I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.

Mosul, Iraq 2004 -2005

Busa and I on FOB Marez 2004-2005

The "Deuce" in the many news publications

I found this in Esquire and the sentiment he talks about are grounded in truth. The feelings of exhilaration when creeping through the streets at night prior to a raid can't be explained. I too miss it......

By Brian Mockenhaupt
A few months ago, I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news. I watched insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not meant to be seen, no longer whole. The images sickened me, but their familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my stomach ached, hollow. I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this house, in America, my life felt very foreign.
I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could continue, with futures not so uncertain. But in quiet moments, their relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.
I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I wish they weren't. Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it. I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us. At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.
I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had made their lives better, a redemption of sorts. But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned. And as an American soldier, you have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and helpless.
That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and explosions and manliness and courage. When my neighbors and I played war as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary, usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game. We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons. In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really no freedom at all, but a lonely burden. Yet even at its lowest points, war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear them all the same. Something's going down.
For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.
On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed, or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in the street, creeping. We stop at intersections, peek around corners, training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter. Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where it's safe. Safer. The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out, cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.


Read more: http://www.esquire.com/features/essay/ESQ0307ESSAY#ixzz1l3Hj7D2C

Refections on hating Christmas

This is a piece shared by my great friend Raub Nash whom I served with in "Deuce Four" 1st Battalion, 24th Infantry in Mosul, Iraq.
He makes a great point when he speaks about reflecting "I see it as a cathartic view into how people need, and should, reflect on everything that happens to them that they did not control." I encourage people to think back about some times when you served write it down and send it to me. Respond and tell us what you think;

Reflections on hating Christmas

By Raub Nash

Last year in Graduate School I was inundated with the idea of reflection and how it is the key to successful development. For 30 years I pretty much took every day for what it was worth and I rarely looked back on what I did or, more importantly, what events happened to me that I could not control. As I prepared to take over my new job as a leader developer at West Point, I felt as though I should at least try out what I would be preaching – it was scary.

A lot of things have happened in my short career, as I no doubt know is the same for all Soldiers in this time of a two-front war. What scared me was how little I knew how these events have changed me –both for good and bad.

As we come out of the traditional Christmas leave period, I was forced into a realization that, I hope, will make future Decembers better for me and those I spend the time with. For the longest time, or since about 2004, I have never really been in the uplifting mood that a father and husband should be in around this time. The old me would say that it was because I was raised on little extravagance, especially with respect to Christmas and gifts in general. After one evening of some rather disturbing and violent actions on my part – no one was hurt, just a sliding glass door, a scotch glass, cooler, and a shirt – I had to look in the mirror and try to understand why and where that person came from.

I was forced to think about several things on the journey to the realization of what caused my actions and what consistently causes my less than uplifting spirit over this time every year. The first event that came to mind was December 21^st, 2004. It was a pristine day in Mosul, Iraq. Clear skies and mild temperatures made it quite bearable. I was a young 2^ndLieutenant Platoon Leader in 1/24 IN. We had been in Mosul for only about 2 months. I finally had some sort of routine, without which I am a mess, and normalcy was setting in – normalcy does not mean complacency. Our platoon had already had our share of the“baptism-by-fire” incidents and we were operating as a cohesive unit for the first time. A routine patrol day started out with the usual events; drive up to our platoon area, search houses/garages/offices, chase some people that ran from our patrol and drive back.

By the time we returned to the FOB it was time for lunch. So, we dropped our gear and headed on the long walk to our chow hall. Before we headed out, our commander and a few other officers asked my Platoon Sergeant and me to go with them to get lunch. We declined so we could help close up our vehicles and let our Soldiers get to chow before us. The routine was almost always the same: clear your weapon and wash your hands outside, get a tray and choose main or short order line, get some salad and dessert in the middle of the chow hall, sit down to eat and talk about whatever, and finally clean up and leave. This day however would deviate drastically from the routine.

