The Cross in Camouflage-- An Army Chaplain's Weblog

Reintegration and Epilogue

2007-05-29T14:30:00.000-07:00

While the 92nd Military Police Battalion was busy putting new coats of paint on the walls of the plywood buildings which held headquarters and other company offices, SGT James and I were making several trips to the post office. The central one was always busy and seemed to be picky about what could and could not be mailed. The post office on the periphery was less busy but they would take every item out of the package. I had to throw away tooth paste and lotion. Then I in my guilt not to waste, I retrieved it out of the trash and decided to carry it home with me. The new chaplain was busy posting up his scriptural thought for the day and doing everything that I should have done to make the chapel more “churchy” and more like a coffee shop including free cookies. (Too bad, I was busy traveling around theater and visiting troops and doing counseling sessions.) In my jaded state I would think to myself, “He’ll learn.” There is nothing like baptism by fire. And although I would not wish hardship on anyone, it seemed to me that the new chaplain was going to learn the hard way the difference between ministries in a war zone versus in the comforts of the garrison environment. Luckily his chaplain assistant had been deployed to Iraq before.

We had the usual ceremonies to transfer authority. The colonel was an articulate man who didn’t sugar coat the language of his speech. He praised the 372nd as being highly important in the fight to secure Baghdad. We had been the largest MP BN to date with many valuable missions. Our Commander, LTC Aaron Dean, a light skinned African-American with a firm yet conversational manner was recognized as a leader who could be counted on. The weather was brighter and warmer for the December day—it didn’t just seem that way, either. The speeches were short. The respective SGM's for the 372nd and the 92nd furled and unfurled flags and we were done.

On the last week when most of the 372nd was housed in a tent behind our original pad, there was a knock on my door by MSG Abraham, who informed me that one of our female SGT’s sister had died back home. Our company commander, 1LT Bridges, MSG Abraham, SGT James, and a battle buddy awakened SGT B from her slumber. She was very calm in receiving the news and indicated that she had the feeling that this was the case when she spoke with her mother on the telephone earlier that day. Her mother was very sad but did not say why. SGT B’s homecoming became sadder as we had to deliver bad news a second time just as we were approaching Washington, DC on the bus. Her grandmother who was in her 90’s didn’t live to see her return.

The one frustration that had become my constant harp was taken away from me at the Baghdad International Airport. No longer would I be one of the only two 1LT chaplains in all of Iraq. Major Fulford had arranged that I would be promoted at the airport on Iraqi soil where I had given most of my service. Many of us were napping in the big quansit hut when we were called to formation. MAJ F found a spot in an open area out of view of the phone center and the latrines so that some good pictures could be taken. About 30 or so soldiers of the 372nd gathered in formation. We were facing west toward Camp Liberty and Baghdad.

When I was called out of formation and to post by MAJ Fulford and CPT Bolen, MAJ Fulford pinned his old captain’s bars on my chest. I saluted and was offered an opportunity to speak. I mostly spoke about how my life was not a “straight line” and that I had many people around me that supported me. These were persons who encouraged me to keep my eye on relationships. I told the soldiers that I knew that they mostly did not go through life in a straight line. I mentioned how proud I was to belong to a predominantly African-American unit and how welcomed they made me feel. I also mentioned that even though I considered myself a progressive man, they allowed me to live out that commitment in reality by working side by side during tough times. I also joked that I now had “Peeps” and that I was probably the only white chaplain in the whole U.S. Army that could say that!

The next few days in Kuwait seemed like limbo. Soldiers spent a lot of time on the internet and telephones. I kept stopping by the “free books” cart in front of the Camp VA library and adding to my already “too many to read in camp” collection. One was about Jewish comedians. One evening, I stepped inside and listened to a classical music CD and read articles from two ethics and religion type magazines. I commented to the librarian on how amazing I thought this little library was. It turns out that he was a retired Roman Catholic chaplain. He invited me to a Mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I gently declined.

As our bus sat outside the airstrip we were allowed to briefly get off and take a break. One of the security guards started speaking Greek into his radio, so I answered him back. I had to ask what a pair of Greeks were doing pulling security for the U.S. military. Obviously, they had signed on with some security company. We chatted about Greece and I mentioned that I had spent my leave there.

Spirits among the soldiers were high as we ascended in the chartered commercial jet-liner. Most cheered when the plane left the ground. And cheers came again when the stewardess mentioned that there would be one free alcoholic beverage for each of us. Since no alcohol had been allowed in theater, this was a big deal. I chose a red wine. After dinner was served, I was continued to read my book on Jewish comedians. I began to feel nauseated and had the urge to go to the restroom. When I went into the small cabin, I slumped backward and passed out for a moment. As I pulled myself from the floor I had become very sweaty and my pulse was rapid.

As I walked forward through the aisle pulling my uniform together, no one seemed to know which seat our medic was in. As luck would have it, he was located on the other end near the front of the plane. Our medic was an islander from Jamaica. He was wearing earphones and taking a nap. There were no IV’s on board so it was a matter of getting some hydration and taking my vitals. I had people concerned, but felt a little sheepish for the attention. But I hadn’t remembered ever fainting before and I’ve always flown well.

Our next stop was in Germany. An ambulance was waiting for me and a female specialist who had a reputation as a problem child. She was loveable, but exasperating for most. I think she complained of a severe headache and nausea. A doctor and the ambulance crew ran an EKG on me. Normal. The doctor said that just because I was showing normal at that moment didn’t mean that I hadn’t had a heart related event. They wanted to take me to the hospital to run some further tests. I declined and signed some papers releasing them of any responsibility.

We had a 4AM stop at a small NH airport where we were greeted by dozens of local veterans and members of other groups. They lined the hallways on either side in various outfits of red, white and blue. They let us use free phones and offered all sorts of snacks. It was impressive that a large group (about 40 or more) would get up on an early Sunday morning to come and welcome us home. They gathered us in an atrium gave a few remarks, took our picture, offered a prayer and let us return to the plane. The man who gave the prayer was a veteran who was wearing a chaplain’s cross. I took him to be a chaplain, but it turned out that he was a “chaplain” to his VFW unit. He offered the general prayer in Jesus’ name… I didn’t have time to get into it with him about the First Amendment rights of the soldiers who weren’t Christian. Some things you just let roll. And the soldiers didn’t seem to mind anyway. The “Amen” was loud. They were just grateful to be home. Praise Jesus, the Buddha, Allah and Vishnu!

We landed at Fort Dix early on a sunny December morning. The unit lived in a barracks built in the 1950’s. I shared a room with our Intelligence Officer who was looking forward to seeing his fiancee. Most of our time was consumed with medical and Veterans Affairs briefings. I used down time to go over to the Community Center and use the free computers to get a fix for my internet addiction. A day or two later we hosted family members there. I roamed freely among the soldiers and guests admiring all the family resemblances and saying good things about the soldier with whom they were reunited. It was easy and very pleasant. Since the battalion was mostly African-American, our gathering had the feel of a Baptist social, complete with aunties, nieces and nephews.

On the morning of our bus ride back to D.C., we packed faster than I had ever seen us pack before. Aside from having to break bad news to Sgt B. about her grandmother, our trip went quickly. It was a bright December day. We arrived at the D.C. armory to a dozen or so officers and soldiers who shook our hands and welcomed us home. After about an hour of unloading and practicing our march into the armory, we got the signal to go in. LTC Dean was strutting and beaming as he led us into the cavernous armory. In the one corner played a band and the bleachers were full of at least a couple hundred people. A few speeches were given including Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton. I don’t recall anything of what she said other than “Welcome Home” and her warm demeanor. I, too, was called upon to mention those whom we lost. I did and added a few words about our brotherhood with all soldiers who have been killed.

Reunion was sweet. While in formation, I could not see my father and sister. If someone had planned that my view be blocked, they couldn’t have done it any better. I quickly found them after we were released. Dad wore an Air Force windbreaker that I bought for him. My sister was a little grayer, but her face was as warm as ever. CH Kenworthy was there with his family. I made all the proper introductions. SGT James’ family was there, too. We mixed and mingled briefly before looking for the parking lot and driving back to PA. Dad was tired, so he slept in the back seat. He looked older, but still healthy and crusty. I was still in my uniform, but had no duty other than reacquainting myself with my family and dogs.

EPILOGUE

My days include cleaning out closets, taking dogs to vet appointments, going to the Lebanon VA Hospital for follow up, filing two years worth of taxes, substitute teaching, pulpit supply and projects around the house. I’ve given a few talks and presentations to community faith groups. I’m visiting friends and relatives. I’ve enrolled in some dog training classes. Life seems more “normal” than before I left. It’s orderly and I don’t expect too much from myself.

There have been some sleepless nights. There were a few nightmares that have since gone away. There has been sadness and high degree of free floating irritation. I hate television news reports about Iraq. I read it instead and take it in by small doses. Some people ask me, “How was it?” Usually I answer that it was “tough” but that I was inspired by the resiliency of our soldiers. I explain that my first duty was the care of the soldiers and that is what keeps me from any bitterness. I get regular calls and emails from SGT James and SPC Hargrave. I've talked at length with a chaplain buddy of mine who came home to some tough marital issues. I’ve even met up for dinner with a soldier who visited my office often in Baghdad. It got uglier for him after I left. I don’t say anything about how grateful I am that he is alive given the missions he ran and the losses his unit took. He is young and optimistic. As I sit across from him over fried chicken and Yuengling, I am confident that his eyes will dart less from side to side after he puts in his last year stateside. He will go to college. He will be so different than most. This too will require resiliency. He deserves success and joy.

Sometime in the middle of the winter I had some business to conduct at Fort Indiantown Gap. As I drove down a small hill past the Joint Headquarters, there is a now an old air bomber to my left. I really didn’t notice it, though. On the other side of the road stands the metal obelisk with crazed glass and dog tags on chains hanging inside. It had been made in Rhamadi. I saw it shortly after it had been dedicated over there. I knew that it was going to be sent home, but I really didn’t know where it would end up. The brass plaques with soldiers’ names and units are displayed at the base. I recognize many of the names. I stand there at the foot of the memorial for what seems like an eternity. The sun is bright. It is cold outside with a slight breeze. The dog tags inside the structure tinkle like a wind chime. It was designed this way. It’s a dynamic, not static memorial. There are “blast holes,” broken glass, twisted metal all worked into a familiar shape. It is both one of the most ugly and most beautiful things I have ever seen. I weep and return to my car and go home where I have wept even more.

What I Would Have Said (Had I Known What I Now Know)

2006-12-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

During the summer of 2003, my unit had its annual training at FT Pickett, VA. I was still rather fresh in my uniform and felt rather gawkish and unsure of what to do and how to fit in. Most of the time I was there I spent it following up on Red Cross messages for soldiers, listening to stories from some of our Vietnam era aviators, and performing worship services in the field.

The most emotional intensity I had during this Annual Training came from a soldier who told the story of placing the Bronze Star that he had earned in Vietnam into his son's casket. He obviously needed to tell me this for reasons I only attribute the the title of "Chaplain." A Vietnamese pilot told me the story of how he flew one of the very last Huey's off the mainland out toward the sea until he ran out fuel and was rescued off shore by the U.S. Navy. I caught glimpses of the relationship between the chaplain and the enlisted assistant who was a "Joe"but embodied the wisdom and loyalty of all Joes. I attempted to get used to being saluted and returning salute.

As I was there I was told that an infantry platoon of young soldiers whose company was just mobilized to be deployed to Iraq. I was asked to perform a worship service for them. It was an opportunity to practice in-the-field ministry. I went by the camp while it rained lightly. The young soldiers in their woodland camouflage were huddled under a short lean-to. I attempted to lead them in a traditional hymn, but there were few takers. This is a generation that is less exposed to some of these idioms and are searching for their own manner of worship. I forget what text I used and remember that I awkwardly attempted to address their situation. I failed to connect probably because I was a bit nervous and knew little of where they'd been or what they were now facing.

When we drove away from the camp I expressed my doubts to the female soldier who was accompanying me that morning. She said not to pay it any mind and keep moving forward. So I did. Later that week, I was one of the very last soldiers to leave the tarmac as I watched about a dozen of our helicopters, both attack and transport. I had entered a world I knew little about, but trusted that all that was necessary to be part of it was to keep moving forward.

The first request to deploy to Kosovo stressed me. I was still working with a difficult congregation and this seemed like a difficult jump for me at the time. It would have required that I drop everything and go directly to school and from there to Kosovo. I declined and felt guilty for it.When the time came and I was asked to consider a deployment to Iraq I immediately responded, "Yes."Partly, I was now very ready spiritually, emotionally and physically. The other part was a matter of deciding to do it--move forward.

Forward I went for two years through tough training, boring classrooms, navigating the good-ol' boy system, chemical suits, mortars, sand storms, trauma, praying, memorializing, convoying and living out "Groundhog's Day." Why did I do it? I believed that I had a responsibility to my self and to those whom I served. I think of myself as somewhat insecure. Yes, I needed the mission for my own development. But that wasn't the primary focus. Whatever gene or nexus of personal experience that makes for "responsible types" -- I've got it. So I met would be brothers, sisters, fathers and uncles and did my best to take care of them and work with them as a chaplain. In a few instances,I failed. But for the lion's share, I among and beside many in the midst of confusion and pain and the many idiosyncratic relationships that the military has. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I am not a Hawk. I am Pro-people and I believe that we all have a responsibility to serve our country in a manner that is best fitting to our character. As far as I am concerned, there will always be individuals who are called to soldiering and the profession of arms. Their experiences are among the most trying and dramatic in the human experience. Is it often sad and seemingly pointless?Yes. And all the more reason for prayer, companionship and the much needed grace of God.

I discovered that I love soldiers and that soldiers come in all shapes, sizes, color, gender and stations in life. In my last unit there was a wide hipped black woman mother of a teenager who had an infectious laugh and wore cloying perfume.She was a legal assistant who took her job very seriously and had processed many actions for discipline. She was a soldier. And there was the young man from PA who was a PV2 for far too long in an MP unit that handled many frightening situations and helped to remove the dead from the streets.Sometimes bodies were booby trapped. He was very bright, but like many bright persons, he was indecisive because he didn't let himself be governed by his superiors or the unit. I met endless regular "Joes" who were"on" and ready to do almost anything asked of them because it was a job that needed to be done. Nothing more. Even though I was close to many of the effects of fear, terror and pain I was not there when the IED went off or the sniper's bullet landed. I am a witness and minister.

