365 and a Wakeup

Clarity

      In the last couple days I’ve sat up awake, staring into the empty darkness and waiting for dreams to take me far from this barren land. I wish I could say that my insomnia stems from something noble, like an earnest reflection on the ebb and flow of fortune. But it isn’t the larger questions of mortality that have kept me up lately, its something far more personal – I’ve lost a coherent portrait of life back home. That may sound like a small thing, but memories of home have been my phrenic umbilicus to better times and places.  And somehow the loss of all the subtle mental details seems to stretch the distance between Iraq and California to a shade under infinity.

     If there is some consolation it is that I can see some things with perfect, almost brilliant clarity. The clearest of memories involve my beautiful wife. The way her shimmering hair cascades onto her shoulders. Her glittering eyes, and her wide and perfect smile. The way she would neatly arrange her hair brush next to the sink. Even things ancillary to her seem to burn a little brighter, as if her lilting presence somehow dignified details that otherwise would have been lost.

     But in a way those perfect snapshots only highlight all the other details that seem stretched and pale. When I try to remember everyday scenes from back home it almost seems as if I’m peering through a rain fogged windshield. At first I was convinced that my memories were falling victim to entropy, as if the arid environment could somehow shift neurons in synchronicity with the tides of blowing sand. But the more I mull over it the more I’m convinced that the problem isn’t a matter of systematic degradation, I simply failed to appreciate the little things.  Instead of recognizing each day as precious I assumed I would be there to watch the next dawn, as if my mortality were somehow preserved through willful ignorance. Rather then revel in the raw splendor of just being alive and aware I was eternally fixated on some future destination that never seemed quite so important once it had arrived. My only consolation is that the time I spent with my wife snapped me out of that empty self absorption and left me with memories as clear and deep as a mountain lake.

     Looking at the contrast between memories makes me loathe the careless way I used to move through life, and reaffirms a lesson I have learned here in Iraq.  Both danger and potential lay curled in every passing moment, we have only to watch with keen eyes for their fateful silhouette. Maybe that level of attention is impossible to maintain for any significant length of time.  I guess I’ll just have to see.

The Blocking Position

     As our patrol moved into the wide intersection our vehicles suddenly shifted from a slithering column into a multiheaded hydra. Each driver smoothly wheeled their vehicle into their respective clock position, and as the HMMWVs inched into position it almost looked like each respective head was carefully sniffing the intersections periphery.  Once they had settled into their blocking positions the turrets rotated into overwatch positions and the dismounts spilled out.  In less then a minute the dismounts had cleared the area and were fanning out to reinforce the blocking positions with Arabic warning signs and over size traffic cones. The two traffic cones set up on our corridor gave the impression the asphalt was teething, they seemed to erupt out of the street like two fluorescent fangs.  In many ways these simple plastic cones were far more lethal then any tool in nature’s arsenal.  Their lethality didn’t come from their composition as much as their symbology, because in Baghdad traffic cones in front of HMMWVs convey only one message.  Stop or be shot.   Any vehicle that ignored the warning signs and tried to blow through the traffic cones would be identified as a lethal threat… and dealt with accordingly.      

     For a long while the cones stood desolate in the road, but as the afternoon slid by traffic started picking up.  By late afternoon the road was cluttered with drivers trying to perform sloppy three point turns on the narrow lane.  Although the road was blocked to wheeled traffic we still allowed locals to walk through the checkpoint, and that was where the excitement started.        

     As the local school children returned home from their classes they trickled down the dirt shoulders, careful to avoid the frustrated eddies of vehicles. But as they passed the traffic cones they started to spill onto the vacant road, oblivious to the fact that they were wandering into our line of fire.  As soon as they started spreading out onto the empty asphalt we would get their attention and wave them towards the sides of the road.  For a while that worked perfectly, but after most of the children had passed through one small trio of school kids continued on oblivious to our distant shouts.  They weren't trying to be obstinate, they were just kids lost in their own private world.  By time they were halfway between the cones and our HMMWV we had given up trying to get their attention, and I found myself bemusedly watching the two brothers compete for their sisters attention. 

