Soldier's Home : The Personal

First Iraq Vet Selected for Beijing Paralympics

David Botti — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 17:13:35 GMT

A young woman who lost her left leg to a roadside bomb attack in Baghdad recently became the first Iraq war veteran selected to compete in the Beijing Paralympics. Former Army 1st Lt. Melissa Stockwell was one of 18 women selected for the U.S. Paralympic Swim Team. As the Associated Press reports:

As a first lieutenant in the Army, she was traveling through Baghdad on April 13, 2004, when a bomb ripped through her Humvee and took part of her left leg with it.
Infection and surgery claimed another significant portion of her leg, leaving her with just a few inches of stump below her hip.

Doctors fitted Stockwell with a titanium prosthesis so she can walk around, but the leg comes off before she takes the starter's blocks and gets ready to swim.

"I definitely made a decision early on that I was going to put it behind me and move on and try to do something positive," Stockwell said. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I lost my leg. Of course I would like to have my leg, but I have no regrets. It's opened so many doors for me."

A Wounded Warriors Project profile of Stockwell notes that she received 15 surgeries as a result of the bomb blast. At the time of the profile's publication in 2006, Stockwell was earning a second bachelors degree -- this time in prosthetics.

[Stockwell] felt absolute joy when she made a prosthetic leg for a ten-year-old girl, watched the child put the leg on, then get up and jump around. In the future, she is hoping to help wounded soldiers coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan get their lives back through prosthetic care.

According to a Washington Post profile of Stockwell, between four and 10 disabled veterans will eventually qualify for this year's U.S. Paralympic Team. And, by the 2012 summer games in London, 10 to 15 percent of the U.S. team may be comprised of veterans.

As part of her Paralympics trials earlier this month, Stockwell set a new American record for the women's 400-meter freestyle.

Below is a video profile of Stockwell produced by the Wounded Warriors Project.

Dear Diary: Here Comes the War, Part II

David Botti — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 16:38:21 GMT

Earlier this week I posted excerpts from I journal I kept while serving in Iraq. During this fifth anniversary week of the war, I wanted to give readers a sense of what it was like preparing to deploy. Today I'm posting a few more entries from the journal. They all take place while I was at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, waiting to see if/when we'd get the call to deploy.

March 23, 2003

A Sunday afternoon on the barracks' catwalk. Day four of the war. Nothing much else to do but bullsh*t and watch TV. There are an estimated 50 Marine casualties at this point. Mom said she watched a firefight on TV this morning. Some U.S. forces are less than 100 miles from Baghdad. Other than that don't know what else to say...just waiting. A lot of us think that we'll end up going no where, just end up staying stateside. I don't believe that, I just hope we don't go somewhere for some bull*t mission. If we do something good I know I'll feel as though I've accomplished something worthwhile in my 23 years.

Things just get more surreal by the hour. First, we watched more footage of the front lines where Marines were fighting. These guys are just like us, it's so obvious but I just can't get my head around it. At one point the reporter mentioned he was with the 2nd Battalion 8th Marines--and we're staying in their barracks right now. It's getting more frustrating to see Marines dying and not being able to help them. Sgt. D- speculates that our leave date for Iraq might come sooner. He also says when we get there we'll probably wish for these long nights back in the U.S. Funny, because he's never talked like that before.

March 24, 2003

Not much to say except that today I realized I could actually die. I mean I see vivid pictures of such things, and I see how easily this can happen in war. It may seem like an obvious statement. I thought about these kinds of things the moment I enlisted. But never in those early, innocent, "good ol' days" when I rushed through weekend training to get back to school and finish my homework, did I ever think I'd be in a war. Then, once this became apparent, it has taken until now to really understand what war actually means...I mean, really means. It doesn't seem like me, David Botti, could be shot to death on a road in Iraq...but, it can so easily happen. So easy to become a name on the wall, and a cross in Arlington Nation Cemetery where thousands like me may have thought the same things. But I shouldn't think about such morbid things. The war is getting bloodier...especially for the Marines. Today I saw an Army convoy come under attack on TV.

March 25, 2003

Things have changed infinitely in a matter of a few hours. We learned today that we would be leaving for Kuwait by the weekend. Things kicked into high gear. The mood seems somber, uncertain, worried. Things are so real and so clear that it seems everyday the fog lifts revealing how things will really be. I could see it in the major's face as he told us we were going. Here are people's thoughts: H- is having trouble sleeping; B- is worried that he'll kill someone and go to hell; S- wishes he picked up a slutty girl last weekend; A- doesn't feel like talking to his parents (he also thinks he only has a 20 percent chance of coming home not wounded or dead); C- wants to go but is scared at the same time; N- is nervous. All I can really do is concentrate on the future, and put all this into perspective when I come back home.

Dear Diary: Here Comes the War

David Botti — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:13:17 GMT

Along with the Iraq war starting five years ago this week, this period was also the first time I began writing in the journal I kept while deployed. I'm posting excerpts today and tomorrow, so you can get a sense of what was going through the mind of a lowly lance corporal on his way to Iraq. The entries are not particularly eloquent, but they're real and I hope they just show what the calm was like before the storm. I've omitted the names of my fellow Marines for their privacy.

March 10, 2003

Our platoon commander has been having meetings with all the squad leaders (planning and training stuff), and it sounds like we're going balls to the wall. He says if we're going to the front we're dropping everything, and taking only food and ammo. Morale seems relatively high -- probably from the adventure factor. Sounds like we may be in Kuwait within 10 days if the training schedule at Camp Lejeune doesn't get lengthened.

We got a slightly propaganda-ish Iraq country briefing, and one on desert survival. In terms of politics in the world I'm loosing track of all those resolutions, votes, "phone calls," etc. I just want to get over there. I've also realized I haven't thought about the future much. Hopefully, I'll be too busy to think about it. I wonder what they're doing back home right now. Is it wrong of me to think that I feel almost lucky to be in this position, to see some facet of the world which is rare -- and then have the ability to come home and bring those experiences with me? Well -- we'll see what kinds of experiences I actually take home...if I want them with me. A- isn't sure if he wants to go back to school after our deployment. He said he's not afraid of what's ahead of us, but that he's afraid of what it'll be like going back home. He looks at other college students w/o a clue as to what's going on, and gets pissed off. B- said he always just wanted to work as a bureaucrat, and that because of this he doesn't want anything to do with that kind of work. He just wants to "go west" when we get back, and figure everything else later.

