Soldier Girls (43 page)

The soldiers from Indiana spent the next three months training full-time at Fort Stewart. Forty miles southwest of Savannah, Georgia, Fort Stewart was the largest active duty military base east of the Mississippi, and it was home to twenty thousand soldiers and thirty thousand family members; the Department of Defense operated three elementary schools on the post. On one side of the base, Charity and Debbie shared an enormous tent with other women who were training with the 139th, while Desma lived about fifteen miles away, in a female barracks in the
post's cantonment area. Charity and Debbie were learning how to provide security to supply convoys. Charity had been given the job of truck commander and was working with a crew of two young men, a driver and a gunner. Her job involved being constantly on the radio, listening to people back at headquarters, relaying information to the rest of the convoy.

Debbie was assigned to drive a truck with a different crew. Her truck commander, Sergeant Craig Selby, was in his early twenties, and her gunner, Tucker Boone, was only nineteen. They were polite, serious, scared. They appeared surprised to be working with a woman in her midfifties; hardly anybody in the regiment was older than thirty. “They were a little skeptical,” Debbie would say later. “It was like, What are
you
doing here? You don't really belong.” A little standoffish at first, Selby warmed to Debbie over time. He struck her as conscientious, determined to do a good job. He had different ideas than Debbie was used to, however; he wanted the crew to spend every waking minute together, and instructed the others to meet him for breakfast. “Well, I don't really eat breakfast,” Debbie said. “Can I just meet you where we are supposed to start our training?” Selby said, “No.” He eased up later when he realized that she would always be where she was needed. As Debbie would say, “He didn't act as crazy about having to eat breakfast together.” It was Selby's first deployment, and Boone's, too.

They spent most of their time inside a Humvee. It was Debbie at the wheel, Selby on the radio, and Boone up in the turret. Debbie practiced driving out on country roads, mud roads, dirt roads, roads full of potholes. The official name for the exercise was lanes training, although the route never resembled a lane; Debbie had to concentrate fiercely to keep the Humvee on the twisting, sloppy byways. As she drove, they were fired upon, and had to decide whether to forge through the hail of fake bullets, or stop and shoot back. They came upon bombs. They learned to scrutinize everything: an empty Coke can with wires running out of it, a trash bag left by the side of the road, a dead animal with explosives stuffed into its guts, a plain wire drawn across the road. The ordnance was not live but sounded real. They also learned to read routes by mapping out proposed paths on tables covered with sand, moving miniature trucks along pretend roads of colored yarn. Debbie could see it was
going to be critical that she not make a wrong turn. You did not want to get lost in Iraq.

On the other side of Fort Stewart, Desma kept distributing supplies to the male soldiers she was supposed to be training with in the 293rd—although from her perspective, it seemed like the men were getting all the training. They ran lanes, she did not. They did tables, she did not. They identified roadside bombs, she did not. As time passed, Desma began to grow concerned that she was not being adequately prepared. “I didn't come here to not get any training, but I wasn't getting any,” Desma would say. “I wasn't allowed. I was the bullheaded female. And I say female with a nasty tone because that's what they did. I didn't go out in the lanes, I didn't do any tables, I didn't go on any convoys. I didn't shoot anything, other than my personal weapon. I ran a supply area. I handled equipment. I gave 'em how much ammo they needed to go out and do their range, and when they come back I picked up their brass. I set up ammo and I took brass, I set up ammo and I took brass. Never once did I go out on a lane. Never once did I have positive identification of a roadside bomb. Never once.”

Desma did not see Debbie at all during the three months they spent at Fort Stewart. Only rarely—perhaps three times—did she manage to contrive a face-to-face meeting with Charity, although they stayed in touch by text and by phone. Desma was struck by the difference in their experiences; Charity sounded engaged by her work and happy with her unit, and there was energy in her voice as she regaled Desma with stories about running lanes. Desma made friends with the other women who also had been attached to the 293rd and found them each to be as miserable as she was. It was just a lousy unit to be in if you were a woman, Desma concluded.

