Faces of War: Iraq, the Road to Heaven or Hell

Faces of War: Iraq, the Road to Heaven or Hell

By Michael Foster

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2013 Michael William Foster.

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

I have tried to recreate events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Cover design by Rae Botsford, www.raebotsford.com

Dictionary definitions for soul, death, patriot, and sacrifice from Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate® Dictionary, 11th Edition ©2013 by Merriam-Webster, Inc. (www.Merriam-Webster.com). Used by permission.

Life as a U.S. Army Orthopaedic Surgeon Serving in Iraq by Dr. Gordon Hsieh of Northwest Orthopaedic & Sports Medicine has been quoted and used by permission.

The Executive Board Statement on the Human Terrain System Project from the American Anthropological Association has been quoted and used by permission.

PTSD levels in U.S. soldiers highest since Vietnam war from Medill Washington has been quoted and used by permission.

The various documents from the U.S. government and the UN quoted herein are in the public domain.

Visit the Faces of War website at www.iraqfacesofwar.com for updates and more.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Chapter 1: Blackhawk and Curfew: The Beginning

Chapter 2: Starting with Mortuary Affairs, Changing, and Heading Out

Chapter 3: Don't Anyone Talk to the Undertakers, History, and Superman

Chapter 4: A Game Changer

Chapter 5: Caution: Playing Soccer in Iraq May Be Hazardous to Your Health

Chapter 6: The Team, Mass Graves, the Week-Long Hearse, and the Dryer

Chapter 7: Processing My Mother, HTS, and Separating from Reality

Chapter 8: Non-Combat-Related Injuries

Chapter 9: Playing to Win

Chapter 10: Some Deaths Prior

Chapter 11: Big Hooah for the Geneva Convention

Chapter 12: Conversations in Hell, Ramadan, and Losing My Soul

Chapter 13: After the Injury and Dreaming Dark

Chapter 14: September

Chapter 15: Dirty Hands and Broken Plans

Chapter 16: What Faces I Saw and What Battles I Fought

Chapter 17: In the End, the War You Get is Equal to the War You Give

Epilogue

Endnotes

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their endeavors in the writing and production of Faces of War: Iraq, the Road to Heaven or Hell:

Ric Acevedo, ghostwriter - Without Ric, the many stories I carried when I came back from Iraq would never have been told. Ric gave meaning to the chaos of my work and dignity to the lives that were lost.

Rae Botsford, editor, webmaster, and producer - Rae kept the book alive and used her English and technology skills to produce a finished product. Rae was our motivator and constant organizer. She has a true talent for creative marketing and detail.

Judith Reynolds, editor – Judith put the true essence of the English language to the task to give the book the polish it needed. She gave her time and expertise to this project as her thanks to our soldiers at war.

Robert Jones, creative director of Fallen Soldier – Robert's documentary Fallen Soldier is a documentary about my injuries and troubles returning from war, and it is a strong educational piece on what our veterans face when returning home. It is not just my story; it is the story of many.

Dr. Scott Fairchild, my psychologist – Dr. Fairchild's patience and guidance helped me stay on task throughout the making of this book, and he helped me to work through my thoughts so I could get my story written down. I still have a brain injury and PTSD, but with his help and with getting my story out, I am learning to understand the new Mike Foster.

Col. Jon L. Davis (retired), my grandfather - His encouragement and his active role in research meant everything to me during this project. My grandfather, a Vietnam veteran, had the background to help me tell my tale in truth and honesty no matter how ugly it may have gotten.

I would also like to thank my Mortuary Affairs team with whom I served in Iraq. Together we sent home our fellow soldiers who gave their all. Our goal was that no one be left behind and, in our term of service in Iraq, we did just that. Every soldier returned home so that the families of the fallen could have peace and closure. This may be my story, but it is just as much the story of our lost soldiers.

Foreword

This book tells the story of my grandson's struggle with injuries he suffered in Iraq, his subsequent recovery, and his reintegration into society. It does not dwell on his experiences with a bitter divorce and prolonged battle for custody of his young daughter, nor does it dwell on his drawn-out negotiation with the VA over benefits, which was complicated by false testimony interjected by vindictive in-laws. Instead, it shows a disciplined, stubborn determination to overcome adversity. Not a tale of battlefield heroism, this is a display of how so many of our young men and women go to war and serve in less glamorous roles that are so necessary for the overall effort to succeed.