March 11, 2003

There are rumors today we may be at Camp Lejeune for two months. I can't stand that thought of not being able to go overseas when the war's still going on.

K- got his family hardship exemption today, so he won't be coming with us. Some in the platoon say it's a bad omen -- that that goofy bast*rd was our good luck charm.

A bunch of us went to Ruby Tuesday's at the mall last night. C- showed up with his fiancée. I feel bad for those two now that we're leaving. It just doesn't seem fair to any of us.

March 13, 2003

I have a really bad headache right now, and I hope to god it goes away quick so I can focus on the task at hand. Yesterday was the day we said goodbye to all of our families. The day got dragged out, and I had to said goodbye to the "rents" a few times -- each time thinking it was the last. It was just a cluster f*ck all around as usual.

Before I said goodbye to my family, I saw K-'s family and his children crying...his daughter running up to him repeatedly...his son asking him when he'd be back. That hurt. K- handled it good. He gave a good "father's answer," but then I saw his own parents who lived through all this sh*t in communist Poland -- and, it just all seemed to make it worse.

Other than that the day was just sitting around and waiting to leave. N- didn't have his family there. He said he'd rather say goodbye to his wife on his own terms, and not the Marine Corps.

Even after all that crying with the families, an interesting thing happened. Once we were all sitting on the bus to go to Camp Lejeune, the platoon just settled into our normal routine: "smokin' n' joke'in," laughing at stupid sh*t. I felt guilty that I had a smile on my face while both of my parents were still standing out in the cold waiting for the bus to leave. I guess I'm just more used to this sort of thing.

After the ride to Camp Lejeune we got several briefs, and that word that we should be off to SWA (Southwest Asia) pretty soon. At one point the battalion commander mentioned forces "going into the breach," and I suddenly had an overwhelming fear of dying -- of being thrown into battle and suddenly having my life in direct danger. Everything is just so uncertain.

March 16, 2003

Where to begin and where to end. I have so much to say, but now that it comes to writing I'm drawing a blank. We've had a good amount of time occupied by classes (which I don't mind), and only today do we have a significant amount of time to ourselves, it being Sunday. Yesterday was filled with trips to the gas chamber and zeroing our rifles. Not much to note of yesterday save for good feeling of accomplishment when a long day is done, and you sit around bullshi**ing with the only people who can understand it all. I'd say morale is relatively good, or people just realize that it's pointless to complain. One thing of note is that guys still don't have uniforms that fit (or boots), and equipment seems to be coming in scattered, and in limited supply. There just seems to be a sense of irony there.

We received a class today from the major on combat fatigue. We learned that it's alright to sh*t your pants and it's best to talk about your feelings. It was all very strange to hear such things, and
in one sense I can't see any of us put into such drastic situations--but at the same time I'm beginning to see just how easy it is for me to die...how insignificant my life is in the grand scheme of the war (which rumors say should start in a few days).

I've found I don't look to the future that much. I want to go back to NYC, but for what? I'm not kidding myself. I really didn't miss it until I was told I had to leave. But I suppose what A- and I talked about today sums up everything: in some sense life like this in the military is simplified and never do I have to second guess the present course of my life in terms of fulfillment. Basically, I guess I feel very neutral about everything...content just to see what happens.

March 18, 2003

Last night Bush gave "the speech," and Saddam has 48 hours before things start happening. Also, it seems like the whole world is against us -- it really feels like we're about to enter into some real
terrible times. It's all an extension of 9/11, which seems like it's already something for the history books. I had planned to watch the speech in the barracks, but Sergeant O- took a Marine in my fire team out for a run, and the guy sprained his ankle. So, I ended up watching in an eerily silent emergency room with a scattering of military families who were also there. They had looks on their faces that seemed like they were about to head into combat themselves. Sergeant O- seemed to take the Marine's sprained ankle to heart, beating himself up over his decision to run too fast. Of course, none of this was his fault and I wonder how bad things would really get for
him if something were to happen to one of us in Iraq.

Other than that just more classes (did a run with gas masks today which sucked). Unfortunately, we're falling into a routine which I hope gets broken up very soon.

A Car Ride Before the Invasion

David Botti — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 13:04:20 GMT

Usually about this time every year my occasional moments of personal reflection begin to ramp up as the war's anniversary draws closer. Back then, in 2003, it seemed we were about to embark on the defining moment of our generation. Five years later, those few months leading up to the invasion seem to be diluted by time. They were not singular months that would become labeled by history as the "War in Iraq"--they would simply mark the starting point. Through the distance of five years, it is difficult to remember what it felt like for the United States to actually go to war.

Around this time my reserve rifle company, having just come off of a year of active duty in December, got the call for all Marines to show up for anthrax shots. It came unexpectedly and without explanation. No one said we were going to Iraq, but in his silence it was almost as if our company commander was winking his eye and nodding his head. The prospect of once again leaving our home so soon, left many of the Marines bitter and brooding. Emotions were running so high from our possible deployment and our recent return home that I barely remember even watching the news. I have no recollection of following the various UN resolutions and posturing by the U.S. and Iraq. I do not remember hearing of other military units being deployed to Kuwait, or the comments made by Secretary of State Powell at the UN regarding Iraq's weapons program. The only news we waited for, or cared about, was whether the phone call to mobilize came again.

If a moment from that time can sum up the mood among my fellow Marines, it came during a three-hour long car ride from our company HQ to my house near Boston. My good friend was dropping me off on this way to Maine where his young wife and two dogs lived. When we first got in the car I remember him dropping into the driver's seat without a word, starting the car, and turning on the radio--all the while staring straight ahead. I know that his perceived unfairness of our situation--that we'd just spent one year mobilized already--was grinding away at any kind of happiness our recent homecoming had given him: he'd been screwed by the military again.

We did not speak for a good long while. Interstate 90 stretched before us into the night, visible only in the car's headlights as occasional rest-areas flashed past. At one point he asked, substituting his brooding expression with one of hopefulness: "You don't think they'll really activate us again, do you?"

