by Bryan Wood
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 no 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 there 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 to 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 sandwiching seconds of pure terror; that 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 not 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 is just after nine forty-five at night, and I am on my shift in the OP as I am 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 have been writing in here at the very end of the night, just before I go to bed. Tonight though, I am writing early because I made a decision. This will be the last night I write in this thing. I have already written about more than I ever care to remember, and I really do not see a point to it anymore. I am done.
Chapter 3 – Welcome Back
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 those details that had long been forgotten.
Every Day, I had written in that 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 one 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 was not 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 were 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, until 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 bathrooms are one long row of toilets, directly across from one long row of sinks, and two shower nozzles at the end.
I found one barrack with a large plywood sign leaning against the front facing wall. The board had “Company A Office” spray painted on its 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 smell. My first thought was, “This 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,” as 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 the 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 on 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 medicals 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.”
“This can’t be right; it has to be a mistake!”
“No mistake, man; this is reality. Just get used to it.”
I returned to the Company Office to ask the admin soldier if there were any other bunks
available. As I was being told that there were no other open bunks and I’m stuck where I am, a man entered the office. He was a tall man, well over six-foot-three. His uniform was pressed and starched to perfection and his black boots gleamed with polish. He matter-of-factly asked, “Are you Wood, the new guy?”
I saw the rank on his collar and respond, “Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Good, step into my office.”
I entered the office with the intention of voicing my concern; however, I was quickly ignored and the First Sergeant coldly interrupted, “I’m First Sergeant Redding. A few simple rules: wake up is 0630, breakfast is 0700. All medical appointments and rehab need to be done by 1130 hours and you need to report to your job by 1200. On days with no medical appointments, you’re to report to your job by 0745 hours. Any questions?”
Any questions? I had dozens, but I had no idea where to even begin. I asked, “What jobs?”
First Sergeant Redding replied, “Every soldier in my Company will be gainfully employed. I have two spots available, one is in supply and the other is a kitchen detail. The kitchen detail requires a 0330 wake up.”
“First Sergeant, I’m here for physical therapy and rehab. I was hurt in Afghanistan,” I said hesitantly.
“Yes, I’m fully aware of that. And I’m also fully aware that you are still an enlisted member of the United States Army. I’m also fully aware that every soldier in my company will be gainfully employed. That’s twice that I’ve told you this, and there will not be a third time.” First Sergeant Redding then sarcastically asked, “Now are there any other questions?”
I began to ask about the living quarters, but I was quickly interrupted again, “Wood, you were assigned to a barrack and a bunk. You will remain assigned to that barrack and bunk, period. You’re dismissed.”
I attempted to explain my situation again, but my concerns were quickly cut off with an interruption, “I believe I just told you that you were dismissed. Once again, that’s twice and there will not be a third.”
I walked off feeling defeated. At that moment, I realized that I would rather be back in Afghanistan than where I was now. I went to dinner at the base dining facility, and I then waited for night to fall; I just wanted to sleep.
After nightfall, I climbed onto my bunk and lay staring at the ceiling for hours. By this time, all of the barrack’s occupants had returned from their own daily job assignments and medical appointments. The noise of fifty soldiers rumbled throughout the entire night. Even into the early morning, conversation was constant and there was virtually never a quiet time.
At random points throughout the night, I could hear my bunkmate crying. The smell, the noise, and the tears stirred an anxiety in me that I had not felt since I had left the chaos of Kabul. I closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep, but the only images I could see made staying awake a better option. I felt like I had arrived in my own personal prison.
Morning wake up came, and Kevin quickly made his way over to my bunk. He said, “Hey, man! You have a car right?”
“Yeah, I do,” I replied.
“Is there any way I can catch a ride with you to breakfast? I’ll show you around if you help me get there. They have a school bus that comes around for us, but it’s a pain in the ass with my legs.”
I watched Kevin walk, and I could easily see walking was a struggle for him. He needed my help, and quite frankly, I knew I needed his. Besides, Kevin seemed like a nice enough guy. I did not realize at that moment, but Kevin would eventually become my lifeline through this place, and I would become his.
Kevin and I went to the base dining facility. It is very similar to a large school cafeteria, and the food was actually pretty good. I offered to help Kevin carry his food tray, but he boldly objected, “I can do this myself.”
I looked at him strangely and said, “Doesn’t quite look that way to me.”
Kevin laughingly replied, “Ok, so I can’t do this, but I have to learn.”
“How about you learn step-by-step, and start today by letting me carry some of that shit?”
Kevin reluctantly agreed. I knew very little of Kevin at this point, but I was already starting to like him. He was a Warrant Officer and obviously very intelligent. When Kevin would speak, he was very well spoken, and he had a well versed vocabulary. I was very curious as to how he was injured, but yet also quite hesitant to ask. We sat at the table and started to eat.
