They say the only good morning in a war zone is the morning you leave. As a lawyer for the U.S. Army, mornings were a particularly messy affair for me. Morning was when I made legal sense of a night’s worth of raids, seizures, and anything else that happened while I was asleep. The scary thing was how much everything could change in the course of an evening, how fragile lives and reputations were. Come daybreak, it was my job to review the events of the evening and see if what had happened overnight still made sense when examined under the blazing Iraqi sun.

August 21, 2003 was not off to an auspicious start. During my several-minute walk to the brigade operations tent, I had already been told twice that Lieutenant Colonel Paul Welsch was looking for me. Never a good sign.

I hadn’t even stepped inside the tent when the battle sergeant on duty spotted me.

“Ma’am, Colonel Welsch is looking. . .”

“I know. I know. Did he say what it was about?” I asked knowing full well it would not be that easy.

“No. He just said to find you,” the sergeant said, a touch defensively.

“Oh, okay.” Smiling, I added, “They always hunt you down when they’ve got good news to share, right sergeant?”

A throng of soldiers was already waiting in front of the “L” shape formed by the field desk and plastic table that constituted the JAG workspace. They chatted excitedly with one another, many of them still dusty from their convoy rides to our base, Camp Anaconda. Cutting a windy path through the mob, and squeezing by a soldier whose entire right side was covered in dirt, I discovered our desk was unmanned. Where the hell was Kolb?  Or Carter?  This desk was supposed to be manned 24 hours a day.  Wasn’t one of them supposed to be on duty?

“Excuse me, Ma’am. . .”

“Captain, can you . . .”

“Ma’am, I’ve been waiting . . . “

Many of the waiting soldiers had made special trips in from their units specifically to obtain legal help, and they were anxious not to leave empty handed. Some way to start the day. Flipping open our laptop, I wiped a thin layer of sand from the keyboard.

Directly across the table from me, a deeply tanned soldier gestured that he was the first in line.

“Hey ma'am, real quick,” he said launching in, “I got married just before we deployed and my wife says I need to change my will so she's the beneficiary. But if I die, doesn't she get the money anyways?” Before he could finish, another soldier slid a folder across the table towards me.

Smiling, he said, “Just two seconds, Captain. First Sergeant sent me to get your signature.”

“Okay, Specialist,” I said, taking the folder from him. “I'll have to read this first. And would you tell me again who your first sergeant is?” I asked looking from him to the soldiers who seemed to occupy every inch of my peripheral vision.

Our 10 feet by 15 feet workspace inside the brigade operations tent was a one-stop shop handling everything from divorces to detainee issues--basically, any sort of “legal clutter.”  As the JAG (Judge Advocate General) officer for the 4th Infantry Division’s 3rd Brigade Combat Team, I was legal counsel for more than 3,000 soldiers. I advised commanders on almost everything, from what they could target, to how much force they could use, to the Iraqi justice system. The fun didn’t end there. My team of three paralegals and I also handled personal legal matters for the brigade’s soldiers. While the soldiers were kicking down doors and clearing houses, the Army couldn’t afford to have them worrying about unresolved legal problems.

What specific JAG duty Lt. Col. Welsch needed me for this morning was still a mystery. Was there something I had forgotten to do? There was nothing in my notebook. Maybe someone left me a note. Nothing under this stack of papers, nor on the small open surface of the desk. Increasingly, we were seeing more and more evidence left on our desk, usually items seized during raids. It wasn’t unusual for me to return from a meeting and find a wad of blood stained Iraqi dinars, a handful of bullet casings, or weapons paraphernalia. We usually stored the stuff in a large trunk at the back of our workspace that served as a catchall for office supplies, unused chemical protection gear, and now evidence. Our rolls of toilet paper and baby wipes co-mingled with confiscated liquor bottles and the occasional illegal weapon.

Maybe things just felt off because I was running late. The neon green numbers on my watch, however, said 0655. I wasn’t late. If anything, I was early.

I stood up to get the attention of the battle sergeant. “Hey, Sergeant, can you get me the INTSUM from last night?”

“One second ma’am, let me check,” he said, rifling through the papers in front of him.

