SIRENS
How to Pee Standing Up: An Alarming Memoir of Combat and Coming Back Home by Laura Naylor Colbert
There’s a steep learning curve for every American soldier—male or female—who deploys to the Middle East war zone. And when that female soldier is also a Military Police Officer, the curve gets bent way out of shape. Laura Colbert was heartland-bred and tough enough when the Army sent her to an MP unit in Baghdad, but she quickly discovered soldiering in Iraq involved a lot more than she expected.
How to establish her military cop cred? How to deal with chauvinistic soldiers? How to deal with Iraqis — men who disrespected her and women who initially distrusted her? How much military law applied in a lawless land? And dealing with even the simplest things, like how to pee standing up. Laura managed it and survived, but the learning curve bent in another direction when she came home from war suffering with stress and anxiety that eventually bloomed into Post-Traumatic Stress.
The following is excerpted from SIRENS.
PART I:
THE INTRODUCTION
“Did you look under the lip of the sink?” Wes asked.
“Yup, I didn’t find anything. Do you mind checking the ceiling tiles?” I responded.
“You bet.” Wes―the school resource officer―stepped onto a ladder. He lifted the lightweight drop-ceiling tiles and ran his finger around the edge. He continued to the next stall and did the same thing. In the meantime, I opened the metal paper towel dispenser―my fingers blindly searching for incriminating evidence. I pulled the thick black plastic trash bag out of the tall gray receptacle. I shook the bag and crunched the soggy used brown paper towels, hoping to feel a hard JUUL pod. I got on my knees and explored under and around the toilet crannies. Thank goodness I’m doing this in the morning when this space is relatively clean. These kids are crafty when it comes to hiding their e-cigarettes. If only we could find a pod or the charging device―something to prove that the last student in here was vaping and was the culprit who left the fruity odor behind him.
“Did you find anything?” Wes asked―interrupting my train of thought.
“Nothing. Our search is in vain; the e-cigarette smoker won this time.”
Wes joked when we were walking back to my office, “You oughta write a book about this crap. You can’t make this stuff up. If I would have told my wife that I would be searching ceiling tiles in the middle-school boys’ bathroom, she wouldn’t have believed me.”
“Ha! I hear ya. Who would have thought my military police training would so pertinent as a middle-school administrator?” I chuckled.
My name is Laura Naylor Colbert. I am an American citizen and a veteran. I imagined I would do something extraordinary in my life, being an overachiever and an adventure seeker from the start, but never — not in a million years — thought I would go to war.
I grew up in a small town in central Wisconsin in a typical American family. Along with various pets, I have two brothers and two amazing parents. My parents are still happily married and are proof that hard work, love, and faith in God can do great things. I owe so much to them. They are my heroes and role models. Both of my parents were civil servants, and all three of their kids ended up working in the same field. My mom, who is now retired, worked at Head Start for almost two decades. She is smart, giving, and fun to be around. My dad, who is also retired, was a self-employed family and business consultant. He consulted for many different organizations, including the State of Wisconsin, where he facilitated the Wrap-Around program, which creates teams centered around at-risk youth. He’s intelligent, kind-hearted, funny, and he keeps our family grounded.
As a freshman at UW-Madison, I signed up for the Army National Guard on March 6, 2001. I did it to help pay for college, to have adventures, to serve my country, and as a reason to stay in shape. I had no idea war was on the horizon. When I was debating whether or not to sign up, my friend Rachael Murray said, “Do it. What’s going to happen in the next six years?”
We all know what happened six months later on that somber September 11th day.
I left for basic training the summer of 2001. It was two months of madness. In August 2001, I returned to college for my sophomore year. The following summer, I went back to Fort Leonard Wood for Advanced Individual Training to become a Military Police officer. Most troops conduct their basic training and AIT at the same time, but I was given the option to split my training since I was a college student.
THE BEGINNING OF MY SOLDIER SELF
At basic training….everything is associated with killing and after a while, you want to do it….you create this internal anger towards an unknown enemy and you have this drive to kill that enemy whoever it may be. You are prepared on the most intense psychological level. — The Ground Truth
Basic Training. June through August 2001: the first time in my life I strived to be invisible. I didn’t know a thing about the military. I didn’t know the difference between a general and a sergeant, between a team and a platoon — I was ignorant in the ways of the military. I tried my hardest to stay out of trouble and under the radar, but as you can imagine, being a six-foot-tall female did not bode well for me. Overall, the drill sergeants left me alone, but once in a while, they picked on me because of my height. At college, with 45,000 other students, being tall wasn’t a big deal. I had just finished my novice year on the crew team, where my height was considered average. Suffering through years of trying to find a tall-enough guy to date or jeans that didn’t look like capris was bad enough, but I caught grief from the military as well. About a month into Basic, Drill Sergeant Harger came up to me in the chow line and whispered, “Private, get down to my level.”
I bent at the waist until I had shrunk to his 5’7” stature.
He shook his head, smirked, and then hissed, “No, Private. Bend at the knees.”