“So, are you going to ask?” Kevin asked in an assuming tone.
I immediately knew what Kevin was referring to, but I played dumb and replied, “Ask what?”
“Are you going to ask me why I walk like I need a telethon?”
“Really? I hardly noticed. I just thought that was your pimp limp!”
“Whatever, asshole. Seriously, if you’re curious I’ll tell you.”
I paused for a moment and told Kevin that if it was too painful to bring up, I did not need to know. Kevin told me, “No, it’s too painful to hold in.”
I did not yet understand what he meant by that, but I never forgot him saying it. Although I didn’t comprehend the full value of that statement, I immediately recognized the feeling it gave me.
Kevin explained, “I’m a helicopter pilot, or I was a helicopter pilot. I’m not sure yet, but I was in Iraq, and we were running a night time medevac rescue. I was pilot, and then there was my co-pilot, the crew, and two injured personnel. We were flying low and fast, and something happened. Shit went bad really fast, and we crashed. I broke both of my femurs, but I was the lucky one. Everyone else was killed in the crash. Can you believe that shit? I’m the only one who survived.”
I watched as Kevin continued on with his story. At times, his bottom lip would quiver, his chin would scrunch, and he would have to pause for a moment or two before continuing. A single tear began to roll down his cheek. The tear was quickly wiped away, and Kevin finished, “That’s how I wound up here. I go through agonizing therapy every day, and then I go clean the base library for four hours. I eat dinner, hope to fall asleep, and then I wake up to do it all over again. This place is like a punishment, but I have no idea what the fuck I did to deserve any of it.”
We finished our breakfast and went about our day. I dropped Kevin off at the library and reported to my own assignment at Supply Distribution. I reported as instructed, and I was greeted by a civilian employee. He was thin and very unkempt. His hair had a greasy sheen, and he had a pungent body odor.
The civilian employee spoke with a thick southern drawl and said, “I’m Mister Woolard. Now listen here, you’ll refer to me as Mister Woolard and nothing else. And I don’t want to hear no back talk shit either. I tell you boys what to do, and y’all do it; end of story. If you have a problem with that, I just pick up that there phone and call First Sergeant Redding. We’ll have your ass cleaning toilets so fast your head’ll spin.”
I immediately felt my face getting flushed as Woolard continued on. I had to stick my hand in my pocket to conceal the fist I was clinching, and to keep myself from actually using it. My face must have telegraphed my emotions, because Woolard seemed to be able to read exactly what I was thinking.
“You don’t like that, do you?” Woolard asked.
“No sir, that’s just fine.” I replied. I have fought many battles in my life, and I knew, in the long run, I was not going to win here.
“Good, then let’s get you to work.”
Woolard walked me over to a long, waist-high wooden table. The table, which was four or five feet wide and about twenty-five feet long, was filled end-to-end with hundreds of pairs of combat boots. Woolard pointed to a large transparent trash bag filled with shoelaces and explained my new job.
“What you’re gonna do is string up these boots. I know you got a busted wing, but you should be able to do this with one hand just fine. Go ahead and let me know when you get done, and we’ll have someone bring you some more,” said Woolard. He continued, “You let me know if you need a piss break. Don’t just go walking off without te
lling nobody.”
I sat on a wooden stool for a moment and looked at all of the boots. I tried to estimate the number, and I figured it had to be two to three hundred pairs. I was trying to estimate how long it would take me to lace every pair, and I realized it did not matter; as soon as I finished, he would just bring more. It was hard for me to believe that less than two weeks earlier, I was in the middle of combat operations all over Kabul, Afghanistan. I was dealing with everything from combat patrols and dead children, to rocket attacks and car bombs. Now I am here, lacing boots for this asshole. As I started to lace the first pair of boots, I felt as though my soul was being crushed.
After about four hours of lacing boots, I had to go to the bathroom so bad it was beginning to hurt. I could feel my lower back aching from holding it in, but no matter how bad I needed to go, I could not bring myself to ask that man for permission to do something as simple as use the bathroom. I ignored the pain and held it in, along with my pride. I just spent the rest of the day lacing boots and trying to imagine something better, anything that was better than this.
That night, I found myself laying in my bunk, once again wide awake and staring at the dimly lit ceiling. The mood in the barrack was that of pure depression. It was a room filled with injuries and emotional distress. Not a single person wanted to be there, and no one ever signed up for this. Life had suddenly become almost like prison. I felt my eyes begin to well, but I struggled to choke my feelings back. I would not cry; I refused. I would have given anything to have been back in Afghanistan instead of there. Before this moment, I could not have imagined a place I would despise more than Camp Eagle, but here it was.
