365 and a Wakeup

New Set of Wheels

     During our last patrol through the shantytowns a young mother waited patiently outside the bustling throng of children hopping back and forth between our vehicles. I don’t remember seeing her arrive, she just suddenly appeared on the outskirts of the roiling flock of children. In that sea of motion she stood as still and resolute as a obsidian tower, her black burkha providing a mute contrast to the gaudy kaleidoscope of children’s clothing. She was clutching a toddler tightly to her chest, and I reflexively assumed she was trying to secure some candy for her child.  I watched her for a moment and sensed that she was too proper to approach and ask for treats. I made a mental note to hand her some candy once the throng had died down, and put a few pieces of candy into my pocket to pass to her later. Then I turned my attention back to the happy shrieks of the children vying for our attention, and finished passing out the remaining supplies

     Once our vehicles were stripped of humanitarian supplies the children started to settle down, happily splitting off to try to wheedle more candy from their favorite soldier. As the children filtered off I got my first good look at the young boy she held to her chest. And it was only then that I realized she hadn’t come here to ask for candy.

     The young boy was clearly suffering from a congenital birth defect - he looked as frail as spun glass. His slender, atrophied limbs seemed to hang off his little body like limp banners, and his oversized head rested on his mother’s chest as if he needed help supporting its bulk. As I approached I greeted the sad eyed mother, and then bit the inside of my mouth and waited for her to ask me for the medical help I knew I couldn’t provide. The mother spent several minutes explaining her sons medical condition, and then asked the question that I knew was coming - “You have helped fix some children – can you help my son?”. I already knew the answer, but to avoid appearing callous I called my medic over and asked him if there was anything we could do for the boy. He took one look at the crumpled waif of a child and then said “Sir, we couldn’t help him even if we were in the States”. I turned back to the mother and explained to her that her sons condition was beyond our ability to help. Once my terp had conveyed the message she gave a small smile, and thanked me for trying to help.  Then she turned away and made her way back to her tiny home.

     The memory of that wisp of a boy stayed with me, and after a few days I asked SSG Spite if he could think of anything we might be able to do for the family. SSG Spite said that he would see what he could do and then disappeared for the rest of the day. The following day I knocked on SSG Spite’s door and when I walked in I almost dropped my coffee mug in shock. There sat SSG Spite quietly cleaning his weapon… sitting in a wheelchair. SSG Spite seemed to sense my agitation without even turning around and after a pregnant pause he said “Don’t worry sir, I’m fine. The wheelchair is for the kid”. Then he turned around, gave me a sly grin and said “But I had you worried, didn’t I?”. We laughed for a few minutes and then SSG Spite said “If I didn’t feel sorry for the kid I’d keep the wheelchair – this is the best seat in the barracks”.

      The next morning we loaded up our HMMWVs with small Iraqi flags, candy, and a bulky wheelchair and set out for shantytown to bring SSG Spite’s favorite chair to the little boy. As our combat patrol came to a close we turned onto the long, dusty road leading to Shantytown to drop off our supplies. The entire town seemed to flood into the alleys to greet us, and in a few minutes we were swimming in a sea of smiling faces. As we passed each mudbrick compound the head of the household would anxiously flag us down and offer their advice on how to catch the AIF, and we spent long minutes trying to politely bring each conversation to a close. Several of our soldiers were passing out small Iraqi flags and toys to the children yammering around our legs, and in a few minutes our procession through the alley ground to a halt under the sheer numbers of children vying for a small flag. Usually the children are fixated on candy or toys, but not today. Today the big ticket item was Iraqi flags. As we passed out dozens of the little flags the kids seemed sated, and the alleys started to clear. We continued towards the house followed by a phalanx of children happily waving their flags. When I looked back at this strange procession I almost felt like I was watching a miniature parade - the kids were laughing and waving their flags as proudly as drum majors.

     After the better part of an hour we arrived at the right house, and I rapped my knuckles on the tin gate to announce our arrival. I peeked over the gate to make sure we had the right house and noticed the little boy sitting in the dirt watching his mother prepare a meal. The mother must not have heard us knock, because she turned and looked surprised to see our kevlars peeking over her front gate. She recovered quickly and greeted us warmly, opening her gate and inviting us to come in for chai tea. We politely declined, but asked her to take her son and follow us to our vehicle. She looked a little confused at our request, but dutifully picked up her son and followed us to the HMMWV. When we arrived SGT Bard opened one of the doors and pulled and tugged until the wheelchair slid through the armored door. I wish I could describe the womans face when we gently picked up her son and placed him in the wheelchair - but there are some emotions words cannot hope to touch. We stopped to snap a quick picture as the little boy rested peacefully in the full sized wheelchair, and then we quickly said our goodbyes. As we loaded into our HMMWVs several of the local kids were arguing over who would get to take the boy for his first ride. I’m not sure who ended up shuttling him around, but as we left you could see his wheelchair weaving through the trash strewn alleys.

 

The Healers

The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.

  - Charles Kuralt

     As we made our way to the home through one of the narrow alleys in shantytown a middle aged man flagged us down. We walked over to his shack, and after the traditional greetings he politely asked if we could provide medical care for his son. I grabbed our two medics, SPC Hart and SPC Night, and we followed the father into the dim hovel. As we stepped inside we passed through a closet sized kitchen thick with the sickly sweet scent of burned meat before passing into a small room adorned with thick sleeping mats. Inside the room doubled over on the floor, was a little boy whose face was creased with pain. Looking at the crumpled form in front of us I suddenly realized that I hadn’t smelled the burnt remains of breakfast… the source of the bitter stench was lying right in front of me. The back of the boys leg was a softly glistening ruin, raw muscle stripped of skin.

     Without saying a word SPC Hart and SPC Night dropped their medical bags and started sifting through their contents. As they carefully arranged the tools they would need to clean the boys burns, I marveled at their cool detachment. Although these men were barely out of their teens they suddenly seemed far older, as if they were wizened doppelgangers of the soldiers I had worked besides all these long months. It was the first time I caught a glimmer of just how much combat has aged all of us.

     As the medics set to work the father tried to soothe the little boy, but the sight of the two medics had him yelping in fright. While the medics were cleaning and dressing the wound my driver, SGT Bard, reached into his pocket and pulled out a stuffed animal. SGT Bard handed the little boy the stuffed tiger, and his crying stopped as quickly as if somebody had turned an invisible valve. A few minutes later the medics finished their work and they gave the boy’s parents extra dressings and antibiotics along with instructions on how to care for their son.