I straightened my waist and then bent my knees until my eyes were level with his determined steel-gray eyes. I was practically squatting. My thighs burned while he grilled me on my family, my college career, and my friends. He finally told me to stand at ease. My knees creaked in pain when I returned to a standing position. My legs trembled and almost crumbled beneath me when I stepped forward in the line.
On a dark and muggy Missouri morning, we prepared to go to the rifle range. The oppressive humidity made it feel like the air was being sucked out of our lungs. Sweat beaded our brows and soaked our t-shirts before we even lifted a finger. I felt like I should be catching frogs by a swampy shoreline instead of getting my gear ready for the range. While in my sleepy and groggy haze, I must have gotten too close to a drill sergeant. Drill Sergeant Lencki barked, “Get away from me, Private!”
I responded, “Yes, Ma’am,” instead of, “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Oh boy, did I tick her off. She balled up her fists, her face turned red, and she spat when she bellowed, “What did you just call me?”
“I said, ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ but meant Drill Sergeant.” My voice trembled in fear. Holy hell, the red of the rising sun is making her look like the devil incarnate. Her face is glowing! Are those horns protruding through her hat!?
She laughed like the devil itself and hissed. “That’s what I thought! Don’t ever call me ma’am again. I work for a living. Now get down and push!” Instantly, I got down and pushed. Anything to get away from the she-devil. Within seconds, she was distracted by other soldiers and drill sergeants, and I was forgotten as I exerted myself by her feet. Lencki stood about five-foot-eleven, a large, broad woman with a voice to match. She exuded confidence and self-assurance and had the swagger of a CEO. As the Head Drill Sergeant, she needed it. She was the last person I wanted to see me make a mistake. Finally, after minutes of pushing, she said in a neutral tone, “Get up, Private.”
Exhausted, I replied, “Yes, Ma’am.” Wait, did I just say that? How could I have done that after pushing for that exact same reason?My stomach did a nervous flip, my heart skipped a beat, my sweat took on the disgusting stench of fear. If you want to see a drill sergeant at her worst, call her ma’am twice. Without being prompted, I slinked to the ground to conduct more pushups on my already rubbery arms. She didn’t forget about me this time.
Lencki stood above me with fire coming out of her ears and mouth. Her eyes were red with anger. “I can’t believe how stupid you are. You certainly must have ridden the short bus when you were in school. I bet you didn’t even graduate from high school. You’re probably here because you can’t hack it in the real world, huh? Well guess what, Private! You’re not doing too well here either, are you?” On and on she went, sometimes talking directly to me, and sometimes talking to other soldiers about me as they hustled past.
Finally, I was able to stand up. She must have gotten sick of hearing my grunts and seeing my exhaustion. I finished with a “Yes, Drill Sergeant” and skittered back to my platoon, feeling like a failure.
On the first day of training, my company, which consisted of about 120 troops, had to sit in silver metal cattle cars to transport from the processing center to our barracks. Yes, cattle cars — the same metal trucks that drive down the highway with small air slats just big enough to catch a smattering of black and white and the audible melancholic mooing. Humans that are supposed to be fighting for this country plopped into cars designed for animals traveling to the slaughterhouse. Little did I know the accuracy of this metaphor until I was in a war zone.
Over 100 squeaky-clean troops jammed into cattle cars fit for less than 50. The drill sergeants yelled incessantly, “Get friendly with your neighbor!”
“Private, put your head down; how dare you look at me!”
“You think you’re good enough to have space in here? You got another think comin’.”
“You better not make eye contact, Private!”
“Oh, lookie here! We have a smart-ass who’s too good to look away. You think you’re better than me? I’ll show you what you’re worth for the next two months. I got your number, Private.”
They chastised us, making us feel like we were about to be shocked and tanned like the bovines meant for the trailer.
Ten minutes after my company arrived in front of our barracks to fits of yelling and instructions, we were allowed to put down our two brimming duffels and our one personal bag. The Drill Sergeants lined us up in our first formation, challenging with over 100 novice soldiers scared out of our wits. None of us were trying to disobey orders, but the drill sergeants nitpicked and forced us to push for the littlest indiscretion.
With their green crisp-and-pressed uniforms, round hats, and booming voices, the drill sergeants berated us to prove their superiority. With condescending passion, they pressed their faces right up against our scared, self-doubting, green ones. If we dared to make eye contact, we were ordered to the ground to push. My headgear fell off my head as soon as I hit the dirt. When I got on my knees to replace it, Drill Sergeant Harger tore through the line of soldiers and screamed in my right ear, “Look what we have here. Another female that can’t do push-ups. You’re so weak you gave up already, huh? You better start pushing before I make you do something worse.”
Without a word, I resumed my pushups.
Out of nowhere, Drill Sergeant Stinemates approached my left side and yelled, “Private! What are you doing out here without your headgear! Do you think you’re above the rules? Are you an idiot or something?”
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to throw my hat in Stinemates’ face, slap Harger, and say, “Screw you and all this crap!”
Instead, I bottled my welling frustration, put my headgear on, and continued pushing, seething inside. I would do whatever they told me — I did not need to be treated like dirt in the process.
