Nightmare in the Balkans, An Army Story

 Nightmare in the Balkans, An Army Story

By Felicia Whatley

I enlisted in the Army Reserves from Albuquerque, New Mexico a few months from graduating high school. I had early acceptance into UMass Boston and joined the Reserves because I enjoyed Junior Marine Corps ROTC and my high school internship at Kirtland Air Force base. My independent attitude would have lasted five minutes in the Marines and the Air Force didn’t seem like enough of a challenge.

My recruiter understood I was going to college in Boston and explained to me the college benefits the Army offered. I was idealist and stupid. I made it quite clear that I didn’t want going to drill to be about the money. The detail I was firm about was being able to choose my job. I wanted to be a paralegal. I thought I was going to go school doing Pre-law and then eventually law school. It was the summer of 2000 and I had no idea how much life was going to change for me a year later.

There were no paralegal, or legal secretary positions available within a 50 mile radius to Boston. I figured with all the universities nearby other pre-law students had the same idea I had. So I thought about it and I asked if there was anything similar, something in the legal field. My recruiter thought about it and conducted a new search.

“There is a CID at Fort Devens in Ayer, Massachusetts. You could be a clerk in a Military Police Criminal Investigation Unit. You’d work for Special Agents.” That sounded very exciting and definitely in the legal field.

“You were in your school newspaper. Are you sure you don’t want to do Public Affairs?”

I immediately said, no. I thought there was no way I could write about what I wanted to in the military. So I took split option, which my boot camp would be that

So I did just that. The CID unit was great. The Special Agents had the same idea I did about military service. They had really good civilian jobs as cops, detectives, FBI, CIA and DEA agents. They didn’t need the Reserves for income; it was more of a hobby. Each agent handpicked their own two missions to do protective services for everybody but the president. But it was the ultimate boys club. I was the youngest, the only Private and one of two females. The other female was rather masculine and was a high ranking unit administrator. The men treated me well. They would read my newspaper articles, crack jokes with me, and when I got ready to head to admin school run with me for encouragement. They treated me like a little sister and the UA hated it. I was young and I didn’t fully understand it at first, but there was a bit of resentment and it had something to with sexual preferences.

One of the agents tried to explain it to me once. The UA Warrant officer Bucannon had an alternative lifestyle and men in the Army will always treat her differently. I was pretty and feminine and was treated favorably. The UA attempted to give me a counseling statement, a written statement, and in this case declaring fault, because I was late to drill. I didn’t have a car the first year of college and two of the agents, one coming from the Cape, would pick me up and drive me an hour to drill each month. This time Agent McLaughlin was running late, so we were all late. The UA pulled me into her office and was starting to unload a bunch of rules and regulations I messed up on McLaughlin and O’Connor came running into the office and stopped her mid-sentence. They said they were part of my chain of command and had a right to be there. She started up again and McLaughlin cut her off and explained how it was his entire fault. He dismissed me. I glanced at Bucannan on the way out. She was angry at me and furious she couldn’t reprimand me. I could see it in her face.

A similar situation happened a few months later. I can’t remember what the deficiency was but it was over before it even started, with the same result. I shrugged it off. Around this time, a couple of the guys were joking about “ate up” Army Postal units. Warrant Officer Smith was laughing about numerous EO complaints. I didn’t know what that was. I figured it just went along with the “going Postal” joke.

 After 9/11, all of the agents were swept up immediately and sent to the Pentagon to clean up the mess. There were only five us left from the unit that hadn’t been activated for military service. It was the support staff: a few clerks, a couple of new military policemen waiting to get certified as agents, the unit administrator, and me. Even the commander got transferred and told he was to prepare for a mobilization with another unit. A new girl came into the unit this drill. She was going to be our new mechanic. The Unit Administrator was now the acting commander. She called a meeting.

She explained that the unit was transforming. Then she turned to me and the new girl and said, “This is a stepping stone for you two. I will not promote you.” I found myself nodding along and then it hit me like pile of bricks. I sat there. What could I do? What could I say? To make matters worse she wanted me in her office afterwards. She had that tone of voice like I was about to be reprimanded. This time there were no agents to rescue me.

She said I had an unprofessional attitude, and she had a list of rules and regulations I would have adhere to or I would loose rank and pay. I was a Private First Class by then. I swallowed hard.  And then she said something strange. She said I was not allowed to put my civilian clothes on after drill to drive home in. She handed me the form and “Sign here.” I don’t know what possessed me but I looked at her square in the face and said “No.” Then I walked across the room straight to the trash can. I took the counseling statement and tore it into four pieces and threw it away. She was shocked and horrified. Before she could say anything I opened the door, grabbed my keys and walked out the building door. It was Saturday and the duty hours were almost over. For me, the day was definitely over. I got in my car and drove home.

