by James Breitweser
“You ordered your soldiers to surrender their weapons in Islamabad?” The US Army CID agent frowned and reached his right hand up to his pocket as if seeking a forgotten habit. “Doc, how’d you end up there?” He addressed me by my profession, not my rank, did this mean he didn’t view me as a real soldier?
I sat bolt upright in an industrial metal chair. Across the Fort Bragg stockade interrogation table sat the stern, older agent. His pressed blazer tightly fit his shoulders, and his face and scalp were clean-shaven. My rumpled Army Camouflage Uniform hugged my paunch belly. My face was unshaven and hair greasy from days of travel.
As to his rank, his civilian attire offered no clue. He’d told me his name, Eastern European in origin, but it had gotten lost in his warning that he was conducting an investigation on behalf of JAG regarding my decision to abandon weapons in Pakistan. As he recited UCMJ infractions that I’d potentially committed, and urged that I tell the truth, it dawned on me I could be in more trouble than I had anticipated or realized. I wished for a drink of water to soothe my dry mouth.
The aggressive, formal questioning I was undergoing was far removed from any interaction I had as an ER doctor with patients. I’d only seen interrogations like this in thriller or action movies. Not only was I aware of the role reversal, I recognized the great disadvantage I was under. After traveling halfway across the world to a warzone and back, I wanted to be back home with my wife. I longed to get started on our summer garden.
Moisture trailed down my spine as I reflected on the actions I’d taken that had brought me to this room. Despite bringing my team safely back, I was being severely and officially investigated over a downrange decision. All because I held the safety of my soldiers in higher regard than the retention of lowly pistols that were deadly when loaded, but anchors when empty. Why was I being so harshly evaluated? Nothing in my decade of emergency room training and experience had prepared me for the ordeal I’d encountered.
Although I wore the uniform and rank of a military officer, I’d never been tested in the field as a soldier. Granted, I’m a capable military physician, similar to civilian physicians. Yet I’d somehow escaped combat zone deployments until this tasking. Little did l realize how woefully unprepared I was for the challenge. As I stared at him, I wondered whether he had combat deployment experience that allowed him to sit in judgment of my choices or it was by-the-book and thus abstract.
I told the agent that it seemed like a straightforward tasking: lead a military medical team to Kabul to inspect the Afghan Army Hospital. But it’d been a goat-rope from the git-go. The 75-year-old Red Army built concrete hospital resembled an obsolete factory. Our eyes watered from the reek of sewer gas, the corridors were gloomily lit, and the maintenance room had only contained a screwdriver, hammer, and pliers.
We’d exit-briefed the Afghan Army Surgeon General in his resplendent, wood-paneled office, giving him our findings and recommendations. And just as the ISAF medical logisticians had warned us about him, the top-dog doc, holding his padlock keyring, was only interested in acquiring more medical equipment to cram into his many warehouses. After weeks of wasted effort, my sole desire was getting on a plane and heading home.
I shifted in my chair. “Coming back from Kabul, Islamabad’s where we ran into trouble.”
The CID agent picked up his notebook and pen. “I’ve heard your team’s version of what happened there, what’s yours?” The tone of his voice made me hesitate; I hoped my account was consistent with the stories told by my team.
What was my version? I expected a quiet, short layover, but soon found I was dealing with an unexpected crisis. As our bags came out of the x-ray scanner, the Gulf Air agent said we couldn’t travel with our weapons into Abu Dhabi. I showed him our Fort Bragg paperwork, but he said the Sheikhs rule in UAE, not US documents. He was polite but firm in his refusal, our paperwork was worthless.
I called the Bragg emergency number that I’d been assured was manned 24/7, but got a ‘leave a message, we’ll get back to you.’ Next, I called the US Embassy where a junior official said the Military Attaché was off-the-net, and he didn’t know when he’d return. Our layover ticked away: I was outside my comfort zone and I wished I was back in the ER dealing with a challenging but familiar cardiac resuscitation.
I gathered my antsy team and brought them up to speed. One suggested checking into the Islamabad Marriot. So, I called, but found the only available rooms overlooked the service vehicle entrance, which didn’t seem safe to me. That was a good place to park a car bomb, a well-known danger. By now our flight’s final call was being announced. Out of time, I made my decision.
No way I’d let a bunch of empty pistols keep us in Islamabad instead of flying home. I told the team we’d leave our weapons behind and get on our flight. Some protested handing their weapons over to a foreign national, but I said I’ll take full responsibility. While they stacked lockboxes on the counter, I called the junior embassy official to request that the Attaché pick our weapons up from the gate agent. He said that the Attaché wasn’t going to like it, but it was my call.
And it was. We boarded just before the doors closed, and the airplane took off. As we ascended, I reclined with relief but fought a nagging suspicion that I’d screwed up.
