Friday, February 22, 2008

Boe Knows

February 22, 2008

We are all familiar with the concept of stress. Who among us is not living with some level of stress? We are even familiar with the term Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, especially now that soldiers have been to Iraq and Afghanistan, and some, upon returning home, have exhibited symptoms of PTSD. And just as stress is a word that gets thrown around a lot, PTSD is a label that is easily slapped on any soldier, and soldiers have enough to carry; they don’t need the added weight of our assumptions and judgments.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is very real. There are many soldiers who will be legitimately diagnosed with PTSD, and probably just as many who will go undiagnosed, or who won’t exhibit the symptoms until later, maybe much later.
There are soldiers trained to help fellow soldiers with the pressures that come from being deployed in a warzone. At COB Speicher in Tikrit, the 85th Medical Detachment Combat Stress Control Unit occupies an unassuming building across the street from the heavily-trafficked PX and fast food restaurants—perhaps the more popular outlets for stress: shopping and eating.
“Combat stress” might suggest that the source of stress in a warzone is always combat-related. Certainly there are soldiers who go outside the wire regularly, and who encounter IEDs or small arms fire at least some of the time, soldiers who might be experts on that type of stress. But generally much of the stress experienced in a combat zone is more a byproduct of just being away from home. The base becomes a second home, and it is hard to keep house in two places thousands of miles apart.
Many of the soldiers in Iraq now have been to Iraq before. Many were here for twelve months (often more than once), home for twelve months (some of those spent training for the next deployment), and now they are back in Iraq for fifteen months. Fifteen is the new twelve. Fifteen months is a long time to be away from one’s family and friends and familiar surroundings. And freedom.
In some ways, life is simple while deployed. Every day is about work and working out, eating and sleeping. All of the mundane chores associated with life back in the States fall away. Which is where it gets complicated. Those left at home feel… left. Running a household alone, especially if this includes raising children, is not easy. And all of this is compounded by the worrying that comes with being a part of a deployed soldier’s life.
Just about every base in Iraq, large or small, has a room or building with phones and computers soldiers can use to stay in touch. There is no privacy, and it is almost impossible not to overhear pieces of phone conversations, especially when they become heated. Many arguments are about money. Many relationships that were not so solid to begin with cannot be held together with phone calls and e-mail messages. A soldier may feel stuck in time, every day the same, but at home life goes on, whether the soldier is there or not. All of this is out of his or her control, which is not a good feeling.
At the Combat Stress Control building, soldiers will find a kind and sympathetic ear. Sometimes just giving voice to the nagging frustrations and pressures that build from one month to the next is enough to lighten the load. Captain Bret Moore, with a doctorate in psychology and on his second deployment, and other members of the team can offer support and stress management solutions, and obviously they have their own experiences to draw from that help deepen their understanding of deployment-related issues.
Sometimes help is hard to ask for. Soldiers are trained to endure situations and conditions that would break most of us, so they might feel asking for help is a sign of weakness. This is when it is helpful to have another sort of expert available. The Combat Stress Control Unit has just such an expert. Her name is Boe, and she is a licensed therapy dog who is an expert at giving and receiving love and affection.
Boe was a gift to the 101st from a non-profit organization called VetDogs, which has developed a program dedicated to training dogs to work with soldiers. Many of the dogs are trained to help disabled veterans, but recently the program expanded and on December 25, 2007, Boe and Budge, another therapy dog, made the trip to Iraq to offer that kind of support that only an animal can to active-duty soldiers.
Sergeant Mike Calaway flew to New York to the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind, which VetDogs is a part of, and spent a week with the dogs learning what they are capable of and how to work with them. Budge is at a base in Northern Iraq, and Boe is with Mike at Speicher. Boe is a gentle black Labrador Retriever, who often roams the halls of the Combat Stress Control building carrying her favorite teddy bear in her mouth.
The addition of a therapy dog like Boe to the staff at the Combat Stress Control Unit is significant. She and Budge are the first dogs being used in a combat zone for this purpose, and hopefully will pave the way for more dogs at more bases. Soldiers who would never think of entering the CSC building to seek help might stop by to visit with Boe. And when the members of the CSC team go out to talk to groups of soldiers about combat stress, a guest appearance by Boe helps break the ice and provides the perfect excuse for soldiers who need an excuse to visit the CSC.
It is impossible to predict how the war in Iraq, with its particular brand of violence and injuries, and its multiple deployments, will affect the soldiers in the long term. Many of them will be affected forever by what happened while they were in Iraq, but as Captain Moore says, “This doesn’t mean they are broken, just changed.”
It would be nice if the war in Iraq changed all of us. It would be nice if it taught us to treat each other better, to help each other with our burdens, instead of adding to them. It would be nice if it taught us to live more simply, instead of surrounding ourselves with status symbols and distractions. Boe knows these things. We need more Boes. More Boes equals less woes.
For more information about therapy dogs and the work of VetDogs and the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind, please refer to: and

