Crossing the Wire

by AnnaMaria Cardinalli

  I quickly found myself in full-scale pre-deployment training, even earning a Tactical Operational Medic (level 1) certification. By spring, we were aboard a C-130, making a heart-stopping “corkscrew” landing to avoid rocket fire, into Iraq. Oddly, the only thought that filled my mind was “Wheeee!” I soon realized, with some surprise, that I was happily in an element I didn’t even know was mine. I was assigned to a tiny group, made up of individuals from all different services, engaged in amazing work.

  While I can’t give their names, or explain the incredible work they did to protect innocent lives, I can say something about who they were as people, and the ethos of the community they represented. This insight was the second essential bit of understanding that would eventually see me to Afghanistan. Upon arriving, I assumed that welcome into the group needed to be earned, and as a complete newcomer to the situation, I did not expect it.

  However, instead of “hazing” me or treating me like an outsider, they immediately treated me not only well, but like a favorite sister. They dissolved in tears of good-natured laughter over chow after I contritely explained that I was there to avoid jail. They took to calling me “CC”—a nickname that I had earned back at the academy.

  The day after I arrived, incoming enemy fire landed uncomfortably close to the location of our little group. A mortar landing too close produces a sound you actually feel rather than hear. Your ears don’t fully perceive it, but your stomach and muscles turn briefly to gelatin before your mind can discern what has happened. By the time it does, the impact is over and you’re still alive. While it was not an infrequent occurrence, it is odd to experience for the first time. Such a close call could set one’s nerves on edge, if it is not dealt with in exactly the way my wise new friends did for me.

  “First time, Cardinalli?” the soldier next to me asked with a wide grin. I nodded coolly, trying my very best to look seasoned. “Nice Job, CC!” he hooted. Everyone took up barking and yelling and slapping my shoulders. “Oorah, CC! Hooah! Hooyah! That’s the way to show ‘em!” A group of people intimately familiar with far worse than what had just happened were heartily congratulating me for doing nothing. The situation became a momentary little celebration of my welcome into the group—one which we repeated whenever someone new came aboard.

  I still didn’t know, but each of these experiences would soon become indispensible to my ability to function in Afghanistan, and were leading me inevitably there. Iraq changed things, and changed who I was as a professional. The operational tempo itself was enough to change anyone. 16-hour work days, 7 days a week was a fairly typical schedule, and most of those hours were filled with a desperate, oh-please-God-let-this-work, kind of stress.

  We were responsible to very high-level authorities, and it was a regular expectation to interface with them (so I had to worry about my hair looking right, in addition to everything else). Unfortunately, the work itself can’t even be compared to a fictional movie or television show as the work in the Iraq Unit was. I returned home with the Joint Service Civilian Commendation Medal, which I treasure not for the honor but for the memory of the people I worked with and what we accomplished together.[5]

  Iraq also changed something unexpectedly and led me in a new direction. Suddenly, I became someone whose expertise was actively courted by high-paying defense contractors—someone whose experience was respected, not only academically, but militarily as well. Even as I sat happily at work in Iraq, contractors would make unsolicited and aggressive offers of new jobs. However, I thought I was too high-minded a civil servant to accept contract work.

  Nevertheless, as a few unfortunate developments began to evolve back home, I began to rethink my attitude, especially as I was presented a fascinating offer that seemed like it was somehow written specifically for me. The offer, however, required deploying again, and this time it would be to Afghanistan. The experimental U.S. Army Human Terrain Program was seeking Ph.D.’s with prior deployment experience who had a background in cultural or religious studies, were familiar with ethnographic field methodology, and, perhaps most importantly, felt some personal connection and desire to help both the U.S. military and the people of the countries where we found ourselves involved.

  How truly bizarre. Thanks to having gone to Iraq, and to all the previous experience that led me there, I had become a person who fit that description precisely. Life had actually groomed me for the HTT position in Afghanistan far more than I then understood. From training in research skills for academia and analytical skills for war, to gaining an intimate perspective on the character and purpose of the military, to knowing firsthand the experience of criminality based in part on gender violence—a mild version of the attitudes toward females and sex that horribly persecuted Afghan women know too well—it was as if everything I had learned in recent years was launching me toward an unanticipated connection to the conflict in Afghanistan.

  Back at home, my brave father’s health took a downturn, and he had become the primary caretaker for my grandmother, who was also extremely ill.[6] The blind were leading the blind in Santa Fe, and the FBI did not have an opening in New Mexico to which I could transfer. If I stayed with the Bureau, my life would be tied to D.C. indefinitely. More and more, it seemed, the best choice I could make was to take the HTT offer.

  The first week after I returned from Iraq, however, I touched down in Chicago. Janice was directing a show at the gorgeous theatre at Loyola, and she saved me the role of Carmen. It was an incredibly risky proposition for Janice—even if I made it back and arrived in time, she would have to wonder if I would be prepared—but when I would occasionally talk to her over a crackly phone connection from my base, she kindly never expressed anything but a mentor’s calm confidence.

  Janice and I backstage the night of my operatic debut in Italy.

