Lose Your Mind

Yesterday I spent about an hour int he coffee house listening to a sermon by Gordon Keddie, titled "He Shall Justify Many" covering the prophecy in Isaiah about the coming of Christ. It was a very compelling look at how consistent the message of salvation is throughout the Bible. The cool thing was that SSG Emery joined me to listen to the Sermon, so we got a splitter and hooked two head phones into my ipod instead of one. The whole time I feared whether the message would make her feel uncomfortable, since she's still hesitant in her beliefs in God, and I was afraid the candid tone of the message would intimidate her. But then I took comfort in knowing that this passage felt right with me, and I could do nothing to control how Emery would respond, so instead I concentrated on the message itself, taking in what I could from the sermon.

The whole time I also wished to be at home, sharing in the word of God with my beautiful wife, Heather. I remember how we would read a passage and talk about it at night before going to bed, learning new details found in the scripture. It's mesmerizing what a change Heather's belief in God has brought upon her. It's amazing the change it's brought in me. I told Emery later on how before coming to God I would always be filled with so much impatience and so much rage over the little things. In part, some of that is still present, as I'm not perfect. I told Emery how I tried seeking counseling and even reading self-help book or tried to really dwell on the psychological aspect of my anger. Everything I tried would work for a little while, maybe a week, maybe a month, but I would always return to my anger. The struggle was that I've always believed in God as far back as I can remember, but I had never submitted myself to him. It was only once I made that commitment that I felt my anger vanishing. It wasn't anything I was doing. It wasn't a new tactic or a new perspective, it was just a new dedication that landed beyond myself.

I still have my impatiences, of course, and my turn-around in coming to God is nothing compared to many others I've heard from people's lives. Heather herself has become more kind through God, more tender and caring. She's a woman I've found more and more beautiful ever since she began reading the Bible. And it wasn't because of her. She wasn't becoming more beautiful than she already was. It was because God eased my heart towards her through sharing the Word. It wasn't just something we had in common the way people who love each other have personalities that match or similar interests. This was wind-tunnel, but instead of blowing us away, it pushed us together.

Later, after talking to Emery about some of this, I headed off to work and edited some stories that came in. It seemed like an easy day, since only three stories came in, so I spent some time online looking for publishing houses for my memoir, "Child, Hold Me" which is going to be a tough sell since it's so short.

Then lunchtime came and Javi and Emery asked me if I would go with them to lunch. I looked by my desk to grab my rifle, since the two things you need to enter the chow hall are your weapon and your ID, and my M16 wasn't there. Oh man. Where'd I put it, where'd I put it? My thoughts raced, and then I whispered as if out of shock, "I left my weapon at the coffee house."

Before either Javi or Emery could say anything, I was gone. I scattered down the steps, my legs moving quickly, through the long building, out the door, the sun was low but the air felt like a hair drier... My legs must have been zipping like scissors, and soon I could feel the pain in my shins from walking so fast. I tried to comfort myself... "That's all right, you'll walk right back where you sat and find your weapon just where you left it. Don't worry, it'll be there." Oh God, I prayed, please let it be there. I looked at my watch. About an hour and a half had passed since Emery and I had left the shop. I felt a tension in my chest. How could you leave your weapon behind in a war zone?

That's okay. I'll find it. It will be there.

I stormed into the coffee house and tried to act casual. I looked around as if I had lost nothing more than my book, but I'm sure my eyes were giving me away because Soldiers around took notice of me. On the wall, right there, where I had left my rifle... it was gone.

Ah man. I looked on the floor at all the scattered weapons around. Mine had a light blue C-clip hooked onto the butt of the rifle. None of the weapons around were mine, they all belonged to Soldiers sitting by them. I asked around if anyone had seed my rifle, wild with emotion.

I saw Captain Edwards, my executive office, and he helped me look. Fortunately he had forgotten his weapon the other day when heading off for a drive, so he was more concerned and willing to help than anything else. He wasn't even angry, which relieved me, but it didn't put a rifle back on my shoulder so it wasn't total relief.

I even asked one of the Indian guys working behind the counter, but he said nobody had made note of the missing weapon. Somebody must have grabbed it. It wasn't anywhere in here.

I wanted to cuss then, but I tried to compose myself. It's gotta be somewhere. Maybe whoever noticed it brought it to the Militar Police Station.

I was in trouble if that was the case. If you lost your ID, they sent you to the MP station where you had to sign a counseling statement and made you feel like a fool for losing something so valuable. This was my weapon, though, not just an ID.

