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After 18 months away the 1-184 IN returned to the sunny shores of California last Monday. It has only been a week since A Co touched down, but when I look back at my days in Baghdad they seem somehow vaugely unfamiliar. It is almost as if I were watching the actions of an unfamiliar other move through my memories. As the memories reconsolidate I will be posting again to finish filling in all the gaps in our deployment... but for now I am just enjoying the free air.
Every goodbye is the birth of a memory
Dutch Proverb
What was to be our last day at the FOB started with pregnant drops of rain sizzling through the predawn darkness. They fell in a tumbling cascade, slowly gathering strength until the air was thick with water. The first few drops of rain splattered into the dust like micro meteorites, sending tiny puffs of dust into the air from their sudden impact. For the first few minutes the air was filled with a strange elemental alchemy – the elements of water, earth, and air all defending their respective domains. Eventually the rain turned into a torrent, and the fallow dust yielded, transforming into tarry pools of mud. Just like a year ago.
The mud is the same, the high walls still grope for the sky, even the wind tastes the same as when we arrived. But I am not earth, nor stone, nor air. I am creature of blood and bone… and I have changed. I am leaving this FOB a different man then the one who arrived at these chill gates those many months ago. I’ve sipped from the poison chalice of loss. Felt my veins run with chill blood and my face streak with hot tears. And I’ve watched as the reaper’s scythe whistled through the desert air. Mortal things cannot brush shoulders with eternity without bearing the psychic scars of their meeting. And so I am changed... both inside and out.
I have aged and weathered under the sun’s fierce glare, my face creased with worn lines as faulted as the sun splintered fields. They remind me of the fearsome toll every one of us paid. I don’t mourn their arrival, they are the outward manifestation of those ethereal scars the crease my soul. It seems somehow fitting and proper that I be left with a physical reminder of what was lost… and what was gained.
Do not mistake my words. I am not broken, nor am I damaged. The story of our mission is not a tragedy, despite our losses. The deepest etchings on my soul, the ones that will remain in both this life and the next, were the incandescent examples of valor, courage, and brotherhood I witnessed each and every day. The men who served at my side were bound to me, and I to them, with tidal forces that have no equivalent in the sterile formality of the living world. Back home the concept of "self" is a rigid construct, a domain mapped with the formality of a land agreement. But here on the bleeding edge we became more something greater than our individual parts. We became a family.
Our time in Iraq is drawing to a close. Our bags are packed. The sun is about to set on our 18 month deployment. And now that we aren’t in daily contact I’ve found my feelings centered on the fierce and solemn pride at having served alongside so many bright souls.
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 next speaker was CPT A, the Commander
of Cyclone Company, and he offered the following words.
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.
Cyclones – Tear it up! Hard Guard!
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.
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…
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.
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.
There are only two days left to vote for your favorite military weblog at Milblogging.com. If you haven’t had a chance to vote, and you have about 90 seconds of free time, go by and cast your vote for 365 and a Wakeup. All you have to do is register on the site, click here, and then click “Add to Favorites”. It is completely painless, it doesn’t cost a dime, and it makes a pretty good New Year’s present.
A little after midnight my eyes crept open and filled with the cold, diamond light of a full moon. I squinted hard against the liquid glow, but the light seemed to seep through my eyelids until I gave up my futile attempts at falling back asleep. As I sat up I felt the dull cacophony of muscles shot through with lactic acid, and for a long moment I sat there on the edge of the cot waiting for the staccato aches to fade.
It seemed like every nerve was yearning for rest, but I walked out of our temporary CP and moved out to the soldiers manning the weapons positions. At each position I gripped the soldiers shoulder as I approached and then settled next to them to watch the area. In those long minutes the silence of the desert night was broken only by the soft rustle of palm leaves. No words were exchanged, because no words were needed. Somehow I knew that just being there with them would convey my pride in their hard work more clearly then with burdensome words.
Later that morning I headed over to one of the classrooms serving as a makeshift barracks, and was greeted by Black Sheep’s toothy grin. He whispered good morning, but after the long silence the words seemed to boom in the darkness. I answered with a wheezing croak, my vocal cords rusted shut by long silence. We laughed at each others clumsy vocalizations for a minute, and then we started talking about the elections that was now only a few hours away.
