Authors: Joshua Key
The Deserter's Tale
“The Deserter's Tale by Joshua Key is destined to become part of the literature of the Iraq War . . . . Key's clear voice rings out, explaining why he deserted the army after seven months in Iraq, with anguish and a frankness that invests the book with quiet eloquence. . . . In this testament of his experience in military service in Iraq he is making a substantial contribution to history.” â
Los Angeles Times
“Stark and compelling . . . What's most engaging about this book is its essential honesty . . . . The Deserter's Tale ought to be required reading for soldiers heading overseas.” â
Globe and Mail
“Rich in detail . . . a fascinating saga.” â
Winnipeg Free Press
“This memoir, which can fairly and accurately be called a searing indictment of America's “war on terror,” is vividly written . . . but as difficult as it sometimes can be to read, we respect Key's courage to tell the story without sugarcoating. The book is timely, important, and haunting.” â
“A tearjerker . . . Lawrence Hill, the award-winning Canadian novelist and journalist who helped Key write The Deserter's Tale, does a marvelous job preserving Key's authentic voice. The writing is fluid, crisp, and compelling. The story is shocking.” â
“It is a story worth telling: how a gbod man became lost in an immoral system, and in the process lost his livelihood, his nation, and part of himself.” â
Quill & Quire
“Key describes without judging â so the reader experiences along with him his journey towards rejecting the military . . . . As a chronicle of the experiences that led one soldier to this irrevocable step, Key's is a grim and necessary book.” â
The Indianapolis Star
“The narrative of The Deserter's Tale has the strong backbone of an archetypal hero myth . . . . It's the combination of Hill's sharp prose and Key's accounts of atrocity that make this book so potent.” â
“A hard-hitting autobiography which offers first-hand observations from the unusual perspective of a deserter.” â
Midwest Book Review
“The Deserter's Tale is told in simple, compelling prose. Joshua Key's story may just be one perspective on the Iraq War, but in many ways the young war resister is also speaking on behalf of the voiceless thousands senselessly killed in this war. Relentlessly honest, and graphic, this book stands out as unique and significant amidst the shelves of books critiquing the Bush administration's foreign policy. It will surely stand up long after this war is over as a condemnation both of the pretensions of empire, and of the grotesque inequality that scars life in the United States.” â
“The case of Joshua Key . . . is unique. He is the first U.S. soldier who actually served in Iraq to claim sanctuary from the Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada, based on his âpersonal experience with atrocities' in Iraq . . . . Combatant Key will be able to raise the question of the war's legality as a defense.” â
The Province Unwind Sunday Magazine
“The American Army is having a lot of trouble attracting new recruits, in part because of the war in Iraq â its horrors, the lies, and the sixteen hundred GIs who are dead. Joshua Key enlisted. But after eight months in Ramadi and Fallujah, taking advantage of home leave, he deserted . . . . He left behind the hardship of war, the blood, the lies. Like thousands of others.” â
The Story of an Ordinary Soldier Who Walked Away from the War in Iraq
as told to
Copyright Â© 2007, Joshua Key and Lawrence Hill
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This edition published in 2012 by House of Anansi Press Inc
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801
Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
The deserter's tale: the story of an ordinary soldier who walked away
from the war in Iraq / Joshua Key ; as told to Lawrence Hill.
1. Key, Joshua. 2. Iraq War, 2003â âPersonal narratives, American. 3. Iraq War, 2003
-DesertionsâUnited States. 4. Military desertersâUnited StatesâBiography.
5. AmericansâCanada. I. Hill, Lawrence,1957â II. Title.
DS79.76.K49 2007 956.7044'38 C2006-906876-3
Interior photos: courtesy of Joshua Key.
Map: Matthew Ericson.
Jacket Design: Ingrid Paulson
Jacket Photograph: Â© Alex Majoli/Magnum
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).
I dedicate this book to my wife, Brandi Key, and to our children, Zackary, Adam, Philip, and Anna. I wouldn't have made it this far without them.
I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD LOSE MY COUNTRY,
and I never dreamed it would lose me. I was raised as a patriotic American, taught to respect my government and to believe in my president. Just a decade ago, I was playing high school football, living in a trailer with my mom and stepdad, working at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and hoping to raise a family one day in the only town I knew: Guthrie, Oklahoma, population ten thousand. Back then, I would have laughed out loud if somebody had predicted I would become a wanted criminal, live as a fugitive in my own country, and turn my wife and children into refugees as I fled with them across the border.
