“Anyway You Want It,” by Journey, starts playing in the background and the crowd goes wild. Men start screaming, women throw their hands in the air, someone lights a lighter and holds it high.
Wilson gets on stage and starts singing. He starts dancing, too; he doesn't care about the no-dancing rule.
Wilson is moving and shaking his hips while the seams of his clothing hold on for dear life. He takes off his sports coat and throws it to someone in the audience. The audience is cheering; everyone is singing along, and he's dancing all over the stage. Everyone loves it, and we all stand and sing along.
Somehow he got by the censors.
WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ
1600 HOURS, SLEEPING AREA
Mardine yells, “He must have jammed something into the other side of the door, or broke his key off in it.”
One of the medics pushes past all of us. He takes the butt of his rifle and swings it like a baseball bat into the window.
The glass falls to the ground and the medic clears it all from the sill so that he can climb through the window.
Ten seconds later the door is kicked open. Ten seconds after that, he is dragging Crade's body from his room. It's limp, like a rag doll, and his face is ocean blue; he's not breathing.
“Clear the way!” First Sergeant Mardine yells as the ER medics load Crade onto the stretcher. A group has now formed around the area and everyone parts like the Red Sea as the stretcher and the ER medic run for the hospital.
“Nothing to see here. Everyone go back to what you were doing. Everybody get out of the way,” First Sergeant Mardine yells trying to disperse the crowd.
1800 HOURS, HOSPITAL
I'm angry. Angry at Crade for doing this to himself. Angry at myself for not seeing the signs. Angry at Denti and me for only giving him a head nod when we should have asked him how he was feeling. Most of all I am angry at the GOBs and Gagney. A man is suicidal and the GOBs don't want to do the paperwork and send him home because it will make them look bad? Instead of giving him the help he needs, Gagney gave him extra duty and said that Crade was only doing it to make him look bad. People are only worried about themselves. I'm disgusted with their apathy.
Denti and I step into the hospital. He looks sad, but not like he's going to cry. I would say at this moment it would be impossible for him to cry; we're both carrying so much anger. Hudge is leaning forward in a chair with her head in her arms on the table. She looks up as we walk in.
She's been crying, but the tiniest of smiles spreads across her face when she sees us.
“He's going to be all right. The doctors said that if we weren't a hospital unit and didn't find him when we did, he'd be dead.”
Denti and I sit down with Hudge. None of us talk; there's no need to. For the past two hours we've all heard every part of the story. We've all learned more about Crade than we have in all the past months.
He was depressed. He had been depressed for the past few weeks, and if there were any doubts about the first time being a suicide attempt there were none now. He broke his key in the door so no one could get in and was expecting to lay there and die in peace. He hated it here in Iraq. He hated Gagney. He hated the GOBs and the way they were running things. He missed his family, he wanted to see his son, and he and Hernley had been having relationship trouble.
I guess I can't say I was surprised that Crade tried to kill himself again. He was given extra duty and had to work longer hours than any of us. Hell, if I wasn't depressed I sure as hell would be after being given extra hours and longer days.
After his first attempt I wasn't sure how to address him. I wasn't sure how things had changed, but it felt different. Certain jokes are off limits, as are certain movies in the break room; everyone starts walking on eggshells. I gave Crade space, thinking that he could sort things out on his own. The irony is that all this most likely added to his depression.
“Anthony, they're going to send him home… . ” Hudge looks my way, speaking for the first time in twenty minutes.
“ … so he can get the right care he needs … and deserves.
We've all got to watch him, stay with him for a few hours on suicide watch during the shifts….”
I nod yes and we continue sitting in silence.
WEEK 3, DAY 5, IRAQ
1600 HOURS, ICU
“What am I supposed to do with him for four hours?” I ask Denti.
“Play cards with him, read a book, watch a movie — I don't know,” he says.
I grab a book from the bookshelf and head toward the ICU. Hernley and Crade are sitting there watching a movie on a laptop.
They're both sitting on the bed together and laughing, as if nothing ever happened. I try to act as if everything is cool, and I don't tell them why I'm there. But they know, so I sit down and read my book while they finish the movie. A few minutes later Hernley goes back to work.
“Hey, now don't go killing yourself on my watch,” I chuckle.
An awkward silence follows and Crade stares at me expressionless. I decide to follow it up with something else.
“What … too soon for those jokes?”
Another awkward silence follows, but this one seems more deliberate. Crade cracks a smile, I smile back at him, and we both give a lighthearted laugh. I can see in his eyes that he wants to talk. I reach into my pocket and take out a deck of cards that Denti gave me.
“Rummy 500?” I say.
“Let's do it,” Crade replies.
I'm supposed to be there making him not want to kill himself, as if suddenly playing a game of Rummy 500 with me will give him a new perspective on life. Hell, with all the tension, anxiety, and awkwardness in the room, after a few hours I might want to kill myself.
WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, OR
I remember when I was a little kid I had a goldfish named Spike. I had Spike for a week before he died, and before I even got a chance to properly mourn Spike's death my parents bought me a new fish. Crade has only been gone for a few days and his replacement is already here: Specialist Cather. Cather is a tall black man with hands the size of those foam fingers you see at sporting events. He is fifty-eight years old and is the same rank as me — which I know is impressive, because it's not easy to be that old and still be at such a low rank.
