Words of a warrior

Words of a Warrior



I stood by the body bags lined up at the side of the base chapel, nothing more than a big green tent with a wooden cross by the door. The tears freely falling down my cheeks as I read a journal written by my best friend Joe, a journal he had been keeping since we deployed for Iraq. He kept this journal to tell a story, one that would never be finished, for he occupied the third body bag. I continued his journals, kept writing in them just as he had, to help me escape and make sense of what was going on over there. When I got back to the United States years later I went to visit my grandfather. I told him about the journals and that I didn’t know what to do with them, for Joe had no family to send them to. He looked at me and told me through his soft teary eyes that the reason why I came back alive was to tell the story that Joe had been trying to tell.
I keep these journals in a box by my bed, constantly reading them and making notes of certain events I never elaborated on in the past. It has been by reading these journals over and over again that I realize the importance of what lay ahead of me, and the excitement I feel for writing this. Writing papers and stories has always been work, never pleasure, always assigned to do, and never done with free time. However, this is the first paper that will be written with passion because I have the desire to do it. The product will not be a story, but an account of what life was and is like in combat. This is a story that has been literally written with blood, sweat, and tears.
Joe was a man among men, a true soldier, citizen, and human being. He kept these journals to one day share the words written in them. He died for this country, he died by putting himself in direct harm’s way to save the life of a fellow marine and myself. Had it not been for him I would not be sharing these words today. It is in this aspect that I write this as a memorial to Joe, to finish what he started, to share and say what he cannot, and to put a beginning on his end.
Before then I had never written for any reason other than an assignment, though after that fateful day I felt that it was my duty to continue what he started. Some days I would write pages worth of words and other days maybe a sentence or two, but I faithfully wrote every day. Maybe I wrote to keep Joe’s memory alive, maybe to help me through those times, or maybe it was because I believed that this is a story that should be shared with fellow soldiers, veterans, and the public. Looking back on it, the reason was a combination of all three things, but mostly to bring to light a warrior’s word.
It was November 13th 2003 Fallujah, Iraq when our patrol was called into action. Another marine patrol on the north side of the city had come under heavy insurgent fire. Without hesitation our two vehicle patrol turned around and charged up the street, daring anything to step in front of our stampeding iron chariots. We arrived at a scene that a Hollywood director could not imagine, a narrow street lined with tall seamless buildings, twenty insurgents atop these walls firing down at sixteen of us. Twelve of us were still alive.
As another round of gunfire erupted, screams for medic filled my ears. Without a second thought I ducked my head and ran across the open street to the wounded marine, as I landed next to him my chest felt like it had been hit with a locomotive. I had been shot in the vest. Ignoring the pain I tried to treat the wounded marine while trying to protect him from incoming fire. Armed only with a handgun my options were limited. Looking up the street to where our unit should be all I could see was smoke, dust, and dirt. Then, like a guardian angel from hell, Joe came charging through the smoke, weapon ablaze with a ferocity I had never seen. Standing between us and the enemy fire he provided enough support for us to be able to crawl back towards the safety of the waiting medical evacuation helicopter. Once the marine was loaded in I turned to help Joe up. He was not behind me, but was lying on the ground about ten yards away. Joe had taken two rounds under the arm while defending us. The bullets had entered his chest and tore into his right lung and nicked his heart. I will never forget his last words to me right before he closed his eyes for the last time “Don’t worry man, you’ll be ok”. He died in my arms on the helicopter.
When I shared all this with my grandfather he made it very clear as to what I had to do, I feel there is no option. I have held these words for far too long and the time has come for them to be written into one collection, shared and learned from. Everything happens for a reason and it all has a way of working out. Sometimes it does not make sense right away, but it will come into light eventually. These are the words that my grandfather said to me that came rushing into my mind when given this assignment. This paper is the catalyst I need to start the story of a warrior.
I am torn as how to write it, should I do it from his perspective, should I make it from my perspective, these are all questions that I struggle with. The journals are written how most people think, a jumbled collection of thoughts and memories crudely pieced together. Certain things will be changed and corrected, but the essence will be the same. I have come to realize that these words are not only his and mine, but every person who has ever served in a war. That’s how it will be written.
Looking back on the events that have led up to the making of this story, the deployment, initial events in Iraq that kindled the writing all the way up to his death and my inheritance of the journals, I realize that this story comes at a terrible price. I also realize how lucky I am to be sitting in an air conditioned room in a soft chair typing these words. This will be one of the most difficult endeavors I have ever undertaken and it will take a long time to finish. Not because I don’t have the time to write, but because it is hard to see the monitor through tear soaked eyes.