What might I have said to those young soldiers sitting under the tarp, had I had this experience prior to meeting them? I would have told them that some of what they are facing is too big of a mystery to understand. That by their own choice, chance, and the needs of the nation (whether some agree or not),they are heading to war. They will not come back the same. Some will lose arms and legs. A few will return under the draped flag. To many they will remain nameless and your experience not understood.They have great dignity because they have chosen to face ugliness, mayhem and pain so others might be spared of it. I would remind them that being a soldier is a spiritual calling, yet that calling is founded on primarily their humanness. Being human in an inhumane world is the greatest weapon against savagery of all. And that God's power, strength, grace and love and always and everywhere available to them. And that in the darkness of any evil, God's light can still be seen.

This is what I might have said, had I known what I know now.

Not Toy Soldiers

2006-11-16T12:29:00.000-08:00

In the early afternoon of 9 November a squad from the 410th MP company was on patrol in their humvees along Route Vernon at the overpass of Route Irish when an Explosively Formed Projectile tore through the first vehicle in the convoy. Apparently the insurgents took advantage of the fact that this was the only in and out of sector. The projectile came through the passenger’s side and was catastrophic. Those in the vehicle behind couldn’t see through the smoke, but notice on the ground near them PFC Howard Zachary, the gunner who was blown out of the turret. The turret and gunner separated in the air. Members of Stryker unit came and supplied force protection as medics tended to the broken bodies of SGT Gregory McCoy and SPC Courtland Kennard.

I wasn’t aware of what had happened until I return from an office visit at personnel affairs to have my ID card updated. SGT James had gone ahead to the Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH) to follow up on the survivor and help support the unit in its crisis. I stayed behind and called to find out when other soldiers from the unit would be returning so I could be present if they wished to talk. SGT James returned a bit earlier than what I expected and we proceeded to Camp Stryker.

No sooner than we had arrived, CPT Whittenberger, Commander of the 410th MP Company “Bravo Spirit” arrived. CPT W, a broad and somewhat stoic man accepted as I offered my condolences. We met and sat with a young LT and SFC who were part of the convoy that underwent the attack. They were emotionally bruised and saddened. CPT W. advice to them was to stay inside the wire and take care of them selves a while. He stated that all the soldiers would handle the loss differently. One thing he said that struck me as genuine was “I don’t believe in toy soldiers.” I took this to mean that he values soldiers as individuals and this loss was very real to him. I later discovered that at one time he was an enlisted soldier in Field Artillery (Cannon Crewmember), was given an Honorable Discharge, went to college where he earned a BS, and is now completing a Master’s degree.

We had the company members gather in the chapel after dinner so to formally announce the loss and talk about what would happen next. I briefly offered my sympathies and explained that I was there to help them through this time of grief. I told them that one thing that I believe is helpful is to gather as friends and informally share the stories that might not be told publicly, so that they won’t feel “short changed” at the formal memorial ceremony. As the soldiers were ushering out, a tall SPC asked to speak to me alone. He stated that this loss reminded him how much he had strayed and that he felt that he was in danger of losing his faith. Part of what I was able to understand was that he was raised in fundamentalist environment that made him feel guilty for not believing the way his family did. He saw much evil in the world. We talked about different ideas of what faith is. I tried to lighten his load as best as I could. I walked out into the night. Melancholy and weariness were about me. The next morning I told myself that I was definitely ready to go home for a while.

My memorial message for SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Kennard (promoted posthumously):

Grace and peace to you my fellow soldiers and friends. As we take time to honor and remember SSG Gregory W. McCoy and SGT Courtland A. Kennard, I hope that you know that you are not alone in your grief and that the prayers of fellow enlisted, officers, friends and family are with you here in this very place. They are offered fervently and with great care that you may find solace and strength in the midst of this tragedy. As far as I am concerned, all soldiers lives are spiritual quests—some parts more difficult than others. SSG McCoy’s and SGT Kennard’s quests have ended, but yours members of the 410th continues.

The other night when I visited with you, I repeated what your commander CTP Whittenberger had said, “That everyone will react in their own way to this loss.” Some will be brokenhearted, others will be angry and some will feel numb or somehow unconnected to this loss. Others of you will simply be relieved that it wasn’t you. All of us have been created uniquely and each of us have different life experiences to help us cope with what you face. You have full permission to go through this in your way, but for your own sake and the sake of those around you, don’t go it alone. There is no need to. You have put so much work into bonding with each other as a unit. Stay connected with each other and walk forward as best as you know how.

When asked what scripture would be meaningful for you to hear at this ceremony, the friends of SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard chose the 23rd Psalm. Some of you may know it very well while others of you may have heard it only once or twice. In the 23rd Psalm, which SPC Nicholas read for us, the psalmist gives us the image of God as a shepherd—someone who guards, tends, and guides. In the face of how fearful our existence can sometimes be, the image of the good shepherd is most comforting. The fears that we all face at one point or another is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You as soldiers of the 410th and countless others do not need to be told that what you face day in and day out is being in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You deal with mortality regularly. Your courage is seen every day as you put on your boots, body armor and kevlars go out there and face what there is to face.

I believe that Harold Kushner, rabbi and author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People, is right when he says that the idea that we are going to die one day is NOT what scares us. It is the anticipation of death, the sense that our time is limited that gives us fear. It is death’s shadow, not death itself that is fearful. Out of all creatures, we are the only ones that know that there will be a day when we will not be here. Frightening, but when we consider it closely, we can frame our minds and ask ourselves about how we choose to use this time.

No one can take away your memories of the good that SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard did. No one can take away the effect of their identity, their values, their sense of humor. No one can take away their service and commitment in the face of dicey prospects. No one can take away the honor that they placed in the uniform. No one can take away the sense of camaraderie or even the frustrations that you had with one another. These belong to SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard and to you all forever and death has no power over it.

One thing we may feel is that God isn’t with us in the darkness of the valley. But, the psalmist speaks of drawing comfort from God’s presence and his rod and staff. I believe most, if anything, we more often struggle with the absence of God. It is OK to ask “Where are you Lord when I most need you?” “Show your face, lend me your rod and staff that I might not walk without something to protect me and something to lean on.” If this God is worth anything, he must be a God big enough to handle our doubts, fears, tears, grief, anger and our feelings of being orphaned. He must equip us somehow to face the valley. Otherwise, he would not be a good shepherd at all. He would be neglectful of his creation and our efforts to make meaning out our lives—the good and the tragic—would be in vain.

One last thing I need to share with you is the depth to which CPT Whittenberger took this loss. I have seen his grief. He has shown great concern for you all. I have seen the dignity with which he has sought to bring to all the details surrounding this tragedy. This is true of all the leaders of the 410th that I have met.

Friends, find hope in whatever good SSG McCoy and SGT Kennard were and did. Determine what good you want to pass on in this life and do it. Don’t put it off for tomorrow. Tell the ones you love that you love them. Put your heart on the line. For today is a gift and tomorrow is not promised to us. Amen

Please stand with me in silent tribute to SSG Gregory McCoy and SGT Courtland Kennard.

----SILENCE----
Lord, we thank you for the life SSG Gregory McCoy and the life of SGT Courtland Kennard of and we lift up all that they were to your mercies. Amen.

A couple days later, I once again saw the 410th. There spirits were high as the unit and CPT Whittenberger was being honored in Change of Command Ceremony where I delivered the invocation. There is something about the resiliency and camaraderie of soldiers that is truly amazing. There were smiles and laughter as they were standing tall in a magnificently bright Iraqi morning with a cool breeze that lifted their guidon and brought life to Old Glory. I can only pray that my part has been sufficient for these men and women as I begin to leave this place. There is so much that I will never forget.

Hearts Abound

2006-10-24T09:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve now been witness and taken part in several award ceremonies that included the presentation of the Purple Heart. The best of these are “Return to Duty” with the soldier who has been injured and recovered standing in the company of others. At the other end of the presentation spectrum is the Purple Heart presented posthumously laid upon a presentation table along with a photograph of the soldier. Recently, I was called to the CSH (Combat Support Hospital) when one of our subordinate units reported having been attacked. We had five soldiers there. Two soldiers had minor injuries; one had smoke inhalation and was slated for observation for a couple of days. Two soldiers needed surgery. A small group that included the company commander, our XO and a couple of unit NCO’s and fellow squad members came and visited with the first soldier who had come out of surgery. SPC S, was like many soldiers—lanky and earnest. What struck me most about our visit with him was how immediate our access was and how quickly the unit wished to conduct honors for him.

A piece of surgical tape was affixed to the Purple Heart. As the XO reached forward to give the medal to him, a ripple of emotion crossed the face of SPC S. I could see the apprehension in his eyes. This is not an award anyone seeks to receive. SPC S. is lucky. The shrapnel in his leg was easily removed. It was given for him to keep. His buddies will eventually welcome him back to the fold.

It was SPC B who was on everybody’s mind, however. He was in surgery when we arrived. He sustained extensive damage to his legs from shrapnel wounds. The surgeons were hopeful that they would be able to save both his legs. Unit members as well as we from the battalion waited a couple of hours before he was brought down. We all gathered in the ICU. This was so different from a civilian hospital. We were all gathered near his bed while doctors and nurses worked on him. He was in a semi-conscious state and I was able to pray with him. SPC B. was encouraged by his buddies as well. As nurses used ultrasonic devices to help blood flow to his extremities, we helplessly listened as SPC B. from time to time would cry out in pain. Morphine was on hand.

Eventually we were told that SPC B. would have to go back in for surgery due to a possible blood clot. I took it as a poor sign whether he would get to keep the affected leg.
All along I had been holding the Purple Heart with another piece of surgical tape attached to it. (Later I would discover that in the early history of the U.S. Army there were no medals. They were considered too reminiscent of continental nobles who were given medals for just being who they are instead of earning them. George Washington cut some purple cloth into heart shapes and gave them to his most courageous men.) We left the Purple Heart with SPC B.'s unit NCO's and fellow soldiers. A couple weeks later I learned that SPC had lost his leg and sent to Walter Reed. His life, like many of our soldiers, will be radically different than how it was before they came to Iraq.

I have seen bravery up close. It is a quality of the heart. It bleeds and the cost is great. Nothing can be traded for it. The next times I would see a Purple Heart was at both of the memorial services in which I had part as soon as I returned from leave in October. One soldier was 20 years old, the other was 21. I barely can remember what was in my heart at their age.

Bats in Flight II

2006-09-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

Military chaplains often refer soldiers to Combat Stress Control (mental health). Fortunately, the CSC CPT, CPT C is a very versatile man. He was educated at Boston University, is an ordained minister in the Methodist tradition and a licensed Social Worker. He has a keen and broad mind, an absurd sense of humor and the gift of Zen in basketball lay up shots. He wears BCG’s (ugly army issue eyeglass frames called “birth control glasses”) that give him that intellectual look ala Henry Kissinger. He helps to run the Warrior Restoration Program where soldiers spend a few days in group sessions at a retreat called Freedom Rest. The previous chaplain called it a “white collar prison,” but it is a good respite for the right persons. There is a pool and private rooms where soldiers can decompress a bit so they can get some distance from their issues.

CPT C is astute and asked some good questions regarding the dynamics some of the companies that I serve. For example, there was a company of MP’s from the VAANG who had some friction with the post command on the FOB where they were. There also had been some drinking and soldiers reduced in rank. Upon visiting, the Co. commander, a competent man who graduated from UVA told me about some negligent discharges when soldiers were reentering the FOB. He also told me about some of his own personal frustrations as well as the perception that the BN commander was keeping them from doing more complex missions. CPT C recommended that I share the unit issues with the BN commander. When I did, I learned more about how discharges point to lack of discipline at the non-commissioned officer level and that the unit has a mindset that they are fully trained because they were schooled by the Navy SEALS. The BN commander told me that, yes, they are well trained for a particular kind of mission, but if they wanted broader responsibilities in the fight, they would have to train more.

Soon after our return to Camp Liberty, we had an incident with one of our newest and youngest companies. While on convoy a soldier lost control of his vehicle and ran through a small building killing a local national. It is most likely that he was using excessive speed. The company’s 1SG sent the driver and trip commander to come see me shortly after the accident. The young soldier who was driving was obviously distraught. All that I could really say to them is that what happened was about as serious as it gets (in terms of the value of another’s life) and that there would, of course, be an investigation. The tragedy of all was that this was part of the unintended—but always present—consequence of war. What is to be done here? Give absolution? Try to press the soldier to realize the depth of his guilt? Leave it to others? What is this compared to the hundreds of tortured bodies found each day? I can feel the awkward expression on my face as I try to remind them of the gravity, the upcoming investigation, and some platitudes about not being too harsh with one’s self. God grant me wisdom, I pray.

The next couple of days include a visit from a black female soldier who is trying to get out of the Army because the recruiter lied about her eligibility for a signing bonus. Her unit has tried to help her, but keeps getting stone walled. She has begun to be disaffected to the point where I later learn she has decided not to come out of her room. Now she faces disciplinary action. I spend time with a SGT who has just been relieved of his duty in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). He sobs in realizing he must now let go. He feels shamed. I embrace the large man as I sit next to him on a bench. Another soldier comes to me seeking “Compassionate Reassignment” to a duty station in West Texas as he is the only child of a woman dying of cancer. He needs to go home and take care of her. I meet a Major who worked with my previous brigade who tells me of a sad episode of a higher ranking officer who regularly dispensed intimidation and humiliation. This man is the son of a Vietnam vet who told him not come to war and leave his family. I attempt to offer consolation in the fact that he took his own path and faced what he had to face here.

Another trip to a subordinate unit includes an invitation to go to visit Iraqi Police stations outside the wire. SGT J was not fully prepared for this and neither was I. He gets nervous and reminds me that we aren’t required. I explain that the commander said that these places had not seen any activity for a couple weeks and can ensure our safety. He reluctantly agrees to come out with me. I have probably acted to hastily, but since these soldiers have not seen a chaplain in months, let alone a chaplain who is willing to meet them where they cover for 24 hours at a time, I go. The conditions are tough and the stations are barely decent. And SGT J. comes with me. We have very good visits with the soldiers (many want to talk) and tours of IP stations that include photo ops. As we are waiting for a chopper to return us to Camp Liberty, SGT J. brings up his discomfort about not being totally prepared. He is mostly right, but I’m not hearing it. We table the discussion for the next day. We skip a day and meet together with a Master SGT. We get it out on the table and our relationship grows stronger out of this minor conflict. Thank God we are both mature and reasonable enough to come to terms. The last thing either of us need is unnecessary friction between us. He offers prayer at my modest service. I attend the huge Gospel service with him. He is full of infectious praise. I feel stilted and white.

