I Bring Sorrow: And Other Stories of Transgression by Abbott Patricia

Author:Abbott, Patricia [Abbott, Patricia]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2018-02-27T05:00:00+00:00

What Baghdad Did to Us

US Army Specialist, Ronnie Bixby was shipped to Baghdad in 2004. She’d become a member of the US Army Marksmanship Unit before her rotation began, but never fired her weapon, except in target practice, during her entire stint. Guarding Halliburton trucks never drew direct fire on her watch, and she was asleep in her bunk when one of the trucks was carpet bombed, killing two soldiers.

Ronnie was quartered with women and developed a close relationship with several. Most had a husband or boyfriend at home, someone waiting for them. Neither she nor any of her closest female friends were lesbians despite the ubiquitous catcalls.

Her CO created camaraderie among the men by humiliating the women. But it wasn’t the sort of hazing that could be grievanced. The CO never laid a hand on a female soldier or encouraged a male soldier to do so. Never used the more vulgar euphemisms women in some units complained about.

So the women in Ronnie’s company felt like pussies for complaining about his tactics. Most had experienced far worse in high school—being the sort of women they were. It was trivial, wasn’t it; the sort of teasing that went on in their unit. It seemed too insignificant to get upset about.

A point of agreement among the female soldiers though was that trips to the latrine at night were a risk. Few drank liquids after three in the afternoon, so late-night urination became a remote concern. It was difficult in the summer heat, but necessary.

Unfortunately, it was diarrhea that sent Ronnie to the john one night. She considered asking another woman to go with her but rejected the idea since it was nearly dawn. Cramping badly, she barely made it to the latrine, and when she exited a few minutes later, someone grabbed her.

“Are you a bitch, a whore, or a dyke?” the man asked when she struggled with him. The noise from the idling Halliburton trucks masked any sound.

When he was finished, he wiped himself, saying, “I’ve had better lays than you out back at Flo’s Escapades in Austin.”

It was dawn and Ronnie had gotten a good look at the soldier’s face; thin, hatchet-like, as pale as the moon disappearing from the morning sky. She considered the rest of him as he walked away: the height, the build, the physique, his peculiar way of walking. Later, she saw him on the base and managed to catch his name. PFC Loomis. Hal Loomis.

She didn’t report the assault, but filed the information away. None of the women who’d been raped got anywhere with their charges. Two women had died of dehydration in the heat the summer before and still been ignored. Reporting such incidents only brought shame on the tattletale. It interfered with camaraderie and the esprit de corps, one woman was told.

Ronnie didn’t re-up, and back in the States, it took surprisingly little time to find Flo’s Escapades on the Internet. She rented a place in South Austin and got herself a job cleaning the cages at an animal shelter.

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