The accounts of things

You get so caught up in the scheme of things that you forget what you're trying to accomplish here.

What are we trying to do here? Are we trying to win the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people? Are we trying to weed out as many bad people as possible? Or both? I keep asking myself these questions and more and find that the answers sometimes do not quite satisfy me.

I am convinced in this war. I believe in this war. I would like to believe that what I'm doing here has some sense of purpose. But the past few weeks, I have just seen things that have gone against everything that we have stood and fought for the past 4 years.

And amidst all these questions I get news that one of my boys from boot camp was killed and another got his leg blown off.

It didn't hit me too hard at first, but after a while, it sunk deep into my heart and I felt a sore ache. I knew these guys. For three months we lived together; we ate, shower, pt, and did everything together.

The day we first held that rifle, we were told that a few of us might not make it back. I didn't take it too strong at the time. Now it seemed like yesterday and the words ring louder and louder to me everyday.

Telephone Game

You hold a greater appreciation for the little amenities after you see some things out here. For example, I have never realized how important communication was or is until the past few weeks.

It seems as if comm that comes from the top as it gets down to us, the lance corporals and pfcs, always gets distorted.

The incidents of the past few convoys have taught me many lessons. Most imprtantly, it has taught me to be more viligante and calm in the face of potential danger. And that's all you can live on out here, potential danger. But even that potential pierces you more than the actual because you're always on the alert wondering when it will happen. When will it happen to you. Is this your day?

I ask these questions and more as I drive my gunner past our checkpoints. We see an Iraqi National with a little boy on his lap; they wave to us. My gunner turns to me and in a subdued tone tells me that seeing that little boy on his presumably dad's lap made my gunner miss his 2 year old son. And I sat there, driving, pondering, not knowing what to say at this delicate and touching moment. A thought crossed my mind; I hope I don't get us killed.

I would hate for that to be on my conscience.

stars in the sky

I was never really able to see much of the sky back in the states. We just had too many lights. And it just seemed like there was some sort of lining covering the sky from us. I could never get a clear view back home.

Here in Iraq, though, the sky is amazing. Late at night when I head out for my nightly trip to the lavatory, I would glance up and I would see specks over light everywhere. The stars are always out. I was told that in the summer, you can even see more stars. The morning cold and the afternoon heat don't seem so bad when the evening breeze comes after. And I stood there from time to time looking up, wondering if I will ever see another sky like this.

Like the guy in "Three Seasons," said, there are 4 and 5 stars hotels all around the world, but where I am right now, I'm sleeping in a thousand stars hotel.

People may call this undeveloped, third world even; but for a place like this, it sure is beautiful at night.

This is your guardian angel brief

Nothing introduces you more to war than as soon as you hit the combat zone, your sergeant issues you 60 rounds and orders you to "shoot to kill."

I haven't fired the rounds yet; the situations haven't warrant it.

But I get anxious sometimes.

I was given the task along with several other Marines when we first got here to make sure that the bus drivers driving us to where we were staying didn't try anything stupid. We were the guards for our convoy. My Sergeant's exact words were, "There are no warning shots, shoot to kill."

I listened patiencely and wondered if I would actually have to fire at someone that night. Luckily, I didn't have to. I was prepared though. I held the magazine tightly in my hand and kept an eye on the driver at all times. I had to fight off exhaustion and sleepiness all the while maintaining a very keen alertness on where we were going. I glanced over to the other guard from time to time. He was intently focused as well. It was times like this that I am reminded of that scene in "A Few Good Men," when Nicolson's character tells Cruise's character that people die when Marines don't follow orders.

I hope that doesn't happen anytime here.

You only live once

I overheard someone say, "You only live once," today at the Rec Center. The phrase triggered something in my mind. I stopped, turned around, and for a moment thought about those words.

I remember coming to America like it was yesterday. I remember the first day of class with perfect clarity. I remember eating my first hamburger. I remember these and many more and the more I delve into these memories I am reminded of how fast my life has gone by. Twenty-one years old and trying to keep up with my youth.

I don't want to wake up one night in the middle of Iraq wondering about how my life has turned out. You only live once. I want to make sure that this life is one worth living, but more importantly, one worth dying for.

Squeamish is not an option

I used to really hate blood. That was before I joined the Marine Corps. I hated thinking about it, seeing it, and avoided dealing with it. But facing it comes with my job description.

Today in our Combat Life Saver class we were taught how to stick an IV into a person. Among many things done right, I did something not so wrong but could be miscontrued. Our class was split into pairs. My boy, LCPL Houser and I were the first to go, and I was the first to be sticked. He chose the biggest needle, a 14 gage, or however you spell it. It looks like one of those syringes that you use to inject butter and juices into turkey. It was pretty big. Houser seem a little nervous and I was a little tense. The prospect of having an inexperienced person poke me with a big needle into my vein doesn't really enthrall me.

He got the needle in and I took it like a man. It didn't hurt at all. He did it correctly. What he and most of us forgot that when you take the needle out, you have to put a lot of pressure on the hand or else blood would bleed out. Needless to say, he did not apply much pressure and before you know it, I had a steady stream of blood flowing down my forearm. It was good stuff.

When it was my turn to stick him, I did everything correctly except I went through his vein. I asked the doc if I should continue and he nodded his head and said yes. So reluctantly, I jammed that needle in and on Houser's face a frown appeared with a wincing sound. But again, he took it like a man. Apparently, I went through his vein and into his arm. So when I pulled the needle out, blood was coming out everywhere because I didn't apply enough pressure to stop it. It was intense.

There were only two 14 size needles and we both exhausted them.

Blood doesn't really affect me that much anymore. I've been trained to accept the fact that what I do requires being able to handle blood. And I'm happy for that.

Good times when we were young

It's always fun to think about the good times you had when you were young. I remember the first time that I pulled a fire alarm in first grade. I looked at my teacher with a wide eye grin as to suggest, "Did I do that?" Holding my hand, she didn't know what to say or do except smile. I had just come to the United States from Vietnam no less than a week prior. I didn't know any English. And maybe it was my genuine curiosity and naivete that made all of my teachers loved me. She led me outside still holding my hand and we waited until they cleared the alarm. To this day, that incident is perhaps one of the fondest memories of my life. I will never forget Mrs. Engdal.

As I sit here preparing for the last few days before I head out to Iraq, I think about these fond memories and wonder if I would ever get to visit them again. Not to relive them but to engulf in their ambivalence of world. Young and fresh, innocent.

But I now carry an M4 rifle, wearing an armored flak jacket with magazine pouches attached, and several other war gear, and those times just seem so distant.

I just hope I can come to revisit these stories and others.