By Tanisha Medina
In 2006, I was stationed in the Army with the 95th Military Police (MP) Battalion in Mannheim, Germany when we received official United States government orders to deploy to Baghdad, Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Over the following months, we conducted pre-deployment preparations and tactical training.
On a frosty cold morning at 0800 on October 7, 2007, our unit gathered in a rectangular formation in front of the pole with the US flag flying high for our last formal accountability of Soldiers before we loaded up a large bus that looked like a yellow school bus but was painted Army green. The 1SG yelled “Report!” and all of us platoon sergeants sounded off in a domino effect with “All present!” The next command given was “Fall out!” That was our cue to load up and shit was about to get real.
Before leaving, I said final goodbyes to my 7-year-old son, 3-year-old daughter, and their father, then suited up in full “battle-rattle”: ACUs, Advanced Combat Helmet (ACH), IOTV, protective mask, weapon, and rucksack. On the bus, I waved to my family as I held back tears, uncertain of when or if I would see them again. I took a picture with my photographic memory for a keepsake.
I spent the next year at a military outpost in southeast Baghdad called Forward Operating Base (FOB) Rustamiyah-Rusty for short, also known as “Mortarville”. It’s positioned right between a huge field of burning trash and a sewage treatment plant, producing a strong lingering smell of burn pits and a pig slaughter farm in the air. I estimated the FOB to be about 3.5 miles in diameter, a measurement I discovered during a 10K “death” run in 90-degree weather where I ran three times around its perimeter to reach the finish line.
From my understanding, our battalion’s mission involved training Iraqi police stations, providing intelligence, conducting combat patrols and convoy operations, and overseeing logistical operations related to vehicles and personal equipment. Additionally, we were responsible for commanding five companies spread out in our geographical region. In addition to my daily duties as S4 NCOIC and platoon sergeant, I also served as a Sexual Assault Advocate, which was necessary.
The team that we replaced filled us in about the on-the-job hazards and their personnel losses they had experienced while in the theater. We quickly fell into their battle rhythm, being on alert day and night due to the constant threat of mortar attacks, RPGs, small arms fire, etc. I became on high alert of the distinct whistling sound in the sky, indicating an incoming missile flying over the FOB barrier walls before impact. We had to react instantly, seeking protection in the closest T-wall bunker or by hitting the ground whichever was closest. Sadly, we also mourned the tragic loss of our brothers and sisters who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. Vividly, I remember standing at the helipad with other military and civilian personnel, saluting as our fallen friends began their journey home on the “Hero Flight.” After experiencing this 15 plus times over, I was emotionally drained and could not bear to attend another one for the sake of my own psychological well-being.
In the final stretch of our deployment around month 11, I was anticipating that our deployment was coming to an end. I thought I just might make it out of this place alive after all. However, we were hit with the news that our unit got caught up in the new 15-month rotation, which meant that we were extended for another 3 months. By this time, I was detached from any feelings and my thoughts were, “Soldier on, you can’t afford to get discouraged now. Tanisha, your troops are depending on you.”
During the final three weeks, my health took a turn for the worse. What started out as a typical cough, sore throat, and runny nose quickly developed into something more severe. My whole body was lethargic, I felt chilled, and breathing had become difficult, almost as if a bear was sitting on my chest at night. The worst part of it was the uncontrollable coughing up of green-yellowish phlegm and lack of sleep. Despite having only 9% of energy, I knew I needed more help than over-the-counter medicine, which was not working. The Battalion Aid Station was located roughly a mile from my sleep quarters on the opposite side of the post. Due to the distance, I was reluctant to go in my current state.
On my first two visits to the clinic, I had hoped for some relief, but I was only given more Ibuprofen and cough syrup. With no improvement within a couple of days, I gathered the last 3% of my strength, threw my M16 over my shoulder and holstered my 9MM which added more weight, and headed back to the medical clinic. As I walked, my destination seemed to get further away. What was 1 mile now felt like 5 miles. The sun beat down on my back, and it felt like I was wearing lead combat boots. I prayed the whole way that I wouldn’t have to dodge any incoming mortars. Finally, the physician listened to my chest and back as I breathed in and out, with coughing in between. Eventually, he diagnosed me with bronchitis, but not before the illness had taken a toll on me mentally, emotionally, and physically. This time I left with 14 days of antibiotics.
During my illness and amidst sporadic enemy attacks, I had the responsibility of training the incoming personnel to take over my section, a process known as “left seat-right seat” in the Army. I also remained accountable for my assigned platoon personnel. As my unit prepared to transition to the Camp Victory staging area, I was assigned to stay a few extra days to help tie up loose ends. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as my unit left at dusk carrying all their heavy military gear on a small plane, a journey I would have been too weak to make in my condition. My command was unaware that I had exhausted all my means and the severity of my illness. Luckily, my last convoy off post to rejoin my unit came in the backseat of a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicle staged only a few feet from my building. With the vehicle’s close proximity, my new friends were able to help me load my bags and waved goodbye.
During my 15-month tour, I faced numerous challenges, such as combatting attacks inside and outside the wire, mourning losses, leading Soldiers, fighting bronchitis, and what I now know as battle fatigue. Furthermore, I struggled to receive effective treatment and relief from medical professionals. When I arrived back home in Germany, my bronchitis started to heal, but I still had a long road ahead, dealing with the invisible wounds of traumatic events from the war zone.
