The War of Peace

We flew into Baghdad International Airport in the doorway of night. Here, finally, we had something different. Even in Kuwait there had been the illusion of still being at home. The Army does a good job in preparing Soldiers to face deployment and living in FOBs (forward operating bases), but even at Camp Buehring, Kuwait all of the locals spoke english, we had a Starbucks and a McDonald and a philly-cheesesteak shop. There was still the illusion of traveling within the US because we had flown in a commercial airline.

Flying into Baghdad was different. We strapped our IBA's to our chests and buckled our chin-straps and then wedged ourselves into a C130 cargo plane. The seats were nothing more than a long stretch of webbing running down the center and sides of the plane. We sat facing one another, knees bumping and elbows tucked in tightly.

Coming off the plane we walked far out from the aircraft to escape the heat of the engines, but we still had to cross in front of the heat tunnels. The immensity of that heat was amazing. I tried to walk faster across it, but it felt like I was walking right into it. I'm going to catch flame, I thought. I'm going to burn up. I held my breath, afraid the oxygen in my lungs would evaporate away.

From the airport we loaded an entire shuttle bus with our luggage. We had to stuff bags in through the window because there were to many to load in through the door. On the second shuttle we stacked up our ballistic vests in a big pile, and joked that now the bus was up-armored. We rode through the maze torn streets, surrounded by 20-foot walls made of concrete. There were so many of these walls you could build the colluseum out of them. I wondered what the Iraqi government might do with all that concrete once the American forces leave. What will they build with them? More war? A safehaven for the children and women?

Over top all of the walls, rolls of barbed wire stretched like an infinite line of pulled, metal twine. Small cayotes scampered around the roads. Palm trees lined our path, and that awful familiarization creeped in again. This place reminded me of Corpus Christi, TX... a small desert-like city with only the illusion of vegetation spotted along the roads.

The thought saddened me, because I wanted the feeling of home to go away. Not the comfort of home, but the feeling that I haven't quite begun my deployment yet. The feeling that whispered, "there are people who miss you..." The feeling that asked, "when will you begin to count down the months?"

We unloaded the bus and found a vacant tent we could take over. Living out of the bag is one of the most discomforting sensations. When you have to pull clothes out of your bag rather than from a closet, there's no routine in your day. It's all a matter of grab as you go. For 3 months now I'v been waiting for a place to settle in... and we're not there yet. Soon, in two weeks maybe, we'll move our stuff out into a trailer-- but even then we may have to move again once the 10th Mountain comes in to tell us they want to divide their Soldiers into living quarters differently.

There is no home away from home.

It was a feeling I thought I could cope with, until last night. I know this is War, and I know that in War you don't get to pick and choose the way you want to live out the year the way you might order from a menu. You don't choose your entre and then add desert. You take what they give you and you say, "Yes Sir" afterwards because, remember... it can always get worse.

Except last night I felt like I dropped from the sky. Back in Kuwait our Major told everyone what their job position would be for the upcoming 10 months. He also added the disclaimer, "All of this may change at any moment." And it did.

Originally my position was to fly with the Commanding General around the different areas assigned to 3rd ID as the Battlefield Circulator. I thought, how cool-- to travel around and see Iraq, gain access to places most people would never be able to touch, take pictures of the General with village leaders and Soldiers who fight every day for the restoration of this country. I would come back to the States with an incredible wealth of experience. I would fill my blog with all sorts of beautiful pictures and life-reflecting thoughts and stories. I would discover my sensitivity to the people of Iraq, to the poverty and wealth that have clashed, to the leadership working together to set a country torn by dictatorship back into democracy.

All of those pieces dropped from the sky when the Major told me my job had changed to "Press Release Editor." In an instant I saw the ten months ahead of me fill-up with smoke. I was going from Helicopter-rider to desktop-bound. Later Major Spagel told me he saw my exact emotions draw up on my face. I don't hide that stuff too well.

During that meeting I lost all sensible words. They took flight from my mind and what filled the area was a gaggle of demonic cusswords and cursings. After the meeting, I left the tent and hooked around.