One more visit on a FOB south of Baghdad takes us near the place where an alleged rape occurred of an Iraqi teenager by an American soldier. We initially get off at the wrong stop. It is far too “tip of the spear” country. We were told the 5th stop. When we finally reach our proper destination (Falcon), the 1SG is among the most hospitable I have yet to meet. We are given plenty of free access, briefing time, prayer time, and private time with soldiers. I meet some tough looking soldiers as they are cleaning their weapons and speak to them of God’s love and how chaplains can be helpful if they are devoid of it. I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy who is about to be turned into a well baked dinner roll. They listen attentively. One even challenges me on my interpretation of the Pope’s “clumsy attempt at dialog.” “Wasn’t he just quoting someone, chaplain?” “Yes, but…” My enlightened liberalism doesn’t fly in light of their day to day experiences with the tactics of the “Muslim Extremists.” Considering the world in shades of gray here is a luxury that will get a soldier killed here and is best left to non-combatants, like the chaplain. They are respectful. I see spiritual hunger in their eyes and some wariness. I feel privileged to be able to walk into so many worlds and carry symbols that I sometimes forget—community, family, morality, faith, forgiveness, and hope. I can only pray to be worthy of this responsibility.

Pressing the flesh is now a bigger part of this chaplaincy. This is primarily because this battalion is about the size of a brigade and we are spread about. We even have Airmen (Security Forces) attached to us in our mission. I was given the opportunity to address a squadron during an awards ceremony. I gave them my standard talk that gives credit to a Navy chaplain I once heard on TV. “What can a chaplain do for you? A chaplain can help you answer three questions: Is it ok with God to be a warrior? Am I ok with God? And is it ok to be afraid? I also add my four points of how to survive a deployment. 1. Find something to grow into (courses, books, etc). 2. Look for goodness and beauty. It exists even in an ugly situation like this. 3. Stay in touch with family. But don’t try to control your home life from a distance. 4. Form positive friendships. With a chaplain, you can always have 100% confidentiality (the only profession in the military that can say this) unless you intend to harm someone or yourself.” I always try to be succinct, knowing that this is not my pulpit.

I often eat alone, but allow the possibility of conversations by sitting with a variety of soldiers inside and outside of our unit. Recently, I had dinner with two field grade officers. They spoke of how quick and impressive our Stryker Brigades are in terms of a conventional battlefield. We talked about the frustration of allowing enemies sanctuary under the umbrella of religion. We dissected the current state of the government and its ties to Sadr and his militia. We argued about our own naïve optimism and the depth of hatred this enemy has for us. It was good to speak with knowledgeable and engaging men. Most of their business was war planning. Some of their speech reflected the specialized nature of military professions: data, tactics and strategy. Everything is compartmentalized. It helps us stay sane when we focus on “our lane.” After the dinner one remained behind a bit. “I am tired, chaplain…” He looked at me as if seeking someone to trust.

I leave the chow hall before sunset and a little too early for the masses of bats. I try to scope a few out and I succeed in finding some just beginning to come out and do their sky dances. This evening I walk along the man made “Z” lake, called “Z” lake due to its form. The sun reflects off the waters and turns some of the tall grasses along the edges into silhouettes. I walk under a few date palms along the dirt (!) path. A bird swoops by me from behind and I recognize it as a white crane as it spreads its wings and lands near the adjacent edge. I say to myself, “Thank you. Show me more beauty, Lord.” Show us all more beauty, more peace, dear God.

Bats In Flight I

2006-09-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

Most evenings around the time of sunset, I am now usually walking to or from our chow hall. It is the better of a ten minute walk complete with dust, rocks, and various military vehicles noisily rolling by. The air is usually warm, dry and pleasant. A certain stillness envelopes all but it is broken by the activity of hundreds of bats flying every which way. I really love this meditative time watching the weird and wonderful activity of these creatures. I think about how scattered they seem, yet nature has given them a keen sense of location.

So many experiences lately, they seem to fly about me like bats. I get little time to really integrate it, but I do pray. I respond to what comes my way and then march on. I can only guess that it is even more difficult for the warriors from whom much is demanded. A steady stream of soldiers seeking counseling passes through my door. Some have issues for which I can only provide a listening ear. Others need some sort of intervention whether it is for an emergency leave, or a tough situation.

Like watching bats in flight, there are so many issues and going in many different directions. In most situations, I believe that most of my job is simply watching and acknowledging what is happening and not necessarily try to “fix things.” Yet, there come the moments where intervention is needed.

One incident where it was clear to me that I needed to intervene was an evening when a female SGT from our headquarters brought over a female specialist whom she found sitting on a stoop crying. Apparently she had run away from a SGT who had put her on extra duty and was now demanding after some “corrective training” (jumping jacks while wearing Kevlar vest) to fill sand bags. She balked, said “No,” walked off toward a darkened shipping container. Apparently, her SGT tried to pull her out. Touching is a big no-no.

I took the soldier over to the CSM (Command Sergeant Major) and had her tearfully recount the story. Although the CSM avoids getting into company business, he highly regards the chaplaincy, so he took time to listen. Eventually we ended up visiting a 1SG whose company filled with many young soldiers recently hit the ground. We got our message across and I was probably heavy handed when I told the 1SG that I already had several “odd” situations coming out of his company and that I was “going to keep an eye on them.” He took this as a threat and the next day I had a visit from the company commander. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to let some chaplain throw his weight around in his area. I made it clear that my concern was the welfare of soldiers (like himself) and that I was “eyes and ears of the BN commander.” A few days later while visiting the motor pool, I saw the young specialist. She told me she was put on a new team. I thought that was a good idea—a fresh start for her. After a couple more positive and neutral interactions with the commander and 1SG, we all settled into a more cordial relationship.

A couple nights later, one of our more mature companies dealt with some ugliness that reflects the baseness to which conflict can bring people. Our MP’s frequently most accompany the IP’s (Iraqi Police) when they are recovering bodies off the streets. In this case one of the dead bodies was booby trapped with an IED. The after math was some decontamination for the squad. It could have been much worse, because a vehicle nearby sustained some damage while the soldiers were unscathed. I was called to the medic station by the 1SG. The soldiers had yet to arrive when I got there. I waited outside the clinic with the Co. Commander, 1SG, and one other SGT. Quiet was all about so I took the opportunity to ask CPT A. how things were going in general. Soon three vehicles arrived and soldiers were ordered to drop their gear so it could be cleaned and to not mix what didn’t need cleaning with what did. I hung around in the clinic as two soldiers who took the brunt of the blast were being examined. Both seemed fine and I was amazed at how resilient many of these soldiers are. Sometimes it takes a little while for the effects of trauma to be revealed. But, in this case I think we were generally lucky.

I am now nominally responsible for the spiritual well-being of at least eleven companies of soldiers. So, I now have to travel to various FOBs in order to visit with some of these companies. One visit took me to the IZ (what often is referred to as the “Green Zone”). I met with a Field Artillery unit from Kansas that is serving as MP’s. Their 1SGT was a crusty sort. He actually had been in the Vietnam War. He was highly effective in maintaining order and safety in the unit. “Top” was amazed at the fact that the unit was put in housing where four soldiers shared a trailer with shower, internet, a refrigerator, and a telephone. The Co. Commander, Major G. was an educator and easy going. He took us through one of Saddam’s palaces and current site of the American Embassy. Being here amidst the State Department personnel, big brass, pool, alcohol and even an orchestra of woodwinds was a little disorienting. Add two huge sculptured metal heads of Saddam facing down in the back yard and it was surreal.

One of the highlights of my ministry among our soldiers in Iraq occurred unit members took me to their training site at the “Crossed Swords.” This was a military reviewing stage most famous for its huge Crossed Sword sculptures at each end of the field. Saddam was tapped here on many occasions including once on a white horse and another time prior to the war wearing a fedora and shooting a shotgun. At one end was the Iraqi memorial of the Unknown Soldier. After some training maneuvers, the 30+ soldiers were called together to have me address them. I invited them to stay for a worship service. We were joined by about a dozen Fijian security forces. I set up a communion table on top of a HMMWV (hummer). My homily was a reflection on the Beatitudes and how Saddam was once “King of the Hill” but now they are. I told the soldiers that given what the Beatitudes say, there is no evidence in this world that “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Jesus was not setting up a new civil code; he was blessing those who walk in faith despite the ugliness of the world. I reminded them that they have an awesome responsibility wherever they fall in the ranks. The Fijians sang a beautiful hymn for all of us. We even held hands in prayer as we dismissed.

Later the Co. Commander, Major G. took us to the top of the memorial. We were escorted by an Iraqi soldier. Under what can only be described as a huge metal clamshell, was the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The raised coffin was visible through colored glass. From there we were led into the base of the structure. It was dark. We used our flashlights to seek out the empty glass sarcophagi that the Baathists had set aside for the expected dead.

Hand Holding, Things Held, and Being Held

2006-08-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

It’s been ten years since I entered ordained ministry. One day when I served as a chaplain on campus I remember expressing resentment about “having to hold people’s hands.” My resentment came from what seemed to me to be simple matters of decision making. Never mind the fact that I often sought out counsel from mentors, professors, and pastors to help me through my tough times. I sometimes felt entitled because I had “difficult” or “special” issues—things that were very real to me. I deserved hand holding…

I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.

Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.

As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.

As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.

While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.

In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.

I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.

Ways of Exiting

2006-08-14T23:50:00.000-07:00

I ended up remaining in Rustamiyah a week longer than intended. Just as my days there were coming to a close, a young soldier from another unit committed suicide. From what I heard he was a soldier who was looking forward to a future. He showed no signs of wanting to leave this world. What we do know is that he just gotten off the phone with a girlfriend back home that broke up with him. The military folks speak of suicide as “the permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Late teens, early twenty-somethings don’t have the perspective of time and experience. So much for them is all or nothing. This is one of the reasons that they can be combat soldiers. They can more easily face being in the position of risking everything.

I decided to attend the memorial service because I felt it was my duty. I felt it was my duty as a chaplain and as another human who has known the demon that draws the mind and soul toward “the easy fix.” It was a sad occasion. In situations as these, command does not want “full military honors” given. Nor do they invite higher ranking to attend. It is mostly a closed affair for the unit. The memorial was attended by forty or more soldiers. During his reflection, a brave soldier said the words that I had wished I had heard for the memorial of SPC Carlson—“I loved him.” The sermon included the Army’s mantra…”we will continue the mission.”

Instead of the usual flags and symbols of a fallen soldier, the front stage of the room was bare except for a recently painted portrait. Local Iraqi artists will paint portraits from photographs. These seem to be popular as mementos, sending to sweethearts and families. What made this scene hard was the fact that when the service ended, soldiers didn’t know what to do. (Usually military honors are given at the end of the service and the soldiers will march out after saluting the helmet upon the upright M-16 with boots in front.) Some soldiers stood and simply walked out. Others sat on the bench for a long while stunned and consoling each other. Some stood in front of the portrait. And a few saluted the portrait. We grope in the face of such losses. Some military folks find these to be “dishonorable” deaths. I don’t agree. The soldier was overcome by an enemy.

The day that CH Keough was to return from RR, a team of soldiers had a couple of missions in the city including going to the airport to pick CH K and the CSM up. On their way, one of the vehicles was hit by a devastating “platter charge” which blew a hole the size of a basketball in the side of the up-armored vehicle. The projectile instantaneously killed SSG Contreras the TC (trip commander) seated in the front passenger’s seat. All others in the vehicle were fine. The female gunner was hit in the leg by some blunt object; very likely the TC’s Kevlar helmet. She seemed fine other than some bruising and emotional trauma. CH K’s Chaplain’s Assistant, SPC Miller was seated right behind the TC. He caught a tiny piece of shrapnel to the hand.

CH W, CH K and I decided that my remaining in Rustamiyah another week through the memorial service made sense. The Ramp Ceremony was a solemn event. Soldiers gathered in ranks and waited for a helicopter to arrive. Once SSG C’s remains were unloaded from an ambulance all soldiers stood at attention and gave a salute. We remained in this position until the helicopter was loaded and flew off.

SSG Contreras was a no-nonsense mission focused soldier who was beloved by many. He was warm hearted and loved to nap. He was about to go on leave to see his mother and daughter. He was a few days away from a birthday. (In fact, the July birthdays were celebrated a couple days before the memorial service.) SSG Contreras’ memorial service included full military honors and was attended by many visiting officers and unit representatives. A slide show played on a loop prior to the service showing SGT Contreras “doing his thing” among his soldiers. At the close of the service all in attendance in the filled-beyond-capacity chapel gave a final salute. Many laid small tokens (coins and other items) at the place where SSG Contreras’ empty boots stood. To either side were the posthumous awards of Purple Heart and Bronze Star.

Because of the unforeseen circumstances, my goodbyes to the 519 MP’s got prolonged. No sooner had the commander presented me with a desk plaque in thanks, the meeting was interrupted by the news of the attack. The plaque sat on a chair for a couple of days before I could pick it up again. Right before the memorial service, several of the MP’s were socializing in CH K’s office. One of the Sergeant Majors asked me if I got my coin. He instructed a soldier to get one from his desk. The Viper coin is by far one of the most impressive military coins that I have seen. The individually registered coins are shaped like a Viper’s head about to strike. CH K gave me a t-shirt with a silly looking snake on the front. I was honored. What did I do that no other person in my place wouldn’t have done? The draw to belong is very powerful in the military, especially during wartime.

The ministry allows me to belong more than what I feel I deserve and yet allows me to say goodbye as best as I can when the time has come.

A mentor once said to me that two of the most important things one will ever do is say “hello” and say “goodbye.” She said that how we do these things says a great deal of who we are as people. Every time I do either one of these two, I remember that I am still learning how until the day when--whether I am ready or not--I will do it for the final time. We are always saying “hello” and “goodbye”, “goodbye” and “hello.”

Changing Scenery

2006-08-02T22:52:00.000-07:00

It was the truly the “eleventh hour” when my orders arrived. The 228th FSB was at Camp Arafjan spending the last few days before redeploying. I kept checking my email to find out if my extension was a “go” or not. The dust storms were cinematic at times with wild hot winds beating sand on us as soldiers went from tent to tent or tent to chow hall. During the evenings the winds would often completely die down and the sky would clear. Soldiers would come out and play volleyball under mercury lights into the early morning hours. I had the chance to attend worship with some of my soldiers and sit in the pews near with them. I sat with one couple who had been reprimanded for being together on off hours. They welcomed me as we sat and listened to an Korean preacher who was difficult to understand.

Just as a reminder of how small the Army is the brigade Captain handling my transition turned out to be an officer that shared the same barracks back at Camp Shelby the year before. When my orders arrived, CPT Martin told me that I could make the drive with him to Ar Aseleem in my PT uniform. I didn’t realize we were just going up the road. It was truly a ghost ride. We drove by “Death Highway” where in the first Gulf War; many were killed here while sitting in their vehicles along the highway near the boarder with Kuwait. There were dozens of burnt out hulks of vehicles front to back-partly covered in sand. Signs along the highway instructed that photography was forbidden. It was as if I were looking at hell frozen in time.