About the time I sat down, I noticed that I was the first one in our group of 4 that would sit together. I took a quick look around and quickly saw the other 3 heading over. I followed this with obligatory wave of the hand to let them see where I sat and for them to join me. No sooner did my Platoon Sergeant sit down in front of me than a flash of light and a loud boom shocked our world. I did what I think, especially regarding the fact that normalcy also included the occasional mortar attack, most everyone did – I jumped up, looked for those by me and we ran to a bunker just outside the door. I won’t write anymore about what happened next. It is an image and an event that I still want to keep buried somewhat. The result of the event was that I had my first experience with the loss of a comrade. My commander, CPT Bill Jacobsen, and our NBC NCO, SSG Robert Johnson, were killed while they ate lunch on the safety of their own FOB. They were not the only ones that died that day, but they were the ones I knew.

8 days later, our Platoon responded to an event that would also change me. A suicide car bomber drove a dump truck full of explosives precariously close to an outpost and detonated the device. PFC Oscar Sanchez was killed in the blast, but what most people don’t know is that he probably saved his entire platoon mates lives. If that truck made it another 100 feet or so, the entire building would have most certainly collapsed. This event I recall not because of the incident in itself, but of my actions during this. I was forced several times to place my Platoon Sergeant and the squad with him in danger. When I say forced, I really mean it. I did not like the orders I was getting, but a leader understands that sometimes orders must be followed and that people can get hurt following them. What scares me about this incident is how happy it made me to see things get destroyed while in this firefight. It was eerie how I could feel great joy as we engaged suspected – yes, suspected – targets with heavy machine guns and strafes from F-16s and, the now retired, F-14. I don’t know why I felt as though I did, but I suspect it was because I was in the young stages of burying my emotional destruction that came from the chow hall bombing.

Fast forward to December 20^th, 2007. I am a young Company Commander in the 101^st and we were finishing up an operation that my Soldiers dubbed “Operation Shitty Christmas”. This was one of those times that, much like the outpost bombing, I really did not agree or understand the intent of what we were trying to accomplish. But, the orders were legal, ethical, and moral and I was given ample time to object and add my spin on the operation – so, we executed it. After about 5 days in the middle of nowhere during an unusual cold spell, we trudged away at the invisible goal trying to find a non-existent enemy. This day was just like the others – except that we had finished our mission and were moving back to our base. One of my platoons was tasked with following a route clearance team on an untraveled route to open it for further use by our sister company. I chose to move with my main effort, getting all of our equipment safely back to our company patrol base, and I chose not go with my boss’ main effort. Well, these choices never end up good.

When I first showed up to Fort Campbell and found out which company I would be afforded the opportunity to command, I was given the green light to go and start poking around. The first person I met was SPC Leon. He was youthful looking but had an air of experience that just emanated from him. I was immediately drawn to Wesley. I can remember always looking for him at formations, during PT, and while out at training. As I got to know the Soldiers in the company, I quickly found out that Wesley was a consummate warrior. I knew I liked this kid and I knew that I could always count on him. He was in the patrol that went with the route clearance team, probably located in the order of march where my vehicle should have been, when his vehicle was hit with an IED. This event took both of his legs and cut me to the core. I was already not very good with empathy, and this event made me separate myself from my feelings more than ever which resulted in the desire to never get close to another Soldier. Terrible decision on my part. Even though Wesley hasn’t slowed down accomplishing more than most people, it doesn’t take away the deep feeling that it should have been my vehicle, an MRAP and not a HMMWV, that got hit.

Three pretty major events in my life that happened close to Christmas. No wonder I am a scrooge. This story is much more to me than a revelation of why I hate the Christmas season. I see it as a cathartic view into how people need, and should, reflect on everything that happens to them that they did not control. I wish that more people would partake in this venture and critically look at their actions and reactions to these types of events. I know now why I feel the way I do and this fact will allow me to accomplish my ultimate goal – being a great dad. There is no greater joy for me than to see my sons smile and see them do new things. It would be shame if my failure to change my attitude based on events I had no control over affected my children in a way that would have them dread the Christmas season as I do. I will let you know how I do next year.

