by Tammy Ortung
I was almost three months into my Iraq deployment when the Lieutenant Colonel tossed a bombshell over the cubicle wall. “We’re heading to US Embassy in the Green Zone in a few days.”
My predecessor had gone to the Embassy a few times, but up to this point I hadn’t left the security of Victory Base Complex. I didn’t think my two weeks of combat training—if you could call it that—had adequately prepared me for the dangers of going outside the wire. And as a desk-jockey, I had hoped to never leave base—though I didn’t shout it from the rooftops. I alternately loved and was shamed for being a support officer.
I had made the mistake of watching Fox News since my arrival and heard about the rise of violence throughout Baghdad. Since security for the Green Zone had been turned over to the Iraqis, there had been several suicide-bombing incidents, two this month alone, killing a total of sixty-one people and injuring over a hundred others. Insurgents were also still using improvised explosive devices, to destroy and incapacitate troops and facilities.
I had read that explosive device incidents had been on a decline for the last two years—but that wasn’t comforting. There was still an average of seven hundred devices found each month. Only a small percentage exploded these days as most were disarmed, but here’s the thing: it would only take one to alter my life forever.
My anxiety simmered for three days. Three sleepless nights to consider all the gory ways I might be blown up when my vehicle ran over one of these seven hundred devices. I’d read that the number of fatalities was relatively low compared to the irrevocable injuries. If I were unlucky enough to encounter an explosive device on my trip to the Embassy, I’d rather die than suffer for the rest of my life. Prosthetics had come a long a way, but there still wasn’t much doctors could do for traumatic brain injuries.
By the time we were scheduled to depart, I had worked myself into a tizzy. Andy, my Navy counterpart, also augmenting the Army, dropped us off at the departure point. I trudged awkwardly toward the Mine Resistant-Ambush Protected armored vehicle (MRAP), unused to the extra weight of my flak vest and too large Kevlar helmet that kept sliding down my forehead, blocking my view. My web-belt, canteen and 9mm, armed and ready, completed the ensemble. I’d pulled out my military-issued leg holster for the trip and attached it to my upper right thigh. Andy had loaned me a leather shoulder harness (as the military issued leg harness hindered my bathroom routine), but it wouldn’t fit over the flak vest. Its faulty snap didn’t adequately secure my weapon for a trip like this anyway—too many times my unsecured weapon had fallen out clanging loudly onto the rocks—another example of my inadequacies.
Al sauntered easily beside me, not hindered by his gear at all. He had practically begged to come along, like a little boy about to embark on the most exciting quest of his life. I thought he was crazy, but he was a Marine, so perhaps this was an adventure for him. People like Al were part of the reason I’d always felt like an intruder. Many troops would have relished the idea of traveling off-base to see nearby cities and towns and observe the indigenous people, I couldn’t have cared less about the Iraqi culture—my fear was too great. I would never have considered volunteering to go off-base if my job hadn’t necessitated it. What did that say about me? I almost felt like I was playing soldier or dressing up for some costume party, more a fraud than ever before.
We would be traveling via convoy. I knew from the security briefing that explosive devices posed the greatest threat to convoys. Insurgents weren’t stupid: they observed our movements, they knew what routes we regularly took, and of course, they would know where to inflict the greatest pain.
We climbed into a MRAP, designed to withstand explosive attacks—but I didn’t feel any safer. If these vehicles were so safe, there wouldn’t be as many incidents with soldiers maimed or killed. Protection, yes, but far from guaranteed.
The Embassy was about ten miles from base. As we drove, I tried to look out the bulletproof windows, but they were small and positioned so high on the vehicle wall that my helmet kept bumping the ceiling, minimizing my mobility and vision. What I could see of the scenery reminded me of a Mexican border town: tan, sandy and desolate. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a mosque along the road and sometimes crumbling, brick and sandstone structures that appeared residential.
It was difficult to see the road itself. I wanted to see the road—needed to see it. It was as if I had deceived myself into thinking that if I could only see the path in front of the vehicle, I would have some control over my circumstances.
Al and the Lieutenant Colonel were relaxed as they sat across from each other on bench seats that ran the inside perimeter of the vehicle. We were the only passengers, joined by our security team, two soldiers in the back and another up front with the driver. There was another vehicle behind us, but I hadn’t noticed how many people it was transporting.
Al slumped back against the side wall, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep? Maybe he already knew what I had just realized: We couldn’t see anything back here even if we wanted to.
I was essentially blind back here.
What if our security detail became complacent and missed an explosive device directly in our path? They did this every single day, so what if they had become desensitized to the dangers? What if they didn’t see that dead animal, soda can, or other piece of trash under which the insurgents had chosen to hide their device today?
I startled when the vehicle slowed and came to a stop.
“What’s going on?” I asked, trying not to sound as freaked out as I felt. Had the lookout seen something in the road?
No one else seemed alarmed.
“Iraqi security checkpoint,” one of our escorts said. “There are several along the way.”
