May 2009Going to WarBy Dave MatsudaFor months I’d been emailing the Army travel coordinator at Fort Lewis, Washington, asking her for my exact deployment date so that I could make the most of whatever time I had left with my wife, Kristi, and my two girls, Kimi and Katie. On a Monday in March I went through the usual routine process of sending yet another such email. Only this time I received an immediate reply: “Doc, we need you here on Thursday for your flight to Iraq on Saturday.” “You mean this Thursday?” I emailed back. “Yes sir,” she replied. I was stunned, elated, and saddened. It was good to finally know my departure time, but sad to be so urgently leaving my loved ones. The next couple of days were among the most emotionally wrenching of my life. I vacillated from cocky courage to being inconsolable. How to say goodbye to Katie, a 14 year old who is consumed by the egocentricity of being a full-on teenager? And to Kimi, our 11 year old, what meaning does she grasp from my answers to her probing questions. “Yes, Daddy will be away for one year. Yes, Iraq is dangerous. Yes, I will always support you whether in body or in spirit.” Then there’s Kristi, so strong, yet prone in vulnerable moments to panic over images of loss that float up from somewhere within her concerned, loving soul. And what of me? I lived every moment with them as if it were my last. In doing so, did I send a mixed message of strength and determination, yet fatalistic resolve? Going to war means never being satisfied with goodbyes, no matter how heartfelt. On our drive to the airport, I reminded the girls how, on my many business trips over the past year, we talked every night, sharing our joys and sorrows. This trip would be longer, but no different. Katie, who’d become withdrawn of late, melted into my arms and began to cry. Kimi’s eyes, so young and innocent, radiated love, silently asking, “Why?” After Kristi and I kissed and hugged, she loaded the girls into the car and drove to the home I wouldn’t see again for a year. At Fort Lewis, I reconnected with Colonel Glen Kindle (an alias), a fellow member of the Ph.D. mafia with whom I’d become close during the mission readiness exercises leading up to deployment. He volunteered to be my battle buddy. A kind of Army mentor, a battle buddy is someone with higher rank and more experience who shepards their charge through unfamiliar territory. Colonel Kindle saw to it that I flew first class with the rest of the leadership team, got command rank lodging on our lay-over in Kuwait, and was on the first flight to Iraq. Groggy from days of uncertainty, bureaucracy, delays and time changes, I awoke in Iraq and jogged around Camp Triumph (a pseudonym). Originally one of Saddam Hussein’s royal pleasure grounds, the camp is made-up of several administrative complexes set around two lakes. It’s centerpiece is the three story Awfuan Palace (a pseudonym), a mixture of Middle Eastern architecture made entirely of Italian marble, appointed with grand circular stair cases, majestic Mesopotamian style columns, and million dollar chandeliers. This would be my home for the next year. |
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