Once again I was in an in-between time as I waited for my flight. From being among the many, now I would be among the very few wearing the Keystone patch upon my sleeve. Once again, I carried the weight of duffle bags and books with which I couldn’t part. And the laptop, of course. The flight was short, and the scenery was new. I was now on the outskirts of Baghdad where there were more soldiers and far more civilian contractors than I had ever seen before. CH (MAJ) Kenworthy, a tall thin Episcopal priest picked me up with his Chaplain Assistant, SGT Jones. We drove by a couple of lakes and a bunch of trees. The next day, after meeting the BDE Chaplain, CH (MAJ) Williamson I got a more complete picture of the base(s).

“Here” was actually (at least) a couple of distinct bases: Camp Liberty and Camp Victory. Camp Liberty was mostly flat with some small hills, trees and lakes. And miles of trailers! This area was once one of Saddam’s game preserves where he and his fellow Baathists would come to hunt. (I believe they kept the area stocked.) Camp Victory has a complex of faux palaces around a lake. One is now the Multi National Head Quarters. All of these were Baathist retreats.

CH Williamson keeps his office in one of the Division “palaces” on the waterfront. He is a squat talkative man from Louisiana. When I stepped inside his office, I noticed from floor to ceiling dozens of bags and cans of coffee. He explains that this is part of his ministry. But at first glance it looks like he is running an import-export business. Later, in conversation with other chaplains, I refer to him as Chaplain (Juan) Valdez. CH Williamson gives me his rules of operation talk and then shows me what he does to de-stress. He tosses me a couple of single packs of Apple-Jacks cereal and we walk outside on to the concrete platform next to the lake. There is a sculpture of three dauphins about 50 feet out. He starts tossing some of the cereal into the water. Dozens of large carp come near the surface of the water and gobble up the cereal. I join in. It is a joyful moment. So much abundance! CH Williamson explains that the fish used to eat a special grass that grows in the pond. But now, due to the fact that soldiers have been generously feeding the fish the grass must be harvested because the fish have stopped eating it.

On a regular basis one can see a couple of Iraqis in a boat tearing out the grasses. Many of them choose to fish here as well. Once in a while an American soldier will tell them that fishing really isn’t allowed. Iraqis have replied that it is their birthright since they endured under Saddam’s regime. What could anyone possibly reply to such a statement?

I didn’t get too comfortable in my new surroundings. A few days after meeting the staff members of the 372nd MP BN from Washington, DC I was off again. The 372nd is 90% African American. They are in charge of several companies of MP’s. The companies are “add-on” and sometimes get handed off to other BN’s. Right now we are in the process of adding more companies to our BN in order to “secure Baghdad.” I was “asked” by the brigade chaplain if I would be willing to “cover down” for a chaplain who was going on leave.

So, I was off to Rustamiyah--by convoy. Camp Rustamiyah is in Southern Baghdad behind a garbage dump and next to a sewage plant. The flies were relentless. But the 519 MP BN was among the warmest units that I have come across. They were lead by a no-nonsense LTC, whose name was Bazzonotti. He was from Boston and looked like Alfonse D’Mato, but had a much better sense of humor as far as I could tell. He enjoyed giving awards to the troops but didn’t hold back his criticism either. I knew that we were going to get along fine when he asked me during a large meeting if I had any thoughts on suicide prevention. I told him “Just say no.” “Just say no.” he replied dryly. “Is that it, chaplain? Just say no?” And then I gave a few more words on how those considering suicide don’t always give the classic indicators. A couple weeks later a young specialist, who had all sorts of plans for the future and who was known as a happy and capable person, shot himself on being jilted by his girlfriend. (I will write more on this in a later piece.)

The chaplain, CH Keough was an energetic former Roman Catholic turned Southern Baptist. He was a surfer dad and injected his sermons with hang-loose hand signals. The sermons, of course, were held after long “sing in the dark in front of the projection screen hymns. Attendance was very good at these Wednesday night as Sunday worship services. (In the chaplaincy, every day is Sunday because of the missions and various schedules of the troops.) This was an active duty unit from FT Hood. They were thoroughly soldiers and loved what they were doing (for the most part). CH Keough was amazingly relaxed and warm with me. He is an active chaplain. In other words, he goes out on missions regularly. He had in a previous life been an enlisted soldier and he knows the ways and wants of soldiers. I was to simply stand-in for him while he was away. For some reason, the BDE chaplain, Williamson wanted to keep coming down and do CH Keough’s service even though it involved a potentially dangerous drive over. I just couldn’t see sitting around and being passive, so I spoke with him and we agreed that I would lead one service. He still emailed back to CH Keough to see if it was OK… I think there is a little suspicion of a “liberal” chaplain. I have my biases as well, but I try project Christian tolerance and trust, by letting go to serve practicality and to serve the whole. I doubt if a couple of sermons from a conservative preacher in a liberal congregation would “change” people, just as it is on the other side of the coin.

So, Rustamiyah with its mortar attacks, smell of fish heads mixed with the aroma of fabric softener from the large laundry facility, latrines at 150 degrees, and occasional fires due to Iraqi wiring and overworked air conditioners became my temporary home. And I loved it…because of the soldiers.

Need a steeple? Send for the Marines!

2006-07-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

As the 228th FSB approached the end of the deployment cycle, nearly all of the projects that we had set out to accomplish had been completed. Hoping to go on another humanitarian mission, we even put out the word for more stuffed animals, colored pencils, and pens and other school supplies. While all the ducks were lined up, the unit that was to accompany us outside the wire ended up getting pressed into higher priority missions. In the end, we didn’t have the chance to go out among the villagers again, but we were able to pass on the supplies before we left to the other unit for a future mission.

I had put on my “wish list” a steeple for the chapel. During one meeting when I had a slide up indicating my desired project, a field grade officer said, “Don’t count on getting your steeple, Chaplain.” I responded that it was OK to wish. Enter SPC T. SPC T is truly one of a kind. I mentioned him in a previous blog as a soldier from Tennessee whose talents included singing and bug extermination. He is the consummate southerner with amazingly funny turns of phrases and the gift of gab. Think of John Goodman in O Brother Where Art Thou? SPC T’s way of getting out of work and getting what he wanted earned him the nickname "General T" This was not necessarily a complement.

For instance, when he decided that he just couldn’t deal with working in the mess hall (even though he was a cook); SPC T decided that he would build a deck around it instead. SPC T. did not lack motivation. According to the CO, this deck rivaled the Atlantic City boardwalk. He cut deals for supplies with unknown individuals. SPC T worked the angles. And chances were that you were getting worked over as well. He rubbed more than few people the wrong way, but aside from this personality trait, he was often warm and generous to me. And he could laugh at himself.

When I mentioned to him that I wished for a steeple, SPC T, produced two young Marines who were orphaned from their unit due to lack of responsibilities. Their unit was off in the hinterlands of the post, so they and their supervisor welcomed the opportunity to come help build. SPC T. made himself foreman, of course. Within two days the framing was nearly completed. A couple days later the Marines came with a steeple that they had constructed back at their unit. The steeple added that extra something that gave a sense of normalcy to our camp. The chapel looked like a chapel. Eventually, SGT M, a sweet but sometimes brooding (had been a boxer for some time) medic from Massachusetts who befriended me offered to paint the steeple provided that I understood that it was his gift to me.

One of the Marines had a grandfather who was a UCC Minister. The other wanted to go live in Japan after he completed his service and become an apprentice wood carver. These were fine young men who genuinely had smarts, skills and the desire to contribute. I was enamored of them and wished that I could find a way to keep them working for me. They even offered to come out to Baghdad to build more steeples for me. I told them that I first needed to have a chapel!

Hargrave and I spent a visit with our two Marines in their normal surroundings one day. They were technicians with the Predator and other drones. These oversized hobby planes took pictures and gathered all sorts of other intelligence in order to lessen the danger for our troops. It was a fun and impressive visit. When I asked them about reliability, they mentioned an excellent track record but did have a plane on hand that had crashed and was being investigated. Before I left, the Marines presented me with a balsa propeller. Unfortunately, I chose not to keep it as I was hurriedly packing. It was a nice memento. But I do have pictures of the steeple. After the outside was painted, I took a torch and burned letters into the inside frame so soldiers could see “In Honor of All Who Serve” as they walked into the chapel. The legacy was set with so little effort and great joy. All it took was one "General", two Marines and a medic.

Just Like You

2006-06-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

“When I grow up, SGT Cliff, I want to be just like you.” The stocky southern man gave me a full toothed grin when I said that to him as he left to return back to his infantry unit. SGT Cliff had been visiting me every time his unit passed through since he made the introduction of his Roman Catholic chaplain to me. Cliff proudly stated that he served as a Protestant minister to his men. He told me that he was Southern Baptist. "You have my condolences." I said with a smile. Always earnest and warm, I could see how Cliff’s unaffected down-home style could put anyone at ease. He showed me pictures of the church picnic in GA. The “church” was all present in the photograph—not more than a dozen or so! SGT Cliff by body type and just plain friendliness exudes a manner which inspires confidence. It was easy to be a little envious of his gifts. And it was natural for me to say that when I grow up I want to be like him.

I didn’t realize how much more my words meant when SGT Cliff came through again for a visit. As we sat and talked, before me was a more saddened and weary person than I had known up to now. SGT Cliff explained that the unit had lost several men as they continued to make pushes near Ramadi. And from what he knew, the mission was to continue indefinitely. He blessed me with his uncertainty, confusion and tears. This is a “man in full” who is worthy of emulating. “How can I minister to these men when I have so many doubts?!” he asks. I reply that it is OK to share those doubts and fears and in sharing them, his men will be encouraged. He asked me to pray with him. As he left he gave me a bear hug and left with a smile.

The military is so full of doers that vulnerability is time consuming. I am sure that there are units where the macho thing goes on and vulnerability is equated with weakness. Here was a man who was not afraid of an enemy and who care immeasurably for his troops. Nor was SGT Cliff afraid of his own vulnerability. I think that he may have befriended it a long time ago and had come to realize that on the other side of his vulnerability, with the grace of God, lie growth.

Weeks before I left for Baghdad, it had been a while since I had seen or heard from SGT Cliff. I asked members of his unit as they passed through to send my regards. They said that he was doing well. Part of me has a fear that I will open the Stars and Stripes and see his face among the fallen. I pray not. I pray that he continues to be an inspiration and friend in Christ to his men. I pray that he gets to go back to many more church picnics.

Learning to Grieve (All Over Again)

2006-05-19T14:00:00.000-07:00

I keep looking at the photograph of SPC C. There is something that haunts me even though I have a long history of working with the dead. I have worked in funeral homes, in a morgue, assisted in procuring organ donations, catalogued unidentified remains and worked with grieving parents in a Neonatal unit. There is something about this young soldier’s story that leaves me unsettled. He was a cook by trade who volunteered to be on the QRF. In the photo we have for release, he has the steel eyed look of a soldier. I recall when we took these photographs. We were about to fly to Kuwait from Camp Shelby. Several of the soldiers used the foil of dark humor and referred to these as their “Obit Photos.” An American flag is draped behind each one of us.

In a photograph I later saw on an internet database of fallen soldiers, SPC C looks more like a National Guardsman than regular Army. He's a boy with a beret. One of the characteristics of Guard communities is that we all know each other. We all live near one another. It was only a matter of days before I spoke with the soldier who suggested to SPC C to “do something with his life” and join the Guard. This was a SGT from Allentown struggling with some anger issues of his own. As we casually conversed in the gym one evening, he told me that he has tried to encourage young men to take a direction with their lives. This direction makes no sense. I continue studying the photograph plenty of times after all the official business is over. I am saddened.

I earnestly believed that I was walking that fine line between not being to intrusive and sending clues that I was available to handle the work of the memorial service among SPC C’s unit members. I touched based with the LT and the SGT. The CO and SGM each asked me to be present while CID interviewed each of the SWA hut mates. There was no biting on the bait. I began to feel frustrated that I was not going to have anything real to say to the gathered. I hate relying on platitudes and generalizations. I asked the SGT to meet with me. I tried to be gentle, but something was happening here that reeked of denial. I was beginning to sense there were psychic land mines around; I itched. As a new SGT, I reminded him that he was no longer one of the boys—he was a “them” like me.

A shower did not ease my mind. The memorial service was tomorrow. I had put a bulletin together, alerted the choir, selected scripture and as of yet knew little about who of his friends would speak and what they would say. (There have been instances of inappropriate reflections. Plus, I had experience from working with a College Chaplain who would both help students with their pieces and serve as gatekeeper. She had a more motherly touch than I.) I should have had something by now. My gut told me that they were avoiding this. I decided that it was time to go pay a visit. Disaster. I took it too personally and the “conversation” turned into a shouting match. One soldier accused me of telling him how he should grieve. The stocky soldier looked at me incredulously when I stated that their actions were lacking in “personal courage.” “YES, I AM JUDGING YOU!” I yelled as I stomped into the night as I passed the one soldier smoking on the back of the SWA hut. Later I would express doubts to their LT about how I handled the matter. The LT, who was beside himself about the death and the possibility of drug involvement, said “They need to grow up sometime.”

This was not the end of the push-pull, however. At the rehearsal, I was asked if there would be any “open time” for reflections from the congregation. Of course, I said “yes” and it was the right thing to do. One of the friends created a slide show, but included a Country Western song that was all glory and America and soldiers. I had already prepared the choir to sing a “goodbye” tribute. Another officer told the soldier that it would be OK. I took control of the situation and said, “No.” Now I had to deal with an officer who was senior to me who decided that he was in charge of the memorial service. This was confrontational, but I didn’t back down because I had all legality behind me and I knew that this was all a part of the anxiety and individuals trying to gain control in a situation in which they felt helpless.

The memorial service went especially well. The soldiers truly rose to the occasion. There was a young black man who was a member of the QRF who was present the night of my confrontation. He hadn’t said a word. In fact, he was always quiet and dutiful. He had the presence of a well loved child who was making his way in the world. He surprised me (and perhaps many others) when he came to the lectern and delivered a thoughtful and sensitive reflection surpassing many I heard on the college campus. I was touched and proud of him. The stocky Hispanic boy-man also rose to the occasion. SPC M, did not. He had his reasons, I’m sure, and needed to mourn his way—as we all do. I said what I thought needed to be said so that he might not walk away from this experience with residual guilt. Putting on the prophet’s mantle is not usually what is expected of a chaplain. It is often necessary. But, it is not my job to save people from their foibles. I am mostly called to help clean up in the wake of human foibles.