The four of the MPs in training pulled me into an office the next day. They handed me a revised version of the counseling statement. It could have been a novel. This one was at least ten pages long. My parents had moved to Texas for the past year but the job was only temporary. He took a high paying, high risk job, hired in attempt to save a franchisee of Drug Emporium from bankruptcy.  It was unsalvageable.

 I decided not to go back to UMass. I moved home with my father but not without having one more fallout with Bucannon. I was the assistant news editor of the school paper and after 9/11, I got the CID unit to put me in for the military journalism school. I wasn’t needed as a clerk. I wanted to make a difference in something I knew I was I was good at. I was over my fear of being over edited. But I wasn’t going to the print journalism school. The UA Bucannon said, since I wasn’t coming back to Massachusetts, the Reserve center in Massachusetts shouldn’t have to pay for my training. She asked where I would be. My father was taking an upper management job in Winn Dixie in Charlotte, North Carolina and we were moving there soon. She said she would transfer me to a unit there.

My family moved to Charlotte Summer of 2002 and I moved with them. I transferred to Winthrop University pursuing a Communications degree. It was my first day of class on a Friday. I settled in for Com 101 and sat near the front. The professor began his introduction. He was starting to explain about his adventures and tribulations as a Vietnam journalist. All of a sudden my cell phone started ringing. I glanced at the number. It was a North Carolina number. Puzzled, I ran out of class and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Where are you!? You are supposed to be at your Army drill! You are AWOL!” the angry female voice yelled.

“Um, who is this?”

“PFC Whatley, this is your First Sergeant Cahill of the 312^th Postal Unit. We are in the field in Columbia today, tomorrow and Sunday. Why aren’t you here?”

I explained I was in class and would call back. I joined up the next day in the field after being issued a sleeping bag and a few items for the field. I met the First Sergeant in person. She was just as angry and short in person. I didn’t understand how I ended up in a postal unit. I was not postal qualified and did not have a secret clearance. I started asking questions on how I could get a transfer to a public affairs unit. Cahill just looked at me strange and dismissed my inquiry. She was black, southern, chubby and spoke with a deep accent. I could barely comprehend her, because she put her verbs at the end of the sentence.

Most of the unit was black and lived in the rural areas of North and South Carolina. I felt very isolated and out of place. We spent the rest of Friday running in the woods, in the rain. I didn’t get issued any raingear or flashlights. I was wet, cold, and I couldn’t see anything, but I was yelled at continuously, so I kept moving. This wasn’t boot camp. Why would they act like that?

 The next morning after breakfast some Colonel who oversaw the Army Reserves in the Carolinas and Alabama told us to huddle in. He had an announcement. He congratulated us and told us we were deploying to Bosnia for a postal mission with Rebecca Cahill as the First Sergeant and Sarah Kuhaneck, a young Lieutenant as the commander.

Most of the unit was not physically fit or educated. Right after it was announced the unit would be deploying, half to Bosnia and then the other half to Iraq, twenty percent of the unit went AWOL absent with out leave; they basically stopped showing up for drill. Some even moved. Another twenty percent started pissing hot for drugs and a few conveniently and immediately got pregnant. There was no camaraderie, and discipline only through fear. I knew immediately that these people did not join the Army Reserves for the same reasons I did.

I was stunned and horrified. I began doing research on how I ended up in the unit and what I could do to change my situation. I was supposed to sign paperwork for the gaining unit. Bucannon bypassed that. I went to recruiters and job liaisons. They said all I needed was a letter of acceptance from another unit nearby. I got a letter of acceptance from the public affairs unit in North Carolina, willing to slot me as clerk and retrain me as a journalist. I brought it to drill the next month. I presented the documentation and spoke to two sergeants on how I wasn’t a postal clerk and just didn’t approve this transfer. They didn’t know what to say so they got the First Sergeant. She refused to sign the paperwork.

So I did a lot of thinking and decided I would put my paperwork in for active duty.  I would rather do three years active duty and go to Iraq as a journalist than do a tour to Bosnia with this unit. The First Sergeant was always angry and chewed us all out whenever she addressed us. I couldn’t imagine ten months of that. I had a conditional release from the Reserves drafted. I met with First Sergeant Cahill and she refused to sign the paperwork.