     SPC Spartan’s sudden shout snapped me out of my silent observation and the edge to his voice let me know the message before the words left his mouth.  He shouted “Sir – someone is trying to push through”.  I reflexively tracked the speeding vehicle and shouldered my weapon, but as I did so the children finally broke out of their reverie and came to a sudden stop.  Fear is a powerful tranquilizer and one sideways glance made it clear they were functionally paralyzed.  I sprinted a dozen steps to where they were standing and pushed them out of the line of fire, and then skidded aside myself.  Before my kneepads had finished scraping along the asphalt my muzzle was lined up to take a warning shot.  But in that instant some glimmer of understanding finally made it through the drivers alcoholic stupor and the driver brought his car to a screeching halt..  As soon as the vehicle stopped the driver slammed his car into reverse, practically rolling the vehicle into a ditch in his haste to back away from the traffic cones.  I tracked his vehicle with my weapon until his car had completed its U-turn, and then stood up and walked over to where the children were crouched.  I helped them back onto their feet and took a minute to pick up their spilled books..  Their drawn faces were still awash in residual shock and fear, so I motioned them to follow me and walked them towards the HMMWV.  As they waited next to the vehicle I reached into the cargo area and fished out a couple handfuls of candy and a stuffed animal.  As I passed out the small presents their confused expressions melted away, replaced by wide eyed smiles.  It wasn't a gradual change, it was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a long storm. SGT Bard stopped to snap a picture of their beaming smiles and then they were off like a shot,  happily chirping to each another.  The rest of the time slid by without anything of note, and a few hours later we were back on the FOB.  Another day down. 

Grief

     Tonight our grief collapsed into a singularity, centered on a simple memorial in the center of a drab slab of concrete. A memorial to three fallen brothers; SSG Daniel Scheile, SGT Paul Neubauer, and SGT Michael Sonoda. Although all three men were brave and fearless soldiers it wasn’t their martial skill we came to mourn. Instead we were gathered to remember their bright and noble hearts - and how much better we were for having known them.

      I couldn’t hope to create a more moving and beautiful tribute to our fallen then the messages their dearest friends read at the service. I will include the three tributes in their entirety. The first was composed by SPC S, one of SGT Mike Sonoda’s closest friends.

    There are over 300000 words in the English language, but I can’t find one to best describe SGT Mike Sonoda. There is nothing I can say that would make his death more tolerable, or less painful. When Mike died serving his God and country, but most of all he fought for us… to keep us safe. Every time he went on patrol he went out with the intent to find IEDs. With the intent to catch terrorists. So that when the rest of us went out we would be safe. Mike loved three things in Iraq. He loved to smoke, sometimes like a train. He loved to read Sci-Fi books, and he loved Japanese cartoons. He was the guy we went to when we all ran out of smokes, and whenever he ran out he would come to my roommate, or myself. When he wanted to read he came to SGT L or I, and between SGT L and I we had a 100 books or so. We’d lend him a couple three hundred page books and he would come back the next day. Said it was a good book, can I have another. Between SGT L and I we ran out of books fast. He loved to read. He loved his cartoons too. Whenever he got something new he would come down , before he even watched it and share it with us. He’d stick around the room even if he had something to share with us. He would talk with my roommate about some computer geek stuff, and then we would talk about Warhammer, a book series we both liked to read. Never did I hear Mike say anything negative about anybody. And never did I hear anybody say anything bad about Mike. He was loved by everybody. He didn’t deserve to die, and he especially didn’t deserve to die like this. He never hurt anybody, but now his death has hurt everybody. He wasn’t married, he didn’t have any children. But he told e he couldn’t wait to get back to change all that. He wanted a family of his own. He wanted to settle down. That chubby little face of his, that bald head.  He will be missed by this Company, and by many others around the world. I can’t imagine what his family is going through right now. To think that something like this can happen to such a great son. Such a beloved brother. Such an excellent soldier. We will continue to fight. We will honor him in every possible way. And I hope you are watching tonight Mike, so you can see how much we all love you.  Peace be with you, we’ll miss you.

      SGT Neubauer’s memorial was read by his close friend SGT Che, who he had worked beside day in and day out - for over a year.

