Commentary: A National Guard Soldier remembers

TAMPA, Fla. (Army News Service, June 27, 2006) – On the day I turned 41, the war in Iraq treated me to a wild ride through Baghdad in an up-armored sport utility vehicle.

It was the first of two times during my year-long tour that I would leave the International Zone without the armed, Humvee-led convoy security escort I traveled with on dozens of other missions.

I sat sideways in the rear right seat, facing the tinted window with my M-16, locked and loaded, in a modified ready position. I did my best to stay steady as the driver careened through streets choked with traffic. An elevated pucker factor helped glue my rear end to the seat, especially when congestion forced our vehicle to slow down, or worse, to stop. I thought that it would be a really bad thing to die on my birthday.

I rarely thought about dying while I was there, actually. Traveling in ground convoys were the only times it came to mind, and even then, there were only about three times when danger wasn’t just imaginable, but tangible.

One of those managed to put a Combat Action Badge on my uniform. I was with a small unit of Iraqi police commandos in March, convoying to their base in unarmored Nissan pickup trucks when we were ambushed with small arms fire. We barreled through it, returning fire, and nobody on our side was hurt.

I considered myself lucky compared to a lot of others. My trips outside the IZ were frequent enough to keep life interesting, but they were not a daily source of danger. My luck held steady on my birthday, June 23, 2005, and we arrived safely at the Special Police Forces Academy in Baghdad.

From my arrival at Baghdad International Airport on Super Bowl Sunday 2005 through the following January, I served as a public affairs specialist with the Multi-National Security Transition Command - Iraq, MNSTC-I for short.

I volunteered to go without my Florida National Guard unit after learning about the command, its mission and its urgent need for a military journalist. The opportunity to show through words and photographs what United States and Coalition forces were doing to help rebuild Iraq’s military and police forces was something I couldn’t pass up.

“We are the tip of the exit strategy,” insisted U.S. Army Capt. Steve Alvarez, a Florida Reservist and the command’s public affairs officer at the time, in his pitch to entice me to come over. Alvarez finished his year-long tour two months after I joined the four-man public affairs shop. U.S. Army Lt. Col. Fred Wellman took his place, and by the time he and I left, the office swelled to double its size in manpower.

I was the lone journalist for most of my tour, traveling the country to seek out stories and images of Iraqi soldiers and police officers building their ranks, going through training, receiving and maintaining new or donated equipment, bonding with U.S. and Coalition advisers and ‘doing the deal’ with operations outside the wire.

My first overnight mission was to an Iraqi military base in the southern tip of the country for a recruiting drive for the Iraqi Army. Officials were hoping for 6,000 potential recruits. The best conservative estimate came to about 20,000. As the sun rose, men of all ages spilled out of cars and buses near the base entrance and walked several miles to the first checkpoint. When one or two picked up the pace, others followed. Soon, men were running. Most were barefoot.

Later, in the afternoon, an Iraqi soldier caught a pigeon and presented it to me as a gift while using hand gestures that indicated he wanted to marry me. Not wanting to appear rude, I accepted the pigeon and then released it - quietly praying that it didn’t mean I was engaged.

One of my favorite stories is about a small company of female Iraqi military police serving on a small base in Baghdad. Unlike their male counterparts, the women could not live on the base. They left their homes wearing civilian clothes early each morning, changed into their uniforms when they arrived at the base, and then changed back for the journey home at night. Most were married and said they had the full support of their husbands and parents.

One woman, however, said her husband divorced her when she joined the Army. Her parents were helping her to raise her two young children. Months later, I saw her at a conference where she was working security. I asked her how her children were. She said she hadn’t seen them in four months. Word had somehow gotten out that she was serving in the Army, and she began receiving death threats. She left her home to protect her family.

It boggles my mind to think of serving my country under those kinds of conditions. There aren’t many days that go by that I don’t think of her and say a little prayer that she’s OK. One thing is for sure: I’ll never take for granted the incredible support that citizens lavish on our Soldiers in this country.

When I’m completely honest, I will admit there were a few times when I questioned my sanity for volunteering to go over there. The doubts came when I was physically overwhelmed - trudging through blinding sandstorms that colored the sky a burnt orange; schlepping camera gear, a laptop and accessories, an overloaded backpack (my knitting accompanied me everywhere, just in case I had down time) and of course, my M-16, on missions and slopping through endless streams of mud and muck during the rainy season.

When temperatures soared above three digits, sweat soaked my uniform through and through. Flies there are bountiful and brazen beyond belief. At their worst, they give considerable effort to finding refuge in any open body orifice - nose, ears, and mouth. They boast Medal of Honor-levels of pesky proficiency.

That was the bad side. Well, that and the occasional mortars and rockets that insurgents lobbed into the International Zone and the frequent threats of improvised explosive devices that stopped or rerouted traffic flow.

