The initial push into Iraq was a cauldron of tension, a feeling that permeated every moment. But even after securing a Forward Operating Base (FOB), the unease didn’t dissipate. It was a constant reminder that our presence wasn’t universally welcomed.

The journey to the FOB was a grueling ordeal – days spent navigating Iraqi roads with minimal sleep. I vividly remember passing through Fallujah, still simmering from a recent uprising. Our convoy even took a wrong turn, a terrifying prospect with the ever-present threat of IEDs. I found myself alone at a traffic circle, the canopy of my vehicle collapsing, forcing my team to risk their safety to retrieve it. The tension was palpable.

After Fallujah, we refueled and then cautiously made our way through the outskirts of Baghdad, a landscape scarred by war. Crumbling buildings offered potential cover for those who opposed us. We were told to watch for red flares – the signal that we were under fire, a somewhat redundant warning, one might think. But lining the streets and alleys were tanks, silent sentinels, ready to unleash their firepower at the slightest provocation. It was a strange comfort, knowing they were there, a testament to the dangers that lurked in those very spots.

Finally, we reached FOB Taji, our last stop before our home for the next year. As we pulled in, a wave of children lined the road, cheering and waving. It felt good, a momentary illusion of acceptance. But the illusion shattered quickly. As our convoy slowed, the children swarmed our vehicles, clambering aboard to snatch anything they could – food, water, gear – anything that wasn’t secured. We hadn’t been warned.

Taji offered a brief respite: showers, snacks, and a chance to stretch our legs. But sleep was elusive, our bodies still buzzing with adrenaline.

The experiences of that year, and many others, contributed to the PTSD I would later grapple with. The problem wasn’t just the events themselves, but my lack of understanding of how to process them. I didn’t know then that I was embarking on a lifelong struggle with the ghosts of the past, images that would haunt my nights long after I left Iraq. More on how I deal with PTSD to come.

The Weight of Unacknowledged Grief

For years, I thought I was handling things well. The stress of Iraq, the loss of family and friends – it was all there, but I believed I had moved on. I was living again. But a persistent insomnia crept in, robbing me of sleep. Initially, I sought help for sleep apnea, desperate to get a full night’s rest.

During my mental health evaluation, the therapist asked about traumatic events in the military. I presented a picture of strength and resilience: I brought all 80 of my personnel home from Iraq. I survived dozens of convoys, IED scares, and enemy fire. I led a replacement battalion safely to the FOB.

Then she asked if I had lost anyone close to me in Iraq. I proudly recounted my success in keeping my people safe, but then, unexpectedly, the emotions flooded in. I started to cry.

The memory of SSG Miguel Santiago washed over me. He was one of the hardest-working, best leaders in my platoon. His uniform was always covered in dirt because he worked alongside his Soldiers. He was a mentor, a confidant, someone I looked up to. We played softball together, and his laughter was infectious.

We had just returned from deployment, and morale was high. The unit was in formation on a cloudy morning, everyone in fresh uniforms. My platoon teased SSG Santiago about his perpetually dirty uniform. After the safety brief, everyone dispersed, still laughing.

Later that day, I received a call from our 1SG, ordering me to collect SSG Santiago’s family and take them to the emergency room. He wouldn’t tell me why, but I knew it couldn’t be good.

At Santiago’s house, only his children were home; his wife was at work. I drove them to her workplace, unable to explain the urgency. Finally, we followed an ambulance to the emergency entrance.

SSG Santiago had been riding his motorcycle after work when he lost control just outside the gate. He laid the bike down, sliding on the road and colliding with an oncoming car. The impact crushed his skull, and the handlebars pierced his abdomen. His clothes, including his boots, were cut off and brought to the waiting family. They were able to say their goodbyes.

My Commander, 1SG, and I remained in the next room, surrounded by his bloody clothes, listening to the heart monitor, then the silence, and finally, the heart-wrenching cries of his family.

The next day, we informed the unit. Chaplains were present, but I thought I could handle it. I was wrong. I cried with the chaplain, just as I would with my mental health professional 14 years later.

I buried that memory deep down, refusing to confront the pain. But after 14 years, and even now, I still hear his voice. I dream of him, of our conversations in Iraq, always about the well-being of his Soldiers. Sometimes, I think I see him in the shadows, smiling that big grin.