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Friday, February 15, 2008

Back and Forth with the Sheiks of Bayji

February 15, 2008

What is an acceptable amount of violence? In a warzone there would appear to be no right answer. The number of U.S. casualties is relatively small compared to other wars, but the number continues to grow, and for anyone connected to any of these casualties, the number is too high.
Many Americans are lucky enough to be able to endure the war in Iraq from a safe distance, never knowing how it feels to lose a son or father, a brother or husband, or a best friend, to violence. Is there anyone in Iraq who knows this kind of luck?
Every day somewhere in Iraq people are meeting to discuss the violence that keeps Iraq from moving forward. The city of Bayji is no different. Recently Captain Tim Meadors, of the 101st Airborne Division’s 1st Brigade, met with a group of sheiks to discuss the tensions that plague the city while members of the 1st Battalion’s Alpha Company stood guard.
The sheiks present at the meeting were all family leaders from the same tribe. They complained of feeling vulnerable and victimized because the Bayji police force is comprised of members of a different tribe, whom they feel are using their position to commit crimes for which they will never be punished.
One by one, Iraqi women shrouded in black were brought into the room where the meeting took place to recite their losses. Usually women are kept in the shadows, but obviously the sheiks believed theirs was not the only voice that needed to be heard. One of the women asked Captain Meadors why the American soldiers had allowed her son to be killed.
In a more perfect Iraq, our soldiers would leave the detention and prosecution of anti-Coalition forces to the Iraqi police and soldiers. In the Iraq that we’re dealing with today, we might detain an Iraqi whom we consider suspicious, worthy of further questioning, but if he is handed over to the Iraqi authorities for this part of the process, the detainee may wind up dead. And then we are faced with a grieving and furious mother.
It is true that the Bayji police force does not accurately reflect the tribes of the city. But is this our fault? Is it possible to correct the problem? Can members of different tribes work together? Of course they can if they want to badly enough, if they are sufficiently fed up with the status quo.
Across Iraq there has been a movement among sheiks to do something to reduce the amount of violence in their country. In their towns and cities, they have formed groups called the Awakening Council, made up of men who act as another layer of security. Recently, our forces have tried to support this effort, calling these groups Concerned Local Citizens (CLC).
Because the CLC groups are formed under the supervision of area sheiks, they offer each tribe better representation. In Bayji, the hope is that some CLC members will evolve into police officers and help create a more balanced police force. That is the hope. The reality is that some CLC members sign up simply for the power that comes with the position. CLC groups man checkpoints throughout the city, checkpoints where abuses of power can occur—against members of other tribes, and against us. If they are the ones watching the road, they can choose to look the other way when IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) are placed in the road, or they can set them up themselves.
The day after the meeting with the sheiks, Captain Meadors and Lieutenant Colonel Pete Wilhelm met with CLC leaders, the Mayor, and the Chief of Police of Bayji. The goal, similar to that of the sheiks’ meeting, was to acknowledge that everyone who plays a part in the city’s leadership shares in the responsibility of putting a stop to the violence.
One of the sheiks present pointed out that there are members of the police department, members of the Iraqi Army, and members of the CLC who commit acts of violence against the Iraqi people and Coalition Forces. And each of these three forces has also been known to attack the others. So if the security situation in Iraq is a glass, it is half empty, and you should probably stick to bottled water if you are thirsty.
Everyone in Iraq has been touched by violence. At a very early age, Iraqis learn that life brings with it a certain amount of loss. It is how they decide to respond to that loss that will determine whether or not their quality of life will improve.
At the sheiks’ meeting, it was clear that even while Captain Meadors lobbied for peaceful solutions and cooperation between tribes, they were not ready to let go of their anger. Sometimes anger is a useful shield against grief and sorrow, but sometimes it is nothing but an obstacle and a waste of energy.
It is important to remember that justice as we know it is a fairly new concept in Iraq. Where revenge usually rules, it may take awhile to trust in a system that assumes everyone is equal, and no one is above the law.
Earlier in the same week as the sheiks’ meeting and the CLC meeting, a wedding had taken place, and those present had been out celebrating. It is customary to fire shots in the air as part of the festivities (and yes, our soldiers have included “weddings” on their mental checklist of reasons why they might be hearing gunshots on certain days of the week). Enthusiastic members of the wedding party had encountered equally enthusiastic members of the CLC, and the celebration turned deadly for at least one person. This is the sort of occurrence that makes us shake our heads and wonder if this is a country beyond repair.
The Bayji Police Chief drafted a law stating that wedding celebrants are not to fire gunshots as part of the celebration from now on. If shots are fired, the groom will spend his first night as a married man in jail. The Mayor smiled and nodded his head in approval when the proposed law and punishment were presented.
Embracing the future doesn’t have to mean forgetting the past, but in Iraq, it may be time to put some traditions to rest. Time to replace bullets with birdseed. Time to say enough is enough.