The second month I was in the unit, we received official mobilization orders to begin January 1, 2003. The next weekend drill we were bused to Fort Bragg to begin intense soldier skills training. We were told nothing. I was anxious and scared. We were told to get all of our gas mask gear on quickly. I did so but there was something wrong. The mask would not seal. Air was escaping and entering around the sides. I couldn’t breath. I started hyperventilating and was anxiously trying to loosen the ties so I could get it off. I finally ripped it off by pulling the whole thing through my hair and over my head. I almost passed out. What went wrong? I looked at the mask and it said “L” for large. The supply sergeant issued me a large. I couldn’t have been more than 110 pounds. “We are preparing to deploy and they issued me a large gasmask. Does it LOOK like I need a large gasmask?”

A black female Staff Sergeant Jennings looked up and me and said, “Yeah. You need one. You have a big mouth.” A couple laugh and high five her.

“Great, so we are going be dead because we are unprepared, but its ok we’ll be happy because we’re all ghetto on the block. Is there ANY good leadership here?”

Jennings launches forward offended and pissed. She starts to open her mouth and a male’s voice coming up the stairs says, “Who said that?” We are called to attention as a high ranking officer enters the room. First Sergeant Cahill introduces the important Colonel from Fort Bragg. He asks his question again. I am pointed out and am told to follow him and the First Sergeant to his office. He asked me to explain what the problem was.

I explained the angry isolating climate, the incessant yelling all the time. We where never told what any of the plans were, not even the training schedule. We were dropped off at Convenience marts and told to “go find dinner” on multiple occasions. Spc. Racki was hospitalized for severe dehydration. The Lieutenant kept arguing with the doctors to release her and return her to training. After seven hours of harassment the doctors released Racki, still throwing up and returned her to the field. The equipment I have or haven’t been issued, like the rain gear or sensitive inspectable items, like the gas mask, have been too big or missing. These are safety and health and welfare issues. I didn’t feel safe in this unit.

“Bosnia has been a rotational deployment for years. The chain of command knew for at least a year when they were going and only now is preparing their unit to go.  I’m not supposed to be in this unit in the first place, but since I’m not doing drugs, getting pregnant, or going AWOL, I’m trapped with the most miserable people I have ever met. I wouldn’t trust anyone in the unit with my tooth brush let alone my life.”

The Colonel tried to question my patriotism and soldierly skills.  I asked if he had ever deployed. He said no and got quiet. “PFC Whatley will get her transfer and not deploy with the 312^th.  Agreed First Sergeant?”

“Yes, she will get her transfer soon,” said Cahill. He lied and she lied, and I knew it.

As we were waiting for formation, Cahill was standing with a lady I hadn’t seen before a Sergeant First Class Smith, a tall black lady with long red painted, unauthorized finger nails. They were laughing and Cahill pointed to me and said something, and then Smith retorted, “Oh yeah, she is definitely going.”

We were called to attention and the platoon filed into formation. Sergeant First Class Smith was introduced as a being from the headquarters in Alabama. She was in charge of making sure we got trained up for our deployment. She addressed us.

She told us how her brother died in Vietnam and she understood personal sacrifice. She said, “For those of you whining, if I were out there with you I would shoot you.”

I hastily finished up the semester. January came so quickly. We had a send off and promotion ceremony. All the Privates were made Specialists, including me. I didn’t fell like I earned it. I had difficulty breathing and didn’t pass my two-mile run.

So we deployed. We flew first to Germany for a month of postal training. I befriended Spc Racki, Spc. Ritchie, and Spc. Bee, and in the evenings we were released to do whatever we wanted. We were based near Amberg so we would take the cabs into the city and go to the local restaurants and pubs.

I made a phone call to my parents and showed up to the bowling alley a little later. Sgt Pew was outside and met me as I headed toward the door. It was five o’clock on a Sunday and he was already falling over drunk. “Get in the cab right now; we are leaving now,” he was yelling. He had to have been drinking all day.

“No, I don’t think I’m going to go,” I said turning to leave. He ran out in front of me and physically stopped me.

“Get in the car now. I own you Spc. Whatley!”

I got away from him and ran back to the barracks. I went to sleep depressed. I told a friend and she told the First Sergeant what happened. It didn’t matter. When I got to Bosnia, I was assigned first shift, the 4am shift, and Sgt. Pew was my first line supervisor. I felt uncomfortable around him.

I won the post 5 K run in my bracket and I found a way to write and publish. I wrote an essay to the Public Affairs commander on post why I wanted to contribute to the post paper. One-thousand words later, Major Wall called Lieutenant Kuhaneck and said, “My mission is more important than yours. I can either pull Spc. Whatley out from underneath you or you can let her come on her own time to write for us.” My commander was not happy, but agreed I could come on my off time. I did just that. I unloaded the trucks until noon and then did a few hours at the PA shop. I was tired, but it was worth it.

