Lt. Col. Chris Lozano, USMC

Operation Iraqi Freedom Travelogue 3

Greetings from the Fertile Crescent, ancient land of Mesopotamia, Hammurabi, City of Ur, Tower of Babel, Hanging Gardens of Babylon and birthplace of Abraham. As I write this the war against the regime of Saddam Hussein is drawing to a close and the liberation of Iraq is nearly complete.

The last time I wrote we were on the eve of battle and everything was unknown. We did not know how Hussein would react; would he torch the oilfields, blow the bridges, use chem.? Would he fight or would he flee? Now, with the outcome in hand I am at a bit of a loss to describe what we have accomplished and gone through. A Lozano lost for words? Let's not get carried away. I'll manage.

The Missile

It is strange, waking up knowing that today the war will start tonight. It would start with a barrage of hundreds to thousands of missiles and bombs and would be immediately followed by the beginning of the ground war. I ask the night before if we need to have our flak jackets and helmets ready but the answer is "no, just keep them close by".

I get dressed like every other morning since I have arrived in Kuwait and skip breakfast, too anxious to find out how things will unfold. When I walk into the engineer's tent the t.v. is already on with the news: the U.S. has started the war not with "shock and awe" but a small salvo of some 60 missiles. "What?" What the heck is going on?" I ask myself. We had tactical surprise and we waste it on 60 missiles? Why now? Why not as planned?

We have just tipped our hand to Hussein and if we don't proceed we are giving him a chance to get back in the game. Everyone is stumped, why no further action? I am angry and pensive so I turn to my daily work and sit at my computer and drift off into my work. The tent fills with the normal chatter of people working, the t.v. now in the background. It will be a couple of weeks before I find out that the first strike had been a gamble for a "decapitation" of Iraqi leadership.

For a split second I think it is a fighter jet, they are very common around Kuwait City. But, this jet's engine is gyrating with an angry energy and uneven cadence that says "incoming". There is no time to react. The raw explosion shatters the morning calm and shakes the tent so hard I think it is coming down. There is no other warning or no siren. Time stands still and we all look at each other, momentarily dumbstruck. I then lunge for my gas mask sitting by my chair and run out of the tent as fast as I think I've ever run.

My mind is racing like never before. "Missile attack!" I shout in my head, I know Hussein has many of them. I keep waiting for more impacts but there weren't any. As I run out the tent I turn left towards the bunkers, my vision is blurred by the pounding of my feet as I jump over several small ditches and sandbags. The air is filled with screams of "Get in the bunkers! Get in the bunkers!" and people dashing everywhere. I manage to glance up towards the direction of the explosion and see a large mushroom shaped cloud rising from just outside of camp but no flames. My heart stops. "Oh dear God, please don't let it be gas...is today the day I met the Lord?"

The bunkers are prefabricated concrete enclosures and not underground. For the weeks preceding the war we have practiced dozens of times. These drills have become annoying because they are rarely scheduled, usually occurring during a meals or meetings. Today, I can kiss whoever made us practice.

There is no chaos in the bunker, just actions practiced dozens of times. I move towards the middle to make sure as many people as possible could get in. I sit on the dirt and fold my legs up so someone can sit directly across from me. Once seated I put on my gas mask. I feel like I'm going to suffocate.

There is no immediate siren, an explosion doesn't need further introduction. The siren finally sounds few minutes after we are in the bunkers. A few nervous laughs echo about. I fight off a sense of panic and overwhelming urge to rip my mask off to breath. I hate gas masks, absolutely detest them. I have never gotten used to the claustrophobic feeling of having my face covered, never feeling like I can catch my breath. But, I am not going to die because of my fears.

I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing. I am praying and listening for the sounds of more missiles, or some indication of what has happened. I am sweating profusely in my mask, my lenses are fogged up. Eventually, my breathing and heart rate slow to near normal and I relax.

As I sit there I get mad all over again. We have given Hussein a chance to make a statement and he came within a couple of hundred yards of killing a good chunk of the I MEF staff. We sit in the bunker for an hour before the all clear is given. Later, Capt. Heflin, our Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) officer tells us it was a Chinese Silkworm missile, modified for use on land and packing a whopping 1,300lbs of explosives. Patriots were useless, because it had flown under the radar past everyone at 300 feet off the ground.

With the "All Clear" I shake the dust and head back to the tent, my face red from the suction of the mask and the sweat. There's a lot of exclamations not best described for young readers. Lieutenant Commander Vince Martinez, a Navy EOD is laughing. "Sir, I was a second team All-American defensive back at Syracuse and I never ran as fast as you did!" He then goes on to tell us that he had been in such a hurry that not once, but twice he had run into the frame of the tent and fallen down before he managed to get out. We laughed.

That day we will head to the bunkers twelve heart-pumping times. Each time the sky resonates with the sound of Patriot missiles firing into the sky and the nerve-wracking wait for incoming. Thankfully, there are no more. We have received the first shot of the war and Hussein has announced he intends to fight.

