IAVA - Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America - The Longest Ride of My Life (Ben Flanders)

I just got back from Sheriff 16 station located on Camp Cooke in Taji (about 20 miles south of Balad and 15 miles north of Baghdad). It was the same as always. We manned a radio with high reception and output tuned into an emergency frequency that passing convoys could call, if they ran into trouble. Often it's an unsettling job to be a dispatcher as you hear, in detail, the events that are taking place in your sector, the urgency and panic in the voices as the radio crackles for help. Our job was to take down the message, whether it was a medivac, requesting backup, roadside bomb alert or just giving an update about their status, and pass it along to the appropriate people (ie., the medics, the bomb squad, patrols in the area, close air support).

Anyway. To get from Anaconda to Taji my team was given a ride by the MSR patrol from our company. We "suited up" and I traveled in the first of the three-vehicle patrol. Just outside of Anaconda they had constructed a fence that lined the side of the road outside of the south gate to keep the local population from getting too close. But inevitably at the end of the fence would be a cluster of small children waving and gesturing for handouts and candy. That day there were a lot of children on our side of the road scurrying to get the candy that a convoy coming into Anaconda was throwing out their windows. It was a convoy of large military vehicles that gave us very little wiggle room on the small roads used to get in and out of Anaconda. For some reason, the trucks were throwing candy to kids on our side of the road, across traffic and into the shoulder and not far from the road. I was enraged especially as we barely missed a group of boys bending over without any acknowledgement of the three Humvee patrol coming their way. I saw the two boys and my heart skipped a beat as partially got out a "Watch out..." to the driver.

Just then, a girl about 10 years old, wearing a teal shirt suddenly stepped out of a group of small clamoring children. She took one last look at the convoy heading into base that had stopped, backed up by the long line into base, and started crossing the street, never seeing our approaching Humvee. We had nowhere to go and the driver of my Humvee got as close as he could to the other vehicles trying to miss her, but it wasn't enough. She hit the right side mirror and side of our vehicle with a violent and unmistakable thud. It was loud and confusing. "Jesus Christ, we hit her!" the team leader of the vehicle screamed at the top of his lungs. "Stop! Stop!" I remember as I sat in the back seat turning and looking out the window as the pavement and vehicles outside slowly came to a halt. I didn't want to think about what happened. I swung open the Humvee door and the gunner of the vehicle yelled my name and handed me a medical aid bag. I ran up to her but the vehicles behind us were able to get to her faster. An older sergeant from another truck was already working on her. I just stood and stared for a few seconds. This wasn't anything like training. She wasn't a spread-eagle Caucasian mannequin. She was twisted, small and blood was coming out of her ears, mouth and head. Her face was peaceful and her body was limp, as if she were napping. I stood there motionless with the medical bag in my hand and stared for too long. So I dropped the bag and tried to look for the other guys in my team who were riding in the other vehicles. I asked both of them if they saw anything and if they were all right. But I wasn't all right. When they asked me if I saw anything I looked at them and realized I couldn't breathe without exhaling too many emotions. This wasn't a good time or place to get mushy so I just shook my head and walked away.

A crowd was starting to form. In the middle of them getting her on her back, she started to come to. It was obviously such a relief to see her open her eyes. She looked very confused and slowly began to realize the excruciating pain she was in. She started crying and then screaming, and she never stopped. A military ambulance had already been called and was on its way. I noticed her collarbone was disfigured. They sat her up and she her blood covered teeth glistened in the sun with every scream.

I looked up and saw another little girl probably a year or two younger than the girl that had collided with our vehicle. She wore dark and traditional garb, a black blazer with shoulder pads and a matching headscarf. Her arms were straight down at her side and her mouth was agape. She was hyperventilating and shocked, too shocked to cry. And then she looked right at me and I looked at her. I was thinking I should go over and give her a hug or pat her on the back and tell her that her friend was going to be okay. I don't know why, and I have regretted it ever since, but I walked away. It was a grizzly sight and I was still reeling from watching the whole event take place. I felt too tired to try to relate to her. I felt too awful to tell anyone that it was going to be all right. So the little girl staggered off with her arms as straight as they could be, by her side.

She saw the whole thing. The collision, the brakes screeching, about a dozen Americans jump out and huddle around her friend. Then she looked up and saw a tall American with a gun look right at her, and then walk away. So she did the same. She walked all the way home, by herself.

It was a cold thing to do and I still can't think of one reason why I didn't take a minute for this devastated young girl in total shock and smile at her. I felt helpless. I walked down the road to a bag of lollipops that to me symbolized the stupidity of the Americans throwing candy at children and luring them into such a tragic accident. I feebly kicked it off the road and muttered something. I was frustrated and found myself suddenly wanting to blame George Bush for this whole mess. "I wish we were never here. None of this would have ever happened." I thought about that only for a second and decided that I simply wished we hadn't hit her. I wish we hadn't crossed paths like this.

We took her to the hospital on Anaconda. It was the longest ride into base of my life. We dropped her off still screaming and I had to leave before I knew what became of her. That night I wrestled with the disturbing memory of the sound her small fragile body made as it collided with my five ton vehicle. I thought about how much worse it could have gone. I thought about what I was going to tell my family. How do you tell someone that you ran over a little Iraqi girl? I found out a few days later, miraculously, all she had was a broken collarbone and a few scrapes. They took her back home later that night.

I have told the story a couple of time now, but it doesn't seem to help. I still feel sorry that it happened. I still feel sorry for her friend.

Homecoming.

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