     As they started to pack up their gear one of the soldiers providing security outside the house walked in and asked if we could see another sick child. I told him to send in the boy, and a moment later a ten year old boy sheepishly walked in. His right arm was wrapped in dirty white gauze. In the middle of the gauze bloomed an ugly brown splotch… the telltale sign of physical corruption. As the medics peeled back the filthy dressings the air filled with the fetid stench of infection. As the dressings finally peeled away they revealed a wretched volcano wreathed in skin stretched taut with pus. I had to fight to keep the wave of nausea rumbling in my stomach at bay, but our medics didn’t even flinch. Instead they deftly started treating the infected wound. As they treated the boy I stepped out to get a breath of fresh air, and by time I returned they had filled a small plastic bag with pus filled dressings. I stepped out once again, and when I returned the swollen limb had regained its normal proportions.  With the wound clean our medics started putting on fresh dressings and in a few short minutes they were done.  Once the terp explained how and when to take the antibiotics we set off to finish the rest of the patrol.  There was still a lot of ground to cover.

Parting the Waters

     A little after the sun settled into its twilight cradle the radio in the CP hissed out a message from our tank platoon; apparently the Iraqi Army soldiers they were parked beside knew the location of a fresh IED. I told 1LT Mac to hold the element in place and put out a quick guidance to my NCOs. By time I suited up and stepped outside the vehicles were almost prepped, and a few minutes later we rolled towards the link up site. When we arrived1LT Mac jumped off his M1 and gave me a quick backbrief on the situation. Apparently a helpful local had reported that there was a newly emplaced IED lurking about a kilometer down the road, and the Iraqi police officers would be able to identify the exact location. As I walked over to the Iraqi officers it was apparent that they were more then a little agitated, and it took several minutes just to coax the story out of them. The officers weren’t exactly sure where the IED was, and as they nervously shifted back and forth it became apparent that they wanted nothing more then to flee the area. My terp dutifully passed along their concerns, and then turned to me and said “the man on the left said he knows who put the IED in”. I took a long look at the small police officer in front of me and then asked him if he knew who placed the IED in. He hesitated for a moment, and it was clear my terp had translated something they hadn’t meant for me to hear. He admitted that he knew where the IED builder lived, but the second he did so he seemed to ball up like a pillbug. After several minutes of questioning I was able to get the full story. The frightened police officer knew where the individual lived, but he was certain he would be recognized and the AIF would take reprisals against his family. I spent several minutes appealing to his sense of duty and the oath he had taken as a police officer, and when I finished he agreed to take us to the location. By then his watch commander had arrived and sheepishly asked if they could take custody of the AIF fighter if we were able to capture him. I readily agreed, and the die was cast. We would take down the IED cell and then locate the IED.

     As I was briefing the troops I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the police officer and my terp behind me. The police officer had changed into civilian clothes, a flak jacket, and a Kevlar helmet to hide his identity and in that garb I barely recognized him. As I looked at his new apparel my terp asked if I could loan him a mask and gloves to further hide his identity. I pulled out a black ski mask, then took off my gloves and handed them to the policeman. He gratefully donned both, and when he did he looked for all the world like a haggard knock off of a GI Joe character. Another one of the IPs who wasn’t from the area agreed to come along to take the individual into custody, and when he gave me the thumbs up we set out in a long low line. The police officer familiar with the home was in the lead, and I followed a few steps behind him. We were paralleling one of the reed choked agricultural canals that criss-cross the area, and as we approached a small mound on the side of the canal the policeman whispered a quick message to the terp. The terp turned to me and said “they cut the bridge – we have to go around”. We doubled back until we found a crossing point and then we continued forward. After a few minutes our guide stopped beside another canal and looked back once again. This time my terp spent a long minute talking with the officer, and when he came back he looked dejected. He told me that this bridge had also been cut. I asked him if there was a way around and he told me that the bridge had been cut to allow the IED emplacer time to escape… if we took the long road around he would get warning of our arrival and skip away. As I looked down at that hateful black strip of water I thought back to some of the items I had seen in other canals and my stomach performed a slow, paralyzing roll. Then I heard a voice whisper “we are going across’ with perfect resolution. It took me a few seconds to realize those frightful words came from my own lips. By then the Iraqi policeman was already wading through the chest deep water, and I knew it was too late to turn back. I slipped down the muddy canal wall and sank into the cold, fetid water. I focused on keeping my weapons and equipment above the mire, and tried not to notice my boots settling into the thick scum on the canal floor. I made it across and clambered up the other side of the canal, then I settled behind the tall reeds net to our guide. Our troops quietly made their way through the canal, leaving only my terp on the far side. He stared at the water like a prey animal hypnotized by a weaving viper, unable to move forward into the watery morass below him. I hissed for him to follow and he plunged in, noisily made his way across the canal. While he sat net to me heaving and wheezing like an old steam engine I had our guide point out the target house, and then we set out with the other IP in the lead. We came up to the darkened home at a dead sprint, and the moment the IP barged into the unlocked home we detained the sole male inside. As we brought him out to allow the guide to positively identify him, the guide frantically waved off to his left. My terp turned towards me and said… “the IP went to the wrong house, it’s next door”. We immediately cut the man loose and stormed next door. We entered the home right behind our geographically challenged IP officer and started to clear the rooms.

     One room held a combative 20 year old Iraqi with wild eyes and once we detained him we marched him out for the informant to identify. To my surprise the informant shook his head side to side to signify this wasn’t the AIF fighter, and we turned him back around and led him back to his living room. One by one we brought out the males and one by one the informant shook his head to signify that they weren’t our target. Finally we brought out the mildest of the bunch a smiling, neatly dressed man in his early 20’s. As soon as we too him out the IP seemed to shrink back in terror, and he nodded wildly before disappearing behind the home. We had our target. We flex cuffed the AIF fighter and turned him over to the other IP, then we made our way next door to apologize for our earlier mistake. Once we had made amends we made our way back to the tanks, our boots squishing with every step.

     After returning the two IPs and their detainee to their police station we returned to the forsaken stretch of road that contained the alleged IED. By now we had long since lost our “guides”, and the entire road was cloaked in deep shadow. Rather then blindly searching the road for an IED we decided to continue the second part of the mission at first light - at least then we had a chance of spotting it while we were still out of the kill zone. Once the coordinations were complete we made our way back to the FOB… we all had clothes we needed to sterilize. 

Foot Patrol

Bite off more then you can chew. Then chew it.

