The first deployment to Iraq was a pressure cooker from the jump. Even before settling into our designated Forward Operating Base (FOB), the journey itself was a constant reminder: we were not welcome. Days blurred into a haze of minimal sleep as we rumbled across the Iraqi landscape.
Our route took us through Fallujah, a city still simmering after recent unrest. The tension was palpable. Then, it happened: a wrong turn. Our convoy commander, lost in the maze of streets, led us astray. We drove a mile down the wrong road before realizing the mistake. In Iraq, with the ever-present threat of IEDs, leaving the designated route was a gamble with your life.
I found myself alone, manning my vehicle at a traffic circle, waiting for the rest of the convoy to navigate the precarious turnaround. Trying to get some air, I pushed open the canopy, only for it to detach and crash to the ground. Now, my crew had to expose themselves, retrieve the canopy, and risk whatever fragile safety we had. It was a stark reminder of the constant vulnerability.
Leaving Fallujah behind, we pressed on, stopping for refueling before entering the outskirts of Baghdad. The city bore the scars of war. Crumbling buildings loomed, providing potential cover for those hostile to our presence. We received a chilling instruction: a red flare meant we were under fire. As if we wouldn’t know. But then you see the tanks positioned down every street, alley and even in between buildings. They were silently watching and waiting for something to kick off so they could destroy whatever they needed. It brought some safety in knowing that there was someone protecting us from enemy fire. It was very intense knowing that they were there because something had happened in that exact spot.
Finally, we reached FOB Taji, the last stop before our final destination. As we rolled into Taji, a wave of children lined the road, yelling and waving. For a fleeting moment, it felt like a welcome. That illusion shattered when one of the kids, emboldened by our slow speed, leaped onto our truck, grabbing at anything he could reach. Food, water, gear – anything unsecured was fair game. No one had warned us. We had assumed this was the reception we were getting.
We were granted eight hours of mandatory rest at Taji. Showers, snacks, and the desperate attempt to sleep. But adrenaline coursed through our veins. Sleep was elusive. At least we could stretch our legs, a small victory in a landscape of constant tension.
Tomorrow, the final leg. Tomorrow, we arrive at the place we’ll call home for the next 360 days. The year is just beginning, and the weight of it is already heavy.
The Road I’ve Traveled 