Throughout history, soldiers have written home from war zones to chronicle their months of boredom and moments of terror. Compilations of these letters have appeared in the past few years, reminding modern readers of the average soldier's life during the Civil War, World War II and Vietnam.
Soldierly correspondence began expanding from simple letters home with the arrival of satellite phone communications during Operation Desert Storm. Today the Pentagon offers troops limited Internet access from Iraq, and savvy Iraqi entrepreneurs have quickly opened Internet cafés in cities like Baghdad and Mosul. More quickly than ever Americans at home now know how their soldiers are, and some GIs even have enough bandwidth to maintain Web logs (or blogs) that offer running commentary on their combat experiences and occupation life in general. Here are some of their stories.
Major Pain worked at a combat hospital in Iraq. This letter was posted on Aug. 10, 2003
Hello from Baghdad, Iraq!!! I am writing this as a mass mailing as I don't get a lot of time online. The temp is 120 to 130 degrees. The sun hits the sand and radiates back up to get your face. My uniform gets too hot to touch. We take showers at night as the water gets too hot during the day. And the dust is everywhere. Iraq is very flat, no hills or rises. This is not a sandy country — it's all dust. Fine dust, like talc. Inches of it. Tan as you walk in poofs of dust. The helicopters blow up BIG clouds of it as they take off.
Lived through our first mortar attack last night, worst one ever here, so they say. About 16 mortars. Started about 4 a.m. and they walked the mortars across the airfield. BOOM fsstBOOM, fsstBOOM, grab your Kevlar, grab your flak vest and GO! People really scrambled to the shelters — basically military vans with dirt piled up the sides.
Now Camp Anaconda — is very big. While the hospital is close to the edge of the camp, and across the street from the airfield, no mortars have ever fallen INSIDE the hospital perimeter berm. About a month ago an FST (Forward Surgical Team) was hit and basically lost 9 people. But again, outside our area. We did not get any casualties last night — not even Iraqis, so I guess they got them all.
Some nurses here have real problems treating the Iraqi EPWs [enemy prisoners of war]. I don't subscribe to that prejudice. I believe we are obligated to remain on the moral high ground and treat all patients as we would want to be treated.
Step off of soapbox, SO here I am.
OK, now the bad news. We may not be home till spring. Don't know for sure as things change without prior warning or notification. Dad, I hope you can care for the cats till then, if not let me know. Should have brought my window AC units. — Send an electric fan please!
Wartime News From Captain Steve came from somewhere high over Iraq. The End of the Beginning was posted on April 9, 2003.
I thought last night's sortie would last forever. Compared to what we've grown used to, the radios were quiet. We flew our orbit, maintained presence, waited for something to happen. Time dragged painfully by. Then an A-10 was hit by surface-to-air fire while providing close air support over Baghdad. Everyone straightened their headset and turned up their radio. We got to help with combat search and rescue. Time speeded up.
The wingman of the stricken jet called out their location and situation. His voice betrayed only a hint of strain as he said his wingman was going to try to keep it in the air. Those A-10s can take a beating. Multiple redundancies in systems make them hard to kill, but this didn't sound good. The wingman reported in frequently, announcing their plans to divert to a closer airfield, but acknowledging that he wasn't sure they'd make it. He was low on gas, and worried that if his buddy went down, he wouldn't be able to patrol above him to keep him safe. We concentrated on filtering out the static and the noise and catching his every word. We tried with our prayers to keep that jet aloft.
The next thing we heard was that the pilot who'd been hit was having difficulty controlling his jet, and thinking seriously about ejecting. It was at this time that I realized my hands were cramped from being clenched so tightly. I tried to relax. We heard nothing else on that frequency for several minutes. In the meantime we searched every source at our disposal for a hint of what was going on. Then it was confirmed that he'd ejected.
When you hear about a pilot bailing out or a jet being downed over hostile territory, part of you freezes. It's a part that wants to cling to your last memory of that pilot — the memory of him or her alive and in control of the jet. The other part of you scrambles through a series of conditioned responses as your training takes over. You run checklists. You search for information. You gather information and prepare it for those who will soon be asking for it. It's a strange kind of schizophrenia that allows you to have two such completely different reactions simultaneously.
