A Quiet Reality

MY FIRST NIGHT IN IRAQ
Chapter One

            I opened my eyes as wide as I could, hoping that the wider I exposed my eyeballs the more light I might be able to absorb – but I failed miserably for I saw nothing. The blackness of the night was thick and regardless of what I did with my eyes or how I moved my head I could see nothing. Had I been standing still in a quiet room this may not have proven so disheartening but it took on a new sense of urgency as I sat in the front seat of a Humvee[1] traveling at 30 miles per hour at 2 a.m. as part of a convoy under tactical conditions. In Marine speak it meant no headlights, spearheading into the heart of Iraq. My driver and bodyguard, RP2[2]  Donnell Stephens, a bright, conscientious and dedicated young family man from South Central, Los Angeles was mumbling under his breath as he struggled to keep the only set of night vision goggles between us affixed to his face while we headed down this highway in total darkness.

            Anxiety increases exponentially when your primary sense fails you. When my eyes could no longer interpret the world for me, I tried to make my other senses compensate. I could smell the heavy putrid smell of diesel exhaust emanating from the vehicles to my right. At times when we slowed down I even smelled the blunted heavy canvas that oft covers our gear in other vehicles nearby. I heard the clatter of heavy machinery and visualized through momentary blindness that the vehicles passing our small Humvee were either tanks or Amphibious Assault Vehicles ten times our size and density. The sound of the passing hunks of steel was deafening but muted by fear as vehicle after vehicle passed us on the road. We stuck to our lane in the blackness of night. Our goal was simple, keep the convoy together without killing ourselves in a major traffic accident. I held my hands up to my face on occasion to see if the darkness would fade by any measure but it did not. What I could not see I felt. The proximity of my hand was somehow perceivable in the same way I felt the heavy dense steel pass by to my right.

On most occasions the vast majority of us in the vehicles had no real idea of where we were or where we were heading. It was standard operating procedure to have an orientation brief prior to departure. Waypoints and destinations were provided to drivers and security personnel during these short meetings but the rest of us were clueless. Small headsets affixed to the driver’s head by a headband were provided but often the message was garbled or the surrounding traffic noise muted the radio transmission.

Our destinies on these convoys were completely in the hands of the Convoy Commander and those few selected individuals throughout the column who planned it. Everyone else stayed as close as possible to the vehicle ahead of them. No one wanted to be the one to lose the convoy before them. The convoy stretched out for miles as vehicles loaded with tons of equipment in all shapes and sizes moved along dreadfully slow with the melodic motion of an accordion. Distances expanded between vehicles and then there would be a mad dash to close the gap with short sprints forcing everyone to race ahead and catch up. Panic set in on driver and passenger alike deathly afraid that we would be the sorry idiots to be cut off by another vehicle or that in a momentary act of inattention we would merge into the wrong lane and end up following the wrong convoy taking with us all those who followed us.

            On this night I would look forward to the occasional burning hulk of an Iraqi vehicle or some distant burning oil pipe. In them I was granted a temporary reprieve from darkness and sight, though clouded, was momentarily regained. In those short moments of light we rested our anxiety and grew confident of our place in this massive migration of weaponry. We could see a few vehicles ahead of us as well as those other convoys of mechanized infantry and artillery alongside as they passed us.

I remember passing through a town at one point and inhaling that combined smell of burning charcoal and gun powder. Hundreds of vehicles came through this small town and we could see the orange embers of a fading fire in the periphery. The closer we came to the dying embers, the more we could see. All of a sudden RP2 Stephens catches something with his NVGs[3] and throws a warning my way, “watch your right side chaplain, there’s someone there!” I was spooked and frustrated because I could see nothing and then out of nowhere as we grew closer to a secondary light in the background there emerged the Iraqi shadow, just a few feet away from where I sat. His shadow depicted a beaten man, with drooping shoulders and a hanging head. The shadow shuffled past me and he was the only person I saw in the 18 hours of that convoy.

