HOME FIRES: Five Iraq War Veterans on Their Return to American Life

June 26, 2007, 10:15 pm

Of (Marine) Language

By Jeffrey D. Barnett

It’s been over three weeks since my last haircut, and the urge to get it cut again is killing me. I’m accustomed to having longer hair now; that’s not the issue. The problem is that weekly haircuts keep the ends of your hair neatly trimmed to the same length, and the shaggy look of uneven ends bothers me. Everyone else seems to suffer from the same phenomenon of uneven hair, but it’s still a little disconcerting.

Less frequent haircuts have been just one small part of my adjustment to the civilian workforce. Changing my vocabulary has definitely been the largest adjustment. I was reading a tape measure at work a couple weeks ago and accidentally rattled off an incorrect number to my co-worker who was compiling the data into a table with a pencil. Needing to correct the error I quickly said, “As you were,” which in the Marine Corps means, “Ignore what I just said; here comes a correction.” Quickly realizing that phrase was only slightly clearer than speaking Arabic I backtracked again and said “neg….” I got the first syllable of “negative” out of my mouth before I thought to myself, “What is wrong with you? First, you’ve never been taught to use the word ‘negative.’ Second, is it possible for you to speak like a normal human being for just a moment, or are you incapable of that?”

Responding to my own criticism my next verbal utterance was ‘Damn it!”

Now I was swearing, which I know isn’t as acceptable at work as it was in the Marine Corps, so I was digging further yet into this self-induced black hole of vernacular. I said to myself “O.K. Just stop, take a breath, and recock … damn it! I did it again (recock).” At this point you’re probably thinking, “He must have been lying in his previous blogs, because he’s obviously got a lot of war-related mental issues.” All of the above transpired within a couple seconds after which my co-worker asked, “What does that mean … what you just said?”

In an interesting turn of events it seems my Marine Corps vocabulary is a curiosity to others as well as a personal cross to bear. Nobody seems to be bothered by my use of “check,” “roger,” or “out,” although if I ever strung them together into “Check Roger out!” I would definitely get some strange looks. I have settled into keeping obvious and familiar words as part of my vocabulary, at least for the short-term. Some of them are more descriptive, and in my opinion, better. Take “roger” for instance. If I reply “O.K.” to a question or statement, that could mean anything. If I reply, “roger” that means I understood what was said and what tasks it implies for me. Perhaps one day my neurons will link that thought to the phrase “O.K.” — but probably not anytime soon.

Another area where I have problems is using first names for everyone in the workplace. Now, I’m not a social idiot. I can deal with calling my supervisor and even his supervisor by first names. They’re both only a few years older than me, and I view all of us as the equivalent of company grade officers, who are often on a first-name basis. However, I know the boss three bosses above me is not in my peer group, but everyone still refers to him by his first name. I feel awkward when I call him Mr.So-and-so because I feel like I look too rigid, but using his first name feels equally awkward. Furthermore, everyone also refers to Mr. So-and-so’s boss, a vice president, by his first name. I’ve haven’t met him since my interview, but I already know that when I do, I’ll be calling him “Doctor.” Until I get some graduate degrees under my belt I’ll continue to refer to those with Ph.D.s as “Doctor.”

As you might have discerned from my company grade officer analogy in the preceding paragraph, I also continually try to understand organizational structures and leadership positions in terms of what it would mean in the Marine Corps. Working for a defense contractor on a military base makes it a little more applicable. I think I use the analogy to determine the seniority of the person in question, and therefore how familiar I can act towards them.

One area where I think I have a distinct advantage over my civilian peers is tracking a task to completion. I’ve noticed that civilians seem much more apt to just “let it ride.” They talk about things in esoteric terms and often don’t get into the details, or are content to let the details work themselves out later, which requires more time and effort than truly necessary. The proverbial “they” is also a constant presence. I’m starting to figure out that if someone doesn’t know who “they” are then “they” may really be “we.” Similarly, “we” often means “you,” so applying the transitive property we get the equation: “They = = You.” I’m still working on the formal proof.