This is a piece I did with the hopes of getting published but I was told that it was not a piece that was "original" I guess with so many other stories coming out about Navy Seals and Green Berets the Infantry Soldier who walks the streets every day and does not wait for "high" priced targets is not that interesting. Well I leave it up to you my friends to tell me what you think. 
My name is Eugene Hicks and I am a platoon sergeant of 1st Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion, 24th Infantry Regiment, 25th Infantry Division from the Stryker Brigade Combat Team of Fort Lewis, Washington. My battalion has been deployed in Mosul, Iraq, since October 2004. 

My story contains some of the trying times that my platoon has experienced while here in Iraq. To be a soldier is to have one of the most demanding and strenuous jobs in the world because everyday you step outside you are unsure of what will happen but with the knowledge that what may happen could change everything that you ever knew or maybe even be the end of it.
As the level of violence in Iraq escalated, I began to think about the reasons why we soldiers trudge on day to day into the uncertainty of war. Recently, I also completed my sixteenth year of military service and the answer became more apparent. Even though there is so much uncertainty in what will happen to a soldier in his day, there is one thing that he can be certain in. Any soldier can trust that his fellow soldiers will be at his side every step of the way, ready for anything.
I have been in this job for so long and have made it through so many challenges because I have found soldiers that I can trust my life with, and these same soldiers can trust their life with me.

Thank you for the providing an opportunity to give a soldier the chance to tell his story.

Sincerely,

Eugene J. Hicks


“UNTITLED”
I am a platoon sergeant in A Company 1st Battalion, 24th Infantry Regiment, part of the Army’s newest battlefield concept the Stryker Brigade Combat Team (SBCT). Each Stryker platoon consists of four Stryker Infantry Carrier Vehicles (ICV) and 45 soldiers. The platoon subsequently breaks down into three line squads and one weapons squad. Each Stryker has a driver and a vehicle commander, who controls the Remote Weapon System and manages the maintenance of the vehicle.

The Stryker has taken much criticism over the last few months. When responding to the criticism, our battalion commander LTC Eric Kurilla, stated in a press release that between October 2004 and January 2005 his unit's Strykers sustained 16 direct hits from roadside bombs and 36 direct hits from rocket-propelled grenades. "I've not lost a soldier’s life, limb or eyesight from any of those attacks,” Kurilla said. "We have a lot of soldiers alive today because of these vehicles." I agree with LTC Kurilla and can honestly say that it has saved my soldiers lives countless times. In the last six months my platoon alone has been hit by eight Improvised Explosive Devices, one Suicide Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device, a direct hit by Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG), and a lot of small arms fire. Having had all this happen how has it affected the soldiers in my platoon and myself and what helps us continue on? Well, I hope to tell you in one soldier’s story.

People say they join the Army for patriotism: the love of their country driving them to fight for freedom and democracy. I do not disagree with this reason, but it is much like the token “beauty pageant answer.” It is the one that sounds great and the one a civilian accepts and understands. Yet I venture to say that we fight for simpler reasons; the soldiers to the left and right. I know that this proverb has been used repeatedly by reporters in news broadcasts and in newspapers the world over, but I feel it goes to show that it is a strong driving force for soldiers.

This being the case, one may ask, “Does hardship and loss bring people closer together?” The answer to this question may vary as one’s reasons for joining the Army but, because we are soldiers, we know that the person we are talking to now may not be there tomorrow; we are left with two options: grow close (which in the long run makes the loss even harder) or keep a distance. How do you choose? I believe the chaotic scenes that many of us have had to endure, have taught us that life is fleeting so stay close, watch each other’s back, and leave no one behind. 

On November 11, 2004 my company and platoon would participate in our first Operation in Mosul. The platoon would be the main effort for the company, essentially this means we will be the first ones on the objective to establish a foothold for the rest of the company to maneuver from and bring the fight to the enemy. As we moved down a main street we immediately came under small arms and Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) fire. As soon as the ramp dropped the rounds could be seen impacting around and on the vehicle. The platoon dismounted the Strykers and moved to breach points. Small arms fire continued to impact around us, as we cut through locks and opened rolling aluminum doors to get inside both to search and to get cover. We attempted to get into several rooms but they were bolted and locked from the inside; to get in we used the ‘Wally Bomb” aptly named by one of my squad leaders SSG Nova Johnson for a large water impulse charge after one of my soldiers SGT Wallace. This breach charge will open any door or gate. As we began to clear the individual rooms, we would receive fire through the windows. A round impacted the wall a foot away from my body in one of the rooms I entered. Nevertheless, SSG Harmer, SGT Wallace, and I ended up clearing several rooms as a team. 