The Ground Attack Starts

On my first day of The Basic School an old retired First Sergeant tells us in a gravelly voice "Lieutenants...when you cross the line of departure...you're world turns to ****". This crude truism is being played out before our eyes. Our plan had been to follow the initial barrage of missiles with a rapid thrust to secure the oilfields. But, it doesn't happen that way because it never does. Now, we were reacting to Hussein. Almost immediately we receive reports that the Iraqis are beginning to light oil wells on fire. Our world is indeed turning to ****. Late that afternoon the decision is made by Gen. Franks to commence the ground attack nearly a day early.

Around 7 p.m. the Marines unleash their special brand of hell as troops advance into the Rumaliyah oilfields. Under relentless artillery and air cover, Marines push to seize key oil nodes, considered critical to the financial future of Iraq. Unlike what was reported by most media, resistance is stiff, but the Marines are unstoppable. The first casualty of the ground war is 2ndLt Therrill Childers, who dies leading his platoon in the first hour of the attack. I feel both deep sadness and immense pride in this officer. He died doing what leaders do, leading from the front.

Around midnight I turn in, exhausted by the events of the day. When I enter my tent I am met by a sobering sight. Nearly every person is asleep, lights on, fully clothed in their chemical protection suits. I opt to die comfortably and sleep in my skivvies, gas mask on my chest just in case.

MEF On the Move

On the second day of the war we are notified that the headquarters will be moving into Iraq the following day. It takes me completely by surprise since the war was still waging in the oilfields. I had expected that we would move days after the war started, when the environment was more secure. The reason for this decision was not technical but moral. It is the same lesson instilled in 2ndLt Childers, Marines lead from the front.

Since we had been to the field several times rehearsing the move I was mostly packed. My primary concern is that I have the things I need; underwear, t-shirts, socks, batteries, soap. I have to pack everything I would need for "who knows how many months" into a backpack, a carry bag and a briefcase. At one point I am hopelessly short of room when I suddenly realize that I will have to wear my chemical suit which means not having to pack it. Room! Happily, I pull it out and quickly complete the task. That night I fall asleep quickly. In the morning I say quick "goodbyes" to those staying behind.

I expect, and am not disappointed, to find that leaving will be a painful process of protracted waiting. I arrive at the muster point, loaded down with 150lbs of gear, only to find out they have changed muster times and I am two hours early. The headquarters will not leave at one time but in sequences of vehicles. We spend hours sitting on our gear doing what Marines do when they wait, sleeping, reading and a lot of laughing.

Around 3pm the order comes to load up. I got on a 7-ton vehicle and settled in for a quick ride to our real staging point in the desert. Many vehicles had been pre-staged at a secret base (Camp Justice) in the desert to ensure that if something happened to Camp Commando the vehicles would be safe. When the missile nearly took out the headquarters on the first day, I was not at all comforted to know the vehicles were safe.

At Justice the sun is setting as we arrive. Vehicles are in several lines of 40-70, a mix of 7-tons, Humvees and the sturdy cab-forward tractor trailer called the "dragon wagon". This time there is no waiting. Unsure of when we would stop next I run to take a leak; an easy task unless you are wearing an NBC suit that doesn't have a zipper, with a flak jacket, helmet and gear harness over it. I strip down and go into the port-a-john. There are no chemicals in the toilet, only dust, since they have not been used in a few weeks. After reassembling myself I go off to find the vehicle I will ride in. "Serial 6" is my serial.

Somewhere planted in the middle of this conflagration of vehicles is a Humvee towing a trailer called a "hitchhiker". This huge trailer is one of five that contains the entire combat operations center tent we called "The Bug". I throw my pack in the small space where the fifth-wheel attaches and the rest of my gear goes inside the vehicle. We haven't yet left and it is already full of dust. I climb in and try to get comfortable.

The driver is LCpl. Hurst, a nervous young man of 19 who chain-smokes in spite of looking 14. In the other back seat is LT Luke Robertson, a Navy Seabee who works with us in the Engineer cell. I am glad to travel with Luke because he has an incredible sense of humor and will help the time pass.

First one serial rambles off in a cloud of dust then another. After half an hour it is our turn and we snake out of the camp. It is strange to see the base we had rehearsed in now totally vacant, the wind blowing trash through camp like a ghost town.

Kuwait has one highway heading towards Iraq and it's a wide six lanes. Once on the road we quickly pick up speed. The cool late winter air bites at me and I zip up the plastic window. The chemical suit gives me some additional warmth. The Humvee is quiet except for the drone of the diesel engine, as everyone s lost in their thoughts.

Only a couple of weeks before I had been at the border doing a reconnaissance of the obstacles. The DMZ then was full of UN and Kuwaiti police, it was a forbidding place. This time as we approach the DMZ it is vacant, abandoned by the UN a couple of days prior. The gates were gone and we passed through without slowing down. Everything is eerily cast in shadows.

We pass first through the first berm, then the once electrified fence, conveniently turned off by the Kuwaitis. Only a few hundred yards later we slow down as the road narrows to a single lane at the Iraqi border. The last sunlight is quickly fading away.

Into Iraq

I don't know why, but I wanted to be listening to music as we went into Iraq so I fumbled around for my iPod and put on some music from the Incarnate Word Life Teen Band. I crank it all the way up and look out the window.