The intelligence summary, or INTSUM, was a recap of any enemy activity and intelligence gathered overnight. If soldiers conducted a raid and confiscated thirty AK-47s, it was there. If a unit detained a guy they thought was launching mortars at them, it was there. For me, it was a good head’s up about what might be coming my way. Right now, I was hoping the INTSUM contained some clue as to why Welsch was looking for me.

“No luck?” I asked, as the battle sergeant reached for a stack of binders.

Before he could answer, someone shouted from behind me, “Ma’am, I think 1-68 [Armor Battalion] caught two soldiers driving some Iraqi’s car on Highway One last night.”

“What do you mean by ‘caught’ two soldiers?” Surely, he wasn’t talking about our own guys.

“Were they Special Forces?” I asked.

Special Forces (SF) are the Army’s elite operators. Trained to work with foreign armies and insurgent groups in exotic locales, they often adopt local dress and lifestyle to blend in. I knew a bit about this. My father is a retired Special Forces officer who, when he was on assignment in Iran, grew a beard and drove a blue van one week and a white truck the next. Highly skilled and stealthy, SF soldiers are given considerable latitude to complete their missions compared to conventional soldiers. During our five months in Iraq, it wasn’t unusual for our brigade to move into an Iraqi city and discover SF guys living across the street from the mayor.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, then hesitating, added, “Uh, at least I don't think so. I heard they might be 1-8 [Infantry Battalion] guys.”

“Soldiers from 1-68 caught soldiers from 1-8 driving an Iraqi car?” I needed clarification.

“Yeah, 1-8. They stopped them at a checkpoint or something,” the specialist said, eager to share what he had heard.

Soldiers from 1-8? What the hell was going on? Both 1-68 Armor Battalion and 1-8 Infantry Battalion belonged to 3rd Brigade. They handled different sections of our part of the Sunni Triangle. 1-8 handled Balad and everything between Balad and the restive city of Samarra. 1-68 was responsible for the southern part of the brigade’s area of operations.

At least I had my answer as to why the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) felt suspiciously caffeinated this morning. Soldiers savored gossip, a welcome distraction from their anxiety. If the gossip had a whiff of scandal, it was a good bet the issue would eventually land on the JAG desk.

Finally, a soldier asked the question that seemed to be on everyone’s minds, “Captain G, do you think they were trying to escape?”

Escape? Desertion. Dereliction of duty. Being absent without leave. The legal ramifications could be serious or non-existent, depending on the circumstances.

If the rumor was true, there was no sense in broadcasting my ignorance. I busied myself with the supply of water bottles behind our desk to buy some time. Careful here, Viv, don't get ahead of yourself. You don’t know the details—keep it light. It was risky to show too much interest or excitement about a potential criminal case in front of soldiers. It could, and often did, fuel more rumors.

“Hey, guys,” I said, turning away from the water bottles, “let’s not jump to any conclusions, okay? It’s still early.” Clapping my hands together and assessing the crowd, I asked, “So, who needs some legal help?”

The irony was rich. These soldiers thought I was feigning ignorance. I had spent the past five months in Iraq inserting myself into every huddle and attending every brigade-level briefing, all with the goal of keeping myself “in the loop.” I could never learn about a major operation or an important command decision too early. Even if it was a bad decision, I wanted to be in the huddle when the play was called. Commanders needed to be comfortable with me, and confident that I understood the mission. It wasn’t enough to just understand the peripheral legal issues. I had to understand why a raid was planned, how soldiers cleared a house, that the enemy’s AK-47s made a distinctive sound when fired. How else could I expect the commanders to listen to my guidance on no-fire zones and use-of-force issues?

In times of peace, a little breathing room from the brigade’s leadership isn’t such a bad thing for a JAG. When you are heading into a combat zone, however, it’s wise to stick close to the folks making the decisions about operations and supplies. Even before we deployed, there had been warning signs we’d better penetrate the inner circle fast. One of those warning signs had been the failure to provide my JAG team with body armor. Another was my receiving half the staff I had been promised. Instead of two lawyers and seven paralegals, we had one lawyer and three paralegals.