I spoke of heartbreak. I talked about the care of the medics. I said that soldiers are more prepared to deal with loss of their comrades due to combat. I preached that it was OK to be angry at God. I still look at the picture. What a waste. Only a loving God could bring any good about from this loss. So we grope in the dark until the light comes. Or we just pretend it didn’t happen at all. SPC C was a hero. We don’t talk about the dark place to which he went to hide from the pain. I put gauze on the community’s wound. There is little more I can do.

Unnecessary Loss

2006-04-29T08:19:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon 25 March should have remained uneventful on Camp Coalminer. The day certainly started off that way. In my opinion and wishful thinking it should have remained uneventful. But 25 March was not uneventful. Our Quick Response Force (QRF) had spent a night out escorting a convoy and did not get back until the early hours of the morning. The members had come back tired and ready for bed. QRF soldiers volunteered for this team. They are our defenders and are the most soldierly of us who mostly work maintenance, support and logistics.

The members of the team live in SWA huts--three or four to a hut. As individuals got up mid day and went and showered and then went to eat, one 25 year-old decided to return to his hut. Early in the afternoon the medics received a call that someone in B-10 had a heart-attack. I was standing outside the Medics station when the call arrived. Naturally, my thoughts went to some of our more senior and overweight members, not a young, happy, energetic man like SPC C.

I found Hargrave quickly and we were only moments behind the Ambo’s arrival at the SSTP (Surgical Shock Trauma Platoon). When I walked toward the tent, a number of our soldiers were standing outside. I unzipped the door of the tent as a Marine questioned who I was. There was no issue as soon as I identified myself as SPC C’s chaplain.

On the far table lay the body of SPC C’s body. There were at least six medics around him working intently. His head was pulled back for ventilating. A priest was anointing him. I asked the priest, “Is he (Roman) Catholic, Father?” His reply was, “I was called down here.” This irritated me a bit because I was sure that SPC C wasn’t. But it would not have been seemly for two chaplains to get into a squabble in the middle of an emergency room. (Personal history says otherwise, however.) I came closer and touched the leg of SPC C. He had tattoos on various areas. Later I learned that he had a new one put right over his heart with the name of his new baby.

The physician stated in clinical terms all that had been attempted. He asked the crew for any ideas that could be attempted. From what we learned later on SPC C’s heart was probably stopped for an hour before he was found slumped in a crouching position. The story that was eventually pieced together was that SPC C had come back with the other members of the QRF in the early morning hours. He was last seen in the shower and then went back to his four occupant hut. The other three stepped out and he remained behind. He was not seen for over an hour until one of his roommates found him.

From the start there were questions about his death. Was he taking steroids? Or other performance enhancers? Were there any illicit drugs involved? Was he doing inhalants? These questions weren’t said out loud usually, they hung in the background and occasionally one would be dealt out as if from a hand of poker. Autopsies are done in Dover, DE along with any toxicology. Oddly enough, the information I was given was that autopsy reports are only released to the family. (I don’t know if this is accurate, but it sounds strange enough to be Army policy.) There is a chance that the unit may never be told the entire story.

I liked SPC C. He was competent. He was a bit cocky, like many good soldiers. I later found out that he was a cook who volunteered for the QRF. That told me a bit about his identity and his desires. Several times I rode in the vehicle where he was Trip Commander. He seemed totally in his element on the radio and got along well with the rest of the crew. There was good camaraderie among them. The three tended to be a little cliquish. One short and very stocky Hispanic hardly ever gave me eye contact. He manned the crew served weapon. The third was a shaved headed white boy with stars in his eyes who smiled and joked. All three worked out in the gym religiously strutting in their green or brown Under Armor--all pecs, lats, and biceps. They were young man trying to put on manhood.

As I left the tent, my expression and a few words told the story to those of the 228th waiting outside. I told SPC Hargrave that there was nothing else we could do at the SSTP and that the ministry now was handling the needs of the unit back at camp. Later that evening, I invited the XO and SPC C’s Company Commander to Mortuary Affairs (PRP—Personnel Recovery Platoon) where the usual ramp ceremony scene played out, but this time with a lot more hitting us home. There was something wrong here; the waste, the mystery and the unfairness of it all.
On top of this, I had a run in with the MA chaplain. Up until now all my relationships with chaplains—especially MA chaplains—had been excellent. CH O from the beginning had been a bit intrusive. Right before the ramp ceremony he decided to take me aside and proceed to tell me that we would conduct this one jointly. “Negative” was my response. I guess I could have been a bit diplomatic. At this, CH O asked that we go inside his office. I indicated that I would not and that it would be best to discuss these matters out in the open. I don’t remember all the details of the conversation, but the upshot was this: 1) CH O did not call us. Hargrave remembered him saying at the SSTP, “I was going to call you.” I thought he said, “I tried to call you.” Either way, the result was the same. 2) CH O called a Roman Catholic priest to perform last rites when he didn’t ascertain whether SPC C was RC or not. He rationalized his actions by saying it was a ministry the medic team. I told him he screwed twice and I was not going to let him screw this up. He outranked me and started to refer to me as “Lieutenant.” I told him that he could take this as high as he wanted; I was not going to back down. He marched out. Ultimately, I was in the right on all scores, but I alienated CH O a bit. This is not the best thing in our business. There are so few of us, but conflicts are inevitable in the tricky area of religion, military custom, and protocol. (Whether or not one likes it, the arena is political. And I am not one to sugar coat what is not palatable to begin with.)
The day after there was a convoy. I was asked to be at the convoy briefing. The sadness was evident on mostly everyone’s faces. Off to the one side were SPC C’s buddies and team. One, a short and very stocky Hispanic was stone faced. Another young man with a shaved head and an open face was in tears. The third, a black soldier entering his manhood, looked stunned. After the briefing, I offered a brief prayer. Dozens of soldiers gathered around me in a circle. I asked them to each put their hand on the shoulder of the soldier next to him/her. I felt a real human ache, the reaching out of many for meaning. In my prayer I reminded them to take care of each other.
I lobbied the leadership that I should conduct a memorial service (religious) rather than a simple memorial ceremony (military honors with prayer). I was given the green light and proceeded in attempting to pull together all the players for the service. Accomplishing this and getting us through the memorial service itself was one of the most challenging times in my chaplaincy to that point…

Article 32 and other Genuine Ones

2006-03-12T09:13:00.000-08:00

An Article 32 hearing is a legal proceeding where an officer is appointed to investigate and make a recommendation if a courts martial should be held. In this case the BN XO was appointed as the Article 32 officer that vests him with the power to conduct something like a grand jury hearing to see if a crime has been committed. But, the difference is that the officer is prosecutor, judge and jury. There had been a case of sexual harassment in which a SGT was implicated on three counts.

The XO requested that I come along (not to be part of the hearing), but to be present as witnesses gathered in case a soldier wished to speak with a chaplain. I agreed that it was a good idea. In fact I complimented him on thinking about how a chaplain's presence can be helpful in these situations. Events like this can be hard on units because emotions run high and individuals have mixed loyalties. When we arrived at the site there were a few soldiers milling about, so I made some small talk with one of them. It turned out that he and one of his sons were on the deployment together. His children were rather accomplished—one had just completed engineering school.

As we were talking, more soldiers gathered including the XO who gave a brief statement about the process. One young female soldier with a slender frame and face looked upset. It turned out that she was deployed with her father. They were from Tennessee. The soldier had brown hair and eyes. I could see some anxiety there. I approached here and she shook a little and starting tearing up. The only thing I could say was “Tell what you know. This is part of making things better.” Her father agreed. After the session began, Hargrave and I waited downstairs a bit. It ended rather quickly. Apparently, the defendant “lawyered up” and there was not much to be said at this point. This means that in a few weeks there will be a formal Courts Martial proceeding—the first one for the 28th since WWII. I have since learned that the proceedings will continue sometime later in March. I have been asked to be present again. The presence of a chaplain is a reminder that these are very much human matters as they are official matters. Plus I see my purpose of “presence” to take things as they come up and that God’s truth and purpose will be revealed.

Missteps can happen even when one tries to show discretion and “do the right thing.” While I cannot reveal much in the way of details, I can say that I ended up being involved in another investigation regarding a male and female who were involved in an affair. While that fact of relations itself is touchy in the Army, add to the fact that they’re both married and the male broke into the female’s quarters one evening and you have a big problem. On top of all that, the male had previously come to see me for counseling. Plus, at one time I witnessed him grabbing her but chose to speak with her about it instead of confronting him. Where I didn’t pay attention was when I was asked if I would sit in during an investigation. It is here where I should (and properly) have said it was not my place to be involved. Instead I was involved and even asked questions of the soldiers. A chaplain should be aware of the dangers of being perceived as part of a prosecutorial process. One could quickly lose creditability. At one point, it was suggested that I may be required write a sworn statement. As the days have passed since this conversation, it seems less likely that I will have to face such a thing. I indicated that any statement on my part would be very limited due to issues of confidentiality. The Army is clear on what constitutes confidential or sensitive information. As I move further away from this episode, I will take it as a learning experience.

I am not sure that either the male or the female trusts me. I may have done what the command thought was right, but had I known the boundaries better, I probably wouldn’t have fallen into the potential trap. God knows that there are all sorts of little sagas going on in the camp. If I were to be seen as a policeman, then I might as well hang up the ministry hat.

Recently, I was blessed by a visit from a chaplain friend who I met during training at Ft. Jackson. CH Fisher gave me a big hug when he saw me and immediately I felt like we could pick up from where we left off. The last time we spent any real time together was at a pub in downtown Columbia where we shared beers, dinner and laughter. Jonathan Fisher pretty much stole the hearts of the audience at our graduation dinner with his comedic antics and impressions of the cadre NCO’s and officers. When arranged alphabetically in class, we were adjacent to each other. I was able to hear his fine voice while singing and gained a sense that he is a happy person. CH Fisher comes from an evangelical free church background and leads services with a guitar and praise. While I come from a whole different tradition an approach to ministry, I feel that I have made several friends from the school house days. More and more, I am finding that they are deployed here.

Frequent Flyers. Every Chaplain has them. That is what we sometimes call those hapless souls that find their way to the chaplain’s office regularly. They can sometimes test one’s patience. There is one young man with whom I have been supporting throughout most of the deployment. Initially he came to me with concerns about sleeping and then he came to me asking if I could do an “engagement ceremony” over the phone. We took care of these things. Then he got it in his mind that he didn’t belong here, so he put all his effort into building a case against his sanity. After months of being bounced around and even being demoted for a stupid threat, it seems like he is getting his wish. Part of me is truly concerned for him and part of me trusts that he knows to get what he wants because I’ve seen him do it here. After almost reaching the boiling point of my frustration with him, I decided that it wasn’t my job to try to fix him, simply to acknowledge and argue for his humanity. I believe that even though some treated him as though he were giving the Army a snow job, he is truly a person in need and deserves good care. I just hope that when he gets home, that he is able to get more of what he does need in order to live a more stable and happy life.

The long deployment is wearing on some of the college aged soldiers. Many of them had their studies disrupted. There were some who were even freshmen and had attended college for a number of weeks before they were called up. Recently I dealt with two women friends who had to be separated because one was needed at another FOB. Both were in their late teens/early twenties. The one who remained here took it hard. She was brought to my office sobbing. I told her that she didn’t have to talk about anything if she didn’t want to—that she could just sit a feel OK here. After a while I broke the silence with a couple of questions about the situation and I talked about loneliness and that there was no shame in it. Taking a cue from an old friend of mine, I decided that maybe she would enjoy me reading some “Winnie the Pooh” to her. We all regress in times of stress and letting her know that it was OK to go back to a place where she needed to temporarily be soothed a child. Yes, unconventional. Yet it was effective. In a matter of a short time the soldier decided that she should go use the phone to talk with her parents. In chaplain’s school we were shown photographs of young injured soldiers holding teddy-bears and were reminded by our cadre that many of our soldiers are still adolescents. I am grateful for the experience that I had on campus at Franklin and Marshall College for six years. My mentor used to say that “the twenties are a difficult time in life.” They are when one has something of a “normal” life. Add a deployment and life in a war zone and the issues quickly come to the surface. These kids are required to grow up so quickly. I admire and feel for them.

One interesting man I met recently over lunch was a young Captain, an Airbone-Ranger type. He had served his entire career in the infantry. By his looks he had some Asain or Polynesian in him. He may be in his late twenties and was thinking about what he wants to do next in life. He said, “Infantry gets old after a while.” I asked him about the impressive tabs and patches he was wearing. He said that he was “just checking off boxes.” I reminded him that we are always changing a growing into something new. When I talk in this pastoral way, I often feel that I am mostly preaching to myself. He was the kind of young man that anyone would be proud to have as a son or friend. I kept hearing in the background of my mind, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

The Three Major Feasts: Christmas, New Year’s and Super Bowl

2006-02-17T00:18:00.000-08:00

The Sundays of Advent went very quickly. The choir prepared the chapel with all sorts of tacky decorations including three Christmas trees and some other mini trees. It looked festive. SPC Armbrister, our choir director, warned the choir not to make the trees look "ghetto fabulous." I laughed.

Boxes upon boxes of snacks, toiletries, socks and decorations had come from various groups back home. One elementary school from south central PA sent more than thirty boxes packed with items collected by the school kids and their families. We had a glut of stuff that we kept putting out on tables. Initially, I posted signs announcing the fact that there was all this free material. Soldiers came to the chapel with all of their excess! Eventually, most of it got distributed. We still have an occasional box arrive.

Early on, I had decided that for our Christmas service I would use the Lessons and Carols format. In the meanwhile, however, there were all sorts of politics going on in our camp. One story mostly included a specialist who decided to press the issue of his mental health. He reported that he had hostile feelings like he was going to shoot someone and in the same breath would say that he didn't feel like he could shoot an enemy combatant because he didn't believe in killing anymore. I also had a sergeant, a cook, from Tennessee who was a bit of a sad sack, who wanted to sing "Little Drummer Boy." Part of me felt that I needed to protect him from humiliation. But the part of me that applauded his guts prevailed. He didn't make it to the service, however, because he was needed on a food run at the last minute.

Our special case specialist apparently had signed himself on to the deployment even though he had a three inch thick mental health file back at a hospital in PA. It was only when he decided that this deployment "wasn't like the one in Germany" that he started to seek his return to the States. And round and round the paperwork goes. Everyone was chiming in, including a psychiatrist, whether he should go home or not. Command was initially dubious, then began to see the wisdom in cutting bait with this particular soldier who had damaged his brain on cocaine abuse. He was relinquished into my supervision for a while to do various painting jobs, but he drove me up a wall with all of his excuses. I started to feel like an overseer, so I gave him back to the Sergeant Major. At that point I could be his friend again, rather than another "persecutor."

