365 and a Wakeup

In Memory

Death comes to all. But great achievements build a monument which shall endure until the sun grows cold.

                       -George Fabricius

     New Year’s Eve is a time of both reflection and renewal, a time where a giddy sense of opportunity and hope seep into even the most hardened heart. But there was no joy in Killer Company this New Years Eve… because on New Years Eve we lost a cherished brother. CPL Marcelino “Ronnie” Corniel was a warrior prince. He cut his teeth in the United States Marine Corps, then after a short return to the civilian world he joined the ‘Hard Guard” as he affectionately called it. Shortly after his enlistment he was once again on point for his country.

     The last few weeks have grown increasingly cold – or at least it feels that way to our desert acclimated bodies. But today was different… today the winter sun flared down on our battered hearts and brought some small measure of comfort to our grieving ranks. Under this warm and welcome sky the Battalion gathered for the memorial service. The ceremony took place on a barren patch of concrete… one that our Soldiers have become far too familiar with. To an outsider this desolate slab would hardly merit a second glance. But to us it is a sanctum, a place around which grim soldiers gather to form a living cathedral.

     The first tribute to CPL Corniel was from LTC K, our Battalion Commander.  He remembered CPL Corniel with the following words.

     CPL Marcelino Ronald Corniel, or “Ronnie” to his friends and family, was killed in a mortar attack on his observation post on 31 December ending is life at the young age of 23. CPL Corniel was a son to xxxxx, older brother to three sisters, and engaged to marry his fiancé xxx. He called La Puente, California his home.  CPL Corniel’s strong desire to serve is country drove him to enlist, first in the Marine Corps, and then in the Inactive Ready Reserve. He joined the California Army National Guard in June last year, an answer to his own call of duty, expressing to his friends that “he just had to get over there to help”. Having just arrived in Iraq in September CPL Corniel quickly assimilated into Killer Company, and his infantry platoon was attached to Cyclone Company, manning one of the most dangerous locations in our area of operations. His expert knowledge of weapons gained him immediate notoriety. His platoon mates describe him as a selfless, giving person, who often said that he wanted to go out fighting, and that’s exactly what CPL Corniel did. As we honor his life today, we are reminded of the fleeting moments of life, and the fact that we must fight until the end when we can finally stack arms. No words can ease his family’s loss; we can only offer our prayers and memories. No New Years Eve will ever go without recalling his sacrifice. CPL Corniel stands as a lasting tribute to the American patriot who answers the calling and runs to the sound of the guns. God bless you CPL Ronnie Corniel, and God speed you to your new home with him in paradise. Nightstalkers, Vanguard, Rock of the Marne.

     The next speaker was CPT A, the Commander of Cyclone Company, and he offered the following words.

     First I would like to thank all of you for attending. Seeing you all here, I know it will be alright plus we are going home now.

    I did not know CPL Corniel very well. He had just arrived in Iraqi in September. He was a Marine, and you know what they say… Once a Marine, always a Marine. It always seems like the people you don’t know too well are the ones you wish you had known better just from all the stories people share when they are gone. Corniel was one of those guys. He loved the Corps. He arrived in Kuwait wearing his Marine  unifrm due to RFI being issued in Kuwait.

    He could make people laugh with his stories. Marine stories are always humorous to Army guys. He would say that Army Special Forces were just glorified Marines. One story stands out to SPC Truck. CPL Corniel’s fiance was watching the news about Iraq and asked him why the doctors were mad at the soldiers… CPL Corniel explained to her – not surgeons… insurgents. Just ask SPC Truck for details. He could just make people laugh.

     I have worked with 3^rd Platoon, Alpha Company, 1-184 IN since August. They lost the first soldier in the Battalion and it seems like they are closing the same way. My hat is off to you guys. I will fight with you at my side anytime, anywhere. Guys like SGT Henna, SPC German, and SSG Kin… the guys who were hurt with CPL Corniel, the Department of the Navy squad. All of Green, as we called you! All of you are part of the Cyclone family.

    Guys – stand tall. You have done solid work here and made Iraq a better place. Remember CPL Corniel as he was… vibrant and energetic. Do not mourn his death but celebrate a Marine who came to join the ranks of the Army. We all have something to learn from each other. Take this and learn… one day we will all meet up again and there will be one joyous reunion.   