After an eternity in the hot and humid summer sun, my company was finally shown our Vietnam-era barracks. Brown. Our new home oozed the color both in sight and feel. The other 30 or so females and I were herded into first-floor barracks and divided into our platoon’s areas. The ferocious smell of freshly polished floors and hyper-sanitation hit us as the drill sergeants spat orders in our faces. Sanchez and I were shoved into our own private room. I stood frozen, hoping this sliver of humanity would persist. The quiet, creamy cinder-block walls and slate- gray beds became our oasis away from Basic’s chaos. The ghosts of soldiers past were etched in the stained and sagging mattresses with stacks of starched white sheets, army-green wool blankets, and well-used feather pillows on the foot of the bed. The females of first, second, and third platoons were ordered into the large open bay of the barracks, their bunk beds lined in perfect rows. The seven of us in fourth platoon obtained three dorm-sized rooms down a bleak, dark hallway. When the drill sergeants tore into the barracks, we were awarded a few extra seconds to tuck our bedding in tighter, hide our contraband, or get ourselves in order before they screamed into our rooms.
The first night we were ordered to line up outside the showers. To further objectify the fresh meat, every female had to strip and spin in front of Drill Sergeant Stinemates to show her our identifying markers. She checked for offensive tattoos and piercings and then sent us into the lukewarm running showers. Drill Sergeant Lencki stood at the other end of the shower stalls, moving the troops through in an assembly line, giving us three demeaning and stressful minutes to clean our bodies. The drill sergeants roared as tired and dazed troops rushed with shoulders slumped and heads down.
At last, my head hit the pillow. I murmured a good night to my new battle buddy, Sanchez. I spent the night in fear―facing the ceiling with my brown glasses firmly planted on my face― not knowing when or if the Drill Sergeants were going to wake us up to continue their torture.
Those dreaded glasses. All the new troops at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, spend the first two days at the Processing Center before our cattle-car adventure. The hotel-like rooms were pleasant, and the military personnel treated us with dignity as we were issued our gear and administered various shots. I was able to forgo the painful butt-cheek penicillin shot because of prior allergies, which turned out to be a good thing. The rest of the soldiers sat lopsided and grimaced with pain for the rest of the day. We were issued BDUs―battle dress uniforms — boots, and eyeglasses. It didn’t matter if we brought our own glasses or contacts. We were forced to replace our civilian spectacles with the issued 1980’s nerd-club glasses for the next two months. Everyone called the thick, brown glasses BCGs―birth control glasses―because they were so ugly no one wanted to sleep with you. The BCGs were the worst during physical training―PT. I couldn’t see through the thick fog on my glasses while running in humid 100-degree temperatures. Sanchez snuck in her contacts and wore them through basic training. I, on the other hand, was not that brave.
I instantly connected with my battle buddy, Rais Sanchez. Like me, she was tough, energetic, driven, and wouldn’t take crap from anyone. My bond with Sanchez grew throughout the two months as we broke down the Army’s machismo facade. We often talked into the night as best friends do. Sanchez and I bonded with the other five girls in our platoon, claiming poltergeists as our common connection.
Thompson, Sherman, and Miller shared the last room at the end of the hallway. An identical double-sized room sat directly across from Sherman, Thompson, and Miller. It was being used for storage of old beds, chairs, and other miscellaneous furniture. During our first moment of downtime, Sherman went into the storage room to explore and walked out white as a sheet a few minutes later.
“What’s up with you?” I asked.
In a hushed voice, she responded, “There’s something weird in there. I can feel the temp change. I think this place is haunted.” “Right, sure. Uh-huh. Whatever.” I walked away, shaking my head. I am not susceptible to ghosts. I’ve never seen a ghost and don’t think I ever will. Thompson agreed with Sherman. There was an entity in the back of the barracks. Within the week, strange things happened. Sanchez ran into the barracks during one of our breaks to use the bathroom. As she entered the bathroom, she stood face-to-face with an eight-year-old black girl wearing a green dress. When Sanchez blinked, the girl was gone. A couple of weeks later, another soldier, Thompson, saw this same girl standing in the hallway outside the storage room at the end of our hall. Same girl, same dress, same look. Two weeks after that, Sanchez and I heard rustling and stifled screams. We found Thompson quaking on the top bunk. She had been sleeping when she bolted awake, choking. A huge overall-clad white dude had his meaty hands wrapped around her neck. After struggling for a moment, the giant had vanished and we had rushed in to find out if Thompson was OK. Something weird is going on.
Basic Training dragged on with more belittling, smoking sessions, and yelling drill sergeants. My company spent the first couple of weeks in a classroom, learning about the history of the military, the ranking system, and traditions. Next, we explored rifle training, the gas chamber, ruck marches, orienteering, bayonet training, and the brainwashing that motivated us to kill.
We conducted PT until we were on the verge of puking every morning except for Sunday. We got up before the sun and ran or did an hour of push-ups and sit-ups. I went from having little faith in my running skills to joining the top running group with a sub-six-minute mile. After PT and a quick shower, we rushed to the chow hall and scarfed our food in five minutes flat. Often, I created a pancake or French toast sandwich with bacon, eggs, and syrup in the middle, then inhaled it while downing a belly full of juice and water. After this eating insanity, it’s still difficult to eat at a normal pace almost two decades later. Lunchtimes were unpredictable. They ranged from 1000 to 1400, which made it imperative to eat our fill at breakfast so that we could make it for the next three to seven hours before we had our next meal.