The intensity of the firefight had yet to climax. I attempted to move from the building my first squad occupied, to another building right next door occupied by my third squad. PFC Ayres and I exited the doorway as a RPG slammed into the side of the building about ten feet away, throwing us to the ground. I looked at PFC Ayres making sure he was all right and then brushed it off with “Shit! That was a close one.”

We bounded to the next building and then got orders to link up with the platoon leader (PL) and reinforce another platoon that was in contact with the enemy. When I got this call I was sitting down behind a wall looking at SSG Lenny Diaz and SSG Nova Johnson as aerial burst RPGs exploded over our heads and bullets cracked hitting the walls around us. I called the PL back and let him know we would be down shortly as we were receiving heavy small arms fire. After about ten minutes, we were able to move and head toward the PL’s position. Once we got there, the fighting began to slow down, it all seemed to go so fast, but in reality it had been four and a half hours since we had first dismounted. We got the order to mount up and head back to the Forward Operating Base (FOB). We arrived with no casualties and no dead. It was a glorious day. We had been baptized by fire, fostering the bond between all the soldiers. From here on, the respect and confidence in the leaders would grow. Our platoon would grow. Indeed it had been a glorious day.

On December 21, 2004 at 12:04pm the realities of this unconventional war would become apparent. I had just sat down to eat lunch with officers from my company when I looked up and saw the explosion. When I saw it, it moved in slow motion.

 The image I have fixed in my mind is a lucid moment from the madness, one of condiment packages. The little ones, the ones you get from fast food restaurants filled with ketchup, for your fries. I saw them flying as if they were confetti, no longer condiments packages, but mere pieces of plastic caught up in a hurricane. That is when the force of the blast hit me.

  I followed everyone else out of the dining facility and out to the bunkers that were provided in case the dining facility was mortared (which it had happened already before). Once I was out there I could hear people crying for help, I told my friend Lieutenant Kyle Dewald that we had to go back in and help, so back into the dining facility we ran.

What I saw was what only evil men can do; it was a chaotic and utterly ghastly scene. Immediately seeing one of my soldiers grabbed my attention and shifted my focus; my soldiers where in here, and I had to find them to make sure they were unharmed. PFC Ayres was the first one I saw and he immediately assured me that everyone he was with was all right. I sent him to collect the first aid boxes that were placed around the dining facility (these were ammo cans painted white with a red cross, containing first responder items.) Next I saw Sergeant Pense, a member of my company sniper team, had blood lacerationceration on his scalp. I helped bandag him up and happened to look to my right where I saw Sergeant Pena and Sergeant Montoya doing CPR on our Company Commander. They had it under control, and I knew that I would not be able to help them I knew I would probably only get in the way. I began to move around the blast area to see where else I could be of help.

 I came across a woman who had suffered terrible burns and had blood on her face and in her hair. She was crying. I stopped to help and reassure her, while she attempted to grab her friend who lay next to her, she was dead. She was quickly evacuated on a table that had been turned into a make shift litter. I began to walk around again to see what else I could do. I felt useless, like there was something more that I needed to do and yet could not. 

I saw a kid laying face first in his plate of food with a hole in the back of his head about the size of a silver dollar. There were bodies and body parts strewn everywhere. The blood on the floor mixed with the condiments and made a sticky mess, which all those heroes that day would trudge through as they saved numerous lives. This day, one of which I will never forget, my company commander died and a close friend SPC Clint Gertson, who would later die in a sniper attack, was also wounded. The reality of fleeting time became apparent.

Here in Mosul, while the platoons are out on patrol, explosions are commonplace. One can hear these audible reminders and then hear the reports start coming over the radio about locations, followed by a Battle Damage Assessments (BDA) if the explosion was near coalition forces. These explosions are heard at night on the Forward Operating Base when you are trying to sleep, or when you are sitting on your Strykers getting ready to roll out on patrol. The echoing sounds and damages of these explosions are a constant reminder to us soldiers that we are surrounded by war.