I am so very proud of my soldier!

Col. Jon L. Davis, USAF, Ret.

Chapter 1: Blackhawk and Curfew: The Beginning

Riding a Blackhawk helicopter at night in Baghdad makes me think of Louisiana. The streets are lit up, the flames coming out of oil derricks are impressive, and I almost get the impression that I am at home in the States. No sooner do my thoughts drift than I see a kid running down an empty street and realize that I am in Iraq. It is curfew time and it’s not a good time for anyone to be outside. I see that kid run and, as he does, I lose visual contact. It is hard to imagine how fast this kid must be running, especially when you take into account that I am in a very advanced piece of military equipment with which few can keep pace. The truth is that Baghdad at night is not Louisiana, but it is a war zone, like any other part of this desert where my squad and I could lose our lives at any time.

Nothing ever stays in a man’s mind after that thought. I was trained for the possibility of losing my life, as were my teammates, and we all understood our reason for being there. I knew that my old drill sergeant, Sergeant Beef House as I like to call him, would say something like, Don’t eyeball me, boy.

This night was not uncommon, nor were the hot days, the sandstorms, the feeling of impending doom whenever we would go out on HERO (Helicopter Emergency Recovery Operations) missions. Tonight, in this Blackhawk in the sky over Baghdad, quiet indicates danger; many lights and fires in the sky are deceiving masks of prosperity and happiness. Nothing feels right, but we are ready for whatever happens and we understand the risks. I've been in the military two years, and this night is one that I didn’t think would come. Yet of course it came, and it brought a great deal with it. It seemed like the ride in the Blackhawk was a long way from everything and everyone I loved.

This night was a long way from the beginning for me.

The military was something of a tradition in my family. Both my father and my grandfather had full careers in the Air Force. To me it had always been a possibility, but something had to happen to turn such thoughts into reality. How exactly did I end up in that chopper? My first real desire came about when I saw the images of September 11, 2001. The devastation was too much to witness. You never forget something like the September 11 terrorist attacks, no matter how hard you try. When you see planes destroying buildings in your country, where democracy and freedom supposedly reign supreme, it can leave any citizen reeling. I always had a strong sense of duty and a desire to help others, so enlisting became a powerfully attractive option. Thus, the story began a while back for me. I don’t know how it began for the rest of my squad, but I know that eventually we all ended up working for the same cause. The time I actually made the decision to join the military came about when I least expected it.

I was married, a young college student with a baby on the way. My strong feelings about the military combined with my need to support a young family made me realize that I needed to enlist to provide for my family’s future. This particular move was not one of total desperation, because I did want to be in the military. I was going to provide my family with the right support and a strong structure. Everything about this move felt right to me. I had roughed out a plan that seemed perfect for the wellbeing of my family. I would become a staff sergeant in the Army, transfer to the Air Force, become a sergeant in the Air Force, and become an officer. It’s funny how plans tend to change in the least expected manner. I would eventually become 92 Mike – Mortuary Affairs Specialist – and proud of it.

While I had this rough outline, I still needed to deal with my family. Though they had never actively discouraged me from joining the military, they certainly were not encouraging. I knew that my mother and stepfather were not happy with the idea and they made no bones about it. My grandfather was not very happy either. But, at the end of the day, I was my own man and I was making a decision based on desire and necessity. I had a family to support and a life to consider. On January 11, 2006, I made my commitment for country, family, and self.

I still remember riding the bus to boot camp. Everyone had their packs ready and it seemed like we were all carrying sacks full of shit. All of the recruits were somewhat intimidated and aware that life was about to have some major changes. Basic training was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I knew what basic training was about, of course, but I never thought it would be so literally like a nightmare. I was alone and I missed home and I soon realized that everyone there was feeling the same way. The question was whether or not any of my comrades would be able to stand the heavy pressure. I knew that I was there for all the right reasons, so it was not difficult to put ice in my veins in order to survive. I guess there is a good reason why I was called Iceman and it’s not because I resembled anyone from the movie Top Gun.