There was also the November night that Iraq beat Syria in a big soccer game. Red tracer rounds lit up the night like fireworks in a cacophony of celebratory gunfire. Dozens of soldiers stood outside trailers, gaping at the show until the ping, ping, ping of spent rounds dropping on metal roofs forced us back inside.

Fortunately, my overall experience was filled with more positive experiences than negatives. I don’t regret going over there for one minute. Never in my life have I felt like I was contributing to something greater than myself than I did in Iraq.

We sent out “The Advisor” every Saturday, and by Monday there were e-mails from new readers - civilian and military - thanking us for telling a side of the war they weren’t aware of. Current and past issues of the Advisor can be found on the MNSTC-I Web site at www.mnstci.iraq.centcom.mil.

I also appreciated being a part of the most unique and diverse group of people I’ve ever encountered. MNSTC-I was a melting pot of soldiers and civilians from at least a dozen other countries. The United States, Britain and Australia were the most heavily represented. There were also uniforms and faces from Iraq, Italy, Spain, Poland, the Netherlands, Croatia, Iceland, Albania, Macedonia and South Korea, among others.

One of my more memorable international bonding moments occurred at breakfast one morning, sitting with a group of Australian officers. A couple of them were spreading what looked like chocolate jam on their toast. So, naturally, I asked about it. It was Vegemite, a staple as common Down Under as ketchup is in the U.S. The tube it came in described it as fermented yeast extract.

I didn’t know that when I popped a small square of coated toast into my mouth and began chewing. All eyes were on me. Not wanting to spoil our Aussie alliance, I swallowed. It was bad beyond belief. It brought tears to my eyes. I did everything I could not to gag. I managed a weak smile when they asked me how I liked it. I said it must be an acquired taste.

Within the command’s U.S. contingency, all the service branches were there except for the Coast Guard. For the first half of my tour, the 98th Army Reserve Training Division supplied a good chunk of our command strength. The 80th Reserve Training Division came next.

The rest were individuals, a mix of active duty and reserve troops. To my knowledge, I was the only National Guard Soldier in the command. The only time that distinguished me from the crowd, though, was when I decided to reenlist and when my leadership there and at home wanted to promote me to staff sergeant. I like to think I helped make navigating the system smoother for Guard members to follow.

I had plenty of National Guard company elsewhere in the country, even in the International Zone. For the first few months of my tour in Iraq about half of the U.S. combat forces were from the National Guard. The first time I drew casual pay, I was thrilled to see the Florida Guard patch on the uniforms of the Soldiers staffing the finance office.

I became good friends with an Iraqi man who works for the Ministry of Defense. The Marines had nicknamed him “Danny.” We worked similar jobs and went on several missions together. On our first mission, we were the only two people on a bus shuttling us from the landing zone at the Kirkush Military Training Base to a graduation ceremony for Iraqi soldiers who were completing basic training. That’s when we began to bond.

The Sunday before I left, Danny brought his wife and four children to say goodbye. I had met his two sons, ages 3 and 10, and his 11-year-old daughter a few times before. We visited for about 30 minutes and then went outside for a few photos. Danny and I hugged. I told him that I would come back one day when I could come to his house for dinner. He said no, I would be their guest for a few days, at least. As I walked away, his daughter called out one of the new English phrases she learned for the occasion: “See you soon!”

I’ve been home for a few months now, and I returned to my civilian job in April. I’ve stayed in touch through electronic mail with Danny and a few other Iraqi friends who serve as translators with Coalition adviser teams. They try to stay upbeat, but lately Danny has admitted that things are not going well in his neighborhood. He tries to keep a low profile.

One of the hardest things about going over as an individual is coming home alone, leaving friends and colleagues behind. I have a hard time watching the news. It only makes me worry about them. Life seems leisurely now, and I sometimes feel a bit guilty that I’m home and they aren’t. But I know it won’t be that way forever. Electronic mail is a big help.

My 42nd birthday is a week away, and it appears I’ll be spending it in a comfortable hotel in Jacksonville, Fla., providing public affairs support for an annual National Guard conference. There won’t be a convoy for this mission, but car pooling is a possibility. Here’s hoping my biggest worry is deciding who selects the radio station.

(Jewell serves with the Florida Army National Guard’s 107th Mobile Public Affairs Detachment.)

SandRat,

This one little paragraph speaks volumes why it is right that we are there and why we and the Iraqi's will win.

Everytime I read about the bombing or killing of Iraqi soldiers and/or policemen I think about how they (the 'real' citizens of Iraq) just keep coming and lining up. Apparently they don't know the meaning of the word quit.

Woe unto their enemies once they are fully trained and have that loyalty to one another. We all too often forget just how bad it was under Saddam. The citizens there have not. This is their chance and they know it.

Cheers!

RileyD, nwJ

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