My platoon was out on patrol conducting cordon and searches and Tactical Control Points, when we heard a huge explosion loud enough to be heard eight kilometers away. We found out over the radio that a vehicle bomb had hit Combat Outpost Tampa. We were directed to come and assist in the casualty evacuation and the defense of the COP. When we arrived, the platoon was immediately met with mortars and small arms fire. My platoon leader directed the weapon squad and I to dismount and assist in casualty evacuation. My Stryker pulled up close to the outer barricades and we dropped the ramp. As we exited the vehicle we were met by two burning Strykers. Everything on top of them was smoking; the driver’s hatch and the rear troop door were open. As I looked in I saw the vehicle commander still inside, debris and dust swirling everywhere. He was still manning the Remote Weapon System firing on insurgents that were moving on the west side of the COP. As I looked at the carnage, small arms fire continued to impacted around us. 

We then ran to where we thought was the entrance only to find a dead end room. We ran out and found stairs leading to the second floor. As we got to the second floor we took defensive positions on the east side of the building. I set up two M240B Machinegun positions, as rounds impacted the walls outside the building and inside the rooms we now occupied. The two gun positions started to return fire on the enemy, who were attempting to swarm the COP. CPL Mikael Medina and PFC Robert Ayres were firing down a street at insurgents moving between buildings as SPC Roehrig and SPC Slaughter fired at a window that was being used as a hide for insurgents to fire from. The PL called for a situation report. “We are receiving heavy small arms fire and are returning fire.” I then got directions to displace back to my vehicle for new orders. At this point I responded that we had good cover and “we are good here, for now.” There was a lull in incoming fire so we displaced and headed for the stairs to get back into our Stryker. As we loaded up, all of our hatches were closed to prevent mortars from falling inside and to prevent the boys from taking shrapnel, if we happened to get hit on the top. I got in the Stryker and got on the radio and let the PL know where we had loaded up and had no casualties. The next order would take a few minutes to register and made me stop to take a breath. “I need you to go back in and get a generator that is either inside or on the roof,” was the order that came over the radio. I took my Combat Communications helmet off and put my helmet back on, took a breath and looked at my boys in the vehicle. “Grab more ammunition, we are going back in.” I received a few puzzled looks but everyone was ready to go. “Okay, on three the ramp is going to drop and we are going.” The ramp dropped and again we made our way through the carnage and back into the building. As we got up there 2nd Platoon, Charlie Company was collecting their gear, getting ready to exit the COP and we would help re-enforce their withdrawal. We helped them pack up their gear, but we could not find the generator.

Again we were given the order to load up and ran down the exposed stairwell (the face of the building had been badly damaged by the Suicide Vehicle Bomb) and loaded into our Stryker. With the smoke still lingering in the air and the F-18’s flying low over our heads, the explosions, as always, could be heard while we regrouped and headed back to our Forward Operating Base. I was later awarded an Army Commendation Medal with “Valor” Device for this.

So why do we as soldiers do this every day? I am sure people are left asking this question after reading about the life of a soldier at war. I answer the question by saying “We have too much invested in this not too.” The lives of our fellow soldier’s, our lives, and the job we have been sent to do. How do we handle this day-to-day reality? Well the only answer I can give is the American soldier is a lot more resilient than I think people give us credit for. We trudge through this every day, but we are able to get up every morning, not knowing what fate may have in store for us this day and we still go out into the city of Mosul, again to do our job. The best analogy I can give is one used by our Battalion Chaplain one of a marathon. Ask a novice marathon runner how he is doing at mile one and he may say, “This is great, not as bad as I thought.” Ask the same question at mile 13 and you may get a different perspective of it. “This is really bad” or “What on earth possessed me to do this?” But too much has been invested to quit, so he continues on until it is completed. This is why we do it, for each other. We are that novice runner combined as a platoon. We all have to help each other out to make it to the finish line.

 I do this for 45 extraordinary soldiers who have forever changed my life and taught me the meaning of brotherhood, camaraderie, and are a true band of brothers, soldiers who stand together through adversity and complete the mission no matter how hard it may be. These are only a few events in a yearlong tour, but again it is only one soldier’s story. 

