Mephistopheles Airlines

As mentioned in a previous post, we gathered on Day 2, after saying "good-bye" to loved ones for the second time in as many days, at 0300. This gave us just enough time to pretend to get 5 hours of sleep before gaining accountability, boarding busses, and heading for the plane once again. It is worth noting here that we have been a nation at war for over 15 years. One would think that would be ample time to develop the deploying process into something of a science. One would be incorrect. Enter Atlas Airlines. They are to travel what sociology is to science. The people of Atlas Airlines (pilots, flight attendants, water dudes) seemed nice enough. However, I think it would be safe to say that the motto of Atlas Airlines should be, "Sit vis nobiscum" which is Latin for "You only had one job". After the debacle the previous night, the universe was desirous of making it up to us, and as luck would have it, the morning went relatively quickly. Here, "relatively" is meant to elicit a comparison to something that stands in direct contrast to the thing being compared. In this case that would be "relative" to every other second since the dawn of man. And so, after a reasonable wait (again as compared to the whole of human history) we were on our plane and airborne. Fortuitously, I was able to procure a seat in the bulkhead with no seat mate to hinder my ability catch up on some much needed rest, which I assumed would be relatively simple (there's that word again). As it turned out, I did indeed have a seat mate. His name was Mephistopheles, and unlike every other row in the plane, the bulkhead seats have much more leg room...and arm rests that are locked in place by the prince of darkness himself. So, for the duration of the first leg of our "trip" I attempted to sit/sleep/fit in a seat I like to call, "The Iron Maiden". The 2 hour flight to Kentucky to pick up some more friends lasted a relatively short 37 hours (see what I did there?). Once on the ground we were informed by the fine people of Sociology Airlines, "We'll be on the ground for 2-3 hours while we refuel and restock the plane, and then we'll be back on our way." As I freed myself from the torturous confines of "The Maiden", my tailbone began what would turn out the biggest fight of my life. More on that later!

Limping into the terminal I looked forward to the day I could begin to look forward to the day I would retrace my steps home. The 2-3 hour wait quickly became 5-6 hours and the natives were growing restless. After much inquiring we were told by the fine people One Job Airlines that we could not depart because...wait for it...the tank for flushing the toilets was not full enough for a trans-Atlantic flight. So as we sat watching it rain water everywhere, we couldn't help but note the irony in the dry interior of said plane's septic system. But not to worry. After much consideration, thought, and counsel, the good people at Dry Flush Airlines decided to purchase several cases of bottled water and put them in the lavatories as something of a manual flush system. Brilliant. It was at this point that they began to discuss the vagaries of "Crew Rest" and the impact of two hundred angry and tired travelers. And so, we finally headed back to the plane, double in number, hungry and tired, pretending we didn't need to use the latrine. The coming 8 hour flight would cure us of that. As for me...I gingerly remounted my dear friend "The Iron Maiden" and waited for the spine searing pain that was most definitely in my future.

Once airborne for approximately 1 hour the crew began serving "dinner", which consisted of 3 ounces of fruit cocktail in "juice", the choice of a soggy baloney or soggy ham sandwich, and what I believe was meant to be a random condiment. So it was that after dinner I settled in for what would prove to be a relatively short nap a war raged between Mephistopheles, The Iron Maiden, and my tailbone.

Pending A Two Step Journey

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. When deploying that single step is saying good bye to kids, spouses, and even dogs. For even the hardest among us, the hours leading up to those last few moments are an emotional ride on a generally bumpy road. So with that in mind, I and approximately 100 of my closest friends arrived at the appointed time, in the appointed place, wearing the appointed uniform, with the appointed stuff. This initial gathering was early enough in the day so as to allow maximum lack of sleep the night before as well as ensure we had the required 26 minutes to check in and draw more required gear before spending the next 3 hours taking that first, painful, awkward step. This is not a random occurrence but a carefully calculated huddle designed to ensure that everyone begins their thousand mile journey as asleep deprived, emotional cripple. Final good-byes were said and final kisses bestowed as kids cried and spouses cried and warriors stoically walked to deny crying because I got something in my eye. At last, with a final glance we loaded busses and pulled away, bound for the airport and a quick flight to the bowels of the Middle East.