Today, on Cather's first day, we've decided to throw him on first shift so that he can get acquainted with the speed of the cases. With Cather's old age and gigantic hands, he's a disaster. Many cases we work with require fine, delicate instruments, and Cather's bulbous hands are too large to grasp the tiny instruments. Cather is on his third case today and he tells me he's done trying.
“I'll tell ya, Anthony. I'm too old for this stuff . I think I'll just clean instruments from now on. Or maybe Gagney can put me in charge of the inventory or something for the move — now that I can do.”
WEEK 4, DAY 7, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, OR
When we first heard we were moving Gagney had us do an inventory count. Then two weeks later he had us do another, then another, then another, each time swearing that it would be the last. And every time we do an inventory we all end up working between twelve to sixteen hours every day for a week. The unit that's taking over our hospital came in last night. They want us to do a full inventory of all the equipment we're signing over to them.
Reto and I stop unloading equipment from the conex to take a cigarette break. I take the pack out of my pocket.
We take long, slow drags. Denti finally gets back after over an hour.
“Hey, what is it, break time? You guys were supposed to be working while I was gone.”
“What, are you kidding me? I'm supposed to be on second shift. I'm not even supposed to be here right now, but I'm working while you're inside doing God knows what,” Reto is yelling.
“Relax,” Denti replies. “You hear one of the members of their unit has already been caught having sex with someone from our unit?” Denti laughs to himself. “It was that hillbilly girl, to
o, Specialist Bane.”
At the mention of Specialist Bane, Reto nods his head and I laugh. Bane is probably one of the most slovenly soldiers in our unit. She has grease permanently caked in her hair and spends her days retelling Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I take pleasure in hearing that Bane slept with a soldier from the new unit, partly because it makes our unit look bad to the other unit and it's like wearing a badge of honor, and also because Bane is Specialist Boredo's girlfriend.
BBBAAAMMMM!!!
BBBBAAAAMMMM!!!!
BUNKERS! BUNKERS! BUNKERS!
Maybe, I suppose, we won't be leaving soon enough.
MONTH 5
“I WASN'T PREPARED FOR THIS.”
WEEK 1, DAY 4, ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, NEW BASE
We're finally at our new base. The luscious trees and chirping birds we lived with in the northern part of Iraq are gone. They've been replaced with two trees and lots of sand. This is the Iraq that people picture in their heads if they've never been here: open spaces, buildings no higher than two stories, and massive sandstorms.
This former Marine base is much bigger and the buildings are more spread apart than what we've been used to. The dining facility and the hospital are now further away from our rooms. Actually, our new hospital still hasn't been built yet. One of the supply lines bringing us the parts was hit and it delayed the whole process. We were told to sit tight and relax given that there's nothing to do — and to check in twice a day with Gagney. He has decided that we need to check in with him whenever we go anywhere and then every couple of hours even if we don't. In the morning before and after breakfast we check in, the same for lunch, dinner, and when we go to the gym or the community room.
WEEK 1, DAY 7, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, MY ROOM
Torres and Denti are now my roommates, along with Markham. There are four of us, or I suppose five of us. Torres's girlfriend, Cardoza, has decided to spend most her nights with him, bunking in our room. They spend most of their time watching movies and giggling.
A National Guardsman named Tom, who lives next door to us and has been here sixteen months with two more left on his tour, is starting to make me afraid:
“We'd been in Iraq for a year and it was time to go home. We sent all of our stuff back — books, uniforms, movies, laptops, radios — everything. We loaded all of our gear onto the plane, had our orders in hand, and then it happened. An officer came aboard the plane, looked at us, and said, ‘Unlock boys, we just got extended for another six months.’ That was four months ago. A television station even did a story on us, after a bunch of our families complained back home. But nothing happened; you know how it is. It's the military. We have no choice.”
Tom keeps talking, and I don't want to hear what he has to say. I don't want to even imagine getting extended another six months. I want a choice.
WEEK 2, DAY 2, IRAQ
1700 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
Mandatory meeting: While our hospital is being built, the GOBs have decided to do some unit restructuring. We're waiting for the changes to be announced. Reto is sitting next to me, and we started playing tic-tac-toe. He won one game, I've won once, and we've tied eleven times.
“Let's give a big round of applause for Command Sergeant Major Ridge,” Colonel Jelly says from the stage. There are two hundred of us in the room and six people clap. Colonel Jelly announces that Command Sergeant Major Ridge is retiring and that we're getting a new command sergeant major in a few days.
“You know what's really going on, right?” Reto says as he places an X at the top right.
“No, what?” as I place an O in the middle.
“The unit that replaced us in Mosul made a complaint to the IG about us. They complained that we took all the equipment and left them with nothing.”
It's true; we did take everything with us: from coffee makers and televisions to tongue depressors and bandages — anything that we could fit into our bags. When we first arrived in Mosul, it was completely stocked, but when we left, we weren't sure if the new base and hospital would be supplied, so we took everything with us. Reto and I start another game.