- Ella Williams

     Before this deployment our unit focused its training on Air Assault tactics, and we practiced those maneuvers with the type of devotion you would expect from a team trying to win the Superbowl. There is nothing magical about air assault missions, if you skip over the helicopter insertions they don’t really differ from any other dismounted infantry maneuvers. During our train up for the mission we started to become familiar with patrolling, fighting, and maneuvering in the heavily armed and armored HMMWVs that comprise the backbone of our ground maneuver forces. Our soldiers have long since becoming experts at motorized tactical patrols, but despite all the formidable power at their fingertips most of our soldiers still prefer the hyperreality of a foot patrol.

     To truly understand why we prefer walking the terrain you would have to integrate yourself into the tightly knit family we call a unit, but I’ll do my best to explain it regardless. If you boiled down the infantry into its raw essence, stripping away the proud swagger, the bravado, and the fierce camaraderie, you would be left with a diamond hard knot of sheer willpower. Infantry soldiers don’t try to avoid misery, they embrace it. And in doing so they learn lessons no book could ever teach, about themselves and their environment. The single most important lesson is the one that many in the outside world tend to forget… the easy way is not always the right way.

     Slogging through faulted earth and dense underbrush isn’t pleasurable, but it provides the kind of insight no technology on earth could hope to match. When you are dismounted there is no thrumming engine to deaden your ears, and your eyes wander freely instead of conforming to the constraints imposed by armor plate. What you lose in terms of protection you gain back in raw sensing ability.

     Driving in our armored vehicles you can sense the change in season; the blistering heat has given way to air laced with chill threads of winter. The cold, biting air is easily overpowered by the glowering heat that leaks past the firewall, and the net result isn’t too far removed from our summer patrols. But on the ground there is no mistaking the changing tides of sun and sky. In summer we patrolled though earth as faulted and ruptured as a volcanic plain. In some regions the dusty ground seemed an amalgam of the raw elements, the ground seemed to have a greater affinity for the roiling air then the staid earth we trampled underfoot. We drudged through the remnants of ancient floodplains, and marveled as our boots kicked up screens of atomized dust. In those fire bright days the plowed earth was a hardened sea of jagged peaks and valleys, as if we were walking through a flash frozen ocean.

     Autumn changed all that. With the distant sun in retreat the earth started to slowly recover, and the fields have been reborn.  Many of the desolate fields continue to vacillate between the elements, only now they ally with water instead of air. The result is a porridge thick medium that weighs down your every step, and latches to your uniform like so many misshapen leeches. The plowed fields have lost their concrete constitution, now the broken earth swims with scattered emeralds that herald the rebirth of life and vitality. You can see these changes as you barrel down the roads, but you can’t sense them in the same way as when you are moving through the area on foot.

     What holds true for the inanimate earth holds especially true for the complex cultural fabric of the populated regions. Although the days have grown shorter there is far more activity now that the air isn’t swollen with wretched heat. On foot you catch all the nuances that are so easily missed when you look out an armored window. You can see the smiling faces of children and see their sharp eyes gauge whether or not your pockets are full of candy. You can read the subtle shifts in posture and carriage, and use those to sense the truth behind the smiling mask some cowardly predators hide behind.

     There is no perfect tactic, and approaching every situation with the same methodology is a recipe for disaster. But its always good to add tools to the tool kit… especially when you have soldiers as capable as those in Killer Company.

Veterans Day

     Today was Veterans Day, and rather then bluster on about our daily patrols I thought I would post one of the most moving military poems every written.  "In Flanders Fields" was written by MAJ John McCrae following the Battle of Ypres, but it could have been written about any battle in any war.  It speaks to that small part of every combat veterans soul... the part that never makes it home.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, saw dawn, felt sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Home Sweep

     In the predawn light our motorpool became a broad river of light, each soldier’s flashlight following its own random path through the long rows of armored vehicles. As soldiers stashed their gear and loaded equipment the HMMWVs and M113s stood resolute, as if those boxy, angular machines were river rocks brusquely diverting the torrent of purposeful light. As each vehicle finished its heated preparations the lights around it slowly winked out, and by time the sun started to chisel away at the darkness the artificial fireflies that had shuttled between vehicles had long since blinked out of existence.

     Once all the final preparations had been completed I walked over to the CP, poured a steaming mug of coffee, and ran through the mission one last time. By time I finished the cup our line up time was approaching, so I snapped on my Kevlar and stepped back into the chill autumn air. In the few minutes I had been in the CP the motorpool had uncoiled into a sinewy string of humming vehicles, the cold air resonating to the throaty whine of powerful engines. I walked up to my vehicle, slipped into my seat and requested an “up” from each vehicle. One by one the vehicles keyed their radios and gave me their status, and when the last vehicle gave me their “up” the patrol rumbled to life and we started carving a dusty path through the chill air.

     The mission we were leading was a battalion sized joint operation between the Nightstalkers and the Iraqi Wolf Brigade, but it was much more than just another sweep to us. Because unlike our prior missions this mission was focused on the portion of Southern Baghdad we patrol through each day...

     As the armored chain of vehicles sped out of the FOB vehicle traffic screeched to a halt, leaving a wide swath of empty asphalt for our vehicles to speed down. In the lead were the lean, low silhouettes of our tank section followed in turn by the armored HMMWVs and armored Hate Wagons (M113s), as I watched them plummet down the road even I was impressed by this unstoppable train of force. As we turned past our first checkpoint the patrol slowed to a crawl, and before I could send a message over the net I heard SFC D’s distinctive Southern drawl mutter through the radio “Our lead tank has an engine problem… standby”. The second those words crackled over the radio all our dismounts spilled out and set up a bristling circlet of security. The tank crew worked feverishly to repair the problem, but as the minutes ticked by I was left with a difficult decision… leave half my tank platoon behind to escort the stricken vehicle back to the FOB, or miss our scheduled link up time. Our mission was to secure the porous Eastern flank of our sector and prevent any AIF elements from escaping the Wolf Brigade’s determined search; if we missed our hit time there would be the chance that AIF cells could escape the coordinated sweep. As much as it pained me to leave so much firepower behind, we had to make our hit time. I ran over to the tank section, told them to return the troubled vehicle to the FOB and then briefed the new order of movement. And with that we continued into sector, because by now every second counted.

     As we roared past the final checkpoint we stormed past the long string of Wolf Brigade vehicles, and moved to our respective blocking positions. As each set of vehicles slid into position the soldiers set to work, each troop carrying out their respective assignment with deft skill. There was no wasted motion; every movement looked as polished and rehearsed as a drill team. In a flash the long string of exit points transformed from roads and bridges into hardened, lethal checkpoints.