We cross the border into Safwan, a dilapidated and trash-strewn border town without any visible electricity. I glance warily at the people lining the street, my pistol on my lap. It is not a celebration, and we were not being welcomed as liberators, it is silent staring from ghostly figures.

The town fades and we pick up speed as we head for Hwy 1, the main road to Baghdad. We call it MSR Tampa. After a few minutes we begin to encounter British armored vehicles of the famed 7th Brigade "Desert Rats". Occasionally, a Challenger tank would rumbles by. I begin to pick up flashes of explosions in the distance and after awhile we pull over. It is now too dark to drive unaided and it was blackout conditions.

I step out into the blackness and with fascination as the flashes of bombs and the muted explosions roll over us. It is in the direction of Basrah, where the British forces are slugging it out for control of the vital city. The occasional tracer laces the sky and let me know this was going to be a long night.

The halt lasts longer than I expect. I overhear the reason why, we have missed our turn and are unintentionally heading directly into the battle in Basrah. We have been stopped by British soldiers with puzzled looks who tell us we can't proceed unless we had an armored vehicle.

When we're ready to go again I jump back in my seat in the Humvee and LCpl. Hurst is fumbling with his night vision goggles. "LCpl. Hurst", I ask, "Did they teach you how to drive with NVGs at motor transport school." "No sir" came his matter of fact reply, "I've never used them before". He then turns to LT Robertson and asks him if he knows how to put the batteries in. I swallow hard and begin to pray.

The convoy makes its way to the highway where we run in near total blackness at speeds that verge on recklessness. Without the aid of NVGs I am left to straining my eyes to make sure we are not about to slam into the back of the vehicle in front. Stretches of silence are pierced with panic "Watch out!!! Slow down!!". More than once we swerve onto the shoulder of the road to avoid rear-ending someone.

We pass the towns of Az Zubayr where a key battle would be fought several days later without a hint of what is to come. As we continue to move north and west, the blackness is broken by the eerie glow of burning oil wells. In a land so flat and desolate they never seem to get further away.

On our first stop on the highway I measure off the paces to see how wide the highway actually is. The road is immaculate, very wide and very modern. I christen the dirt and wonder what is out there. I warn everyone who can hear not to step off the "hard ball" which is what we call paved roads.

We get back on the road and into the darkness. Around 10pm we pass the forward lines of the 1st UK Division; as Challenger tanks speed about in the blackness hunting for their prey.

I didn't think the trip was supposed to take so long but actual progress is hard to gauge. Sometime after midnight we stop and there is commotion up ahead. There has been an accident of some sort with some minor injuries and vehicle damage. Marines assigned to guard the convoy pace up and down the column. Other convoys continue on past us like submarines in the dark.

My legs ache and the cramps are getting more frequent. I try stretching my legs but there is little room for that. "Maybe I should just fall asleep" I think to myself. But, I know that we need all eyes on the road and around us, so I force myself to stay awake.

Around 4 a.m. we encounter elements of the 1st Marine Division who have blown through the Rumaliyah oilfields the day before and are now en route to the Euphrates where they will head north towards Baghdad. When we encountered the Light Armored Vehicles (LAV) I knew were at the front but we don't slow down. I turn to Luke and say "Holy crap, we're leading the attack". We both laugh and I suggest ways to employ 9mm pistols as hasty artillery, considering half the people on our convoys only carry pistols.

Finally, nearly twelve hours after we leave Kuwait we are nearing the end of our journey. The first rays of dawn brake as oil fire haze drifts on the horizon. Off the road is Task Force Tarawa, Marines of the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, who are headed to An Nasariyah and the bloodiest fighting of the war. We turn south headed towards Jalibah, the base we call "Viper".

We make one last stop. The air is in the 40s and my teeth are chattering. So this is what it's like to invade a country. The sky doesn't look different, the air didn't smell any different, the ground doesn't look any different. Yet, people are fighting and dying around us. It is different.

Enemy Alert

We set up camp like we have many times before as bulldozers worked tirelessly to erect the protective berms that were our first line of protection. Only this time there is an added sense of urgency. Marine infantrymen push a protective ring around us as we work with a sense of purpose.

While we are setting up camp, control of the war is at Camp Commando. For the first 48 hours I have no idea how the war is progressing and it makes me feel out of touch and helpless. Until Pete Ramey gets here I am the senior combat engineer on the staff. I busy myself with getting everything set up and primed for us taking control of the battle. It is game time. Time for practice is over, months of preparation are about to pay off and I feel ready. We have on our NBC suits, flak jackets, helmets and loaded weapons. We then get word that we could be facing a sandstorm of epic proportions. We also get word that fighting is fierce in An Nasariyah just 80km away.

The wind begins to whip around the next morning and visibility steadily drops. I have been in several sandstorms in Kuwait but it quickly becomes obvious this is not going to be an ordinary storm.

Suddenly, the door to our work shelter flies open, "They've spotted a company size element headed our way, everyone's to man the berms!" says a young Marine rather excitedly.