The women had been warned not to walk around the post on their own because it wasn't safe, and because there were so few of them in the 293rd they were constantly playing the role of battle buddy for each other. Perhaps Desma's closest friend at Fort Stewart was a female soldier named Bridget Palmer, who was also attached to the 293rd. Palmer was from Evansville—she had gone to high school with Michelle Fischer, had sat right behind her in math class. One evening Desma wrote in a small notebook:

Palmer!

Hey Babe! In the shower. Please will you be my battle to go to the coffee shop + PX?

Love you!

Desma

Palmer wrote back:

You only love me when you want somethin'.

Desma never filed a formal complaint about how women were being treated, but she believed that another female soldier did, because while they were in Georgia the regiment received an unexpected visit from the inspector general's office. At one point Desma was standing in the back of a truck, tossing out boxes of ammo, when her first sergeant offered to help; then a two-star general walked up and climbed into the truck. The first sergeant stood beside Desma, listening to everything they said. The general wanted to know how things were going. Were there real issues of discrimination?

“Sir, I've not been one to complain about getting my hands dirty,” Desma replied. “And I can tell you, I've worked with the infantry on several occasions, but I've never been treated so badly.”

The first sergeant shot her a sharp look.

“You know that's right,” Desma told him. “You were part of the problem when you told them they couldn't talk to me.”

She turned back to the general. “Sir, it's getting better,” she said. “The cohesion has got to have time to build.”

But the cohesion did not build. Instead, after she was allowed to participate in more of the training exercises, there was sexual tension. At one point, while a group of soldiers were practicing hand-to-hand combat moves, a staff sergeant kept telling Desma that she was doing a move wrong. He said, “Here, lay down.” He sat on top of Desma, as she had been sitting on top of the other woman, straddling Desma in a chokehold position. “Shouldn't I be on top?” Desma asked. She was not even trying to make a joke, but the staff sergeant's face reddened. “Because right then and there, he envisioned me on top,” Desma would
say afterward. “And it wasn't meant to be sexual, but he totally took it there.”

Desma's hair became an issue. Per regulations, she tried to keep her hair in a bun, but throughout the course of the day, her hair had a tendency to work its way loose. At one point Desma took her hair down for a moment so that she could put it back up again—but the sight of a woman with loose hair enraged her company commander. “You!” he bellowed. “Put your fucking hair up! I don't ever want to see that shit again!” Loose hair had transformed her in his mind, apparently—from a soldier into an object of desire. “There was that sexual tension, flat out,” Desma would say later. “He found himself attracted to me when I had my hair down.” Desma and Charity got a four-day pass and took a trip to Savannah, Georgia, where Desma found a salon and cut her hair short like a boy. “And the repercussions from that were crazy,” she recalled. The company commander wanted to know who had given her authorization to cut her hair. No pleasing him, Desma decided.

Yet often Desma knew more about how to get things done in the military than her younger colleagues. The men in the 293rd wanted to believe they were better than her—and some of them had seen combat, and knew more than she did about war—but the young guys in supply did not seem to understand paperwork, filing, or accountability. As the 293rd started shipping equipment to Kuwait, Desma argued with colleagues about how best to ensure that the equipment would actually arrive where they wanted it to go. She got a reputation for being difficult, but simultaneously won the admiration of the first sergeant; she could be undiplomatic but she was often correct about how best to get things done.

Nevertheless, Desma decided that she wanted out of the 293rd. The idea to transfer came about one night, while Desma was talking on the phone to Charity. She wondered out loud if there was any way to get out of the 293rd, and Charity said, “I would give anything for you to be with me.” They decided Desma should request a transfer into the 139th. Desma tried to file a formal request, but after she filled out all of the paperwork a platoon sergeant in the 293rd said the request would never go through and put the paperwork into a shredder. Then she and Charity began talking to everybody they knew, lobbying to get Desma switched into the 139th. “That was the only unit that I knew of that I could go to
and be treated fairly,” Desma said later. Plus, she could be with her lover. Desma called everybody she had ever worked for. “Get me out of here,” she said. “These people are going to get me killed.”

