excerpt: plenty of time when we get home: love and recovery in the aftermath of war

8/13/2019 Excerpt: Plenty of Time When We Get Home: Love and Recovery in the Aftermath of War

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T H E I N J U R Y

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t happened partway through the first year of Operation Iraqi Freedom: October 17, 2003. Brian

remembers only flashes of the day itself, and has had to piece the rest of it together based on what

others have told him.

Whats firm in his head is that he had not wanted to go home, even though he was due for a break.

Sergeant J, he said to Jacubiak, his platoon sergeant, I do not want to go on mid-tour leave. Send one of

the Joes.

Sergeant McGough, this is not your call. Soldiers who were in Afghanistan and guys with children are

first on the list. Youre in both categories.

I dont want to go. I need to be here to lead my soldiers. Send one of the guys who is married and has

kids.

McGough, you have been deployed three times in four yearsKosovo in 2002, Afghanistan in 2003

now youre here in Iraq. Go see your little girl.

But my ex is barely talking to me! Brian considered how depressing it would be to go home to a

house that echoed with memories and broken dreams. His ex-wife had been Army too; theyd split up

after his first deployment, and shed taken their daughter Sonja with her when she moved away. Now

shes in Washington State, Brian told his platoon sergeant. I dont even know if Ill get a chance to see

my daughter.

Jacubiak was having none of it. You cant refuse! You are going. That is a direct order.

Sergeant J, Brian was nearly begging now. He knew he had a reputation for being difficult, for

struggling with authorityearly in his military career hed been denied promotions for disciplinary

problemsbut this was different. I have a bad feeling about this. Its not a good idea. I dont need to

leavesend someone else.

Relax, Mac. Jacubiak couldnt believe this guy. Go drink some beers and get a piece of ass. Get your

mind off this shithole for a couple weeks.

Impossible, Brian knew. An Army lifer, he was closing in on ten years of active duty, and with his wife

and daughter gone, it was his troops who counted most. Despite his early rebellion in the ranks, hed

risen to become a leader, earning a Bronze Star in one of Afghanistans roughest battles, Operation

Anaconda. Like many fellow Rakkasans (the nickname of our brigade in the 101st Airborne Division), he

was confused about why theyd been pulled out of Afghanistan and sent to Iraq. Brian was particularly

disillusioned about the shift in focushed lost family in the 9/11 attacks and felt a personal stake in

tracking down Osama bin Laden. Who cared about Iraq, a country with no connection to al-Qaida?

But orders were orders. Brian had gone to Iraq, and now, reluctantly, was going on mid-tour leave.

Just as hed suspected, he was unable to see his daughter. He spent his fifteen days home doing what hed

been tolddrinking beer, getting some ass. And impulsively trading his pickup (he owed more on it than

it was worth) for a new red sports car.

Why not? he asked himself. Debt was meaningless. Sure, hed get fat paychecks while in Iraqbeing

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were impossible to open and aim out of even if he had a weaponhe felt terribly insecure.

Brian threw his duffel bag by a window on the right side of the bus a few rows back and sat down next

to it. Clusterfuck, he thought. Fucking typical. Guys with PPE were in the w indow seats, while those

without sat next to them, on the rationale that theyd be less at risk there.

When Bobby got on, the bus was almost full. To make room for him, Brian grabbed his duffel bag, ran

off the bus and threw it onto the LMTV (light medium tactical vehicle) in front of the bus, then got back on

and sat back down by the window. Bobby sat down next to him and they talked about leave, their kids,and what they were going to dothis part was strictly theoreticalwhen, if, the deployment was over.

The convoy drove through Mosul. In recent months the people there had become less and less friendly

toward Americans. The kids used to wave at our convoys when they drove by, but theyd stopped. Now

they flipped their middle fingers and spat as Americans passed. When the convoy neared a tall blue

intricately painted arch on the outskirts of the citythe Gates of MosulBrian got even tenser. It was

sunny and clear, locals milled around, kids and chickens picked through the trash that littered the

roadside. Just ahead was what our unit called Ambush Alleyevery area of operations had one, the place

where the most attacks took place, where troops were most likely to get hitthis one was ours.

It was on that stretch of road that everything went to shit.An IED went off on the right side of the bus, and the explosion blew out the front door and window.