Everyone grabs their gear and heads outside. The camp is abuzz with activity as Marines rush to the berms, sergeants yelling instructions and vehicles moved about. My heart is pumping with adrenaline as I walk up to the berm and a Marine on a .50 cal machine gun. "Good day for a fight!" I say to the veteran staff sergeant. "Yes sir it is" he says nonchalantly. "We've been itching for a fight". I looked up and down the line and think "Pity the fool who tries to attack this position". There are perhaps 25 vehicles with anti-tank missiles, grenade launchers, heavy machine guns and several hundred Marines with rifles.

I strain my eyes into the storm and wondered how a company of anything could find its way through this. It seems to me they might stumble into us more than attack us. The minutes ticked but nothing. I take a few photographs.

After about an hour the word comes to stand down. The company of enemy were not attacking but were surrendering. I feel both a sense of disappointment and relief. I walk back into our shelter and plop on my folding chair. I turn my computer back on and check my e-mail.

The Sandstorm

There was no defined "beginning" to what is now known as the MOASS, the Mother of All Sand Storms, the largest recorded sandstorm in this hemisphere in 40 years. It came at an incredibly bad time for the Coalition. Forces were engaged in fierce urban combat in An Nasariyah and Basrah and additional forces were pouring into the country across the bleak desert. For forty-eight hours Mother Nature would even the playing field by grounding our air and forcing troops to hunker down rather than fight.

After the enemy alert the wind continued to pick up to ever-higher speeds as the sky grew ominously dark. By mid-afternoon our shelter rocked back and forth, buffeted by sustained winds in excess of fifty miles per hour. The din of metal and fabric slapping and ripping was constant. Tents strained at the metal stakes holding them down and camouflaged poles snapped like toothpicks. It was at this time I made my first foray into the storm.

In the protection of our trailers it is impossible to gauge the storm's wrath. But, as I leave the row of semi-trailers that are our workspaces I am met by a blast of wind that takes my breath away. It seems to be half wind and half sand. I retreat to put on my goggles and bandana. I angle my head down and begin to walk to our Combat Operations Center. The sand stings like a thousand hornets, even through the thick clothing. I labor to breath and keep my balance. It is impossible to make out any shapes and there are only dark shadows against a darkening sky. The sand swirls just like snow but this is unlike any storm I had ever experienced. Eventually, I arrive at the COC out of breath and battered.

The walls of the COC tents heave in and out like the lungs of a giant animal. Voices are fighting with the raging storm to be heard. Lights sway and cast shadows about. The air is filled with a fine dust that settles on everything.

By that evening the storm strengthens and most work comes to a stand still, the dust and noise making work impossible. Miraculously, we were able to maintain communications through our array of high tech communications gear. The winds were now gusting to over sixty-five miles an hour. Smaller tents began to collapse under the weight of sand piling up against them. Many people slept in vehicles or did not sleep at all.

The morning comes with a dull light, the storm is still raging. My tent has survived but my sleep has been broken by the violent shaking and relentless noise. Everything in my tent is covered with a thick coating of dust. My eyes, ears and nostrils are clogged with dirt. I don't even try to get clean; I just spit out the grit from my mouth and head to the shelter. My body actually aches.

That evening the storm has begun to diminish but is still strong. I leave our shelter and head to my tent to turn in. Since we are at war we are in "blackout" conditions where no extraneous light should be visible. I walk to the edge of the shelters and point myself in the direction of where my tent is. I have memorized some landmarks so I figure I can do it.

I step off and move, a step at a time, pausing with each step. My hands are out in front of me because I cannot see even the slightest bit of light. I continue, figuring I will find the berm that lies just beyond our tent, then feel my way back, but I don't. After ten minutes I have no idea where I am so I do an about face and start to walk back to what I think are our shelter.

Now, I am totally lost. I continue to walk slowly and steadily figuring at the worst I will climb into the first vehicle or tent I find and wait for morning. Suddenly, I run into concertina wire and snag my trousers. I have missed my mark and traveled some 200 yards past the shelter. At the same time I see the red beam of a flashlight a few feet away. "Hey! You lost too?" I scream over the wind. "Yeah!" comes the reply. "Well, let's stick together" I say.

Even with the beam of light we can see only a few feet when I spot cables on the ground. I instantly know where I am. Relieved, we follow the cables back to the row of shelters. I open the door and step back in, half hour after I left to walk fifty feet to my tent. I sit down, look at my friend Hal and say "Hey Hal, mind if I use your flashlight?"

Finally, on the third day, the storm is over and we survey the damage. It is widespread but not catastrophic. We spend the day picking up the debris, raising tents, staking things down again and trying rather unsuccessfully to get the dust off of everything we own.

A Pail of Water

The first casualty of war is not truth, but privacy. Communal living, eating, working, toilets and even bathing are the norm. Chances for a private moment of any kind are rare. Virtually everything I have, that I need is in a pack; my clothes, a flash light, shaving kit, some reading material. Everything else is extraneous. When your life boils down to a pack, you learn to live simply. When you learn to live simply you learn just how full your life is with excess baggage.

In the field, hygiene is a difficult but important task. Shaving and washing up are essential to prevent spreading sickness, but it's always a pain in the butt because there are no showers, no bathrooms, no hot water; no running water for that matter.

