In 1995, I was deployed as a United Nations Peacekeeper to the Former Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) at Camp Pleso, which was located in Zagreb, Croatia. The murders, rapes, and torture committed by one ethnic group against another in that region received a coldblooded label — “ethnic cleansing.” While talking to survivors in overcrowded refugee camps and orphanages, I slowly realized this tragedy could happen anywhere. All it would take is for one group of people to believe they had the right to do whatever they wanted to another group of people.



As a chaplain for the 60th Medical Group in Travis AFB, I deployed with the 150 plus medical professionals to provide pastoral care for the supporting American contingent otherwise known as Joint Task Force - Operation Provide Promise (Forward) and the United Nations Peacekeeper troops convalescing at our medical center.



Over 7,000 Muslims were slaughtered by Serbian military and paramilitary forces in Srebrenica, a UN “safe haven,” during my deployment, which was before NATO’s involvement that happened later that same year. We also were rocketed by Serbian forces during that deployment. Our bunkers saved us. Unfortunately, the civilians in Zagreb did not fare as well.



I met some incredibly selfless UN staff members and Peacekeepers during my deployment. Several of them had been shot by snipers. One older gentleman from the UK was visited by his wife because of his dire prognosis. When I asked him about his future plans, thinking I would hear him talk about a desk job somewhere safe, he said he that he would continue to orchestrate food and medical runs to pockets of people who were trapped by paramilitary thugs. He had a gunshot wound that had almost taken off his arm at the shoulder. He showed me the specially made steel core, high caliber, sniper round that had punctured his baby blue UN flak jacket. I thought at the time that this man needs to be presented to the world as a saint or as a hero or both or maybe he needs to be examined by a shrink.



The title Peacekeeper became absurd to me during that deployment. There was no peace to keep in that uncivil civil war. When the 60th Medical Group returned stateside, three members of our medical team committed suicide within a year. I officiated two of those memorials. To the best of my knowledge: one picked up a drug habit while deployed and was caught pilfering some painkillers in the USAF hospital at Travis AFB, one had been caught by the Office of Special Investigation in a problematic relationship, and the last one remains a total mystery to me as to why he self-destructed. I relay these tragic facts as a way of showing that some of our team did not adjust to peacetime when they got back. But the vast majority did adjust. Military members and Veterans suffer from around twice the rate of suicide when compared to their civilian counterparts according to several reliable source.



As a chaplain I felt that getting our people away from Camp Pleso and doing some good for the people of that region not only helped the Croatians but also helped us. Camp Pleso had a heavy drinking culture. It seemed like all the soldiers from around the world were in some sort of unofficial drinking rivalry. For instance, one night while not being able to put up with this nonsense any longer, I approached the executive officer of the JTF in the early Sunday morning hours and asked him when his raucous drinking party would end because I had a worship service to officiate in a few hours. His party was in the middle of our sleeping quarters. He told me to put some earplugs in my ears and go back to sleep. I did not bother telling him I had tried that already. And then a miracle happened as I trudged back to my cot — silence.



Taking people off the base to deliver whatever-we-could-scourge “care” packages to refugee camps and orphanages allowed some of us, the ones not so inclined to drink ourselves into oblivion, to get to know the brave and resourceful Croatians. We even participated in a few pick-up games of soccer at the refugee camps. We mostly got beaten by the young men at the refugee camps but that was part of the fun. The smiles those young Croatians had when they bested the “tough” Americans still gives me a smile every time I think back to those days. Visiting the orphanages helped many of us cope with our heartache in missing our own children. Me included. Because we presented a handsome target for the bad actors that lurked about in Zagreb, our numbers were limited to twenty when we went beyond the confines of the camp.



After six months our contingent of the 60th Medical Group returned to Travis AFB — mostly wiser for wear.