            This was my second invasion, twelve years earlier I accompanied Marines into combat during Desert Storm in 1991 where we moved under the cover of blackness through the northern Saudi Arabian desert into Kuwait and on into the Kuwait International Airport. Tactical convoys haven’t changed much since those days. I remember kicking off at about 2:30 a.m. in the dark and my young driver, RPSN David Thompson, had the most difficult time keeping his eyes on the truck’s cat-eyes in front of us. Cat-eyes were what we called the dimly lit, tiny reflective lights on the back of the humvees and trucks when we traveled under tactical conditions with no lights. They are the size of a nickel and you literally have to be directly behind them at five feet or less from them to see them clearly. It was dark; the cat-eyes were properly illuminated but the dust from driving over the sand made them almost impossible to see. I kept yelling at him, “Stay close, Thompson, stay close! Hit that bumper if you have to but don’t lose that truck!” while at the same time praying fervently, “Lord please don’t let us get lost out here, we’ve got another 15 vehicles following us.”

            We drove on with that constant sense of frustration all night long. It was the darkest night I’ve ever seen and all the while it was raining oil from the Kuwaiti sabotaged oil wells, making it that much more difficult to see through our windshield. The droplets of oil got into everything and the smell of petrol overpowered whatever sweet or foul smell the desert may have had to offer.

            When we started our trek that night it was just the 35 or so vehicles in our convoy. Unlike the modern convoy of the 2003 invasion which was primarily on a freeway, the 1991 journey was through the desert and true to form I was totally unaware of where we were. Through that night I prayed without ceasing, afraid that some Iraqi tank or patrol would stumble upon us or have the presence of mind to outflank us and hit us broad side. Though I couldn’t see them I’d often hear the unique sounds of AH-1W Cobras flying overhead – on one occasion I could have sworn that the attack helicopter was directly overhead when he released his Hellfire missile. The missile whooshed away tearing the fabric of the sky to find its target. On our immediate horizon the sky lit up and the most intense, thundering, crushing sound that I’ve ever heard reverberated within my bones filled the sky and completely overwhelmed us.

            In the breaking of day the sun began to permeate through the armor of darkness and shades of lights allowed us to see beyond ourselves. As the sun rose, I was amazed. I unzipped the side plastic window of the Humvee so I could see past the oil covered plastic and I took in a sight that has never left me to this day. As far as I could see to my right, there were convoys like mine following in line moving north, paralleled to our convoy. I asked RPSN Thompson to unzip his window and to our amazement there they were too, column after column of vehicles as far as the human eye could see. We were a massive force moving north, in unison, and in the light our true strength was revealed in a uniquely clear and powerful way. As the sun climbed higher I could see with greater clarity and there to my right, two columns over, was a five-ton truck with its canopy removed and its bed loaded with Marines. One of those Marines positioned himself towards the front of the truck bed, right behind the cab and with all his might he held on to a large American flag that waved violently and boldly against the rising sun.  The blood red and stark white stripes contrasted sharply against the pale browns and yellows of the desert. It demanded all attention for miles around and I imagine that like I, having emerged out of a dark and anxious night, those colors waving so brightly inspired every American whose eyes were privileged to such a sight on that morning. Helicopters screamed across the sky in a hurry to the front and appeared like angels guarding us from above and for a sweet moment juxtaposed against that flag all of my fear dissipated.

            In the dark I was like Elijah in I Kings 19, overcome with fear and afraid of the frailty this life often brings us. I was a young father at the time and I grieved more than anything else not being able to return to my beautiful wife, Wanda, and our children, Tabitha and Emilio, above all things. In the darkness, whether it’s the darkness of night, the darkness of depression or the darkness of sin when we are in rebellion against God, we always presume we are alone. Yet we must learn that it is one of the greatest lies Satan plants deep within our consciousness. Elijah believed he was alone but in God’s gentle but direct manner he informs Elijah of his misperception when he says,

"Go back the way you came, and go to the Desert of Damascus. When you get there, anoint Hazael king over Aram. Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet.  Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu. Yet I reserve seven thousand in Israel—all whose knees have not bowed down to Baal and all whose mouths have not kissed him."

Like Elijah who had erroneously perceived his demise in low numbers, so too I was fooled by the vision darkness had robbed from me. It all served as a metaphor to our spiritual condition. With the rising of the sun it was clearly revealed to me that I was far from being alone or isolated but in fact I had been surrounded by friendly forces all through the night. I was in the company of thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands who moved north as liberators to free a nation and end tyranny in this region. This was perhaps a once in a lifetime experience, so I thought.