Once at the airport the fun began in earnest, starting with a lecture from the lecture guy (that's his official title) about how it's ok to take rifles and pistols on board our pending aircraft, but knives, nail clippers, and shivs would be promptly confiscated. Safety third, after all. Finally we were weighed with our gear and ushered into a large, hollow, very echoey hanger like concrete room for a brief wait before boarding our pending plane. Soon thereafter a delicious stake lunch (the term "steak" would be a misnomer) with a side of something resembling extraterrestrial life was provided as we stared at our pending plane blithely staring back at us from the taxiway 300 meters away. A mere 8 hours into our brief wait before boarding our pending plane, we were again loaded into busses to drive the last 300 yards to our pending plane (safety third, after all) followed my more blithe staring.

At long last the moment arrived. Have reported to the family torture chamber at 0700 we were ready to board the pending plane at 1830. Which would have been great. Instead we were informed that an unknown part was broken, or damage, or working fine, and that the crew were mandated a certain amount of rest before they could fly our pending plane anywhere (insert wild cursing and breathless groans here). So instead of boarding our pending plane we went back to the family torture chamber and told to go home until 0300 the next morning. At which time we would cautiously attempt to again board our pending plane, but not until we took a second first step on our thousand mile journey.

At War With Groundhogs

The official count is 37 months. Officially! The real count is probably much less than that. It works like this...when calculating months deployed, the Army counts a day in country as a calendar month deployed. So when they say, officially, that I have been deployed for a grand total of 37 months, they mean that I've been deployed for some portion of 37 different calendar months. The real count is probably much less than that.

What is certain (a better word would be "accurate") is that my last deployment ended 3,209 days ago. That's 8 years, 9 months, and 14 days. So it's probably about time I got back in the game and paid my dues. The problem is that during those 3,209 days this war (if it can still be called that) has turned into Groundhog Day...again. Each day nearly identical to the last. So, today I begin 9 months...real months...calendar months...back in the game. My job will be to coordinate Religious Support throughout our Area of Responsibility (AOR), to ensure American men and women have a hope that someday this war (if it can still be called that) will come to an end and we will get to enjoy the day after Groundhog Day.

Prologue

Providence would dictate that the relaying of events be done in as close a proximity, time wise, as practicable to the actual occurrence of aforementioned events, given the propensity of human memory to delete or insert details as may evince a greater appreciation in the reader of the accuracy of the writing insofar as the writer pens his thoughts with minimal delay...to whit...

God, Words, and Lima Beans

There are a lot of ways to say things. For instance, instead of using the word “rich” you could say “affluent”. Or instead of using “gossip” you could use “quidnunc”. One might say, “I like waffles!” Or one might say, “Waffles are massively preferable to lima beans.” It is the art of wordsmithery, which may actually not be an art at all, at least not in the sense that you might visit a Wordsmithery Gallery. Rather, it is a way of saying or writing things and events, in such a way as to make them more readable. Generally, when I retell the story of something that happened to me I try to put my readers in that place. I want them to see it, feel it, and smell it. And I spend a lot of time with my good friend Roget in an attempt to do just that. And while it’s usually worth the effort to help people understand what life is like from my perspective, it’s almost never easy. In fact, many times I’ve not relayed something simply because I could not find the right words. Today, I’m at a loss for words. But I’m going to write it anyway because it just feels important enough, in light of my job as a chaplain, to tell the story.

Recently, we’ve had some personnel changes, as is normal in the military. People come and people go and just this week one of the chaplains I work with here went home. So besides being happy for him and his family, I now find myself having to absorb many of the duties he fulfilled around here until a replacement arrives. Today we had another call to come to the hospital as there were wounded US soldiers inbound. I and one of the chaplain assistants headed there to find out what we could and wait. What we found out was that no one knew much of anything about this particular situation. So I didn’t know if I was waiting to anoint a young American body, or pray over a new amputee, or console a gunshot victim. So the waiting was a little unnerving. As we waited, we chewed the fat about life before, during, and after this deployment. Finally, after about 45 minutes we could see two choppers on the horizon approaching our FOB. When they landed the sense of relief was immense as we watched 3 young American GIs walk off the birds. They had been in an MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle) that had a mine roller on the front. Naturally, it hit an IED, as it is meant to which did some pretty serious damage to the vehicle. But as is always the case with the wonderful MRAP there was no real damage to the people inside. Just 3 young American GIs walking off a helicopter. A little shaken but none the worse for wear and in need of a check up to make sure all was well. I thought, “God is good!”