     SGT Paul Christian Neubauer was a man wearing many hats. He was a soldier, an NCO, a warrior, a gunner, a husband, lover, friend and provider to his wife and friend to many. He was a fighter for freedom of a people that never knew him or ever will. He fought for those he himself did not know, and for very few he did. Paul was a soldier that would do any task placed before him. He was a master of his weapon system, be it an M16 series rifle or any crew served weapon in the platoons inventory. Paul totally believed in this mission and loved going out and performing our assignments. I never heard him complain about any of our tasks. It was always “Roger SGT”. He had an innate ability to interact with our interpreters, always making sure their needs were met.  He befriended the interpreters and made sure they integrated into the platoons as one of our own. Just prior to our mission one of the companies interpreters had a series issue, the interpreter needed to be taken to deal with a personal crisis and there was nobody available to take him. Paul knew he had an Op Order in about an hour, however he made sure that the interpreters issue was take care of, putting the interpreters needs before his own.  He enjoyed a quiet smoke and a cup of joe. During our time here he went out of his way to establish an AA group. Paul’s legacy is one that will never be forgotten. His name is now etched in the wall with the others that have fallen for the sake of freedom. He has his place at the table with those who have come before us and made the ultimate sacrifice so that others may live. He has done what others cannot and will not do.

     The final tribute, to SSG Scheile, was written by his close friend CPL Ray.

     SSG Daniel Scheile. Dan is our friend and brother in arms. For those of you who did not know Dan he had a personality that was unique and full of life. His passion and fire were for his wife and two daughters. I can’t think of a day where he didn’t tell us a story about how proud he was to be their dad. Dan also spoke often of his parents. Dan’s civilian jobs included truck driver, concrete framer, finisher, carpenter, and electrician. You name it he did it. He told me he wanted to get his contractors license when he gets home so that he could spend more time with his family. Dan was the platoon’s go to guy, and we nicknamed him “The Shyster”. A few months ago Dan and the platoon were watching the movie “Green Berets”. In the movie a character named Peterson was able to trade, barter or acquire whatever to accomplish the mission. We quickly realized that this character was based off of Dan. Dan was the man when it came to living in luxury in the harshest of Iraq's conditions. When D CO first moved here we had to live in the tent city in the hottest of the summer months. On numerous occasions he would venture out into the blazing heat to help make the lives of his soldiers better by bringing back cold soda, water, finding the contractors to fix our air conditioners. And he would always bring back plenty of red bull. And speaking of Red Bull Dan named his beloved M113 the “Red Bull Express”. It got this name after the track was hit by an IED several months ago. Dan had placed an empty Red Bull can over the antenna and the can had taken several wounds that night. Dan was also wounded that night but he was still able to maneuver the track through the blast area so we could all survive. That was part of the uniqueness that made Dan a great man.  I am proud to have known Dan. 3^rd Platoon is proud to have known Dan. Delta Company is proud to have known Dan. Dan, we won’t forget you brother.

     If you measure the worth of a man by how much he was loved then our fallen heroes had wealth beyond reckoning. Because we all loved them. And we will always, always keep their memory alive in our hearts.

Pushing On

The best way out is always through.
                     - Robert Frost

     Grief has hit like a sledgehammer these last few days, leaving deep gouges in the collective memory of our battalion. A lifetime of anguish, bravery, loss and regret were compressed into a handful of days. I haven’t been able to chronicle the events in anything more then a cursory fashion because at some point my emotions slipped away, blanketed by a insensate numbness. Like a patient that has just been pumped full of too much novocain my psyche feels detached - as if that feeling, sensing part of my being has been somehow blunted. 

     In many ways it feels like some armored bulwark has slammed down to mute the inchoate rush of emotion. I know that this slipshod form of mental triage will eventually fade, so I don’t feel the need to forcibly cast it off. To do so would be akin to scratching a scab off the puckered edges of a fresh wound.

     I will not forget our honored dead, someday when I am safely ensconced in the familiar I will grieve properly, in a way that is fitting for so painful a loss. But for now I’ll accept the stilted range of emotions I’ve been left with and focus on the missions at hand. To do anything less would be courting disaster.

Fallen Friends

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.                 
                     - Edna St. Vincent Millay     

     Today the soldiers of the Nightstalker Battalion closed ranks with the Tusker Battalion to say our final farewells to three fallen heroes.  1SG Alan Gifford, SGT Matthew Deckard, and SPC David Ford fought side by side with the Nightstalkers, and their unflinching courage earned them the respect and admiration of every man lucky enough to work with them.  1SG Gifford was the kind of NCO that inspired confidence in his men, a Gulf War veteran who was as resilient as the M1 tanks his soldiers crewed.  SGT Deckard was also a seasoned veteran, using the lessons he learned in OIF I to better prepare his crew for the trials of combat.  SPC Ford was on his first combat deployment, and had just celebrated his 20th birthday – but his dedication to duty and consummate professionalism would have shamed men twice his age.  They were the kind of men you wanted backing you up when the chips were down.  And time and again they were.     

