Email from a friend/soldier

[Blackman]

As a few of you might know I used to swim in the Patriot League -- and became friends with some of the guys at West Point. I got this email from one of the guys I used to race today and thought I would share. Amazing to hear an account of the war from someone in the thick of it.

Long read but worth it.


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I just thought some of you might like to read this, or maybe not, but some of
you I haven't talked to in a while...keep in touch and lemme know if you need
anything.

Remember it is just one man's account of what he has experienced and felt


From an '03 West Point grad serving as a scout platoon leader in Iraq...

Well, I'm here in Iraq, and I've seen it, and done it. I've seen everything
you've ever seen in a war movie. I've seen cowardice; I've> seen heroism; I've
seen fear; and I've seen relief. I've seen blood and brains all over the back
of a vehicle, and I've seen men bleed to deathsurrounded by their comrades.
I've seen people throw up when it's all over, and I've seen the same shell
shocked look in 35 year old experienced sergeants as in 19 year old privates.
I've heard the screams-"Medic! Medic!" I've hauled dead civilians out of cars,
and I've looked down at my hands and seen them covered in blood after putting
some poor Iraqi civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time into a
helicopter. I've seen kids with gunshot wounds, and I've seen kids who've
tried to kill me.

I've seen men tell lies to save lives: "What happened to Sergeant Jones?" The
reply: "C'mon man, he's all right-he's wondering if you'll> be okay-he said
y'all will have a beer together when you get to Germany." SFC Jones was lying
fifteen feet away on the other side of the bunker with two medics over him
desperately trying to get either a pulseor a breath. The man who asked after
him was SGT Gertz, bleeding from two gut wounds and rasping as he tried to
talk with a collapsed lung. SGT Gertz made it-SFC Jones didn't.

I've run for cover as fast as I've ever run-I'll hear the bass percussion
thump of mortar rounds and rockets exploding as long as I live. I've heard the
shrapnel as it shredded through the trailers my men live in and over my head.
I've stood, gasping for breath, as I helped drag into a bunker a man so pale
and badly bloodied I didn't even recognize him as a soldier I've known for
months. I've gathered my breath, stood up straight and walked out of a bunker
where
everyone was taking cover to check the trailers for my men. I've run across
open ground to find my soldiers and make sure I had everyone.

I've kicked in doors to houses and seen them fall flat at my feet-like in
every action movie you've ever watched. I've raided houses, and shotoff locks,
and broken in windows. I've grabbed prisoners, and guardedthem. I've looked
into the faces of men who would have killed me if I'd driven past their IED
(improvised explosive device) an hour
later.

I've looked at men who've killed two people I knew, and saw fear. I've seen
that, sadly, that men who try to kill other men aren't monsters, and most of
them aren't even brave-they aren't defiant to the last- they're ordinary
people. Men are men, and that's it. I've prayed for a man to make a move
towards the wire, so I could flip my weapon off safe and put two rounds in his
chest-if I could beat my platoon sergeant's shotgun to the punch. I've been
wanted dead, and I've wanted to kill.

I've sworn at the radio when I heard one of classmate's platoon sergeant's
call over the radio: "Contact! Contact! IED, small arms, mortars! One KIA,
three WIA!" Then a burst of staccato gunfire and a frantic cry: "Red 1, where
are you! Where are you!" as we raced to the scene, as fast as our HUMVEES
could take us, knowing full well
we were too late for at least one of our comrades. I've sped through towns,
guns at the ready, my gut tight, as we drove down the only road we could see
towards an ominous black cloud of smoke rising on the horizon. I've seen a
man without the back of his head and still done what I've been trained to do-
"Medic!" I've cleaned up blood and brains so my soldiers wouldn't see it-taken
pictures to document the scene, like I'm in some sort of bizarre cop show on
TV.

I've heard gunfire and hit the ground, heard it and closed my HUMVEE door, and
heard it and just looked and figured it was too far off to worry about. I've
seen men stacked up outside a house, ready to enter-some as scared as they
could be, and some as calm as if they were picking up lunch from McDonalds.
I've laughed at dead men, and watched a sergeant on the ground, laughing so
hard he was crying, because my boots were stuck in a muddy field, all the
while an Iraqi corpse not five feet from him.

I've heard men worry about civilians, and I've heard men shrug and sum up
their viewpoint in two words-"F... 'em." I've seen people shoot when they
shouldn't have, and I've seen my soldiers take an extra second or two, think
about it, and spare somebody's life.

I've sat in a sandstorm and spat grit out of my teeth. I've slept in a
thundershower in the desert. I've seen vehicles disappear into the wind not
ten feet in front of me-not even their lights visible. I've seen the dawn, and
I've seen flashes of light brighter than the dawn at midnight. I've heard
things that sound surreal-things you tell yourself you'll never hear, never
say. "We've got a bird down!" "Light 'em up!" and "There is no such thing as a
white flag."

