My War

It started for me on March 20, 2003. It seems so long ago, but at the same time, it feels like yesterday...it feels like right now.  I was in the Kuwaiti desert just south of the Iraqi border waiting for the order to march north. We were chomping at the bit, but scared to death at the same time.

Everyone was tense. Everyone was scared. The only differences were in the manner with which it was dealt by the individual. Some of the younger Marines got chatty, and were visibly anxious. Some displayed false or exaggerated bravado. Many of the older jarheads such as myself became quiet and reflective.

The day before kick off, we were sent to staging areas north of our bases just south of the border. General Mattis had come to visit us and told us as he pointed north that, “…the only way home is through Baghdad.” Everyone cheered. The inexperienced were eager to splash some blood on their service record books, the seasoned just wanted to get on with it and get it over.

I was sick of the desert. I had sand in places I didn’t even know I had. I was sick of the boredom, and welcomed anything, even combat, that would break the monotony. I was sick of the heat, it was making me insane, and my temper short. It was relatively mild when I arrived in Kuwait, and the nights were downright cold, but as March wore on, it got hot. Balls stick to your thigh kind of hot, and t was only going to get hotter. I was sick of bathing in my helmet. I was sick of the chemical attack alarms (drills and suspected attacks). I was sick of having to sleep in my gas mask. I only had to do that twice, but even doing it once is enough to make you sick of it.

 As I sat there under the hot sun that day, I wrote one last letter home. The one you hope never gets mailed. The one that starts off, “If you’re reading this, I'm already gone…” I checked and rechecked my gear I don’t know how many times. I also inspected my Marines gear, and instructed them to clean their weapons one more time. I had to keep them as busy as I could. I didn’t want them to sit and think and worry like I was. They were bitching about the last minute tasks, but that was a good thing. I wanted them ready, trained, and pissed off when we crossed the line of departure.

The truck was packed and repacked. Gear was moved here and moved there until we were satisfied that it was the most functional and efficient situation. Ammunition for the Mk19 (belt fed grenade launching machinegun - lots'o'fun) was set closest to the rear seat occupants so it could be fed to me when the gun ran dry. We were given three AT-4s (Anti-Tank Missiles), those were just to the rear of the 40mm ammunition, and were unwrapped and prepped for fire. All seals on ammunition cans were broken so they would be easier to open. Personal gear was packed to the absolute rear of the truck. If it was essential to combat, it was within reach of someone inside the vehicle. If it was not, it was in the rear and hard to get at. I lost count of how many times I tore down the Mk19 and cleaned and inspected it.

We did not know what was waiting for us on the other side of that border, but we were ready for it whatever it was, be it death or glory. We knew that no matter what happened on the other side of that border we would never be the same. For the good or for the bad, we would be different men when and if we made it home.

War teaches you things that no classroom can impart. I learned more in those first three weeks of the war than I had in the previous 28 years about life, the world, human nature, and myself. Combat has a way of letting a man know who he really is. I’ve seen a hardened Captain frozen with fear while a skittish 19 year old PFC fought like a savage for his own life and the lives of those around him. Both men will spend the rest of their lives with the knowledge of their actions. Both are changed by it.

In the end, no one ever wins a war. One side just looses less. During the civil war, General Lee of the Virginia Army said that, “It is good that war is so terrible, lest we become to too fond of it.” War is, however, a necessary evil. No one likes to fight, but someone has to now how.

I am proud of my service. I do not regret it. I am glad I was able to give what I could to defend this nation. If given the opportunity, I would do it again, even knowing the end result.

Now, here I stand more than three years later actually closing in on four, reading in the papers and hearing on the radio about protests various and sundry. I sometimes consider attending these protests...I imagine myself wearing my dress blues and carrying a sign that reads, “Who is fighting in your place?”

The blurbs in these articles claim that the protesters ‘support the troops.’ I shake my head every time I see or hear this. How in the hell can you support a soldier or a Marine if you do not support his efforts? Every time I see news articles in the paper or on the TV and they show chanting protesters, all I see are pussies who are too afraid to pick up a rifle and stand a post, but still think of themselves as being brave for buying a bumper sticker or attending a rally at the mall.

What these soft bellied cowards fail to understand while they are exercising rights that were secured by others is that freedom is not free. It is a debt that has to be paid in blood. If you are not willing to stand up and fight and possibly die for your rights, but are willing to enjoy and even demand them, you deserve nothing but the contempt of those who are so willing.

Deeds, not words are what make us free. The pen is not mightier than the sword. It was not the Declaration of Independence that made the United States a sovereign nation. It was men with rifles that made us free. You only have those rights for which you are willing to bleed. No one owns anything in this world unless there is a 19 year old with a rifle standing on top of it.

I do not write this to be offensive, I harbor no ill will toward those who disagree with the war. I fought for their right to disagree. But don't tell me that you support me, when it is plain that you do not.