     Minutes after we set in our positions we faced our first obstacle, a large group of young Iraqi children patiently waiting to go to school. For the thousandth time since I arrived in Iraq I marveled at the surrealism of this strange war. Here we were ensconced behind rows of razor wire and hasty fortifications, intent on preventing any AIF elements from escaping a coordinated sweep by the most successful Iraqi unit… and at the same time we had a large crowd of children trying to get into the area to go to school. I decided that it was better to let the children walk through our position after their bags were searched, if we left them waiting outside our checkpoint there was always the chance they would get caught in a cross fire. Two of the soldiers joined my terp at the edge of the wire and quickly shuttled the kids to the other side of our position.

     After that the morning grew silent, and our only company was a small family selling fruit just outside our position. Occasionally we would hear the sharp bark of automatic weapons fire, but for the most part the hours ticked by quietly. Every few minutes small groups of Iraqi males would peek out from behind corners, intent on finding weak spots in our ring of security. Every time they appeared one of our vehicles would roar down the access road, and the small groups would scatter and stream back into the walled compounds. This dangerous game of cat and mouse ended up a draw every time; they failed to escape, but we failed to catch them before they melted away. I wasn’t terribly concerned at their hasty disappearance; I knew that if they stayed in the city the Wolf Brigade would surely catch them.

     As noon approached a long string of Wolf Brigade soldiers drove up, and to my surprise they spent the next ten minutes happily mugging for photos. Harald, our Dutch imbed reporter, was beside himself as some of Iraq's best troops smiled and  waved for the camera. Eventually their officers focused them back on mission and they headed to their final target… the fruit stand owner. My mouth almost dropped open in sheer surprise; this gentleman had been patiently selling fruit a couple dozen meters from our position all morning.

     With that final capture the Wolf Brigade sped off for their final link up point, and a few minutes later we received the call to pull out of position. Our positions dissolved as quickly as they had been assembled, and a few minutes our scattered elements congealed on the stretch of road out of town. The Wolf Brigade had rolled up dozens of AIF fighters; their infiltration into the shadowy world of the insurgency had paid rich dividends. As we passed vehicle after vehicles full of blindfolded detainees my face stretched into a long wolfish smile… the days hunt had gone well.

Devil Island

     After a day that left me as worn and brittle as a dried palm frond, I settled into the broken plastic chair behind my desk and started to war-game our upcoming Air Assault mission. The plan had long since briefed to the maneuver units, but for the hundredth time I peered over the aerial imagery looking for details I might have missed. Planning and execution are dual sides of the same coin, and both have become as familiar as the scent of dust and death.  But the stretch of time between the two… that never gets any easier to bear.

     And so I sat there - my body creaking in places it shouldn’t, and my mind burning with restless flames - and once again imagined the tactical choreography that would soon unfold. Hour after hour slipped by as my mind played and replayed its own hyperkinetic chess match, conjuring up a hundred possible pitfalls and a thousand possible solutions. Eventually the fever died and the flames guttered, and I knew that there was little else I could do to prepare. I looked up at the clock face and suddenly felt the serpentine coils of fatigue encircling my chest, as if acknowledging the late hour somehow brought this bone cracking weariness to life. I left a wakeup call with the CP along with orders to wake me up by any means necessary and then collapsed into bed.

     And so, after meticulous planning and days of waiting, the Air Assault onto Devil Island started with little more then a soft knock on my barracks door. When SGT Lead rapped on my door my eyes creaked open like a rusted gate, lurching and swinging as if to cast off the scattered flakes of corrosion, and slowly the blurry darkness came into focus. I walked over to the wall, flipped on the lights and stumbled towards the CP. Halfway there I realized I didn’t put any shoes on before walking across the hall, but to my surprise I was still wearing my DCUs and boots. It took a few seconds for me to remember that I hadn’t so much gone to sleep as collapsed, and for the thousandth time this deployment I promised myself I would take a day to sleep in… someday. I got a quick update from the CP while I was pouring a cup of coffee and then returned to my room to suit up. My first order of business was changing out socks. You can wear a uniform until it is stiff with salt, but ignore your feet for a day and you are courting disaster. Once I’d finished lacing up a fresh set of boots I started gearing up. First on were my tough thermoplastic kneepads, my fingers tracing the deep grooves a hundred sudden impacts had carved into their knobby faces. Then I snapped on my duty belt, the weight of the Beretta pistol in its thigh rig immediately pulling it into a jaunty but comfortable angle. I latched the elastic loops of the thigh holster to one leg, then buckled the drop pouch to my other, and then started to check my armor. The IBA armor is relatively simple to don, but its sheer bulk makes fine movements difficult. Rather then fumble around through its myriad pockets I checked each in turn, adding or subtracting the tactical gear I would need on this specific mission. Once each pocket was bulging with ammunition and mission specific gear I hefted it onto my shoulders and mated its Velcro fasteners.  Then I snapped on my Kevlar helmet, hefted the assault bag that held the backup radios, extra batteries, and other command and control necessities, and grabbed my ballistic glasses. As I left my room I kissed my index finger, held it to my wife’s picture and said a silent prayer. The mission had begu

      By time I piled into the vehicle that was shuttling our troops to the airfield the bed of the truck was already full of the lively banter that seems to presage any big operation. SSG Spite and my interpreter were a half step behind me, and as I loaded and watched them climb into the LMTV I wanted to laugh at this incongruous pair. SSG Spite is the type of NCO forged in another age, the kind of man whose stern face and grizzled appearance instantly demand respect of his peers and subordinates alike. Our interpreter Mo is the exact opposite, a pot bellied 30-something Iraqi with a fondness for second wives and a perennial grin. Mo was carrying our long range antennas strapped across his back, and standing there in the predawn light they looked a little like a glowering golf pro and a loyal caddy preparing for a day on the links. Despite their differences both men were ruthlessly competent in their respective fields, and as I watched them climb up I once again wondered what I had done to deserve such an incredible headquarters element. 

     Through some miracle of dexterity SSG Spite managed to mount the vehicle with a full cup of steaming coffee, and as the LMTV rumbled to life we all placed bets on how quickly the coffee would slosh out of the open up. As luck would have it we were all wrong, SSG Spite managed to balance the boiling liquid with the grace of a Chinese acrobat. As we dismounted he reminded us all that drinking coffee in a hurtling vehicle was par for the course in his civilian career.

