I celebrated my 21st Birthday in March of 2003.
I’ve been told it was a pretty good time.I managed to make it until 11:30, I think, before blacking out. One of the last people to buy me a drink that night was Melissa Fostyk. I remember her showing up with some of our mutual friends and joining me at the bar. I stood there leaning against a stool and begged her not to make me do another shot of tequila. I was in pretty rough shape at this point and was just trying to keep from looking like an idiot (or vomiting on her). She was so pretty and smart; I had an enormous crush. This was not the night where I would win her over. That’s another story (a good one). She disappeared along with the rest of the evening. My buddy Peterman ended up carrying me 5 blocks back to my apartment like a sack of potatoes. Classy!
On the other side of the world, men my age were consumed with more serious work. Combat engineers pushed down the berms separating Kuwait and Iraq and tanks swept across the desert en route to Baghdad to liberate the oppressed and find those elusive weapons we’d heard so much about. I work with lots of folks who took part in the invasion / liberation. It was a different war back then. Iraq could never expect to stop us. We never expected to be swallowed. The world’s most expensive weapons cut swiftly and easily through the desert and Saddam’s army. They passed the Ziggurat of Ur and headed north to Babylon. This cradle had never seen such civilization.
I remember sitting in my apartment watching this unfold on T.V. as a host of brilliant war reporters clapped and cheered. 21, single, and completely jealous of those guys on the screen, I remained trapped in my third year of ROTC, desperate to do something outside the classrooms and training sites. With any luck, there would still be some war left for me when I finally graduated.
On the television, night vision cameras and kick-ass explosions kept me excited to get out of college and shoot things. In my head, Alex the soldier kept telling Alex the politician to shut up and stop thinking. The latter was skeptically eyeing the television and remarking, “I don’t know about all this.” Yeah, that’s right, I knew invading Iraq was stupid back when such talk made you a communist. Ask anyone who had to listen; they’ll corroborate. I guess I just wasn’t convinced by anything I heard our leaders saying no matter how serious they’re faces got. It’s not that I thought they were lying, I’ve just always been wary of believing what cowboys tell me. You know, that Marlboro Man was full of shit. None of these thoughts squashed my boyish excitement to blow things up, and my disagreement should be taken in context: this was the same period when I considered neon beer signs essential to any respectable sitting room.
Regardless of how I felt or continue to feel about it, we’re here. And since we’re here, we have no choice but to do things. So I work as an advisor and do as good a job as I can. The invasion is something that I don’t bring up to my Iraqi friends. Although curious, I don’t believe I’d get an honest answer if I questioned their whereabouts during the fighting. I can only assume that they were in a bunker somewhere or maybe they tried to get rid of their uniforms and blend in with the populace. Some probably just surrendered. I don’t know and, for reasons that are difficult to describe, I’m afraid to ask.
This week marks six years since those first exciting days. I don’t think any of us would have guessed where we’d be today. COL Latiff (the Iraqi commander I advise) coincidentally attended our battalion’s daily meeting on the anniversary date itself. No one mentioned it. He sat in a place of honor and was given complete access to our intelligence, our equipment status reports, and our current operational focus. He was served tea as the slides were displayed for him. I stood in the back of the room and hoped that he would take some ideas from this meeting and perhaps implement them in his own unit. SFC Betz stood beside me and mostly complained about the fact that I insisted he be the one who served the tea. He was one of the first to cross those berms six years ago. The irony is not lost on him.
This month I turned 27. I’m headed home sometime next week and I hope to never return to this place. Two years of my life feels like it should be enough, and I don’t have much left in common with the young man who longed to be here all those years ago. If I could, I’d like to tell that semi-conscious cadet to have another and enjoy his college years while he still had them. I’d also recommend he apply to law school, but he probably wouldn’t listen.
Instead, I am simply another cog in the war machine and I’ve voluntarily extended my obligation to the Army (it’s complicated). I wouldn’t dare trade any of the worthwhile moments but I’d gladly forget the crummy ones and I wish my wife didn’t have to go to so many weddings by herself.
Six years ago that beautiful blonde girl showed mercy and bought me something fruity instead of the tequila. Two weeks later, COL Latiff and the boys would be staring at the unfriendly end of a thousand Bradley Fighting Vehicles. 2 and a half years after that I’d marry Melissa and we’d find out together how are lives would forever be tied to the decision that forced us over those berms. We are the men and women left paying for this war. There are a million others like us, and next March we’ll still be here.
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