I saw it all while I was in basic training and it was something else. Exercises are designed like war theater, because situations make a person; they mold character. In boot camp and the military there were individuals with instincts, real ones, and all for survival. I saw people who were meant for the military; you could almost say that they were born for it.

In my case, I knew I would make it because my whole philosophy was to finish what I started. This isn’t a philosophy I invented but rather one lived by my grandfather and imparted to me by my grandmother. Everyone thinks that you change once you see action, but the truth is that you change the minute you start the journey into basic training. When you are looking down in a troop bus and hoping that you won’t fuck up, your life changes rather quickly. It seems like it was a never-ending journey whenever I think about it.

I remember that I signed up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, found myself in Fort Jackson, went to Fort Lee in Virginia, went back to New Mexico for my family, then trekked back to Fort Lee. Those days were full of hope and promise for me. Everyone I met had some idea in his or her mind about the service. I started my training determined to succeed and become a Superman, the man of steel who lives to help victims of tyranny.

It’s funny how I felt like Superman during those early days in the service. I was carrying almost twice my weight from time to time and I never seemed to tire. I was six feet tall and a strong 175 pounds in the beginning of my basic training. I had the kind of abs on which clothes can be scrubbed. I developed a taste for push-ups, sit-ups, and all sorts of exercise in the very beginning, and I guess all that exercise really helped the Superman feeling. It wasn’t days of wine and roses, but that sense of helping people was slowly becoming fulfilled. Despite the demanding nature of the military, when your heart and mind are right there is little you can't accomplish. In the service I also learned that nothing can ever be perfect, but with some serious hard work things can be less imperfect.

One key for surviving and silencing fear in the military, especially during training, is simply to have some friends. As in any other place, friends are good to have even if they are fleeting or somewhat shady. In my experience, the shadiness was often rooted in nothing more than fear and loneliness. I remember one particular private who stole a cell phone to make personal calls. During situations like that it seemed like we all paid an extremely steep price.

The level of maturation a person experiences in basic training is something unreal. The military is about survival during basic training as well as through your tour of duty. I guess it’s the same for a little boy running home past curfew in Baghdad, the same feeling that came over me sitting in the Blackhawk in the nighttime sky. I remember a lot of things about my sometimes-trying time during basic training. The whole idea behind beating a person with some pillows loaded with soap was not created by Full Metal Jacket; it was something that existed already. I always watched my back for things like that because they could and did happen. I think beatings occurred for the sake of toughening a person up, showing them a little something about the difficulty of survival. If I had to liken those days to the little boy running in the street, basic training was almost like an example of living Darwinism. Simply put, it was survival of the fittest. It’s funny how in the shuffle everyone wants to be the best, but when the cards are dealt the story changes.

Many people who came in with a gung-ho mentality would come down with a bit of a streak once things got a little difficult. I must have heard a million excuses from broken nail complaints to Oh, my hamstring is killing me. The military will make you, but it can break you if you don’t have depth to your character. I saw people lose it to such an extent that they would explode at their drill sergeants and find themselves leaving, getting kicked out for behavioral reasons. Basic training was a test and not everyone passed it. I knew that I would make it in the military because I was driven by honor and duty and because I kept thinking about the faces of lost soldiers and what it meant to their families to have closure for their loved ones.

While I trucked on with the best of intentions, I kept seeing comrades fall for reasons that were not in their control or in the control of the military. One such case was a private who wanted to be in the military so badly but found himself unable because of a severe knee injury. I wonder what he would have thought of the boy running home during curfew in the lonely and dangerous Baghdad night. The days in basic training sometimes seemed unbearable for me and everyone else.

Sometimes the stupidest things were what made it less bearable. Cadences, those wonderful military songs that you hear, are terrific for both fun and time-wasting. I never thought that I’d have to make up songs for marches, but everyone did at some point. I've personally always preferred the left, right, left tradition. To me, the whole concept of cadence is bad for focus and does not serve a purpose. I know cadence is a military tradition, but honestly, not every tradition