I had no answer, and that seemed to make him more frustrated. A few minutes later we had a burst of arguing over what radio station to listen to. He wanted to change it, I wanted to keep it. I was surprised how angry I was at him for such a stupid thing. He probably felt the same way about me. After we compromised I felt better, and we barely talked for the rest of the drive. He dropped me off at my parents' house, said goodbye, and two months later we were in Iraq.

In Advance of the War's 5th Anniversary

David Botti — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 19:02:41 GMT

The fifth anniversary of the start of our war in Iraq is a little more than a month away. There will be retrospectives looking back to those early days of shock and awe, in addition to news analysis and the nation's self-reflection. Even a month out from the anniversary, conversations about the upcoming day seem to revolve around the same theme: "can you believe it's already been five years?" It is a sobering thought. And even if you believe in the war, or are staunchly at odds with its premise, five years is a unit of time to view not so much in length, but in the various phases that occurred.

The summer of 2003, as I saw it, was a honeymoon period. The optimism for Iraq's future still ran high (at least in some circles), and at the same time I could see questionable expressions on the faces of Iraq's citizens as we patrolled past them. No one knew how it would all play out. Personally the fragile tensions that held together a shaky peace ended on November 12, when a suicide bomber destroyed the building in An Nasiriyah that at one time was my platoon's headquarters.

Homecoming was also different. There were no VA scandals, or talk of PTSD, or advocacy groups comprised of Iraq veterans. We simply came home and quickly immersed ourselves back into civilian life. To watch how that has changed is to examine the evolution of the war in Iraq and on the home front. To ask a veteran about his or her experiences in Iraq yields not an overall glimpse into the war, but an occasion to see just one phase of it. This is what needs to be remembered as the anniversary coverage begins. I remember seeing soldiers entering Iraq July 2003 and feeling bad for them. They'd missed the defining war of our generation. They would spend a few months in post-invasion mopping up, and go home on the tail end of the operation. Of course, the irony in this cannot be overstated.

We have enough perspective over five years to eschew generic "looks back" for a more nuanced analysis of how our country has fared over this time. It must be broken into phases: the invasion, the time surrounding 2004's battle for Fallujah, the grinding years of 2005 and 2006, the Abu Ghraib and Haditha investigations, and the controversial surge plan that's brought us to this point. At home the fascination with the invasion's pyrotechnics has given way to simply reading of the daily casualty figures ticking away over the news wires. There's also the trends in media coverage to consider, the heightened focus of home front veterans issues, and how artistic mediums have sought to portray the war and inform us.

Looking back on the fifth anniversary means not so much seeing what happened, but understanding how we got to where we are today, and how driven we are to look at Iraq not simply as a war, but as a series of distinct eras.

"Re-Upping"

David Botti — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 19:05:31 GMT

Both the Army National Guard and the Marine Corps had recruitment ads before the previews at the movie I saw this weekend. The National Guard ad in part depicted post-Katrina-esque scenarios where guardsmen went to the aid of civilians. The filming was sweeping and highly dramatized. The Marine Corps ad offered not so much long scenes, but quick clips of intensity as infantry stormed houses and drill instructors marched recruits. They were both obvious sales pitches. The mere fact you could see two military recruitment ads before a Sunday matinée gave a nice little reminder of what kind of times we're living in.

It did another thing. It made me feel for a fleeting moment like I had to get the hell out of there and reenlist.

Recently my good Marine friend thought about doing just that. On inactive reserve, he signed back up to rejoin our old unit for one very specific reason: the scuttlebutt says they'll be heading back to Iraq soon, and he wanted to be with them. The unit was both of ours for six years. We were mobilized with its Marines and still feel the pull of bonds we'd cemented there.

He arrived to find just a handful of Marines left whom we'd known in the old days. They all asked the same thing: why the heck are you here? They told him he had a good thing going in civilian life, and that'd he done his time in the Corps and with the unit. Even the officers thanked him for offering to return, but said it wouldn't be the best thing for him to do. So, that was it. He left the headquarters never to return. Still, it was only by going to see these Marines face-to-face that he could be sure that chapter in his life was over.

I'm certain most of the Marines I've known have contemplated "re-upping" at one time or another. Each man has his own personal reasons why he did or didn't go through with it. I've also seen the same phrase uttered over and over again by friends and family trying to dissuade their Marine from going back to war: "you did your time." That one phrase can grate at your own thoughts already conflicted over having to make such a difficult decision. But it wasn't until my friend was told he'd done his time by Marines themselves it suddenly became valid.

With a war still on it's difficult to think that you will never wear a uniform again--even if you have no real intention of ever doing so. Even seeing over-dramatized recruitment ads in a movie theater can make you feel guilty for sitting there instead of in a patrol base. I've often wondered if veterans of wars long since gone feel the same way. My father, a Korean War veteran of the Air Force, still insists he'd strap himself into a fighter jet if they'd let him. How much do they see of themselves in the young veterans coming home, and what have they learned since their own homecoming that today's vets don't know?

In the end there's nothing much one can do except offer support, look at old pictures, and tell war stories with your friends--and think with faint jealousy of that young image of yourself, pulling up to the gates of boot camp totally scared sh*tless.

Vet Issues Portrayed in 1946 Still Completely Relevant

David Botti — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 19:04:48 GMT

It's been widely reported recently that movies dealing with veterans and the Iraq war are mostly flopping at the box office. Peoples' opinions on the cause of this are varied, but a common line of thinking is that it's just too soon. Recently, however, I came across a movie from 1946 which astounded me in the accuracy and relevance of the veterans issues addressed. The movie is called "The Best Years of Our Lives," and while it won the 1947 Oscar for best picture I'd never heard about it until my father mentioned the film at the Christmas dinner table.

If conventional wisdom within my own generation believes that many mainstream movies from that time period are sanitized and fail to address complex issues, "The Best Years of Our Lives" is an exception. The film traces the lives of three WWII veterans and their return to a small town and their families. One of the actors, Harold Russell, was a veteran himself and lost both hands while serving in the U.S. Army.