Before I could survive and escape the war in Iraq, I had to survive my own childhood. I shot a .357 Magnum on my ninth birthday, brought down my first deer by the age of twelve, and could clean, load, and shoot any of dozens of firearms that my stepfather kept in our trailer. I was an excellent shot before I was old enough to shave. I drank alcohol of every kind, trashed two cars on country roads, and fought anybody who was willing.
Even in my earliest years, I knew right from wrong. It wasn't right to kill puppies with a hammer, which is why I shot and buried a litter of pups before my grandfather could get at them in his old-fashioned way. Iraq took all of the fun out of guns for me, but even in the days when I still loved shooting I stopped hunting after dropping that deer with a four-inch bullet through the neck.
Even though I was taught that it was shameful to get licked in a fight and come home beaten, I knew it wasn't right to gang up on someone, pick on a smaller person, or keep on punching after your opponent had fallen. I knew it was wrong to attack any person who was weak or defenseless, and everything about my early years at home reinforced that belief.
We didn't have books or newspapers at home. I had heard of the Vietnam War but didn't know when or why Americans had fought in it. But I can guarantee you this: if any man had told me he had deserted our army in wartime, I would have called him a coward right to his face. There were just some things you didn't do. By the time I was in high school I felt that it would be an honor to serve my country at war, and even to die for it. I couldn't imagine any circumstances in which an American soldier would walk away from his own armed forces and so betray his country.
Looking back, I would say that many parts of my life in Oklahoma prepared me for the war in Iraq. Our two-bedroom trailer baked in the Oklahoma sun and froze in the winter, so I was as ready for extreme weather as any American. Growing up on my grandfather's forty-acre farm, I learned to fix just about anything that was broken and make pretty well anything run. I was a private first class when I went to war, but I had farm-boy skills and my officers came to count on them. I was the one they came to, over and over again, to connect air conditioners to generators, hot-wire trucks, run our own wires to Iraqi electricity lines, and assemble plastic explosives.
As a child, I watched many times as J. W. Barkerâmy third and final stepfatherâdrank himself into a stupor and beat up my mother. I grew up learning to expect abuse. J.W. loved to bring over his drinking buddies and have them watch while I worked with his guns. I used to bet them on whether I could hit a small target with a .22 rifle. While they tipped back beer I would hang a string from a tree, pull it taut by tying it to an old fire extinguisher on the ground, stand back fifty paces, and blast through the target nearly every time. At $10 a pop it was the fastest pocket money I ever earned. And I earned a good bit of it. Growing up, I shot beer bottles, Coke cans, hanging string, and snakes, and I was a fine marksman before joining the army.
But the preparation for Iraq was more than physical. Growing up poor in Oklahoma also prepared me mentally for the war to come.
I lived with my mother, brother, and father, and then a variety of stepdads, on the farm of my grandfather Elmer Porter. I often ate at his table when there was no food at home, or when my mother was too depressed to get out of bed. Elmer had fought in the Korean War and then worked for years at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City. Five other living relatives had served in the U.S. military or gone to war. I didn't think much about war, but I had no objection to it.
One time a teacher in Guthrie got a worried look in her eye, put her hand on my arm, and asked, “Is everything all right at home?” “Yes ma'am,” I told her, “it's just fine, thank you.” And I thought it was true. I knew plenty of people who lived harder lives than I did. One friend had parents who both ran away from home, leaving him behind to fend for himself.
School was not exactly my strong point. Nobody in my immediate family had gone beyond high school, and I didn't see the point of further studies. I had one cousin who went to college for four years and the only job he could get in Oklahoma City was managing a waffle house. Seemed like a waste of time and money to me. I didn't read in school and hated to write, but I did enjoy math.
I didn't yet know what lay in my future, but one set of strangers already did. Before I had even graduated from high school, a string of U.S. Army recruiters started showing up at our trailer, banging on the flimsy door that blew open on windy nights, and promising health insurance and higher education in exchange for military service. They were smart men, those recruiters. They didn't waste time at the doors of doctors and lawyers but came straight for me. The recruiters said I could even join the army at the age of seventeen, with my mother's signature. She chased them off the property, but the damage was done. The recruiters had planted the seed. They didn't get me for another few years, but they had made me aware that if I ever got tired of minimum wage there was always the adventure of life in the army.
Back when I was in high school, I didn't think about joining the army, and I didn't plan on going to war. Guthrie was all that I knew and all I imagined, and the things I wanted then are the things I want now: a few acres of land for the kids to play on, with maybe a horse or two, a few pigs, and a mess of chickens in a coop. Since I was a boy I have known that I wanted to make my living as a welder. There's something about welding that I loved from the first time J.W. showed me how to turn on a torch. Under your flame the metal flows like lava. You follow its movement and work with its nature. Sometimes you mess up, but that's okay. When things go wrong, all you have to do is melt down the metal and start all over again. Nobody minds. Nobody's hurt. You fix your mistakes and get it right the next time, working the lava so that things stay together. The freedom to say
No, that's not good enough, let me try again
is what I love about welding.