            So here I am once again, twelve years later accompanying the brave young men and women of the U.S. Marine Corps crossing yet another part of the same desert, traveling from the northern Kuwaiti desert and into southern Iraq on our way to Baghdad.  Just a few days prior as we headed north on the Kuwait highway a large convoy of white armored personnel carriers caught my eye. First their unique color captured my attention and then the obvious intrigued me – they were headed in the opposite direction from where everything was happening. I turned my head and stared at their large emboldened letters plastered on their vehicles which read UN as they faded away towards Kuwait City in the south and we headed north- a sure sign of failed diplomacy.

            As dawn broke we began to arrive to our new location in the desert well inside of Iraq. Marines were placed at different locations to guide the convoy to our predetermined positions designed to set up a tactical presence and establish a temporary base. With the arrival of the day came the task to dig in and establish our work and living spaces. The command element immediately began to establish their tactical operations center from where our Commanding General, Lieutenant General James Conway would continue to quarterback all of the Marine forces engaged in this operation.

            The night came quickly and by day’s end I realized I had not slept in over 32 hours. The area was secured and so I unabashedly climbed into my private two man tent for a moment of sanctuary and a deep desire to sleep. The days of going without sleep endlessly were behind me – this old guy by Marine Corps standards was pretty beat. I kept my boots and uniform on and threw the sleeping bag and flak jacket over me. I began my gentle descent into sleep when I heard, “Chaplain, Chaplain where are you?”

            My selfish and exhausted flesh tempted me to ignore it and succumb to the sleep but instead I yelled out, “Over here, who’s looking for the chaplain?” as I unzipped my tent and looked out I met the Sergeant Major’s red lit flashlight. “Chaplain, hurry there’s a need for you at one of our sites nearby!” He was obviously excited and concerned so I curiously asked, “What happened?”

The Sergeant Major went on to explain that one of our units from Task Force Tarawa from Camp Lejeune, got into a heavy fight in a place called An Nasiriyah. “Grab your stuff chaplain, the surgical team doesn’t have a chaplain and we can use you there.” I turned and called out to RP2 Stephens. We followed the Sergeant Major to a waiting Humvee and climbed into the two back seats. The front seats were backlit only against the computer screens of the Blue Force tracker in the vehicle. We had no idea once again who was taking us to the surgical unit but we climbed in and headed out. We engaged in some small talk in the shadows and once again submitted ourselves into their hands as we left the security of our new compound and trucked up and down the ravines of the desert in search of the surgical site.

            It proved relatively easy to find after a few tense minutes of darkness. Ahead of us we could see the white glow of the external lights being used to light up the trauma area just outside the surgical tents. CH-46 helicopters were coming in and dropping off the wounded. It was indeed a surreal sight as the entire area was covered in hovering dust from the approaching helos[4] and the soft white lights seemed to burst off the sand particles in the sky against the deep blackness behind it.

            The surgical area was surprisingly loud and hectic. Helos were coming in and covering the area with waves of dust. The surgical teams were yelling out orders and running back and forth between the triage area and the treatment area. To the untrained eye it all appeared so random and hectic but in reality it was a very well controlled dance with chaos. I stepped out of the Humvee and instinctively headed toward the brilliantly lit triage area where I was met enthusiastically by the towering figure of Hospitalman Master Chief Elliot, who was simply addressed as Master Chief. The vast amount of blood over his torso and stomach area on his surgical robe immediately caught my attention. I continued towards him and received a warm greeting from the Master Chief. As I became oriented to the situation I came to discover that the seven wounded patients being treated in the triage area were all Iraqis.

            I saw some of this in Desert Storm but in all honesty I’ve seen so much more of it this time around. It always amazes me how conscientiously we as a military force make such sincere gestures to treat our wounded humanely, even the outright enemy. Don’t get me wrong, we don’t treat them like VIPs. We posted Marines and Sailors at a stone’s throw from their tables and pointed shotguns and M-16s at them throughout their stay. In the meantime our corpsmen, nurses and doctors worked feverishly to attend to their wounds and discomfort. I saw a young corpsman walking around and offering them ice chips while attempting to communicate to see if they were comfortable. The seriously wounded had already been taken inside for surgery and these were those who could afford to wait. No matter how often you witness this dynamic one cannot be but impressed with the level of humanity evidenced on this night – especially in light of the fact that we just lost some of our own.