While watching the movie I was struck how veterans of Iraq could easily replace these WWII-era characters. We see their apprehension as one-by-one a taxi drops the men off at their respective homes. None of the vets want to get out of the car, and face their families for the first time. The ensuing story line involves alcoholism, depression, joblessness, financial troubles, broken relationships, and opposition to the war. Even among their families and old friends the vets feel out of place, with images of their wartime experience always present. The plot is subtle and methodical. In portraying the assimilation of these vets back into civilian society, we see how they initially depend on each other, and how they eventually come to depend on their families as well.

An Army Blogger's Death and His Final Posthumous Post

David Botti — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 16:24:54 GMT

An American soldier and blogger was killed in action last Thursday, and per his wishes a final posthumous blog post was published the day after. Major Andrew Olmsted, 37, wrote an Iraq-specific blog for the Rocky Mountain News called "From the Front Lines." His last post was dated December 26th, and described how Olmsted's unit went to distribute supplies donated from the U.S. to "help Iraqis down on their luck."

His personal blog which spans from August 2002 to June 2007 covered a wide breadth of topics, including the military and politics. In a post from last February Olmsted writes he was, "blogging in violation of a Department of Defense directive that restricts how much political activity soldiers may be involved with." He began writing for the Rocky Mountain News in May.

Maj. Olmsted was killed along with another American officer named Capt. Thomas Casey. According to the Defense Department:

They died Jan. 3 in As Sadiyah, Iraq, of wounds suffered when insurgents attacked their unit using small arms fire during combat operations. Both Soldiers were assigned to the Military Transition Team, 1st Brigade, 1st Infantry Division, Fort Riley, Kan.

Although many soldiers write "death letters," the final correspondence to a family written in case one should be killed, Maj. Olmsted's words were instantly available for the entire world to see via the internet. Excerpts:

What I don't want this to be is a chance for me, or anyone else, to be maudlin. I'm dead. That sucks, at least for me and my family and friends. But all the tears in the world aren't going to bring me back, so I would prefer that people remember the good things about me rather than mourning my loss. (If it turns out a specific number of tears will, in fact, bring me back to life, then by all means, break out the onions.) I had a pretty good life, as I noted above. Sure, all things being equal I would have preferred to have more time, but I have no business complaining with all the good fortune I've enjoyed in my life. So if you're up for that, put on a little 80s music (preferably vintage 1980-1984), grab a Coke and have a drink with me...

...I do ask (not that I'm in a position to enforce this) that no one try to use my death to further their political purposes. I went to Iraq and did what I did for my reasons, not yours. My life isn't a chit to be used to bludgeon people to silence on either side. If you think the U.S. should stay in Iraq, don't drag me into it by claiming that somehow my death demands us staying in Iraq. If you think the U.S. ought to get out tomorrow, don't cite my name as an example of someone's life who was wasted by our mission in Iraq...

...This is the hardest part. While I certainly have no desire to die, at this point I no longer have any worries. That is not true of the woman who made my life something to enjoy rather than something merely to survive. She put up with all of my faults, and they are myriad, she endured separations again and again...I cannot imagine being more fortunate in love than I have been with Amanda. Now she has to go on without me, and while a cynic might observe she's better off, I know that this is a terrible burden I have placed on her, and I would give almost anything if she would not have to bear it. It seems that is not an option. I cannot imagine anything more painful than that, and if there is an afterlife, this is a pain I'll bear forever.

To learn more about Maj. Olmsted read his introduction on the Rocky Mountain News blog.

Meet the New Generation of War Veterans

David Botti — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 17:56:57 GMT

From Newsweek's Dec. 31, 2007-Jan. 7, 2008 issue:

I grew up in an era when war veterans were the aging men at Memorial Day parades wearing triangular hats. It never crossed my mind that a vet might someday be a kid like me. If it had never crossed yours, either, this year probably changed all that. At my graduate school in New York, I can count at least five classmates who know an Iraq War veteran firsthand—and that's just one class, in one school. More than 1 million veterans have returned from Iraq and Afghanistan, lifting our collective profile by the sheer weight of our numbers.

During the past year, veterans' issues were all over the media—and often the news was grim. In February the Walter Reed hospital scandal broke, with revelations about decrepit housing and substandard care. Next came a series of reports on Iraq War data: we learned that the Army suicide rate had reached a 26-year high in 2006; that there'd been 4,698 desertions during the 2007 fiscal year, an 80 percent increase since 2003; that the number of Iraq vets diagnosed with mental-health issues triples during their first six months at home. I followed these stories with a strange sense of relief. For too long, people seemed to think veterans came home and simply melted back into society. Now vet issues were finally getting attention—even if it took bad news to make it happen.

When I started my blog this year, I wondered if there would be enough news about veterans to get me through one day. I couldn't have been more wrong. There we were in the rhetoric of politicians, in countless newspaper features, even on reality TV. For the blog, I've made an effort to examine not only the challenges that my fellow veterans face but also their accomplishments. As one Wall Street Journal columnist wrote, "The media struggles in good faith to respect our troops, but too often it merely pities them."

Stories like the Walter Reed scandal can invite this kind of pity and overshadow the fact that most of us are immensely proud of our service. A single tour in Iraq or Afghanistan can define a person's entire life; collectively, our experiences will echo for decades. If 2007 was the year when veterans' issues entered the public's consciousness, we need to make sure they don't go away in 2008.

Thoughts of Marines from Iraq War's Beginning

David Botti — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 19:02:59 GMT

During my deployment to Iraq in 2003 I kept a journal thinking someday, when I'm old and gray, I'd want to remember how things were back in the summer of '03. One section of this journal was comprised of interviews I did with Marines in my platoon over a period of two days. We'd been in Iraq less than three weeks, and so far had not moved from our initial position guarding a bridge in the middle of nowhere.

The interviews were not done for any journalistic purpose, but simply to get a sense of what other people in my platoon were thinking. I've posted excerpts below. One thing to keep in mind as you read them is the diversity of answers. Some of them may sound crass, but that's just the kind of black humor that gets you though the day. Also remember that at the time the war was less than a month old:

Interviews taken April 16th – 18th, 2003

How has your opinion of the war changed?