     As we lined up on the airfield we were joined by a reporter from the Dutch Press, and as he jogged up he apologized over and over for arriving late. I assured him he had arrived with plenty of time, then I gave him a short class on how to hot load a Blackhawk. A few minutes after the lesson ended the Blackhawks roared in from the scarlet light of a new day and settled into rapidly expanding plumes of dust. As we roared over Devil Island on our approach I had a sudden flash of surprise, the aerial imagery didn’t reveal the dense thickets of overgrown underbrush. As we settled into a pyre of windborne sand I mentally adjusted the timetable to account for the thick vegetation. By time the helicopters were clawing back into the sky 1LT Murphy had his troops in a security posture and the lead elements were clearing the thickets around the LZ. The Battalion Commander and the Air Force forward controllers linked up with my headquarters element and we started running the myriad communication checks with the BN TOC.

     Once the Northern portion of the island was clear the soldiers settled into overwatch positions and the rest of the element to arrive. Once again the Blackhawks fluttered down, and once again their rotors turned the area into a sandblasted wasteland. When they left the LZ was stripped of vegetation, the dry weeds replaced with the last of our combat troops, an EOD team, and a Navy Petty Officer and his bomb sniffing dog.

     Several hundred meters into the sweep we encircled the sole residents of Devil Island, a farming family living alone in a squat mud brick settlement. The headquarters element and a security detail remained in the settlement while 1LT Irish led his platoon on sweeps to the South. The family welcomed us warmly, and as SSG Spite and the Airmen set up their respective communication arrays the BN Commander and I started talking with the family. The head of the household ensured us we wouldn’t find any weapons or explosives on his island, with one exception. When we pressed him on the details he offered to show us first hand, so we gathered the EOD experts and started towards the scene. After a short walk he took us to a shallow groove in the earth carved by a heavy metal round. The EOD team fearlessly walked into the jagged crease and started to safe the round. After a few tense seconds they lifted the round over their head and said “it’s an illumination casing, its safe”. We all let out the breath we were silently holding, and we made our way back to the compound. Within a few seconds the new troops fell into their assigned positions and started sweeping the island, while my headquarters and the BN Commander followed in tight formation.

     I spent the next hour shuttling between the search elements, our temporary headquarters, and the family patiently waiting to get back to their daily schedule.  Every time I returned to the shaded headquarters alcove for an update SSG Spite and I poked fun at our Air Force detachments equipment. They took the jokes in stride, knowing full well that we were just jealous that the Army hadn’t equipped us as well as the Air Force had equipped their troops. Every other minute a radio message would crackle over one of the radios and as it did all laughter died in its tracks as every ear cued for the message. Once the radios went momentarily dormant the jokes would start up again, each of us trading good natured insults in the grandest military tradition.

     Despite the dense underbrush the troops managed to comb through the island on schedule, and by late morning the island had been cleared. The troops were fanned out in defensive positions on both sides of the island, and as we waited for the Blackhawks to move to the Pickup Zone (PZ) several of the elements spotted individuals across the river attempting to spot our positions with binoculars. The troops kept their weapons trained on the individuals, their fingers hovering a millimeter from the selector switches. The silent spotters were astute enough to avoid picking up weapons, but rather then allow them to continue gathering information I had SSG Spite vector in the Apache attack helicopters while the Air Force crew had F-16s fly overwatch with their all seeing optics. As the air came alive with the sound of American air power the spotters melted away, leaving our troops scanning desolate stretches of river bank. As we waited we heard a net call from our sister company on the other objective, warning us that they were going to conduct a controlled detonation of a cache they discovered. A few minutes later the radio crackled with the words “one minute to detonation”, and that in turn was followed by the deep, angry thump of explosive force. As the sheet of scattered force boomed by

     Finally we received word that the Blackhawks were inbound, and the defensive positions started returning to the PZ. Our headquarters and security detail were the first on the scene, and as we waited there in the tall reeds troops started to slowly gather in their respective chalks. A few minutes before the Blackhawks arrived each chalk radioed up their status, and I smiled when I heard that all personnel were up and all equipment was accounted for. As the Blackhawks made their final approach each chalk threw out a smoke grenade to mark their position, and the birds settled down in a biting torrent of earth and air. We hot loaded the birds, and by time I had clipped in the nose was pitching forward boring a tunnel into the sky.

     When we landed back at the FOB we barreled out of the Blackhawks and started the long walk back to the barracks. As we walked back SSG Spite summed up our mission succinctly by saying “we took a Dutch reporter, an Air Force team, and a Navy dog handler and EOD team on an Army Air Assault to a remote island in the Tigris River - how is that for joint operations?”. Once we were back in the barracks I walked back into my room and looked at the imagery on my desk. It didn’t turn out quite like I thought, but our objective had been cleared and we had no casualties. That was victory enough… at least for today.

Baby Steps

     The Iraqi Police (IP) forces have come a long way in the last year; I doubt our predecessors would recognize them these days.  When we arrived most of the IPs stayed hunkered down in their police stations, content to restrict their patrols to the roads circling their stations.  As they gained confidence the areas they patrolled slowly expanded and a few months after we arrived their heavily armed patrols were flitting through areas that had been a virtual no mans land.  Their expansion into new and dangerous areas wasn’t easy, and they suffered no small number of casualties in the process.  But with our Battalions patrols backing them up when they were heavily engaged their confidence skyrocketed, and they went from being the hunted to being the hunters.     

     Despite their considerable progress there are still some sectors of Baghdad that are so rife with danger they are assiduously avoided by the IP patrols.  One of those areas is the sector of Southern Baghdad my company patrols each and every day.  It’s not that the IPs aren’t doing their job, our area is only a fraction of the area that they are responsible for patrolling, and truth be told it is far less populated then the neighborhoods to our North.  But that being said I’m sure the fearsome reputation of our Area of Operations (AO) didn’t help much either.     

     When we first arrived in our new sector the IPs assured us that they conducted daily patrol through the area, but after a few weeks it became clear that we had vastly different ideas about what comprised a daily patrol.  To remedy the problem we started building a stronger relationship with the IPs, and over the ensuing days and weeks their attitude started to slowly change.  After a few weeks there were several members of their strike teams who were more then happy to conduct joint patrols, and eventually that teamwork started paying rich dividends.     

