Death before Dishonor.

The air around me rang with the hollow promise of more to come. Trapped in the eye of the storm we could do nothing but wait, a moment of peace in what seems like an eternity of chaos. As the thunder cracked the air, the dirt drenched us, reminding me that I was far, far away from home. Home, where water is the only thing that falls from the sky. God, how I wish I could remember the smell of rain.

At first I thought I would never get used to the heat and the wind of the desert, or to the sounds and smell of death around me, but after only a few weeks, it became the norm. I'm numb to it now. I've done things I'll never repeat, seen things that will haunt me every night in my tortured dreams. I'm not the same man that kissed his daughter goodbye two years ago, that man died the day I watched another man die by my hand.

Its crazy, when you think about it, what we do for money, or oil, or pride. Whatever our reasons, it seems like a waste of the very resources we're fighting over, a waste of the lives of people just like the ones we're fighting to protect. Reason though, has nothing to do with it; its greed, anger, vengeance and misconception that fuel this war. Both sides are human, every man out here has a heart, they have families to protect, who miss them and pray to their respective gods for them to come home safely. Every man out here believes their side is the “right” side, and that the things they have done will be worth it in the end. Yesterday I saw my best friend shot, I held his hand as he died, slept that night in a blanket of his blood, and for what? I guess his family just didn't pray loud or hard or often enough, they'll never see him again, but all for the good of America. To protect the freedom of the American people. To see those rag-head terrorists pay for what they did. I wonder if his mother will ever be able to believe her only son died for a good reason.

I take cover in the remains of a building, wondering what it was for when it still stood. Crouching in the rubble of the school, church, store or apartment building, wondering how many people were still inside when our bombs fell, all the while watching for the Iraqi militants next attack. “Three more days..” I whisper to myself, “Just three more days.” Three more days until I can go home to see my wife and child, strangers now. All I have to do is stay alive for just three more days. I pray to the God I don’t even believe exists that I will hold my baby again. Then I remember that she isn’t a baby, that she’s a toddler now and I missed her first words to fight for a cause I don’t believe in anymore.

The pulsing crack of a machine gun forces me back to reality; we all dive further into the wreckage, praying once again to stay alive. This time, only one prayer in our unit went unheard, but we don’t have time to care. We crawl over his body, simply glad to not yet share his fate, not worried about the blood on our uniforms, or how wrong it is to crawl over a lifeless friend without a second thought. All that matters now is survival. Our boots pound the streets, down narrow alleys and through decrepit buildings, each full of  people screaming at us in a foreign tongue. I wonder if they curse us, or beg us for help.

We keep running, fuelled by adrenaline and sheer willpower. With our guns raised we burst through doors, making our way back to the armoured truck, and to safety. I still hear the gunfire, and I can’t tell if its real or just an echo in my mind. Whatever it is, it makes me run even harder.

By the time we make it back to the truck, another man’s family is without a husband, son, father or brother. Once we’re on the dusty, pitted road we can breathe again. Hoping that no one is waiting for us further along.

Its only after we lie down on the cold sand, hoping for a moments sleep that we can feel. In the darkness, we can hear the distant gunfire, and closer to our hearts, the sound of a broken man’s crying. He lost a brother today.

If there was one thing in my life I could go back to and redo, it would be the day I signed up to serve our country. I was so young, and so naïve, so sure I would go over to Iraq, shoot me a couple insurgents and come home a hero, unscarred and proud. I was promised glory, but there is nothing glorious about what happens here. There’s nothing to be proud of. The scars left behind are ugly, marking not only my body, but my soul as well. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sleep a night without waking to the demons in my mind. Will I ever close my eyes again without picturing the dead? At some point in the night I must have fallen asleep, because I am woken to the sound of screaming- I’m not the only one whose demons come out to play in the darkness. I roll over and try again to sleep, the screams a familiar lullaby.

As the sun begins to rise, creeping over the horizon, I wonder if my prayers will be answered. I once again plead, hoping to make it home again, hoping that some divine force can hear me and will acquiesce. I watch the sky turn crimson, and hope that the blood that stains my hands will fade as easily as the light does. I notice that for once there is actually silence, and wonder if my daughter will know who I am two days from now. I pray that she will.