 

[Blackman]

I've been the new guy-"What are those for?" "Stops RPGs, sir." And, in a
month, I've been the veteran-"Why do your men have a .50 cal round tucked in
their body armor, sir?" "They say the big bullet keeps the smaller ones away."
I've bought drinks from Iraqis while new units watched in wonder from their
trucks, pointing weapons in every direction, including the Iraqis my men were
buying a Pepsi from. I've patrolled roads for 8 hours at a time that combat
support units spend days preparing to travel ten mileson. I've laughed as
other units sit terrified in traffic, fingers nervously on triggers, while my
soldiers and I deftly whip around, driveon the wrong side of the road, and
wave to Iraqis as we
pass. I can recognize a Sadiqqi (Arabic for friend) from a Haji (Arabic word
for someone who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, but our word for a bad guy);
I know who to point my weapons at, and who to let pass.

I've come in from my third 18 hour patrol in as many days with a full beard
and stared at a major in a pressed uniform who hasn't left the wire since
we've been here, daring him to tell me to shave. He looked at me, looked at
the dust and sweat and dirt on my uniform, and went back to typing at his
computer. I've stood with my men in the mess hall, surrounded by people who's
idea of a bad day in Iraq is a six hour shift manning a radio, and watched
them give us a wide berth as we swagger in, dirty, smelly, tired, but sure in
our knowledge that we pull the triggers, and we do what the Army does, and
they, with their clean uniforms and weapons that have never fired, support us.

I've heard people who've been the Army fifteen years longer than I have thank
me a thousand times for providing them security when their vehicle broke down
even after I told them they were in a pretty safe area. I've heard my
soldiers laugh at what other people consider dangerous, and heard them make
jokes about death. I've given a kid water and Gatorade and made a friend for
life. I've let them look through my sunglasses-no one wears them in this
country but us-and watched them pretend to be an American soldier-a swaggering
invincible machine, secure behind his sunglasses, only because the Iraqis
can't see the fear in his eyes. I've taken off my helmet and glasses inside
someone's house, just trying to calm them down, to reassure them that I'm not
the robot I look like with my gear, and my weapons, and my radios. I've waved
at little kids who smile and wave back, I've winked at little toddlers who
hide behind their mother's leg when we come inside, and I've seen coy smiles
from doorways as girls in their teens peer at us when they aren't supposed to,
and, occasionally,if they think they can get away with it, wave at us- the
exotic, dangerous, foreigners. I've seen a woman give roses to my senior
scout,who was quite unsure what to make of it, and more than a little worried
that her husband or brother or father was back inside the house, looking for
his AK.

I've said it a thousand times-"God, I hate this country." I've heard it a
million times more-"This place sucks." In quieter moments, I've heard more
profound things-"Sir, this is a thousand times worse than I ever thought it
would be," and, "My wife and SGT Mellon's wife were good friends-I hope she's
taking it well," and "Sir, I know I said I wanted my CIB (Combat Infantryman's
Badge) but now I think I'll be okay if I never get it." (Meaning he never will
have been shot at) I've told men to get in their vehicles and do what I say or
I'd send them to jail, and I've asked the same soldiers how they were taking
it. I've had my men tell me they couldn't trust me one day, because our
mission ran long, and had them run to me and ask if this or that was true two
days later. I've had them tell me I'm not afraid enough for them-and had other
soldiers laugh, because they know, like me, that they'll come through it all
right. I've heard my soldiers who were so scared only a few days e
arlier that they told me they wouldn't go out on patrol get angry when they
heard another soldier actually did refuse to go out on a mission. They say
they're scared, and say they won't do this or that, but when it comes time to
do it, they can't let their buddies down, can't let their friends go outside
the wire without them, becausethey know it isn't right for the team to go
into the ballgame at any less than 100%.

That's combat, I guess, and there's no way you can be ready for it, it just is
what it is, and everybody's experience is different. Just thought you might want to know what it's really like.

 

[Eddie Haskell]

Thank you Blackman for sharing that story from Iraq. I assume your signature line is not race-based. Again, ask why this story had to be written.

Eddie

 

[Blackman]

No, the signature is not race related. Lehigh's school colors are brown and white, and "If it's brown - flush it down" was a little taunt we used when we competed against them.

I wanted to share this because it was a really an eye opener for me, and thought it was pretty much as close of an account to the war as any of us can get sitting in the United States.

 

[IntenseOperator]

All I can say is....

All I can say is....

"war sucks"

 

[IntenseOperator]

I copied and sent the letter to my neighbor who served 13 months there. He returned this reply and wanted me to send the letter to everyone I know......

"If you don't understand after reading this one, you'll never get it!"

Sounds like he shared the opinions from the letter.

 

[seymour]

War is not really any big deal - as long as Bush and his family don't have to go - or Cheney who got 5 deferments from Vietnam - or Rumsfield - these guys have no problem sending our kids to war - it's one thing to go into Afganistan and it's a world diferent to go to Iraq - I say Bush should be forced to send his drugged up KUNT daughters and nieces to Iraq - maybe supporting the troops means hoping they come home soon.

 

[IntenseOperator]

Thanks for the info :sadwave:

 

[macavoy]

great letter blackman. Those guys and gals over there are studs!!!! Good account, bless em and lets bring them home.