     Before I go on I should explain a little about the AIF, because without describing our enemy the IPs reticence won’t make a lot of sense.  A good starting point to understanding the AIF in our sector is to dump all your preconceptions… because chances are they are dead wrong.  After watching countless televised clips of AIF attacks you might think the average AIF fighter is a ferocious, shadowy figure cloaked in menace and seething with hatred for the United States.  The truth is far less flattering.  The AIF forces are indiscernible from the average Iraqi, on more then one occasion we have had to pick up individuals who had offered us tea during one of our daily patrols.  Instead of hiding in some shadowy spiderhole they hide in plain sight.  Their defining characteristic isn’t courage, it is deception.  They operate a little like a school yard bully, when we aren’t around they threaten their communities with death to ensure they aren’t compromised, then when we arrive they smile and wave as we pass by.      

     When the IPs conduct raids the trapped AIF fighters occasionally stand and fight, but even when they don’t many IPs are concerned for the safety of their families.  Before some raids they can be seen masking their identity with thick woolen ski masks - you can judge just how dangerous their target is by how many of their officers decide to “mask up”.     

     While the AIF occasionally takes their chances by standing and fighting the IP raids they never seem to contest US raids.  By this stage in the war they know that they can’t win a fight with US forces, and they don’t even try to put up resistance.  Because the AIF lives in mortal fear of a US raid the IPs are more then happy to conduct joint operations with our forces, they know that the mere presence of our forces is enough to cow the most stubborn AIF fighter into submission.     

     Tonight, during one of our routine joint patrols the Iraqi officer riding in my HMMWV started to fidget and look decidedly uncomfortable.  After working with the IPs I’ve learned to use their unconscious body language as an impromptu diving rod for AIF activity.  And at that moment it was obvious that something, or someone was nearby.  As my soldiers pulled up a security perimeter I started to slowly wheedle the information out of the IP.  After a few minutes of question and answer the story started to unfold, apparently several hundred meters away there was a home that harbored a particularly lethal gentleman affiliated with Al Qaeda in Iraq.  The mere mention of Al Qaeda immediately piqued my interest, and the proximity to several recent IEDs sealed the issue… our patrol had a new mission.  The IP and his comrades looked decidedly uncomfortable at the prospect of bringing in this particular fighter, but when I pulled out several black ski masks out of the trunk their distress vanished.  As they pulled the woolen caps over their faces they seemed renewed, and for a second I silently laughed at the sudden transformation.  In that moment, in that darkened patch of road, they looked for all the world like some B-Movie superhero putting on their crime fighting outfit.      

     Once they were all clad in the ebon masks the IPs were eager to take point and lead us towards the suspected safehouse.  We shuttled through the underbrush in a low and stealthy column, and once we the vegetation started to thin up we gathered together in a small hollow and called forward the HMMWVS.  The vehicles crept into overwatch positions, while the gunners slewed their turrets towards the target buildings.  Once they were in place the IPs stood up, and prepared to charge the target building.  As they stood up some of their nervous energy seemed to dissipate, but once they watched American soldiers stand up behind them ready to follow their confidence seemed to magically congeal.  Without a second glance they hurtled towards the house at a dead sprint, and we followed a handful of steps behind them.      

     I won’t get into the tactical details of the next few seconds; passing along that type of information could be calamitous to our mission and make life easier on the AIF.  What I will mention is one particular memory that was burned into my mind in those first few seconds.  A memory of the AIF leader seeing the American forces enter behind the IPs and squeal like a little girl… then proceed to urinate on his dishdash.     

     A careful search of the home provided more then enough evidence to verify the IPs intelligence, and once the search was complete we escorted the IPs back to their police station.  As they walked into the station the IPs strutted like peacocks, proudly displaying the captured AIF fighters the way a fisherman might display a trophy bass.  We remained several paces behind the IPs, and watched their antics with great amusement.  Our translator quietly passed along their story as they passed it along to the other police officers, and I was mildly surprised at how much the story had already evolved.  Despite their inflated claims I was happy to let the IPs take all the credit, if nothing else it would help build their confidence in their own abilities.  We spent a few minutes confirming the slightly swollen accounts of bravery, and then we said our goodbyes and started on our long dusty ride home.  As we drove back to the FOB I kept thinking of the complete and utter fear that seemed to ooze out of the self proclaimed Al Qaeda member… and I laughed when I remembered his soaked dishdash.    I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Al Qaeda the same.          

Id al-Fitr

     One of the last missions CPT Mackinnon talked about was a goodwill mission to help the shantytowns celebrate Id al-Fitr, the closing days of Ramadan. Id al-Fitr is a joyous celebration that roughly approximates Christmas in both festivity and mirth, and CPT Mackinnon wanted to help the poorest of the poor celebrate in grand fashion.

     And so on the day of ID al-Fitr we found ourselves loading our HMMWVs with boxes of dates, stuffed animals, soccer balls and candy. Loading up all these presents should have been a carefree process - but the wounds we had suffered were still suppurating. Our recent losses still boomed in our collective memory, and the constant hammering on our heart’s door seemed to poison the joy we should have felt.

     As I watched our soldiers finishing preparing the loads their haphazard motions belied their discomfort, as if their actions were physically manifesting the turmoil in my own heart. For in those few minutes I was of two minds. The hard edged part of my being, the warrior spirit chiseled into the granite of my soul, recoiled at this mission of mercy. I barely recognized that shadow of my own consciousnes, it was too clotted with wrath to appear familiar. Its inchoate screech battered my will with naked fury – and with every hot beat of my heart I heard it cry out its need to ensure justice for our fallen.

     The song of blood battered that still, focused part of my being that understood the importance of this mission. Even in the midst of the torrential onslaught it remained true, as if it were a relentless compass needle heeding only the soft field lines of conscience. The battle does not always go to the strong, and in that inner struggle it was the quiet voice of reason that prevailed over the ravenous anger. By time the HMMWVs were loaded I was no longer conflicted – I knew what my duty was. We had come to Iraq to build a more secure future for the country, and this mission was as good a start as any.

     After the mission brief I pulled together the patrol and came clean, admitting my own struggle to unclench fists balled with anger. I could have just ordered the troops to pass out the gifts - they are disciplined to carry out orders they don’t agree with. But in my heart I knew that was just the easy way out, the last recourse for a poor leader. Instead I put into words the thoughts hanging over all our heads. My words didn’t provide any real insight, and they didn’t soothe old wounds.  They just reminded these hardened troops that we weren’t here to bring the law of the sword, but to seed a friendly area with hope. In the end the only thing that would permanently undermine the AIF would be our mercy and goodwill. CPT Mackinnon believed this to be true until his dying day, and I would not dishonor him by abandoning his mission. With that said we loaded into the vehicles and sped towards the shantytowns.

