Torie started her military career in the Army, in 2003, as a 31 Romero—a multichannel transmission operator/installer/maintainer. She left the active Army and then, in 2007, joined the New Jersey National Guard and became a crew chief.
Good news,” the rear detachment first sergeant tells me. “You’re going to deploy to Iraq.”
I keep the fear from reaching my face. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I knew we were at war when I joined the Army. I had already made the decision to join in high school, well before 9/11. When that happened, I knew I’d be heading off to either Iraq or Afghanistan, and I went ahead with enlisting—was excited about it.
Still, I’m frightened hearing the rear detachment first sergeant say the words out loud.
I head out and exercise my right to drink as an eighteen-year-old. Across the street from the US base in Germany is a bar. The guys deploying with me tomorrow and I buy as much liquor as we can because come tomorrow morning, we’re going to war.
I think I want to go to Iraq. Every soldier wants to deploy. My job will be setting up line-of-sight antennas and maintaining communications, so I shouldn’t be seeing much, if any, combat. But I can’t wrap my mind around the reality of the danger I’ll be facing.
I get drunk, and the reality that I’m leaving, the fear—everything hits me. I leave the bar and go back to the barracks to use a pay phone.
My dad, who was in the Army, is a hard-core military man. As a kid, my punishments would be things like push-ups and chopping wood. On major military holidays, he would ask me if I knew the significance of the day, and if I didn’t know he would send me off to go read until I figured it out. He was very gung ho about me joining the Army because the Army could give me a future.
He gave me a lot of pep talks right before I left for basic training, drilled in me the importance of never giving up. There are going to be moments when everything sucks—when you think you can’t do that last push-up or run that last mile, he told me. But you have to do that last push-up and run that last mile, or you’ll be a failure. You have to push through it because success is right around the corner.
And I did. I made it through basic.
I call my dad and tell him the truth.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, and start crying.
“You don’t have anything to worry about. You’re a woman,” he says. “You’re not gonna be on the front lines.”
When my dad served, women were all in support operations. Now, in 2004, there are no front lines. Women are exposed to combat regardless of their job.
The next morning, we take a commercial flight to Kuwait. We’re in full battle rattle, holding our weapons. I’ve gotten it into my head that the moment we land we’re going to have to run off the plane. It will be like the first scene in Saving Private Ryan, the enemy shooting at us, everyone dying.
When we land, the flight attendant welcomes everyone to Kuwait and tells us to enjoy our stay.
When my training in Kuwait comes to an end, they start telling everyone what individual companies they’ll be joining. I’m heading to Alpha Company.
“They’re at the tunnel of death,” someone tells me.
First Sergeant Lester shows up and takes me to an arms room. He’s this giant mountain of a man who ends every sentence with “airborne” or “killer.”
I’m given a shitty weapon—a giant dirty A2. I follow him to a Humvee with canvas doors and sandbags on the floor for armor and I sit behind him, in the right rear passenger seat. I’m holding a weapon and ammunition, and I’m not on the range.
As we roll out the gate in our unarmored Humvee, I suddenly feel as though I’m so in tune with my environment that I can actually see everything around me.
First Sergeant Lester looks at me and says, “Are you gonna load that thing or what, airborne?”
I load my weapon. As we drive to Baghdad, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.
Forty minutes later, we arrive at our destination in downtown Baghdad: Martyr’s Monument. The entire building is made of marble, and the exterior is unique, designed to resemble two giant blue teardrops.
Underneath the building is a museum shaped like a big circle. There’s a wall containing the names of all the Iraqi soldiers who died in the Iran conflict, which is why, I come to find out, the Iraqis built the monument to resemble teardrops. I also find out why this place is called the tunnel of death. The wall, similar to our Vietnam memorial, is inside a tunnel. Saddam, when he was in power, let only a handful of prestigious, powerful people see it—never the general public.
The enemy starts to mortar us multiple times during the night and during the day, when I’m out setting up antennas around the monument. When we’re not maintaining the antennas and radios for when guys are going out on actual combat missions, we’re the communications support for those missions.
We’re also going out on convoys.
It’s confusing, these convoys, because our lead changes day to day—who we’re supposed to shoot, who we’re not supposed to shoot. When we go through cities and get to areas of congestion, we have to dismount and walk alongside the truck.
One time I’m walking and, without warning, everyone is jumping back on the trucks. Before I can figure out what’s going on, the trucks take off. I’m standing there watching the taillights and suddenly realize I’m surrounded by hostile people glaring at me.
I’m dead, I tell myself. I’m dead, I am so fucking dead.
The fear is intense, like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
I see the trucks stop. I catch up to them and jump in.
It isn’t the fear of taking a bullet. It’s the fear of being taken.
Right before I leave Iraq, I see this big, heavily decorated Iraqi soldier standing inside the tunnel of death. I’m curious and go up to him and talk. He speaks English.
“This name here is my uncle,” he says. He’s a little teary-eyed as he points to another name. “This one is my brother.”
“Have you been inside here before?”
“No. This is the first time I’ve seen this.”
Shortly thereafter, they open up the gates to the Iraqi people, so they can come in and see the names of their dead fathers and sons written on the wall.