in use. My bunk mate was sitting o
n his bunk, almost unaware of me
being there. I tossed my bag onto the top bunk and said, “Hey man, looks like we’re neighbors.”

My bunk mate did not respond. I noticed he was sitting
, in an Indian-style position, in his underwear
. It was
plainly
obvious he had urinated himself as the smell was immediate. He just sat and stared forward, in his urine soaked underwear, while picking a scab on his right forearm.

I returned to Kevin and asked, “What the fuck is this?”

Kevin responded, “I warned you, bro. They’re mixing people who are back on medical
s with people who just went mental
. We’re all lumped together. He sits there like that all day and only gets up to go eat. I’ve been here for a month and haven’t heard him talk once.
There’s a lot more like him in here
, but he’s the worst
.
”