     I started walking to the memorial service an hour before it was scheduled to begin. As 1LT Mo and I slowly trudged across the broken ground I looked up to see dozens of soldiers following convergent paths.  It seemed like the entire FOB was in motion, pushing forward like a turbulent storm surge.  Nobody seemed to be traveling alone, instead everyone was bound together in tightly knit groups.  For a moment the scene reminded me of an old photograph of artic explorers huddled together for warmth.  For a long moment that image stayed with me, turning over and over until I suddenly realized that what I was seeing wasn’t all that different from those grainy pictures.  The bitter sense of loss was less tangible then those frigid winds, but it was cutting us just as deeply.  But unlike those explorers of old it wasn’t warmth that caused us to aggregate - it was a far deeper and more urgent need.  It was the deep seated desire to connect with others and reaffirm the bonds of friendship that stave away the darkness.     

     By time we arrived there were no longer any seats, and rather then root around for a place to sit we stood behind the assembled soldiers in silence.  As the minutes ticked by the haphazard collection of soldiers continued to grow, spreading into a half moon of drawn faces and bowed heads orbiting around the memorial site.  The approaching soldiers knew the area was flooded with soldiers but still they came, their numbers spilling into the street and into an adjoining motorpool.  The soldier lined up on the fringes of the group could barely see the memorial stand, and they surely sensed that they wouldn’t be able to hear the memorial ceremony, but they didn’t care.  What mattered to them was that they were present to honor our fallen warriors.      

     I moved to the back of the crowd to allow other soldiers a chance to move in closer, so I wasn’t able to hear the entire ceremony.  But I didn’t need to – the sea of downcast faces was a testament to how may lives were touched by these fallen heroes.  Their presence here sent a message more eloquent then any that words could convey.  As the ceremony came to a close the assembled soldiers coalesced into a long line, every man patiently waiting for a turn to stand in front of the simple memorial and salute the fallen one last time.  When my turn came I stood in front of their memorial and paused a long moment to say a prayer for their families.  Then I gave one final salute and shuffled away into the twilight.   

Loss

What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.
                - Albert Pike

     As another day passed into memory the men of the Nightstalker Battalion gathered together to pay their final respects to SSG Alfredo B. Silva. In this world of growing shadows SSG Silva burned as bright as the morning star. Chamuco’s resplendent inner fire and fierce love for his men were beyond earthly measure – he was the stalwart lighthouse whose radiance ensured others could navigate these troubled waters.

     I wish with all my heart I had the ability to properly memorialize SSG Silva, but any words I could weave would be but a hollow echo of our fallen hero. Instead I will include part of 1LT Irish’s final respects.

     How do you summarize a life of an individual? That is what I have been asked to do here today. It is impossible for anyone to do justice to a lifetime in a few moments. Every individual is something to someone. To your mother you are always her baby, and to your child you are always a parent. Time will not and cannot change those things. I cannot be so presumptuous as to speak to what SGT Silva was like prior to the time I met him. Nor can I speak as to how he was viewed by his family, for unfortunately fate did not allow me the chance to meet them. Instead I will speak to you about the man that I knew and loved as a comrade in arms.

     The last memory I will share with you is from about a week ago. I was in the S7 office and Chamuco walked in and shook my hand. I could tell by looking at him that something was the matter. He seemed a little bit sad. I asked him what was going on. He told me that he was worried because he felt his time was up. I told him that I understood how he felt. He smiled and said that he wasn’t worried about himself; he was worried for his guys. He said it’s all just a matter of time until we get it. That worried me, and I tried to assure him that everything was going to be alright. I guess he knew better than I.

     I know that in my heart SGT Silva would have done anything to prevent his soldiers from getting hurt. These men were not just his soldiers they were his friends. Those of you who have been around FISTER’s know that it we are a tight knit community. Even by our standards, Delta was tighter than most. I dare say that SGT Silva viewed his soldiers as his own children. He wanted nothing but the best for them. He was willing to go out even after he felt that his own death was imminent. He was willing to lay down his own life for those men.