Before we left Kuwait, someone bought a $3 plastic pail. There's nothing special about this pail except it holds water, which turns out to be a pretty big deal when you carry everything in your pack and don't happen to have a water pail.

Everybody understands that in the field you smell, it's unavoidable. Days in the same clothes sweating in your chemical suits, dust and sand ground into every pore, sleeping on the ground all lend to the aroma, we call "ass" as in "smells like ass in here". A quick rubdown with wet wipes takes the edge off but only for so long, then it's time to wash.

I grab our $3 pail and head for our "water bull". After filling the pail halfway I head back to my tent. I find myself a spot not far from the tent and set up a little folding stool in the sand. I place the pail in front and sit down, carefully pulling out my soap. I slowly place my feet into the cool water and begin to wash my feet. They don't look like my feet, they look like they belong to a miner or something. The water is soothing.

Though in the middle of a camp of Marines I am alone in my thoughts, enjoying the sensation of a cooling wind and the smell of soap. I scoop water up with my hands and let it run over my head back into the pail. I haven't felt this refreshed and relaxed in a long time.

Finally, satisfied that I no longer smell like a mule I try to put my soap away, only to have it fly out of my hand into the sand. I sigh and stand up to try and reach for my soap which seems like a good thing until I slip, landing on my butt right in the sand. I'm too embarrassed to see if anyone saw me but I'm pretty sure I hear a snicker or two. I brush myself off and start all over.

The Sarabadi Bridge

One of my jobs in Iraq is to sit on the Targeting Board. This group of officers chose targets for what we call the "deep battle", actions that will shape the battlefield in advance of ground forces. As the engineer representative, it is my job to give recommendations on things that will affect mobility of forces. This job will lead to one of my greatest contributions and failures.

After crossing the Euphrates, the Marines would take on three Republican Guard divisions en route to Baghdad. The Marines maneuver on a twin axis towards Al Kut, just north of the Tigris. But, the much-anticipated fight there with the Baghdad Division does not materialize. The Marines have pulverized them with air and artillery and after a few sharp skirmishes, the remaining forces flee or surrender. It is now a dash up Rt. 6 for Baghdad.

Rt. 6 is a critical highway that follows the Tigris between Basrah in the south and Baghdad. Turning west towards Baghdad will leave their rear exposed to the four regular army divisions that had been by-passed near Al Amarah.

Facing them on the outskirts of Baghdad will be the Adnan Division. To the south of the Tigris on their flank is the Medina Division, considered the toughest division in the Iraqi Army. A bridge, the Sarabadi, separates the two divisions.

Daily intel paint an uncertain picture. Shaping actions have diminished the unit capabilities, but one brigade of the Adnan is unlocated and elements of the Medina are pushing north of the Tigris, apparently to reinforce the Adnan. This spells trouble. I see it plain as day, "We need to drop the Sarabadi Bridge", I say to myself.

Dropping a bridge is unlike any other target, because it is such a visible target with serious civilian implications. It is never done lightly. Our higher headquarters had put all bridges on a restricted target list, which means we have to get permission in order to target one.

I ask the other officers, "Why don't we drop the Sarabadi"? "Because every time we bring it up we get shot down" came the answer. "You gotta be s****n me"? came my standard reply. "I'll ask. What are they going to do send me home"? Everyone smiles.

I nominate two bridges that day, Sarabadi and a bridge to the division's rear, the Kabbab. The Sarabadi is a beautiful bridge, spanning the Tigris southeast of Baghdad. To everyone's amazement we get support and higher headquarters approves it on short order. I am instantly the hero of the board. "No guts no glory", I say, enjoying my instant notoriety. We work up the target request and send it to the Marines at 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing. That night I stay up late like an expectant father but finally run out of steam with no word on the bridges.

"Sir did you hear?" asks Maj. Rob Terselic, as I rub the sleep out of my eyes the next morning. "We dropped the Sarabadi and Kabbab bridges"! "Yes!" I say, raising a fist in triumph. At a critical moment, we have cut the Medina Division in half, striking a severe blow to their effectiveness and ability to reinforce the Adnan. Later, word comes from one of the officers at the 1st Marine Division that MGen. Mattis wants to thank me for making this happen because he had all but given up trying to get these bridges dropped. I am walking on air.

Later, intel photos reveal that the Sarabadi has taken direct hits from two 2,000lb bombs dropping two of three lanes at the center of the bridge. The third lane tilts precipitously towards the water. Rob Terselic and I joke that we will have to go and have our pictures taken with the bridge. Maj. Terselic even paints two bridges on his shelter.

Then, several weeks later I run into another officer also on the targeting board, LtCol. "Scud" Adams. He has been out surveying battle damage. He says "The Sarabadi is seriously damaged but locals are still using it". "No kidding", I say incredulously, trying to picture a vehicle driving at a 30 degree angle with a 50ft fall to the river. "Yeah, several locals told us six civilians have been killed already when their vehicles slid off the bridge into the water". I am stunned. Suddenly gone are the high fives and back slaps and the good feelings. There are people now dead because of actions I took. It saddens me deeply. My mind is filled only with the reality that in war, bombs and bullets don't know the difference between bad guys and the innocents.