The ruck marches were the bane of my basic-training existence. Not the marches themselves, but the requirement that we wear the dreaded gas masks. On average, we marched six miles through Ft. Leonard Wood with a full uniform, flak vest, Kevlar, and a loaded 40-pound rucksack. I didn’t mind the distance or the weight of the gear — those things only made me stronger. I often zoned out in a hot and exhausted haze, marching to the same rhythmic footsteps as those around me. The sound of our gear lulled me into a trance. The metal rifle tinged against our flak vest’s clips, our boots scuffed across the rough road, our Kevlars bounced up and down in sync with our strides. Then, without warning, the international sign for chemical warfare rippled through the ranks. The soldiers looked as though they were trying to take flight by flapping their arms up and down after donning their masks. The second after I had my own mask sealed, my heart rate jumped from claustrophobia and I was shocked into paranoid alertness. I was aware of every breath I took, every step I tread, every inch of earth we had yet to cover before we reached our destination. The lack of peripheral vision and the steam rising from my face on the hot and humid summer days decreased my vision to a mere shadow. Breathing through the filter was comparable to breathing through a thin cocktail straw. My lungs couldn’t fill to capacity, and I gasped for breath with every step. I coached myself through the insanity until we received the “all clear.” You got this, Laura. You can do this. Put one step in front of the other. Think of something else. Slow your breathing down. They can’t force us to keep these on forever. We’ll take them off eventually. Come on, there you go. You’ll be OK.
The gas chamber was the single-most talked about and dreaded aspect of Basic. All of us wondered what the torture would be like. We stood in a single-file line, anticipating the worst physical experience imaginable. The compact 15-by-20-foot cinder block chamber held a chemical stove, two opposing doors, and zero windows — an ominous cement box reminiscent of King Tut’s sarcophagus. Eight fearful soldiers entered at a time. I was in Fourth platoon, at the end of the line, and I watched as my fellow troops staggered out of the chamber drooling, pouring snot, crying, and struggling to breathe. By the time it was my turn to don the mask and shuffle into the chamber, my palms were sweating, I reeked from my own nervous perspiration, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to voluntarily enter my own coffin. Once all eight of us were inside, the chamber doors shut, enclosing us in the dimly lit solitary room. Sgt. Moyer stood in front and ordered us to conduct jumping jacks, push-ups, and other PT exercises. OK, this isn’t so bad. I can totally breathe through this thing. At some point, Sgt. Stinemates snuck up behind us, which was easy since we didn’t have peripheral vision. As we listened to Sgt. Moyer, Sgt. Stinemates yanked off our masks one at a time. Before she got to me, I could tell something was happening to my fellow troops, but I didn’t dare stop my PT to take a look. I could hear them gagging for air, but I thought it was because their masks had unsealed from the strenuous PT. I had no idea I was about to join them. I tried to hold my breath when Stinemates finally took my mask off. But I couldn’t because I was winded from the PT. I coughed, hacked, and struggled to breathe as the thick, gray tear gas billowed out of the stove like an ancient spirit trying to tear out my soul. They made us continue our PT after our masks were removed. At last, the doors opened and the life-saving fresh air beckoned us outside. My throat and eyes were on fire. My lungs felt like someone lit a match and moved the flame along every bronchiole. My eyes were thick with tears; I could barely see. The second I stepped outside, I felt immediate relief, even though my body kept assaulting the foreign CS gas. My eyes continued to water and that darn snot wouldn’t stop coming out of my nose. I must have looked awful because Sgt. Harger ran over to see if I was going to make it. I laughed and told him I was fine. Within ten minutes, my body had fully recovered.
The most profound brainwashing occurred during bayonet training. The bayonet―a long knife fixed to the front of the rifle―is meant to be combat’s last line of defense. Shortly after breakfast, my company took our rifles and bayonets and hiked to an open field dotted with rubber dummies stuck on metal poles. Each of us fixed our bayonets to our rifles and stood face- to-rubber-face with our dummies. On command, we stabbed our green dummies, yelling, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” at the top of our lungs. We were becoming conditioned to slay our enemies. Our cadences about smashing little birds’ heads, shooting holes into humans, and trading in your beauty queens for M16s were slowly changing our passive selves into killing machines.
Sgt. Stinemates shouted, “What makes the green grass grow?”
Like robots, we shouted back, “Blood! Bright-red blood, Drill Sergeant!” We stabbed and shouted over and over until we were winded with effort. We enjoyed every second of the vicious attacks. Our urges to slaughter were manifesting themselves during this brutal training.
