The families in our battalion understand the dangers of IEDs. We grasp the concept of the stress of our husbands conducting combat patrols with the vivid possibility of disappearing in the flash of a second. We understand defensive stress, not offensive. A new ball game for everyone. And a year to go.
JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS, our battalion is hand-selected for a new mission. Our soldiers move from routine combat patrols in a specific area in Iraq with a high likelihood of striking IEDs to a solely lethal “kill-capture” mission under the umbrella of special operations.
Suddenly, our conventional reconnaissance battalion has become an elite 750-soldier air assault special operations task force conducting missions blanketing the northern half of Iraq. We do not see this coming, and I didn’t know it was even possible. But I am certain if anyone can lead such an intense mission, it’s Jack. His laser focus, relentless disposition, and inability to ever acquiesce to the horribleness in any situation are qualities that have built him precisely for this moment. But am I built for it?
Special operations forces consist of all volunteers who sign up for additional intense training and a selection process, all hard-charging thrill seekers. None of whom are “stop-lossed” soldiers, soldiers who would choose to leave the army, but are forced to continue because of the war. Conventional reconnaissance and infantry soldiers go through basic and advanced training, but not all have completed ranger or special forces training.
The wives are usually not much different from their husbands. They mirror, in most cases, the attitudes and experience of their husbands.
Within three months of arrival in Iraq, Jack’s battalion is suddenly selected for this humbling and daunting elite special operations mission under the command and control of Stanley McChrystal. The new assignment completely isolates and separates the battalion, now renamed Task Force GHOST, from its parent brigade, something for which both my husband’s soldiers and our families are unfamiliar. This new mission brings about a total paradigm shift; we no longer have access to information about where our husbands are or what they do. No more little articles in the local paper that show our guys conducting combat patrols or handing out school supplies to poor Iraqi kids.
Because this mission falls under special operations, it will be completely covert. The media will not cover it in any way. My husband and his men love every minute of it; this is his gritty and dirty dream come true. Jack is at the tip of the spear, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need a silly picture of him shaking the hands of village leaders in the newspaper. But our wives do. They don’t understand. Over the years, our families have grown accustomed to seeing their soldiers on the news and in print. Having tangible evidence that they are appreciated and respected makes the bitter pill of sacrifice somehow a little less bitter. With this new mission, we give up the ability to cut out newspaper articles for a scrapbook. But we gain something that is hard for me to put into words for many of our confused wives.
Ben has become my closest ally and the safe place for me to dump my pent-up frustrations at the other wives and my husband. For lack of a solid battle buddy in Liesel or Audrey-Jill, Ben becomes my battle buddy. Almost like the bratty little brother I never had. To this day, Ben and I remain very close. The bond between battle buddies can never be underestimated or forgotten, no matter how much time elapses. There is an unavoidable intimacy in the challenges we faced together. Ben and his cadre have two other roles as rear detachment: They train newly deploying soldiers and babysit the “naughty boys,” the soldiers who are too ill-disciplined or too broken to head back to combat. Along with his handful of other very capable, experienced soldiers, Ben is in charge of corralling the dozens of AWOL soldiers left behind. His itchiness is palpable and my sense that he would prefer to be in The Fight is inescapable. He reminds me at every opportunity that combat has nothing on us bitches back here. I suspect that Jack had a very different repertoire with Kate O’Malley when he was rear detachment commander. The same kinship, but a different way of relating. Ben and I relate through mutual whining and consoling.
I learn of the new mission from Ben. When I stop by the office to make copies of a roster, he asks to speak to me privately. After he reads and explains the official email detailing the new mission to me, he leans back in his chair and pauses for a second. Then he says with a scowl and flaring nostrils, “This is hard to admit because I can’t change where I am, but this is the coolest goddamn mission ever. It’s so badass. And I’m here.” Ben flares his nostrils when he is stressed or angry, and Jack clenches his jaw. It hasn’t taken me long to learn to read Ben’s little signals, although there is nothing vague about his words today. For a second, I remember that he’s here because I asked for him, and I feel guilty again. I want to tell him that he’s holding me together and that I need him more than Iraq, but that would sound ridiculous.
Ben can’t run from me, no matter how much shit I dump in his lap. Even though he has a long-term girlfriend, Ben is still single and I forget that he might be completely overwhelmed by the constant lady drama. This is a fresh hell for him. Yes, combat might come more naturally and even easier.