In a matter of minutes, we learned that the downed pilot had been picked up by a Bradley fighting vehicle. He must have practically landed on top of it. I'll bet that pilot was never so glad to see anyone in his life, and I'll bet the troops in the Bradley were thrilled to be able to help the [A-10] Warthog driver.
So it ended up being a pretty good night.
A soldier's paradise is written by Thor, who discovered phoning home from a war can be easy — if you're the guy running the phones. www.soldiersparadise.blogspot.com
Every soldier has different creature comforts. Most of these are specific to their jobs, but some are just provided through the creativity of those around us. I have constant access to the Internet for the simple reason that I am an integral part of why it is available at all. The same goes for phone services. There are many out here who seldom get to use the phone and even less that get a chance to check their e-mail.
A couple of days after the war had started two chief warrant officers approached me in the chow hall. They had recognized the patch on my shoulder as the "commo guys" in camp. They looked really tired and one asked, "Excuse me sergeant, are you in a position to provide me and my buddy with a phone call?" We had been on strict orders not to give out morale calls on our phones, but after talking to them I learned that the one that approached me first had not spoken to his wife in over a month, and the other one's wife was expecting a child three weeks ago and he had not spoken with her in about a month and a half.
I also learned that they were in the same company as the helicopter that had been shot down by farmers and had flown many missions with that crew so their spouses were probably really freaking out. I of course let them come in and use my phone.
Boots on the ground is written by Kevin, a soldier with the Army's 10th Mountain Division. IED Blast was posted on Dec. 31, 2003. bootsonground.blogspot.com
Today, at approximately 2200 hours or 10 p.m. an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) exploded outside our perimeter wall. The explosion was really loud and rattled the windows. It made me jump good too. Over the radio they reported two soldiers were wounded, they gave no further detail than that. Also, they said it was a Cavalry unit that got hit. We haven't had an incident like this in a long time.
We've found IEDs before, a lot thanks to local Iraqis reporting them. Though, there was one Iraqi that kept reporting IEDs and asking for a reward. So, we used this chemical detection stuff to make sure he wasn't handling any explosives. We think he was just trying to make money by planting and reporting IEDs. Anyway, we do get a lot of help from locals on IEDs that they spot. Other times, we spot them as well. This just somehow unfortunately slipped through our nets.
Citizen Smash is written by LT Smash, U.S. Navy. Maybe Next Year was posted on Dec. 31, 2003.
Yesterday was Memorial Day, and of course we had some observations here. There was a morning service that I couldn't attend because I was working. Probably wouldn't have attended anyway — I don't really have the emotional energy for memorials right now. I've already thought quite a bit about the young men and women who died in this conflict, and reflected on the many who did so in previous wars. It's hard to forget about them here, where the machinery of warfare is just part of the everyday background, and weapons are everywhere.
We did have a very nice dinner, with the best piece of grilled beef I've had in months — a nice, tender T-bone, plus some crab legs and corn. Wish we could eat like that more often.
After dinner, there was a USO concert, just some band nobody had ever heard of playing on the back of a flatbed trailer. There was also reportedly a dance. I say "reportedly" because I chose not to attend, for three reasons. First of all, I have absolutely no sense of rhythm. Secondly, the male to female ratio here is decidedly not in my favor. And finally, to dance with other women would only make me think about my wife, which would make me homesick.
I remember the first time we danced together. It was years ago, but it seems like yesterday. The song was When a Man Loves a Woman by Percy Sledge. She melted into my arms. It was so comfortable — it felt like home. I had a feeling right then, that I had found something special, something that I should never let go. So I didn't. We were married a year later.
Today is our anniversary. If I were at home, I would have something special planned. I usually buy her chocolates and a nice card, which I present to her in bed in the morning, before I leave for work. Once I had flowers delivered to her office. Last year, we went out to dinner at a nice restaurant, then saw a wonderful show at the theatre. We're still very much in love, which is a good thing, because I'm an incurable romantic.
But I'm not at home this year. I'm over 6,000 miles away, living in a tent in the desert. Tonight after dinner, I'll log on to the Internet so we can chat. It will be morning, her time. We've made a date. No chocolates this year, I'm afraid. No dinner out, or night at the theatre, either. That will have to wait.
Letters were compiled by Paul Kretkowski, a writer, policy researcher and frequent contributor to American Thunder. June/July 2004 | Volume 1, Number 3.