Halfway through Basic, my company qualified with our M16 rifles. It took two weeks and a variety of ranges to finish the extensive training. When we weren’t shooting, we cleaned and explored the killing machine, learning to disassemble and assemble the weapon at record speed. Forest Gump had nothing on us. I was frazzled and stressed from the pressure on the ranges. I was as novice as they come, having never shot a weapon in my life. Night and gas-mask ranges proved the most difficult with the pop-ups providing lifelike excitement. The Drill Sergeants knew the added stress required less intense interactions from them, which increased bonding among the company troops. They let us relax in the shade and enjoy ourselves to diminish the heightened state of the ranges. I remember lying under a lush deciduous tree, watching the clouds pass in the bright-blue sky, listening to my new-found friends laugh, joke, and share tidbits about their lives.
When the M16 qualifications ended, my company went to other ranges to expand our weapon skills. We trained with the SAW M249 — a squad automatic weapon — the MK19 Grenade Launcher, and hand grenades.
Unlike other weapon systems, the grenade was the most volatile. My insides turned into nervous knots the second I pulled the grenade pin. My athletic hands felt shaky, clumsy, and awkward―as if they weren’t even mine. What if I messed up and the grenade slipped from my white-knuckled fist? What if the grenade malfunctioned? What if I threw like a little boy―see what I did there?―and I didn’t clear the wall? The range consisted of 15 holes that were about seven feet deep and wide enough for two people to hurl grenades over the edge. I climbed into the hole with Sgt. Eller. He coaxed me through the process. “Hold down the lever, pull the pin, and lob the grenade over the dune as far as you can,” he commanded.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” I said, feigning confidence.
After my throw, Sgt. Eller said, “Wow, you must play softball, huh?”
I said, “Yes, I have. Why?”
He answered, “That was a beautiful throw, Private.”
My hands became mine again and my nervous knots fluttered away. Sgt. Eller left me with more confidence than I had before I stepped seven-feet-under.
Without skipping a day, we jumped into Humvee training after weapons completion. Military Humvees cannot compare to the comfortability of civilian Hummers. The military versions, with thin metal floors and walls, allowed the road and engine noise to penetrate, making it impossible to carry on a conversation. The seats, also made of stiff, flat metal, possessed a square-foot pad no thicker than an inch. With massive radios, five geared-up soldiers — including a gunner sitting in the middle of the turret — there was barely space for oxygen. The windowless hatch in the back meant the driver depended on the side mirrors, a ground guide outside of the vehicle, or the gunner to help navigate when reversing.
Basic ended with a three-day camping trip. The Drill Sergeants dropped us off in the middle of nowhere and ordered us to dig foxholes. Each hole was deep enough to hold our prone bodies and long enough for our height. Once Sanchez and I dug our hole, we lay side-by-side in the cold dirt while people scurried around us. Some shovels had broken against the tough soil, some holes were dug above huge boulders and had to be moved, and some battle-buddies did not work well with each other. Being efficient, hard-working team players, Sanchez and I burrowed in and pulled security as everyone else finished up. We were amply entertained during that time as we watched our fellow soldiers bicker, cry, fight, and complain. Thank goodness I had Sanchez at my side. After three hours of lying there, laughing, whispering, and nodding off 63 times, we were ordered to erect our tiny A-frame tent. It was a green canvas tarp held up by two poles and a couple of stakes just large enough to shelter two prone bodies.
The three-day excursion included middle-of-the-night ruck marches and constant war scenarios. Sleep was an elusive stranger―having only the second night as a night to rest. However, the cold ground and snoring bodies left me twisting and turning until the sun rose in the distance. The third and last night included a six-mile ruck march back to our barracks. I could barely keep my eyes open as I approached the bottom of a large hill. Sleep must have overcome me as I marched, because a moment later, I found myself at the top of the hill and didn’t remember ascending its incline.
Once back at the barracks, we dropped our stuff and stripped our muddy, dirty, stinky clothes off our rank bodies and jumped into the warm showers. I had never enjoyed a shower more. When we entered the bay, the smell nearly blew me over — like my grandpa’s old pig barn. Our body odor reached a new level of disgusting that exceeded any of my old sports locker rooms. Johnson, a girl in my platoon who was complaining of blisters, showed me the bottom of her foot where a massive blood blister had formed on her heel. Blood and pus oozed out of her tender, swollen foot. I don’t know how she made it the six miles with her entire heel encapsulated in blood and pus.
By August, I was a lean, mean, fighting machine. I had blood on my mind and was ready and willing to kill the next person who pissed me off. Watch out, crazy college professors; civilian Laura has been replaced by a soldier.
I came home two weeks before my second year of college. Then came that fateful September morning when I realized my military life wasn’t going to be filled with fun and games, peace-keeping missions, and national emergencies. My bright-yellow bubbly radio was perched on the back of the toilet and was blaring NPR while I was showering on September 11th, 2001. An emergency announcement interrupted the broadcast. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. With a towel wrapped around me and my hair dripping wet, I ran into the living room and watched as the second plane hit the other tower. My world shattered before my eyes. What have I done? I might actually have to go to war.
In shock, I walked to class like a zombie. In a time when cell phones were the size of bricks, publicly taboo, and texts were a thing of the future, I had an obligation to explain my predicament to the instructor.
“Professor, is it OK with you that I leave my cell phone on my desk? I’m in the National Guard and I’m not sure if they’re going to call me or not.”
“Oh, my goodness. Yes, that’s fine. Do what you have to do.”