But the days kept slipping by. February drew to a close and still Desma remained in the 293rd. In March they flew to Kuwait. “Starbucks and Subway,” as Desma said later. “It's like America East.” In Kuwait, Desma got to see Charity every day, because they lived much closer together. While they were there, Desma heard that Mary's new husband had just gotten terrible news: Mary had lost the baby. When she called, her friend was a wreck; Desma tried to lift her spirits but it felt futile. Desma also heard from Michelle Fischer, who had just moved to Denver, Colorado. Michelle had found an apartment in Denver's Capitol Hill neighborhood, where Billy, who had refused to sign a lease with her, nevertheless spent almost every night. Michelle had just started working for AmeriCorps. She had made a batch of pot brownies and tried mailing them to Georgia, but Desma had already left by the time the package arrived. Shortly after Desma arrived in Kuwait, Michelle sent her an email.

Hi Des!

How's it going over there? Just wondering where you are . . . if you've made it to Kuwait yet. . . . I miss seeing you daily, even if it was in a shitty situation.

Did you get the brownies? Were they any good??? I was worried, it was my first batch. . . . Baking is different in high altitudes. No, really. You have to add more water or some shit. . . .

I am working damn near for free ($10,908 annually before taxes) since I am in AmeriCorps. Did you know that when you swear in to AmeriCorps, you have to say the EXACT same oath as when you swear into the military??? No shit. I raised my right hand and was like, I feel like I've said this before. Then I realized I am working for the fucking government again. . . .

Ya, speaking of work . . . I should do some.

I miss you tons. Keep in touch or else.

Love,

Michelle

Desma never wrote back. She had a hard time staying in touch with friends over long distances; it was all she could do to maintain contact with her children. Josh turned fifteen on March 16, 2008, and Desma called to say happy birthday. She had already sent him a gift card. She told him that Kuwait looked a lot like Indiana—all the same chain stores.

“When can you come home?” he asked.

“Bub, you know I gotta do this,” Desma told him. “Pay attention in school, listen to your stepmother, don't give your dad any trouble.”

She heard from her daughters the following day. Each of the girls wrote a short note inside an email sent by her father-in-law, and he wrote a quick line to Desma at the bottom.

Date: Mon, 17 Mar 2008

Subject: Letters from home

DEAR MOMMY

I MISS YOU. I LOVE YOU! I'M DOING OK. HOW ARE YOU? I'M STILL DOING OK IN SCHOOL!

LOVE, LEXI

DEAR MOMMY,

HIYA DOIN'?.!I LOVE YOU. GRANDpA'S LETTING US USE HIS COMPUTER?!. I”M A GEEK. LOL, HA HA

T.T.Y.L

PAIGIE

POOH

I told the girls they could do this regularly so they could stay in touch.

Be Careful out there

The weeks in Kuwait slipped by quickly. After Desma complained that she was not getting as much training as her male colleagues, the first sergeant sent her out in the field for four days with two platoons of infantrymen. They shared the same tent. “Asshole to elbow, I'm telling
you,” Desma would say later. “Everybody was nut to butt, except for this one square in the corner that was mine, and it was marked off by chairs.” She was the only soldier to be given a cot; the infantrymen were sleeping on the ground. Desma took the cot, and folded it up, and chucked it out the door. She got the chairs, stacked them up, and put them in the corner. “I was like, ‘Look, fuckers. We have to live together for the next year. You're going to have to pull your heads out of your asses.' ” Desma tried to earn the respect of the other soldiers by sleeping on the ground, too, but it made no difference. The following day, she could not find another soldier who would accompany her when she had to go to the bathroom, although they had been forbidden to go by themselves. “It was me and two platoons, boys,” Desma would recall. “And nobody wanted to walk the girl to the bathroom.” Finally a squad leader took pity on Desma and escorted her to a secluded area. He told her not to tell anyone.

At the last minute, just before they left the safety of Kuwait for Iraq, the brigade's leadership shuffled a series of people around, trying to make certain that every soldier had been given the right job. Desma was outside smoking a cigarette when Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Agron approached her, along with a sergeant major. The sergeant major asked if she was Specialist Brooks.