At the entrance to the hospital we stood and talked, while they removed their gear. I tried to calm and comfort them as best as I could and we started to walk into the hospital. The assistant I was with stood just outside and decided to head back to the office as this event was pretty much over. At that moment, I heard what I believe is the loudest single noise I've ever heard. A rocket fired from who knows where impacted approximately 25 feet from my assistant and about 35 feet from me. Everyone rushed into the hospital, as it is a hardened facility, to escape any additional incoming ordinance, which never came. For the next 30 minutes we waited for the “All Clear” so that we could resume our “normal” day.

Once we were able to leave the safety of the hospital, curiosity dictated that we go check out the impact site. That’s when it became very clear that we had been watched out for. As far as I can tell, my assistant, Michael, was the closest to the impact. I may have been the second closest, I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the impact was in a storage area on the opposite side of several concrete barriers designed to stop shrapnel that flies around willy nilly during an explosion. They seemed to have worked quite well. It could have landed on our side, but it didn’t. In the debris was the shell of an oxygen cylinder with a 3 inch hole in it. It didn’t explode. If it had I don’t think I’d be typing this. But it didn’t. Instead of acting like bottled oxygen usually acts, it just vented and the releasing pressure sent it flying somewhere.

In the end, no one was hurt while my assistant and I walked away with little more than a slight ringing in our ears. I can’t wordsmith it any more than to say God is good and waffles are way better than lima beans.

One of Those Days

There are days I really don't want to be a chaplain.

I'm not really sure how I got there, but there I was standing in the operating room of the hospital on our FOB watching doctors and nurses of varying sorts work on a US Soldier, trying desperately to keep him alive.

Several hours earlier a group of our guys had begun a patrol or a convoy or something other military activity and at some point encountered some very bad men with very bad intentions. I wish I could report what happened to them but I can't because I really don't know. All I know is that there I was, several hours later watching doctors and nurses of varying sorts trying to keep a young US Soldier alive. By the time I arrived in the operating room things were moving along pretty rapidly and even the untrained eye of a chaplain could see that the warrior on the table was having a rough go of it. I won't go into the details of his injuries but I will say they were nothing shy of significant. All manner of machines around him were beeping and chirping giving the staff numbers that meant nothing to me. It is difficult to convey what I felt as I stood there. "Useless" comes to mind, as does confused, angry, and sad. But it was more than an emotional response. It was a sense that I had to do something despite a feeling of having no real purpose. So I did what I do and worked my way toward the chaos, watching for an opportunity. It came and I took it.

Taking out a small container of oil I keep with me, I approached a beautiful American boy only a couple of years older than my eldest son. His head was wrapped in blood soaked gauze and I didn't want to touch it. Not because I felt any manner of repulsion of disgust, but because I didn't want to hurt him. The only place I could touch him was his nearly hairless chest. So I put some oil on him and placed my hand on that young breast and prayed for him, his family, his unit, the doctors, and the nurses. Then I said, "amen".

Amen is a strange word at times like that. I've always understood it to indicate a resolve that God would act according to his good will upon the preceding prayer. But at that moment I felt like it meant, "I've done all I can. Now I'll go back to feeling helpless". His blood spattered body just laid there. Nothing happened. The staff whispered, "thanks" and went back to work.

I stood back again and watched as his pulse climbed and his blood pressure dropped and it didn't take long to notice that the hospital staff was getting frantic and appeared to be taking it personally. I needed some fresh air for a moment. So I quietly slipped into the hall and went for a drink of water. That's when I heard, "Chaplain, they're looking for you!" That's never good.

Back in the OR I immediately noticed that the beeping and chirping had stopped and the staff moved less deliberately and in total silence. I walked over to that Warrior again and thanked God for his life. I don't know what things were like between he and God but I hope they were right. When I finished I stepped back again to watch the staff and provide ministry where needed. What I saw was simply amazing.