Black Sheep started to explain to me the different parties and platforms, and as usual his insight cut right to the heart of the matter. There are literally hundreds of parties competing for the electorate, and though I had dozens of documents on the elections my actual knowledge on the candidates was woefully inadequate. Black Sheep started to paint the picture of the leading parties and their platforms.
Each electoral party has a name along with a number, the number corresponding with their place on the ballot. The first party that Black Sheep mentioned was the one whose election posters were splattered all over the town. The party known as 618, was a Sunni Islamic Party who claimed their hands had not been sullied by corruption, hence their unofficial title of “the clean hands party”. Their campaign slogan was “Iraq for the Iraqis” and their campaign pledge was to clean the country of terrorists. The next party Black Sheep mentioned was the Unified Iraqi Coalition List, also known as 555. This party was composed of Shia fundamentalists including Hakim and Sadrists, and their campaign seemed to revolve around their interpretation of Islamic law. Allawi’s party was number 731, and though they were a Shia party they had a more secular focus. Their campaign pledge was to support the Army, Police, and security forces, and to encourage freedom of religion. The other big player in the elections was party 730, an alliance of Kurdish parties. Their focus seemed to be on splitting Iraq into three distinct states under one national government, thereby maximizing Kurdish independence.
By time Black Sheep had finished explaining the different parties I glanced at my watch and realized that it was time to start packing up. I moved to each of the key leaders and woke them up, and within a few minutes the night air was filled with the sound of methodical packing. The empty hallways started to pulse with movement, as if some silent heart was pushing Soldiers and material through the concrete halls, and in less then an hour the only remnant of our time here were the handful of Soldiers still providing guard. With our bags packed and our vehicles loaded we waited in small groups, clustered together for camaraderie more then for warmth. Ever so slowly light started to fill the Eastern sky, and as it did we finished the last of our coordinations with the Iraqi forces. To avoid any perceptions of American influence on the upcoming vote we would leave the election site completely. Our mission these last few days was to set the conditions for a successful election, the elections themselves would be in the hands of the Iraqis.
Once we finished our coordinations we wished our comrades the best of luck, and then we started the long movement back to the FOB. We stopped just outside the small town to link up with another of our platoons that would remain in overwatch on the off chance there were any attacks on the election site, and then we made our way along the empty streets. As soon as we returned our exhausted troops started to prep their gear for the next mission, and having finished that they started to catch up on much needed rest.
By late morning I had finished catching up on the mountain of paperwork and reports that had stacked up on my desk, and I was ready to get back out of the wire. While I was working my crew had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but their features were still whittled with the unmistakable edge of fatigue. I wondered just how deeply fatigue had settled on my own face, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind I laughed at my own petty vanity. I silently chided myself, then poured another cup of coffee and prepared to return to sector.
The drive out to the election site seemed utterly surreal. With the driving ban in place the highways had become enormous soccer fields. As far as the eye could see there were children and teenagers playing soccer in the empty streets, and as we made our way into sector we had to dodge dozens of hastily arranged goalposts. Eventually we linked up with the platoon in overwatch, and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching the slow pilgrimage of voters make their way into town to vote. They came alone and in groups, and they seemed to pass by like a long, knotted rope. There were doddering men in traditional robes, their stiff canes helping them along. There were whole families moving into the town, the parents and grandparents walking steadily forward while their children revolved around them like hyperkinetic satellites. There were young men dressed in acid wash jeans and leather jackets and women in burkhas walking side by side… all making their way to the election site. As the afternoon came to a close and the election site closed we cautiously made our way back to the election site. The town square was relatively empty, save for a few scattered groups talking outside the small shops. We linked up with the POB troops to ensure the election was over, and once they confirmed the elections had ended we pulled back into a security posture on the site. As we manned positions on the second floor the election workers were busy tallying the thousands of votes that had been cast. By late evening the votes had all been tallied and loaded into the POB vehicles. We gave a quick brief to the Iraqi drivers on how to react to enemy contact, and then surrounded them with our own armored vehicles for the drive to the district election center. We slipped through the darkened streets of Southern Baghdad, weaving back and forth through the traffic barriers like a needle slipping shuttling through thread. After a Byzantine series of loops and u-turns we finally arrived at the ballot collection site, and the Iraqi soldiers linked up with their headquarters element. We said our last goodbyes to the Iraqi troops and then slipped back into the night