On a positive note, I absolutely love being a civilian again. Specifically, I enjoy not being a supervisor. I hope that changes in the future, but for right now it’s glorious to just be a trigger-puller (a basic rifleman — the most junior marine, who isn’t in charge of anyone). When I leave work in the afternoon I don’t have to think about it again until morning. When I leave on Friday I’m resting easy until Monday morning. Everybody in my workplace could get a D.U.I., a divorce, a speeding ticket, bounce checks, ignore their creditors, and gamble away their savings in Tunica, Miss., and for once I would never know about it. That, my friends, is my favorite employee benefit, and they don’t even advertise it on the company Web site.

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Home Fires: Five Iraq War Vets On Their Return To American Life

Google Earth Vacation

By Jeffrey D. Barnett

June 19, 2007, 7:03 pm

I was killing some time with Google Earth last week and decided to look around my old stomping ground in Iraq. The imagery of the area was surprisingly good, and I had many a chuckle and a sigh as I perused the landscape of AO Raleigh, the area of operations that includes Falluja and its outlying areas.

I started with Camp Falluja where I was stationed and found the trailer and 10 by 10 foot room where I slept the majority of nights (or days, if I had been awake all night) inside the wire. I think I could even see the air conditioning unit that was both a source of comfort and frustration depending on whether the camp’s power had failed. It’s slightly difficult to sleep in an enclosed room during the middle of an Iraqi summer day, so the next place I scrolled to was my workplace where I would seek refuge to sleep when the power failed. It’s amazing what types of nooks and crannies one can crawl into and sleep inside when the next best option is the equivalent of a huge crock pot.

Next I scrolled over to the junkyard where we would search for “upgrades” to our Humvee. Many days did I defiantly stare tetanus in the face and dodge heaps of unexploded ordnance (discarded mortars, artillery shells, R.P.G.s, etc) to procure turret cover plates, fasteners, and storage bins for my team vehicle. Additionally, I found the ponds, the chow halls, the airfield, and many other places that I frequented during my deployment.

Next, I decided to venture outside the confines of Camp Falluja. I was pleasantly surprised at my ability to recall landmarks, roads, and even individual buildings and houses. In preparation for missions I always studied imagery of the area we would be operating in, and I explicitly studied imagery of target houses for raids we conducted, but I had no idea I would remember the places in such detail.

First I found the hospital in Falluja where an R.P.G. sailed over top of my Humvee, almost singing the hair of my turret gunner. I was even able to pinpoint within one or two houses the gated driveway where we later caught and detained the three fleeing insurgents that conducted the attack. I scrolled further west and found the area where I witnessed Iraqi soldiers in a skirmish with insurgents as my convoy traveled to Ameriya. There I saw an Iraqi civilian weeping as he sat by the side of the road with a bandage over his bleeding forehead. That was a bizarre sight. What’s even more bizarre is that I saw another Iraqi civilian with a bandaged forehead sitting in a similar place as I traveled the opposite direction almost a month later.

I then scrolled south of Ameriya to Ferris Town, a very large upscale apartment community. There I found the apartment building that housed the most villainous insurgent I’ve had the privilege of yanking out of bed at 2 a.m. — and that’s not a short list. I remembered that his wife was pregnant, and the corpsman with our patrol gave her medical assistance and checked her vital signs while we detained her husband. Our patrol leader promised to have a corpsman return in a couple weeks during a routine patrol to check up on her. After I mistakenly relayed the information in Arabic as “we would return in one or two years” instead of “one or two weeks” the insurgent’s sister mentioned that she understood English, which would have been helpful to know before I started stumbling through the message in Arabic. I wonder what became of the child.

I laughed out loud as I scrolled northeast and managed to find the individual house of a local national that we tried to take in for questioning at least three times but could never catch at home. I chuckled, thinking of all the resources, time, effort, and money spent on trying to question that one Iraqi. I sure hope he would have had something informative to say.

