Last call

Rated PG

Last call

Recorded from written text in Ramadi, Iraq. A wrap up, really, of a few things that stood out during my tour and what I did to cope.

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It’s been seven short months since I put boots on the deck here in Iraq, and I’ll say will no hesitation I’m happy to be leaving. For those who don’t find themselves behind the refuge of perimeter defenses for one reason or another, every moment outside the wire you cheat death. Forget training. Forget what’s happened to other people or the things you’ve learned. If a sniper 200 meters away in a second story window wants my blood bad enough, he’ll get it. The best hope is that I’m not first and have an extra heartbeat to find cover and return fire before I’m next. If an IED triggers next to me on a localized security patrol, I’m dead. It doesn’t matter if I’m carrying all the right gear. It doesn’t matter if I sat in the Amen pew every Sunday, and it doesn’t matter how meaningful a life I’ve lived. I will end up a pink mist on the uniform of the nearest man who didn’t evaporate upon detonation.

So how have I done it? How have I walked past charred, human bones in the street and not thought hey, I could be next? How have I seen a vehicle’s blood splattered interior, riddled with bullet holes, and not wondered how I’ve avoided the same fate for so long? How have I gone patrol after mission after convoy after ambush? I do it by not thinking about it so damn much. I find comfort in the idea that death by IED or sniper will probably be instantaneous. And yes, I understand the odds of being seriously injured instead of killed are very good, but again, I don’t let that get to me. That’s how I deal with this. Some people wear lucky socks or even pray before they leave the wire. I am not one of them. I ignore the what-ifs and what-could-bes and instead substitute a focused effort for the task at hand. Sometimes it’s enough I want to snap. Hell, maybe I already have.

All of us here have changed in one way or another. I doubt I’ll know the full extent until the Papa John’s delivery guy is ten minutes late on my pizza. I feel normal. No one’s raised a red flag or pointed fingers at my alleged lunacy. I don’t dream of severed heads or dead puppies or enraged, enemy slaughter-most nights. I don’t have violent outbursts or depressive fits or even inconsistent bowels. According to Jayme Kohler M.D., I’m good to go. But then again, crazy people will always swear they’re sane.

There was a time not long ago I had the notion of extending to do another tour. But I changed my mind. I’m heading back to Camp Pendleton, CA where I can hopefully land a cushy desk job at BN that’ll give me enough time to finally start taking care of my officer package. I need to run a PFT, get to the rifle and pistol ranges, and get my resident and nonresident professional military education out of the way to open the door for Gunny next year. On top of all that, I need to train to finish the remaining 1200 miles of the Lewis and Clark trail from St Lois, MO to Bismarck. My legs aren’t exactly the steel pistons they used to be. Iraq has not been kind to my cycling.

In a way, going home is scarier than staying here. Here in Iraq I’ve got a solid hand hold on the unpredictables, the missions, the training, the ways I could die. But home? Now that is a different story all together. I’m hoping for a new job, looking for a new career path, anticipating months of catch up training, and trying to throw a two week long cross-country bicycle trip on top of it all when I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get enough leave to cover it! If we’re talking uncertainties, home has this place beat hands down.

Our retrograde is scheduled soon. A few days to get out of theater, a civilian flight out of Kuwait, an undetermined amount of time on the east coast tying up loose ends for this whole Advisor gig, and one last hop into San Diego! I know it won’t be long before luxuries like flushing toilets, refrigerators, microwaves, internet, predictable electricity, and having my own washer and dryer are forgotten as such. And I know how easy it’ll be to slip back into the wonderful world of automation and shopping malls and, God forbid, Wal-Marts. But I find the longer I’m without these things, the more I realize how little I actually needed them to begin with. Wanted, yes, but needed, no. I guess I just like having my options, but who doesn’t? That’s why we buy shirts in different colors and pants in different styles. It’s all the same, in the end, when you reduce everything to the lowest common denominator, but it’s nice to have the options.

So, when I finally leave Iraq, I’ll be leaving fear, sorrow, hatred and even blood lust far behind. It’s baggage I don’t want. Instead, I’ll take the victories and reunions and the friends and camaraderie, and pack those away where customs can’t find them. Years from now, when my children climb up my leg, plop in my lap, and ask what Iraq was like, I can tell them the stories of the good that came from this tour and the lifelong friends I’ve made. After all, the good is all that matters.

Semper Fi folks. I’m coming home.