Fixing Hell (4 page)

Unknown to Leso while he was en route to Joint Task Force Guantanamo, the pressures were mounting on the military to collect “actionable” intelligence that could yield quick results. The top brass wanted intel that would save lives on the battlefield, and units from halfway around the world were delivering plenty of prisoners to Gitmo that looked like hot prospects. But so far, efforts at interrogating these terrorists were not going well. The Army did not have many seasoned old crusty warrant-officer interrogators left. Most of the interrogators from the Vietnam era, those with enough experience to produce good results, were either retired or dead. The majority of interrogators were very young, inexperienced, and did not have the ability to extract accurate and reliable actionable intelligence from the prisoners. Seeing little results from the inexperienced interrogators, the commanding general, Major General John McKipperman, brought a group of former CIA contract psychologists to Cuba—a few months before Major Leso’s assignment—to teach the interrogators harsh and abusive interrogation tactics. The goal was to get the detainees to talk—quickly. Results were marginal, but by the time Leso arrived a culture of severe tactics had taken hold as the norm for much of the Joint Intelligence Group at Gitmo. The bar for what might be considered abusive was raised higher and higher, and the leaders at the base turned their backs on conduct that was, at a minimum, questionable. The interrogators learned that they could try pretty much whatever they wanted to get the prisoner to talk, and a lack of good information often just spurred them to attempt something more extreme.

Major Leso jumped right into his role as a clinical psychologist with the 85th CSC in Cuba, seeing patients immediately and maintaining optimism about his deployment. In less than a month, though, his assignment changed drastically. He was removed from his clinical duties and reassigned to work with the Intelligence Control Element section of the Joint Intelligence Group. The commanding general realized that there were problems with the intel unit’s productivity, cohesion, and focus, so he directed Major Leso to assist with improving the unit’s interrogations. Major Leso’s concern was that he had never been trained to perform these duties, had no real strong in-depth forensic background, and had never consulted or received extensive training with police detectives in his doctoral work. The task force surgeon, the chief doctor of the task force and Leso’s superior at the time, expressed concern about putting him in this position, but the general insisted. This was the moment when a bright, promising young officer’s future was stolen. Within a matter of days, he was reassigned from his clinical duties as a doctor, helping soldiers cope with the stresses of working at Gitmo and being away from home, to advising interrogators on how to interrogate prisoners.

In August 2002, I got a phone call from John Leso. I knew immediately that something was wrong and this was not the same eager young man I had last seen in my office. I was shocked at the voice I heard on the line. I could hear and almost feel the anxiety, hopelessness, uncertainty, and terror in his voice. He briefed me on what had transpired and his new mission and told me how uncomfortable he was in his new role. I told him that I would consult Colonel Morgan Banks down at the Fort Bragg Special Operations Command to see if Major Leso could be reassigned. Colonel Banks oversaw all psychologists working in the special operations community, and now Major Leso had become a part of that community, involuntarily, overnight, and without the proper training.

When I spoke with Colonel Banks, we agreed that we had grave concerns about Leso’s lack of preparation for his new role, but we also saw this as an opportunity for psychologists to do the right thing and influence the interrogation process, assuming we could get Major Leso the appropriate training. Colonel Banks and I agreed that the right thing to do was to bring Leso to Fort Bragg as soon as possible and provide him training so that he could help what was rapidly starting to look like a sinking ship at Cuba. During the week of September 16, 2002, Leso was sent to Fort Bragg for briefing on the appropriate and inappropriate behaviors, the rules of engagement, what was legal and not legal, and, most importantly, the Geneva Conventions. Colonel Banks emphasized to Major Leso that it was imperative for him to teach interrogators how to treat all prisoners with decency and respect and how to use incentive-based interviews rather than harsh interrogation tactics. This was the first training of its kind in the country, to teach psychologists how to ethically work with interrogators, and I hoped it would give Major Leso more confidence in his ability to contribute in a meaningful way as a psychologist, rather than feeling that he had been thrown into a role wholly inconsistent with his background.