As Memorial Day passes, I always feel a pang of sadness for him. I was fortunate to have known him, even for a short time. He made me laugh and amazed me with his dedication.

Thank you, SSG Santiago.

For years, I believed I was managing the past. The stress of Iraq, the loss of family and friends – I’d navigated those dark days, moved on, started living again. But beneath the surface, something was festering. Sleep evaded me, a nightly struggle I couldn’t explain. The military, in its pragmatic way, suggested a sleep apnea evaluation. I just wanted a full night’s rest, to wake up refreshed instead of dragging myself through the day, desperate for a nap.

It was during those mental health sessions, designed to improve my sleep, that the cracks began to appear. “Have you experienced any traumatic events while in the military?” the therapist asked. In my mind, everything was fine. I went to Iraq, brought all 80 of my personnel home safely. Countless convoys outside the wire. IED scares, bullets pinging off my truck. Eight trips back and forth from Kuwait. Led a replacement battalion to relieve my unit. Success, right?

Then she asked if I had lost anyone close to me while in Iraq. I repeated my mantra, how proud I was to have overseen 80 personnel at three separate FOBs and returned with everyone intact. But then, something shifted. A wave of emotion crashed over me, and I began to cry.

The memory flooded back. My unit had returned from deployment, finally granted some much-needed time off. The first day back, we stood in formation, everyone present for the first time in over a year. New uniforms, fresh boots. My platoon was teasing SSG Miguel Santiago, a good-natured ribbing. He was one of the hardest-working, best leaders and Soldiers in my platoon. His uniform was always stained with dirt from working alongside his troops. He was someone I looked up to, someone I confided in. We played softball together, shared laughter. He was older than I, both of us seasoned veterans. I believe he was around 50, and I was in my early 40s.

It was a cloudy day, the sky heavy with low-hanging clouds in mid-morning. We were in formation, preparing to be dismissed for the day. 1SG Ian Griffin gave us the usual safety brief for the weekend: don’t drink and drive, don’t beat your spouse, the standard warnings to keep his “Devil Dawgs” safe. When we were dismissed, everyone dispersed to their vehicles, still talking and laughing. Smiles on every face.

I drove home, eager to see my wife and kids in our cramped stairwell apartment. I walked through the door, kissed my wife, and my phone rang. It was 1SG Griffin, telling me to pick up SSG Santiago’s family and take them to the emergency room. He was reluctant to say why, but I knew it couldn’t be good if I was the one tasked with this grim mission.

I drove to his place and found only his children at home; his wife was at work. 1SG told me to say nothing, just get them and their mother to the hospital as quickly as possible. His kids and I drove to his wife’s workplace, and I asked the manager for a private room to speak with her. I still couldn’t tell her anything, just that she needed to come with me to the hospital immediately.

I didn’t know the way, but I knew the general direction. As I pulled up to a stoplight, an ambulance sped by. I followed it to the emergency entrance and stopped the car. His wife and kids, still in the dark, jumped out and ran towards the ambulance. The medics were unloading him as they reached the ambulance. I had gotten them to the hospital behind the ambulance carrying him arrived.

SSG Santiago had been riding his motorcycle home from work, just outside the gate. He lost control of the bike and laid it down, pushing himself away from it. He slid on the road as a car rounded a corner. He hit the car’s grill, his bike in front of him. His skull was crushed, and the handlebars had pierced his abdomen. They cut off his clothes, including his boots, and brought them to the room next door where his family waited. They were able to see him before he passed away and say their goodbyes. My Commander, 1SG, and I remained in the adjacent room, surrounded by his bloody clothes. We could hear the heart monitor through the walls. And then…silence. The cries and screams that followed echoed through the door and into our souls.

The next day, we gathered the entire unit to inform them of what had happened. Chaplains and leadership were present, offering support. My 1SG suggested I speak with a chaplain myself. But I was strong, I told myself. I could handle this. I cried with the chaplain, just as I would with the mental health professional some 14 years later.

I wasn’t strong. I buried that memory deep, tucked it away so I wouldn’t have to confront it. But after 14 years, and even today, I hear his voice, his words of encouragement. I have dreams about him, conversations we had back in Iraq, always about how his Soldiers were doing great things. Sometimes, I think I see him in the shadows, just smiling that big grin.