Not being in the loop was also how I found myself scheduled to give ROE briefings to sleeping soldiers in the middle of the night. After five months in Iraq, I still worried about the fallout from those late night briefings. So far, so good. I prayed it would stay that way.  

The Rules of Engagement, or ROE, are basically the guidelines for how to defend yourself in a war zone. They are also one of several briefings soldiers are required to hear before they deploy to Iraq.  An important briefing in my estimation, ROE was invariably scheduled last.  Scheduling, it turned out, was done alphabetically by subject.  So while soldiers’ energy levels soared during “mail, medical benefits, and property,” they dropped off precipitously by the time I took the floor.  Having me brief at that point often felt like a begrudging concession.  It was always, “Okay, JAG, get in there and make it quick,” as though it were a bathroom break.  Make it quick?  Please, these guys aren’t even awake and now I’m supposed to quickly explain when they can kill someone?

Ten minutes into my presentation, the soldiers usually were completely silent, save one or two adjusting their duffel bags for better back support. 20 minutes in, and it was easy to spot a few soldiers dozing openly.

Arriving early one evening, I spied a fellow briefer reviewing his Power Point presentation on soldiers’ voting rights. Thrilled not have to go last, I sat back and imagined what it might be like to deliver my briefing to an alert audience. Finally, the Army’s poor logic would work to my advantage. The voting guy could do the graveyard briefing. At least that’s what I thought until I saw him scurrying to the front of the gymnasium.

“Hey, what are you doing? You’re voting—V. You’re not up yet.”

Without stopping, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Sorry, Captain. Absentee Ballots fall under mail—M.” Foiled again.

Resigned to my graveyard shift, I knew I better spice up my briefing. My JAG colleagues at Fort Carson seemed sincerely baffled as to why I would want to make the briefing more interesting. “Did one of your commanders say you had to change it?” they asked. One person forwarded an ancient Power Point presentation. Another offered, “Most soldiers won’t remember what you say anyways. They just have to check the briefing off their list.”

Just check it off the list, huh? Like milk and eggs and butter, right? Just check it off the list.

I was prepared to concede defeat on the issue until a Major Robert Love arrived on the scene. Love headed the section that prepared Fort Carson soldiers for deployment. Early on in my military career, I discovered that the integration of women into the Army produced two types of male soldiers. There were the soldiers who avoided all eye contact, choosing instead to look just to my right, presumably addressing my second head. And then there were guys like Maj. Love who punctuated all of his sentences with lingering eye contact.

As I waited to deliver my ROE briefing one day, Love approached, leaned in closer than necessary, and informed me that he wouldn’t have a computer for my Power Point presentation. “You’re O.K. doing it without slides, right?”

“Sure,” I said and nodded. I didn’t have much of a choice. It was a mandatory briefing and this infantry battalion was taking off for Iraq in less than 24 hours.

“Good. Good,” Love replied, treating me to his signature wink-smirk.

On the heels of a riveting briefing on “property storage,” Love bounded to the front of the room and told the crowd that only one more briefing stood between them and sleep. Groans all around. Hardly the cheers Love was expecting as he stood, palms out, ready to tamp down the whoops of delight that never came.

Undeterred, Love continued, searching for the line that would provoke some cheers from the soldiers. Around this time, I started debating the ethics of condensing my briefing into a tight 20-minute talk. When I detected what sounded like a pleading quality in the usually irrepressible major’s tone, I gathered my notes and stepped forward.

Clapping his hands together, Love grinned broadly. “Okay everyone, I know you’re hot and tired, but you have to hang in there. Your final briefing is on ROE, and I’ve got a very special briefer who I know is going to WAKE YOU GUYS UP!” He paused dramatically. “She’s definitely a lot better looking than those last few guys, so everyone make her feel welcome.” Jackpot. Hoots. Hollers. The room erupted in cheers. Satisfied, Love wink-smirked in my direction and slithered off into the crowd.