Cyclones – Tear it up! Hard Guard!

     Then I stepped up to the podium and tried to pay tribute to CPL Corniel. My words are but a shadow of CPL Corniel, for no words could truly capture a man of such infinite worth.

     As the sun sets on our deployment I’ve come to realize that we are all bound by ties that can never be shattered. Bone deep bonds that were forged in the blood and fire of combat, and tempered by both sacrifice and loss. Today those ties grow tighter, because today we have to say goodbye to CPL Ronnie Corniel.

     There are some unfortunate souls who never have the chance to meet a true hero. In that respect we were lucky - because we had the honor of serving side by side with one. CPL Corniel was a hero in every sense of the word. His courage both on and off the battlefield was inspiring, and his bearing, leadership, and selfless service exemplified the finest traditions of both the  United States Army and the  United States Marine Corps.

    Ronnie was our company’s resident weapons expert, and his knowledge of small arms was almost uncanny. Every time a new gun magazine arrived at the barracks his friends would show him the pictures and ask him to describe the weapon. To every one’s amazement CPL Corniel would describe the nomenclature, caliber, and range as if those arcane facts were common knowledge. But Ronnie’s encyclopedic knowledge wasn’t just a parlor trick, his expertise was critical out there on patrol. CPL Corniel’s knowledge ensured his platoon was able to safely carry out their mission, and was directly responsible for the capture of several enemy fighters.

      CPL Corniel was a natural born warrior, but his gifts weren’t limited to the battlefield. If anything his loyalty, honesty, and charm eclipsed even his fearsome martial prowess. He was the type of man who reflexively used his gifts to help others; I don’t think he even understood the concept of selfishness. In the next few days our mission here in the land of the two rivers will come to a close, and we will start the long road back home. I know that Ronnie will be there watching over us, just as he always did. Semper Fi!  

     SPC G had the privilege of serving side by side with CPL Corniel, and they were bound together by friendship and their shared memories of the Marine Corps. He remembered his friend with these words.

    Where do I start, when I talk about CPL Ronnie Corniel to some of us here, and you know who you are? He was a former Devil Dog still in the Inactive Ready Reserve with the Marine Corps, when he enlisted with the Army National Guard. He volunteered to come to the suck – Iraq that is – to fight the fight for our country as he always put it. Day in and day out. To me he was a friggin hard charger, always ready to carry out the mission. To CPL Corniel enlisting in the ‘Hard Guard” was just another chapter in his life that he wanted to pursue, and to do it to the best of his ability. He wanted to pass off his skills to those who wanted to learn. But to me he was just Ronnie, not just my brother in arms, but mainly my brother. He will always be in the hearts and minds of my family forever. I know you are up there Ronnie, and that you probably asked the big man up above to issue you a new rifle so you could pull the first watch and guard the gates. But I want to give you one last piece of advice, don’t mouth off to the big man this time! I love you bro.

     Our Chaplain, MAJ B, was the last to speak. His meditation was a salve to our grieving hearts, and reminded us all that the best tribute to CPL Corniel would be to follow his brilliant example. His tribute follows…

“A few days and we all go home. If we can just make it the net few we will be on our way.” That was our cry as we prepared to demobilize. CPL Ronald Corniel was not given those few days. He just had the moment, but he lived those moments fully. Today’s tribute to CPL Ronald Corniel is most fitting and proper. He served the United States Marines, the Army, and hs country well and we pay our deep respect to him and offer our sympathes to his family. 

    He had been a Marine and loved it. He did his time. But he wanted to give more. He chose to join the Army during a time of war. He chose the Guard to serve with brothers and friends he knew. He wanted to do something significant; he wanted to make a difference. He had already done his part, he served his country honorably, he could have stayed home but he came back. This is the type of man we remember.

     We grieve his loss because he was an example of a good Soldier. We mourn his loss because we have seen too much death and now just at the end we have lost another. We say, “Death couldn’t you have let us get out without another meeting?” We are shocked because death does not honor our redeployment schedule. We are numb and we are angry. And that is OK. In our attention to death of our brother today, let us not forget life. Let us remember that while death is inevitable, life is more powerful. Just as the cold, chilly winter months must give way to the light and warmth of spring, so too death cannot stand before the advance of new life.

