Issue date: 4/23/09 Section: Opinion

Media Credit: Richard Flores

Media Credit: Richard Flores

Media Credit: Richard Flores

Media Credit: Richard Flores

On September 22, 2000 I entered the army; it was a Friday that year. I don't remember much about that day except that my life was about to go through some dramatic changes. The previous Monday, after many years dreaming about the glory, honor, and patriotism, I walked into a recruiting office. The office was quite bare, with only three desks that were covered with stacks of papers. There were also a few posters on the walls depicting different soldiers with the slogan "Be All You Can Be" on the bottom. This was not at all what I expected, but I sat down at one of the desks anyway and struck up a conversation with the Sgt. across the desk.

"How can I help you," he said, and without any hesitation I replied, "I want to be a soldier. I want to serve my country, and I want to fly a Kiowa."

After exchanging a few more words, we jumped into his silver Dodge Stratus and headed to the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station). Once there, I took my ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) and physical. Soon afterward, I learned that, even though my test scores were more than adequate to be a pilot, I had one major strike against me. I wore eye glasses. At that time, you had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision to fly, regulations have since changed. My recruiter looked at me with a sort of sadness in his eye. He stood up tall, dressed and pressed in his Class B's, along with a few ribbons on his chest. He tried to hide his sadness. I could tell he thought I was going to walk away, and my leaving would result in a loss of his commission. With a light reserved voice he said, "Is there anything else you would like to do in the Army." After a brief thought, I said, "I want to be like Rambo." You should have seen his eyes light up; it was as if he was glaring into a pot of gold. That was my first experience with anyone in the military, but not my last.

He took me back to the office and sifted through some paperwork. He pulled out a leaflet. On it, in light blue, in big bold letters was the word INFANTRY. It had pictures of tough looking soldiers, dressed in camouflage and green painted faces. Some say only true soldiers paint their teeth to camouflage the smile as they do their job. I was to be that guy. That was who I wanted to be. He quickly had a contract drawn up, and I signed it. I was going to be a ranger. That position was the best he could do for me. The rest I would have to do on my own. No one would have guessed that I was actually going to be more like Rambo. That Friday, I said goodbye to my mom and dad, left a fully furnished apartment, and didn't even tell my friends I was leaving. I was put on a bus heading for Ft. Benning Georgia. I just left.

After a twenty something hour bus ride, we arrived at Ft. Benning to what they call 10Th AG. It was a holding cell of sort, until the real basic training and Hell week began. After three weeks in this large prison style bay, it was my turn. Hell week lives up to its name, quickly sorting out those who are not cut out for infantry. Fourteen weeks later I graduated at the top of my company and coveted the light blue infantry cord. From there, I went to airborne school and ranger school, which has a 50% wash out rate, again finishing at the top and graduating with honors. I was the coveted airborne Ranger. I was then sent to air assault, sniper, and scuba schools. Soon after all my training was complete, it was time to compete. I competed in top sniper, best ranger, and the masochistic tortures of the Manchu mile, all which I completed in the top five teams. Unfortunately, no trophy was to be taken back to my company. This made me strive even harder and subject myself to even more pain and training; I wanted to be the best.

But play time was over with my first deployment to Kuwait. All my training was about to be put to the test in a real world scenario. As we awaited the word to cross the border into Iraq, I studied. I wanted to know everything I could about my new enemy. Iraq became my new obsession. In the arid dry sandbox, in the land that God forgot to water, I studied. With temperatures that reached 156 F, with no cloud cover, no grass to lie on, no lakes to cool off in, I studied. I felt like I was Aladdin stuck in the Sahara with no genie. There is no other way to express how I felt. I was miserable. Kuwait lies between the Persian Gulf and southeast of my new obsession Iraq. I learned that Iraq has never had a quiet moment in history; I learned that they had a very well trained army called the republican guard that was outfitted by the Russians many years back. I learned that, even though I could only see sand as far as the eye could see, Iraq was part of the Fertile Crescent. Apparently, the landscape once had lush green pastures around the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. I also learned that Iraq had predominantly two cultural groups, Sunnis and Shiites, who had been fighting each other since the dawn of time. With all this knowledge I prepared myself to fight a country that has never stopped fighting.

My team and I crossed the border a few months later, walking north northwest toward Bagdad. We were months ahead of the regular army, but my mission was simple: sit, watch, and gather Intel. Days of walking turned into weeks. We crossed sandy wastelands, through lush green hills and over grown marshes. Finally, the war was in full swing.

Three years and six months had passed since the day we started walking. We only had a forty- five day vacation a year, then back to the ongoing war. I had only lost one man so far to a land mine. His recovery was swift. Even though he was missing a right leg now, he longed to be fighting alongside our team. I commanded a team of thirteen war hardened men and one officer. We were called "luck 1-3." We were America's strike team. Together we endured searing hot summers, bitter cold winters, and of course, the miserable three month long rainy season. In the cramped quarters of out truck, we lived, slept, and ate. We became brothers. We averaged only a few meager hours of sleep each day. We lived for the adrenaline of the next fight. We craved it, and the fight became our addiction. Maybe we were wrong for it, but that was our new life, our new home. A way of life we would gladly die for, and one many would soon die for too.

On May 5, 2005 we were sent on a mission to watch a convoy and to help secure a supply run to the Dayala Provence. On that day we were spread too thin and were ambushed. At day's end I had lost my best friend, my sniper partner. He was shot through the neck; yet he refused to die until the enemy was dead, a true American hero. He died on my shoulders as I carried him the four kilometers to the LZ (landing zone). Still having a mission to accomplish, I went back alone. The rest of my team had other parts of the route to secure and could not assist me. The rest of the mission was a success, but how is success measured. The supplies cleared our area, but I had lost one of my own men. Yeah, I guess I could see it was a success.

On October 11, 2006, a cold, windy, wet day, something told us to be extra careful. But you learn not to abide by those feelings because mission comes first. We began our movement to raid a house in the early hours of the day. We walked into the surprise of our lives, and for most, it was the last thing we would do. As we busted through the door, gun fire lit the morning sky. The deafening sound of small arms fire led us to seek shelter. The putrid smell of gun smoke filled the small two room house. It was as if we had walked straight through the gates of hell. Bullets tore through us like fire. Like rivers gushing out from our bodies, blood flowed. As quick as it had began, it was over. The dust settled over our broken bodies, and the smoke cleared the room. You could see bodies littering the floor, both theirs and ours. There were men crying out a dying plea for help and remembrance. There was nothing I could do. I had been cut down. There was no strength left in us. We were left for dead. The next thing I remember I was laying next to my friend, both of us on a stretcher flying over the city I had learned to call home, heading somewhere I was not sure of. My world turned to black once more.

I have since made a decent recovery. Most though, in my company, were not so lucky. We lost seven great soldiers that day, three more in the hospital in Germany, and two to suicide early the next year. The cost of war goes far beyond the money spent, beyond the 200 million a day. The cost of war stays with survivors, soldiers and families. I am one of the 30,984 wounded in action. It looks like I got what I wanted. I am the only survivor left of the "luck 1-3" strike team. I live with the weight of dead brothers. I live with the war still raging inside of me, like a storm that never ends. Every day continues to be a struggle to live. I must carry on. I must remember those who perished, the heroes I call my own. I guess I became the part of Rambo I didn't want.

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