Washing Clothes Can Be Hazardous To Your Health

Major Troy Stephenson is an Army officer attached to our section. He's 6'7" of brash backwoodsman from Oregon, who lives in Alaska and can't start or end a conversation without mentioning caribou, salmon, airplanes, sexual conquests or basketball; arms flying about wildly for emphasis. A Ranger and former member of the 82nd Airborne, he's fit right in with us.

In the field your laundry is a bucket and some cold water. It's a pain in the butt and your clothes never really get clean you're just trying to knock the stench off them. Troy had only brought one set of utilities to the field for reasons he never really explained and eventually out of mercy he decides to wash them. He heads off into the dark to where our Humvee and tents were set up.

Later, I walk back in the dark to my tent. As I approach my senses are overwhelmed with the stench of JP8, the fuel common to most military vehicles. I walked to the front of the Humvee and the ground is soaked with fuel. I am trying to figure out what the heck has happened when I eye a large figure bent over a bucket and cursing not so softly.

"Hey Troy, what the heck is that smell?" I say. "Son of a bitch" he says disgustedly, "I just washed my clothes with JP8". "What the hell are you talking about?" I answer. He says, "I grabbed one of the cans off the back of the Humvee and didn't know it had fuel in it". I stared at him for a second. "Troy, not trying to be ignorant here but how much fuel did you pour on your clothes?" I ask. "About two gallons" he responds dejectedly. "How the hell did you manage to pour two gallons of JP8 on your clothes without smelling it? I ask. "Well, I grabbed the can and opened it up. As I started to pour I looked up at the stars and I guess I'm just so tall it took a minute for the smell to reach my nose". His arms are flailing like a pelican at the beach. My lips begin to quiver as I try not to laugh. I grab some powder soap and help him wash his uniform which reeks.

For days afterwards he smells like a shop towel and being the considerate people we are, we tease him mercilessly. You hear things like "Hey Troy, I'm going to wash clothes, how much JP8 do you recommend"? or warning people who enter our shelter not to light matches for fear of Troy igniting. He recovered and is back to his gregarious self, chew dribbling down his chin, arms flailing as he regales us with yet another story of hunting and fishing in Alaska.

The Greatest Parade

I knew we had the strong support of America, but I was uncertain how we would be received by the Iraqi people. Regardless of our stated intentions we were still the invading army. As the war unfolded, reports of atrocities committed by Hussein's henchmen on his own people began to pour in. There was a woman who waved to British forces in Un Qasr and was found hung the next morning. There were mass executions of soldiers for deserting, or failing to stop the advance of coalition forces. Then there were the stories of our soldiers being tortured. One American soldier was stripped naked in the town square and executed in front of a horrified crowd, then his body was dragged through the streets for all to see.

In spite of this coalition forces were not welcomed openly at first. Why? Fear of reprisal; fear of Hussein coming back to exact his revenge; fear instilled by decades of abuse and atrocities; fear that the liberation would evaporate into another nightmare of oppression. They are afraid we are going to leave them to the same evils.

Then as we defeat the last pockets of resistance a miracle happens. Signs of liberation slowly begin to appear. People begin to wave, even cheer at the Americans and Brits. Slowly, they emerge from their despair and relish liberty.

Now, a six weeks later it continues unabated. Children run barefooted to the road at the site of approaching Americans, some in expectation of treats, others just to wave. Others give a thumbs up or wave. To be sure there are still plenty of bad guys still out there but they are no longer in control and now it is they who live in fear.

Of many memorable moments here, one sticks out in my mind beyond all others. We are driving along a road and I see two old women walking, covered in the traditional abaya. We slow down to make a turn when one of the women turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet. Her face is weathered from a hard life but a smile is on her lips. Suddenly, she grabs her chest with both hands then throws them to the sky, her eyes gazing heavenwards. I don't know what she said but I understand completely. The spirit of freedom has triumphed. This is the greatest parade we could ever get.

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As Children See War: Letters From Home

Since I have been deployed I have been lucky to get letters from school children. Sometimes it has been from children I know and sometimes from total strangers. These letters are from 4th-7th graders from two Catholic grade schools. I was struck by the insight, the humor and the deep feelings many of them expressed. I thought it would be good to share some snippets of those letters so you could see how children are affected by war, by words and the conduct of others.

Peace,
Chris
Camp Babylon, Iraq
13 May 03

"Dear Soldiers,

Happy St. Patrick's Day. I hope you had a wonderful day of training and practice. I really hope we stay in peace and don't go to war because the world would be a better place to live. I thank you so much for serving our country for freedom. I hope you come back to the U.S. because I bet your family is really missing you not at home. Thank you a lot for your sacrifices" -Xavier

"...Thank you for protecting our country and fighting for us to be free. All of us here appreciate it more than anyone could think...Please be safe and we will pray for you."--Alicia

"Thank you so much for your courage & faith in the U.S. Now, that war is to begin in about two days we need you all. Your courage is endlessly bountiful. You are doing a great deed for our country". -Lauren

"...I would like to say that you all have been such role models to me and I thank you for that. Good luck and 'You can do it', just remember that saying and you will do great".