    Therefore is is also fitting and proper that we, the living, renew our commitment to life with its responsibilities and commitments. Let us resolve that with God being our helper, we will pursue only that which enhance life… and liberty that makes life meaningful. Let us resist that which threatens life and destroys liberty. Let the words of one writer help us as we work toward that goal: “I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore, that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to a fellow creature, let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.’

    Our Lord has given us a legacy of hope for the future when he said, “ I am the resurrection and the life. He that believes in me though he were dead, yet shall live. And he that lives and believes in me shall never die.” Let us not fear death, but face it; let us not cower before the future but walk boldly into it. 

    Then too, let us go on to take advantage of today’s responsibilities and opportunities. Let us live each day well – one at a time. Sine we have only one life to live, we should give it our best. Each of us needs a cause and a purpose that is bigger then ourselves to which we can dedicate our lives. CPL Corniel did not live in the past, he did not rest on a past career, he looked forward to what he could offer in the present because he did not let fear of the future hold him back. He came to a dangerous place and live gallantly. He wanted to live vibrantly, now. Let us not regret the past or fear the future so we can get on with the business of living in the present. May we learn to seize the opportunities at hand and thank God for every day we are given. Let us begin with the first day we have, today!

     CPL Corniel was as close to perfect as this world allows. He will be missed. Rest in Peace brother.

 

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.

Heros

“Good men must die, but death can not kill their names.”

           - Anonymous Proverb

     Our battalion suffered terrible blows this past week, leaving me vainly grasping for words to describe the magnitude of our loss. In a handful of days we lost four great men, COL William Wood, CPT Michael Mackinnon, CPT Ray Hill, and SPC Shakere Guy. When I chronicle the ebb and flow of our days here in Iraq the words usually tumble out on their own accord, flowing from some burbling spring buried deep in my heart. But that spring lies dormant, and the words that do appear seem little more then an echo of the clear, and perfect memory I have of these great and noble men. I will never be able to express the cauldron of fire we pass through each and every day, and because I can’t even give real insight into our reality I fear that anything I might say about our fallen heroes will be an injustice to their memory. I will do my best to snatch my thoughts from the ether, but I know I will fail. To understand just how deep our loss really is you would have to know these beautiful, noble men yourself. And that won’t happen in this lifetime.

     COL Wood was the commander of the Nightstalkers. He was a man who’s stern features seemed chiseled out of granite, but his strength and conviction eclipsed even that adamantine material. He was a man who led from the front, never asking his soldiers to carry out an action he wasn’t willing to perform himself. His steady hand and firm conviction guided the battalion, and his wisdom and far sight were unparalleled.

     CPT Michael Mackinnon was my company commander, and my dear friend. Mike was a man of enormous talent - he could have done anything he wanted to in this world. But Mike didn’t seek money or fame. He wanted to serve his nation with valor, courage and distinction... and he did that better then any man I have known.  Mike was our leader, and his legacy will live on in the hearts of every soldier in his command. I was honored to serve as his deputy, and blessed to be able to call him my friend.

CPT Ray Hill was an artilleryman by trade, looking back it seems almost ironic that a man with such an enormous love for his fellow man was responsible for the largest cannons in the battalion. I have known Ray for over five years, and I can’t remember ever seeing him without a broad grin on his face. The Iraqi people couldn’t have hoped to find a truer friend then CPT Hill. He believed in the intrinsic worth of the individual and deeply cared about the welfare of the Iraqis. He never ventured outside the wire without a bevy of presents and candy for the local children.

     SPC Shakere Guy didn’t have to come on this deployment – he volunteered to deploy with our battalion because he had the heart of a lion. SPC Guy was a Jamaican immigrant, but he personified all that is great about America. He was a M1 Abrams crewman, but he willingly gave up his beloved tank in order to deploy with our battalion. His heart never strayed from those armored giants and he spoke of them often, but he was as able an infantryman as you could ever hope to meet.  SPC Guy had a ferocious appetite for learning, and his razor sharp mind and natural ability ensured he mastered whatever skill he set his mind to.

