365 and a Wakeup

Veterans Day

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

In Flanders Fields

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

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

Home Sweep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devil Island

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Steps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Id al-Fitr

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Soul's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

 

Operation Clean Sweep

     Our day started long before the sun creased the horizon, in the quiet stillness of a Baghdad morning our barracks awoke and slowly snapped the shadowy bonds of sleep.  The dark narrow hallways sparked to life under the dull artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs, and under those pale lights soldiers started their final preparations for Operation Clean Sweep. In those first few minutes the atmosphere seemed to swell and heave with the nervous anticipation unique to large combat operations. There is no analogue for the naked rush of endorphins that presages these operations, they flood your system and keen your spirit until both carry a fine and bright edge.

     Everything had already been prepared and checked the evening prior, but NCOs still flashed back and forth between their soldier’s rooms to double check weapons and equipment. As they completed the last of their inspections troops started filing out of the barracks, and with their departure the sense of purpose and drive seemed to leech out of the atmosphere. As SSG Spite, my Fire Support NCO and I left the barracks I felt an intangible light click out behind us. The cord was cut, for the first time since taking command I was leading the soldiers of Killer Company into harms way.

     When I arrived at the airfield the platoons were already formed in their chalks and preparing for the arrival of the Blackhawk helicopters. This would be an unusually large air assault; six different airframes were dedicated towards transporting the company to our blocking positions. Soldiers banded together in their chalks, some reviewing the mission, others sipping steaming cups of coffee from Styrofoam cups, and others just retelling their favorite joke for the 10^th or 11^th time.

     The plan was briefed, the soldiers were prepared, and the equipment stood ready… all that was left was the actual execution. A few minutes after we completed staging for the air assault the voice of my tank platoon leader filtered over the tinny headphone, giving us a confirmation that his tanks were inbound to the link up point. I sent acknowledgement back over the net, relayed the mission to Battalion and then said a silent prayer. The die was cast. Operation Clean Sweep had started.

     The first hint that the Blackhawks were arriving was the dull thump of the Apache helicopters providing escort, their rotor whipping through the air with the angry buzz peculiar to those angular flying tanks. As they passed overhead soldiers tightened their gear one last time, lofted their weapons and prepared to load the helicopters. A few seconds later a string of dark pearls coalesced out of the morning sky, accompanied by the familiar bass of their powerful engines. The points of black shadow came from the east, their spry silhouettes backlit by the fiery birth of another day. As they approached their forms settled into familiar shapes, and the rumble of their engines became a roar. As soon as each bird touched down the soldiers assigned to that specific chalk started approaching those cavernous doors. By time the last bird had settled into the pillar of sand it whipped up the first Blackhawk had been loaded.

     I watched Southern Baghdad slip by, every detail clear and sharp in the glimmer of a new morning. For a moment the air almost seemed preternaturally clear, as if I were looking into a fresh spring and seeing the stony bottom magnified through a watery lens. Scattered home flitted by, and then stands of old date palms clustered together like old friends. Everything looked clear and bright… and beautiful. But before I became too entranced with the scenery I reminded myself that all too often in this world exterior beauty hides malicious and ugly things. And with that rejoinder I refocused on just how lethal the area we were flying into really was.      Inside the Blackhawk soldiers were busily snapping their four point harnesses over their body armor, each soldier giving their NCO a thumbs up or scowling wink to confirm they were locked in. Once everyone was strapped in the Blackhawk started to spool up to full power, and second later we were cutting through the cool air of morning on a column of growling thunder. As I looked out the gaping doors I watched

     Five seconds after we landed in a vacant field that lesson was hammered back into my skull by a crushing blast wave that spilled over our landing site like a phantom wave. My first thought was that our landing zone was under mortar attack, but when I turned to look at the blast site all I could see was the black deaths head of a mushroom cloud burn a path into the sky. The molten cloud was too large to be indirect fire but I still wasn’t sure what had caused it. I traced the boiling black trunk to its root and suddenly realized two things. The first was that the explosion was on a road. The second was that one of my platoons was headed directly into the maelstrom.

     By time 1LT Eve answered my radio call he was approaching the site of the blast, and when he did arrive his voice was bleached out by the supersonic crack of rifle fire. The IED we had witnessed launched an ambush, and before the blast wave had even hit us several insurgents were raking the ground convoy with their AK-47s. They were answered with a hellstorm of fire from the Iraqi Army and Nightstalkers alike. As the armored fist of the Battalion pinned down the AIF, elements from Killer Company secured the IED site and started evacuating the wounded. At some point the AIF attack blunted and broke, and those that were able slunk away like wretched curs.

     About the 1LT Eves platoon arrived at the seat of the blast, elements from the other line platoons moved into their final blocking positions, effectively sealing the entire region for Operation Clean Sweep. As I ran up to the blocking position I heard the hushed scream of the M1 Abrams platoon attached to my company. The enormous, angular bodies of the tanks seemed to cut through the fields like predators on the hunt. As they approached the link up point they peeled off one by one and moved into their planned blocking positions. As they arrived on the company line they seemed to transform the blocking positions into something altogether different by their presence alone. As I looked down my lines I was surprised how much the tanks looked like hulking parapets on a castle wall.