Enough Said!!!!

LT Raub Nash my PL and SGT Paul Farmer

SGT Wallace doing what he did best tearing stuff up!

Me, SPC Ayers (he would be killed in Iraq in 2007) and SPC Heit

So you think you had a bad day?

The 1st Platoon "Punishers" Squad Leaders SSG Diaz (1st Squad), SSG Johnson (3rd Squad), SGT Kreilaus (Stryker and my Vehicle Commander), and SSG Collier (Weapons)

Here is another piece I wrote from Iraq 2004 - 2005.

The day had started off as usual. Wake up and get ready for a 0900 patrol. But it is funny how things can change so fast. We drove into “old town” the section of Mosul that runs parallel to the Tigris River. A dilapidated section of closely sectioned houses, I don’t think you can fart without the rest of the neighborhood hearing you. We had been their conducting dismounted patrols. Patrolling the streets and talking to various people the usual things, “How is the neighborhood?” “Are there any bad people around?” The usual. About an hour into the patrol I heard an explosion relatively close to where we were but far enough away that the residents did not seemed to be alarmed. Much like the responses they give when you ask them questions, if it does not directly affect them they don’t care about it.

I called my Platoon Leader and told him about the explosion, told him we were pretty close and were going to try and move to check it out. Not even two minuets later I got the call to mount up. “We are going to assist a platoon that that has just been hit by an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). Was the reply I got to my message. I quickly moved back to my Stryker and loaded up the weapons squad and myself.

We moved to the site, as we arrived I could see six cars on an off ramp stopped and black smoke rising from them. “I am dismounting with the medic.” I told the PL and quickly got off my vehicle with three of my soldiers. We were on a four-lane highway with guardrails running through the center as a medium. As I jump the guardrails I saw the platoon that had been hit scrambling to evacuate their casualties and immediately met up with the Platoon Sergeant on the ground.

 “Hey man I have my platoon here and my medic we are here to help casevac.” I told him. He looked at me.” Okay man but I can’t hear shit, because the fucking thing blew up right next to me, we are getting out of here. My casualties are gone and we are all that is left.”

“Ok get your guy’s and we will lock it down and I will take care of the civilian casualties.” I told him as his Stryker pulled up and dropped the ramp for him to load up and leave.

I looked around it was now only us four were on the ground. SPC Farmer, SPC Manley (my medic), SGT Feliciano, and myself. The rest of the platoon still on Strykers were moving into blocking positions to prevent us from being attacked again. The AIF are known for attacking the initial responders by direct fire, mortars, or subsequent IED’s. I honestly didn’t think about this. But now that I do it scares the crap out of me. I had injured people and had to help and they had priority over my safety.

A woman runs up to me with her daughter and crying she said something in Arabic that I could not understand. “Calm down.” I told her.” Sit down over there.” I tried to get her away from the cars that were leaking gas and the various other injured people and body parts laying all over the road. My medic was running around treating people with injuries ranging from blown off hands to shrapnel imbedded in there legs, arms, face, and chest. “SFC Hicks, this guy has no hand come here quick.” SGT Feliciano yelled at me I ran over and saw the nub of his right hand blood gushing from it. There was only a piece of a shirt wrapped around his wrist that was very badly trying to stop the constant flow of blood. “Oh shit, Doc get over and help this guy.” I yelled as my medic ran up with a tourniquet. Blood ran everywhere and body parts lay strewn over the road. My squads were now dismounting so I pushed them into security positions to over watch the scene. I saw a man crying and I walked up to him to make sure he was okay. He was again he was yelling in Arabic and I could not understand what he was trying to say. “Red 6 this is Red 7, I need the interpreter now.” I said into my handset. “Roger he is enroute, now.” I grabbed the interpreter and led him too the lady and man. I later found out that she was trying to tell me a man had ran up to her car grabbed her 3 year old and ran off. The PL told her to check the hospital, because the guy may have been trying to help. We found out later that that was in fact what had happened and the child had died on the way to the hospital. I moved to assess the rest of the casualties and see if I had missed anyone. The IED had been place on the side of the road in a medium, in the attempt to kill or at least blow up a convoy. Unfortunately I found the car that took the brunt of the blast was a civilian family. I looked in the back and the slumped down in the back seat lay a nine or ten-year-old boy he had been totally decapitated. I knew he was dead so I went ahead and left him there for now and concentrated on the wounded still alive. I saw a SUV parked on the opposite side of the road, the side we had just come from and saw an old lady bleeding and stumbling over to the SUV, which turned out to be a taxi. I ran over there to see if she was all right. I grabbed the medic and he fixed shrapnel wound in her thigh. I told the driver (through my interpreter, who was also running around with me) to cross over the highway and help take the rest of the wounded to the hospital. I ran back to the other side of the street. The taxi pulled up and we loaded the rest of the wounded up in it.

