Hillah, Iraq. Last mission.

This is our last mission.

I am really ready to go home.

We marshaled up in the waning light, and I sat in the vehicle fidgeting. I long ago developed the habit of carrying my weapon with the barrel down, the magazine resting on my thighs to support the weapon’s weight. I typically ride in the right rear seat of Yazoo 25. I generally keep the weapon on my right
thigh while we transit to the objective, allowing the nervous and regrettable habit of keeping my thumb on the safety, occasionally flipping the weapon from safe to semiautomatic fire, then back. I rarely flip the weapon to three round burst, mostly because the safety must be rotated to an unfavorable position for nervous flipping, and somewhat because I don’t like three round bursts, particularly inside vehicles. I tend to shoot sky after two shots in a burst, and besides, I can pull the trigger quite quickly when properly motivated. As we close on an objective, I shift the weapon to my left hand, then rest my right hand on the door latch to allow for faster opening. Combat egress of a vehicle is not really the time to get tangled up in opening the door. The Marines would probably laugh at me if I fell out of the vehicle while trying to get out.

I wear my wedding band and my Academy ring on my left hand, and they clinked together pleasantly beneath my gloves as I shifted my gear, trying to get comfortable. I drummed my hand on the stock of my weapon, and the sound was reassuring. I wear my Academy ring into combat because that seemed important and symbolic once upon a time, but now I am superstitious, reluctant to change anything that has carried me through six months of combat and dozens of missions without a wound.

Very early in our relationship, my Beautiful Bride gave me a blue bead on a leather cord that I have worn almost every day since, including Iraq. The bead and my dogtags mostly stay aligned between my pecs, and the diametrically opposed messages of the two gives me pause to think. I also like to think of the bead as a tip of the Kevlar hat to the Viet Nam vets, whose war was so much different than mine.

Tonight the bead wandered off center, becoming wedged between the SAPI (Small Arms Protection Insert) plate, the ceramic armor of the body armor, and my skin, underneath layers of UnderArmour and cammies. I fidgeted around, trying to get the bead dislodged and back in line as the Marines loaded into the vehicle and we headed out to the road to find our place in line. We sat silently, checking gear and weapons, and I finally dug my hand in through the arm hole of my armor, seeking out the bead underneath vest, armor, ammo, radio, hadji headwrap, and digital cammies, jabbing at it with my fingers until it is back in place, and I can finally sit still, waiting to go.

Last mission.

We talked about how the stereo is sorely missed. There was not silence, but the lack of music let through the normal sounds of preparing for war: the throb of diesels, the clack of weapons being loaded, and radios warmed and checked. I stirred some of the spent brass rolling on the floorboard with my boot, and looked out the window, waiting to be done with combat.

Tonight we were chasing after an insurgent leader, one from up north where the business of war is more brisk. This insurgent had allegedly brought a load of arms and explosives to a nearby town, and we hoped to catch him before the weapons were dispersed. The informant said there was a sizable cache of
weapons, which would be a nice way to finish our involvement in the war. The mission launched, and things progressed normally, and thankfully dully, until we turned onto the road that led to the insurgents’ house.

A canal.

I hate canals. Actually, I don’t hate canals so much as I hate driving along the tops of canals, and this road in particular was bordered by a steeply sloped canal on the left, and dense growths of palm trees on the right. Dust billowed as we drove along, reminding me of flight through clouds. We were
driving quickly, and a palm tree hanging low over the road materialized through the dust from the vehicle in front of us, leaning in to hit Yazoo 25. The Sergeant driving reflexively veered left, and we went over the edge.

I would swear that I felt my adrenal glands constrict to the consistency of walnuts as they pumped a military grade dosage of jitter juice into my blood stream, and time stretched out plastic, lugubrious, and slow. I heard the air working from the bellows of my lungs as the vehicle slid over the brink and
into the canal, and almost felt the hiss of dirt flowing downslope through the frame of the vehicle. I blinked, and looked to the left. I could see the moon reflected on the roiling surface of the canal, the inky water morbidly beautiful, diamonds cast upon velvet.

Staff Sergeant was commanding Sergeant to turn right, turn right, turn right, and I felt the uphill wheels catch on the edge of the road as the downhill wheels chattered in the rills carved into the sand. We bounced in our seats. The vehicle stabilized, and I moved my rifle to my left hand so that I could grip the door latch with my right. I repositioned my booted foot to the door frame so that I might be able to use it should the need the extra effort.

I breathed in, I breathed out.

We have often discussed what we would do if we went into a canal. The humvees are quite top heavy, and likely to turn turtle on the bottom. No escape through the turret. The canal bottoms are mud, and if upside down, the doors are likely to wedge in the mud, and thus unopenable.

I breathed in, I breathed out.

I tightened my grip on the door handle, opting to open the door if we went in, and then scrapped that plan in favor of jumping out before we went in, as I would much rather take my chances jumping from the car than trying to swim with eighty pounds of gear on.

Sergeant worked the vehicle back up onto the road, and then we were back in line, silence reigning. After a moment, Staff Sergeant calmly said, “Nice job.” “Oorah”, replied Sergeant. I found that I was gripping the door latch rather firmly. My legs twitched, and I quickly developed a headache. Yazoo 25 went to the far side of the objective, securing the canal top while Iraqi SWAT spread through the buildings on the objective. There was a bit of desultory gunfire, but things were over quickly. I knelt in a row of hedges bordering the objective, and kept an eye on the observers milling about.

A car parked in the driveway was determined to be the insurgent leaders, and we decided to burn it. The windows were smashed, and a thermite grenade placed on the dashboard, and another in the rear seat. The entire vehicle was quickly involved, and we spread out to let the fire burn. The flames washed out the night vision, and I kept watching the burning vehicle because I had rarely seen one in real life. I was not sure, but I thought I saw one of the thermite grenades drop through a hole melted through the vehicle.

Suddenly, the car emitted a small explosion, and one of the Green Berets was hit in the back with a piece of shrapnel. The medics treated it quickly, opting for the more serious attention back at Camp Charlie.

I watched the car burn for a bit while SWAT finished up, and I realized that barring any sort of incident, I was done. Finished with the war. Well, the war fighting anyway. And I am happy about it. I spat on the ground, not just to clear the dust from my mouth.

For the first time in a while, I managed to stay awake on the drive home, mostly because I was keyed up from the mission. An “end of semester” feeling overflowed me, and I began to realize that I was doing things for the last time. We were at our war’s end of days. I showered away the sweat and fear, and thought about how I might have a cold shower soon. Our going away party is scheduled for tomorrow, and thought about that as I packed a bit before the adrenaline finally left me feeling hung over. The room is bare. I am ready to leave.