War Flower Read online

  “Raw and unvarnished, as it must be, combat veteran Brooke King’s memoir War Flower is a searing and unforgettable journey through death and dying, both at war and on the home front—as a child and as a mother, as a soldier and as a civilian. She somehow manages to braid several memoirs into one, offering several lenses into the battlefield of the mind, and the result is a book that has earned its place on the high shelf of American literature. While War Flower is set to ‘the tuned pitch of human pain,’ this is a book about survival. I’ve waited for this book for many years now, and yet, as I turn the last page, I’m stunned in the reading of it.”

  —Brian Turner, author of My Life as a Foreign Country and Here, Bullet

  “Searing with unapologetic candor and grit—even during its surprising, fragmented moments of breathtaking, heartbreaking poeticism—Brooke King’s War Flower sweeps aside all veils of illusion regarding the impact of trauma and moral injury on the human psyche, while also illuminating the disturbing crossgenerational consequences of war. For those who have asked for years: Where are the combat memoirs from women veterans? brace for impact.”

  —Tracy Crow, coeditor of It’s My Country Too: Women’s Military Stories from the American Revolution to Afghanistan

  “In her memoir about a combat deployment to Iraq, army veteran Brooke King writes, ‘Nothing good survives war.’ I would beg to differ: King went to war, lived through months of unthinkable horrors, and returned with a very good book in her duffel bag. War Flower will leave no reader unmoved, no soul unscathed.”

  —David Abrams, author of Brave Deeds and Fobbit

  War Flower

  My Life after Iraq

  Brooke King

  Potomac Books

  An imprint of the University of Nebraska Press

  © 2019 by Brooke King

  Acknowledgments for the use of copyrighted material appear in Source Acknowledgments, which constitutes an extension of the copyright page.

  Cover designed by University of Nebraska Press; cover image courtesy of author.

  All rights reserved. Potomac Books is an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: King, Brooke, author.

  Title: War flower: my life after Iraq / Brooke King.

  Other titles: My life after combat in Iraq

  Description: Lincoln, NE: Potomac Books, an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018028081

  ISBN 9781640121188 (cloth: alk. paper)

  ISBN 9781640121812 (epub)

  ISBN 9781640121829 (mobi)

  ISBN 9781640121836 (pdf)

  Subjects: LCSH: King, Brooke. | Iraq War, 2003–2011—Personal narratives, American. | Iraq War, 2003–2011—Veterans—United States—Biography. | Iraq War, 2003–2011—Campaigns. | United States. Army—Women—Biography. | Women soldiers—United States—Biography. | Pregnant women—United States—Biography. | Post-traumatic stress disorder—Patients—United States—Biography. | United States. Army—Women—Social conditions. | Women in combat—United States.

  Classification: LCC DS79.76 .K547 2019 | DDC 956.7044/342092 [B] –dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028081

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  for Bowen and Zachary

  war flower—a term coined during Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF) to describe a female soldier (usually enlisted) who has miraculously survived a mission and/or deployment without sustaining physical injuries.

  Contents

  Prologue: Confessions

  Part 1. War Is a Machine

  Part 2. Born for the Kill

  Part 3. Somewhere in a Desert

  Part 4. Frag Out

  Part 5. SNAFU

  Part 6. In shaa Allah

  Part 7. Homeland

  Epilogue: Present Arms

  Source Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Confessions

  Before the court-martial began, I looked past the judge’s bench toward the window where, outside, the rest of the world was going about its day. The sun came out, and the rain clouds that lingered all morning had shifted places in the sky. Streaks of water ran down the window, which had been opened to ventilate the room of its stifled air. Cars splashed by on the street outside, and from the witness chair I could see the sun reflecting rays of light on the puddles, but the sun would not last. Soon the clouds would return; outside and inside would be filled with darkness.

  He sat behind the partition at a desk, next to his attorney, who was shuffling papers back and forth, reaching over every once in a while to look into his briefcase to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was sitting there, waiting for me to look at him. He did not know that I had been briefed not to stare, not to smile, not to look anywhere in his direction, so he looked at me and waited for a small gesture that might never come.

  The line of questioning began with a Bible, an oath of truth, and a hand held up.

  The prosecution asked my name, if I was deployed, why I had come back early from deployment, and if I was married, and I answered all questions truthfully. My name was Private First Class Brooke Nicole King. I deployed to Iraq in August 2006. I had come back early from deployment due to pregnancy, and yes, I was married.

  “Are you married to the accused, PFC King?”

  “No, sir.”

  He fidgeted in his chair, straightening himself up at the sound of being labeled “the accused.”

  “Who is the father of that baby?”

  “Captain Haislop.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because . . .”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, and before I had time to fabricate an answer that wouldn’t lead to more lines of questioning, the defense attorney stood up.

  “Objection. This calls for speculation, sir.”