 I now knew that I had to get the boy out of the vehicle. I attempted to open the door, but the blast had pushed the door out so it would not budge. I grabbed a hooligan tool my squad leader brought over with a body bag and we both attempted to pry the door open, nothing. I grabbed the window railing and in a feat I did not know I was capable of I bent the window frame almost all the way down to the door. Still nothing, I can not explain why I felt the need to get this child out of there I knew he was dead, I was staring at his headless corpse. But I had to get him out of there. I opened the passenger side door and pushed the seat forward and reached in and grabbed the child’s knee. Why? Again I cannot explain, maybe I was wanting him to be alive or awake, maybe to even hearing him cry, would have relieved me. But again I knew he was dead. I reached in and grabbed the boy by the leg and pulled him out a little his shoe came off. Then grabbed under his arms and picked him up. I was holding this child in my hands his lower jaw and ear hung there inches from my face as my soldiers laid out the body bag for me to put him in. I put him in and zipped up the bag. An ambulance had arrived while I was getting the boy out of the vehicle and I told one of my soldiers to help pick up the body bag and we headed to the ambulance and placed him inside. I walked over to take a knee beside the highway and a foot away from me lay a part of a hand, just the index and the middle finger, I got up and linked up the PL to brief him on what was going on.

We stayed there for about 45 minuets to talk to the people in the neighborhood. “Did you see anything?” “Have you seen anyone suspicious?” But the same answers from everyone. No. We loaded up and headed back to the Forward Operating Base. The day was not starting out good.

At 1500 we headed out for our second patrol, nothing hard go talk to some people coordinate a community meeting. Show our presence through the neighborhoods in our company area of operation (AO). We had just started when the patrol passed a suspicious vehicle with about 7 men standing around it talking to the driver I could see three other males in the vehicle. This is the way AIF meetings are held. Quick on the side of the road, meet and take off. As we drove by the PL called back “Red 7 check out that car, that is really suspicious.” I agreed and we slowed down. As we did everyone took off in different directions, and the vehicle drove down the street. We began to follow the car. It took an immediate right, we followed, and then it slowed down. I stood as high as I could in my hatch and yelled, “STOP.” The driver looked at me slowed down and then again attempted to take off. I called the PL “he is evading us”. I fired a warning shot. The driver gunned it. My next shot would hit the driver, shattering the back window immediately the car stopped. The passenger got out and then I saw the driver get out a bloodstain steadily spreading over his right shoulder. I had hit him. We dismounted and my medic began to work on him. He had three wounds where the bullet had broken up and entered his right shoulder and his left trapezoid. Blood poured from the wounds and we loaded him up and took him to the hospital. I learned later that he died later the next day. I looked down to see my uniform and kit covered in blood. I wanted to change so badly. We left and continued our patrol.

Later that evening I attended a memorial service for three soldiers who died from our battalion. They would add to the already growing number (which now total 14) we have taken in the 8 months we have been here.

I write this as a way of letting it go, a way that helps me sleep, and a way to not remember. If you can understand that. I have been shot at so many times that the sound does not really affect me anymore. I have learned that you cannot control fate, accept it and what happens will happen. My men do outstanding work everyday; they can make decisions in a split second. Weighing numerous options and in the fraction of a second and then act. So when you have a bad day or think that things are cannot get any worse, I can one up you.

SGT Feliciano on the C-130