Two weeks ago, I told you about Staff Sgt. Tom Zinkle, assigned to supervise guards in a large prison camp in Iraq. He struggled to provide his prisoners humane conditions when his company tolerated one platoon’s mistreatment of detainees. After pleading with the other platoon and running his complaint up his own chain of command, it was clear to Zinkle he would find no help from within his unit.
His company first sergeant had made the policy clear when he proclaimed to the men, “It’s our job to make life hard for our prisoners.” Something had to change, and fast. Several soldiers from other units, most notably those involved in the notorious Abu Ghraib prisoner abuse scandal, had already received severe penalties for abusing prisoners.
More important, Zinkle knew these abuses were morally wrong. But what could he do?
He could contact the office of the inspector general, the Army’s “internal watchdog” that investigated complaints of violation of Army regulations. But how could he get in touch with them? How long would their investigation take? The situation needed to change immediately.
And there was another problem. Although soldiers contacting the inspector general are supposed to be safe from unit retribution, everybody knows commanders can still find ways to punish whistleblowers with extra or less-desirable duty.
If Zinkle went for help outside his unit, he had to win. Losing would mean total misery for the rest of his deployment.
Despite the risk, he figured going over his commander was all he could do. “You ever have that feeling that things are going to really suck, but you know you’re going to do it? I didn’t expect good things.”
Plainclothes soldiers working in the Criminal Investigation Division were often around the prison, questioning detainees. Zinkle figured anyone dealing with intel had to have lines to higher command. Summoning all his courage, or perhaps resigned to his desperate situation, he explained his problem to one of the criminal investigation operatives.
His unit learned of his action quickly. Within hours, Zinkle’s platoon sergeant relieved him of all duties. A cold fear sunk deep inside him. What if the criminal investigation guys had ignored his complaint? What if higher-ups didn’t care? What if his commander lied and covered up the abuse? Then his big gamble would have backfired.
Worse, the mistreatment would continue, and if word of it got out, they might all face severe punishments.
That night, the commander of the entire prison base, a colonel, arrived and interviewed the leader of each of the four quads as well as Zinkle’s commander. Zinkle, stripped of his position, was nearby but left out of the meeting.
Finally, the colonel shook the leaders’ hands and thanked them. Then he walked with the captain behind a Hesco barrier wall.
“The f–k have you been doing!?” The colonel yelled at the captain for 10 minutes.
“That was probably the highlight of my tour,” Zinkle told me. “Even if I had not come out of the situation as well as I did, that was worth it.”
That night, the captain’s reversal was complete. He praised Zinkle and said, “We have to take care of these prisoners. They are our responsibility. We have to make sure they aren’t abused.”
Zinkle felt a powerful sense of relief. Nobody was coming after him. The prisoners would be treated fairly.
“You are reinstated to duty,” said the platoon sergeant.
“I’ll be here,” Zinkle said, “but I’m not working for the next few days.”
Nobody objected.
The rest of his tour went smoothly.
“I’m proud that I stopped the mistreatment before it escalated, because it would have. That’s how it goes. Like you’re playing around as a kid. You’re roughhousing, and it keeps escalating until someone gets hurt.”
Tom Zinkle couldn’t live with what was wrong, couldn’t be a part of injustice. He took a big gamble to stop it, and he won. I’m proud to know him.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