I place an O at the bottom left.
“They're forcing him out. You can't retire a sergeant major while in-country.”
Colonel Jelly announces that First Sergeant Powell will be leaving us, too, and will be doing an administrative job in another unit — which is another way of firing someone and also using that person as a scapegoat without specifically saying so.
“So that's three,” Reto says to me.
I'm not sure if he's talking about tic-tac-toe or what.
“That's three — two command sergeant majors and one first sergeant axed,” Reto goes on.
“They got rid of CSM Fellows — ”
“Powell and Ridge. That just doesn't happen — ”
A soldier in front of us turns around. She's an older lady, a major, and she doesn't look pleased, either because Reto and I are talking or because someone we mentioned is a friend.
Colonel Jelly's glasses are falling toward the tip of his nose and he is staring at his note cards that lie on the podium. His eyes don't look up.
“And, with first sergeant Powell leaving, the southern hospital will no longer have its own First Sergeant, or command sergeant major. Instead, in a few days we will have one sergeant major for hospitals, north and south. Also, on a personal note I would like to congratulate Staff Sergeant North and Captain Dillon on their wedding. Unfortunately Captain Dillon will no longer be our company commander, but let's give her a round of applause; she's done a great job. And also let's give a round of applause for your new company commander, Captain Cardine.” Three people clap, and two yell sarcastically. I remember her well from signing the CAB papers for her.
Colonel Jelly is referring to Captain Dillon, our company commander, and her husband, Staff Sergeant North. Captain Dillon got her position by lying. Before we left for Iraq, our unit had to do inventory. Our company commander was Captain Bodan. He did the inventory and found that we were almost a million dollars short. When he brought his concerns up to the GOBs, they told him to sign for it anyway. Bodan refused. Captain Dillon (at the time she was a lieutenant) overhears all of this and comes up with a plan. She told the GOBs that if they promote her to captain and then company commander, she will sign for the equipment saying it's all there, even when it's not. The GOBs agreed, and that's how she became our company commander.
Staff Sergeant North, who got caught reading someone else's mail, and Dillon have been married for over a year, but when they left for Iraq they said they weren't married. That way they were able to get separate BHAs (basic housing allowance: a military program that helps pay your mortgage or rent while you're fighting). North and Dillon, who are paying the mortgage on the house that they lived in, filed separate BHAs and thus got twice the money for their mortgage. Because this is illegal, someone rightly complained. It is also illegal for North and Dillon to be in the same chain of command and married. The military really frowns on this. Since Captain Dillon was the company commander she was North's boss. It's the commander's job to hand out orders, and during a time of war those orders could often mean the difference between life and death. If there's a dangerous mission, a commander isn't going to send his or her spouse on it; the commander is going to send someone else. Fortunately, though, the IG found all of this out and Dillon will be relieved of command.
“You know she's not getting in trouble either,” Reto says to me, forgetting to whisper.
“Shhh. What do you mean?”
The soldier in front of us looks back again.
“Well, she's getting relieved of her position, yeah. But that's it.”
Her and North have cheated the government out of tens of thousands of dollars and they lied to the Army, but she's only being moved to an administrative job in the unit command.
“And look over there.” Reto points his finger to the left of the room at Staff Sergeant North and Captai
n Dillon. “The GOBs even allowed Sergeant North to come up here from the southern hospital so that they can be together.”
“Will you please be quiet, I am trying to listen,” the woman in front of us says to Reto.
“That's four,” I whisper, holding up four fingers.
“Four what?” Reto replies.
“Soldier, you heard me!” the woman repeats. Reto and I are silent. Even though we are being relieved of two command sergeant majors, one first sergeant, and one company commander, we know nothing will change. The GOBs are the problem. The meeting continues, and Colonel Jelly ends by telling us that our new command sergeant major is Sergeant Major Lavaled.
WEEK 2, DAY 4, IRAQ
1730 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
Command Sergeant Major Lavaled has a slight resemblance to Command Sergeant Major Ridge. He has a muscular jawbone and a slowly wrinkling face, but the similarities end there. His hair is a dark gray color that could pass for black, and he has a tiny sliver of a patch of white hair on the top left side of his head. He's from the southern part of the United States. His laugh is fake and not infectious — and when he gives a speech no one is moved. He tells us about the little things in our unit that he's going to change, but he's trying to make it sound like a big deal.
“Also, soldiers, I have a few things that I want to bring up with you,” Lavaled says.
“From now on when you go to the dining facility, I want you all to eat with your weapons strapped on you at all times. NO putting them on the ground or putting them in the weapons rack. You must keep them on you at all times. And also, I know that some of you are excited about the fact that there is no more guard duty here because the Ugandan soldiers have taken it over, but I want all sergeants and below to still do guard duty. Just watch the Ugandan soldiers and make sure they do everything right. Besides, I've heard about your unit, and it might not be the worst thing if some of you don't have too much free time.”
Reto and I turn to look at each other. One of the things we had been looking forward to about our new base was that there'd be no more guard duty.
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