From the comfort of my desk I then traversed the 30 miles east to Baghdad, a trip that would take merely a half-hour via road — if that were a safe way to travel. Unfortunately, it actually requires a few days notice, a ten-minute ride in a helicopter, and a lot of waiting for your helicopter to arrive. There I found many landmarks that I remembered from my trips to Baghdad. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (an Iraqi monument in remembrance of a martyr from the Iran-Iraq War) is huge, even on satellite imagery! I found the Hands of Victory nearby. A family had set up a gift shop at the base of the monument where they took advantage of the fact that many Americans — like me — want their pictures taken inside the monument. I left my camera with the shop owner and after his son led me through the monument to the portal, he took our picture. I was very happy to have their help and I tipped them well.

I also found the pool that I swam in at the Embassy and the guard tower that I climbed to take my picture next to the Tigris as I had done next to the Euphrates outside of Falluja. Lastly, I went back west and tried to find the road I had been on when an I.E.D. struck my Humvee. I found a few roads that looked like the one in question, but I couldn’t be sure. Zaidon, a farm community southeast of Falluja, is a repetitive lattice of farmland and criss-crossing canals and canal-roads that all look so similar it’s difficult to pinpoint locations on a map.

One of the most surprising parts of my trip down memory lane via Google Earth was the revelation that I actually miss that place in some strange capacity.. Much like memories of initial training at Officer Candidates School and The Basic School, I think the “suck” factor tends to fade over time leaving you with a preponderance of good memories. As unnerving as it was to travel Iraqi roads with the constant threat of I.E.D.s, even having been on the receiving end of one, there was something strangely fulfilling about doing it successfully.

Very similarly, being shot at is actually a little bit of fun when nobody gets hurt. It reminds you you’re alive, and immediately unites everyone in a worthwhile task: finding the guy that shot at you. Whether you think it’s sick, naïve, or just plain stupid…that’s the way I feel.

Now that I am home, I mostly thank God that part of my life is over. But for a few minutes each day I remember lying in the mud behind a tree in Zaidon as machine gun fire beat the earth 10 feet in front of me. I remember sighting through my EOTech red-dot scope and desperately trying to find the guy behind that machine gun so I could line the dot up center-mass. For a few minutes I think about that, and some perverse part of me wishes I was there again.

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HOME FIRES: Five Iraq War Veterans on Their Return to American Life

By Jeffrey D. Barnett

June 11, 2007, 9:07 pm

Of Starbucks, G.I. Bills, and Elated Nausea

I decided very early in my Marine Corps career that I would separate and become a full-time civilian after my initial contract was completed. The decision didn’t come from any deep-seeded disgruntlement or dissatisfaction with the Marine Corps, but was merely what I considered the best path for me to meet the goals I set for myself and my family. I wasn’t worried about finding a job after separation. There were and are plenty of opportunities for mechanical engineers, so I wasn’t sweating that part of it.

If you listen to some people in the media you might believe we’re mostly uneducated felons. That certainly wasn’t true during my experience. I worked with numerous enlisted marines that had both undergraduate and graduate degrees. The most prominent example was a sergeant (E-5) in my battalion that had a master’s degree. He was over 30 years old, and had obviously signed up to serve in the face of numerous opportunities, not due to the lack of them.

In late 2006 I started the separation process shortly after I returned from Iraq. Separation is one of the few processes in the Marine Corps that’s difficult to find concrete information about. There’s a small group of administrative Marines at the group/regiment level that handle your separation processing. Nobody else that has seen the process through to completion is still around. There is much hearsay on the subject, but I learned long ago to never trust information that neither I nor the informant could reference in a written order or policy. The issue of separation for officers, which I was, adds yet another layer of friction, because it has a few nuances that make it slightly different than enlisted separations, and it’s easy to get herded through an administrative hurdle that might not apply to you or possibly miss one that does.

One thing I thought about was how my decision to leave the Corps would be viewed by my fellow marines. My unit was 100 percent supportive of my decision to leave. I had heard stories from an Army lieutenant that her senior officers weren’t as accommodating, so I am sure it varies by command climate. However, I can’t imagine the senior officers in my unit advising me to make a decision that I felt was contrary to the best interests of me and my family. Perhaps I am biased, but I think the citizen-soldier concept has just as much merit as the military career concept. Our country’s military is rooted in the idea of temporary military service. I think that is commendable in a totally different way than career military service.