    So what can I say further? There is nothing left. SGT Silva was a man who walked uprightly before all. He conducted himself bravely as a soldier and nobly as a Non-Commissioned Officer. He died as an NCO leading his men. He would have wished that things were different and that he would be going home to see his wife and family. But I believe that he also would be grateful that it was he who died rather than one of his boys. So SGT Silva until we fall in for that last roll call before the Gates of Heaven you will remain in our hearts and in our prayers.

     SSG Silva was the living embodiment of an Army NCO, but he was more then just a collection of diamond hard skills. He was a good and honest man, and his heart burned with an unyielding love for his wife, his daughter, and for his soldiers. And he in turn was loved by all who had the good fortune of knowing him. God Speed SSG Silva, your light will ever burn in the hearts of the Nightstalkers.

The Abattoir

     In combat you can easily become inured to tragedy, but every once in awhile you see something that  burns through the mental armor and leaves you reeling.  Such was the case today.  Before this starts I should warn you this is not an appropriate post for all readers.

     The sun was still low on the horizon as our vehicle made its way down one of the winding mulhollah streets. As our HMMWV snaked through the forest of dense infrastructure the only sound was the roar of the turbodiesel engine and the clipped and crackling radio transmissions. As SGT Bard whipped the HMMWV through the traffic snarled street SPC Spartan spun the turret in sweeping arcs, the two working together in mute synchrony. As we barreled down another nameless road we all felt the low flat crunch of tortured atmosphere pulse through the air. And then in unison we all yelled out what the shockwave had already revealed - “VBIED!”. SPC Spartan scanned the area and instantly called out the distance and direction, and I pivoted and watched a boiling column of black smoke claw upward in an impossibly straight line. Up and up went the vile pillar, pausing only to blossom into an ugly mushroom shape. For a moment the atmospheric death’s head glared over the wreckage that had spawned it, then it melted into the thickening smear of smoke.

     As we pulled into our link up point we married up with another security element, and then adjusted seats so that MAJ Ursa could accompany us to the site of the blast. As soon as our vehicles were arranged the turbodiesels roared to life and we sped towards the blast site. The drivers weaved through the maze of muhollah streets at speed, guided forward by the jet black beacon splitting the sky. And then we were suddenly at the site of the blast, watching the violent orange flames chew through the scattered remains of vehicles. The burned metal carcasses of shattered Iraqi cars were scattered on the road, their component parts spilled out as if they had been disemboweled. The residential buildings on both sides of the street were reduced to a burning mass of concrete and steel. And lying in the middle of the road, arms forever reaching to heaven lay the pulverized remains of one of the Iraqi victims. The grim scene was brutal, but it was the clinging smell that was hardest to deal with. The air was thick with the oily stench of a fuel fire mixed with the acrid stench of burning rubber, and all of these smells were wound around the nightmarish smell of burning flesh.

     MAJ Ursa and I spent the next few minutes trying to coordinate the chaotic scene, setting in security and starting to move the wounded inside the buildings away from the scene. A minute or two after we set into position the Iraqi Police arrived in force and started fanning out to supplement our security posture. The Iraqi fire department was right behind the police, and they didn’t hesitate for a moment. Instead they barreled into the middle of the wreckage and starting to uncoil fat lengths of hose with desperate urgency. As soon as the hose was linked up the fireman turned on the water and started advancing on the fire.

     With the fire under control we could finally move past the blast site, and I grabbed our medic and started towards the human wreckage laying in the road. As I walked over I wasn’t expecting any survivors, but we had to check to be sure. I stepped around the first body and as I passed one of the destroyed trucks I felt my boot crunch down on a shard of something. As my weight shifted forward it cracked with a sickening snap and I suddenly realized what was under my foot. I didn’t bother looking down. I knew better then that. Instead I continued forward into the human wreckage in front of me. It took less then a second to realize there was nobody left to save in this abattoir. The Iraqi victims were utterly annihilated. White ribs glittered out of scorched bodies like the ivory spars of shipwrecked boats. The slick concrete was awash in congealing rivers of scarlet. What we couldn’t see from our original position was that this was a wasteland of metal debris interlaced with smoking piles of meat and ruptured organs. We stood there in numb shock for a moment, our senses blinded by the utter carnage before us.