Meanwhile I still had to run my department. With Leso deployed to Cuba for a six-month assignment, he would be away from Walter Reed from approximately June to December 2002. Given that Cuba was in the Atlantic region of the country, this new deployment would be an ongoing responsibility of my psychology department at Walter Reed. So in addition to getting by without Major Leso while he was in Cuba, I also had to begin searching for a suitable replacement, most likely from within my department, for when Leso returned from Cuba. And I had to get moving on it because Leso’s six-month tour of duty was going to go by fast, at least for me.

Indeed, it seemed as though September and October 2002 passed in a flash. My wife and I began the exciting process of planning our return to Hawaii around September 2003. Thinking about the freshness of Hawaii, the joy of being around our granddaughter, and the pleasantries of visiting with old friends served as a respite from the tragedy of Joint Task Force Guantanamo, any leftover problems from 9/11, and the daily grind at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. In the first week of October my phone rang, and it was Colonel Cooper. He began emphasizing the importance of coming up with a suitable replacement for Major Leso, whom, it was clear, would be another psychologist from my department.

I told Ed I would make it happen, confident because I had a hard-charging young officer who was at my door every day eager to take the assignment. I had complete trust and faith in him. But then he found out that he had a serious medical condition that would prevent his deployment. There were two more officers I might send, but neither was a promising choice. One was a young female captain who had a six-month-old baby at home. The other was the oldest psychologist in the Army and his wife had just completed a round of chemotherapy. I considered every possible solution, but in the end it was clear that there was only one right answer. I would have to deploy to Cuba and replace Major Leso myself. Colonel Cooper and Colonel Banks agreed that this was the right course of action, particularly because things were getting worse down there. Gitmo needed an experienced senior Army psychologist with a significant background in correctional and forensic psychology. Once the matter was settled, I started making arrangements to go down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and receive many classified briefings and review relevant documents.

I was less than thrilled about going to Cuba instead of Hawaii, and I knew my wife wouldn’t be happy either. But when I informed her of my pending deployment she was undaunted. With approximately six years in the Navy prior to transferring over to the Army, we were veterans of many deployments. We both felt that a six-month deployment was a long weekend as deployments go. No sweat, we thought. Six months in Cuba and then back to our plan to go home to Hawaii.

The remainder of October and November 2002 continued to fly by like a runaway freight train going downhill. I occupied myself with making sure that I was in the best physical shape of my life and reading everything that I could read about the new mission at Joint Task Force Guantanamo.

In the first week of January 2003 I boarded a civilian plane out of Baltimore-Washington International Airport and headed south for the Combat Redeployment Center, which was a training and mobilization center down at Fort Benning, Georgia. My civilian plane from Baltimore arrived at 7 p.m. at the Columbus, Georgia, airport. I got my bags, then sat on a huge bus with what seemed like three hundred soldiers. Why do soldiers need so many goddamn bags, I thought as I sat crammed on this unheated bus on a cold Georgia night. It seemed that these soldiers had a thousand suitcases and duffel bags on a bus that was designed to seat thirty or forty people. We waited for three hours until every seat on the bus was filled because the contract driver, Mr. Pete, was getting paid by the head and did not want to go back to Fort Benning with seats unfilled. Finally, Mr. Pete started the bus and we arrived at Fort Benning, about two hours south of Atlanta, late on a Sunday night. It was dark, cold, raining, and we were met by a first sergeant who seemed angry at the world but toned down the vitriol when he saw a colonel standing in front of him. He showed me to my barracks, wanting to provide me with a finer touch because of my rank. He thought that somehow, if he assigned me to a single room that night, I would overlook this dump of a barracks. It didn’t work.

My barracks room had holes in the walls, broken windows, and water dripping from the ceiling. The shower facilities were filthy. I was simply appalled that we had young soldiers going to—and more importantly, returning from—a combat zone living in these barracks. I looked around and thought I wouldn’t want to let a cat or dog live in this building for fear of it being eaten by a rat. I called the concierge over and told him so.

“First Sergeant, these berths are unfit for human habitation!” I barked at him.

He was unimpressed with my opinion and my attitude on this late Sunday night in Georgia. “It’s what we got, sir.” And with that he went away to yell some more at the other soldiers grousing about their accommodations.