Pieces of glass flew everywhere. Were hit, were hit! someone shouted. The bus kept rolling, and a

rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) fired from an alley on the right missed the back of it by inches. Other

attackers were shooting small arms at the convoy. Were taking fire from the left!

The LMTV in front of them was towing a fuel pod of JP-8 (jet fuel). The fuel pod had been hit, setting

the canopy above the LMTV on fire, and soldiers jumped off to get away from the flames as it slowly

pulled to the side of the road.

The outside of the bus was on fire, too. Keep going! We have to get clear! The driver of the bus, a

young soldier who was the battalion mail clerk, kept his foot pressed on the gas, trying to get out of theattack zone as quickly as possible. Burning rubber disintegrated off the tires until they were down to

steel scraping on pavement.

Immediately, the troops who had escaped the burning LMTV confiscated a local pickup truck. The

Iraqi driver tried to argue, but they dragged him out and shoved him aside, commandeering the vehicle.

As many guys as could fit crammed into its bed and the cab; two more rode on the hood as it took off after

the bus, trying to stay with the convoy.

On the bus, troops were checking themselves and those around them for injuries. One guy sitting near

the front had an injured arm. I need a knife! Bobby called; a Leatherman was quickly passed up from the

back. Bobby cut away the sleeve to assess the injury. It was ugly, but didnt look life-threatening.Brian said, I think I hit my head, and tried to stand up.

There was metal sticking out of the back of his head.

Sit down, man, Bobby said.

Give me a cigarette, he mumbled.

Is there a CLS bag? Bobby called. Any Humvee would have had a combat lifesaver bag on it with

sterile dressings, IV fluids, scissors, and more. But there wasnt one on the bus.

Another NCO from their unit passed up a clean T-shirt from his assault pack. Let me take a look,

Bobby said. The right side of Brians face was wounded, one gash several inches long near his temple


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bleeding profusely. Let me bandage this, he said, using the shirt to craft a makeshift bandage, carefully

avoiding the piece of shrapnel protruding about an inch from Brians skull behind his right ear, under his

Kevlar. Dude, Bobby said, you gotta see a medic.

No, man, Im cool. Brian had no idea. I just need a fucking cigarette! My head is killing me from this

hangover and hitting it on the window.

Bobby pulled the left side of Brians head down to his shoulder and held him to ensure he didnt

accidentally drive it in deeper as he moved around, moaning. He didnt tell Brian about the shrapnel, notwanting him to panic or try to touch it.

The driver of the bus never took his foot off the gas, pushing forward until they got to the next

American outpost.

Everyone got off the bus. First the most severely wounded, who were clustered near the front of the

bus. One of the last guys off turned to thank the driver, but the words froze in his mouth when he saw the

blood dripping down the mail clerks head, forehead, face ...despite his injuries, the driver had pushed

through, getting them all to safety.

Brian was walking and talking but disoriented.

The MPs called for volunteers to go back and make sure no one was still out there. A staff sergeantfrom my unit, who had been riding on the LMTV and was bloodied and burned, stepped forward. They

loaded up and headed back outnever leave a fallen comrade behind.

Bobby called a medic over to Brian: We got to get him on a bird, get him outta here.

Brian tugged at Bobby: Wheres the cigarette?

The medic evaluated Brian briefly. He was walking, making eye contact, talking. Well just bring him

to the Battalion Aid Station. Its not life-threatening.

Are you out of your mind?! Bobby said, trying to keep his cool. It was obvious to him that an injury as

severe as Brians needed advanced medical treatment. Get him on the bird. He needs to be evaced. He

needs surgery!Who do you think you are, a doctor? the medic sneered. Look at himhes talking, asking for a

cigarette. Hes ambulatory. He doesnt need to be evaced.

Bobby wouldnt give up, arguing until a medevac helicopter had landed andthe medic relented. Come

on, man, lets get you on the bird, one of his friends said, leading Brian forward. Brian tried to climb into

the pilots door.

No, dude! Wrong door, his friend said, pulling him back.

The crew helped him onto a stretcher in the back and got him strapped down. Bobbys last glimpse of

Brian was of him lying down, his head propped on a Kevlar. Fuck! he said. What if hes pushing

shrapnel in deeper?!The helicopter lurched upward. Brian was on his way to the Combat Support Hospital in Baghdad. He

couldnt know that his battle wasnt ending; it was only beginning.

excerpt: plenty of time when we get home: love and recovery in the aftermath of war

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