  Janice is an enormous-voiced Dramatic Mezzo whose impeccable technique crafted my Lyric Contralto. This means we’re both the sort of voices usually assigned to opera’s most “earthy” characters, and along with this tends to come a certain personality, including a love of Carmen. Because Janice “got” me, she knew that having the role would somehow sustain me through whatever else I might have to face. I was literally still washing Iraqi sand from my hair the evening of the performance. However, when I found myself in Carmen’s final confrontation with Don José on the Chicago stage, my Mom in the dressing room making sure my lipstick and earrings were big and bright enough, I realized that if I didn’t return to that perfect experience—to opera—I might never truly and happily be myself.

  After the Carmen, I went home. I stayed and helped in Santa Fe until the money from Iraq ran out. I saw my Dad and Grandmother settled in their health and care issues, and I realized what I needed to do from there. If I ever wanted to have the money to hang on to Santa Fe and get back to Chicago to pursue my opera studies with the earnestness that my heart continued to insist upon, I needed to take the offer to go to Afghanistan.

  Because I had deployed already and returned whole, it was harder for my family to argue against it. The newness of it—as well their sense of my fragility—was gone now. Plus, the reality of my situation had again made it the most sensible option.

  I was inspired by the idea that the purpose of the work would be to help commanders on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan better understand the local culture, community-by-community, in order to avoid the unnecessary conflict that can arise out of cultural mistakes, and to offer aid better targeted to local needs. I found I cared deeply about the cultures and peoples of Iraq and Afghanistan. I had precisely the skills specified. I finally called back the recruiter, and I signed on the dotted line.

  Shortly, I found myself beginning a six-month training program at Ft. Leavenworth in Kansas. A big, blonde, muscle-building six-foot-four former Marine in my class was quick to say hello and get acquainted. He boldly informed me that he was an excellent catch.

  The next morning before class, he stood outside my door with a bowl of freshly made
fruit salad. The man had made me a fruit salad. I had a personal revelatory moment.

  To this point, the history of my personal relationships has been irrelevant to the story of how I arrived in Afghanistan, but here is the short version: I was not smart. I had dated and been in relationships with only a very small number of men. I had completely missed the dating games of high school because I left it so young, and I never dated in college because I was not of legal age. By the time I reached my graduate studies, my classmates and friends were generally either married or clergy.

  When I did date, I had always been quick to believe promises, and to fall for words of seduction. I could never imagine “playing games” with something so important as someone’s heart, so I also failed to perceive when a game was being played with mine. Somehow, no matter how badly I was hurt, I never managed to learn that lesson.

  The promises I believed were always grand and empty. Never before, however, had anyone ever done something as caring and practical as making me a fruit salad. In fact, almost never had anyone made any small gesture for my sake at all. The Marine was 15 years my senior—the oldest man I ever considered dating.

  I looked at the big Marine with the fruit salad and thought to myself, “Aha! I understand it all now. This is what a mature relationship looks like. It is practical and caring in small ways. I can return this with all my heart.”

  He had me at pineapple. We trained together, spending every day side by side. Six months later, we deployed together and planned to marry.

  __________________________________________

  [3] The Liturgical Studies concentration had a bent toward art and culture and history, and it was there that I found my unexpected home. I also found friendships with professors and classmates whose unpretentiousness and brilliance I will admire for the rest of my life. To each, with happy remembrances of nights at Fiddler’s Hearth and Bridget’s, my love and thanks. I also wish to extend my deepest admiration and gratitude to Michael and Marianne O’Shaughnessy, whose support of the preservation of Penitente art and culture have made them an unforgettable part of my life and of the life and story of all New Mexicans.

  [4] I have never had any athletic talent or inclination whatsoever. I can’t run fast. What I discovered about myself through running, however, is that I am blindly determined. In those days, I could run crazy distances because I kept putting one foot ahead of the other, despite my better judgment. After reading a book about Dean Karnazes, I completed the Marine Corps Marathon and the Marine Corps 10K together in a day for a 50K “ultra” run, and completed a second 50K the same week to help my office team from the FBI in a distance competition. Depressingly, we came in second.

  [5] To Swamp Ass, Dust Bunny, Popeye, Dirty Old Man, and those who can’t be mentioned because they didn’t have silly nicknames, my thanks.

  [6] After my parents’ separation, Mom wasn’t in a position to take charge of the care-giving situation—especially given my Grandmother’s particular and inexplicable dislike of her. Her efforts to help were always rejected to the point that she assisted with stealth—always trying to send home-made meals and fresh sheets, but almost never being seen. I didn’t have any siblings who could step in, so I needed to return home a find a solution.

  Chapter 6

  Villages Without Medicines: Stomachs First

  Day 33

  I haven’t written much lately because I’m not sure what to make of things. Patrols have become regular occurrences, but more often than not, they are disturbing. One of the first things you notice when you enter a village here is the poor health of everyone who surrounds you. While this is true in most third- and fourth-world countries—we have all seen the TV ads for Save the Children—it is uniquely disturbing in Afghanistan, because it is accompanied by a vacant and unsettled stare in the eyes of many you meet.