            Master Chief pointed me to the Force Sergeant Major and told me I would be needed right away towards the back of the makeshift compound. RP2 Stephens and I walked towards the container which sat in a darkened corner within the perimeter of the surgical team’s camp. There were a handful of Marines standing around and one did not need light to feel their collective broken hearts. When Sergeant Major Kinney saw me he called the Marines together and led me to the opening of the container where seven of our young Marines were laid unceremoniously inside their black body bags on shelves within the container. “Come around Marines, the chaplain is going to do his thing – come listen.” prodded the Sergeant Major in a caring but firm voice.

            Herein lies the paradox that chaplains have to live with while serving in the military – the vast majority of folks associate you with death. In sharp contrast, chaplains believe they represent life, eternal life. In the midst of such crisis’ chaplains are often called upon to minister to the dead and we struggle with this reality. During much of my career as a Navy chaplain I have intentionally dedicated myself to teaching my Marines and Sailors to call upon me as early as possible during the onset of an oncoming crisis. I want them to use me as a resource while there is an opportunity for communication, reflection and spiritual healing. Perhaps the reasoning for being called upon during times of death is that most service members understand that chaplains in all branches of the U.S. military share a common core principle, “nurture the living, care for the wounded, and honor the dead.” It provides a clear concise statement for our theology of ministry and guides us in our pursuit for ministry in the most of nontraditional settings. Yet many tend to focus on the portion related to “honoring the dead” and immediately refer to us during these sad times often forgetting the first two elements, “nurture the living and care for the wounded.”

              I am a Baptist minister, an American Baptist to be exact. In my theological framework humanity has until its last breath to respond to the loving call of God. In this framework we see humanity like a rebellious teenager struggling to define their existence away from God. We believe that there comes a time wherein spiritual maturity where the rebellious teenager sheds the anger and misconceptions attributed to God and they begin to look for a mature understanding of life’s meaning and therein seeks peace with God. This peace in my framework involves a call to repentance against the design of God and seeking to restore their relationship with a God who desires to have a personal, interactive relationship with humanity. I believe God is all encompassing and a graceful forgiving God. In this theological framework I believe God places the invitation to humanity and in an act of love actually limit God's own power over humanity in order to allow humanity to genuinely respond freely, to accept or reject God. I also believe that the response to this invitation can be done with great fanfare in a large church with as much credibility and authenticity as it can be done in a whispering confession during one’s last breath only to be heard by God. I dare not ever judge who has made the confession of heart or not. However, in this framework there is no accommodation for those who have already died. Upon death, the decision to relate to God or not has been sealed. Unlike other faiths where the dead are believed to be transported to a way station or a state of sleep for future opportunities of reconciliation with God, Baptists and the vast majority of Protestant Christians have no such provisions.

            So here I stand with half a dozen young Marines in a dark combat zone grieving for their friends, their brethren in arms perhaps questioning their own mortality – what can I offer them with integrity that would be genuine to me and to them when they call upon me to minister to their dead comrades? I wanted to be relevant to the moment; I wished to be real and honest. I had no idea what their spiritual traditions might be. So I decided to lead them in a prayer on their behalf, on behalf of the family of the deceased, and in an attempt to momentarily honor with dignity those who have been killed. I called them together and I knelt down over the closest body bag to me not yet placed in the container and placed my hand on the top of the bag.

            I had consciously chosen not to open the bag, not knowing the condition of the deceased I did not wish to further traumatize the young men around me in the event the body happened to be disfigured or burned, so I opted to pray for each Marine without unzipping the bags. However, when my hand touched the first bag I could feel the contour of the young Marine’s face through the heavy plastic. My hand looked for a place to rest and I could feel the bridge of his nose and then the forehead. The immense reality of the moment shook me to my core, for while I was confident that I was prepared to do this I realized that as soon as that bag ceased to be a bag and it took its proper form as the lost life of a young man I was overridden by emotion. I could not speak. I attempted to force the words out and I stuttered a low gasp. In the dark I allowed a tear to well in my eyes. I felt brokenness in my heart and I pleaded to God with humble emotion and a spirit of gentle advocacy a heartfelt prayer in the likes of – “Gracious and Loving Lord, in your grace receive this young man into your hands, forgive us all of our sins, show us compassion during these days of war. Be with the poor families who do not yet know that their son is gone and grant them comfort and peace that only you can provide. Walk with us and give us strength and courage. We rely on your promise that you walk with us until the end of time. In your holy name we pray. Amen.”