Without a word each one began to work like cogs in a wheel, but not without feeling. Quietly, tears fell as they slowly and methodically removed all bandages and tubes and began to wash his broken body like a mother washes her baby. It was gentle and loving and I could see that while there was nothing enjoyable about it, all were honored to have a part in sending him home. Finally they wrapped him in white linens. Just as they were about to lift him and place him in a body bag the senior officer in the room, a Colonel, called the room to attention and in a near whisper said, "Present Arms". There in the operating room, we all stood facing that young American hero and saluted. He was then wheeled to the morgue where he waited for the first leg of his trip home. I quickly asked the Colonel if he would mind if I prayed with his staff. He said he thought that was a great idea, so again I prayed. Honestly, I'm not a very emotional person, but I was so impressed with those men and women and their efforts to help that young man, I nearly lost my composure. I thanked God for them, and for him. I still do.

That was not the end, though. Beside the one casualty, there had been two other injuries in the same incident. Somehow the task fell to me to inform the two soldiers that their buddy had been killed. They don't teach you how to do that in Chaplain school. One soldier had his ear drums blown out so he could hardly hear. I had to forgo the appropriately soft voice for such an occasion and stare right into his eyes and tell him the news. His reaction was immediate. The love of one warrior for another is a thing to behold and seen most clearly at moments like that. I gently put my arms around each of them and gave them a kiss on the head. I don't normally do that, but I hurt for them and wanted them to know I loved them. Then I left them as there was one more task to be completed.

It is a custom that we practice with great diligence. Nothing can stop us. We call it a hero flight in which we send our fallen home with honor and say one last goodbye. I stood outside the morgue with my Commander and Command Sergeant Major, the two senior people in the Brigade and we followed as four friends of the fallen escorted his flag draped body from the morgue to an awaiting helicopter. The route from the hospital to the helicopter pad was lined with Soldiers, each saluting as the body passed. As we approached the aircraft, the command team stepped aside and the body continued. I followed. Finally, the four friends reverently loaded the body on the helicopter, rendered one final salute and walked away. I stepped forward and again prayed over the body before saluting and joining the rest of the unit. We stood quietly until the helicopters flew out of sight. Then slowly the formation broke up and everyone walked away.

Some days, I'd rather be anywhere but here. It gets too hard dealing with the stuff a war can throw at you. You feel like nothing is worth being here for, to be separated from family, missing holidays and long weekends or the comforts of home. There are days I really don't want to be a chaplain.

Today was not one of those days.

D-Day Remembered

American Cemeteries on Foreign Soil

Aisne-Marne, France- 2,289 interred, 1,060 missing remembered
Ardennes, Belgium – 5,329 interred, 462 missing remembered
Brittany, France – 4,410 interred, 498 missing remembered
Brookwood, England – 468 interred, 563 missing remembered
Cambridge, England – 3,812 interred, 5,127 missing remembered
Epinal, France – 5,255 interred, 424 missing remembered
Flanders Field, Belgium – 368 interred, 43 missing remembered
Florence, Italy – 4,402 interred, 1,409 missing remembered
Henri-Chapelle, Belgium – 7,992 interred, 450 missing remembered
Lorraine, France – 10,489 interred, 444 missing remembered
Luxembourg, Luxembourg – 5,076 interred, 371 missing remembered
Manila, Philippines - 17,202 interred, 36,285 missing remembered
Meuse-Argonne, France –14,246 interred, 954 missing remembered
Mexico City, Mexico – 813 interred, unidentified remembered
Netherlands, Netherlands – 8,301 interred, 1,722 missing remembered
Normandy, France – 9,387 interred, 1,557 missing remembered
North Africa, Tunisia – 2,841 interred, 3,724 missing remembered
Oise-Aisne, France – 6,012 interred, 241 missing remembered
Rhone, France – 861 interred, 294 missing remembered
Sicily-Rome, Italy – 7,861 interred, 3,095 missing remembered
Somme, France – 1,844 interred, 333 missing remembered
St. Mihiel, France – 4,153 interred, 284 missing remembered
Suresnes, France – 1,565 interred, 974 missing remembered

So others could know freedom