Crossing Over

Last week I was talking to a friend, reminiscing of our time in Iraq. I am a Soldier, he is a Marine. Our experiences were similar. Aside from nearly being killed several times in the same day, the other memory that sticks out in my mind is crossing over the border into Iraq at night.

We gathered our gear in the morning, receiving our briefing from Captain Mason. I was responsible for ensuring all communications functioned on the convoy from Camp Udairi, Kuwait, into Scania, Iraq. Having already prepared the night before, I could focus on my job, checking radios for each vehicle. The soldiers in the other platoons already checked in, so I could give them the “go-ahead” and I could focus on the headquarters element. I ran to each vehicle, my rifle slamming against my back as I dashed and jumped in I knew Captain Mason would want a status report as soon as I was done, and time wasn’t on my side.

30 minutes passed, and already it was 1800. I had only 30 more minutes until the second convoy (the headquarters vehicles) was leaving. I delegated one of my soldiers to help me finish up so we could be on time. Captain Mason called out from the vehicle and I ran, the gate of the Stryker closing. I took my position in the air guard hatch, rifle poised, thumb ready to switch from safety to semi in case I had to send an insurgent to Allah. My index finger ran parallel with the top of the rifle, able to move with my thumb just as easily in one fluid motion. My palms began to sweat profusely, my heart racing as every minute passed. This was the real deal, what my Battalion Commander had been telling us for almost 2 years. Here we were, on the brink, only a couple of hours from the Iraqi border.

Hearing the traffic over the radios made me smile. I had done my job effectively and I knew that communication was essential for any mission. The silent desert sun sat on its perch, just as an ancient sheikh would sit among his followers in the days of Muhammed. Flat earth, scrub, and desolation ran as far on the horizon as I could make out, my government-issued Oakleys protecting my squinting eyes. Yet, the discomfort was short-lived, sunset creeping in and the clear night engulfing the landscape in its wake. The rhythmic hum of the Stryker’s engines was almost like a lullaby, tempting us with sleep and the promise of peaceful dreams. Knowing where we were, that’s all it was – temptation.

Darkness finally descended, and by the sound of the radio traffic, I could tell we were in some no-name town. Power lines hung dangerously low, so we had to tie down our antennas on the vehicle. Being an air guard, along with our company sniper, Sergeant Davis, I felt uneasy, and on several levels, I was deathly afraid. Having a sniper there did almost nothing to dispel my angst and fear. Dim lights dotted the corners of the cheaply built slums. Garbage was in piles haphazardly along the street, making an obstacle course for us to weave through. I heard voices coming from the right, near the entrance of a burned out store. The hair on the back of my neck began to rise, my eyes opened wider and I switched out the dark lenses in my sunglasses to the clear protective lenses. The air was putrid; the smell of rotting garbage mixed with human feces was enough to make you vomit on yourself. The feeling of moving through the ghost-like town was surreal; I felt transported, like nothing was real. A harder reality came, though, when I saw an Iraqi down an alleyway point an AK-47 directly at me and almost had my eardrums blown out when Sergeant Davis let out one round from his sniper rifle.