  I looked down, too tempted to stare at him.

  “Let me rephrase. Have you had sexual relations with the accused?”

  “Yes.”

  I began to cry.

  “I did.”

  I looked up and noticed a box of tissues on his desk.

  I wiped my eyes, trying not to look at him through the motions of brushing the tears away from my cheek. He leaned toward his attorney and pointed at the box of tissues.

  “Will the investigating officer allow me to rise and hand the box of tissues to PFC King?”

  The prosecution walked over and took it before the defense could leave his seat. The tissues were placed in front of me, but I didn’t pull any from the box.

  “Are you able to continue, PFC King?”

  I did not answer. I looked at every part of him but his face. His hands were folded in his lap. His uniform crisp and his boots cleaned up. His hair freshly cut. I couldn’t stop looking. And I did it. I looked into his eyes.

  He nodded his head and smiled.

  “PFC King, may I remind you that you are under a no contact order and are here as part of an agreement to testify. May we continue?”

  I nodded my head, but it was too late, I could not look away now.

  “Okay. You mentioned just a bit earlier that the accused in this case is the father of the child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember giving a statement on April 17th?”

  “Yes.”

  “And during that statement you were asked who the father was. Do you remember your response?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “You said, ‘I decline to state.’ Why’d you say that?”

  I studied his face. My eyes traced the outline of his jaw, the round edges of his nose, the
creases at the corner of his eyes.

  “PFC King, I will not remind you again. You are under a no contact order and are not permitted to look at the accused.”

  I did not look away.

  “I said that because of the fact that I did not at the time want to give them the name of the father.”

  He smiled at me.

  “Did you know who the father was at the time?”

  I smiled back.

  “Yes.”

  The prosecution looked at me.

  “PFC King, if you do not comply with the no contact order, you will be found in contempt of court. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at the prosecution.

  “I understand.”

  “Who was the father?”

  “Captain Haislop.”

  “But you did not want to tell at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you were under oath?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. He had never heard this part before, the way I had tried to help him before all of this, and even now, I sat there defiant, still unwilling to give in to the prosecution’s line of questioning.

  He reached across the table, poured a cup of water, handed it to his attorney, and pointed to me. The defense attorney rose and handed it to the prosecution.

  I took the water and tightened my hands around the cup where his had been moments ago.

  “Can you state for the record if you have filed for divorce?”

  “I have drawn the papers but not filed.”

  “Does the accused know your husband?”

  “He knows of him.”

  “So the accused knows that you are married?”

  “Yes.”

  I lowered my head and looked at the cup of water. I felt the plastic around the rim, dipped my finger into the water, and moved my padded fingertip over the lip in circular motions, but the cup would not emit a sound.

  “And yet, though you’re married, you entered into a sexual relationship with the accused?”

  I was agitated. The wooden seat was hard, with no cushion to soften the plank.

  “I left my husband because on more than one occasion he would throw me down stairs, beat me, slap me, and threaten to kill me.”

  He did not look at me. He couldn’t bear this line of questioning. The window gave no light. In the near dark he fidgeted with his hands in his lap, rolling the ring I had given him around on his finger. He moved it up and down, then over the knuckle and back again as the line of questioning continued.

  I felt my courage slipping along with my ability to speak of my estranged husband without loathing every sentence.

  “Is it safe to say then, PFC King, the divorce had to do with his treatment of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you have not filed yet?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “So you are still married, carrying a child that is not your husband’s?”

  “Yes, but I love the father of my child. He loves me.”

  I said it unchecked, as I looked into his eyes. He was smiling at me. And though I was not permitted to say a word to him, I mouthed, “I love you.”

  It was the first time I had said it out loud.

  Part 1

  War Is a Machine

  Orders

  There was no way of getting out of this one; I was fucked. I scaled each step knowing that in front of me a procession of soldiers were climbing up the staircase too, one that didn’t lead to heaven but to a porthole on the side of a big metal bird that was painted a patriotic red, white, and blue. The American flag plastered on its wing waved as though it was flying in the wind, but the metal bird was still. The other soldiers gripped the railing tight with their black-gloved hands, but I didn’t raise my head to look where I was going; part of me didn’t want to know. I was out of place amid a sea of soldiers dressed in digital gray, soldiers who climbed in mindless unison ahead of and behind me. I watched the stairs as I ascended, the large pixilated gray backpack weighing heavily on my shoulders. I had to slump over to maintain my balance. We filed up the staircase one after another, our weapons in hand and our tactical vests attached, each one of us combat ready as we trudged up the steps. We knew all too well that we might be heading to our deaths, but I kept my head down in a desperate attempt to avoid what I already knew to be true: my fate was as uncertain as it was for the rest of these poor fuckers.