-“At first I didn’t give a sh*t, but now I’m glad, I like giving little kids tootsie rolls.”
-“At first I thought it was good because there was viable cause with weapons of mass destruction. Now I think it’s a farce because they’re aren’t any and if there are they’ve been brought in by the Americans. Anyone with shiny things on their collars [officers] is an idiot.”
-“I always wanted to come over and kick ass, glad we did it this time.”
-“Before I wasn’t sure how Iraqi civilians felt about us coming, how they felt, if they actually wanted us to fix their country. If it was really an Iraqi freedom operation. Now I think they’re happy, they’re friendly, they’re glad to see us (except the six we just captured). It’s a rich oil country, but people live Third World, no shoes.”
-“First the constant is that the U.S. has it’s own ideas on capitalizing from this. But I feel better being here now, because we are here, but it’s worth it that we’re helping these people. The U.S. is a bunch of pigs because it’s for oil–not humanitarian, but the people will be helped.”
-“I didn’t think we’d face as little resistance as we did from hard core Islamics, because we’re a non-Arab army in an Arab’s country. War becomes more legitimate with each person I see every day.”
-“First our intentions were not to help these people, so not entirely. But a little good has come out of it, but who knows what kind of mess this will lead to.”
-“War is not what it seems to be on TV, only a few exciting seconds are shown. I still think it’s good for why we’re here.”
-“Since the beginning I wanted to help people. My understanding of war has changed, it’s a messy business. America promised too much, Iraqis had basic needs under Saddam. They’re starting to wonder how America is going to end up here.”

Have you thought about September 11th since you’ve been here?

-“I think we’d still be here even if 9/11 hadn’t occurred.”
-“No, I look at my watch twice a day at 9:11, that’s the only context.”
-“We’ve all moved on from that.”
-“Last night. I’m trying to relate it to here. I want people I know living in New York City to live and not have to worry about things.”
-“No, surprisingly I don’t think I have.”
-“Yes, since then our country has taken on a different stance in dealing with the world. That’s part of what we’re doing, not just freeing Iraq, fighting terrorism. The world wouldn’t be where it was today.”
-“In the beginning. Now I have no time to think about that sh*t.”
-“I wonder if Saddam had anything to do with it.”
-“No, not really. Now that you mention it, I’m surprised I haven’t.”
-“Every day. A family friend, a firefighter, was lost. This was my first experience of America being attacked.”
-“All the time. It began this odyssey. Personally it was the start of a long journey to this point. It will never be over in full, but my own contribution to my country will have been resolved, so I can move forward. This is closing the chapter on the journey. Time to move on to a new phase.”

If you could speak to the Iraqi people on television, what would you say?

-“I have a ten inch c*ck – just kidding. I’d say Saddam is gone, but the job is not done. Make sure you help us get you a new government, so we can get out. Never become as cowardly as suicide bombers.”
-“You owe us.”
-“That’s all you had?”
-“Look forward to a brighter future.”
-“If you’re happy we’re here, good. If not, we’ve won, f*ck you, we did it fast. Your country sucks d*ck and I don’t know why you stay here.”
-“Bring me meat and bread.”
-“I’d thank the people for their cooperation. I’m glad they’re free.”
-“You’re welcome.”
-“We’ve given you a chance to unf*ck yourselves, don’t f*ck up, take full advantage. Tolerance is key.”
-“I’d advise them there is a lot in this world they’ve never know, and to be open to this. We’re giving you a chance to see something beyond what you’ve known before.”
-“Patience, Patience. There is no magical stick to change everything. You need to do things yourselves, Americans won’t do everything.”
-“Thank you for tearing us away from our loving families to live in your miserable country.”
-“I hope we actually helped them. Everything done was done for their good. I’m sorry if they had to suffer at all.”
-“Now it’s up to you guys.”
-“Freedom to live the life you want is the greatest freedom you can have.”
-“Now we’re here to help, we mean no harm. Take precaution on how you approach us, we’re still alert. Please cooperate and obey the laws.”

How do you think you will look back on this in forty years?

-“Talking to the grandkids–it’s nothing, not a big deal. There’s more reaction to things now, not in the future.”
-“In forty years America’s power and influence won’t be as strong. Our mideast expansion is the beginning of us overextending.”
-“I’d just miss everybody. You don’t have friends like this at home, or anywhere.”
-“I won’t.”
-“I’m trying to appreciate what we’re doing. I feel proud, I’m proud now.”
-“I’d be proud I did something productive.”
-“If I hadn’t come here I would have been frustrated. I’m glad I was here no matter what we end up doing.”
-“I hope to forget, but probably never will.”
-“Everything was worth it–stopping our lives for a second time and making sacrifices.”
-“I really have no idea. I probably won’t talk about it. People wouldn’t understand. Only if someone was there would I talk about it.”
-“It characterized the youth of my life. It formed the foundation for the rest of my life. Friends here will know you better than anyone. This is life.”

What would you do back home if people are still protesting the war? / If they did so to your face?

-“I wouldn’t care. / I’d punch them, then kick them when they’re down.”

-“They have every right to. / I’d walk right by them.”

-“I think they’re stupid. / I’d punch them, I’d be so angry I couldn’t even speak. They haven’t earned the right to protest, not until they serve their country. Civilian couch potatoes don’t know their d*ck from their ass.”

-“They do it because some have nothing better to do, to do something. They have no idea what it’s all about. / I’d say that’s your opinion, but I don’t agree and I’m not going to discuss it with you because you weren’t part of it.”

-“It’s good. It’s America. Some people do it because it’s the hip thing. People think it’s cool to be anti-something, but not anti-troops, that’s bad. Before being here I’d be more easily swayed into protesting. It’s still for oil, but I’ve become more for it. If we leave without capitalizing on oil, I think that would be great. / Hey, whatever. I’d have the same conversation we’re having right now.”

-“Every American is entitled to opinion, go for it, but I don’t agree with it. I hope the news shows it as we’re seeing it. After people see how it is right now, there should be no more protests. If they’re protesting they’re just hypocrites. / If you protest you protest the soldiers, and that’s wrong, they don’t make policy. Soldiers will fight when you hate the cause and when you love the cause.”

-“Protesters are naïve. Their agendas are not as benevolent or pro-Iraqi as they might seem. They’re all under the Iraqi banner but using the war for their own agendas. / I might be personally angry but would try to educate them that I’m a professional soldier, that’s my job.”

-“They have every right. I don’t agree with a lot of it. You can protest anything, that’s what’s great about our country. / I’d just keep walking.”

