Narrative

“One minute.”

The command from the Jumpmaster came as a shock as it was echoed from soldier to soldier inside the cavernous hold of the C-17 Globemaster aircraft.  I adjusted my grip on the yellow static line connecting my parachute to the guide wires inside the aircraft, anxiously checking to make sure everything was secure and in its proper place.  Breathing deeply to settle my nerves, I thought back to just how this long day had started and wondered to myself, not for the first time, just what it was I was getting ready to do.

It was March 25, 2003.  The day had dawned clear and crisp, like most early spring days in the city of Vicenza, Italy.  It was a day not unlike the many others I had spent stationed there but for one small thing, we were going to war.  We boarded the buses to the airfield early that morning, saying our goodbyes to those that had gathered to see us off, waving as we pulled away, not sure when we would get to see them again.  Most of my fellow soldiers napped during the two hour ride from Vicenza to the airbase in Aviano, but sleep eluded me.  I kept thinking back to all the intelligence briefings we had received in the days and weeks prior to this, trying to transform all the dots, lines and squiggles on the maps into some semblance of what this place we were going to actually looked like.  As we pulled onto the airfield in Aviano, we were greeted by the sight of 15 C-17s staged across miles of runway, each aircraft being checked over by its crew and pilots.

Getting off the buses, we all made our way to our company’s designated area, a section of field marked off by cones and stacks of ammunition crates waiting to be dispersed.  As my squad mates and I began shifting items around in our packs to make room, our squad leader came around dropping off ammunition to us like a demented Santa Claus leaving presents at Christmas time. 

“Make sure you help your buddy,” he said as he finished handing out what he had, “and make sure you leave room for extras.”

To a gun enthusiast like me, it was like a veritable smorgasbord of destructive delights.  Everything was included; from individual bullets for our rifles, to long belts and boxes for our machine guns, to hand grenades, mortar rounds and missile launchers.  Everything and anything we could need was laid out before us.

The morning passed quickly.  We all had work to do and we set to it with a skill born of long hours of training.  As lunchtime approached and our pile of ammunition dwindled, we were surprised to see the arrival of a number of military cargo trucks and a number of Air Force personnel.  Long tables were set up under a nearby overhang and piled high with all the makings of a picnic lunch; sandwiches of all types, chips, fruit and beverages galore.  As we joined the slow moving line at the tables, an unknown voice crackled over the many loudspeakers surrounding the field.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of food for everybody, and we’ve also got a special treat for you guys.”  His voice drifted away, swiftly replaced by a song that soon became the unofficial anthem for our mission, Bombs over Baghdad by Outkast.

Day passed quickly into night as we finished our tasks, packing away our equipment and getting it ready for the jump.  Dinner that evening was a feast of T-bone steaks and lobster tails with all the trimmings, a grand sendoff meal for us put together by the Air Force.  We passed the night in large hangers on the airfield, packed onto our tiny cots like sardines in a can.  As we sat around waiting for sleep to claim us, the joking from earlier in the day continued but with a much different tone.  Gone was the jovial attitude from earlier, in its place was a forced humor as the reality of what we were doing settled over us.

The next day was spent sitting through countless update briefings and last minute walkthroughs of our battle plan.  The tension from the previous evening was even more present then before, its telltale signs visible everywhere I could see.  Then it happened.  The order came to don parachutes and load the aircraft for takeoff.  As we packed into the small seats, our weapons strapped to our sides and our packs clipped onto our belts, everyone’s thoughts turned to what awaited us at the end of our four hour flight.

“30 seconds.”

Shaking myself from my musings, I reached up and gave my helmet straps an unneeded tug to check its tightness.

“Standby.”

Starting to move forward with the rest of my fellow soldiers I look over and flash a thumbs up to my team leader, letting him know I was ready.

“Go!”

With that short, singular word, I threw myself from a perfectly good aircraft into the cloudy moonless sky over Bashur, Iraq.