     In the face of so stunning a loss it is natural for the soul to grow weary, and for the mind to wail for that which has been so violently ripped away. It would be the easiest of things to let my heart turn as cold as death and let it pump my veins with frigid and poisonous ice. But that would dishonor the memory of our fallen, and would be an unfitting tribute to men who had given the last full measure of devotion. Instead I will do something far more difficult; I will continue onward and complete our unfinished work. There will come a day when I will weep bitter tears for my fallen comrades and friends, but right now there is much to be done. And it is up to those of us who knew these wonderful men to see it through to the end.

 

The Line Holds Steady

     During one of our Battalion’s memorial ceremonies COL Wood quoted a passage that described our last few days with perfect clarity.  The line that has echoed in my mind these last few days is this: "Soldiers have fallen, but the line holds steady".        

     The day we lost our commanders was the longest day of my life.  Once we had completed our grim work on scene we lined up the recovery and security vehicles and started the movement back to the FOB.  As our convoy approached the FOB 1LT Moth called us over the company net and requested we immediately report to the company CP.  As the words rolled over the net I felt naked tendrils of anger swell as if molten fingers of lava were coursing through my body.  The message didn’t fan the glowing embers of rage smoldering in my chest, it was a perfectly legitimate request.  What infuriated me was the thought that our follow on movement to the CASH to check on CPT Mackinnon, SGT Bard, SPC Sol, and SPC Spartan might somehow be stalled.            As we rolled into the gate the patrol leader guided the other vehicles to the refueling point, and my vehicle broke formation and sped towards the CP.  I dismounted the HMMWV before it had even rolled to a stop and marched into the command post.  I used each footfall as a thumping mantra, focusing on purging the useless fury infecting my thoughts. 

     As soon as I walked in our CP the anger clicked off and my hot blood congealed into pure ice.  Standing in front of me was MAJ Ursa, the Battalion Operations Officer, and the look on his face carried a grave solemnity that seemed to chill the entire room.  MAJ Ursa walked over to me, looked me in the eye and said “We lost Mike”.  Up until that very second I had assumed CPT Mackinnon would be fine, holding on to the childish notion that the hero in every good story would somehow live happily ever after.  I felt hot tears start to burn the corners of my eyes, and struggled to keep them from betraying my anguish.  What stopped my tears from falling wasn’t my own resilience, it was the sudden realization that there was still much work to be done. 

     We had caught several suspected insurgents at the IED site, and we still had wounded soldiers in the CASH and both situations needed to be addressed before there would be time to mourn.  In those first few empty minutes duty took the place of will, and eventually my grief was stayed by the gravity of our follow on tasks.      Once the detainees were turned over to the detainment facility I took one of the HMMWVs and sped to the CASH to check on our soldiers.  As we were walking into the CASH we ran into SPC Sol outside the main entrance smoking a cigarette.  We rushed up to greet him and he dutifully pulled up his pant leg to display the ugly crease a sliver of shrapnel had carved in his leg.  We joked around for a few minutes and then let him get back to his room to get some well deserved rest.     

     As we entered the CASH we stopped at the front desk to find out where our troops were located, but the desk was vacant.  As I waited for the attendant to arrive I started to look around the waiting room.  The entire room was immaculate, the drab uniformity of the walls brightened by cheery Halloween cards and posters.  For a second I had to look back at SSG Spite and remind myself I was still in Iraq – the sense of order and cleanliness was utterly bewildering.  As the minutes slipped by I walked over to one of the Halloween posters.  There splashed in a scarlet, bleeding font were the words “Halloween Party – 1800 at the XXXX pool”.  I can’t describe the bitterness that simple line dredged up.  There has always been a yawning gulf between the bleeding edge of the battlefield and the relative luxury of the rear areas – but after everything we had witnessed today that chasm seemed especially hateful.  In that instant I knew I could no longer wait at this cheery desk, with its carefree invitations and smiling Halloween monsters.  This was not my world, my world was a land of real monsters, and dirt, and death.  I wanted nothing to do with this rear echelon oasis.     

     I grabbed SSG Spite and we moved upstairs to find our troops on our own.   After a few minutes one of the nurses took pity on the dirty bedraggled soldiers roaming the halls and guided us over to SPC Spartans room.  When we walked into his room we found him laying down in one of the hospital beds, looking as bright and hopeful as always.  His short term memory was still a little disorganized, and he laughed at his inability to remember how many times soldiers had stopped by to visit.  We laughed and carried on for a few minutes and then let SPC Spartan get some rest.  As we left we returned to the nursing station to find out other injured soldier, only to find he had already been released back to the FOB. 