He liked playing simple Christmas melodies on the keyboard. So I asked him if he would do the prelude for the service. He accepted. And even though he would not stay and eat in the dining facility because of "all the people," he played his piece in front of everyone on Christmas Eve. I think this was his declaration of his humanity. For me it made it all the more real that he was present in the midst of many others who doubted him, shuffled him off, attempted to provoke him and made fun of him.

We put several luminaria outside the chapel that had a few concrete barriers. Early in Advent, I asked SGT Musky to help build a shelter with a manger in it. He used plywood, tree limbs, wire, grass, and string. I even spotted some palm trees that we could use as roof thatch. It was beautiful and rustic. It sat outside the chapel door as a quiet reminder of the lowliness of His birth.

Liturgy--work of the people. I chose not to preach a homily that evening, only have the Christmas story tell itself and have the musicians, readers, and carol singers find their place in the joy and mystery of the evening. I had solicited candles from back home, but alas, nothing arrived from my source. A church sent a handful of used ones--hardly enough for everyone. At the last moment, I grabbed a bunch of chemical light sticks and asked Hargrave to hand those out. As our soloist, SGT Barracol, began to sing Silent Night in English and Spanish, he was briefly surprised when everyone cracked their green glow stick and sang along with him. Laughter briefly filled the room and then the recognition that how right it was that soldiers would celebrate this way. We had a trained italian tenor sing "Ave Maria." And a Baptist with a big voice sing "O Holy Night."

The chapel was packed. Holiness and expectation were in the air. And I felt blessed to be a part of it. We had readers of all ages, races (the military is the most integrated institution in the US), sexes, abilities and ranks. Some were eloquent. Some struggled a bit with the King James. It was real. Although we had no children in our worship, there was childlike wonder in the air.

I caught New Year's Eve fever and I went to the BN Commander and said, "Sir, we need to drop something." He said, "What do you mean?" I said, "You know, like back home they drop the ball in Times Square, a Hershey's Kiss in Hershey, and even a sausage, pickle and goat in other towns of PA. "What should we drop?" "Let me think about it." I said. Eventually it came to me. We could use a pick (we're the Coalminers). We wrapped a picked with about 500 twinkle lights, and gold and silver garland. We hung it from an old anti aircraft gun whose barrel was easy to ratchet up. And there the pick hung bright as all get out for most of New Year's Eve. Hargrave and Musky thought I was nuts. I told them that this was about memory making. Even with putting the message out among many, only a handful showed up. As we all counted down, I lowered the blazoned pick to the ground. We heard some gunfire at midnight and saw a couple of flares fired into the air. About eight of us shook hands and went to bed. I think partly disinterest, partly homesickness and that it was just one more night kept soldiers from coming out.

The New Year's lunch was among the holidays where officers serve. One could have steak, turkey, shrimp, roast beef, ham. There was no sauer kraut, but there was cabbage salad.

Talk of the playoffs turned to talk about the Steelers heading to the Super Bowl. Terrible towels came out. We had only one or two Seahawks fans in our midst. One is the sergeant in charge of our weapons. SGT Hines is a burly man who originates from the NW. He shared with me John Wayne's, The Quiet Man and he made a comment about soldiers' personal lives should have nothing to do with their ability to perform their duties. I became a fan of his.

The game was set to be televised in the Dining Facility on two large screen TVs beginning at 3AM minus any commercials. (AFN provides free network programming provided the commercials are blocked out. Instead we have dozens of Public Service Announcements either promoting safety, a particular branch of the service--lots of chaplain commercials, or family support programs. Some are cute. Most suffer from low production quality.) Plastic football shaped plates were handed out so we could eat some wings, lukewarm fries, and jalepeno poppers. Due to the way the tables were set up, people sat in horizontal lines and clusters. It was an opportunity to say hello to a few soldiers and I did the chaplain thing. Seeing the anticipation in others, it struck me how as Americans we believe our own hype. I have warmed up to football--even played a little here and rooted on our winning team with most "fan" in me that I have ever seen. As far as the Superbowl was concerned, I enjoyed watching the first half and the controversial touch down. I went to bed not certain that Pittsburgh would pull it off. I was quickly asleep into the third quarter.

These three experiences underscored to me just how much I am a man oriented in finding meaning in worship and church life. New Year's is full of glitz and forced revelry (and believe me, given the right party I could have a very nice time)and more than a few empty resolutions. The Super Blow is full of bluster and chest banging. (Anyone could foresee the celebrations in Pittsburgh getting out of hand. There's always a few idiots who think they need to overturn a vehicle in order to whoop it up.) But, Christmas brings the hush and hope of holiness to my soul.

The Children of Khalidyah

2006-01-19T08:02:00.000-08:00

SPC Hargrave and I have been among the fortunate Unit Ministry Teams (UMT’s) who have been afforded opportunities to be part of some “high speed” training, missions outside the wire, solemn ceremonies and even humanitarian missions. Most UMT’s just don’t get to do all this “stuff,” so we feel valued and trusted by our command and just plain lucky.

When we first arrived at Camp TQ, there was a large amount of clean up to do. The outgoing unit had been on back to back deployments. They came straight from S. Korea to Iraq. I think that they just got tired and really didn’t spend a whole lot of effort in making the camp better. I’m not aware of the mission demands put on them either, so it’s not totally fair for me to judge. One thing that I have noticed is that National Guard units are composed of more mature individuals who have job experience back home. This probably plays into the fact that we were ready to make Camp Coalminer more livable by making layout, security, and building improvements.

Also, part of getting organized here including opening connexes (large shipping containers) and finding all sorts of items in them. Back in September the CSM came to me and said that he had found many trash bags full of stuffed animals. He suggested that I may want them for a future humanitarian mission. So we set to going through the dusty bags and checking the condition of the toys. Most were great; some needed to be tossed. We were left with dozens of every sort of stuffed toy, from a giant Bugs Bunny to a boat load of Beanie Babies.

During a post chaplains meeting in October I mentioned to the group that we had this inventory and were willing to share it with any units who were conducting humanitarian missions. Just as luck would have it, the Navy chaplain from Mortuary Affairs had made arrangements with a Marine unit that was planning a humanitarian mission to a local fishing village. (Yes, a fishing village in Iraq. We’re next to Lake Habaniyah.)

When the day came in November, we met up with Marine CPT Benitez and her men. CPT Benitez was a compact Hispanic woman who was just given command over FOB (forward operating base) security. She seemed eager to conduct a humanitarian mission. I guess it is one of those things that helps build a repertoire of leadership skills (interacting with local leaders, build communication skills, etc.) and makes soldiers feel good all the way around.
Getting to Khalidyah was simple. We simply drove our convoy out of a southern gate and drove downhill toward the lake. We then took a paved road that hugged the shoreline for about a five minute drive. The “village” was a gathering of brick houses with tin roofs, and a few other buildings on uneven and dusty ground. Poverty looks the same wherever you go. I remembered poor Greek villages I visited while I was growing up. I was reminded of impoverished Palestinian children when I visited Israel and the Gaza back in ’95. Barefoot kids dressed in a wide range of mostly donated clothing (One could tell by the American logos) began to show their faces.

One of the first was a young girl (possibly 3-4 y.o.) who came to check us out from about 20 yards away. Eventually, the Marines set up so that there would be some order to the distribution operation. The irony of putting up barbed wire to hold back the 30-40 so kids was not missed by me. (But there are wider security issues when a unit does this sort of thing.) The consideration, of course, is who else may be watching and if a suicide bomber might come within our perimeter.

While we were handing out toys, medics were visiting with some of the town folk and checking on their ailments. A Public Affairs Officer was talking with some local men over the front of a pick up truck that had some damage around a headlight. (Apparently, the US pays claims on any incidental damages. Occasionally, one will hear a story about a settlement of thousands of dollars paid on an accidental death and then the family wants to dicker over a couple hundred dollars for a refrigerator.) War brings out odd behaviors, relationships and dependencies. When it comes to giving and receiving, there are matters of pride. Who needs to look good? Who needs to save face? It can be delicate.

The children were sweet for the most part. Some tested their “good” words and taunts at us. Most kids preferred to pick their own toys rather than be handed one. Sometimes a little kid would get one only to have the bigger and older son of the mayor take it away from him. I think even some adults took toys from the kids. I joked that the toys would probably soon be found in a local flea market in exchange for cash.

I took a number of photographs, but spent most of my time giving out stuff and talking to the kids. I tried to always squat so I could be on their level and see their faces. In many cases there were so untouched—ignorant of their poverty, but happy and curious in the moment. I gave the camera to a Marine and asked him to take some photographs. Out of the nearly 80 pictures he took, my face made it in one and part of my side made it in another. Next time I will need to be specific. “Take pictures of ME giving out gifts.” Then I ask myself Why? Do I really need to show world that I am doing good?

After Christmas, I put out an announcement for a collection of more stuffed animals and toys that soldiers might be willing to donate…

Comedy and Tragedy Deployed

2005-12-25T23:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve come to believe that my writing is less about “journaling” than it is about reflecting on experiences and how they line up together or create tensions. It’s been over a month since we had our talent show here. I took an idea from a Navy chaplain’s experience with his Marines during the beginning of the conflict here. In his book, he mentions an impromptu talent show that he put together and what a morale boost it was. I decided that in a camp situation, a talent show would be the right thing to break the monotony and would give an opportunity for individuals to come into relief against background of “cammies.”

For about a month before hand I advertised the talent show on power point slide during the Commander’s Update Briefing (CUB). It had all sorts of pics on it of individuals and groups singing, dancing, riding unicycles, making dogs catch Frisbees even an old Indian woman playing an accordion—anything that would conjure up people doing their “thing.” The idea was met in a lukewarm manner and I got the feeling that “if the chaplain wants to have a show, let him have one…” I decided to invite individuals to cover the MC’s slot and judges positions. (They were all perfect for the job. CPT (now MAJ) Miller has a affable way of working the crowd and a great sense of humor. LT Welteroth, a young energetic officer with a sharp wit played our critic. SGT Cassada was hard to impress. And SPC Armbrister just wouldn’t give any unearned points.) They loved the idea of having it be a “Gong Show,” so I quickly enlisted Service and Recovery to weld together a gong we could bang on for “bad acts.”I got few entries in the weeks to come, literally. And two were real entries and one was a bogus name that because of the handwriting could be read as “Joe Mannia” or “Joe Mamma.” These were not auspicious signs and I was getting a little nervous that display of talent would be How to Produce a Flop.

It wasn’t more than three days before our “Coal Miner’s Talent Show” was to happen that soldiers were actually signing up. I was relieved and amazed at the entries. We had a drummer (SGT Muskey) who assembled a rock group with two medics. The one medic, SGT Ortego was a guitarist and a huge rock music fan who had been in attendance at the original Woodstock. Then, all of a sudden, we had a list full of vocalists, dancers, lip-syncers, and others. When the evening of November 4 had arrived over 150 soldiers piled into our dining facility (DEFAC) to watch this event. Our XO, MAJ Sheehan made sundaes for everyone. The laughter was infectious. One can tell how much they had been through by how willing they were to laugh or clap whole heartedly for the smallest effort.

There were several impressive acts. 1LT Delia was not an entrant because his wife back home was helping to sponsor the prizes through the FRG. He has been classically trained in operatic singing. He sang a Pavarotti standard “Torna A Surriento” beautifully. A young woman SPC did some ballet; she had been dancing for thirteen years. We even had our Quick Response Force (QRF) lip sync a Back Street Boys number with female dance partners. We had a female sing “The Rose” a cappella and another female lip sync David Allen Coe’s “You Don’t Have to Call Me Darling” while holding a near beer. I attempted to sing “If I Only Had a Brain” with a guitar accompanist. I got gonged because I couldn’t read the tiny print of the lyrics. I said so much and the crowd started to laugh. It was assumed that my “special act” was for comic relief, but I had done it seriously… After the winners were announced, one young man came forward and did a three minute comedy stand up act. He based his material on our experiences so far. We were amazed at how funny he was and several lamented the fact that he wasn’t “in” the competition because he would have won.

Spirits were high that night and soldiers briefly were transported to another place and time in their lives while building bonds in the present. I watched a couple soldiers pretend that they were at a concert and lift their lighters high. The crowd liked discouraging the overzealous LT from banging the gong. Others sang along with the David Allen Coe song. One soldier fell off her seat when she was cheering me on.

During some time of reflection, the image of the comic and tragic masks of the ancient Greeks came to mind. I was reminded somehow that a chaplain must wear masks (as we all do) yet know especially who he is under the mask. The mystery of being both participating fully and having some element of detachment so that the work of ministry takes place. Is it a part that is prayerful? Is it a part that the world around the chaplain trusts that he will be a faithful witness to what he has observed?

Tragedy came suddenly in the form of an innocent morale visit to Ramadi. This is where we have our C med company that is home to surgeons, docs, and medics. If we were able to drive a direct route to our camp at Ramadi, it would take about 15 minutes. But, the roads through the city are far too dangerous for a convoy, so we take a route around the southern part of the lake, which takes two hours. When I arrived, I did my regular rounds of visiting the brigade chaplain and a fellow UCC chaplain who is a LTC from Vermont.
There is a room with a few beds in the Aid Station and I claimed one for myself. Two were filled with soldiers who were awaiting transfer for further treatment.

I was just about to turn in as I was walking down the breezeway when I noticed a number of the medics preparing instruments and IV bags near several stretchers. At first it seemed rather routine and I continued to head toward my room. Once inside, I decided that I may have misread what I was seeing so I decided to head out again. I made my way to the back of the clinic where a number of medics were gathered.

No sooner had walked to the back deck than the ambo pulled up and the stretchers started coming in. They were Marines who had faced a complex attack with a Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device (VB-IED) and a couple of IED’s. The first one had neck and foot wounds and seemed to be intact. The next Marine had both of his legs missing with tourniquets at the ends keeping him from bleeding out. I quickly decided that my job was simply to be there, pray with, and assist the medics in any way I could without interfering in their work (This is what we as chaplains are expected to do.) When I introduced myself to the young man without the legs, he said that he was fine and that I should pray for his buddies.

Three more Marines came in. All were missing at least a leg or in a condition where a leg would need to be amputated. At least two were unconscious from what I recall. I overheard one of the surgeons praising the fact that even though one Marines had taken his “last breath” they were able to revive and stabilize him to the point where he could enter surgery. I made my way into the O.R. and see if I could simply be there for the medics or assist. A nurse anesthetist (MAJ) quickly befriended me and told me stories of chaplains that he has known. He put me to work with setting IV’s, retrieving equipment, and hand pumping blood through a warming device as surgeons removed a mangled leg off of the African-American Marine. I thought about the very long road to recovery and life changes that this young man was now possibly facing. I thought about how things in people’s lives can change in the “twinkling of an eye.”