I stayed in the barracks for about three of the ten days I was scheduled to be at Fort Benning. After that, I just couldn’t take it anymore. The mixture of alcohol, women, and young soldiers filled with testosterone at this remote part of the post was a bad combination. I would be awakened in the night by brawls, women screaming, and the sound of beer bottles breaking. On the third night of my stay I was given a roommate, a lieutenant colonel who farted louder than the detonation of any hand grenade I had ever heard. His snoring could have competed with the sound of an Amtrak train struggling to make up time in the snow. That next morning, I found my way to the first sergeant’s office and saw that his mood was still as foul as mine.

“First Sergeant, I’ll be back in formation at 0500, but I’m not going to spend another night in this roach motel,” I told him. He mumbled a “yes sir” without hardly looking at me, but I suspect he said more to my back as I walked out. I spent the remaining nights basking in the luxury of the local Motel 6. I could at least get to sleep.

The next morning, I was in formation at 5 a.m. with about five hundred other soldiers who were all freezing their asses off. I, on the other hand, was not. I had learned nearly twenty years ago never to deploy anywhere in the world without long underwear. It doesn’t matter if they tell you you’re going to Hot As Hell, Texas, or an expedition to the sun, take some long underwear because it’s going to be cold at night. The first sergeant barked out instructions and told us the plan of the day, adding comments that indicated to this experienced psychologist that he was either seriously delusional or just enjoyed messing with us.

“And to anyone who wants to come to me with some bullshit complaints about your barracks, just do yourself a favor and keep it to yourself,” he yelled. “The accommodations here at Fort Benning are top-notch, five-star housing and damn near luxurious. So I’m not interested in your complaining.”

We crammed on the bus and spent the rest of our six days getting equipment, shots, and disrobing in a room filled with thirty of my closest friends who I had just met. Of course, a variety of more medical exams, more shots, getting more equipment, going to more meetings and more briefings were to follow. On the tenth day, I was scheduled to fly out of Fort Benning, down to the naval air station in Jacksonville, Florida. There, I would board a military-chartered Continental Airlines 737 to Cuba.

About two hundred or so passengers boarded the 737 that morning for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. As we reached Cuba and flew over the Caribbean island, I couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the place. The coral reefs were mesmerizing, with a bluish, turquoise water similar to Maui, Hawaii. Upon landing I was quickly escorted through the in-processing—my rank usually got me the fast-lane treatment in these situations—and given my badge. I was officially part of the staff at Gitmo.

Major Leso met me at the airport when I was finished with all the arrival processing. As I looked at him coming across the terminal, I knew something was wrong. I had hoped that he was coping better in the new position after his training, but my first look at him erased that idea. Major Leso did not look like himself. He had lost the innocent, naïve look that I remembered seeing in my office so often. The insatiable energy and optimism that had surrounded him every moment were gone. He no longer had a brightness in his eyes. He was worn physically and, I suspected, tattered emotionally as a person and human being. After chatting with him for half an hour, I began to feel a loss for the young John Leso I once knew. Major Leso welcomed me to Cuba, but it was a formality. He spoke softly, with no energy, in the voice of the deeply depressed.

What in the hell is so wrong? I asked myself. This isn’t just a stressed-out soldier or someone who’s tired from being in the field. My God . . . This man has been traumatized.

I didn’t let on right away that I was concerned about Major Leso and just allowed him to go through the motions of showing me around the base. The post at Cuba consists of two almost completely separate sections separated by a huge bay spread across approximately forty-five miles. One of the ironies about this base in a Communist country, home to the military prison that housed some of the worst terrorists in the world, was that it had many familiar touches from home. A McDonald’s restaurant offered the same Big Macs and fries that any soldier knew from home, and the post exchange (PX) carried everyone’s favorite magazines and snacks. There was a movie theater, good roads, beautiful beaches, some limited Internet access and e-mail. The air terminal that soldiers flew into was on the leeward side of Guantanamo Bay across the water from the main part of the post, on the windward side of the island. This required all personnel to ferry from the airport to the main post. While we were in our SUV on the ferry, Major Leso began to share with me some of the horrors and tragedies he was neither trained to deal with nor had emotionally expected. There was something different about him when he talked about those issues. He seemed angry, depressed, exhausted, disappointed, and afraid all at once. He was also goddamned glad to see me, partly because my arrival marked his imminent departure.