Looking Back | Memories of Iraq

Recognizing that who I am today is a direct reflection of my experiences both good and bad i feel I owe it to myself to examine the demons hiding in my past.
I chose to write this as a letter to my Grandfather who passed away while I was in Iraq.  My Grandfather and I were very close and I have always been disappointed that I was unable to be at his funeral.

Just a warning to the reader that there is some graphic content.

Dear Grandpa,
I remember the day with the vivid detail reserved for life’s special memories. We were standing on the dock on the northwest shore of Ford Island, where berth F-11 used to be.  The wind was blowing lightly bringing with it the the smell of the open ocean.  Off in the distance, there were several small boats motoring slowly around the harbor.  In front of us laid the rusting hulk of the USS Utah, its superstructure having long ago given in to the elements.  Waves continued to gently lap the sides much like they had since the day the ship sank to the bottom and the world changed for everyone.  I know it was difficult for you to be there as you stood there silently looking out and remembering the events of December 7, 1941.  You spent your entire life keeping the war inside.  You rarely talked about the things you saw and did during the course of the war.  You were very successful at keeping the memories hidden from your family.  When our country was attacked on September 11, 2001, I saw you change.  The memories could no longer be hidden and they seemed to haunt you until you were mercifully taken from this world.
I am determined not to let the same thing happen to me.
I first went to Iraq in May of 2005 and was there until May 2006.  When I think about those twelve months, I am hit with a flood of images that unfortunately are mostly depressing.  I went back to Iraq in April 2008 and stayed a relatively short seven months.  Looking back on those seven months, I am reminded of the good friends I made, and the amazing progress that I saw the Iraqi people making.  Though it will be difficult I  would like to tell you about a trying day in late 2005.

I awoke to the sound of my laptop playing “Happy is a Yuppy Word” by Switchfoot.  I frequently found myself drawn to their music as it seemed to put me  at peace as much as anything else at the time.  I often reflected on what it might have been like to be a soldier, sailor or marine stationed far from home in a time when comforts such as music on demand were just not available.  I made sure my teammates; John and Steve were awake and then stumbled out to the bathroom.
As I closed the door behind me the sides of our corrugated steel building shook back and forth giving away its paper thin walls.  The air had a hint of rotten egg  and was thick with the flies that gave our camp its nickname, Rustaflya.  The sewage treatment plant up the street was a special kind of punishment I suppose.
It was 0730.  The day’s mission was supposed to kick off at 0800, but Steve came back from breakfast with news that we had been pushed back until 0830.  It really did not matter though, because I already had the massively overweight armored HMMWV staged and waiting in front of Bravo Company Headquarters.  Bravo Company lived in a concrete reinforced building painted in the oh so predictable tan and green typical of old Iraqi Army buildings.  Their Company Guidon was placed out front held upright by a 60mm mortar tube captured from insurgents at some point in the past.  John, Steve and I were patiently waiting for Captain Green to arrive so that we could get the mission going.
Captain Green was a modern day Patton.  His 6’6”, 240 pound frame made the massive HMMWV seem right sized until he had to squeeze himself into the cabin, much in the way Shaq would have to squeeze into a Honda Civic.  His head was large, but his inflated ego had a difficult time fitting into even these healthy dimensions.  Maybe he was just crazy, but figuring himself to be invincible he would regularly go out onto the battlefield with only one other vehicle, at a time when the minimum number of vehicles in a patrol was three and the standard was four.  Looking back, the fact that I was frequently in that one other vehicle seems insane.  When Captain Green came running out to our vehicles with a worried look at 0810, I was immediately alert.
Captain Green said,”five minutes ago a patrol was hit just past the second bridge.  There is one casualty en-route to the base. We need to immediately get to the other casualties and secure the scene.  Mount up and give me your Green 2.”  We sprinted to our truck and were headed towards the gate inside of 60 seconds.
Just as I did on every mission, I reached into my left breast pocket and felt the cold smooth steel outline of the cross that was with you in WWII, which you gave me when we said goodbye.  I prayed, “Dear God, please be with me today and help me to act in a way that honors you.  Please be with my wife and family, and provide them comfort while I am away.  If I don’t make it through today, remind them that I love them very much.  Thank you for keeping me safe thus far.  Amen.”   The gate was quickly approaching, and a lone HMMWV was entering.
The HMMWV was carrying the casualty from the attack and was moving quickly to the base aid station.  We gave the incoming HMMWV a wide berth, but continued moving rapidly toward the gate.  Once we were out the gate, I navigated the S-turn designed to slow the approach of unauthorized vehicles at a speed attained due to the heightened senses that come with the knowledge that death could very well be around the next turn.
Two minutes later, we were on the apex of the second bridge and could see the debris field 100 meters in front of us and the disabled vehicle about 100 meters past the detonation site.  It had come to rest against a concrete wall on the east side of the road.
As we got closer and closer, the details became clear in a Powers of Ten kind of way.  The doors of the HMMWV were charred and filled with thousands of marble sized holes that penetrated completely through to the other side.  The side windows had fewer penetrations but were opaque due to a combination of fractured glass and a thin layer of bright red, arterial blood.  The doors remained open from when three of the casualties were extracted and evacuated to the aid station.  Two soldiers remained in the vehicle, having perished within moments of the attack.  I attempted to clear my mind and remember that the enemy was watching and could attack again at any moment.
I parked our HMMWV on the west side of the road and was once again trying to clear my mind, when I saw a helmet lying in the dirt five feet from our HMMWV.  The helmet belonged to the soldier who was riding in the turret at the time of the attack.  The helmet was thrown from his head as he was nearly decapitated by thousands of shards of molten metal flung mercilessly into his helpless body.  That helmet stared at me for hours, reminding me how little protection it offered from our greatest threat.  The only thing that stopped me from thinking about the headless helmet was the driver.
The driver was what we callously referred to as  “Dead Right There”.  While most of the vehicle was covered in smaller marble sized holes the driver door had a fast pitch softball sized hole in it.  Not being immune to the laws of physics the driver was essentially split in half by the glob of molten copper that had penetrated so easily into the crew compartment.  The human brain is capable of incredible amounts of denial, but seeing someone perish while doing exactly what you do on a daily basis forces you think about your own mortality.  We stayed at the site of the attack for several more hours, while an investigation took place and then headed back across the bridge to our base.
We went out again daily for the next 9 months until I came home.
These images have stayed in my mind since the day they occurred and will likely stay with me until the day I die. Thank you Grandpa for showing me how important it is to not let these images fester in the mind for decades.  Telling you about this experience has not been easy, but now the memories are not mine alone.

Tagged as: Baghdad, IED, Iraq, PSYOP