The O.R. was a chaotic place. Even members of the two Marines being operated on came in. There was one Gunny who seemed very broken up. I tried to encourage him to go elsewhere so he didn’t feel so helpless. There were soldiers taking down notes, others running back and forth for additional packs of whole blood. One soldier coordinated chopper times to get the Marines to Baghdad. Apparently it was difficult to get a stable blood pressure on the Marine on our O.R. table. He may have been bleeding internally. Also the surgeon was concerned that he may have cut the leg too low, but the chopper was ready to go and he decided that the orthopedic surgeons in Baghdad would have to make the call. It was the difference of being cut above the knee or at the upper part of the thigh—challenging his potential mobility even more.

As things calmed down it became clear that some of the unit members were gathered trying to make sense of what happened to them. They had the stunned look of the grieved about them who stand around waiting for something to happen. In cases like this, teams of counselors debrief the Marines (soldiers) or their chaplain will do the same. Luckily, I have not had to conduct one of these for my unit. Other chaplains in our BCT (brigade)—especially infantry—have had a few of these sessions.

How can one minister authentically in the face of wide expressions of human experience? I believe that it has partly to do with the masks one is willing to put on, that he may enter into the lives of others. The wearing of the mask is not a deceit, but an expression of the many active selves that may revolve around a still Self that is an observer and intercessor. The chaplain reflects the events around him and also gives “holy permission” by expression of the mask. The mask is paradoxically empathy and a healthy detachment that acknowledges that “yes” what the community is experiencing is real, but it is not the totality of Experience. The masks are the joy, pain and mystery of incarnate life.

Coal Miner Choir & Coal Miner Baptism

2005-12-04T23:48:00.000-08:00

I’ve been behind the curve in getting some of these items posted. It has been at least a month since our choir was invited to attend an all gospel service on the other side of the post. CH (MAJ) Goodwin, a warm Southeast Islander (?) Haitian (?) man with an Assembly of God endorsement insisted that we come. He was the consummate shepherd. After inviting him to do a pulpit exchange one Sunday he came back to check on the choir and then sell his program again. CH Goodwin, a twenty year veteran, had a completely charming and disarming way about him. We couldn’t say “no” to him. And it’s a good thing we didn’t. The Gospel Service was packed with at least six different choirs and a variety of instrumentalists. It was truly an upbeat and spirited time. There is so much talent among our service members...and so much diversity even within the realm of Gospel singing. This event also allowed our choir to feel more appreciated than they had.

The choir members had been a little frustrated that our congregation wasn’t the type to get up, sing and clap along with the choir. I attempted to explain to the choir members that most people from PA with predominantly Germanic backgrounds don’t usually get into the charismatic thing… Also, the choir felt a bit overworked so they decided to sing for us every other Sunday. One of our field grade officers (XO) felt it was his duty to remind the choir members that they “should” be in church every Sunday regardless of their singing…and he suggested that they might try some “regular” hymns. The choir leader, SPC A. came to me. I had to smooth her ruffled feathers and let her know that she was in charge of the choir and that I had no expectations of who “should” be in church. And more importantly I told her that they were to sing whatever was a true expression of worship for them…and perhaps throw the XO a bone by singing “The Old Rugged Cross.”

One Sunday, a young energetic black male in the choir came to me and expressed interesting being baptized. I told him “of course” provided that we get through some basic Christian doctrine. Next thing I knew two other members of the choir came forward to request baptism, a white male and a mixed race female. Together they made a wonderful and attentive class, plus a powerful witness to the Gospel. I thought I was going to do the “dramatic” thing and baptize them by total immersion in a hole in the ground. When I attempted to dig, I discovered that the ground was like concrete. My next idea was to disguise a trash can by draping cloth around it. Hargrave nixed this…he said it would still be and look like a trash can. I told him to drop the purity kick because when Jesus was baptized in the Jordan it was likely that there were a few animals upstream… He just looked at me as if I needed psychological help. Eventually, I relented because I was worried that the individuals would feel cold having to stand around in wet clothing. Plus, I stressed the importance of the baptism being part of the worship service… My bottom line for the catechism was “One Lord, One Baptism” and that they should reject any church that would ask them to be re-baptized.

On the day of baptism, the candidates stood with their sponsors. I dipped my hand in the large stainless steel bowl I borrowed from the kitchen and used the ancient formula…”The servant of God, name, is baptized in the name of the Father (sprinkle), of the Son (sprinkle) and of the Holy Spirit (sprinkle). I prefer this formula over “I baptize you…” because it takes the focus off the minister and reminds me of some of the excellent insights of my Greek Orthodox heritage. I gave each candidate a small palm branch, the symbol of victory and a reminder of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. I even taught the congregation to sing an ancient chant, “Those who have been baptized into Christ, have put on Christ. Alleluia!” Prior to giving the candidates the palm branches I used them to sprinkle the congregation in order to remind them of their own baptism. At the close of the ceremony, the sponsors hung crosses around the necks of each of the candidates. I then asked the congregation to receive the candidates as members of the Body of Christ. It was a wonderfully affirming day for all of us.

Of Geckos and Men

2005-11-11T01:19:00.000-08:00

SGT M_ has an easy way about him and has been easy to befriend, as well. His voice and manner is one of a person who grew up in a family with either Italian or Slavic roots. I think home for him is in Perkasie, Wilkes-Barre or someplace like that. He is in his mid to late twenties, I would say. I first met him back at the National Training Center (NTC) around the time when he met his father for the first time. I remember talking to him about the experience and being grateful that it went well for him. Sometimes encounters like the one SGT M sought out can be less than happy events. But for him it seemed to complete a picture. I think he went into it with some realism and didn’t have high expectations for this man who struggled with an alcohol addiction.

As I have gotten to know him better, I have learned that SGT M_ is a self-starter in so many areas of his life. One of his passions is air brushing. Apparently between that and being an accomplished drummer in a band back home his able to have a comfortable life. He has a fiancé, who he affectionately calls “my girl” (I don’t think I know her name yet). He has used his carpentry skills to improve a cabin by the lake back home. M_ has also added a screened in porch on his one room connex housing.

His natural curiosity led him out hunting one evening to catch small geckos. He proudly showed me the terrarium that he had built for the five or six reptiles which he had fashioned out of some scrap wood, Lucite, and netting, and a light bulb. I was impressed by the workmanship. SGT M_ noticed that every time he caught one of these geckos nearby there were usually native black beetles that traveled in pairs. He deduced that this must be the gecko’s food source. M_ wanted to know what the reptiles were, so we did some on line research. After visiting a handful of sites we were confident that what he had caught were Hook-toed geckos (that was the most common name for this species). We didn’t find too much on their dietary habits, so I told M_ to just watch them for a few days and see if they were getting lethargic or seemed hungry. SGT M_ went on to catch more beetles and moths by the lights of the DFAC (dining facility). The Hooked-toed geckos went on to flourish. M_ even put a tiny piece of cold cut on string and had them jumping all around inside their new home.

SGT M_ assembled a band here which won the talent show that I promoted. He wired the DFAC so we could have as close to a professional sound system as we could. One evening when he was visiting with me, our conversation went to musical instruments that we would like to learn. We both concluded that piano is on the top of the list. He confided in me that he would like to learn how to read music and that he “never was one much for book learning.” He also told me how his mother championed him when teachers had pretty much written him off because of attention deficit and other learning difficulties. I told him what I’ve witnessed in his natural curiosity and various gifts and that I believed he could learn most anything he wanted (including Aramaic, just because he thinks “it’s cool”). A few days later I ran into another young man in the chapel who was playing with the instruments. Somewhere in our chit-chatting, he tells me how much he loves music and that he’s pretty good with music theory and teaching. I tell him that I know someone who would like to learn from him.

To be human is to struggle with self doubt, but it takes a community of others to remind one of the strengths they possess. I hear echos of myself in many of those who come into my office. I try to recall the teachers (ministers and others) who have been “there” for me. The quality that remains most with me is all of them listened and many of them refused to buy into some lesser person than they knew I could be. I ordered a trumpet through the Army system. SGT M_ says that he’s “pretty sure” he could play Taps on it if needed again. I tell him that I hope that it will be here before Easter so he can play some flourishes during the Easter worship service.

Spiritual Readiness

2005-11-10T22:06:00.000-08:00

The following piece was written for the monthly battalion newsletter:

Spiritual Readiness
Chaplain Aristides Fokas

You may be familiar with the saying that “Chance favors the well-prepared mind.” This was stated by Louis Pasteur the chemist who solved many biological mysteries. It has been said of Pasteur that his is one of the foremost contributors to the health of humanity. I think that it can be equally said that “Life favors the well prepared spirit.”

Soldiers in a war zone face a great deal of uncertainty on a daily basis. We do a great deal to insure safety and awareness in missions as build a routine to stay focused. Things in our immediate area may not seem to change much, but around us we might notice constant change. Or we may be facing a great deal of intensity, like the positive event of a marriage or new born child. Or it could be a tragic event like the loss of a comrade or our own severe injury. A healthy spirituality is one that helps us to face the ever changing aspects of our lives with realism and hope.

A Navy chaplain recently shared the story of a Marine who divulged to him that prior to deployment he had committed a serious crime and had “buried his conscience.” Within a matter of days, the Marine decided that it was important to come clean because he no longer wanted to feel dead inside. He had been working in Mortuary Affairs. To his other Marines he seemed constantly off his game, distracted and preoccupied. Perhaps noticing all the finality around him, he may have decided that it was time to “get right with God and the world.” His chaplain noted that when he came to say goodbye and return to the U.S. and face charges, he seemed more at peace and on his way to a redeemed life. The road will be long, but entirely more hopeful than what he had become and what he feared that he was becoming.

Practicing one’s faith prepares us to make life affirming choices even when the decisions are difficult. A mature spirituality recognizes that life is full of risks and consequences. Yet, faith reminds us that God is abounding in mercy no matter what our situation. Openness, flexibility, self-examination, prayer, the reading of scripture, being a friend, alertness a possessing a moral compass is all part of spiritual readiness. All that is necessary is a desire to grow and trust.

You said, "Seek My face", my heart said to You, "Your face, Lord I will seek."
( Psalm 27:8)

Constellations

2005-11-05T03:10:00.000-08:00

When we first arrived here at Camp Taqaddum back in July we flew in during the night. After sitting on a somewhat ratty bus in the hot summer night with our gear piled all over the place, we made the half hour trip to our part of the Forward Operating Base (FOB). After unloading my gear and using one of the latrines, I decide to go by a wall and lie on the ground so as I could face the stars. The Milky Way was clear that night and even though I was dog tired I was in awe of the beauty of the sky.

Since that time, the sky has been more present here. The reason partly is that we are outside more often. The sunsets are often amazing and beautiful. Because most evenings have been clear, it has been easier to follow the progress of the moon. During an evening in early October I saw the very faintest sliver of a moon. I later pointed out in a briefing on the celebration of Ramadan, that when this sliver becomes evident that is when Muslims know to mark the beginning of the holy month.

The presence and activity of the sky inspired me to order a couple books on constellations and simple astronomy. The calls for Mortuary Affairs often come in the middle of the night. One evening as I stood outside under the stark and beautiful night sky waiting for SPC Hargrave I spent the time observing the Milky Way, a prominent red Mars and a clear bright Venus. Hargrave swung by with the humvee and we went on to the somber work we had to do. Recently, I have had as many as seven flag draped transfer cases resting in front of me. This particular evening there was only one. Since I now a veteran of these ramp ceremonies, I have less performance anxiety and am able to be more observant as I read the psalms and prayers. For some reason I became more aware of the field of blue and the stars in the flag. At this moment these for me were not our states, but reflective of the cosmos and the soldiers I had prayed over. As I match up names with the faces that appear on the news tributes, I realize that I will never look at an American flag the same again.

My father’s village in Greece had a cemetery in which two teenagers who had drowned were buried during a summer I was there. The Greeks often place portraits on the grave marker. I think it is so that the image of the loved one won’t fade as quickly. The pictures of the young who die have a mysterious quality to them. I search their faces for any hint of their ill fate. There is none. I often do not know who the soldiers are, but when I see their picture, I feel sadness and love for them. The mystery is this: I don’t know what kind of persons they were, if they had something more to live for than being a soldier, if they were a patriot or not, if their dying in this war really means what it is supposed to mean. I mourn the loss of their future. I love them for being mortal and made beautiful by immortality—I prayerfully see them entering the celestial sphere and being in a place where fear, death, tears and sighing are no more.

I have come to know the Marines who run the MA operation. Their deployments are only eight months, so I will come to know three different teams and their chaplains. No one can be assigned to this work nor compelled to remain. One must volunteer for this work. They remain separate from other units and are often treated as bearers of “bad luck” should another Marine or soldier come into contact with one. So, they keep a rather closed community. They work hard and their chaplain often has sessions with them discussing what they have dealt with. The purpose of this is to help them to learn a level of detachment. This way they don’t let their emotions get out of hand should they find a wallet with children’s pictures in them or a wedding ring or some other item that might have emotional significance.

Sleepwaling and other tales of life during wartime Part II

2005-10-06T05:28:00.000-07:00

The memorial service we held for SGT Pierre Raymond was a difficult one. SGT Raymond was a replacement soldier from MA who wasn’t even on the ground with us for three days before he was struck by a mortar attack at Ramadi. There was a whole lot of grappling with the randomness of such a loss. We hadn’t even had the chance to get to know him. One of the soldiers I have come to know well SPC Taylor, an irrepressible man from TN who is full of colorful stories and good humor. He has been fighting a weight problem here, but is always laughs back as we try to keep him away from the ice cream freezer. “Taylor, put down the ice cream and step away from the freezer!” Back home he works as a pest exterminator and is highly active in his Baptist church. He describes himself as a “Saved exterminator.” One day the Command Sergeant Major overheard Taylor singing to himself in the chapel. Apparently he was very talented and trained as a singer, but didn’t want anyone to know. I coached him a bit on singing Danny Boy. He did an excellent job and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. In fact, he received a coin from the BCT XO and his self esteem has gone up a few notches.

Around every corner and every day I learn something more about my fellow comrades. One evening we started a prayer group. Only one other soldier than Hargrave and myself showed up. He was a young LT. He spent the time giving his “testimony” to us. He had grown up in an abusive home in a hard neighborhood. Eventually he was part of the Fresh Air Fund program. The host parents loved him so much that they wanted him back every summer. He has since earned a master’s degree and is a husband and father. He works in a corrections institution and wants to give back in any way he can.

