Jane Cook - Stories of Faith and Courage from the War in Iraq and Afghanistan

WELCOME TO RAMADI

Capt. Daniel Gade, U.S. Army, Iraq (2004–2005)

Holy cow, this place is really, really dangerous. We didn’t need to say it out loud at the same moment, we were all thinking it.

Seven days after we took over our sector in Ramadi, Iraq, we suffered our first casualty. My roommate, Tyler Brown, was killed by a sniper on Sept. 14, 2004. Inside, I was crushed Tyler was an amazing man of God with a bright future ahead of him but as company commander with 120 guys looking to me for leadership, I couldn’t let my grief interfere with my job performance.

Fast forward to Nov. 10, 2004. In an instant, the soldier riding one arm’s length to my left in our tank was killed when a rocket-propelled grenade hit him in the face.

In America, when somebody dies, we take time to mourn. In Iraq, we have a memorial service for the fallen, and those who can attend do, but we literally wash the blood out of the vehicle they were killed in, pack up their gear, send it off to next of kin, and go about our mission because we must. Most of the time, we swallow our tears and keep going. It’s surreal.

As a Christian, those traumatic experiences affected me much differently than those who don’t have strong faith. My own trial (and I couldn’t have known then the trauma waiting for me two months later) is one little brushstroke of a really big painting God is creating. Most people think their story, their circumstance IS the painting. So for those people, when something horrible happens, when someone is killed, they lose a leg, or a wife gets sick, they have a tough time putting it into perspective.

During the months and years ahead, Wendy and I knew our situation was ultimately not about us. It’s about God’s plan, and whatever way that circumstance works into God’s plan it’s not something I should be moping about. I should be honored that God is choosing me for a dramatic part of his plan, even though it’s painful.

Lord, even when I can’t see the bigger picture, help me to trust in your sovereign plan.

“Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. (1 Corinthians 13:12b)

“What do you mean? I don’t understand!” I stood in the Costco parking lot with my cell phone pressed to my ear, shaking my head as if that would clear the confusion away. Daniel had just called from Iraq and told me his roommate Tyler had been killed in action.

“No, no, no,” I kept repeating, “It just can’t be.”

But it was and at Daniel’s request, I drove to Atlanta, two hours from where I had been living in Birmingham with my sister, to take his condolences to Tyler’s family. I arrived just hours after they heard the news.

Will they be angry? I wondered as I rang the doorbell.

Tyler’s brother opened the door and graciously escorted me through the crowd of friends and family already filling the house and introduced me to his parents.

They took me into another room and gathered Tyler’s siblings and their spouses. Mrs. Brown just held my hands as I haltingly shared with them Daniel’s condolences and offered to try to answer their questions from my limited information.

“Was there anyone else?” They wanted to know.

“No, he was the only one killed that day,” I had to tell them. It was so difficult. It’s hard to know your loved one was singled out, yet you’re glad that no one else was killed.

Looking into Mrs. Brown’s tear-stained face, my eyes were opened to a terrifying possibility. I thought to myself, God allowed Tyler to go home, and this was a Christian man with great potential. He was a great leader. He had an opportunity to do something much grander and safer, and he chose to be with his soldiers and he lost his life. God doesn’t love Tyler’s parents any less than he loves me. So just because Daniel loves God and loves us, and I really, really, really want him to be my husband and Anna Grace’s daddy, I don’t have any guarantee that that is God’s plan. It sent the message to my heart that this was about God’s glory, not about us.

Lord, show me how to use my present circumstances to reflect your glory to those around me.

“For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the glory forever! Amen.” (Romans 11:36)

This couldn’t feel more dangerous than it does right now, I thought, squinting into the desert sun.

The road we were driving on was elevated and right alongside of it was an irrigation canal. We were visible for a long way, no trees or buildings obscuring the view. I felt exposed to unseen attacks but this was the road we had to take to reach the next sheik who we hoped would give us information on Al Qaeda whereabouts. I was in the front passenger seat while my driver kept driving.

The next thing I knew was that I was on my back in a ditch just waking up. Somebody was screaming. I tried to go to whoever it was, but my soldiers pushed me back down on a stretcher where I had been unconscious for a few minutes.

“Relax sir,” my soldier said, “you’re the only one.” They were already treating very massive wounds.

I’m the only one WHAT? I wondered.

Then it hit me. I’m the only casualty. My mind was very foggy, my vision blurred. Everything looked bright but sounds seemed far away. I was in shock.

When I lifted my head and looked past my feet, I saw the Humvee I had been riding in still on the road with its door blown open. The guys were working on my leg, my body armor was blown open, and I thought at the time that I could actually see my intestines. As it turns out I couldn’t quite but almost. My battalion executive officer (XO) was holding my hand talking to me it’s what one does with casualties.

“Are my legs okay?” I asked.

“You’re going to be fine,” was the response.

If you’ve ever watched any war movies, you know that “You’re going to be fine,” means “You’re in really serious trouble.” It’s what you tell someone who’s dying because you don’t want them to panic; that just complicates the medical situation. That’s when I knew it was pretty bad.

Lord, help me make the most of every day you grant me on this earth.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” (James 4:14)

It was Jan. 10, 2005. I was on my way out the door to run an errand and my mom, who had been visiting from Atlanta, was about to head home.

Then the phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Good morning ma’am, this is Captain _____ from Ft. Carson. I need to inform you that your husband has been injured. I have a report to read to you.”

Daniel had been injured once before so I was not alarmed yet. I thought, Well he’ll call me as soon as he can; this is probably a little more serious.

“Broken bones and lacerations,” the captain continued. “He’s very seriously injured… I’m sorry to tell you this is our most severe category.”

So that’s when I understood. Daniel was hanging on to his life.

After jotting down some phone numbers, I hung up the phone and somehow, through the tears, strung the words together to tell my mom what I just learned. She fell on her knees and started praying immediately. Both of us got our church prayer chains going and I asked Patton, Daniel’s brother, to relay the information to Daniel’s family. All I could do then was pray.