The CID agent took notes throughout my tale of woe. His occasional head shakes made me squirm in my chair as I wondered if I was giving him the necessary evidence to convict me in a court-martial.
I pushed my glasses up on my sweaty nose. “First sign of trouble was when you showed up.” Although I already knew there was a problem when a teammate in the equipment turn-in line pointed toward me. The quartermaster sergeant waved me forward with one of his bulging arms. After admitting I ordered my soldiers to leave their weapons in Islamabad, he claimed abandoning weapons downrange was a serious offense under some US Code I didn’t catch. I pulled out a credit card and offered to pay their replacement cost. He promptly departed to make a call.
The CID agent frowned as he leaned forward. “The quartermaster’s concerned that you struck some profitable deal and sold the weapons in Islamabad.”
“That’s a serious accusation.” My heart rate accelerated because I had not considered this line of inquiry. “Is that what you think?”
“You’ve admitted to the wrongful disposition of government weapons, then offered to financially cover the cost of those unaccounted-for weapons. Doesn’t take much of a leap to wonder if they were sold downrange.” He laid his pen on his notebook. “We’re just trying to get at your intent in the disposition of the weapons.”
“My intent was the safety of my team.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Has no one called the Islamabad Military Attaché or the Gulf Air agent? One or the other must have the pistols.”
“That’s part of our ongoing investigation.” The agent flipped through his notes and nodded. “Okay, I think I have all the information I need. Any last thoughts you want to share before I present your case to the judge advocate office prosecutors?”
“No, you have my story: I safely brought my team back at the expense of some empty, now unaccounted for pistols.” I sounded like an old-time record player, stuck in the same groove.
He gathered his papers and walked to the door where he turned to me. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Carefully go over your story to make sure you’ve been truthful and inclusive in your testimony. You don’t want me to learn you’ve misled me or overlooked some vital detail during a polygraph examination.” Was he threatening me with a lie-detector test?
Afterwards, I called my wife to tell her our military career was in jeopardy and might be over. If so, we’d be tossed out of post housing and need to relocate. She wondered if we had enough saved for a down payment. I worried whether I’d be able to secure licensing and credentialing in order to practice in a civilian medical position. And the service obligation I incurred from training could require me to pay back the tuition the government had covered. Of course, this assumed I was still free. Later, sleep did not come easily.
The next morning, a federal policeman escorted me back into the empty stockade interrogation room. The CID agent soon entered, set his large container of coffee down, and stacked several folders and notebooks on the table.
At least I had a chance to shave and shower, and now wore a clean uniform. Today the agent wore a gray pin-stripe suit, also tight in the shoulders. “Lots of mixed opinions among the prosecutors about what to do with you, the gamut runs from a letter of reprimand to a less-than-honorable discharge.”
“That sounds like a harsh outcome that’ll hose my military career.” I shook my head in disbelief, appalled at their willingness to discard my medical contribution to soldier readiness.
“Our primary concern is the order you gave to your soldiers to turn their weapons over to a foreign national. Surrendering firearms in a hostile land is a punishable UCMJ offense, especially if the firearms later turn up in enemy hands. And then, once you’d returned to Bragg, your offer to cover the cost of the weapons just compounded one egregious error with another sacrilegious lack of judgment.” His stark summation deepened my despair, particularly the concern over the weapons falling into enemy hands.
What justification could I muster against these accusations? “Are you saying our weapons have not been accounted for?” I leaned forward. “Has no one spoken with the Military Attaché or gate agent yet? Still?”
He shook his head. “Not yet, neither the Attaché nor the gate agent have responded to our calls. However, we spoke with the embassy military liaison who drove you to and from the hospital. He seemed less than impressed with you, said something about your refusal to arm yourself the first morning at the gate?”
I remembered the frustrating keffiyeh-scarved liaison who treated me like a combat zone tourist. “Our embassy bivouac required a crosstown trek to the hospital. As senior officer, I rode shotgun. Prior to departing, the liaison told us to take our sidearm out and chamber a round. I refused.”
“Why?”
“Holding a locked and loaded pistol inside an SUV is dangerous. Have you ever been to Kabul? Seen the cratered, narrow streets and honking cars clogging roundabouts. And seen all the men in long shirts over billowy pants or burka covered women walking everywhere?”
“No, but they’re all potential sources of danger.”
“I doubt we’d see anyone threatening to fire at us or throw a bomb, maybe we’d see an incoming RPG.”
“What’d liaison do?”
“He refused to proceed until I was weapon ready. Is this another UCMJ offense?” Was I being judged for exercising sound reasoning? Traveling about inside thin-walled vehicles was stupid. If higher command truly valued our safety, they’d provide us with armored vehicles.
