We're At War

The war came home for me in a surprising way on a spring morning nearly four years after the war had begun. In truth, I thought that I knew what it meant to be at war, but in reality, I didn’t understand until that morning.

I was in the military before September 11 happened. I had already signed on the dotted line and knew, at least I was supposed to, what was expected of me as a person in uniform. But the closest I came to experiencing war was being confined to an overseas military base for about 24 hours while the U.S. embassy in that country was contacted. Once, there was talk of me being deployed to Iraq, the Green Zone, but that deployment eventually went to someone who was much more eager to take it than me. As amazing as it seems, I never understood what it meant to be at war until I befriended a “cop” during my second assignment.

I had known him for about eight months when he deployed. Before he left for Afghanistan, he refused to tell me what his job would be when he got there. I didn’t see him off. I simply told him before he left to make sure he came back safely. It went unspoken that I expected him to check in every now and then to let me know he was okay and I knew that he would.

When he was stateside, he was a K-9 handler. He trained the military working dogs at our base. That’s how I met him. I was taking a school group on a tour of the base and we scheduled a stop at the kennels. He greeted us when we got off the bus. Later he admitted that I seemed shy and reserved, even a little bit awkward, but that there was something, almost undetectable, that also said I was up for anything. It was this hidden quality that encouraged him to call me into the kennel with him so he could have the dogs demonstrate their ferocity on my arm instead of his own.

“Put that on your arm,” he instructed. He quickly explained what he was going to tell the dog to do and how I was to react. I nodded that I understood and he turned to walk away. “Oh, I forgot to ask,” he added as an afterthought. “You’re not afraid of dogs are you?”

“Not yet.”

That was the beginning of our acquaintance. As it turned out, my work and his work overlapped frequently and we became friends.

I knew when he deployed that he wouldn’t be doing standard K-9 handling work because he was being sent without a dog. But I also knew he wouldn’t be doing standard security forces patrolling either. They had given him this particular deployment because he had been previously enlisted in the Army and they were looking for someone with that kind of experience. He didn’t want to tell me what he would be doing when he got to Afghanistan, and I didn’t feel compelled to press the issue.

Three or four weeks after he left the United States, the phone in my office rang early in the morning. As was my personal policy, I let my voicemail pick it up. I never answered the phones before 7:30. I logged on to the computer. No message from him in my email account. Is it too much for a girl to ask to know that you at least got to Afghanistan without incident? I had been responsible for facilitating the media coverage of an Army National Guardsman who had died on his way to Iraq. The soldier hadn’t even made it to the war zone. I knew bad things could happen before you even arrived in harm’s way. All I need is a little email that says you’re still breathing, I thought. Since he’d left, I’d been waiting to get an update from him, no matter how small. I was a fanatic news watcher, and I knew that things in Afghanistan were getting uglier, especially in the part of the country where he expected to be.

At 7:30, I checked my voicemail; it was time to get to work.

“Hey, woman. Why aren’t you answering your phone? I know you’re at work already. This is Thompson.* I’ll try to give you a call another time.”

The next morning, and every morning after, there was an email from him in my inbox. If there was no email, I received a phone call and the apology that he was too tired to type. During our first phone conversation, he finally told me what his specific duties entailed.

“I didn’t want to tell you before I left, because I know you’re the type of person who would worry. But I want you to know now so you’ll understand if anything happens.”

Not a very encouraging statement. His job was convoy security. He was responsible for the safety and security of distinguished visitors and high-ranking military officers who were traveling by convoy from Kabul to other destinations, mostly in eastern Afghanistan. It was not a safe job, and convoy attacks were increasing in frequency. I tried to sound like it didn’t bother me when I responded, but I don’t even remember what I said to him. He must have heard the concern in my voice.

“I’ve known since I first found out about the deployment what my job would be. I couldn’t tell you though. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m here with a lot of soldiers and Marines. I’m the only Air Force guy. We’ll take care of each other.” I know, but there’s only so much you can do for each other when someone rigs a bomb to explode under your fuel tank. I think it was the most negative thought I’ve ever had about what is going on in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Still the emails continued. Every morning, I’d have an email waiting for me. And every evening I’d respond so he had one waiting for him. It was my own personal morale and welfare campaign.

Several weeks later, I was drinking my coffee and watching the morning news. Ann Curry’s voice began to read the morning’s headlines. Something about an attack on a convoy in eastern Afghanistan. I had been planning to go into work a little bit late that morning, but suddenly I was lacing up my boots. If he was okay, I’d have an email from him. When I got to the office, I turned on my computer. No email. I picked up the phone receiver. No voicemails. I made coffee. I checked my schedule. I worked on some projects I had due. Anything to distract myself from the feeling in my gut that said something was wrong with him, that it was his convoy that had been attacked. My friends, my country, was at war. The idea finally registered.

Later in the day, I called his boss.

“Rice, it’s Lieutenant Wellman. Have you heard from Thomspon?”

“No. Not today. Why?” Damn you for not watching the news.

“There was an attack on a convoy in eastern Afghanistan. I was just hoping you’d heard from him, that’s all.” I tried to play it cool, but I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings.

Several days later, my phone rang. I answered.

“It’s me.” He sounded tired. “Rice said you were worried about me and I should call you. I can’t tell you much; they’ll cut the connection off. I’m okay. It was us, but I’m okay.”

After that, the emails came less frequently and the phone calls stopped. We never talked about it, but I think he knew that I couldn’t handle it. He knew that I could make the connections after that, that I could hear things on the news and have them confirmed when I had no news from him, and that the worrying about him would consume me. So he wrote less frequently and I stopped watching the news. I wouldn’t admit it, but I knew I couldn’t handle it either.

He was supposed to come home at the end of August. We hadn’t spoken since the end of April, when I’d separated from the Air Force. But I knew he would be back soon and I hoped that he would try to get in touch with me. I had promised myself that I would not contact him.

I got a message from him at the beginning of August. He wanted to know if I wanted to get lunch.

“You’re not supposed to be back until the end of the month.” It was the only thing I could think to say. I knew they didn’t send people back early unless they were injured, or dead.

“I know, but I am and I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch.”

I wanted to ask how bad his injuries were. I wanted to ask what was wrong with him. I wanted to be prepared for what I was going to see. But I didn’t ask. Because more than asking, I wanted to see him with my own eyes and know that he was really home.

We had lunch together later that day. He told me as much as he could about his deployment. I told him as much as I could about my life, post-Air Force. I couldn’t help but notice how he jumped and turned around when a car backfired at the stop sign on the corner. I knew then that I would never really understand what he had been through, so I decided not even to try.