Disbelief and horror washed over me as I realized I was expected to deliver on this buildup. Shuffling forward, I chastised myself for not waking up early enough to apply some makeup. Stammering a bit at first, I launched into the most tedious briefing ever. I droned on and then droned some more. Love’s mortifying introduction had paralyzed me with self-consciousness. He had the soldiers expecting va-va-voom akin to Marilyn Monroe bringing love to our boys in Korea. With my hair slicked back into a bun and my uniform hanging off me, I barely qualified as “va.” Still, as the energy level in the room plummeted, I had a revelation. Love, with all his lewd innuendo, knew how to motivate soldiers. He understood that a bit of showmanship went a long way. I was done with doing things the hard way. From now on, I would sell ROE.

I would come up with a pitch and sell ROE like people sell vacuums, computers, and cars. Sure, I never imagined I would need to sell ROE, but then again, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might need to buy my own holster or body armor either. The only thing I needed now was the perfect slogan, something that would seal my pitch. I auditioned dozens of them. “Do the right thing” was over-used and too tied to the movie. The Golden Rule was too wordy, too schoolyard, and definitely not sexy enough.

Things were looking bleak on the slogan front until one evening, shortly before I deployed, I heard “it” while on the phone with my father. I was venting my frustrations about the Army, specifically a recommendation I'd made that had been ignored. Naturally, he didn’t let me get far.


“Listen, Viv, you are going to fight a lot more of these little battles out there.” He paused a second before adding, “Of course, it’s the ones you don’t win that you always remember most.”

Great. “Okay, Dad, so why should I even bother?

“Viv, it will bother you more if you don’t fight those battles.”

“Dad, but I spend so much time—”

“Of course, it always feels better to win them,” he said with a laugh, “but some circumstances are beyond your control.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “Viv, don’t lose sight of the bigger picture here. Even with all that chaos around you, you aren’t powerless. It’s your choice how you respond to things. When this is over, you want to return with your honor intact, knowing you did the right thing regardless. So those battles you’ll lose may be hard to swallow, but you’ll walk away with no regrets, even 30 years from now.”

It made sense, probably more so because it came from him, a man who spent 23 years in the Army, including two tours in Vietnam. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember that.”

“Hey, on another topic, any luck getting some armored vests?” he asked.

“No, that's a whole other conversation.”

“Okay, I'll see what I can do, Viv.”

A quick phone conversation with my father and I had it. I certainly hadn’t expected it to come from such a casual conversation, but I was pleased nonetheless. I had something I knew the soldiers would hear. With this gem in my back pocket and a fresh coat of lip-gloss, I was ready. The basics were first: how to identify a threat, steps of response, and the self-defense rule—if you feel like your life is in imminent danger, you have the right to respond with lethal force. A few easy to remember mnemonics followed, and if I timed it right, I would break out my slogan just as my audience was reaching maximum restlessness.

| “Hey, guys, I know it’s a lot of information, but keep your ROE card on you and remember that ultimately you want to make decisions you can live with, so you return with honor.”

Return with honor. With these three simple words, I had their attention. I knew what soldiers liked, I knew the scene. Every soldier did. Their family’s beaming faces and outstretched arms, welcoming them home as heroes, against a blurred background of flags and people as the final notes of the National Anthem lingered in the air.

I gave them a second to feel it, to lock it in, the memory of their proud chests, their noble chins, and the warmth of the sun on their backs. And then I repeated it: “Complete your mission and return with honor.”

Would it be enough when the shit hit the fan? Would it be enough when they realized “real blood” was spewing from their buddy’s chest? Would it be enough when they found the nose of their M16 trained on the head of some Iraqi? Who knew? Did it really matter? It was all I had.

Clearing my throat, I resisted the urge to add, “Don’t be stupid.” Not that it would have mattered. They wouldn’t have heard me. They were dazed, completely transfixed with their own homecoming fantasies.

Shameless, I realized, but if it took lip gloss and slogans to sell them on their own valor, I would deliver lip gloss and slogans. I didn’t even mind the sometimes outrageous hypothetical questions that now followed. They were listening. They were asking questions. As far as I was concerned, it was just a good investment in the future. If they didn’t do anything stupid, I didn’t need to bust my butt to prove otherwise.