Lost and found

Shoshana Johnson moves freely around the small, open kitchen in her El Paso, Texas, home. It’s Blue Monday – the first Monday of the month – which means it’s her day to serve her American Legion post by preparing a delicious meal that will fill bellies, hearts and the post’s coffers.

“It provides me a way to give back and interact with my veteran community while still going back to that basic love of cooking and sharing that love with people,” says Johnson, a Panamanian-born Army veteran and member of Col. Louis A. Carter Post 832 in El Paso. “I like to cook and share what I have created. Hopefully they enjoy it.”

For her, the meal is a labor of love. For two days, Johnson has been preparing ingredients for her gumbo dish, which has become a favorite among Post 832 members and their families. And it’s not always easy to please this crowd.

“Some old-timers, they’re giving me a hard time about trying something new,” she says with a smile as she cooks. “But I’m going to push the boundaries here and there. I keep on telling them, ‘One day I’m going to make beef bourguignon and coq au vin,’ and they’re like, ‘Cocoa what? Can’t we just get some smothered pork chops?’ They’re so set in their ways.”

Post members appreciate Johnson’s culinary expertise, a skill she developed in her Army days. It’s a rewarding trade-off for Johnson, who is grateful for the support of her Legion post.

That support has been critical for Johnson, who in 2003 spent 22 days in enemy captivity in Iraq. She was the first Black female prisoner of war in U.S. history.

“My family. My community, from El Paso to The American Legion,” she says, ticking off her reasons for staying in El Paso. “There was a time when I thought I needed to leave, but I wouldn’t have the support system, and that has made all the difference in the world.”

‘I still struggle’ While her physical wounds have healed, Johnson still deals with post-traumatic stress from her captivity. Often, friends check in on her when they sense she’s having an off day.

“My community in general helps me through it,” she says. “I’m very blessed to have that kind of support. Not everybody does. I always wonder how other veterans are even getting by. I have this family, I have this community that supports me, and I still struggle.”

Theresa Rowland met Johnson about 30 years ago when they worked together at the Exchange at Fort Bliss. “From that day forward, we’ve been best friends,” she says.

The bond between Rowland and Johnson, who she calls “Shana,” is tight.

“Shana will give you the shirt off her back,” Rowland says. “That’s the type of person she is. She’s been there for me in my darkest times and in my happiest times. She is my ride or die. If I need Shana, she is there for me. I can tell her things that don’t go past her. And she can tell me things that don’t go past me. She is not only a friend to me (but) she is a friend to my son, my family. She is 100% there for us.”

‘Oh my God, what’s going to happen?’ Johnson deployed in February 2003 as a food service specialist with the 507th Maintenance Company, which provided maintenance support for a Patriot missile unit out of Fort Bliss in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

On March 23, Johnson was riding at the rear of a 600-vehicle convoy when her vehicle took a wrong turn in Nasiriyah.

“I remember having an uneasy feeling,” she says. “I remember seeing some people on the street. I remember there was a guard who just waved at us.”

An urgent message came through: The city’s unsecure. Leave now.

“As we turn around to get out of the city, we started hearing gunfire,” she says. “Our truck was disabled. I was shot. Then I’m being dragged from underneath my vehicle, where I had taken cover, and beaten by the Iraqis.”

Johnson was injured when she dove under the truck. In the firefight, a bullet ripped through one leg and into the other, breaking a bone in her left and severing her right Achilles tendon.

Eleven U.S. soldiers were killed in the attack. Six, including Johnson, were taken prisoner.

Two hours went by before the shock started to wear off. Her legs were torn up. Her mind wouldn’t stop racing.

“Oh my God, what’s going to happen?” she remembers thinking. “I didn’t feel anything.
I think when I really started to feel pain again was the next day, sitting in a cell and realizing you’re a prisoner and not knowing what’s going to happen from day to day.”

Bars covered the windows of the 8-foot-by-12-foot cell. Instead of beds, the captives slept on a small mat. For eating and drinking, they had a pitcher for water, a cup, a bowl and a spoon.

That same day, Rowland’s landline phone started ringing off the hook. Her sister in California called and asked if Johnson was among those captured. “I turned on CNN and saw the picture, and started crying out, ‘No. No. No.’ To see her in the condition she was in was very difficult for me.”

After visiting Johnson’s parents, Rowland went to work, where the Fort Bliss community was ready to comfort her. They hugged her, offered prayers and told her that Johnson would be OK. “I really held on to that. That was rough. But it was very assuring.”

New normal Johnson and the other POWs were routinely moved to other cells and eventually to Iraqis’ homes. While her surroundings changed, Johnson’s faith never wavered.