  The plane would be overcrowded, the flight full of sweaty soldiers who had been standing on the tarmac long enough to be cooked well done. Though the air was still, the flag on the wing of the metal bird still waved, its stripes not long enough to cover the entire rear wing of the plane. I still carried my head down as I ascended the stairs, still stuck in a sea of digital gray. I still refused to touch the railing with my hand, even though I was struggling to maintain my balance. I heaved my head down and focused on each step that took me farther away from home, farther away from familiarity, farther away from safety.

  None of the soldiers looked at each other, the solitary ascension of the inevitable, a short stop and a quick drop; some were not ready for the destination. I overheard one of the section sergeants say when he was waiting on the tarmac that only an idiot would think that this flight was a round-trip.

  Each one of us filed up the stairs and into the plane, filling in the seats of the plane from the back to the front. The officers were in the front of the plane and the grunts were in the back, as usual, all of us crammed into that thing like a pack of sardines, all smashed and jammed together as tight as we could go, like shoving five pounds of shit into a two-pound bag. None of us could take off our gear because the overhead bin couldn’t withstand the weight. The best we could do was take the helmet off, throw the rifle between our legs, and undo the Velcro that held the vest tightly together so that we could at least breathe and sleep semicomfortably on the six-hour flight to Kuwait International Airport. It took two and a half hours to load both Alpha and Bravo Company’s soldiers onto the plane, 150 in all. We were the last of the battalion to leave.

  Specialist Tina Kennedy looked over at me. “That tax-free October paycheck is going to look real nice in my bank account.”

  “That’s what you’re concerned about right now?”

  She shrugged.

  I looked around the cabin of the plane and noticed everyone getting comfortable. Tina was already pulling off her vest and laying her rifle on the floor beneath her feet. I wanted to do the same, except I knew that if I took off my vest, it was going to be a bitch to get back on, so I opted for just loosening it. Private Cheyanne Anderson, my battle buddy from basic training, was already asleep next to me on my left; Tina was starting to get comfortable on my right.

  “No fucking way are you going to sleep before me,” I said. “You kept me up almost all of last night with your damn snoring. Fuck if I’m going let you cheat me out of the sleep I need now. You ever seen me sleep deprived enough to jam my sock down your throat?”

  Tina looked at me inquisitively, as if to gauge whether or not I was capable of doing such a thing to her, but the crazy bulging eye stare that I was giving her was proof enough that it might be a good idea to let me sleep without waking me up until we got there.

  “All right, you have until ten minutes after takeoff to fall asleep. After that you are on your own because I can be just as much of a bitch if I don’t get my sleep either.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it.”

  She gave me her patented “fuck you” look, which made me laugh. The plane began to taxi down the runway, and as the flight attendant was telling us the usual spiel about safety, I decided to ad-lib my own version of her required routine safety instructions: “To buckle your safety belt, place the buckle over your lap and insert the flat part into the buckle. If you need assistance because you are too stupid to do it yourself, please don’t hit the call button because if you can’t figure out a kindergarten-level activity like thi
s, you deserve to die. In case of a water evacuation, your seat may be used as a flotation device. Gently punch the person next to you, taking their flotation device as well as yours and use both of them as floaties in order to maximize your chances of surviving in the event of a water landing. If the plane should spiral into a fiery descent, the exits are located in the front, side, and rear of the cabin. Please find the nearest location to your seat, exit quickly and quietly while trampling anyone in your way since every single one of us is fucked. In the event that the cabin loses pressure, place the mask over your head to hide your scared face from the person next to you. If the person next to you is in need of assistance, please secure your mask first. After you have carefully secured your mask, point and laugh at them for being an idiot. If you are seated in an exit aisle, please take the card that is located in the front pocket of the seat in front of you and read the instructions very fucking carefully, so you don’t kill everyone on the plane in the event of an emergency. Thank you for not paying attention to a word I’ve just said, and on behalf of the flight crew, we hope you enjoy your nonstop flight into a hostile combat zone.”

  Tina was laughing hysterically as the plane began to lift off the runway and make its ascent into the clouds. I looked out the nearby port window and watched as the runway and the air base faded away into a tiny speck; it was my last glance at what a peaceful country looked like. I turned to look over at Tina.

  With a glare she said, “You have ten minutes.”

  I leaned my head on the headrest behind me and lowered my helmet over my eyebrows just enough so I could use my hair bun as a pillow. I put on my black Oakleys and closed my eyes, but what seemed like only minutes asleep had passed into hours.

  The loud extension of the landing gear shook me awake. I nearly jumped out of my seat from the loud banging. I looked over at Tina. She was staring at me. I must have been talking in my sleep or something. She gave me a weird look and then shook her head. Over the loudspeaker the flight attendant was telling us to prepare for landing. Moments later the wheels would touch the ground. We would be in country, but this wasn’t Iraq. No, it was much worse. Kuwait.