I have had to visit a young female soldier in the middle of the night who was given a Red Cross message that her step brother, with whom she had been very close, was killed in an auto accident back home. She was heartbroken, but also had the jaded attitude of someone who had known a great deal of loss. Her family story was one of several recent losses. When I asked her to whom she felt closest, she mentioned an uncle who was in an infantry unit in a nearby camp. Shortly after she left for home, we received notice that he was killed in a roadside attack. I later learned that he was one of the five flag draped coffins that I prayed over. I think of her often and the difficulty it will be to reinvest her self in others. Why bother to trust anyone when they will likely die on you?

In spite of the negative events here or the ones that we learn about from back home, there is a good spirit about the camp. We try to provide a regular week of events in the chapel. We have a “Band of Brothers” series on Mondays; Tuesdays is bible study; Wednesday is prayer service; Thursday is our book club (Purpose Drive Life); Friday is movie night. The choir usually meets twice a week. We’ve had all sorts of special talent on Sundays including SPC Taylor. This week a classically trained LT will sing The Lord’s Prayer for us. Our bible study is just wrapping up with Job. We’ve had some excellent discussions on suffering and the problem of evil. We’ve even had moments of laughter in reading some of the sarcasm that drips off the pages when Job responds to his “comforters.” In worship I try to be as broad in reaching this diverse group. We sing some old hymns then the gospel choir takes over. Since we are mostly PA types who mostly come from some type of liturgical background (a few evangelical types), I try to be sensitive to our TN contingent and give them opportunities to lead.

I have been receiving many packages. I have not had a chance to thank everyone as of yet. Most of the goods go directly into the chapel or the mess hall to share with the other soldiers. The generosity from back home and the generosity among the soldiers is inspiring. Often I find boxes upon boxes left at the chapel door of many fine survival items and “tons” of candy. Individuals could choose to hoard these for them selves, but they don’t. They have an impulse to share freely.

The counseling load is steady. I have been dealing with everything from soldiers who are experiencing nightmares to simple issues of adjustment. Most of these soldiers are experiencing some degree of anxiety. It is usually very easy to listen and “just be there.” At times I have even had groups of soldiers in my office who want to know how to best handle an issue of “unfair leadership.” Often I feel the satisfaction of having helped. Sometimes I feel the doubt of one who realizes some of these issues are beyond immediate control and it may be a matter for God, time, or being in a new situation.

Below is a reflection for a battalion newsletter contribution:

Embracing Dignity

War has to do with suffering. Not only the suffering inflicted upon us by our enemies, and the suffering we inflict, but also about the suffering that is a product of war that ripples out in all directions affecting the guilty and innocent alike. Additionally, as soldiers, we are still part of a family system that can be in various states of health and well being.

When a Red Cross message comes in the middle of a mission that requires an already large amount of effort, it can come as a huge blow. The news of a parent’s death, a brother’s tragic accident, a wife’s problem in giving birth, a relative entering hospice care are all life altering events that require a great deal of attention and energy. How a soldier and their families navigate through these events can make a real difference.

One thing that is a constant blessing to me as a chaplain is learning about an individual’s ability to find meaning and dignity within circumstances that are less than happy. Someone said, “If life is full of suffering, life is also full of people who rise above it.” Recently, I visited a soldier whose marriage was in jeopardy. The soldier’s section sergeant reported to me that the soldier was “having a tough time” and was seen crying. This otherwise squared away soldier was trying to deal with some of the pieces of his life. I stopped by his hut where he was living with a few other members of his team.

On his wall were pictures of his family including one of his newly reacquainted father. Other pictures included siblings, friends and, of course several of him with his wife. I asked if I could spend a few moments with him. The soldier said, “Of course.” And then I asked the soldier if he wanted to go someplace else where we could speak privately. The soldier said “Chaplain, these other soldiers are like brothers to me…they are family. They know all about this.” I was moved by this soldiers’ trust in his brothers and just as much by the fact that his brothers supported him in his time of need. The feeling in the hut as the other soldiers went about their business and down time was one of familiarity and trust, a place where many would be comfortable in knowing that they belonged.

Heroes wear ribbons, but those who trust in the goodness around them even in times of difficulty wear a robe of dignity.

Sleepwalking and other tales of life during wartime Part I

2005-09-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

Recently, one evening I asked Hargrave if he wanted to watch a movie with me. We've gone through a slew of films together, mostly action and adventure, some comedies, the guilty pleasures of the Soprano's and the occasional thoughtful film like Hotel Rawanda. As he was sitting next to me cleaning his weapon, he kept dropping his cleaning tools and eventually the M-16 fell to the floor. He picked it up again and started cleaning it. I asked him if everything was ok. He looked exhausted and I encouraged him to go lie down. He literally staggered from his seat to the cot, but picked up the weapon again and continued to clean it and drop his tools. I told him that I was going to bed. Eventually, he got back up and continued to watch the movie. The next day when I asked him how he was doing, he had no recollection of the events of the prior evening. A few nights later he walked the 100m or so from his hooch to my office at about 3AM and woke me up and made several comments about looking for some keys or something very mundane like that. The next week a SGT from the signal company found him in his PT uniform in stocking feet at 0430 AM dusting off the top of a large air conditioning unit quite a distance away from his hooch. The SGT took Hargrave back and reported the incident to me. Of course, the sleepwalking incident made news all around the camp.

This bit of news was apparently interesting to a CPT who decided to bring it up out of context during a leadership meeting. I surprised myself by respectfully telling him that it was inappropriate to do so. I let him know that I already referred SPC H to the doctor and that this was really a command issue which was out of his lane. Truth be told, sleepwalking is a safety issue, but more so for front line soldiers. Hargrave spent the week sleeping in my quarters. Eventually we talked and he stated that what was stressing him has passed. From the little I know and have read, sleepwalking episodes can come up and then suddenly never happen again. Hargrave is sleeping back in his hooch and seems very "on" these days. I am very fortunate to have him. If I were to lose him, the ministry would be greatly hampered. I praise him as often as is realistic and let others know how valuable he is to the ministry. On occasion we make jokes about sleepwalking as our way to be subversive and get others to lighten up.

A few days later we had another "angel" to attend to and the following evening we went to say goodbye to CH Rivera at Mortuary Affairs. He and the Marines who staffed the MA were quickly ending their tour. The new team had come in. All of them are volunteers for this assignment and are allowed to bow out at any time. The Marines will find new work for them no questions asked. I was introduced to the new team and briefly addressed them and thanked them for taking on such serious work. Most of these young men listened attentively. Marines are very deferential toward their leaders something not always seen in the Army. A female Navy corpsman approached me and told me that she had lost everything back home in MS due to Katrina and that she was looking to have her service extended so that she could at least have a job. The Marine goodbye gathering included a pig roast, which was excellent. This was also a stimulating social event. One Marine LT was very bright. We exchanged ideas about a recent article written about the slow disintegration/evolution of the Y chromosome (recent news). A middle aged Marine and I talk about some of his favorite British comedies and SCI FI on PBS.

The gospel choir continues to amaze the worship goers. The choir is a racially mixed group with energy and talent. They are usually the highlight for the otherwise traditional Service of the Word that I usually offer. The choir is lead by a black female soldier who is the daughter of a minister. She stutters when she talks, but shows great joy when she is singing. This choir is among the most spirited I have encountered. I guess this is so because there is a sense of going through the work and hardships together. They have approached me about preparing a Christmas play. I said "of course." I will have to do a little research to find the right one.

As part of the war to "win the hearts and minds of the people" we gathered boxes upon boxes of school supplies that had yet to be distributed by the previous unit. We took the time to inventory the dozens of boxes of crayons, coloring books, pencils, sharpeners, pens, construction paper, etc. and passed it on to a Marine Civil Affairs Unit for distribution. We also collected bags upon bags of stuffed animals. These we saved for the possibility of distributing personally. The time has to be right, however, and the risk has to be reasonably low. This is not something I expect in the near future, given the recent events.

The Angels

2005-08-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

I usually have very little difficulty sleeping. Every once in a while, after I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom I will drum my fingers on the mattress to lull me back to sleep. Or sometimes I will let my curiosity get to me and I will turn on the television. Tuesday night, I turned on the TV around 0100 AM and then turned it off again. I was still unusually restless and then the knock on my door came. “Sir?!” “Yes!” “We have an angel.” Angels are what we call our fallen soldiers. This soldier came from one of our attached units.

SPC Hargrave retrieved a vehicle while I put on my gear. Due to the fact that we keep light discipline on base, the ride over was dark and dusty. It’s a little difficult to see some of the dirt road turns as well partly because of the dark and partly because of the limited visibility the humvees have. Mortuary Affairs is located in an old concrete hangar. It is run by the Marines. It is one of the very few buildings on post that have exterior lights. When its lights are on, it is for the purpose that they can be easily located for those who have business there. In the day one can read from far away the sandbags that have been placed on the roof to outline the words “No One Left Behind.”

I entered the door and was greeted by a Marine who showed me the way to the chaplain’s office. Chaplain Rivera, a U.S. Navy chaplain is assigned to Mortuary Affairs. He takes care of all the Marine casualties that come through and the MA team members. Unit chaplains come in for the Army so that we can “take care of our own.” It is partly a matter of duty and continuity of pastoral care. The fallen soldier or “angel” was from our brigade, but it is too dangerous for chaplains at other bases to make the trip down so I go on behalf of all the units in the brigade.

CH Rivera, SPC Hargrave and I spent a few minutes together in his office before we were told that the team was ready for me. On the floor in front of me was a box draped with an American flag. Around the coffin gathered about a dozen Marines at a slight distance. I read Psalm 139 and a short prayer for fallen soldiers. Even though I had done many funeral services, I was a bit shaky doing all this. It seemed very intimate and more “real” than before. It must have been that I understood that this was another man who also wore the uniform and that the only real difference between us at the moment was I was standing and he was in a box going home.

I was visited an angel of a different sort a few days later. He came in the form of an infantry soldier (a sergeant) who was part of a unit that got caught in an ambush at a hardend structure. He was one of at least five soldiers who had to be evacuated. He had no outward injuries other than a likely concussion. He also had been treated for smoke inhalation. What he did have was some post traumatic stress. He was referred to me by an infantry captain.

He was about 6’1”, 200 lbs with brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken from football or wrestling. He came from Pottsville, PA. His two greatest concerns were his one year old daughter and the men of his unit. As I attempted to assess how stressed he was, I saw that his thinking was very clear. However, he had some small ticks of rubbing his head and lightly rubbing his face. It may have been from the phantom feelings of debris or something else entirely. He also had some difficulty sleeping.

Since WWI the wisdom that has prevailed is that soldiers with combat stress do better when they have the chance to return to their unit as quickly as possible. That’s what he wanted. And he was a few days away from leave when he would get to go home and see his child. He had been separated from his wife who also has made a career of the service. There was something very solid about this man. He was part of a world so very different from my own. He seemed duty bound and yet already had the kind of eyes that have known suffering. I wanted to touch him in order to reassure and comfort (as I sometimes do), but restrained because I felt that I might break a plane that would possibly suggest that I thought he belonged in a different world than the one he chose.

I told him that I would check with him the next day. I ran into the SGT at the internet café and we began to talk again. I asked about his sleep and made no mention of the ticks that I observed. He told me that he was still restless, but got some sleep during the day. As he rubbed his right arm, he adjusted his t-shirt sleeve to cover a tattoo (an act of modesty.) I told him that at this point I was far too curious and that he had to show me. He revealed a Jesus about 5” tall in a white gown with his arms outspread. Then he showed me his other arm, a tattoo of an upside down Satan in free fall. At that moment I remembered that I had seen an engraving tool in the supply sergeant’s room. I went and looked for it and brought back a small Celtic cross with his name engraved on it as a gift from his chaplain. I told him to put it in his pocket, but he chose to put it on his chain with his dog tags.

What I am discovering is that I am mostly sustained by the rich stories soldiers have to share with me. Many are difficult stories, but most reflect something eloquent about adversity and inner strength. I don’t think I would rather be anywhere else right now as crazy as that sounds.

The Mission to Habaniya

2005-08-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I was given my first mission to go “outside the wire.” Basically, the mission was to visit Habaniya, an old Iraqi airstrip with large hangars, and several beat up buildings. The purpose of the mission was to visit our Delta company (They prefer to be called 779th, because they are mostly a TN unit that is attached to us.) Delta Co. is a maintenance company run by a short female captain with a heavy Tennessee draw. The Commander sent me on this mission to basically assess morale among the soldiers.

Preparing to leave the wire takes work, paperwork, that is. All trips outside the wire must be in a convoy of no fewer than two vehicles. Originally, I was going to catch a ride with a Logpac (supply line) so as to make the trip as easy as possible. On the day I was preparing to go, we learned that a five ton truck (with crew) and two soldiers from the signal corps needed to go to Habaniya, as well. This meant we could take our own (shared) vehicle and that I would be driving. When we approached one of the sergeants from whom we usually borrow a vehicle, she stated, “Oh, Habaniya...” with an ominous tone.

The two soldiers who accompanied me and SPC Hargrave had made this trip before. They sat in the back seats and the one sergeant handled the trip ticket through the window of the humvee when we approached the gate. I asked him directions. He pointed out the curving road ahead of us and then told me that a bridge followed. “Once you hit the bridge, give it all you got.” With that said, he instructed the occupants to charge their weapons. I hit the bridge and gave all that the engine had. We raced across it at 25-30 mph. (Remember these are up-armored humvees.) As I was driving, I looked to the left and right of me on to the highway below and further on through the reeds of the Euphrates in order to spot any snipers. As we came toward the end of the bridge, I asked the sergeant for more directions. He said straight ahead and in less than a minute we were at the gate to Habaniya. “Is that all it is?” “Yes.” The drive over must have taken less than two minutes! All joking aside, however, vehicles do sometimes shoot from the underpass and snipers from the reeds. The Euphrates where we are is no wider than some parts of the Conestoga Creek.

Camp Habaniya has grass and palm trees and experiences regular (almost daily) mortar attacks and small arms fire. Our camp is mostly barren and experiences infrequent mortar attacks. When we finally located our soldiers on the sprawling and deteriorating complex, they were really glad for our visit. A handful of soldier/college student types (male and female) were working on the engine of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. They loved what they were doing because they were getting to do their MOS (job description) and “learning something new every day.” We went around and spoke with many others who seemed relatively happy with how their deployment was going. I appreciated their attitude and the way bonds seemed to be forming. I noticed one soldier who was not feeling all that well lying back on a chair. He had stomach cramps. Apparently everyone went through a touch of diarrhea, but no one was worse for wear. The next day at dinner, one of the soldiers approached me in the mess hall and said cheerfully, “Since you visited us we decided to visit you.”