            I laid hands on each deceased Marine and said a similar whispered prayer. With each prayer spoken quietly under my breath I also pleaded silently for mercy upon those there with me and the many others out there on this violent night. I prayed for each deceased Marine, as much for them as for their families and especially for those that stood behind me. I could not help but think of the agony I would feel if I learned of my son’s death. Sending your child to war does not prepare you in any way for the real possibility of death – it is something that happens to other people. I believe most people cope in a state of denial until the knock on the door from men and women in uniform shatters that fantasy. I moved from Marine to Marine that night knowing that to the young Marines behind me it raised a great deal of questions and they watched in what perhaps felt to them a painful eternity. When I was done praying I invited them to stay there and honor their comrades and support one another. I wanted so badly to tend to each of them, to hug them as a father hugs his sons, but the screams from inside the adjacent surgical tent reminded me that there were more to attend to, so I was escorted hurriedly to see the ones that were wounded.

            I was met by a medical team member who led me from the container to the back door of the treatment room. We walked into a brightly lit room that immediately reminded me of the thousands of hours of M*A*S*H reruns I had watched with my family on those quiet and peaceful evenings. At the opposite end of the treatment room there were three people working on a Marine. I stepped towards them avoiding the puddles of blood on the floor and the gear that was strewn about. One of the attendants called to us and asked us if we would mind clearing the way so I turned to RP2 Stephens and asked him to pick up the 782 gear, what Marines call their suspenders attached to a web belt with ammo, canteens and first aid kit. He reached down to grab the flak jacket and was unmistakably surprised by the fact that it was weighed down with blood and when he lifted it up towards him blood poured out of it onto the deck. He looked at me and said, “What do I do with this?” With no real clear idea I returned with a blank look and one of the attendants retorted, “Put it in one of those plastic bags behind you and stick it in the corner.”

            I turned to face the Marine on the bed and was granted an undesired lesson in the human anatomy. His leg was propped up and bent at the knee, with his foot resting on the bed. The attendants were cleaning the wound where all of the outer skin of his left leg from his knee down to his ankle was missing.  I could see the various muscles with utmost clarity. His screams of pain brought me back to him after having been momentarily affixed psychologically to his leg and so I hurried to his side. I gave him my hand to hold as he struggled with the pain and I then took a position by his head and spoke softly in his ear,  “Son, I’m the chaplain and I want to pray for you – is there anything I can specifically pray for?” Without hesitation, thought or prompting he grimaced in pain and turned to me and said,

 “Chaplain, pray for my wife and daughter and my Marines who are still out there in the fight. I want to go back out to join them.”

Every generation has its doubts of the generation that follows in their footsteps. In the Marine Corps and Navy we joke and revel on the attributes of the “Old Corps” or “Old Navy” implying that those of us who went before suffered greater distress than the new generation of today. We, the older generation, often wonder if the new generation in this age of Ipods, video games and instant gratification possess the necessary fortitude to endure tragedy, disappointment and hardships like combat. On this day in a surgical room in Iraq I began to realize that in fact this generation possesses within its rank those who have the uncommon valor and courage of heroes past. In times as this when the measure of a man is determined by how he responds in the rawness of pain and harsh circumstances this young man’s virtues emerged clearly as he focused not on his leg, the blood he lost or his pain but he was determinedly focused on his family, his family at home and his family here. I can’t share all of the stories of selfless acts conducted by these young men who in peace time make officers worry because of their childish antics, naïve presumptions and ignorant ranting but in the heat of battle, in the face of death they face the events with courage and lean on one another in a way rarely accommodated anywhere else in our society.