     Then we turned and started to tend to the living. Dazed and bloodied residents were still filtering out of the area, and then I watched a sight as pitiful as any I have seen in Iraq. A grandmother carried a dead infant carefully swaddled in blankets away from her shattered home, the grief stricken mother following blindly behind. They continued forward utterly oblivious to the broken world around them, shuffling slowly forward until they were out of sight.

     By then the Iraqi police and fire department had the situation well in hand, and quickly started restoring a semblance of order. Once the fire was extinguished the firemen approached our vehicles and asked for body bags and surgical gloves and we quickly gave them all the supplies we had on hand. They shrouded some of the bodies in bags, wrapping the rest in burned blankets they pulled out of the wreckage. As the firemen were wrapping the bodies two or three Arab media outlets arrived on the scene. The Iraqi police gathered in a small circle and gave an impromptu press conference, passionately speaking to the cameras. I caught some of the words, and they seemed as appropriate as anyy. The police spokesperson mentioned that the AIF were little better then cowards, unable to fight like real men. Instead they wantonly sowed death, without thought of anything except their own corrupt designs. I couldn’t have agreed more.

   In a few minutes all the bodies were bundled into waiting vehicles and the Iraqis started to leave the gory scene. As we started rolling out I looked back at the steaming ruin – the blood stained patch of road was still littered with debris and stained surgical gloves. Those grim tokens would be left to others to gather up, for now there was little else that could be done. We mounted our vehicles and started the return trip to the FOB.

 Once we had returned I thought back to the two faces of Iraq I had seen unfold. One was represented by the Iraq Police and Fire Department, who risked their lives to protect their fellow citizens in the middle of utter devastation. The other, the vile AIF, left its bitter calling card in the form of the wanton destruction the suicide bomber had visited upon the area. If the insurgency has a face, then this is surely it. There is no honor in their attacks, no higher purpose. They bray in articles and interviews about their martial prowess, but they rely on suicide bombers shot full of opiates to carelessly scatter destruction in crimson swaths. That is who we are fighting, a cancerous group of men bent on reshaping the world to conform to their own twisted design. Because make no mistake… to these jackals Iraq is just the opening act.

Summer's End

 The burning torch that plagued our days has started to sputter – the reign of summer has ended. The ebony ribbons of asphalt have lost their plasticity and solidified like black sheets of ice. Scorching fields of sand no longer send waves of heat rippling through the soles of your boots. And the shimmering blooms of heat that refracted light like dancing water have finally settled. The temperatures are still in the low triple digits, but after months of brutal summer heat that feels downright pleasant. 

 The best time of day to be outside is still early morning, when the sun is still gathering strength as it crests the horizon. In the throes of summer the mornings weren’t cool, they just seemed that way compared to the blaring heat of midday. Now the mornings settle around you like a light winter coat, as if the air itself were trying to apologize for months of thermal transgressions.  

 On cool mornings like these Iraq becomes a very different place, if only for a few minutes. As the sun breaks the horizon the cool glare blots out the scattered debris and wind woven mats of junk. What it leaves behind is a scene softly shaded by the tangerine glow of morning. A landscape as blurred as an impressionist painting, and almost as lovely. 

 These moments never last longer then a handful of minutes, and as the morning star climbs higher into the sky the collective waste of a metropolis once again become the focal point. It almost feels like watching a time lapse movie of rust corrupting a piece of iron.  Sometimes it seems like nothing will ever change, but then again there is always tomorrow morning. And the one after that. And the next. And then tens of thousands more following in an unbroken chain. And if we succeed here one of those mornings the sun may rise on something brighter then this blighted land. Hope springs eternal…

Balance

     There are days where pain seeps into your veins like a venom, slowing only to settle in marrow deep pools.  There are days where no amount of rest can crack the adamantine circlets of fatigue that seem to bind your frame.  There are days where memories of home seem like a cracked and faded picture, leaving just faded impressions shorn of all the subtle shadings that made the moment unique and special. When these days come they bear down on your heart like a steel press. 

     But there is symmetry to all things under heaven, and for every suffering there is a joy of equal measure. It doesn’t always come instantly, but it always seems to come. On the days where the carrion birds circle your consciousness that knowledge alone can be enough to ward off the darkness and mend the hurt.