  I wonder if this is due to illness or to a cultural/social convention that I don’t yet understand. It’s as if most the people—but especially the men—are looking past everyone toward something they can’t quite see and are simultaneously afraid to perceive. Sometimes this stare is more resolved, and it looks like rage.

  While the HTT mission is not a medical one, I think it’s appropriate to act first as a sympathetic and practical person, whatever one’s mission may be. It is hard to conduct a research interview on an obscure cultural topic with someone who is begging you for food or for some relief from their physical problems. This is all I find lately.

  I often ask the question, “What could help your community the most?” I can’t believe that stomach medicine, or sometimes specifically “Pepto-Bismol,” has been my most common response from villagers. They typically suffer from gastrointestinal issues due to extremely poor sanitation and food preservation.

  Does the well still work? (Photo courtesy Department of Defense)

  Before the rise of the Taliban, Pepto-Bismol, or its regional equivalent, was easily obtained from the local pharmacy. Now, no local pharmacies exist, hospitals barely exist for extreme emergencies, and Pepto is a distant memory. Everyone seems miserable.

  It appears that the “trifecta” of intestinal bugs, poor sanitation, and a food supply that is contaminated in the rare instance that adequate food is available is self-perpetuating. How am I supposed to ask villages about their needs, and inspire in them any confidence in U.S. forces if I also obviously witness their suffering, and fail to help with the most glaring and easily addressed problems?

  Why would villagers provide me with any information the second time we met if I did not to some degree respond to their needs after our first meeting? If the commander is going to get the “terrain” information he needs, then I needed to be able to offer the villages some gesture of reciprocity for their cooperation. Otherwise, as I can already see in the gaze of their understandably distrustful eyes, we will lose it.

  Day 34

  Frustrated, I tromped around the camp today approaching Medical personnel, Civil Affairs personnel, and Chaplains about the issue. I scrounged around Leatherneck, trying to make friends with anyone who could get me a rucksack full of Pepto. In a strange but very real way, our mission success depended on it.

  The Medical and Civil Affairs staff sincerely desired to help. However, their hands were tied. No medical supplies intended for U.S. forces can be distributed to the people of a foreign nation, and the supplies are tightly regulated. A request could be put in for a major medical aid project, and the paperwork and funding eventually approved, but there was no provision for something as simple as a pressing need for Pepto.

  “Then I have a stomachache!” I burst out to the medical staff after they explained this. “Nice try,” was all I got back.

  I then asked my Corpsmen and Medical Officers another question. If I should find some way to magically procure Pepto that did not involve the use of U.S. supplies, would it be safe to give to Afghan villagers? For instance, could they overdose or in any other way be harmed by it? The answer was no, since Pepto was an over-the-counter product that they could simply procure for themselves, if only there were any pharmacies left. I was given the green light, if I could find my own supply.

  Training along the road between Leatherneck and Bastion. (Photo courtesy Department of Defense)

  Chapter 7

  Latrines and Shower Scenes

  Day 39

  While the high temperature reached above 100 for the first time today, the latrines began overflowing. For the last two days, this event has been eminent. Those in the “know” could anticipate it from the increase of swarming flies congregating around what now hangs in the air as almost a visible, vaporous, palpable cloud of, um, the odiferous obvious.

  You hesitate to breathe through your mouth, even though breathing through your nose increases your perception of the smell, because the air quality at the camp “exceeds acceptable levels for fecal content,” according to the assessment of the public health officer. I am unsure what the acceptable levels for fecal content might be, but
I am disconcerted to know they exist! Nevertheless, it eventually becomes unavoidable that each and every one of us, at some point, can do nothing but forge through the flies and into that fog.

  The flies, of course are waiting for you when you arrive. They gather especially over the overflowing seat itself, so when you bare your bottom, they enjoy the change of cuisine and bite your sensitive “como-se-dice” instead.

  For men there is a convenient option for certain bathroom trips, of course, when their latrines are overflowed. Newly prevalent plastic water bottles, refilled in yellow, attest to that option. (“Careful, that’s not Gatorade,” is the running joke of the moment.) There is no such viable alternative for women.

  Always helpful, a few young and heavily tattooed Marines sharing my table at lunch offered me their favorite coping tips for entering the latrines. They beamed like fifth-graders with the sheer delight of being gross in front of a girl, and I couldn’t help but love them the more for finding such cheerfulness in the circumstance.

  One of their tips was to somehow acquire a bit of Vic’s Vapor Rub and apply it just below your nose. Use it liberally enough, and it tends to kill your perception of anything else. They also recommended visiting the fire pit to breathe in the much “cleaner” smoke. Their third, less helpful, tip was to grow a bushy moustache. They laughed wildly, snorting on their chow, when I promised to give it my best.

  I think one factor is particularly at play in the latrine problem here. Much like in the villages, intestinal bugs are unavoidable. Somehow, however, calling it an intestinal “bug” does not convey the magnitude of whatever it is that attacks your gut in Afghanistan. A bug is much too small.