In the Judeo-Christian scriptures we find the events of David’s kingdom in the book of 2 Samuel, chapter 11 where David sends his soldiers off to war under the leadership of Joab. While his army is off in combat David in one of his weakest moments catches a glimpse of Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite who is one of his officers, and seduces her. Aware of his breach and the fact that she sent word to David of her pregnancy, David attempted to hide his sin by sending for Uriah and asking for a status report on the war. When Uriah completed his report David granted him permission to go home and be with his wife, hoping that by Uriah sleeping with his wife he could conceal the betrayal he had committed. However, Uriah being the man of honor and the warrior brethren that he was departed from the King’s presence and went to the servant’s quarters and did not lie with his wife. The following morning David seeks to confirm his plan and asks Uriah of his stay with his wife and Uriah answers, “The ark and Israel and Judah are staying in tents, and my master Joab and my lord's men are camped in the open fields. How could I go to my house to eat and drink and lie with my wife? As surely as you live, I will not do such a thing!"  The event ends poorly for Uriah the Hittite as David, out of frustration and in an attempt to continue to conceal his sin, sends him back to the war with orders to be sent to the very front of the battle for a sure death.

This account clearly juxtaposes the weak, self serving and dishonorable leader David had become in his kingdom against the character of Uriah who personified the honor of a selfless and committed warrior. To a degree Uriah represented to David what he, David, had been years earlier to the people of Israel but yet in his disobedience and self serving fashion had come to abandon. Metaphorically, as David killed Uriah he in reality was killing himself and the image he had once represented as the Warrior King. Ironically David’s actions catapulted Uriah from obscurity and on into eternal recognition in the written word of scripture. The secret he so intensely wished to hide became the very characteristic which defined his kingdom and stature in Biblical history and in contrast this simple yet honorable obscure officer becomes the personification of what it means to be a warrior of honor.

In their moments, like Uriah, many of these obscure young men make decisions, statements and act out on conviction in ways which honor Uriah and the rest of us who wear the cloth of our nation and desire to passionately serve faithfully and well. When such honor is exhibited in its raw state in action it supersedes all things said and inspires others to act in similar fashion because selfless honor resonates with the character of God instilled within our soul.

In the next thirty minutes by the Marine’s side I was able to see him stabilized and his wounds tended. As the medical team worked on him, he shared his story of how a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) screamed by him and tore the flesh off his leg. He recounted the intensity of the battle at An Nasiriyah and interrupted himself over and over again with disgust in realizing that this was inconvenient in that it kept him from returning to the battlefield with his brother Marines.

In my humble opinion, he was extremely fortunate to have escaped alive. I learned three days later that they believed 12 Marines lost their lives that night in a savagely intense firefight with Iraqi Fedayeen Saddam (Saddam’s “Men of Sacrifice”) militia on a bridge across the Euphrates in An Nasiriyah coupled with the tragedy of a possible friendly fire from one of our own aircraft. We’d also learned that in the midst of all this in that same vicinity an Army convoy from the Army’s 507th Maintenance Company had been ambushed and that 12 soldiers were unaccounted for and believed to be taken prisoners. The same ambush which later in the war became famously associated with PVT Jessica Lynch. This war was already very different from the last war – it wasn’t going to end in a 100 hours.

For the next hour I walked around the compound and had the opportunity to talk offline with a few Marines and sailors. The helos were still coming in to pick up the wounded, American and Iraqi, to transport them to the Fleet Medical Hospital which was tucked behind us in the tactical layout. With the passing hours the adrenaline filtered out of my system and exhaustion began to tug at me. All of the helos were gone and so were the wounded. The triage area had been cleared and was eerily quiet as it lay ready to receive more casualties. Those of us not on duty for the rest of the night scrambled for a portable cot or a place in a Humvee to call it a night.

I collapsed onto a cot that Sergeant Major Kinney found for me. I looked up into the sky and noticed for the first time a dimly lit desert night. I paused long enough to remember that today was March 23^rd, my father’s birthday, who had died a couple years prior and it was also my youngest sister’s birthday as well. I sure hoped Enid, my sister, had a better day than I did. I paused and shot a quick but genuine plea for peace in prayer, consciously thought of Wanda my wife, our relationship and the kids – Tabitha and Emilio, recapped the emotions of the day, shed a tear and fell into a deep sleep under the open sky.