With pride, I placed my phone on the desk, awaiting a call from my team leader. I was too preoccupied to pay attention, and the class passed in a flash. No call. I went about my day as normal as possible.
My twin brother, Andy, called at noon.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Laura, are you doing OK?” he asked.
“Yes. Are you?” Holy crap, what have I done? What is my enlistment going to do to my family?
“Oh, my gosh. Do you think it’s terrorists? What the hell just happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Andy. The news said it’s terrorists. Must be.”
“Do you think you’ll have to go to war?”
“I don’t know. I thought I would have gotten a call by now. Maybe that’s a good sign.”
“Laura, I don’t know what I would do without you. What am I going to do if you and Joe both go to war?” Joe―our older brother by two years―was in the military full-time as a medic in an Infantry unit stationed out of Ft. Riley, Kansas.
“I don’t know, Andy. Try not to think about it. It probably won’t happen. There’s no way we’ll get deployed at the same time.”
“I can’t imagine celebrating Christmas without you,” he said with an audible cry. Our family’s funny man was reduced to tears. Although he could contort his face into odd shapes, mimic any accent, and make me smile when my world fell apart, he had lost his own joy.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s take it one day at a time. For all we know, this won’t even result in a war. Let’s not stress about it yet.”
Our normal family was becoming unhinged.
For a while, my 32nd MP company out of Wisconsin continued to drill normally as many other military companies prepared and deployed to Afghanistan. The 32nd was based out of Milwaukee and Madison and was made up of five platoons. Rumors and assumptions spread like wildfire as the drill weekends intensified: our company was going to get deployed―no one knew where or when, but it was going to happen. The next nine months flew by, and I finished my sophomore year of college.
The summer of 2002 rolled around, and once again, I shipped to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri for my AIT―Advanced Individual Training―in the Military Police Corps during June, July, and August. AIT drill sergeants were more relaxed and humane than they were in Basic.
My new Company, starting their second phase of training, welcomed me and 30 other soldiers who had opted for split training. By the grace of God, Sanchez was one of the 30. I joined fourth platoon, while second platoon absorbed Sanchez. Instead of Vietnam-era barracks, we stayed in double-wide trailers barely a few years old. The brightly lit room housed all the females without a wall of privacy. The blue and red specks in the cream-colored linoleum floor provided the only color. Our light-gray bunks and warm white walls were a far cry from the brown of Basic.
Having learned my lesson, I hid my BCGs in a pocket of my civilian jeans and used a Tylenol container for my contacts. I had to wait until I was in a bathroom stall to fix my blurry vision. I only changed the solution a couple times throughout AIT to avoid getting caught. Ruining my eyes was a small price to pay to avoid the BCGs.
AIT was heavy on classroom work. Policing includes a lot of legalities and reports. We learned proper use of force, searching procedures, police terms, apprehending a subject, hand-to-hand combat, proper handcuff use, how to search buildings, and the rights of our alleged criminals. Instead of spending weeks at the M16 ranges, we qualified with our 9mm Berettas — the MP’s favorite pistol.
Our company still conducted PT every morning, and I got stronger and faster. I was still in the “A” running group and was one of the top three fastest females.
AIT offered more downtime, which meant more monkeying around in the barracks. Sanchez and I made up barracks baseball and motivated most of the females to join. We put the PT mat around our arm and used that to bat at our rolled-up socks. Even with a lookout, somehow Drill Sgt. Martens snuck in and caught us. We walked away with a tongue lashing in lieu of a smoke session. Halfway through AIT, I was cracking a girl’s back by standing above her prone position when Sgt. Holman caught us by surprise. He asked, “What do you think you’re doing, Private?”
Feigning confidence, I replied, “Cracking her back, Drill Sergeant.”
“What gives you the right to do that? Don’t you think you could hurt somebody?”
“I’m studying to become a chiropractor, Drill Sergeant,” I said without hesitation.
He quickly turned around and said under his breath, “Carry on.”
I graduated AIT more fit than ever, muscles rippling under my flesh. My parents and Andy attended my graduation, and then we drove to Ft. Riley, Kansas to spend a couple of days with my older brother before we headed north.
When I returned home in August 2002, my company was already planning for an impending war with Iraq. The following seven months were an anticipatory jumble. Knowing that a deployment was imminent, I tried my hardest to enjoy civilian life. My junior year of college started off with a bang. I lived across from UW-Madison’s football stadium, Camp Randall, with three social roommates. The prime location meant almost constant company and many parties. My classes specialized around my physical education degree, and my professional network was expanding. I was tentatively anticipating my first college summer.
My team leader, Sgt. Hart, started to personally prepare Murray — the gunner on my three-person team — and me for deployment during our December drill. Sgt. Hart was an impressive man with the memory of an elephant and the personality of a stand-up comedian. He stood slightly over six feet with an average physique, a balding head, and interestingly enough, his baby teeth, which looked slight and gapped in his adult mouth. He could remember every detail about the military. He knew the guns’ weights and effective ranges off the top of his head. He could remember directions to every location by glancing at a map, knew all the crazy military acronyms, and could remember details from every military book he’d read. I was blessed to have him as a team leader because I always felt safe when he was in charge.