     As we drove into the first village I wondered if my words were worth the breath in my lungs, or if they had died in the space between my lips and their ears. Doubt crept into my thoughts for the first time, and I wondered if I even believed myself. As we dismounted several children came running out to meet us, dressed in their finest clothes. The moment I watched the first throng wash up the doubt disappeared, melted away by the exuberance of these happy upturned faces. As we walked along the village passing out small gifts to the children I looked around and noticed our soldiers were all smiling. The gunners still tracked their sectors with practiced care, but the troops walking the streets reflected the sea of joy around our convoy. Although the area was too poor to have any holiday decorations it seemed like everyone was dressed in their finest clothes. Men wore clean sets of clothing, and their wives were dressed in bright patterned burkhas as garish and jovial as a Hawaiian shirt. It seemed like every woman in the village was painted with thick coats of makeup, a subtle difference that stood in sharp contrast to the roughshod appearance of their patchwork homes. At a few of the homes I gathered together the families and snapped a Polaroid snapshot and handed the photo to the family patriarch. That simple gesture brought tears to several sets of eyes, photographs were obviously rare treasures in these bustling neighborhoods. By time our HMMWVs were emptied entire communities were laughing and cheering, and my soldiers looked over their work with justified pride. We returned to the FOB far stronger then when we left it.

All Soul's Day

     Today, under the bleached light of the sun, the Nightstalkers gathered to pay our final respects to our fallen brothers. Our soldiers filed in for the better part of an hour, some so fresh off of a mission that their faces were still powdered with dust. They stood there in rows as straight and silent as a well tended field, lending solemn dignity to this inelegant patch of concrete. At our sides stood soldiers from every battalion in the 3^rd Infantry Division – proof that the sense of loss that had rippled through our battalion echoed in every unit in the Division.

     The first speaker, CSM Socrates remembered our Battalion Commander with the following words:

     It is yet another afternoon in Southern Baghdad and we gather once again, to pay tribute all to our fallen leaders, brothers in arms and friends. This afternoon it is my heart breaking yet ultimate honor to attempt to describe for you my short yet, everlasting relationship with Colonel William Wesley Wood.

     I first met this fine officer over lunch, just a few months ago. His first words, like the man himself, were to the point. I quote: “CSM give it to me straight, what is your assessment of our battalion?  From that first conversation it was clear he was determined to complete the mission at hand, a mission given to him just a few hours before.

     For the next few months our relationship would grow by leaps and bounds. I saw a stoic face change to a smile thru turbulent times and at the oddest of times. His embodiment of mission accomplishment would not be superseded by anything, or anyone. His direct approach to operational success was not to control, rather, in my opinion, he wanted every soldier know that he was not only sending orders down to the soldier level, he was also AT their ground level, actively participating in just about every operation. For he was a man who believed in what he planned.

     To see a Battalion Commander stop his PSD along Route ****, walk away from his vehicle and towards a small, unattended child, pull candy and a toy from his pocket, then crouch down to the eye-level of that child so he could give his gifts made a great impact not only on that child, but on the soldiers he led. COL Wood was an officer of uncommon breed. He was not your average man. He continually demonstrated in word and deeds his belief and allegiance to the cause of a better Iraq. His task consumed him in every aspect of everyday living in this country. Somehow, though, gradually his true nature began to show.

     For me this happened one night while I was scrolling thru the daily myriad of e-mails that flood us day and night. He put his head in my office and said “Hey CSM get some sleep, tomorrow is another day.” I said “Roger Sir” and wished him good night as he walked away. As he disappeared I returned to the task at hand and my Harley Davidson wall clock struck midnight with its distinctive engine rumble. Suddenly, the Colonel appeared again: “ Oh yeah  Harley’s suck.”  This statement made me smile both on my face and in my heart and, no, I could not work again. I heard him laughing at me while he closed his door. As I attempted to get back at him he shouted “you should get a real horse” His laughter could be heard through the walls. There was nothing else I could do but laugh.

     From that moment I began to know the man behind that stoic face. A man who love his daughter so much that he would often beckon me with “hey CSM did I show you this clip?” referring to his tapes of his daughter. I would fall for it every time, believing it to be a new video, it was, as before the same clip of his beloved Rachel taking her horse around a series of obstacles. Every time he showed me the same video, he would comment on how the horse had just missed the right step and how much better she was becoming at riding.

     As time passed we shared stories of our wives and children, our military careers and his hopes and aspiration. I once told him that I would suggest to the Governor that he should become the next Army Advisor to the Adjutant General of the Calironia Army National Guard. He laughed at me and said, “I am not crazy, however, Georgia or Florida, that is where its at!” As I reflect on the short period of time that we had the honor to serve under this man I see that he sharpened our skills by taking us to the next level. He demanded and rewarded equally.  As a soldier once said to me of the Colonel, “he knew his game.”

     Over the last few days I have asked many of our soldiers and officers I could if they could tell me the exact date when the Colonel actually took command. Most - if not all - could not.  In my book this distinguishes a great leader, for the men of his task force felt that he had been with them for so long. The Nightstalkers truly had become his battalion.  Short was the time he was with us, eternally will his memory be seared in our souls.

     Perhaps someday when I am blessed with grandchildren should I be asked the question that men of arms often look to for inspiration: “Grandpa,” they will say, “what did you do during the war?” I predict I will become teary eye and begin to tell a story of a man I once knew that had fallen along with many others, but the line in the sand he helped sustain, enforce and push forward was still standing; A man who believed in his Country, in his cause, and in the men he led.  A man who is Forever Nightstalker:

     William Wesley Wood - Colonel of Infantry - proud American - husband of Nancy - father of Rachel - lover of horses - and my Battalion Commander in the United States Army.

     Once he had finished I had the honor of remembering the finest company commander in the United States Army. No words could have honored Mike in as fitting a manner as he deserved.  His true memorial will be turning streets filled with death and despair into places where the happy chatter of children can be heard.  I tried my best to sum up my honored commander with these words:

     CPT Michael Mckinnon was a good man. Just saying Mike was a good man sounds almost hollow and tinny over this microphone because it falls so far short of describing the true worth of Alpha Company’s commander. I’ve been given an impossible mission, because words have not yet been fashioned to properly describe a man as noble, as brave, as selfless and as gifted as CPT McKennon.

