The Burden to Bear

          In today’s world, it’s almost impossible not to hear about the war in Iraq; every where you go it’s right there in your face. Whether its horrible scenes of battle, politicians arguing of withdraw, staggering figures crawling on the bottom of the news channels, or images of Americans protesting in the streets, you cannot escape it. And because of that fact, a lot of people have trouble deciphering what to believe, and what not to believe. With all of the information, and misinformation out there, it’s very easy for people to form wrong opinions about a situation or subject that they know very little about.

     As a veteran of the war in Iraq, I feel very compelled to get our story to as many people as possible in hopes to help clarify the blurry image of this war. To help inform you, I’m going to take you into the fight, firsthand. Imagine that you’re thousands of miles away in the harsh, war torn, country of Iraq. It’s August, and for arguments sake, you’re a Lance Corporal, infantryman, in the Marine Corps, on your third month of a seven month tour. You’re 19, scared, nervous, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to escape the oppressive heat. Everywhere you go, you sweat, thick, huge, drops of sweat, pouring out of your body as fast as you can drink the boiling hot, bottled water provided to you. You communicate with your biological family through letters, and sometimes tears. If you’re lucky enough, you might get to e-mail or call them once a week, that is if the phone center hasn’t been hit by an insurgent mortar or rocket.

Loud and deadly, the unseen arms of death can strike anywhere, at anytime. Their only warning is the shrill whistle they make as they fall to earth, and by then sometimes it’s still too late to get out of their way. Every time one strikes your base, you drop what you’re doing, grab your rifle, don your flak jacket and helmet, and run to the nearest bunker. Inside the thick, stuffy, crowded, sandbagged, bunker, you look for your friends, and wait for the all clear signal to sound. While waiting, you listen to the sharp concussions of each explosion, and if they’re close enough you can feel the explosion that sends thousands of pieces of hot steel on their deadly journey. You pray that your tent, which holds all of your possessions, doesn’t get hit and burn to the ground, and that everyone made it to safety. Upon the all clear signal, and emergence from the bunker, you see that your tent is still standing. You also learn that Private Smith, from Bravo Company, got hit as he was running from the shower. The poor kid never had a chance. Later tonight, his body will be flown to Baghdad, for processing back to the States. You feel angry, mad, sad, and vengeful all at once, but you dare not show any emotion. Showing emotion is showing the enemy weakness, and that can cause your enemy to exploit that weakness, and use it to defeat you. You go about the rest your day, just trying to get through it.

            You eat at the chow hall that night with your friends, your brothers in arms that share the same miserable conditions, pent up emotions, and scared thoughts as you. You talk of home and the upcoming football season, of unfaithful girlfriends and promising prospects, of the lousy chow and even worse coffee, anything, but your job. It’s the deadly business that enshrouds you, and it paints your soul black. It’s the nightmare that wakes you at night, screaming and kicking, and it’s the fear of dying a horrible death at the hands of people that hate you. Even the smallest of things can take your mind away for a little while, even if your body is consumed in the fire. And it’s those small things that keep you from losing your cool, while staying on the mission. But the small things can’t keep you away forever, and so you come back to the cold, harsh, reality of your existence. The next morning you wake up at six in the morning. Your squad has to go on patrol at eight. In those two hours, you clean your rifle again, check your ammo and gear, shave, brush your teeth, load up your humvee, and finally try to squeeze in a bite to eat.

            The cold MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) tastes foul, like your current mood. The patrol leader gives his patrol brief, and then it’s lock and load, and on patrol we go. The Iraqi’s are just starting to stir in the stifling heat of the rising sun. The local mosque is blaring a morning pray over its loud speaker, and it’s enough to drive you crazy. Down the dusty, littered, street you go, watching for any threats around you. The threats can be anything or anyone. Women, children, old men, and even dead animals can hide a deadly surprise in this hell. Nothing is to be overlooked or discredited as a threat until it has been scrutinized by 16 pairs of weary eyes. Children come running at the sound of your approaching humvee, causing you to tense up behind your machine gun, and sit a little lower in the turret. You’ve witnessed with your own eyes children throwing hand grenades into humvees, as relaxed Marines toss them candy. As you get by the crowd of kids, you look for other threats. You thoroughly look at roof tops, down alleys, inside windows, behind cars, and filter through the piles of trash by the road. Death and maiming can come from anywhere. That thought is in your mind, forcing your body to stay tense and alert, even though you’ve only had five hours of sleep in the past three days. But it’s that thought that will keep you, and your brothers, alive.