I walked to the MP station thinking back to the numerous talks both First Sergeant and Maj. Spagel had given us about securing our weapon.

"You can lose and forget anything you want," Spagel had said on several occasion. "But you better not lose your weapon. That's the last thing anyone should ever leave behind."

I'm done, I thought to myself. I'm so screwed. People are going to have to call me Specialist Sauret from now on. They would demote me for sure. This was my weapon, I thought again. No. Not specialist. Private. They're going to rip off my Staff Sergeant rank and bust me down to private after this. Heather is going to be so mad. Oh man. She's going to be so ashamed of me.

I looked at my rank on my chest. I'm going to miss you little guy, I said to my E-6 emblem. So much for saving up toward a trip to Italy. I was angry and scared and ashamed all at once.

At the MP station I said hello to the Sergeant behind the glass and asked if anyone had brought in a weapon. There was no other way of inquiring about the weapon in any less ridiculous way.

Some guy in a PT uniform gave me smile that said, "So you're the idiot."

I returned the look with one that said, "Yes, I'm the idiot."

The Sergeant asked me for the serial number of the weapon, I gave it to him, and he checked it agians the rifle. It was mine. Thank goodness! Now what though? They would have to file charges. They would have to track the incident with paperwork. They might even keep me in a holding cell until I admitted to everything that happen. They would make me cry and do push-ups and stick me in jail, surround in a circle of military police men and laugh at me...

The sergeant handed me a piece of paper.

"All right, go ahead and sign this."

Sure, anything, I'll sign anything. The paper was just a statement that an Australian trooper had found the weapon and brought it to the station, and all I was doing was signing to get it back.

"So what happens now?"

"Here's your weapon."

"So that's it."

"We're supposed to report it to Corp, but the weapon's been in here only ten minutes. Figured someobody would come by and pick it up. We haven't had a chance to call it in yet. We'll just keep the paperwork for record."

Just like that, they sent me back into the "war" with my weapon slung from my shoulder.

Shots of Iraq

Care package

Heather sent me a huge box for a care package and it arrived yesterday, plus a little one she mailed at the same time filled with granola snack bars. She sent so much stuff! Even a big pound bag of organic coffee. I just gotta find a decent coffee maker because all the ones around the office are pretty crappy. I can't wait to make the first brew, though.

I realized though that receiving the care package doesn't really quite fill the void. No new theme here. Stuff is just stuff. It's nice having a big bag of beef jerky, but what I'm really missing is the people. I wish I could receive a big care package of family and friends from back home. If there was only a way for you all to send part of yourselves. That's what really lifts my spirits. Heather already does that with emails she sends and talking on the phone. I still miss her terribly, and I thought that at least receiving a care package from her would make it seem like she was with me. I always loved it when I was home or hanging out with her, and she would surprise me with little treats. I always thought it was the treats themselves-- the goodies-- that I loved. Man is that shallow. What an idiot.

Really it was the fact of Heather giving it to me. And I know that's obvious. I know I'm not blowing anybody's mind with any of this... but it's strange how I never appreciated the gesture before. I always thought I appreciated the deed.

It's hard to enjoy goodies, though, when you don't have people to enjoy them with. Sure, sometimes I want to horde chocolates all to myself and not share with anyone... and there have been times when a simple, delicious Ferraro Roche could lift my spirit for an entire day. I guess it's the chemicals in the chocolate, I don't know. But it doesn't really work the same here.

To tell the truth (and I'm sure I've said this plenty of times already) it's not just that I miss my family and wife and church... I miss my own unit. We're all so split apart and scattered with so many different hours that we barely get to see one another. We barely get to laugh together the way we would in Kuwait or during training at Fort Dix. If I can't have my wife with me, I wish I could at least have my own unit. There's something just joyful about receiving a care package and sharing it with your buddies, because then the deed from home seems to be that much more powerful. They're not just caring for you, but they're caring for your fellow Soldiers as well.

I have to admit, I'm terrible at sharing. Like I said, I'm definitely guilty of hoarding... but right now I really wish I had somebody to join me with a snack of beef jerky and granola bars. I don't think I can eat all of them myself.

Oh and I just wanted to include a picture of the Kinder eggs Heather sent... I guess the heat wasn't too good for them.

I still ate one today and it was delicious. You should have seen me try to peel the wrapping off, though. I did it in the bathroom where people looked at me like I was loony. The chocolate was so yummy!

Taking the lake hostage

Yesterday morning I kidnapped the lake here, and I'm not letting it go. It was beautiful being able to go on a long walk, taking the minutes at my own pace. Here are a few pictures I snapped.(It almost looks like a vacation spot, doesn't it?)