"Sauret? Sergeant Sauret?" Emery called after me.

I ignored her. I felt the moon mocking me from the sky. She called me again and approached, I walked in the other direction, father down-- all I wanted to do was cry. Cry because of all the potential lost. All of the story telling I would never tell. All the pictures I would never imagine. For the first time since the deployment I questioned God why he would place me into that position. What good would I do from behind a computer? I would rather live the grunt's life than become a FOBBIT-- a fat hobbit who's stuck on the FOB. Don't I have better talents than this God? Don't I know how to operate a camera?

Press release editor. Press release editor. Those words wouldn't leave my head.

I couldn't escape that moon, that eye laughing at me from the night. So I just stood under it and cried. I cried for the lost months I hadn't even lived yet. I cried for lost opportunities.

Then I heard Lieutenant Glaubach say, "I know you're upset but that doesn't mean you can just ignore everyone."

I wouldn't face her for the first second, but then I remembered where we are. This is Iraq. This isn't the comfort of Army Reserve anymore.

"I didn't anyone to see me like this." I sounded aweful. I sounded like a large child who'd been denied his toy.

"I was ordered to come here and talk to you." She sounded brash, her words softened once she saw the tears on my face.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to talk right now. I want to think things over."

"Tell me what you're thinking." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

"I was afraid of this. I was afraid of getting pigeon-holed into an office and never get to go out."

"I understand you're upset, but you're a staff sergeant now, and unfortunately the main word there is staff. You just got promoted, and sure the pay is nice, but the job changes."

I stood at parade rest, trying to regain whatever scraps of military bearings and self respect I had thrown out by running off from everyone.

"You can relax," she said. "I'm not yelling at you."

I let my arms lax a bit, but I kept them behind my back. She was right. I'm a Staff Sergeant and there's no excuse for tears right now.

"Believe it or not we chose you because you were best for the job," she said. She talked about her own position, and how unhappy she was with being stuck doing the same type of work I might be doing. She explained how, unfortunately, I was chosen because the command could trust me to represent our unit. And when people trust you, they want you around. They want you close by to bail them out when in need-- and not off somewhere in the desert talking to privates and specialists and snapping their picture.

I tried to console myself in that thought, but it still felt like swallowing a hard-boiled egg. She was cracking and peeling off the shell, but it was still a tough thing to swallow. Lingering over my head were ten months of desk-jockey-filled hours of copy editing. I saw myself attached to a red pen in hand, scribbling away at press releases.

I learned to be a little less selfish in those moments, though. Later, Major Spagel himself admitted that his position wasn't what he expected. Except he changed his prespective by telling himself, "I don't care if I don't like the job, I will learn everything I can about it and become the best PAO commander that I can be."

It's still tough for me to embrace those words. Though, this morning I received a card from heather, and on the inside flap she wrote: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6).

I had always been so good at reassuring Heather and in telling her to trust God even when our situation seems so wrecked, and yet I'm failing now to follow my own advice. I'm still a little disheartened-- even more so after talking to the print editor today and her telling me that she pulls 15-hour work shifts seven days a week and still hasn't found a chance to keep afloat the pile of work that comes her way.

I'm going to commit myself to these next 5 days where I'll be learning the job and pray that God blesses me with understanding and find ways to make the workload more manageable.

I'm still searching for that inner peace that will keep me calm and I don't know how to find it. I know that the only place where I will find it is in the Lord, but in what measures? Under what light? Through which scripture or passage?

I know that secretely everybody at home is happy to hear the kind of job I'll have, but I can't live ten months off of everybody else's happiness when they're 6500 miles away. I need God's happiness, and I don't know how to open up to it. I don't know how to receive it.

My father shot me an email saying that only through an inner struggle-- an inner war-- will we learn to appreciate that peace. Also my father in law told me similar reassuring words: "Even if you don't like the job, find a way of making it work for you."

I pray for that guidance, and I pray for that inner peace.