Battalion commanders’ wives are considered senior spouses, but sit at the bottom of the pecking order of senior spouses. Above me are brigade commanders’ wives (like Barb Petty), senior staff’s wives, and generals’ wives (Linda Stewart). As a battalion commander’s wife, I’m still in the trenches with the families under Jack’s command of over 750 men. After his battalion command and in future senior leader positions, my role will become that of an advisor (mega perfumed turd), no longer directly mentoring younger wives at the battalion level. This is the last chance for both Jack and me to be in the trenches, and ultimately it’s where we thrive. Even if I feel exhausted before it’s even started.
My job is to equip the confused families for yet another new normal that comes with the new mission. As I’ve said, I’m not good at following scripts, and this mission has some seriously rigid scripts for the families to learn and live. We wives can no longer communicate daily with email and phone calls, and we are never allowed a clue about specific details of Task Force GHOST’s missions. We are no longer a part of our brigade and division effort, our chain of information stopped.
I, too, am tired before it’s even started. My kids’ diets consist of stuff I buy from the Schwan man and McDonald’s. They surely feel my restlessness. We all fall asleep in our own beds, but each of them gravitates to my bed by morning. We huddle together. None of them are aware of the sleepy march that brought them to my bed. Sometimes, but not often enough, I wonder about the long-term scars and other effects this will leave on them. This is what my kids will remember of their childhoods: a father back and forth to war and a mother too exhausted from supporting others to hold up her own babies.
The transition to the new mission is supposed to be a secret, but I’m not stupid. Nothing is a secret.
Jack immediately favors and feels confident with his new bosses, Lieutenant General McChrystal and another colonel who is a lifer in the world of special operations, both of whom have a cult-like allegiance from their men. Yet Jack continues to fall under the rating scheme and performance reviews of Colonel Petty, who continues to target Jack and his men with bullying behavior. Something that seems like such an innocuous detail paints an entirely different vibe of stress. Jack still has Petty to battle, a situation that takes a toll far worse on him than the enemy ever could.
The new mission is a tremendous readjustment for all of us, yet we are humbled and proud beyond measure to be at the tip of the spear. We are no longer waiting for action; our soldiers go looking for The Fight. The weight of it shrouds the faces of our wives and my own reflection in the mirror.
Something that comes along with the new mission is the addition of a company of around 150 soldiers from Eeyore’s husband’s battalion, which is now part of our task force. Eeyore is not pleased to lose their Alpha Company and pouts at a Christmas social. I make sure to express my humble pride loud enough for her to hear. The placement of a perfect perfumed-turd passive-aggressive zinger is equal to the flush of an orgasm. It is sublime.
We follow strict guidelines about the dissemination of information, and protocol about which units “belong” to us. Referring to our manuals of protocol is supposed to remove the element of personal judgment and feelings. Hey, I’m only following the guidelines; it’s not personal. Further complicating this is the wife of the Alpha Company commander, Nicole Messer. This sneaky young wife of a captain plays Eeyore and me against each other, and it doesn’t take long for Eeyore and me to figure this out. Luckily this aspect of Nicole’s personality gives Eeyore and me common ground. We are united against Nicole. Nicole proves to be a bratty beast who challenges me at every opportunity. Ben calls Nicole the Rhino, because she pushes her complaints and games at us like a rhinoceros.
So at this Christmas dinner, Eeyore refuses to acknowledge the mission change. Instead of talking about it or anything else vitally important, she corners me away from my table—and from where I even could grab a cocktail—and delivers an emphatic yet boring-as-hell story where she was again the victim of some perceived injustice. The tale is loaded with irritating, irrelevant, and dull details. Most of all I am pissed to be trapped without my cocktail. I’m not listening, and she doesn’t even care enough to notice that her audience has left the building, is there in body only. I do have a new piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth, and it is stale by the time Regina takes a breath.
Between making sure that about-to-pop-with-pregnancy Audrey-Jill doesn’t throw herself in front of a snowplow and monitoring philandering wives’ antics online, I just don’t have time for Eeyore’s bullshit. I don’t have time for anyone’s bullshit. I think of those easy conversations with wicked smart Elizabeth, when I had it all figured out and thought this would be easy. The Gods of Flippant Women were surely watching over me and preparing my delightful reality check.
Ben and I talk over the misadventures and plights of our families on the phone nearly every night, and I am grateful that his presence anchors me. Beyond helping me work through complexities with the wives, he reassures me that no, he hasn’t noticed the fifteen pounds I’ve gained. The stress is not making my ass look big. The merciless job of being my anchor takes a yet-unseen toll. Ben’s job is more than just the Sid to my Nancy, though I often forget.