-“If they were here and saw the people here with nothing and smiles when they see us, they would change their views real fast. They protest just to argue. / I’d go nuts on them. I would love to hear their reason, then show them a video of Iraqi people and then see what they would say.”

-“They have a right to, but a lot don’t know all the facts. They haven’t been to Iraq like we have, but they have a right to do and say what they want, which is why we’re the most powerful nation. I just hope they don’t call us baby killers. / Depends. If they were hostile I’d punch them. If they were decent, I’d try to talk to them about what they saw.”

-“They don’t have a f*cking clue what’s going on. Cowards. They’re over privileged kids directing their own ideas against this. They can afford to go against their government. / I’d honor their right. If they made accusations against me, things would get heated. I’d ask them to back up what they say.”

-“I like them, they’re the ones who care about the troops.”

Attending a Veteran’s Funeral

David Botti — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 16:25:47 GMT

Photo: Seth Wenig/AP

When I heard Captain McKenna was going to lead a platoon of volunteers from my old reserve rifle company who were heading to Iraq, I was relieved. He’d take care of them. He was an enlisted man’s officer. He was pure and simple a decent person, and a respected leader.

He was killed on Aug. 16, 2006-shot by a sniper near Fallujah as he went to rescue a wounded Marine, Lance Corporal Glover, who also died that day. Their funerals both took place in New York City within the same week.

I often wish that every American could attend at least one funeral of a soldier killed in Iraq or Afghanistan. They are one of only a few occasions when military and civilian rituals can come together as one. They are the proud and largely unknown moments of American history. Since 9/11, they’ve taken place more than 4,000 times.

The first Marine I recognized as I arrived at Capt. McKenna’s funeral was the first sergeant in charge of my rifle company when we deployed to Iraq in 2003. He returned there in 2005 and was wounded twice, first by a roadside bomb then in a mortar attack. Despite his injuries it was clear he was in charge.

Senior Marines coordinated the funeral detail with unparalleled intensity. Now was not the time to have something go wrong. Again and again they walked the rows of Marines lining the church steps, making sure they knew when to salute and when to stand at attention, and ensuring that each man’s uniform was worn properly.

A silence fell outside the Immaculate Heart of Mary church, as the Marines were suddenly called to attention in anticipation of the approaching hearse. Bagpipes sounded like distant chirping from blocks away. The parents and family arrived. Some had composed themselves and walked tall and stoic past the assembled and into the church. Others held handkerchiefs to their faces, clutching each others’ shoulders for support, shuffling up the stairs as if they couldn’t see what was before them.

The officers, who for years led us with barely a flicker of personal emotion, appeared worn and somber. Capt. McKenna was one of their own. Some bowed their heads as their eyes turned red.

I don’t know why, but I can’t remember much of the funeral mass. I guess my mind was drifting too much. It seemed in the course of several minutes my thoughts ranged from the absolute pride of being a Marine and being associated with such men to the darkest guilt of not being there with them when Capt. McKenna and Lcpl. Glover died.

As I stood at the back of the church as the mass ended, I saw my old company commander walking down the aisle. He was the officer who’d led my company in Iraq. We caught each others’ eyes. His right hand held the arm of his wife; my right hand held a funeral program moist and buckling from sweat. We awkwardly grasped each others’ left hands and shook. No words were exchanged, and it seemed we were both startled to see each other. It was years ago that we’d served together, when the war was still new and thought to end soon. That was such a long time ago, and innocence had been lost over and over again since.

I remembered the first time I met him, in the tranquil summer of 2001, during an easy two-week training mission to Ukraine. I remembered him holding our rifle company together during the frustrating year of 2002, when we were mobilized in response to 9/11 and kept stateside. I remembered him standing atop a Humvee in 2003, commanding us as we faced down our first group of Iraqi protesters lobbing bricks at our lines. I remembered seeing him at the Marine Corps birthday ball in 2004 and learning he’d be going back to Iraq soon. His battalion would lose 48 Marines on that deployment.

Now in Brooklyn, in 2006, we still weren’t able to leave it all behind us.

A few days later the funeral for Lcpl. Glover was held in Rockaway Beach, Queens, a quiet middle-class neighborhood on the south shore of Long Island. I put on my good suit and got ready to meet the war face to face once again.

In the church parking lot we former Marines gathered together and fell back into the old ways, as if we’d been sitting on our HQ’s roof watching the sun set over the Euphrates River. We rehashed old war stories, we bummed cigarettes, we busted chops, we told familiar jokes.

This little reunion of ours felt good. Really good. This was one of the few times we’d been together since coming home from Iraq three years earlier. Suddenly we didn’t have to explain ourselves to anyone who wasn’t a Marine.

Lcpl. Glover’s funeral drew an assortment of his closest friends and complete strangers. Seeing his flag-draped casket, carried with meticulous movements by Marines, is one of the saddest and proudest moments I’ve ever witnessed.

At the cemetery I saw members of Glover’s old machine-gun squad from before he deployed. They’d lost all the sarcasm and the sh-t-eating grins I remembered from the last time I saw them, a year earlier. Their eyes were red. They stood close to each other. They didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. They just stared, looking at nothing in particular.

The service had, unfortunately, become familiar. I braced myself for the playing of taps by the bugle and the folding of the flag before Lcpl. Glover’s parents. I watched people around me flinch as the rifle salutes cracked and faded over the quiet cemetery. Once the ceremony was over, there wasn’t much we could do. We said our goodbyes, to Glover and to each other, and went back to being civilians again.

Later that day three of us ate at a restaurant near the Brooklyn Bridge and reminisced about old times. If anything good had come out of our experiences from the preceding days, it was to remind us how much we still needed to rely on each other-even though we no longer carried our rifles.

I wished those Marines still in Iraq had been present to see Capt. McKenna and Lcpl. Glover celebrated and laid to rest. But of course they couldn’t be. It would be another two months before they left Fallujah to come home.

Often it feels surreal that those Marines I once knew in the mundane moments of everyday military life were suddenly lifted to the highest possible place in American lore, and will forever be remembered as “the fallen.”

I don’t even know what I’ll do when someday I have to face their names on a wall.