            This tedious drive continues for seemingly endless hours. Always alert and watching, you wait to deliver death to anything that can deliver it to you. And finally it happens. Without warning or mercy, an IED ( Improvised Explosive Device) explodes without prejudice on the humvee in front of you. The blast shatters your hearing, and the concussion sucks the air out of your lungs. A thick, black cloud of smoke burns your eyes as you try to regain conciseness. You come to with the taste of blood on your tongue and something hot and sticky, running down your face. You vaguely know what happened, but you fear the realness of the situation. Your ears are buzzing as the ugly sight of death’s face vanishes from your vision, and you feel death’s scorching grip releasing you back into this earthly hell. You try to ask if everyone in your humvee is okay, but when you open your mouth nothing comes out. You try again before you realize how parched your throat is. You swallow, tasting the saltiness of your blood, as it slowly courses its way down your throat. You yell again, and this time you’re rewarded with sound. Awkward, and foreign sounding, it is met with the voices of your brothers.

            No one is hit, but everyone is shaken. Timidly, a voice comes over the radio asking about casualties. Your vehicle commander answers that your vehicle is up, and dismounts the humvee. Everyone gets out of the vehicle to look for secondary IED’s that could be hidden along the road. In the meantime, Marines from other vehicles rush to the hit vehicle, and its Marines. In the turret you scan everywhere for the trigger man, the soul-less devil that did this awful act. Slowly, reports come over the radio that two Marines are killed, and the other three are badly wounded. The patrol leader issues the order for turret gunners and drivers to stay with the vehicles, while the rest of the Marines search the immediate houses. Badly shaken, and angry, your fellow Marines dutifully walk towards more possible death. They rush inside a mud hut, and upon clearing the hut, rush out to the next one. In the turret, you scan for insurgents, and pray the medevac chopper gets there fast. You don’t know who was killed yet, but it burns in your soul that someone would do that to your brother. Rifles firing, Marines yelling, children screaming, soon attract your attention. You look in the direction where the sounds come from and see two Marines kneeling behind a small hut. They peek from behind the hut with their rifles at the ready. They pour a stream of accurate rifle fire into another mud hut, where the sound of screaming children came from. After watching this same scene repeat for several times, the Marines, rush from behind their safety, and into the targeted hut. Inside the hut there is yelling and screaming, as women and children file out, followed by four Marines. The radio comes alive with excited chatter about dead insurgents, and the current situation. You still scan, knowing that more insurgents could still be in the area. The sweat is still drowning you as your head throbs with each beat of your quivering heart. Eventually the medevac arrives and carries off its precious cargo. A quick react force (QRF) comes to relieve your patrol, and you finally get to head back to the patrol base. Upon debriefing, you find out that the two Marines killed were two of your best friends, Redifer and Swain. Unlike Private Smith, these two had faces that you knew, and voices that talked to you. They possessed shared times spent with you, and dreams shared to you. You feel horrible, but again can show no emotion. You sit in a daze, wanting to be left alone, or comforted by one of your other brothers.

Mere words cannot possibly describe the thoughts and feelings that go along with this scene. And nor does it seem appropriate to try to match words to them. It’s something that only men and women who have stood in harm’s way can describe, and it’s something that is sacred to them. Never will the protected have this feeling, nor could just anyone bear this burden. A person cannot go out looking for it, and find it. No, it finds the person. Know that this story can describe just a single day out of a few hundred days, and some unlucky souls may experience a slew of days like this. So next time you hear about the War in Iraq, remember what it’s like to be over there, fighting for your brothers and for yourself; and be sure to try to go on a patrol in their boots before forming an opinion of their dangerous job. And lastly, be thankful that they sacrifice their lives for you, and agree to bear the burden, so you can live your life freely.

By Stephen Jordan

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