As the date of my E.A.S. (end of active service) drew closer I began to complete more and more items on my checkout sheet. T.A.P., the “Transition Assistance Program,” was one of the largest requirements. It is a very thorough and helpful week-long program for marines transitioning to the civilian workforce. If a young marine is self-motivated he could come into T.A.P. without a clue and leave with a complete resume, an idea of how to market himself to employers, and a solid plan for the future. Some of the marines in my class took advantage of it, but most did not.

I was actually surprised at the number of marines that were getting something other than an honorable discharge. Many were getting booted for disciplinary issues. Drug and alcohol related offenses were the most common reasons to involuntary separate a marine during my experience, but I can really only speculate as to what each might have done to get booted — I didn’t ask. It’s not exactly icebreaking to say ‘So, what chain of monumental screw-ups brings you here?” While at first glance that seems grim, remember that these marines were being kicked out of the Corps. Those who establish a pattern of delinquency are told to leave — plain and simple. The Corps does not tolerate repeated or severe misconduct. Unfortunately, the Marine Corps has to recruit from a society of human beings which are imperfect, so bad apples do make their way in from time to time, but they don’t stay very long.

On the brighter side, there were many marines there who showed a clear desire to succeed in the civilian world and had a plan to do so. Since I was an officer and a college graduate, many of them asked me for advice. After a few quick questions on what they wanted to do and what their goals were, my advice was usually the same: “Pick a state that offers free or reduced tuition to veterans and go to a state college. Draw your G.I. Bill to pay the bills (because hopefully tuition is free). Get a part-time job at Starbucks, because they have great benefits for part-time employees, and make a little spending money. You’ll be eating Ramen noodles and living inside textbooks for four years, but when you’re done you’ll have a college degree and plenty of opportunities when you pair it with your military service.” I gave that advice to one Marine who then replied “But I’m getting an O.T.H.” That’s a general under other than honorable conditions discharge. It meant he was no longer eligible for the G.I. Bill, which you can only use with an honorable discharge. I didn’t have anything helpful to say. Ouch.

While I was completing the checkout process a detachment from my battalion departed for Iraq a second time. It was truly bittersweet to see them off and not be going with them. On one hand I was absolutely thrilled that I would spend the next seven months with my wife, family, and friends, instead of in Al Anbar province. On the other hand I had a wealth of experience from my first deployment that would have added a lot of value to the detachment. However, as a company grade intelligence officer my options for deployed jobs didn’t appeal to me, and they would probably never appeal to me again. This was one of many things that reinforced my decision to leave the Corps. I was very lucky on my first deployment to be assigned a job as a team leader. My team had the privilege of attaching to infantry units and working with the nuts and bolts of ground operations in Iraq. Unfortunately, officers usually aren’t assigned to a unit that small. My gig as a lieutenant team leader was a one-time opportunity that was created to meet a very specific set of requirements, and I don’t foresee it happening again.

The alternative, commanding a detachment of 30 to 40 marines, would be a great job, but not when you’re behind a desk and inside the wire every day. I’d rather just have command of the three other marines in my HMMWV and participate in real operations with the Iraqi populace, including insurgents. That’s a much more fulfilling and rewarding experience.

I arrived early on Saturday morning to see them off before the buses departed. I made my way through the masses of chatty Marines and family members to say goodbye to those I had served with. They would still be in Iraq when it came time for me to depart the Marine Corps, which I did on June 1st, and I would probably never see any of them again. After they left I returned to my car and drove home with a truly strange feeling. It was really happening. They were going back and I wasn’t. Soon the Marine Corps would be a distant memory for me. My life was about to undergo monumental changes. I would soon be uprooting my family and moving across the country to a new house and working at a new job.

Somehow I felt sick and elated at the same time.