As Memorial Day approaches, I always feel a pang of sadness, thinking about him. I was so fortunate to have known him, even for just a few years. He made me laugh, and I was constantly amazed by his dedication. He was a true leader, a selfless Soldier, and a friend. I will never forget SSG Miguel Santiago.

Life had a funny way of throwing curveballs. After leaving Korea, my wife, her two horses, and I settled in Hinesville, Georgia. I was accustomed to long stretches away from loved ones, but this was new territory for my wife, used to the constant support of her family. Her mom, a petite but formidable woman, had been a young mother and twice divorced – initially, she terrified me! I worried that my wife might follow in her footsteps, a thought that left me feeling decidedly out of my depth.

Our move involved an 18-hour drive in a four-horse trailer. My wife’s attempt to share the driving lasted a mere 30 minutes before a rumble strip incident convinced me to take the wheel. Georgia’s peculiar highway numbering system, with exits numbered sequentially rather than by mile marker, added an unexpected hundred miles to our journey. Finding stables for horses was another adventure, pre-cellphone days requiring us to drive around, asking locals for recommendations. With military housing closed for the weekend, we thankfully found a room on base.

A few months later, the dreaded early morning call came. My unit was activated. In Korea, this meant donning full battle rattle and bracing for a long, cold night on the DMZ. This time, stateside, I had no idea what to expect. I told my wife I was leaving for work, unsure when I’d return. It was her first taste of military life’s uncertainties.

At the base, it was a whirlwind of inventory checks, equipment inspections, and palletizing gear. We wrapped everything in saran wrap and loaded it into storage containers. Exhaustion set in as we meticulously documented the contents of each container, fueled vehicles to precisely a quarter tank, and lined them up for further inventory. By 8 pm, I could barely keep my eyes open. After a mandatory medical check, we were finally released at midnight, only to be ordered back at 4 am. I managed a quick shower, a bite to eat, and a few precious hours of sleep before the cycle began again.

This grueling routine continued for five days. We worked tirelessly, fueled by speculation and uncertainty. Finally, on the fifth day, we were allowed to go home at 6 pm, but the 4 am return loomed. I finally saw my wife awake and shared the little I knew.

The next morning, we finalized preparations, drew our weapons, and headed to the airfield. There, amidst the lined-up vehicles, our commander delivered the news: we were deploying to Iraq to fight Saddam Hussein. My heart sank. Just back from Korea, I’d spent a mere four months with my wife since our wedding. Breaking the news to her and my family was agonizing. Tears flowed freely as the weight of the unknown pressed down.

My life had changed irrevocably in a single week. Fear and uncertainty clouded the future. From the peaceful Georgia countryside with my wife and her horses, I was now hurtling towards the Iraqi desert and the unknown perils of war.

Introduction:

I carry Iraq with me. It’s not physical weight, but an invisible burden of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, and the persistent visions that replay in my mind. Before I enlisted, war felt like a distant concept, relegated to history books and old movies. Desert Storm was a faded memory, and the idea of a “real threat” seemed remote. My family, particularly my parents, were terrified of me going to war. They, like me, had no idea what was to come. This is the story of my experience, and how the echoes of Iraq continue to reverberate in my life today.

A Legacy of Service:

My family has a deep connection to the military. Four uncles served, spanning different branches and different eras. There was the uncle who survived a neck wound in the Korean War and a hospital bombing, earning two Purple Hearts but receiving only a pittance in compensation. Another in the Navy seemed to be followed by ship fires every time he went on shore leave. My father’s twin brother served in the Army, though his service was cut short. And my paternal grandfather, a sharp-dressed man in his WWII uniform, was a figure of quiet strength.

I respected them all, their service and sacrifice shaping my understanding of duty. Their wars felt different, more brutal. Vietnam was a jungle nightmare I couldn’t fathom, the constant fear of unseen dangers. WWII was a global conflict of immense scale.

Operation Iraqi Freedom: A Different Kind of War?

When I deployed for Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2004, I carried those expectations with me. But the reality was…different. We lived in buildings with air conditioning, a far cry from the jungle trenches of Vietnam. Pizza Hut, Starbucks, and shopping areas offered a strange sense of normalcy amidst the conflict. My uncles never had those luxuries.

I even begged my First Sergeant to let me go on convoys, desperate for a taste of what I thought war should be. I volunteered as a gunner, standing exposed in a vehicle, a .50cal machine gun or grenade launcher in hand, praying I wouldn’t have to use them.