-Nick

"...My family and I have been praying for you every day". -Kelsey

"...I hope you enjoy these cards. I know I would want cards or letters from people that are thinking about you...I just want you to know that we are all thinking about you day and night. We are very proud"!! -Kathryn

"Thank you for serving our country, you are like Superman to me" -Katherine

"We are thinking about you and praying for you" -Kevin

"Dear Soldiers of our country,

I'm writing to tell you thank you for being so brave. I wish you the best of luck these days, and hope you all will stay safe. It is people like you that keep this country free, you should be very proud. Please stay safe and I hope the food isn't too bad".

-Kelli

"Thank you so much for defending our country! I really appreciate it! Ever since 9-11 I was so scared because I didn't even know what the twin towers or the Pentagon was! But, then I learned. I had no idea that people could ever hate us so much! You do not understand how much that everybody appreciates you"!! - Kasey

"I am a sixth grader at Incarnate Word. I like to play baseball and basketball. I can play these because of the freedom you give us. It takes a lot of courage to be in the military. Thank you for dedicating your life to our country". -Matt

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

I think you might like to know that Jim Edmonds hurt his knee and might not be in the opening game. J.D. Drew strained his knee again". -Anonymous

"...I've been wondering how long the war will go on for. I'm a little worried about the war. My cousin is overseas, too. He's in a sniper unit. I hope everyone is ok! I've heard on the news that there have been some POWs killed. I hope the war ends soon".

-Allison

"...The weathermen have been wrong on the temperature. In the meantime, I have been playing outside. Is there a lot you need to know to be in the army? Anyway, don't worry about any of us, just come home safely". -Anthony

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

How are you doing? Your kids are doing great in school and are taking this well...Ya, the NCAA has started and I think Pittsburg is going to win. School is going fine, not getting an F or something like that. I hope we win the war..." -Ryan

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

Thank you for serving in the war for our country. Ali has been scared for you because you are in Kuwait, but we all have been praying every morning for your family, you and everybody else in the War..." -Laurie

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

You're a very good person. I'm sure you don't want to be fighting but you are doing the right thing for our country". -Kurt

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

...Every soldier knows that they are taking a risk. You know that you could die but you are brave enough. That takes a lot of courage. Everyday at school we pray for you and all the other soldiers. We also pray for the innocent people in Iraq that died or are homeless..." -Kristen

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

...I don't like to go to war because all those men dying and all their families will miss them too. I just hope and wish that the soldiers make it home. I think you are very brave and I think it is cool that you are trying to make our world a better place". -Katie

[Every class has a clown]

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

What's going dude? Do you like basketball? If so, the NCAA tournament has had a lot of upsets. Mizzou is already out...Rick Ankiel is probably going down to the minors. Why am I saying this? You might not even like sports...P.S. I was at Ali's birthday party at your house so maybe you'll remember me. Probably no huh"? -Daniel

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

First of all, I would like to start off by saying Thank You for writing to all of us kids here at Assumption. Next I would like to know if the war is almost over? And I think that it is great that you would risk your life just to defend our country. Please try to be safe and tell everyone else that I said Hi". -Emily

"The war updates are constantly on t.v. I think that it's getting a little old. I know that it's important but it's making everyone depressed and worried. A little comedy wouldn't hurt every now and then..." -Deven

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

...We all appreciate you fighting for our country. The baseball season opened up today. I'm a little worried. My brother is in boot camp and I hope he will get out after the war is over. The fifth Harry Potter book is coming out on June 21st. It's called Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Tomorrow we're going to camp. There is going to be horse back riding, rock walls, hikes at night, camp fires and challenge courses". -Liz

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

Are you scared? What is it like to be in a dust storm"? -Nick

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

How is it over there? It's pretty good over here. I really admire what you're doing. When I'm 18, I'm going to the marines. I think it will be awesome to serve for my country...Your Buddy, Mitch"

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

If you haven't heard already, Mizzou won in the first round but lost to Marquette. Arthur Johnson tied it up at the end of the game with 1 free throw and went into overtime. Then Marquette murdered us..." -Ryan

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

How are you? What is it like to be in the war? Have you been in a battle? What is it like in Kuwait? Are you scared? Is the food good? Please write back and answer all my questions". -Tommy

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

What's up? Nothing much here. Thank you for fighting for our country and risking your life to defend our freedom and rights...Where do you think Saddam Hussein is hiding? I wish the war would end. Be careful fighting people. P.S. If you can write back can you get some autographs"? - Ryan

[This letter particularly moved me]

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

...Last year when we found out that Ali's dad, you, was somewhere over there it didn't really interest or affect me because I had no idea what you guys were doing. Now I realize all of the danger you and others face every day. Ever since we went to war with Iraq it seems like you cannot get away from the news. Do you agree with President Bush's decision to go to war? I think it was necessary, but I, and I'm sure you do too, pray every night that it will be over soon". - Leanne

"Dear Mr. Lozano,

You aren't missing much here but your son is on fire in basketball. I really look up to you for defending our country..." -Andy

Letter from Chris Lozano to an Elementary School

Two of our nephews go to Incarnate Word and had sent Chris letters during the war. Here's his response...