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HOME FIRES: five Iraq War veterans on their return to American life

By Jeffrey D. Barnett
June 1, 2007, 4:49 pm

The New Normal

It’s quickly approaching a full year since I returned from Iraq, but it really doesn’t seem that long ago. However, the calendar doesn’t lie, and the end of August will mark the day in 2006 when I reunited with my wife, Christina, on the steps in front of my unit’s barracks in Camp Pendleton, Calif. Of course, we managed to miss each other as I got off the bus, and then we both proceeded to circle the crowd in a clockwise direction, maintaining equal distance and obliviousness of each other until we finally gravitated towards the center and met. After exchanging the required hugs and kisses I thought, “What do I do now?” I thought for a moment and offered the suggestion, “Let’s go home.” And that’s what we did. At T plus four minutes from setting foot in the continental United States it was already as if I was just coming home from another day of work.

The feeling actually started on the bus on our way from March Air Reserve Base to Camp Pendleton. I looked out at the Southern California countryside and thought, “It’s so familiar. It’s like I never left.” Then a cell-phone laden motorist in an S.U.V. swung around our bus at a high speed and I thought, “Whoa! I see those didn’t die out while I was gone.”

Everything felt the same as it always had. As a matter of fact, I struggled for several days in various capacities trying to figure out why I wasn’t radically changed or why normal things felt just that normal. I thought routine activities like watching TV on my couch would somehow be extraordinary after I returned. Nope, just normal.

After a few half-days of completing some administrative tasks and required post-deployment training I took about 10 days of leave. I really didn’t know what to do with all of the free time. I went from working 12 hours a day with no weekends to having no time commitments whatsoever. Then I understood the ridiculous stories from my friends who would return from deployment and stay up all night reorganizing their closets and sorting laundry. Six months of constantly dedicating every moment of the day to some type of task ­ be it working, eating, sleeping, or exercising can wreak havoc on your psyche when it’s finally time to relax.

Speaking of psychosis, it also crossed my mind several times, “Why don’t I feel crazy?” Then I remembered that truly insane people aren’t aware of it, so that was really a moot issue. As I told one gentleman — who was so suave as to inquire, upon our first meeting, mind you, if I have any “flashbacks” or other ill-effects — “I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being normal, before or after Iraq.” Nevertheless, it was like society had given me a set of expectations for my return, and reality was turning out a little differently. Wasn’t I supposed to sit shirtless at the dinner table wearing dogtags and sip black coffee with a thousand-yard stare?

Frankly, I do have some memories from my time in Iraq that I think about often — sometimes daily. Some are good. Some are bad. I don’t tend to discuss the bad ones with anyone except my wife. I suppose I don’t think someone that has less than a 100 percent understanding of me could offer much insight.

Reintegration has been a really interesting (and really welcome) endeavor. My friends and fellow officers in my neighborhood on base were an easy bunch to settle back in with. They welcomed me back as we crossed paths, asked me if I enjoyed my time in Iraq, and that was it. After that it was life as usual. We’re all accustomed to people dropping off the social radar and then picking them back up when they return.

While I absolutely don’t mind sharing my general experiences from Iraq, there is something to be said for not being pressed like a clove of garlic for the same trite bits of information over and over. Fellow Marines were understandably the best about that. Not only do they have a similar knowledge base about Iraq, but they have a general understanding of what you are interested in discussing, what bores you, and what you’d rather leave alone.

Conversely, sometimes people do ask thoughtful and intriguing questions that are a joy to answer. It is never a burden to tell someone my opinion of my own experiences. I’m not interested in discussing the strategic level of war and national policy with every stranger I meet, and I’m definitely not interested in listening to everyone’s personal soliloquy on the war, but my thoughts on what I experienced are always fair game.

I don’t want to give the impression that reintegrating with others outside the military was difficult. That’s not the case. But if I have to tell one more person “whether we’re doing good things over there” I’m going to click off-safe. What do they expect me to say? “No. We’re doing horrible, horrible things. That’s why I signed up to go. We’re stealing money from Iraqi schools and using it to buy backhoes to tear up the roads while we play gangster rap from the top of every mosque.”

I understand people are genuinely curious about the truth of what’s happening, and I always deliver a few honest sound bites to appease them. But realistically, if “good things” is as deeply as you’ve thought about the situation in Iraq, do you really want a detailed answer, or do you just want the sound bite?

More of Jeffrey D. Barnett’s writing for TimesSelect can be read in the 2006 column, Frontlines.

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