     We jumped back in our HMMWV and made our way back to the rest of the convoy, and once we had linked up we all rolled back to our FOB together.      By time I walked back into our CP it was well into morning, but the entire company leadership was still awake waiting for our return.  Around the simple mapboard that serves as an makeshift table sat 1SG Nascar, 1LT Mo, 1LT Irish, 1LT Eve, SSG Rock, SSG Moose, and SSG Longboard.  As I looked at these men I recognized the same pain burning in my chest was reflected in their eyes – and in that moment we were brothers in grief.  I couldn’t have asked for kinder company then this battle worn family, our lives bound together by bonds of both joy and pain.  We talked for a few minutes and then I sent everyone off to get some rest.  As they filtered out of the CP I walked back to my room and spent the rest of the morning staring at the ceiling, my mind adrift in dark currents.  I felt like a feckless boat seeking refuge from a gathering storm, but there was no safe harbor that morning.  Eventually the sun leeched into the sky and I walked back into the CP.     

      By then a message had come down from the BN TOC, both myself and the 1SG would have to report the Fallen Hero’s room for a Battalion meeting.  I walked into the latrines to clean up and was startled by the lined faced gazing back from the mirror.  After a quick shave I looked a little better, but my reflection still looked as aged and worn as an old grindstone.       The morning slid by, as some mornings tend to do, and looking back I can’t seem to remember much of what happened in that span of hours.  Eventually lunchtime arrived and I joined the 1SG in the Fallen Heroes room.  The entire battalion leadership was there around the assembled tables, and after a few minutes the Brigade Commander, COL Cor arrived.  His face looked drawn and fatigued, but there was also a strength there that I had never before seen.  He talked to us for a few minutes, and though I don’t remember his exact words they seemed to sing in a way that only true words can.  Then he turned towards where me and the 1SG were sitting and officially appointed me the new company commander of A Company.  The moment those words rang out the fog that had settled on my thoughts seemed to burn away. 

      In that instant I lost the right to dwell in darkness… because to do so would only destroy what Mike worked so hard to build.   The sense of loss remained, as it ever will, but now I had a duty that eclipsed my own personal welfare.  With the subject of A Company resolved the Brigade Commander introduced our new Battalion Commander, LTC K. Our new commander talked to us for a few minutes, and laid out the future course of our battalion.  He seemed to grasp the enormity of our task, and his confident words were proof enough to me that we were in good hands.  By time his words trailed off I knew that the line would hold steady indeed. 

Woe

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Tonight the sun raged against the gathering darkness, its torrid eye searing the Western sky with liquid light.  For a few minutes there was no sun, no stars, no sky.  There was only this smoldering phoenix, resplendent in her incandescent wrath.  Slowly, inexorably, this splendid creature of boiling light settled into her funeral pyre.  And then she was gone, leaving the horizon a molten pool whose reflective glory danced off the high cirrus.  Eventually even this belt of light faulted, and the twilight washed over the land like a swift tide.     

     I don’t remember which star first appeared in that vast and empty darkness, perhaps the afterimage of the dying rays of the sun were too deeply imprinted on my retinas for me to perceive it.  I just know that when I looked up again at the night sky was a rich and deep velvet strewn with endless points of cold, diamond light.      

     Our sad little convoy gathered together under that star strewn sky and prepared to make our way to the International Zone.  It would be here that we would pay our last respects to another of our fallen heros,  SGT Jerry Lee Bonifacio Jr.      

     I first had the good fortune of meeting SGT Bonifacio several years ago during a deployment to the sands of Kuwait.  Back then I was still a young platoon leader, and SGT Bonifacio was a fresh faced and motivated team leader.  What I remember most about him wasn’t his determination, although he had that in spades.  What set him apart was his supernatant attitude.  In the hermetic world of the Infantry, where grim faced determination and a cutting wit are the order of the day, SGT Bonifacio was a breath of fresh air.  His heart burned with an ebullience that could not be quenched, his mouth perennially bent into a wide and open smile.  In those dry and cracked months we weathered sand storms that flayed exposed skin… and he smiled.  We suffered through heat as foul as any we have experienced here in Baghdad… and still he smiled.  There were times when our days stretched from one to the other without the solace of sleep… and he smiled on.  And when he smiled it wasn’t the thin, pale crescent of a moonlit night – his smile was stoked by an inner fire as warm and welcome as an open hearth.      