Sergeant Hart’s wit, though, was what set him apart from everyone else. His magnetic personality brought many joyful moments during the throes of war. Sometimes the jokes were at the expense of others, but any added laughter and humor was welcomed with open arms during combat.
My teammate Murray, on the other hand, was shy. His short, light hair was balding, and he was slightly overweight. He was a simple man in his early 30s from rural Wisconsin with a passion for guns and Harleys. His quiet demeanor and my vivacious and social disposition caused a perpetual rift. We got along well but never became good friends or confidants. Murray had a huge heart, but our chemistry rarely worked. His fading hearing meant that there were times when both our tempers flared because he couldn’t hear what I was saying. While driving, I often needed information expeditiously, and if he couldn’t hear me, the situation could become cataclysmic in a heartbeat.
Orders had not yet been given, but my company knew deployment was imminent. The preparations had begun. With full ranks and up-to-date equipment, we had become ideal candidates for deployment. By January 2003, we started our anthrax and Hep B vaccinations. Thanks to the military, I was now getting my unnecessary third Hep B series. Prior shot records meant nothing in the eyes of the military machine. My company’s weekends evolved from boring, monotonous lectures and training drills to sitting inside our supply cage and poring over our gear. Everything was coming to a head and pointing to war. Inventory was the top priority. We tried to envision the upcoming enigmatic war while checking serial numbers of night-vision goggles, weapons, flak vests, Kevlars, and gas masks. Glenn and Daniels, the captain and first sergeant, based training on assumptions and fabrications of a war that didn’t yet exist. The lectures shifted to the Middle East because we knew we would be headed in that direction.
Our company commander, Captain Glenn, was a well- educated, 30-something man, with full lips, a pointy nose, and soft blue eyes. He had brown, thinning hair and a pale complexion. Outside of the military, he was a politician and a lawyer, which made motivation behind some of his combat decisions questionable. We speculated that some of our missions were meant to give him fame and a political platform upon his return home.
First Sergeant Daniels was the perfect leader. With five daughters back home, he possessed the patience and common sense necessary to maintain a level head when our company needed him most. His sympathetic demeanor, toughness, and ability to work-hard-but-play-harder made him approachable — even through the military’s rigid chain of command. His thick, gray mustache, caring blue eyes, and heartfelt smile further enhanced his charm and friendliness — like a midwestern Sean Connery.
Sgt. Hart called on February 14th, Valentine’s Day, and without any small talk, he clipped, “I have to read your orders verbatim. Are you ready?”
I hesitantly responded, “Ah, OK.”
“Laura Naylor, this call is to notify you that you are now on standby. You may receive orders to report to active duty in a short period. It is recommended that you get your life in order. That includes your finances, job, schooling, and family. Laura, did you hear and understand what I just read?”
Finding my voice, I cleared my throat and responded, “Yes, Sergeant.”
With the seriousness that the moment required, Hart said, “Goodbye,” and hung up the phone.
I am going to war.
On March 1st, while looking for decorative flowers in a La Crosse, Wisconsin craft store, I received the most pivotal phone call of my life. The instant I heard Sgt. Hart’s mechanical voice, I knew. I was told using cryptic military jargon to report to active duty on March 15th to prepare for war. I don’t remember my emotions coming to a screeching halt. I remember my heart thumping, my mind racing in response to all I had to do and who I had to tell, but my emotions vanished. I was on autopilot. No adventure-driven dip in my stomach. No flutter of antici- pation. No thrill of the unknown. Is this survival mode? My body instinctively knew what to do — but my feelings didn’t. I didn’t even remember leaving the store.
Somehow, I drummed up the courage to tell my family. Thankfully, my parents and I were visiting Andy in La Crosse, so the only phone call I had to make was to Joe. I could see my parents shrink from the weight of the unknown. Andy cried. I thought I was prepared for the news, but nothing could have prepared me to have my life torn out from under me.
Two weeks. How am I supposed to prepare for war in two weeks?When I returned to Madison, I packed up my belongings and called UW to end my current semester of college. With their van and trailer, my heroic parents assisted in the move out of my Madison apartment.
While packing, my parents and I debated whether or not my company would cross the ocean. There was a chance we would replace a stateside MP company who was to head overseas, or perhaps pull rear security in Kuwait. If Iraq was my fate, we had no idea what my job would even look like: constant fighting, searching buildings, apprehending bad guys? Or sitting at the base and twiddling my thumbs as the infantry went out, day in and day out? President Bush had yet to invade Iraq, my company did not have a specific deployment location, and Saddam might still hand over his weapons of mass destruction. The many variables in play helped with my optimism and hope. There was still time.
Halfway through the day, I peered out of my window with nostalgia and scanned the stadium looming across the street. From the corner of my eye, I saw parking enforcement writing my mom’s van a ticket for exceeding the two-hour parking limit. I spun around with anger and defiance and barked at my mom to run outside before it was too late. Parking enforcement officers are the curse of downtown Madison. Parking tickets are a way of life, and everyone jokes about their ghastly prices.