Dear Students and Faculty:

What a nice surprise it was to receive the wonderful letters from the children. The kids show a wonderful sense of civic duty, service and Christian morals. Life in Iraq has gotten better since the end of the hostilities. We have showers every day now and they even opened up a small store where you can buy essentials. We still sleep in tents on the ground and our food is still pre-packaged but the area is nicer too.

We're at the ruins of Babylon, where Hammurabi wrote the first laws, where Alexander the Great walked, where Balthezaar threw his famous banquet. Since I've been here I have driven by the ancient city of Ur, birthplace of Abraham and been to the Tigris River where some believe the Garden of Eden was. It is easy to feel close to God here, the cradle of civilization. The country itself is vast and can be quite beautiful. It is known as the Fertile Crescent because the land between the Tigris and Euphrates have been cultivated for over 8,000 years.

It looks like I will be coming home soon, which is good news. I have missed so much since I have been gone and it will be good to be with my family once again. Thank you for thinking of me and the other Marines, sailors and soldiers here. Below are some questions I answered for another school that might help you understand what it is like here.

Who do I want to win the NCAA? Syracuse! haha, just kidding because I know they won. Mizzou of course but they didn't go very far.
Am I scared out here? Only of my socks. Seriously, I think the scariest thing was the first day when a large missile landed next to our camp. I grabbed my gas mask and ran to my assigned bunker. I wasn't sure if more missiles were going to hit. All I could think of was my family.
How long have you been there? I was in Kuwait from Dec. 8 until Mar 22, then I went into Iraq where I have been ever since.
Do I like sports? Of course, baseball first, then football and college basketball.
How far are you from Baghdad? Right now we're about 50 miles from Baghdad in the town of Babylon.
Do you get regular meals? Yes, we eat Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) that come in a pouch. Once a day we can have hot meals that come in big cans. The food doesn't taste bad but it's hard to get used to eating spaghetti for breakfast.
Is it tough trying to get along with some people you live with or is it kind of easy? At first it was hard because we live so close together and there is no privacy, also I didn't know many of them. But, after being through so much together we get along well and treat each other like brothers, which means laughing, loving and sometimes fighting.
Is my job tough or easy? Hmm that's a good question. I have to use my brain a lot more than anything else so that can be hard but then sometimes it's hard because we had to do it under a lot of pressure; during raging sand storms and moving through hostile areas with a great deal of uncertainty.
What is the hardest part of being overseas? Easy, not being with my family. Not a close second but also hard is not having privacy, a bed, a bathroom, fresh food, clean clothes and the worst part? No QT to get Super Big Gulps with lots of ice!!!!!
What do I do for fun? I write e-mails to my wife, family and friends. Sometimes I'll watch a DVD movie on my computer. I also try to read every
day.
Is the war almost over? The fighting is all but over but the hard work of helping rebuild Iraq and to become a democracy has just begun. They need help learning to take care of themselves and how to live free without using violence to settle disagreements.
Have you seen any Iraqi people? Yes, a lot! All you have to do is see the faces of these people living free to worship as they choose and live free of fear to know we did the right thing. The kids love to play soccer and wave at every military vehicle they see. They may be different from you or me but they are also children of God who should be treated with dignity.
How am I feeling? Pretty tired to be honest but happy to know I'm going to be heading home soon.
What is it like to be in a dust storm? Imagine the worst snow storm you have ever seen and double that. It was hard to breath and hard to see. The sand stings like needles and in the middle of the day you could not see 10 feet. It took me weeks to get the sand out of my ears and clothes. Most of our tents collapsed under the weight of drifting sand and the wind. The wind was a constant 50mph for two days and it was hard to even walk outside. I will never forget the dust storm.
What was it like to hear air raid sirens? When the missile hit our camp there was no warning. After that we had 12 sirens the first day. Each time my heart raced. The hardest part was trying to catch my breath with the gas mask on. It was also scary to hear the Patriot missiles launching because you knew missiles were coming but you didn't know if they would hit or be intercepted. That first night I slept in my clothes with my gas mask in my hands.
Do I agree with the President's decision to go to War? My job as a Marine is to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic. The President decided Iraq presented a danger to America and it is my duty to carry out my orders. I believe that war is wrong, because it is our (all humans') failure to be obedient to God's will. But I also believe that there are just wars because it is the will of God that people live free. If you could only see into the eyes of child who is experiencing freedom for the first time you would know we did the right thing.
Have I been in a battle? Not really. We got shot at the first day with the missile and then we drove through the battlefield with bombs and things blowing up around us but not at us. We also got shot at a few times but it wasn't like the young Marines and soldiers on the front lines.
Where do you think Saddam Hussein is hiding? I wish I knew!

I shared your letters with the other Marines here and I even hung a few of them up. Well, take care and I hope to see you all very soon.

Semper Fidelis,

Chris Lozano, LtCol. USMC
(Danny & John Michael Lozano's uncle)

P.S. If you could get the Cardinals some relief pitching that would be a
great welcome home present!