A West Point Graduate on His Fifth Reunion

David Botti — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 15:29:46 GMT

A West Point graduate and two-tour Iraq veteran, Matt Mabe recently returned to the military academy for his fifth-year reunion. He left the Army as a Captain, and served as a combat engineer during his Iraq deployments. Matt and I are classmates in graduate school, and I recently interviewed him about his emotional return to West Point. Excerpts:

S.H.: You served two tours in Iraq since graduating from West Point. What was it like to return to your alma mater as a combat veteran?

Matt Mabe: It’s funny. When I was a cadet, I would look at graduates returning for their reunions as people who had triumphed in life. Some still wore the uniform. Others had left the Army to pursue careers in civilian life. They all carried an air of accomplishment. They all seemed to have won the lottery of life.

I always fantasized about returning one day as one of those content, successful, confident graduates I admired. And when I finally did make it back, I guess I played the part.

It was Homecoming weekend. There was a tour and a parade. There were barbecues and a football game. There were thousands of cadets enjoying one day of respite in a punishing four-year experience. It was novel and pleasant.

But, deep down, I felt empty. I began to think about those of my classmates who could not be there to share the experience with those of us who could.

I thought of Todd Bryant, who was killed by a roadside bomb outside Fallujah on Halloween Day 2003 after only a few weeks on the ground. He had been married for two months.

I thought of Jim Gurbisz, who suffered the same fate in Baghdad in November 2005. He was honored with a burial in Arlington National Cemetery.

I thought of Drew Jensen, who was shot in the neck by a sniper in Baqubah in May, paralyzing him from the neck down. He had been trying to save one of his soldiers who was pinned behind a Humvee after a bomb explosion. Last month, Drew asked his wife and mother to take him off life support. Before having his final wish granted, he donated $10,000 to Walter Reed Army Medical Center to establish a fund to help families cover expenses while visiting their wounded loved ones.

I thought about the values that the academy imbued in all of us over four grueling years. Things like Loyalty, Selfless Service, Honor.

I felt proud to have once walked the same halls as these men. It comforted me to think that their souls will always dwell among those hallowed grounds.

I am haunted by the sacrifices that thousands of Americans like them have made. The faces of the cadets I saw at my reunion reminded me of the innocence they will soon lose when they, too, are thrown against the guns.

And my heart broke for my country.

What are your last memories of West Point as a cadet?

My last and most vivid memories of West Point are of my graduation in June 2002, and not just because it’s how I spent my last day there. The morning was hot, bright, and perfect. It was the culmination of four anxious years spent in intense training and labored study.

Graduating cadets had put more effort into polishing their brass breastplates and hat crests, pressing their white belts, and shining their shoes than they had in all four years before.

We were the bicentennial class. Accordingly, a great deal of preparation had gone into the week-long ceremonies. VIPs, old graduates and media had descended on the place to be a part of it, to remember it and to record it. I felt privileged just to be present.

President Bush was the keynote speaker. He delivered what is now considered to be his second in a series of speeches to the American public that would make the case for war, the first being his post-9/11 State of the Union Address.

After the speech, I lined up in the queue to receive my diploma and my shiny new lieutenant’s bars. I was so nervous that I didn’t even hear my name called. I had to be prompted to walk up the ramp and salute the superintendent.

Then, diploma in hand, I walked a few steps further to stand face to face with the commander-in-chief. He shook my hand.

Cadets spend their entire time at West Point dreaming of the emblematic moment when they can “see the academy in the rearview mirror.” Driving away with my parents and my sister that day, I know I must have turned around and taken one last look at those fabled, formidable gates. But I don’t remember it.

All that resonates from that day is what President Bush said to me when I stood before him on the graduation platform.

“Take care of those soldiers, son,” the president told me.

I said that I would.

What part of your reunion brought about the strongest emotions?

I am not a sports fan. I never have been. But the most moving part of my reunion occurred in the stands watching Army’s Homecoming football game against Tulane.

The sight of a sea of cadets in their crisp white summer uniforms assembled in support of an often beleaguered team reminded me of the camaraderie I once enjoyed. It made me miss the Saturdays in the fall when I could let out all the frustrations of an exhausting week with my buddies in the stadium. That phenomenon at West Point has clearly not changed.

And I may not have even noticed the significance of the current cadets’ raucous gathering had it not been for the perspective of the woman I brought as my date.

She said it was refreshing to know there is still a place that exists where young people embody values that many Americans seem to have forgotten.

It made me think that what the cadets today face after graduation is immensely more harrowing than what my classmates and I ever imagined our service would entail. When the towers came down in New York, cadets in my class were already locked in to our Army commitments. Before that, all we knew was that we would be joining a “peacetime Army.” Had any of us wanted out after September 11, it would have been tough luck. (To my knowledge, none of us did.)

It is one thing to have to go to war. It is quite another to volunteer for it.

The young men and women today who decide to enter the ranks do so with the certainty that they will, and I am humbled by their courage.

Coming together for the first time in five years, how much did you and your classmates talk about Iraq?

None. I think that we were all sick of talking about it. I mean we all have our war stories. What I needed was a vacation from the reality that the Iraq tragedy has created.

My conversations with classmates centered around our time as cadets. We laughed a lot about our misfortunes as plebes and our antics as upperclassmen. We recalled the miseries of merciless winters. The inconveniences of daily discipline at the academy, which seemed trivial after graduation, became important again.

For me, West Point is a magical place. It exists in a fairytale setting, tucked away in the hills along the Hudson River. Its ramparts dominate the twist in the river where General Washington’s Continental Army was once garrisoned.

The timelessness of the academy almost makes one forget that there is a world outside.

My classmates and I talked for hours about lots of things: our young years, new families, aspirations for the future. But Iraq did not come up. And for that day, it was fine with me.

Words of Fear from a Translator's Emails

David Botti — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 15:35:34 GMT

I wait for emails from my former Iraqi translator to appear in my Inbox—too long a wait, and I assume he’s dead. I fear mentioning any part of his name that might identify him to the wrong people.

Sitting on the steps of my platoon’s HQ in southern Iraq some time in 2003, I asked our translator what he had done while his city was being bombed by Americans during the invasion.

He started into an impassioned 5-minute monologue. A 20-year-old student, he told of how Saddam’s Fedayeen guerrillas tried to recruit his university’s English class to defend the city as Marines closed in. He described days of remaining in his home as the fighting began, the fervent praying in a cramped room with his sister’s annoying children.