(Can you hear the desert chiming?)

Dog Faced Soldier

Yesterday we met the commanding general of the 3rd Infantry Division, Maj. Gen. Lynch, and we were kind of nervous because 1st Sgt. Speaks told us we might have to sing the "Dog Face Soldier" song in front of them, which is kind of a big deal for the 3 ID soldiers. So, as we waited for the general to arrive at the media operations center, we were all pacing back and forth, reading over the song, correcting each other over this word or that word, the whole time creating a hybrid melody because none of us really knew how it went.

I Wouldn't Give A Bean
To Be A Fancy Pants Marine,
I'd rather Be A Dogfaced Soldier Like I Am.

I Wouldn't Trade My Old O.D.'s
For All The Navy's Dungarees
For I'm The Walking Pride Of Uncle Sam;

On All The Posters That I Read
It Says The Army Builds Men
So They're Tearing Me Down To Build Me Over Again

I'm Just A Dogface Soldier
With A Rifle On My Shoulder
And I Eat A Kraut For Breakfast Everyday.

So Feed Me Ammunition,
Keep Me In The Third Division,
Your Dogfaced Soldier is A Okay.

Speaks sang it the best with his jazzy broadcast voice. He kind of put every one of us to shame, but he already knew it from having deployed with the 3rd ID before.

The entire time as we rehearsed the song and waited for the general to arrive felt a little bit like a surprise party. Every time the door opened we braced, eyes wide and then finally relaxed when we saw it was someone else. In the end when he finally did come we just said hello and introduced ourselves and that was it. He went into another room to conduct an interview, and we all just stood around thinking, "Was that it?"

"Go on, scatter before he comes back," 1st Sgt. said.

The problem now is that the darn melody, now that I know it, is stuck in my head. This morning I went running and I couldn't get the first three lines of the song out of my head. "I wouldn't give a bean..."

The reality is that I don't give a bean about the 3rd ID, and I'm so happy to see more and more Soldiers with the 10th Mountain patch on their shoulder around here. Two nights ago we finally moved into our CHUs (containerized housing unit). The rooms aren't big once you have to split it with a room-mate but it's a heck of a lot better than staying in a tent. The bed is comfy and I finally have a closet to keep all my clothes and army junk organized.

Just some shots

I'm not going to go word-heavy with this entry. Just wanted to upload some photos I haven't had a chance to do lately.

Enjoy!(Center four: 1SG Speaks, 1LT Glaubach, me, MAJ. Spagel) at the "Forgotten Soldier" monument in Baghdad.

My very first ride in a Blackhawk.

(I'm so strong!)

(Sitting on the throne in Saddam's al-Faw palace)

(Toby Keith concert at Camp Victory)

War is hell

Yesterday we hopped on a Rino-- a big, lumbering, square bus coated in four inches of armor-- and rode to the International Zone, located in downtown Baghdad. The city is absolutely beautiful, vast and open with flush palm trees and ... yes, grass. There are five palaces built by Saddam within a five mile radius. We visited one of the shrines, The Forgotten Soldier, and a New Iraqi Army Soldier gave us a quick tour of the area. The Soldier said Saddam built all of the palaces and when in power only he was allowed to visit them and look inside.

In the distance, while he talked to us, a gun-fight broke out ... but within seconds heavy gunnery shot back and it quieted right away. The shots were so far away that it was only a barage of pops and tat-tat-tat. We didn't even have any of our gear on. We didn't even have our weapons with us. But it was so far away that it hardly even fazed me.

Later we visited a Soldier who went to the hospital after getting bitten by a stray cat (of all the things you can get yourself into in Iraq, this wouldn't have been one of my top guesses). We sat by the windows waiting, and all of a siren blared and a loud-speaker voice warning "Incoming... Incoming..."

"Move from the glass, let's go, let's go," one of the Army nurses shoed us away, but she was no more worried than a mother telling her children to hurry across an intersection. We huddled a few yards deep into the hallway and a loud blast exploded.

"Man, that felt close," I said.

"Oh, that was nothing. You should have been here yesterday," a young Specialist said.

"I don't think we'll can do our PT test today," someone said to a muscular guy wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

"Oh, we're taking it today. No doubt about it."

"Yeah, that'll make you run faster."