Once complete, the vehicle rolled forward and weaved through the concrete barriers before picking up speed. I stood, my helmet still bumping the ceiling periodically, as I cocked my head at odd angles before finding the best view out the window. We passed buildings surrounded by concrete T-walls, meant to offer protection from blasts. I saw palm trees in the distance. They added a splash of color to the otherwise brown hue of the horizon, creating an illusion of paradise in this war-torn country.
We finally stopped at the drop-off point, climbed out of the vehicle, and wound our way through the maze of security T-walls. Before long I was overheated and out of breath. I took a swig of water from my seldom used canteen, hating the plastic chemical taste that still lingered. My hair was soaked and sweat dripped into my eyes and down the back of my neck. I felt a massive headache emerging from the five-pound Kevlar solar panel on my head. Before long, sweat was running down the middle of my back, an itch I couldn’t scratch. The flak vest may have protected my core, but it didn’t let my body breathe. Wearing all this gear was like being trapped, fully clothed, in a sauna turned on high, with no escape.
The drop-off point was only about three quarters of a mile from the Embassy, but with the extra gear in the heat of the day, I was so hot I felt like a drippy wet rag by the time we arrived at the security checkpoint.
We were escorted to the office of our contact and sat in the conference room while we listened to their manpower concerns. All this time and effort because we were responsible for handling all personnel and staffing issues for the sixteen thousand people assigned to the Embassy.
As I sat next to the Lieutenant Colonel, while she and the manager discussed their manning needs, I wondered why we couldn’t have handled these issues over the phone or via email—especially when the meeting only lasted an hour. Maybe the Lieutenant Colonel needed to validate her reason for being in Iraq. I wondered if she, like me, had ever felt inferior to operations personnel. Had her military service criticized her for working in an office? Were Army personnel harder on their desk-jockeys? Maybe the sometimes not-so-friendly ribbing I had experienced in the Air Force, became more acerbic in the Army. And maybe, like me, this badgering had made her feel second-rate. Whatever her reasons, I wished she hadn’t dragged me along.
After the meeting, the manager escorted us down the elevator for lunch in a small food-court-style dining facility, about one-tenth the size of Camp Victory’s. I assumed there must be several other dining options as this eatery would never be able to feed the number of personnel assigned here.
My discontent had magnified my hunger, as it often did, and the pile on my plate grew as we made our way through the food line. Everything looked so scrumptious that, of course, I had to sample a small portion of each dish. As we surveyed the crowded room, Al and I spotted four empty seats from among the rows of tables along the far-right wall. We all sat down to enjoy our feast.
I glanced around the room, surprised to see so many people in civilian clothes. Except for a sprinkling of military uniforms, this place served as a poignant reminder that these civilians were also putting their lives on the line in service of their country. Why did their sacrifice seem so much more noteworthy?
After lunch we walked back to the rally point to await our ride back to base. There were a few small pavilions with wooden picnic tables to sit on, but the sun was high in the sky and shade non-existent. I started feeling a little nauseous and regretted eating so much at lunch. I became more miserable with each aching minute we sat in the scorching, hot sun, waiting for our convoy team to arrive. Al and I made small talk until the heat sapped what was left of our energy and we lay down on the vacant bleachers nearby. There was no reprieve from the blistering yellow blaze. I searched ardently for just one small cloud in the clear blue sky—something, anything, to blot out the effects of the beastly orb. Perspiration saturated my uniform, and I became increasingly preoccupied with the idea of flinging off all my combat gear in a childish tantrum. I was desperate for a fan or a slight breeze to brush across my sweat-soaked clothes to cool the broiling skin beneath. As my suffering escalated, I started thinking impolite thoughts about the Lieutenant Colonel, mentally channeling all my sweaty frustration at her for bringing us on this useless trip in the first place.
By the time our transport vehicle pulled up an hour later, I had no strength left to feel anything at all.
***
We made our way back without incident. I told all my friends and family of my Embassy excursion, needing to feel as if my contributions mattered. Though I wondered how many of the troops harassing us desk-jockeys had been outside the wire themselves. I’d read somewhere that statistically only about ten percent of military troops faced danger or saw combat—but that hadn’t stopped other support functions, like maintenance and supply, from sneering at those of us who worked in an office. I had heard this my whole career, from the very beginning: My service mattered less. Maybe my peers would have respected my service more –would have respected me more—if something traumatic had happened during that trip. Maybe a few scrapes or broken bones might have proven that I was just as important as those who flew airplanes or were boots-on-the-ground doing security sweeps.
Or maybe, I would have felt more valuable to the war effort if I had experienced anything that even remotely resembled combat.
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Tammy Ortung is a 25-year Air Force veteran and an emerging creative nonfiction (CNF) writer, who graduated from the Converse College MFA program in 2020. She has a passion for helping others realize their full potential. She plans, organizes & facilitates workshops/retreats for female veterans across the nation working with Stonecroft and Cross the Divide ministries, has almost 15 years as a freelance career consultant and serves as an co-editor/writing coach with Military Experience & the Arts, Inc. Her work has appeared in The Walls Between Us by Juncture Workshops and MEA. When she isn’t working on her YA manuscript, she can be found fishing with her husband or walking her Newfoundland, Koda.
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