     Back on the IED site soldiers were securing the area and treating the wounded expertly wielding their hard won skills. The medevac helicopter settled down within minutes to start evacuating the wounded, and as it did the entire region was swallowed in a manmade sandstorm. Once the medevac choppers left the scene the air cleared, and by time I finished checking the blocking positions the air had already cleared. Once again I am going to refrain from describing the actual IED site, suffice it to say it was difficult to witness. The vehicle that had been hit was towing a trailer piled high with pencils, school notebooks, dates, backpacks and all types of school supplies. When I arrived they were scattered across a large swath, as if some freighter had run aground and spilled its cargo over a broken shore.  Rather then see the material go to waste I motioned over the Iraqi Army troops, telling them to take all that they could carry on their vehicles. They eagerly complied, and within a few minutes the trailer and environs had been stripped bare. With that work complete I left the recovery team to their work,   and started back to 1LT Eve’s platoon. The platoon was set up in defensive positions in support of the recovery and had the situation well in hand, so I returned back to the rest of the company. A couple hundred meters away from our position the Nightstalker Battalion and the Iraqi Public Order Brigade were conducting methodical sweeps through this AIF plagued region. Occasionally AIF elements would try to flee the approaching tide of men and material, but when they tried they just stumbled into Killer Company. We spent most of the morning playing the anvil to the Battalion’s great hammer. The AIF remained between the two, and those that chose to fight… lost.

     Late in the morning 1LT Irish, one of my platoon leaders, called over the net and reported he was taking enemy fire. From his hasty sitrep it appeared a collection of AIF elements were firing at the platoon from the shadowy recesses of a date palm grove. The weapons fire was wildly inaccurate, but the AIF element was set too far into the palm grove to visually identify. All I needed to do was glance at SSG Spite and cock an eyebrow, we had worked together long enough to fluidly understand each others thoughts. Sure enough SSG Spite called up the Apache element in aerial overwatch giving them the grid coordinates of the enemy fire and pushing them down to the platoon radio frequency for direct coordination. The next sound we heard was the long booming crackle of the Apaches making a gun run on the hidden element. Before the sound even finished echoing there was the angry roar of an Infantry platoon laying down thick carpets of fire. The sonic scenario repeated itself a second time, the booming blast of the Apache’s cannon followed by the focused wrath of an Infantry platoon opening fire. On the third run the sound of cannon fire was eclipsed by an sound that cut through the sky like a sharpened blade… a sound followed by an thunderous blossom of shrieking air. And then there was silence.

     Once the din had faded 1LT Irish gave me a quick update. Once the Apaches started their gun runs on the AIF elements the surviving elements opened fire at the armored dragonflies pinwheeling over their heads. The muzzle blasts of the AK47s firing into the sky was enough to provide a target, and once the Apaches had competed each gun run the platoon unleashed a torrent of fire on the AIF position.  After each pass the number of muzzle blasts diminished, but by the third pass it was obvious to the Apaches that the AIF elements were dug in.  The blossom of acrid fire that resulted was the aftermath of a Hellfire missile burning into the AIF position. After the blast my platoon stopped firing… there was no point dumping rounds into a smoking crater.

     The rest of the mission progressed smoothly, the silence of Southern Baghdad broken by spurts of gunfire and the occasional AIF rocket launch. By noon the sound of gunfire finally faded. Once the Iraqi and American forces had completed their sweeps my platoons started gathering onto their respective Pickup Zones (PZs) with the M1 tanks providing overwatch. As the Blackhawks shuttled in each element threw a smoke grenade to mark the landing site, and before the smoke settled we were loaded up and heading back to the FOB.

     As we landed back at the FOB I said a silent prayer of thanks, and then started moving back to the company. There was still work to be done.

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. 

Backscatter

     After night has finished gnawing away the last, feeble scraps of daylight our area is reborn in darkness. Twilight provides a stark reminder of the architectural gulf between central Baghdad and  its southern provinces. Central Baghdad hovers in the cold glow of an artificial dawn, the true night held at bay by countless legions of fluorescent lights. In this light Baghdad seems proud and aloof - an island of light in an ocean of shadow.

     Our realm lies submerged in that great oceanic darkness, an inkstain flecked with prickles of lonely light. In this jet landscape the only color is the burnt orange of sodium lights, flickering like the campfires of a ancient army. 

     Driving in central Baghdad is relatively simple - the collective backscatter of a hundred thousand naked bulbs pulls away the curtains of night. Since the area is already thick with light most HMMWVs think nothing of flipping on their service lights and adding to the photonic din. But in the unsteady darkness of southern Baghdad headlights are a dangerous liability. Their powerful light stabs through the night like a blade, their sheer force drawing every waking eye. To avoid this photonic betrayal our HMMWVs move through the night sheathed in darkness – roaring nocturnal predators hurtling through the gloom.

     If we relied on our own naked eyes our mission wouldn’t last long - we would end up blindly hurtling off into one of the deep agricultural canals. Fortunately our success isn’t contingent on our own eyes, built as they are for the light and warmth of day. Instead we rely on our trusty night vision goggles (NVGs). The minutes leading up to our night patrols are marked by the spring loaded click of NVGs mating to Kevlar helmets. In their stand by configuration they seem to erupt out of the front of our helmets like a great misshapen horn. When we leave the wire these ungainly protuberances drop down and lock into place, eyecups nestled against your eye soft plastic leeches. In this configuration the upright horn seems to jut out from your face like a long thermoplastic eye stalk. These cyclopean sights incessantly tug at your trapezius muscles, but in exchange for their nagging weight they peel away the cloak of night, and reveal the darkness in her naked splendor. The emerald images the NVGs splash across our retinas allow us to move like wraiths across the silent moonscape, dodging and weaving through the murk.

     Despite the visual enhancement driving in blackout remains a pulse quickening ordeal. To get a flavor of just how difficult the process really is grab a toilet paper tube, and lash it to your eye. Then tape your other lid shut and get behind the wheel. You will quickly get a sense of just how challenging night driving can really be. And that isn’t even taking into account craters large enough to swallow a HMMWV, the specter of newly emplaced IEDs, and the throat clogging clouds of dust. Our vehicle crews have long since mastered this silent art, but it never seems to get any easier. But then again nothing here seems to be all that easy.