Later we returned to this lodging area where Soldiers go for "Freedom Rest" on pass. Beautiful swimming pool in the back with a 15-foot and a 35-foot diving ramps, all encircled by a stone court yard. War is hell, I thought to myself. Maj. Spagel and I went to the bathroom and changed into our swim trunks. We walked to the pool with a swagger, carrying our uniforms in our arms, ready to jump into the cool water on a hot day--

"Warning: Incoming. Incoming. Incoming."

Oh man. Just when we were going to relax. I turned back around and started jogging toward the building-- BOOM!-- I felt the explosion punch me in my ear. My heart double-rolled, and my jogging turned to a sprint. Then I realize the entire back side of the building is glass. No turning back now-- I run through the door, and run up the stairs as far away from the windows as I can. Then another mortar comes down, more faint-- barely audible over my own heart beat. Everyone who'd been relaxing outside ran in, and they all looked around for accountability.

Man... that one was close. I had actually felt it in my ear.

A little later, the Major and I walked over to see where the mortar struck and we find a hole-blast into a wall just 70 meters from where we'd been standing.

(Caption: You missed)

Later on I see a group of people huddling over a coffee table filling out some paperwork.

"Is that for accountability?" I asked First Sergeant.

"No. They're putting in a sworn statement for CAB."

"CAB?"

"Combat Action Badge?"

"No I know what CAB is, but for what?"

"For the mortar."

I thought it over for a minute. To be eligible for a CAB you either have to be involved in a fire fight or have a mortar land within 100 meters of where you're standing. The mortar had hit just beyond the courtyard. Some of the people in the pool had been as close as 40 or 50 meters from the hit. I could shoot an insurgent between the eyes at that distance. Yet, even though on paper the blast was legitimate for a CAB, something about this felt awfully wrong.

None of us even had our weapons with us when the blast happened. These people were in a swimming pool splashing one another and floating along. The Major and I were just strolling along with our uniforms folded in our arms. This didn't deserve a badge with the title "combat" written on it.

When one of the Soldiers asked how to spell my name I said, "Don't put my name on that. Don't put my name on that." I said it twice, the second time even more calm than the first. I didn't speak harshly or with disdain... but simply with a tone refusing an invitation. Thank you, but I can't.

I thought of those Soldiers who lived in tents their whole deployment, shot down enemies who shot back, kicked in doors and dug up weapon caches every day. Those were the men and women who deserved badges. Anyone else would just cheapen their accomplishments and sacrifices. I was by the pool, I told myself. I didn't even have my weapon. I don't want a CAB unless I've earned it. I didn't come here for decorations and self-pats on the back. If I ever get a CAB during this deployment, I better have been firing my weapon at enemies.

------

Finally that night I hopped on a Blackhawk for the first time in my life. In the past, any time I had a chance to fly, the flight was either canceled for weather or plans changed. In five years in the Army, I had never flown on a helicopter before. The feeling was awesome.

The chopper blades spinning blew wind in our faces as we approached the helicopter. We mounted up, and I grabbed a seat-- but First Sergeant moved aside and had me take the seat by the window so I could have a better view. Flying in a helicopter was nothing like being in a plane.

When we took off we simply swooped up in the air. There was no turbulence. There was only gravity and anti-gravity. I could actually feel us lifting off the face of the world, scoffing at the pull of the earth. It was just like being pulled up by a bungee-rope. So sudden and swift. Then, up in the air, we simply floated, and coming back down was so smooth-- not like the skidding and skipping along the runway on a plane like a stone across a pond's surface. It was up in the air that I felt liberated from the world's pains because everything looks so small. You can't see murder from up in the air. You don't get to witness a culture worshiping a false prophet or pledging their fidelity to family tribes regardless of the corruption it may bring. Even in a chopper full of people, nobody can talk to you because the spinning blades diffuse it all. Nobody can touch you. It's not that you're closer to God up in the air on a helicopter... we're close to God no matter the altitude or latitude... but at least I felt less stained or tainted by the World. I was still only a man, and still a sinner-- but at least in part detached... if only for a few minutes of flying.

Living the heat

Walking outside in 106 degree heat is like walking through a dream. Everything feels distant, and it's hard to keep my eyes open. I wonder if I could ever handle donning my IBA in the desert. Even the sand reflects the heat back at my face. When I walk into a cool building, I can feel my uniform radiating what it absorbed from the sun.

The good thing is you don't sweat in it-- it's too dry. But I feel drained by the sun in just a five minute walk. I wan't to crawl into my bunk and take a nap after every lunch. The hardest part is that I have no desire for drinking coffee, though I need something to wake me up.

Yesterday felt like I passed my entire day through a haze. It's hard to concentrate on writing and copy editing. It's a struggle just making it past the lead. Sometimes it all becomes just a jumble of letters and clustered words.