Friday, February 8, 2008

The War at the BOR

February 8, 2008

Often, it seems, the busiest soldiers in Iraq enjoy the sparest living conditions. There is a small patrol base set up on the property of the Bayji Oil Refinery (the BOR) where soldiers from the 101st Airborne Division’s 1st Brigade live and breathe Iraq’s most valuable resource. Commanding Officer Captain Joe DaSilva and Captain Steve Wright know more than most of us would ever imagine a soldier should have to know about oil production and distribution. And the soldiers of the 1st Battalion’s HHC (Headquarters and Headquarters Company) work to ensure that all runs smoothly at the BOR, which keeps them busy. Very busy.
A typical day begins with a trip to the gate, the entrance to the BOR, where soldiers from the Iraqi Army (IA) manage the traffic into and out of the facility. Some Iraqi soldiers are more driven than others. These guys are flagging. Indeed, a meeting conducted over orange drink juice boxes confirmed that there were morale issues, related mostly to staffing and equipment shortages, and also a general malaise perhaps associated with always being surrounded by gas, living in a world lit day and night by gas. Excess propane is burned around the clock, at least one precise orange flame always beating like a silk flag atop a tower visible from miles away.
Each of Iraq’s provinces has a specific day (or days) when they are permitted to send tanker trucks to the BOR to be filled with gas or another refined product. The Iraqi soldiers must guard against trespassers; attempts to breach the system are frequent. Truckers try to get in out of turn, civilians try to get in though only select civilian vehicles are supposed to be allowed through the gate, everyone has an angle or an excuse, all of which seem to weaken the IA’s resolve.
Soldiers like Lieutenant Michael Saur, who during this visit found himself nursing a cold as well as the IA, listen to the issues and concerns raised by the IA, and try to help them strive for a higher standard of performance in spite of the obstacles.
In addition to monitoring gate security, our soldiers also pay regular and frequent visits to the pumps where the tankers trucks line up and wait. The trucks are there for hours, giving the soldiers an opportunity to see what the drivers have to say. Some complain of being forced to pay for their space in line. Apparently someone claiming to be a guard has positioned himself outside the gate and convinced the drivers it would be easier to pay than protest. Now the soldiers will have to develop a strategy for preventing extortionists from interrupting the flow of traffic to the BOR.
There is no more valuable and plentiful product in Iraq than the gas that leaves the Refinery every day in tanker trucks. Terrorists, government officials, gas station owners, and of course the truck drivers themselves are unable to resist the money and the power that comes with controlling where the gas goes. One of the ongoing challenges facing Captains DaSilva and Wright involves accounting for all of the gas that is pumped into those tanker trucks.
When a truck is filled up, the amount of fuel it receives is recorded. When the truck arrives at its destination, most often a gas station, the amount of fuel it delivers is recorded. These numbers should be the same, but funny things happen, and a simple math equation becomes a convoluted word problem. Sometimes the number itself is recorded but the truck leaves without delivering the fuel to the gas station, and it is sold on the black market instead.