It was around the third month of the deployment. I got to the post office in the morning and First Sergeant was there. She was going to assist in unloading the truck. We opened up the back doors of the truck and Sgt. Pew jumped in. The First Sergeant looked at me and said, “Go get the belt. We always need to use a belt.” I looked at her, scratched my eyebrows and said, “Ah, what belt, Top?”

She was taken back and suddenly angry. “What? She then mumbled something, and then, “Go to the rooms and wake everybody up. Tell them they have five minutes to get dressed and be at the post office.”

So I did. Nobody was very happy about this. “Five minutes, are you serious?” said Racki.

When everybody got there the First Sergeant formed us up and addressed us. She was angry, slurring, and again putting her verbs at the end of the sentence. I still couldn’t tell if she was talking about a conveyer belt or lifting belts. Halfway through her ranting she turned to Sgt. Le and said in front of the entire platoon of enlisted, “How could you? You know how I feel about this.” Sgt. Le was probably one of the nicer sergeants I had worked with. But he had a communication issue. He was born and raised in Vietnam and his English was broken. She continued on for a few more minutes and then said, “Any questions or comments?”

Reluctantly, my hand went up. “With all due respect, I was born and raised in the U.S. and I still can’t understand you.”

A young enlisted Specialist on my shift said, “She just called the First Sergeant stupid.” There was some muffled laughter. The First Sergeant shrunk and stepped back. We were quickly released. I didn’t know what to say, but after that we started using both the conveyer belt and lifting belts on my shift.

My shift had three junior enlisted, all the youngest in the unit. We got up at 3am every morning to unload the truck with incoming mail for the troops on Eagle Base. Because I had no postal certification, I was legally not allowed to work in any other job, especially the ones that dealt with the transaction of money. Sgt. Pew was motivated, and the First Sergeant and Lieutenant rarely got involved and oversaw, so nobody on my shift got a day off.  My shift went three months without a day off unloading 300-pound parcels, 70 pounds or less every day. The afternoon shift that loaded up the truck with outgoing mail each got a day and a half off every week. By the third month we were all exhausted, delusional and tired. We were talking strange and we started breaking physically. Spc. Guice pulled her back out and was on painkillers and muscle relaxers, Spc. Witiker had tendentious and arthritis, and Spc. Racki had shooting pains up her legs, muscle spasms, was and dropping packages.

About a weekend after the belt incident, Spc. Bee woke up cussing and frantically running around. “Look what time it is! I’m late for work. I’m going to get an Article 15,” she said.

Spc. Ritchie was a tough, robust, correctional officer back home. She got up from her bed more than mildly irritated said, “For God’s sakes, Bee. Go back to bed. It is your day off.”

A month later around 8’oclock I walked over to the Return-to-Sender desk, where I often worked in the middle of my shift after the truck was unloaded. Spc. Laney was there. He was on the phone with his wife. Laney was in his late 30s. He was always impeccably groomed and probably noticeably had the nicest set of teeth in the unit. He had two teenage kids. Laney was obviously having marital problems. I walked into some of the conversation. He was screaming calling his wife profanities, and said that she better be home when he called. It was strange because Laney was having an affair with another soldier in our unit who was stationed in Tazar, Hungary. In hindsight, the command separated them on purpose. Spc. Boyd was also married with children.

I was embarrassed to walk in on that. But I couldn’t go anywhere. After ten minutes of his angry threatening, I started getting concerned. I told my first line supervisor my concerns. It was taken up to the First Sergeant. She said she would handle it later. My shift ended and I headed to the PA shop. When I got back to the sleeping quarters later that day, Spc. Ritchie told me what happened after I left.

Laney locked and loaded his M16 and tried to force the driver out of the postal truck so he could drive to Tazar, three hours away to see his girlfriend. Two other Postal soldiers tackled him and took his weapon away. I was told the matter was to be handled internally. 

What would you do? Should I continue to raise this issue to supervisors? Or keep this quiet to not cause more friction?

Well I didn't stay quiet. There were many "forced retirement parties" to attend to, and my unit was grateful for standing up for them. I was always taught to put your fellow soldiers' needs before your own. I did and life was very difficult for me. But I won in a way that I brought back moral. We pour our hearts and souls into what it means to be a good soldier. I follow another code: Integrity, which means you do what needs to be done. Well 312 Postal that was the most difficult mission I have ever been through. I will always remember that during those months far from home I found me and I am proud of me. God Bless America and thank you troops for pushing on.