In subsequent conversations he would speak of life under Saddam’s regime, the murder of his anti-government uncle and the torture of a friend whose fingernails had been ripped out after emailing the United States.

He still tells stories.

In November 2003 he wrote to my unit (then recently returned from Iraq) about the bombing of our former HQ, where he was working with Italian soldiers.

"im okky my friend god help me from this explosion i was in petrol with my friend italian it was every thing horrible thanks for god because he saved me"

He wrote that he feared being killed and how he hated Iraq and wanted to leave it.

"just tell me what ican do if when i walk in the street one day terrerist man will kill me in front of all people in the markit or in any where."

Another email, sent on April 10, 2004:

".im so angry from the situation here ,i think if the situation stay in the next dayes the same ill leave my job.i ask my god to stay with us to bless our life and i hope for my iraq the good futre for the good people not the bad .any way i hope my brother from god this message not the last message for me if my god safe my life and i dont be in grave"

At Christmas later that year he seemed to be more at ease:

"dont worry about me ,im so brave no body from the followers of al zargawy or osama ben laden will hurt me because i have the heart of marines ."

Then this past year, after months of not emailing, I contacted, him confident the situation in southern Iraq was calm enough for him not to worry. He quickly set me straight:

"i heared that the (JAM)Al sader army in the next stage will threat the interpreters and i afraid that you will not hear any news about yourbrother in iraq again i hope this news uncorrect because my familly said to me you have to leave this jop as soon as you can because it's too dangerous for you"

I try to keep his spirits up. I ask him about his family, and tell him what I've been up to. But how much can I really write? How can I write against the extremely real prospect of death from my comfortable apartment in New York City?

Still Trying to Figure Out Our Generation

David Botti — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 14:46:31 GMT

I recently turned 28, and as it happens for many people on a birthday one can’t help but reflect. College graduation is one of life’s watershed moments, and I’ve always found it strange, or depressing, or ironic that mine occurred just a few months before the 9/11 attacks—for some reason this is what I’ve thought about during the past week.

After graduating from college in 2001 it was a lazy happy time for me. My friends and I waited out the summer months for fall to arrive, and with it the pressing reality that it was time to grow up and begin real careers for ourselves.

When fall did come, it was not new jobs or new apartments ushering in our adulthood—it was a sunny September morning when the entire world changed.

The day after the World Trade Center was attacked, I sent an email to Renay, a college friend who’d just recently begun working in downtown Manhattan. I needed to make sure she was alright. She replied days after that she was indeed safe, but said little more.

Eighteenth months later my Marine reserve unit deployed to Iraq for the initial invasion. Renay sent me a short email of thoughts and prayers. In the rush of activity before deployment, I don’t even remember if I had time to respond.

It was shortly after I returned from Iraq when I finally sat down with Renay, in a quiet Manhattan lounge, for the first time since those final nostalgic moments of our college years...(read more)

Interview: Love and Two Sides of a Deployment (Part 2)

David Botti — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 14:45:13 GMT

Earlier in the week I interviewed Erica, the wife of Jim, a fellow Marine from my old unit. I asked about her experiences being in a relationship with Jim while he was deployed to Iraq in 2003. Today we have my interview with Jim. Among the things he talks about is leaving her a knife to keep at home, family drama, and a surge of anger while eating at a diner.

S.H.: You became engaged shortly before deploying to Iraq. How did the deployment influence your decision?

Jim: It definitely pushed up the time frame. I had purchased the ring, but was waiting for the right time to give it to her. When I heard that we were getting deployed, it seemed like the right time.

S.H.: In the days leading up to your deployment, what types of conversations were you having about your relationship?

Jim: I recall not really wanting to talk about it. I was willing to go, but didn't want to deal with the goodbyes. So, I pretty much pretended like it was known to be an absolute certainty that everything would be alright. She would say something to me, and I would brush it off with a simple "everything will be fine."

S.H.: How did being in a relationship back home influence your morale during the deployment?

Jim: It was nice to know that someone was home waiting for me, so in that regard it helped my morale. Erica was always good about sending letters and packages--let me know that she cared. On the other hand, it was also hard sometimes. I wanted to focus solely on the job at hand, but would worry about her, and what was going on in her life. She had a lot going on at the time. She was finishing college, her mother was sick, and there was other family drama at home.

S.H.: Did you worry about her being home alone?

Jim: Not really, but I left her my K-Bar [large Marine Corps knife].

S.H.: What were the phone calls home to her like?

Jim: She was always very excited to hear from me. So, they were good in that respect--they made me feel loved. I remember that the first call that we had somehow ended up discussing family drama. It left a sour taste in my mouth, and I told her that I didn't want to discuss these matters until I came home. We didn't talk about that stuff in any other conversation. Other than that our conversations were normal. We discussed what was going on in each other's lives. They were like conversations that any other long distance couple would have had.

S.H.: What were things like between the two of you when you returned home?

Jim: I recall dreading the return home. I wanted to be home, but I didn't want to deal with the transition from Iraq to home--I wanted to magically wake up back in my old life. The actual day that we got back was hard. The whole family was there, and everyone wanted to spend time with me--it was a little overwhelming.

Erica and I went away for a week, just to relax and hang out. We had a pretty good time, and after that week things felt more normal.

Things weren't completely normal though. I recall getting extremely mad over little things. I actually got really mad at Erica on our trip when she accidentally dropped a chair down the stairs. I was yelling at her. Looking back, I feel bad about that.

I also recall wanting to yell at an old woman. We were at a diner, and apparently, at this diner you form a gaggle--sort of wannabe line--instead of giving the hostess your name. So, Erica and I waded through the gaggle and gave the hostess our name and the number of people in our party. As we were being seated, this old woman comes out from the gaggle and rudely says: "there's a line you know." I didn't do anything--I just walked to my seat, but this little incident made me extremely angry.

I don't think that I have ever been that angry in my entire life. It physically hurt, and I thought that if I could just hurt that woman, I would feel better. Erica knew me pretty well, and she could see in my face that I was angry. She could still see it later that afternoon. The point is that I had a much shorter fuse, that she knew it, and that this put a strain on the relationship.

It was tough, but we got through it.