Crossing the Berm: A Line in the Sand

The tension was palpable as our convoy crossed the berm from Kuwait into Iraq. We were the last convoy leaving Kuwait. Reports of ambushes just miles beyond the berm had us on high alert. I remember the feeling of my body tensing as we crossed that line. The fire burning in the distance was a constant reminder of the conflict we were entering.

First Day Fears:

My first day in Iraq was a rollercoaster of anxiety and anticipation. I was assigned to the last vehicle due to me being the only vehicle with night vision, scanning the darkness for threats. The commander refused to let me escort back a broken-down vehicle, but I refused to leave them behind. We were in Iraq for only a few hours, and I was not going to lose anyone. I almost took the life of a child playing with a stick thinking it was a weapon, highlighting the heightened state of alert we were all in.

The constant vigilance was exhausting. Every vehicle, every person, was a potential threat. We had been briefed before crossing into Iraq that at no given time was a civilian vehicle to get inside our convoy. The orange and white taxi that repeatedly passed our convoy raised my suspicions, and I was ready to call it out if it came near us again. Even sleeping in a protected compound offered little comfort, the uncertainty of what lay beyond the barriers always present.

The day ended with the knowledge that this was just the beginning – a full year of constant alertness, of living with the potential for danger lurking around every corner. The fire burning in the distance was an oil well that had been burning since the start of the war.

The Unseen Wounds:

The war I experienced wasn’t the same as my uncles’ or my grandfather’s. But it was still war. And it left its mark. The constant stress, the fear, the weight of responsibility – it all took a toll. Today, I struggle with PTSD, depression, and the intrusive memories that haunt me.

Conclusion:

Sharing my story is a way to connect with others who may be struggling with similar experiences. If you are a veteran dealing with PTSD, depression, or other mental health challenges, please know that you are not alone. Help is available. Talk to someone, seek professional support, and remember that healing is possible. The war may be over, but the battle for recovery continues.

Hey y’all, welcome to my little corner of the internet. My name’s Gene U, and I hail from Bethany, Illinois – a town so small, you could blink and miss it. Growing up, school wasn’t exactly my forte, but I found my groove on the athletic field. Basketball, football, baseball – you name it, I played it. I was a pitcher from the tender age of 10, and in my senior year, I had the honor of being part of the only team in our high school’s history to make it to the state playoffs. That’s small-town glory for ya.

Baseball was my real passion. I dreamt of the big leagues, and at 19, I even got a taste of it. Fresh off a grueling 12-hour factory shift, I tried out for the Atlanta Braves. I clocked in at 89-90 mph, fast enough to earn a rookie league contract… almost. A college kid edged me out, throwing just a bit harder. A few years later, at 22, I gave it another shot with the Cincinnati Reds, hitting 90 mph again. That’s when I met a 16-year-old phenom who casually threw 102 mph. They turned him away for being too young! Should’ve gotten his autograph. Looking back, those near-misses still sting a bit, but they’re part of my story.

Life in Bethany was… let’s just say “eventful.” Small-town living can breed a certain kind of creativity when it comes to finding trouble. My friends and I roamed the streets, cooking up harmless (mostly) mischief. No drugs or alcohol back then, just good old-fashioned adolescent shenanigans.

After high school, I dedicated 20 years of my life to serving in the US Army, retiring in 2017. My military career took me all over the world: five years in Korea, two in Germany, deployments to Iraq and Bahrain, two years in Qatar, and stateside tours in Georgia and Texas. I saw a lot, experienced a lot, and carried a lot of responsibility, leading over 100 soldiers at various forward operating bases in Iraq. I rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class in just eight years, a testament to my dedication and hard work.

My time in service wasn’t without its scars. The loss of friends in combat left me with PTSD, a battle I continue to fight. I also grapple with sleep apnea, a consequence of long periods on high alert, and diabetes, which went undiagnosed for the last ten years of my military career. The memories of over 70 convoys through hostile territory in Iraq, the constant fear of roadside bombs and hidden dangers – those are things that stay with you.

This blog is a place for me to share my stories, my struggles, and my triumphs. It’s a space to connect with others who understand the complexities of military life, the challenges of PTSD, and the importance of finding strength in vulnerability. Pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee, and join me as I navigate this next chapter of my life. There’s a lot more to tell, and I’m just getting started.