The Emporia Gazette

May 27, 2012

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BEFORE I EVEN START this story, before I elaborate on anything, I have to let you know this is only my personal experience, not my overall view of the war in Iraq.

All I know of this war is what my platoon has done and how we did it. I refuse to give any opinions on the war, for or against, merely to say that I’d rather be at home with my dearest, Jennifer, than here. I’m not trying to be anything more than a narrator — not the voice of the average Joe standing on a soapbox reciting blue collar bon mots to a non-chalant crowd.

All I am doing is telling a story, that is all.

In July we were given the word that we would seize a stronghold in a village and do patrols with a complement of Iraqi Army (IA) soldiers. The mission was to last seven to 10 days and it shouldn’t get extended. All this means is that our platoon would be away from the FOB and away from contact with the outside world. I decided to buy a phone card and call my loved ones before it began so they wouldn’t be alarmed when I disappeared for a week.

The calling center, a trailer with pay phones lined wall to wall usually has a line 20 men long, so it would be a decent wait. I called my family, my grandparents and my Jenn. When I said I missed her, our voices grew slow and quiet. She means the world to me, and I hated the thought of not hearing from her for so long.

The next day we began the mission. A few days prior to this mission we had captured the house we had planned on using for the stronghold, and we knew the area. The ride in the Bradley was hot, a 20-degree difference from outside, which itself is usually past 120.

The first night set the tempo for the rest of our time there. A normal day consisted of guard shifts on a roof in overbearing heat, the sun coming down upon you like a slave driver, then some down time that was used to unload Bradleys.

From there our routine runs to the camp for MREs and water, and clean the stronghold of cigarette butts and trash we had left. An hour-long patrol spans from one end of a canal road to an IA outpost, then to another on the far end of the path.

Our area of operations (AO) in northern Iraq isn’t the desert everyone expects it to be, no it’s almost a jungle and walking the length of a canal magnified the humidity from the palm trees. Coming across the road felt like the breath of an invisible monster pressing against the length of your body. I myself would sweat to the point that my clothes would be completely drenched in sweat, white streaks form the salt cascaded across the digital print of my uniform.

Missions would come across in a sporadic pattern, based upon information the Iraqis and the IA would give us. Nothing consistent and rarely anything constructive. A few detainees, a supposed VBIED (explosives) factory and a weapons cache here and there.

A cold MRE for lunch that became harder and harder to eat as the days passed. What little time we had to ourselves was used to sleep. We’d run on four hours or less a night, guard shifts don’t end just because the sun goes down.

The days began to mesh together, the only way I knew what day it was, was because I kept a journal to occupy my mind.

As the mission drew to a close we kept getting the word that we were extended a few more days. More work, less sleep. We were being taunted with the promise of a comfortable bed to replace our concrete floors and flattened sleeping pads and hot, decent food in lieu of pre-packaged mystery meat.

A week-long mission became two, But no one was surprised.

The Bradley crews had it just as rough as we did. They sat for six hours pulling guard with no way of cooling themselves off. Their off-time was spent getting supplies for the stronghold and getting what sleep they could scrounge, maybe an hour and a half, most sometimes.

We were all breaking, like running a car as hard as possible with no radiator.

A Bradley ramp broke and we had to lift it. On one of my guard shifts, I completely stopped sweating. What that means is my body was nigh completely dehydrated.

Toward the end of our stay, the Iraq soccer team won a game. In Iraq every household is allowed one AK and one magazine of ammunition. When the team won, all the civilians fired randomly into the air — it’s called celebratory fire. It’s dangerous and stupid, but one of those things that’s just outside of our reach.

One of our sergeants was grazed by a falling round, which allowed him to go back early. Dumb luck, not even a serious injury, just a million dollar chance.

That night while I pulled my second, four-hour guard shift, we heard a firefight beyond the palm grove to the north, behind the house. As we came downstairs we asked the radioman what was going on. He said that a company from another unit had been ambushed and that they had a KIA.

I sat for the longest time worrying it was someone I knew. It was only a week and a half later that I found out who it was, a guy I had known in Fort Hood. A man I had sat and ate lunch with on many occasions, a man who I knew.

He’s gone now, a number that you hear on television and think little of past the newscast it was mentioned on. The thing is, he’s not a number. He was a human being and he had a life and he died doing his job.

I can’t control what you will take from this story, what you believe was my intent or my intonation. This is everyday life. It’s nothing new. I’ll be out again getting just as dirty, just a s sweaty and just as tired the day after next. It ends when it ends.

If you know someone over here, if you know of a family who has a someone over here, let them know you care. Despite your politics, your views, your beliefs, remember we are still people like you, who want nothing more than to be with the ones we love.

All I want is to see my family and to hold Jennifer in my arms. The thing about it is, I’m only here for half a year — most soldiers will be here for longer, and for some it’s their second or third tour.

We’ll do our job, no matter what. It’s what we’re here for.

This we’ll defend.

Jason Hart is the son of Steve and Diana Hart of Emporia.