     CPT Mackinnon came to A Co, 1-184 IN when we were at our lowest point - and through his perfect example and powerful will he took something broken and made it new again. From the moment he arrived he treated every soldier with dignity, grace, and respect. And because of that we loved him. He led with resolve, courage, and wisdom. And because of that we respected him. He never had to ask for either, he just spontaneously inspired that kind of devotion.

     He was a soldier’s soldier who never quailed, no matter how great the risk. But he was more then just a warrior, CPT Mackinnon had a heart whose equal I will never again meet. He personified America not as it is, but as it aspires to be. That manifested itself in everything he did and every life he touched. He brought hope to areas that known only despair, and every time he arrived in some of the villages in our sector the children would run out to meet him shouting “Mike, Mike”.

    I remember a time when CPT Mackinnon was visiting one of the local villages whose sheik had died and the question of who should be elected sheik came up. Each of the villagers offered up their suggestions, and they were all quickly booed down. Finally one of the villagers nominated CPT Mackinnon. As soon as he did everyone’s face lit up – and they all agreed CPT Mackinnon would make the best sheik. CPT Mackinnon deferred, and asked why they were so insistent on electing him sheik. They replied with one voice “Because you are the only one we can trust”

     CPT Mackinnon and I would sit together every night after everything settled down and he would talk about how much he missed his wife Beth , his son Noah and his daughter Madison. His heart never strayed from his family, and somehow our conversations always steered towards Madison and Noah’s last soccer game, or how he met his wife while attending West Point.

     I cannot fathom the anguish his family is experiencing right now. I know that whatever pain we feel right now is magnified a thousand fold. To lose such a loving husband, and such a caring father seems like a great injustice. Mrs. Mackinnon – I am sorry we couldn’t bring Mike home to your loving arms. Please know that every soldier in A Company will carry Mike’s memory deep in their hearts, and his bright presence will never dim or weather with age. He was our commander, he was our hero, and he was our friend.

     LT Irish followed by remembering his friend and fellow artilleryman, CPT Ray Hill, with these words:

A soldier and poet in a different war penned the following lines.

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.
            Oh when may it suffice? That is heavens part.
            Our part is to murmur name upon name as a mother names her child
            When sleep at last has come on limbs that have run wild.
            What is it but nightfall; no not night but death.
            And was it needless death after all?
            We know their dreams enough to know that they dreamed and are dead.
            What if it was excessive love that bewildered them until they died?
            While we who are left are changed, changed utterly by a terrible beauty.

     That same terrible beauty has changed us who are here today. Our friends and comrades have been stolen from us by a cowardly and despicable foe. The fact remains that we cannot allow their sacrifice to make a stone of our hearts, nor can we allow it to kill our dreams. These fallen men did in fact die from excessive love. They loved their country and their comrades more than they loved life itself. They were willing to take up a burden that others shun and many scorn in order to insure that our freedoms are preserved. We in turn must see that this fight is carried on. We will secure victory so that our children and the children of our fallen may have the opportunity to live in peace.

     CPT Ray Hill was a friend of mine and a fellow Redleg. We met during the course of this deployment and I came to recognize several traits that typified him. First and foremost he was a kind and gentle man. He rarely had a harsh word for anyone. As the Battalion FSO he was in charge of plotting lethal fires. The truth of the matter is that he took more pleasure in plotting the distribution of Humanitarian assistance then he did in planning the destruction of his fellow man. Ray was the sort of man who was always willing to help another soldier, often at his own expense. He spent numerous hours coaching me through power point slides so that I had a quality product to brief. I know that on more than one occasion he devoted so much time to my portion of the brief that his own suffered. That was always his nature, to help others before himself.

     Ray loved his family. The first thing you saw when entering his office were pictures of his wife and daughters. Anyone who spent any amount of time with Ray knew that his daughters were the center of his life. He constantly kept us updated as to their achievements in track, and how well they were doing in school. He worried that they were growing up to fast and that they were far too cute. He was afraid that they were starting to attract boys while he was away. He often joked that he was willing to risk going to jail in order to sneak enough guns home to drive all of the boys away.

     CPT Hill we your soldiers of the Det will never forget you. You will live on in our hearts. HIKI NO! Sir.

      SPC Shakere Guy was remembered by his friend and fellow soldier SPC G. As SPC G. stepped up to the podium he shared a little about the wonderful soldier we all knew as SPC Guy.

      “I’m just Guy“... that was his favorite quote. There are many things for which he will be remembered, but what we will never forget is his desire to help others and his commitment to the mission assigned to him. He was committed to his family, his fiancé Latsha, his daughter Jezelle and to his brothers that are gathered here today.

     He loved interacting with the Iraqi children and handing out soccer balls, T- shirts, beanie babies and candy that he would purchase from the PX out of his own pocket.

     He had set goals for himself, he had planned on returning to school, purchasing a home, and a motorcycle upon completion of the mission. Although his personal goals were not accomplished, he did manage to accomplish a greater goal -  giving other human beings a better way of life thru countless hours of no sleep and a lot of hard work and sweat. Guy was by my side engaging the enemy during our very first IED, followed by small arms fire. I couldn’t have asked for a better soldier by my side. He performed very well at his assigned duties, whether it be as a gunner or driver. He maintained a high level of alertness and was quick to point out weaknesses to help the team. Guy wore the uniform proudly.

     One of his favorite songs was “Stacy’s Mom“. His pastimes were Madden Football 2006, internet and basket ball. Guy played basketball often but it was not one of his greatest talents, he would often lose to his Platoon Sgt SST Maj, a 40 year old man, Guy stated that he was going to loose his status as a basketball player. He had a great sense of humor, always wearing a smile and joking - making dull moments pleasant. He used to proudly describe himself by saying that he was half European and half Jamaican.

     Let us not be sad, we should be proud of his commitment, professionalism and his contribution to helping those that were oppressed. Guy,  no matter where you go, your brothers at Delta Company and Psy Ops will always be beside you. Our hearts will grieve but we know that you will be in peace. I am still having trouble absorbing the fact that you have parted with us, the only thing that I can think of is that God looked around and found an empty place, he put his arms around you and lifted you to rest and only he knows why.

     As the ceremony came to a close soldiers and officers stepped up to the memorial that served as a focal point for our grief, and paid their last respects. I walked up to the memorial at the side of 1SG Nascar, and together we said our last goodbyes to our brothers in arms. We marched forward, held a long salute, and kneeled before the memorial. The 1SG placed the company guidon on Mike’s boots, and I placed a can of his beloved Copenhagen Snuff next to his photograph. And then we stood up, saluted and walked away. As we walked away in silence I barely noticed that my cheeks were wet with tears.