It should be easy to spot discrepancies, but when they are discovered, the drivers and gas station owners questioned, even arrested, the punishment is never so severe as to act as a deterrent. And with so much money at stake, it is possible to buy one’s way through the system, a system which seems deliberately primitive and flawed.
The Chief Operating Officer of the BOR, Mr. A---, himself a study in refinement, acknowledges the corruption but there is little he can do about it. He is responsible for production, not distribution. Still, he knows that any truck leaving the Refinery might be a player in one of Iraq’s biggest problems, carrying the product that should be the solution to all of its problems.
Mr. A--- himself feels pressure from all sides. His job is to make sure the Refinery runs at or near capacity. He has succeeded. But buried in the fine print of his job description, written in invisible ink, is the ever-growing list of people he must try to please, or try not to anger, or try to work with rather than fight against. These people make outrageous demands, asking for everything from furniture to cars, demands he says he tries to meet about fifty percent of the time. “I cannot refuse all the time. I cannot agree all the time,” he explains in his perfect English.
Captain Ali, head of Bayji’s ESU (Emergency Services Unit), a specially trained branch of the Iraqi Police Force, is as fiery and intense as Mr. A--- is cool and collected. Lieutenant Trent Teague and members of his platoon visited Captain Ali at his home, which has the feeling of a men’s club with an edge. Members of the ESU hang on the perimeter of the room as if waiting to receive orders. On the walls are pictures of relatives and ESU members killed in the line of duty. Recently a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device) exploded near Captain Ali’s house, killing many civilians and one of his men.
The violence and losses Captain Ali has experienced seem to have galvanized him. “His heart is dead; he has no fear,” says Fadi, one of our interpreters, and he appears not to, ready to name names, ready to take on anyone he sees as doing wrong. He embraces the American soldiers, happy to have an ally in his war.
During our visit, Captain Ali’s young nephew wandered into the living room and over to his uncle, who pulled him into his lap and held onto him as if trying to recapture his own boyhood innocence, which he undoubtedly lost too soon. The boy sat silently while his uncle discussed the death and violence that fill his world, and it looked like the boy’s days of innocence would be cut short too.
The HHC soldiers who call the patrol base at the Bayji Oil Refinery home are fighting a different kind of war. The enemy is corruption. The enemy is everywhere. Even the otherwise innocent people who buy black market gas from the boys who sell it on the side of the road are helping the enemy. The only way to make headway against so relentless and pervasive an enemy is to be equally relentless and pervasive. This means maintaining a constant presence in and around the BOR. This means frequent foot patrols and meetings with Refinery personnel and security forces. This means there is very little time off, very little time for the soldiers to realize how much they are doing without.