Faster than you can say ticket, my mom bolted for her van. With luck and sympathy on her side, my savvy mom avoided the $30 fine.
A couple of hours later, I hugged my roommates goodbye, got in the van with my parents, and drove north. I watched as UW blurred by, not knowing if I would ever come back to this life.
I couch-surfed the following week as I said goodbye to various friends and family. While out for drinks, Emily Cooper casually mentioned she was getting a funnel to pee with during our deployment. I wanted to laugh, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. How else were females supposed to pee while at war? Squatting with our exposed butts for all to see? The funnel would provide privacy and aim — just like that of our male counterparts. Even if stores, restaurants, and public facilities were in reach, they might be a dangerous lair, housing our enemies. The next day, I went to a hardware store and picked out a 99-cent blue auto funnel for myself and for Chloe Kirking, a fellow squad member.
Eccentric Emily Cooper. Her pixie hair and five-foot-two, petite stature created a false facade of weakness. I leaned on her for advice when I first joined. Her oddities and capriciousness provided a respite from the seriousness of war, which is why I valued her company.
On March 15, 2003, I reported for active duty in Madison, where my company spent three days before leaving for Fort McCoy on the 18th. While in Madison, we packed our gear and PMCSed — Preventive Maintenance Checks and Services — our vehicles. We sat around and waited for orders while counting and cleaning our equipment to make the days go by faster.
Before leaving Madison, my company had a farewell ceremony at the Wisconsin National Guard Headquarters. My parents and Andy came to the emotional event. While sitting in the front row, their signs, “God Bless the 32nd” and “We love you, Laura,” shone like beacons as I marched past. Cpt. Glenn spoke of our company’s importance to assist in the cause. What is the cause, exactly, and how important are we with an absent mission?
We were given a few moments to say goodbye after the commander and National Guard officers were done droning. I cried as I hugged my parents. They, too, were shedding tears as they said, “We love you, Laura. We’re proud of you. Put your faith in God. This is His will.” The latter sentence became my mantra as mortars flew through the air and bullets rained down. If I thought it was hard to hug my parents, it was even harder to say goodbye to Andy. My tears were more for him than for myself. I hated myself for my selfishness when I enlisted two years earlier. He did not deserve to lose a twin. My parents now had two active-duty children. My dad had cried three times in the last month over his little girl. Before my deployment, the only time I saw him shed a tear was when his father died five years earlier.
My stoic dad, about five-foot-eleven, was sentimental and soft-spoken. He had been a Military Police Officer during the Vietnam War and was one of the lucky few who didn’t have to go overseas. He’d tell you that, like Chico Escuela, “Baseball’s been berry berry good to me.” He was asked by his First Sergeant to join his unit’s baseball team, and he was given an administrative position so he could stay and play. When his MP company was off training, he could stay behind to play. He was able to personally avoid the tragedies of war, but wasn’t able to protect his own daughter.
Prior to deployment, my dad had said, “Believe it or not, I think this war is going to be harder on me than you.” I had thought vanity had overtaken my humble dad. How could he possibly know the ramifications of a war zone versus staying stateside? I finally understood his sentiment when I returned home and Joe was still deployed. I cringed every time the phone rang, fearing it was my parents calling with bad news. Now that I have my own children, I can’t fathom the agony my parents must have gone through with not just one, but two children deployed.
My mom and I were clearing off the table after a leisurely Sunday lunch about a week before the Farewell Ceremony.
My dad had asked, “Laura, could you please join me in the sunroom?”
I knew this was going to be an emotional experience by the look in his eyes and his somber tone of voice. I told him, “I’m not going in there if you’re going to make me cry.” I looked into his eyes and saw tears start to swell, breaking my heart into a million pieces.
He asked, “Can you please sit down on the couch?” He sat down next to me on the light-green sleeper sofa, pulled out his wallet, slid out a two-dollar bill, and said, “When my father died, I found this bill in his wallet. It was his lucky two-dollar bill. I want you to have it and carry it with you throughout your deployment. The one stipulation is that you give it back when you get home.”
I broke down and gave my dad a warm embrace and said, “I’ll take good care of it and give it back to you as soon as I get home.” I kept that sentimental two-dollar bill in my uniform’s front pocket throughout my deployment. The rarity of the bill was a constant connection to not only my dad, but my sweet, tender-hearted grandpa who left this earth too quickly. I cherished that bill as if it were a rare gem.
About the Author: As a daughter of a Vietnam War Military Police officer and a sister to an Army Infantry Medic, Laura joined the Army National Guard as a Military Police officer in 2001 during her freshman year of college at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and received her Honorable Discharge in 2009. She served 16 months on active duty, spending over a year in Baghdad, Iraq. Laura’s love of travel, living abroad, and serving others brought her to her current position as a middle-school principal. She treasures spending time with her husband and three children. Nature is her oasis. She also loves to read, socialize, remodel homes, and learn, as attested to in her two master’s degrees: Experiential Education and Educational Leadership. SIRENS is Laura’s first memoir. Click to read more.
Warriors Publishing Group is the brainchild and special interest of Julia Dewey Dye, Ph.D., who leads this charge directed at bringing our audiences some of the very best in military-themed literature.