To this day there is no work I'd rather do than hold a welding torch. If I had my druthers, I'd move away with Brandi and our four children and get myself enrolled in the welding program in the College of the North Atlantic in Newfoundland. I've been hearing about the school for years. They say it's one of the best on the continent. But I wouldn't be ready for welding quite yet.
I still get blackouts. I still wake up screaming in the middle of the night. I take pills to keep the nightmares at bay. The dreams are like sleeping dogs, and sometimes they haunt me during the day. Recently, I was driving on a rural road and saw a cardboard box on the shoulder. Only I didn't think
I thought it was a bomb, planted just for me, set there like all the explosives I set off in Iraq or that had been placed for me and my fellow soldiers. I swerved wildly onto the grass by the side of the road to get out of its kill zone, to escape the shrapnel. When I came to I was sweating and shaking behind the steering wheel.
I have never hit my wife or my children or anyone else in my blackouts, but I have been known to throw things and to rip light fixtures from ceilings. I have been known to shout words of mayhem and war, but I never remember these things when I finally come to in Brandi's arms.
The doctors call it post-traumatic stress disorder. They say I'll have it for life, and that I just have to learn to deal with it. I can only imagine what would have happened if I had not deserted the American army in Iraq. I guess it's not that hard to tell. There are only a few options. If I had gone back to war I could have been taken out by a bullet, or mortars, or a rocket-propelled grenade. I could have been forced to kill an innocent person, or more than one.
I can say with relief and gratitude that I have never killed anybody, Iraqi or American. I have enough troubles as it is living with my own demons, and I'm not sure how I would have kept on going with innocent blood on my hands. But I know there is a chance that if I had killed someone else, I would have gone on later to kill myself.
If I had returned after a two-week leave with my family, I would have had to go on raiding, arresting, and intimidating people who were like me in the most surprising ways: poor, with almost no way to escape their miserable situations. They were hungry, but they were amazingly resourceful, too. I'll never forget the image of an Iraqi man driving up to a traffic checkpoint where I stood with my weapon at the ready. The gas line in his car had been ruptured. Outside his window he was holding up a gallon of gas so that it could flow down through a rubber hose to the engine as he inched forward in the car. He was an ordinary man, using all of his ingenuity to survive in extraordinary circumstances.
I was stationed in Fort Carson, Colorado, when President George W. Bush declared war on Iraq, and within two weeks I was flying into a war zone. I wasn't happy about it, but I went willingly. I believed what my president and my commanders told me. Somebody had to rid the world of weapons of mass destruction. Somebody had to depose the evil tyrant Saddam Hussein. Somebody had to make the world safe from terrorists who had overtaken Iraq and were threatening our lives. I felt it was better for me to help do the job now rather than leave it to my own children. Even Brandi, who was left alone at home with Zackary, Adam, and Philip, said to me, “You get âem, Josh, before they get you. Even if it's a kid. They're terrorists too.” I believed her. I felt the same way. In all the military training I had received in Missouri and Colorado, Iraqis were never called people, or citizens, or men, women, and children. They were called
sand niggers, ragheads, habibs, hajjis,
and, most of all,
In the army of the United States of America, those were our only words for them. My superiors made no distinction between civilians and combatants. As far as they were concernedâand I came to believe them entirely on this pointâthere were only enemies in Iraq, and all Iraqis were enemies.
I know that many Americans have their minds made up about people like me. They think we are cowards who just couldn't take it. I don't blame them. I had my own mind made up about war deserters long before I set foot in Iraq. But I know right from wrong. I had a conscience by the age of six. I had to suspend it for a while in Iraq. Soldiers are taught that it is “Army first, God second, and family third.” I am not a coward and I never flinched from danger. The easiest thing would have been to keep on doing what I was told to do. Ever so slowly, as the jets raced and the illumination rounds burned and the houses fell during the long Iraqi nights, my conscience returned. It could no longer be Army first, God second, and family third. It had to be the tiny voice inside me that would not sleep any longer.
I am not this man,
I told myself.
I cannot do these things any longer.
This is the story of how that voice finally grew louder than the rumbling of tanks and the blaze of gunfire and the hollering of commanders. This is the story of how it came to be that I went to Iraq as a private first class in the United States Army. This is the story of what I did to the Iraqi people and what I saw other Americans do to them, and why I deserted the war and became an outlaw in my own country. I was made to be a criminal in Iraq, but I am a criminal no longer and I am never going back.