“No,” the agent laughed. I wondered if my account added another brick to the jail he was constructing to imprison me. “But let’s get back on track, why were you willing to surrender your weapons to the gate agent?”
“I trusted him. He reminded me of Pakistani physicians I’d often worked with, and he tried to help us.”
“Okay,” he sipped his coffee. “But why not taxi to the Islamabad Marriot, rooms were available, I’ve learned it’s a nice hotel.”
“I had a bad feeling about it because all available rooms were in the least secure part of the hotel. I’ve learned to trust my intuition.” And it was going off regarding this guy.
He referred to his notes. “I got the impression your teammates thought you’d panicked and made the wrong decision.”
“Huh. They cheered the loudest when the pilot said we’d cleared Pakastani airspace.”
He finished the last of his coffee. “You seem to have an animosity toward firearms, was joining the army your first exposure to them?”
“Not at all. I grew up on a farm, and I’ve used rifles and shotguns to protect our livestock and crops. My animosity as you say is with handguns.”
“How so?” His eyes narrowed as he glared at me. “You’re not a conscientious objector, are you?”
“No, I just don’t buy into the myth that carrying a pistol keeps you safe. Many soldiers feel naked without a sidearm, I’m not one of them.”
“Despite big army’s policy that requires medical personnel to carry defensive sidearms to protect their patients?” The agent nodded his head as if he’d revealed a winning card.
“Look, I work in emergency rooms. I’ve seen adults shot by adults, kids shot by kids, kids shot by adults, adults shot by kids, and even adults who shoot themselves, accidently and deliberately. What I’ve almost never see are bad guys shot by good guys. By the time I’d’ve figured out who’s a threat, it’d be too late. Besides, we had no ammo! So no, empty pistols didn’t make me feel safe.” I placed my hands on the sides of my head and squeezed, trying to calm down.
He wrote a few notes, then made a rolling motion with his hand for me to continue.
“I’ll grant you the Beretta’s a beautiful weapon, but an empty Beretta is just a paperweight.” From the scowl on his face, I knew I wasn’t getting inside this guy’s head. “And protecting empty weapons didn’t contribute to getting my team out of harm’s way.”
He thumped the table. “But what kind of a soldier gives up his weapon, and orders his subordinates to surrender theirs? That’s what got you here.”
“You seem to value pistols over soldiers’ well-being.”
He pointed at me. “That’s why you sign a hand receipt for issued equipment, so the government can be reimbursed for any irresponsible loss of equipment.”
I raised my hands and steadied my voice. “As you recall, my attempt to reimburse the government for the absent weapons is what got me in here.”
There was knock at the door, the agent opened it and returned with a sheet of paper. “Good news for you, the attaché has your weapons and has sent a list of their serial numbers.”
“So, I’m free to go?” For the first time in our intense interaction, I felt the weight of my decision lighten.
“No,” he collected his papers. “This matter is far from resolved.”
“The weapons have been accounted for, what more do you want?”
He sat down. “This is about more than lost weapons. It’s also about leadership and the decision you made. None of us would’ve abandoned our weapons; we would’ve stayed at the hotel with our weapons.”
“But that’s not the same as saying my decision was wrong.” I had no idea how to change his mindset. Again, I wondered if he’d ever gone in harm’s way and had to make the tough call.
No sign of agreement graced his face. He said when he again stood, “We’ll see,” and left the room.
Before sunrise, I was led back into the interrogation room. This time a cup of coffee sat on my side of the table. The CID agent already occupied the chair across from me. His side of the table was bare, and I recognized his rumpled suit from the day before.
He looked down at his folded hands. “There’s a new development in your case.”
I sipped the coffee.
He continued. “Something’s developed in Pakistan since we last spoke, Islamabad to be precise.”
I set the coffee down, waiting for him to elaborate.
Now he looked directly at me. “The Military Attaché informed us of a new State Department advisory that’s declared the Islamabad Marriot off limits to US military personnel.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing’s occurred so far, but the hotel’s now one of those high-risk, low-probability targets that’s difficult to predict.”
I leaned forward, almost spilling the coffee. “What now? Doesn’t this change everything?”
“Well,” he hesitated as if reluctant to say it. “They’ve decided to drop the investigation.”
“Just like that! That’s it?” I pushed back from the table. “No good job, you made the right call?”
The agent stood to leave. “Don’t push it, doc. You’re free to go.”
Free to go. I embraced the idea as I searched for the next flight home to reclaim my life.
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Dr. James Breitweser is a retired US Army Medical Corps Officer who has had combat zone deployments. Following retirement, he used the GI Bill to earn an MA in Communications from Hawaii Pacific University. He has had poems published in Veterans’ Voices, As You Were: The Military Review, and in a poetry collection, Trekking Downrange (Kelsay Books 2023).
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