Yesterday, though, we received the first killed in action press release since I've been here. It was a strange feeling. The page was mainly blank. The release stretched only four lines long. The phrasing of it was so vague and general. "The name of the deceased is being withheld until next of kin are notified." It could have been anybody anywhere, and yet this dealt with a real Army Soldier killed by an explosion. That's all the page would tell me, no matter how many times I scanned it for more information.

I tried asking Renanah, the current editor training me, about the release, if any media would do a story on the Soldier, if we would do a follow up. She seemed so unfazed-- to her, this might have been just one of hundreds. The only thing changed was the date and mode of death. It felt so weightless... insignificant... and yet someobody home would spill heavy tears over this. Would they find out in person? By phone call? By letter? Nothing would make the death feel any lighter.

And yet, here it was, in front of my own eyes-- the statement of death-- only as heavy as a piece of paper. There seemed something unjustified about it. I fooled myself into believing that I deserved to know more... but I didn't. Likely, I would have never recognized the name even if it had been printed. Any more explanation or details on his death wouldn't have changed the outcome.

And yet, I felt I responsible for his news at my fingertips. I expected any moment the Soldiers family calling me to know all about it. I feared my vulnerability to not knowing. I feared my own vulnerability of sitting inside an office building surrounded by concrete walls, a long, long shot away from mortar attacks.

I think of the heat now, and I wonder how we're not flooded by death press releases every day. I wonder how anyone can survive in this heat outside of air-conditioned offices.

Grassland

Grasslands beyond the gate. (This picture didn't come out as dramatic as it is in real life. I will try to use a different camera. This is the gate through which I walk every day back and forth from work to my tent. Every time I see this grass through this opening in a vast gray wall, I sense there is hope. Finding green amongst the sand is a rarerity).

Check out how packed this bus is from all our stuff! We had to feed boxes and bags through the window eventually.

Escape into memories

Yesterday I sat down at the chow hall by myself. There's something sad about that. There's something hollow about eating a meal alone-- surrouned by people, yes, but no one you feel comfortable enough to share a conversation with. Everyone's hours are sporatic and at different intervals, so it's tough to find the time in eating as a whole unit. It feels like we're a broken-up family now. I used to believe that I would at least have my own family here to support me and talk to while away from my own back home. I see the tired look in everybody's faces. Most of us are worn by job positions that offer no escape.

I ate my prime rib and baked potatoes alone. A Soldier sat across the table a few seats to my right. His eyes dazed into space. I watched him for a minute, wondering if he'd notice. What is he picturing, I thought? It could have been anything. He could have been pleased by random memories or destroyed by thoughts he couldn't word.

He was wearing his gray PT uniform, so I didn't know what his rank was. He looked twenty years old or so. He wore a tattoo of tall blades of grass running from his wrist up to his elbow. I had seen plenty of sleeve tattoos before, but never grasslands before.

"Are you all right?" I asked him.

The daze broke in his eyes. He gave me a half-embarresed smile.

"Oh, yeah I'm okay."

"What'chu thinking about?"

"Just memories. I get lost in them sometimes."

"I hope they're good ones."

He seemed pleased by this. Part of me had feared he was contemplating suicide, but I saw this wasn't the case now.

"They're a strange thing, memories... you know? How they change."

"That's true. Sometimes I'll write something down that happened and then my wife reads it and says, 'That's not how it happened.'"

He gave this some thought. Maybe this wasn't what he had meant, but I felt a need to talk to this lost-stared Soldier. It was awkward. He sat just far enough where I had to project my voice, but close enough that now I felt the need to continue the conversation.

"Memories are a dialectical thing," he said.

Since I didn't know what he meant, I simply nodded. Soon after, he picked up his tray, said 'good talking to you' and left.

I sat there, thinking if I had any memories I could describe as "dialectical." I had no clue what the word meant. I think now that my entire deployment in Iraq will be just like this moment at the chow-hall... recognized only because I chose to write down the small details. This is my life now, and because I can't talk about my job with anyone other than Soldiers with security clearances... and because I barely escape from my office as it is... what else is there to write about? What philosophies do I have to offer? What dialectical memories can I hold and pass on for you to change and make your own?

I have to make my memories, instead of simply recording them. I have to force against the forces of the day and make something happen out of nothing. I would make for a poor historian. I would taint all the facts. I don't think I could be a journalist the way the Army wants me to be-- I would commentalize (and make up words like this one) over every event. I wasn't cut out for journalism, but maybe God will use that in my favor.