     Sometimes felicity is writ large, like the cool desert mornings where the sun stains the horizon with sublime banners of crimson and gold. There are other times where satisfaction flows from being in the company of so many tough and determined soldiers. At other times joy comes from little more then seeing my name scrawled on a care package, the familiar words as intoxicating as the finest liquor. But all of these lesser joys pale in comparison to the raw sense of bliss that comes from just being alive another day. Life is something all too easily taken for granted, its brilliance muffled beneath an avalanche of the unimportant and unnecessary dramas of being. But out here you see firsthand just how tenuous the thread of life can be, and that awareness makes every pulse of your heart something strange and miraculous.

     When this mission comes to a close I’ll carry back memories as sharp as razors, and there will be times when they continue to cut. There is no use bemoaning that reality, it simply is. I’m alright with that, if nothing else those memories will focus my attention on what has real value in this world. It isn’t anything as empty as money, or as base as fame. It’s the simple things that brought me joy even here in the middle of combat. My loving wife. My family. The company of good friends.  Nature in all her incarnations.  After all this I don’t think I’ll ever take any of them for granted.

Trust

     Baghdad is broken into sectors called muhollahs, neat geographic zones demarcated by streets and natural landmarks. Every muhollah has a regional powerbroker, an individual or group of individuals that serve as impromptu coordinators for regional projects. This semi chaotic form of local governance is hardly idea, but it seems to work in the densely populated regions in Baghdad.

     But in the scattered settlements in Southern Baghdad there are no muhollahs, just small villages and snaking groups of shantytowns. In these areas the sheiks (pronounced Shakes) carry the mantle of authority. I have no idea what qualifies someone to be a sheik, but in my experience all it seems to take is the consent of the locals.

When we identify an area that needs assistance the first thing we do is talk to the local sheik and ensure that he works with us to make the mission a success. The locals are wise to our pointed questions and the more often then not they quickly prattle off the name of their sheik and point us in the direction of his home. But every once in awhile we run into an area without a sheik – and that’s when things get interesting.

     Several days ago our commander, CPT Mac, was conducting a patrol through Goat Town to assess whether or not they had any critical needs. After talking with the residents for a few minutes it became obvious that the locals were in dire need of some basic medical treatment. CPT Mac moved to the center of the shantytown and walked up to a small group of Iraqi men. As he approached they warmly greeted him, and as greetings were exchanged several other middle aged men joined the small gathering. Once all the pleasantries were exchanged CPT Mac stood there in the middle of the smiling group and asked “Who is the sheik here?”. Without hesitation one of the men blurted out in broken English “We have no sheik”. CPT Mac didn’t miss a beat, and continued his question and answer by asking “Then who is the leader here?”. As soon as the translator relayed his message the entire group exploded in a flurry of heated oration. As the chattering conversations started to die down the English speaking Iraqi turned to the interpreter and spilled out a hurried string of syllables that translated into “There are no leaders here, and if anyone says they are they are a liar”. CPT Mac smiled at his cynical response and asked “So none of you can be the leader?”  The speaker for the group didn’t wait for the translator to convey the message to his fellows, volleying the question by saying “You can not trust any of these men to be the leader”. CPT Mac stifled a laugh and said “So that guy next to you can’t be the leader?”. The man turned to look at his smiling friend and without hesitation chattered back “No, no you can’t trust that guy.”. Deciding to try another tactic CPT Mac asked the man “What about you – can you be the leader?”. The man turned to CPT Mac and said “No, no you can’t choose me. The other guys don’t trust me”. Trying to hold back a grin CPT Mac had the interpreter ask another gentleman who should be the leader. The translator tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help flashing a wide grin as he turned to the commander and said “the man said that you can’t trust any of these guys to be the leader”. The translator continued to ask each man in turn if any one of their number should be the leader, but this grinning group kept looking at their comrades and conveying how untrustworthy the other were. The odd part about this all is the men were perfectly cordial to one another, neither offended nor embarrassed at their mutual distrust. After a few minutes one of the men came up with a solution to the impasse saying ‘Since none of us can be trusted you must be our sheik!”. The question seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then CPT Mac turned to the group and said “No, no – you can’t trust me either.” As soon as the message was translated the group erupted into deep booming laughs.

As the laughter died down the commander said his goodbyes, leaving the small group of happy but faithless friends to continue their earlier conversation. There was no rancor, just the happy ebb and flow of conversations that had occurred a thousand times over. The commander never did find a leader for the area… but at least he was able to dodge being personally responsible for the entire shantytown.