     I didn’t get the chance to see much of SGT Bonifacio here in Baghdad, his company was detached to one of our sister battalions.  But by all accounts he never lost that zeal for life that is so often stamped out by time and pressure.  Where other withered he blossomed, making joy when there was none to be found.     

     The memorial ceremony for SGT Bonifacio took place in the elegant remains of one of Saddam’s palatial buildings.  Rows after row of simple folding chairs cradled his grieving friends, their heads bent in silent reverie.  The orderly rows of chairs were framed by tall fluted columns, as elegant in their fashion as those in the Parthenon.  Groups of soldiers stood beneath these pillars, their eyes fixed on the simple memorial that served as a physical reminder of our painful loss.  During the ceremony SGT Bonifacio’s entire chain of command honored our fallen warrior, their words giving shape and substance to the pain and loss laying heavy in the air.  They were followed by SGT Helk, one of SGT Bonifacio’s closest friends.  He shared his private memories of SGT Bonifacio – the songs he would hum in the mornings, and the way he would blare his radio at the end of a long shift.  He remembered his friend happily thumbing through the latest comic books, or helping some of the other troops defeat the latest video game.  And above all he remembered the deep and lasting optimism that suffused every aspect of SGT Bonifacio’s being.      

     After the ceremony we walked back to our HMMWVs in silence.  I think the stars were still shining somewhere in that black vault.  I don’t know.  I didn’t care to look.  The inky darkness seemed a better arbiter of my mood. 

      Please keep SGT Bonifacio and his family in your prayers.

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.

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.

The Rebound

     The most valuable armor a soldier can own isn’t government issue. It isn’t crafted in a metallurgical lab, or spun out of some advanced composite. It isn’t a tangible quantity; it can’t be measured or gauged. And it certainly can’t be bought… regardless of how much money you have. The armor I am speaking of is the arcane psychological plating that shields your psyche from the condensed misery of a warzone. It is something that hovers far below consciousness, silently intervening when the murderous environment attempts to leave its loathsome imprint on your being. It doesn’t help keep you alive, but what it does protect is as dear as life itself.

     A few weeks back my armor took a hit… and it was pierced. The wound was bloodless, but that didn’t mean it was painless. One of the key lessons you learn as a soldier is discipline, and that discipline kept me focused on the mission at hand. But for a few days I inwardly recoiled and set about my day to day tasks with the rigid formality you might expect from an automaton. It was ironic that just as the sun flared in the sky like a supernova I felt like everything seemed a little dimmer.

     There wasn’t any one thing that healed my secret wound and repaired my weathered armor, it was a combination of things. Or to be more specific it was a combination of people. The biggest single contributor was my loving wife, who has ever been my touchstone. Just hearing her voice over the crackling long distance line reminded me of the world I left behind. Of lazy afternoons that begrudgingly gave way to mild evenings. Of wonderful dinners spent around our dining table, and late breakfasts on our patio. In short, of all the little things that I slowly realized were the biggest things.

     And then there were the soldiers. If you ask anyone in the Infantry why they stay in the military you will get the same answer time and again. To be with the Soldiers. One of the biggest lies you will ever hear is that Soldiers on the line are people who lack the ability to hold down another job, and lack the skills to survive in the “real” world. I’m not sure who started that particular falsehood, but I’d bet my paycheck it wasn’t someone who had spent time in the Infantry. Just being with the troops in “Killer” Company was a humbling experience that snapped the world back into its proper focus.

     And then there were the letters from back home. One came with news that SGT Ferguson, who chances of survival were once considered remote, was back in California and well on his way down the long road to recovery. Another came full of comedy DVDs that had me laughing until my sides ached. And still another came from a 10 year old who asked if she could send her own stuffed animals here to Iraq for the destitute children around our FOB. In the face of so much support, and in the company of so many everyday hero’s it is hardly surprising I found myself renewed. This mission can be difficult, but it must be done. And I plan on doing my part… the best way that I can.