“You talk to God a lot, discuss all the wrong you’ve ever done, the pranks you pulled on your sisters,” she says. “I thought of my daughter, and how I wanted to see her grow up and accomplish certain things in life. I remember thinking of what my life would be after I came home. Those things got me through.”

She also routinely sang “Amazing Grace.”

“Those poor guys,” she says of her fellow prisoners. “My singing is horrible, horrible, horrible. Their ears were probably bleeding.”

Always special to Johnson, the old hymn became a touchstone for her during and after her time in captivity.

“You think about the words, ‘I was lost, but now I’m found,’” she says. “There are lots of times in life, in the last 21 years, where I am lost. I don’t know how to go forward. It’s very difficult when you had an idea of what you had planned for yourself, and then it goes completely wrong, and then you’re trying to find your way again. You’re trying to find your new normal.

“So there are times when I think of the song and think about how lost I am, but I know I can find my way. I just have to really take a step back sometimes, calm down ... and God will show me the path.”

‘Like a movie’ Johnson’s rescue came April 13, 22 days after her capture.

“Our guard had just given us breakfast,” she says. “Then you hear this bang, the door being kicked down, and you hear clear English: ‘Get down, get down.’ Oh my gosh, I’m going home. It’s hard to explain that feeling. It was just like a movie. Those young Marines kicking down the door, rescuing you and getting you to safety.”

Still, Johnson did not feel entirely safe until she arrived in Kuwait. There, she was finally able to reconnect with family and friends, starting with a phone call to her daughter.

“It was wonderful,” she says. “I remember her saying, ‘Mommy, you got an owie.’ She had seen some of the stuff on TV. She was an innocent baby, didn’t grasp all of what went on.”

When news broke of the rescue, Rowland immediately returned to the Johnsons’ home.

“Once again, I was crying and screaming, but this time for joy,” she says. “I was talking with my BFF again.”
When she and Johnson were reunited in person, they embraced. No words needed to be spoken. Still, Rowland told her, “I’m so happy. You have no idea. I love you.”

Still fighting Richard “Breeze” Britton, a retired Army veteran and chairman of the American Legion Department of Texas Veterans Affairs & Rehabilitation Commission, has known Johnson for years. They met at the El Paso VA, and he persuaded her to join Post 832.

Initially, Johnson was very shy, he says. “Over the years, she has grown to where she is speaking confidently all over the country. She has come a long way. She’s a dedicated veteran (and) gives back as much as she can.”

Britton praises Johnson for all she does for the post, from Blue Monday meals to serving as post adjutant.

“Our members respect her not just for being a Purple Heart recipient but also a former prisoner of war,” he says. “Knowing what she went through, she has gained a lot of respect at the post and all over the country.”

One difference Rowland sees in her friend is how Johnson handles people who don’t understand or respect her experience as a POW. “They tell her to just get over it. But it’s not just something you can get over.”
Johnson tunes out the haters, focusing instead on the positive and doing all she can to support other veterans.

“It was hard seeing her” in the weeks and months following Johnson’s return, Rowland says. “In one part I would see the same Shana. In another part, it would be a different Shana.” During a Fourth of July celebration at Fort Bliss, for instance, Johnson tensed and held tightly to a nearby table.

“I looked over, grabbed her hand and just held it,” Rowland says. “After a few minutes, I asked if she was OK. ‘Flashbacks.’ She still remembers a lot of stuff. And a lot of times she questions, ‘Why me? Why am I here when others died?’ I tell her that God was watching her that day.

“She still has survivor’s guilt, and that is something she is going to carry with her the rest of her life.”

More than a day The third Friday of every September is National POW/MIA Recognition Day. For Johnson and other former POWs, the experience is something they think about not just one day a year, but all 365.

“It’s a big weight, and it’s difficult to deal with, but there is also insight on what you have,” she says. “Joseph Hudson, my fellow prisoner of war, says, ‘Every day that I wake up and the lock is on the other side of the door is a good day.’ It can be very irritating when people don’t understand how blessed they are, something as simple as getting up and going to the bathroom. In the cell, we had to bang on the door to go to the bathroom.”

During her captivity, Johnson wondered if she’d die of a heart attack or in a bombing. She recognizes how captivity changed her, as she wrote about in her 2011 book “I’m Still Standing: From Captive U.S. Soldier to Free Citizen.”

“I survived it,” she reflects. “I did it. Here I am, 20 years later ... struggling at times, but I’m still making it. I’m stronger than I thought I was. If I get knocked down, I may take a minute or two to get up, but I will keep going and still fighting. Hell, tomorrow I might get knocked down again, but I’m going to get back up. I’m going to keep on getting back up.”