The following journal entry comes from a young soldier deployed in the Persian Gulf. He has shared it, anonymously, so that others will know something of what young men and women in the military are facing.

We sat together around a makeshift table in the poorly lit tent. We toasted each other, and we toasted ourselves. We told stories and laughed like there was no tomorrow and for us there wasn't one in the shadow of the uncertainty of war. In that uncertainty life became hypnotic, and beautiful.

It was the beginning and the end of the war that scared me the most. It was a time that no man can understand. It is the bond between men in the face of an uncertain future. It was the night before we thought that we would be flying across the berm into Iraq.

We had been living in the tents for the last week. The rest of the MEU had moved to Camp Coyote. Camp Coyote was a forward camp a mile away from the berm. It is said that the Scout Snipers had stuck their heads over the berm to see what they could see. In return rounds impacted on the dirt in front of them.

Being a helicopter unit we were used as the reserves for the British and the Marines. If any unit got into trouble we could fly in and reinforce their lines. After they had secured their positions we would fly in and take the old port of Um Qasr, and the Coast Guard station there. Therefore the best position for us was to stay in the same camp we had been for well over a month, and we waited listening to a small radio to hear the news from Kuwait.

We heard the announcement that Bush was giving Saddam 48 hours and we cheered. We cheered because the waiting was over. I felt a transition beginning to occur. The Air Wing pilots had managed to find some chicken, rice, and Cokes for all the men. We ate them in our tents under poor fluorescent lighting. We let the grease run down our hands and faces. We told stories from our high school years before any of us could have imagined being there. We took pictures of each other. We toasted our comrades. We drank the Coke as if it was whiskey, and a certain drunkenness overcame us all.

It was as if the time ceased for a couple of hours and nothing else in the world mattered except that night. Everything became beautiful, as if it were out of the colors of a painting, or the words of a writer. As if I were watching a movie from the inside. No one argued. No one was sad, and no one was thinking about the next twenty-four hours.

“On The Road Again” played repeatedly over the radio. We wrote letters to the ones we loved and put them in our flack jackets. Hamilton and I exchanged last requests for things to be done in case we perished.

A cross in my gas mask, a picture in my flack, dog tags, and bandanas; those were the only things left that carried any sentimental value. You would think it would be awkward to discuss such things, but not that night. We all had some sort of acceptance to the possibility of the road our fate might travel. For that night we were brothers, we were happy, we were drunk with truth.

Nothing is as fearful as having no control over your fate. The feeling that something is hunting you, and no matter where you go or what you do it is coming. We had calls come into the radio all the next day that Scuds were inbound. Nine gas warnings. We stayed in our chemical suits. The first five scared the hell out of me. The rest were routine. As we sat in our gas masks that day and we became sober.

That night was a long night. Every hour or so we would get scud and gas warnings. We slept in our gas masks and flack jackets.

The day came and we prepared for our departure. Our schedule was to leave by ten. We marched to the helicopters with all our gear, and staged beside them. As we sat there in the hot sun the hours began to tick away.

When I was on the wrestling team in High School I gained a respect for nervousness. I had rituals so to speak: tying my shoes, taping the laces, stretching, laying face down on the mat in the locker room and concentrating.

My favorite was when before the match we would circle the mat and huddle close together in the center. There we were the closest group I have ever been with. Laying face down close together talking softly about strategy, we would bow our heads and say the Lord’s Prayer. I wanted to share that ritual with the men there. I hoped it would give me the same kind of ease that it always had given me.

Hamilton and I gathered everyone together and I gave them the last piece of advice I knew. Move swiftly, think deliberately, watch the men around you, and keep your heads down, I don't want to see any of you today. I asked if they had anything to say, but with silence as an answer I asked them to say the prayer with me. It did not have the effect I had hoped. Only three of us knew the prayer.

An hour later at three o’clock we were on the helicopters and flying over the desert. Our crew chiefs loaded the fifty caliber machine guns, and pointed them at the deck. I will never forget them holding up one finger and pointing to their watches. Then I looked down and saw the city of Um Qasr below us, children running through the streets.

We flew over the port pitching high and to our right. A large blue crane sat by the water, boats tied to the pier, buildings, and we landed in a cloud of dust. We off loaded, dropped our packs in a pile and sat in a defensive posture. The helicopters left, and we were stuck in the dead silence with nothing to break it but the echoes of gunfire in the distance.

Then there was the end. We were full of disbelief that it was fast approaching us, even long after we received the word and we were back loading to the ship. Time was beginning to crawl, and the sun was getting hotter. In all my letters that I received from home there was news of a beautiful spring with flowers and green grass. For a town that lies between two rivers there was no spring. There were flowers and they only survived among the desert of that town.

It was a time for reflection, but instead depression was overcoming everyone. It was becoming harder to get off of the floor in the morning. We were losing the motivation to keep clean. We sat around all day playing cards, or dominos. I had a constant headache, and most of the day I spent feeling nauseous.

Sometimes I would retreat to the roof seven stories above the town. I would watch the people go about their daily lives. The people began digging in the intersection just outside of our compound. They were digging for an underground prison that they believed to be there. They thought they would find family members who had spoken out against the regime and then disappeared some ten years ago. They dug up a grave site from underneath the soccer fields.

I would watch the people on their roofs. I would watch the sunset and the pigeons flying above the houses. Brown ones, and always one white dove mixed into the flock. I would listen to the prayer call. All in all I could only find temporary shelter there.

We lit the oil lamps at night and talked about beliefs, and events. We would play games to take our minds off of the world around us, and the time left there. As I have said, it wasn’t until the last couple of days when I was sitting in a restaurant, that I was beginning to miss the town and the people.

I had spent so long trying not to think about going home because it seemed so far away that when it was close, I was not ready for it. The day before we left Wilson and I walked across the street to the family that had been selling us food. I knew that they had been ripping us off, but they were always kind, and the food was always there and of good quality, so I didn’t care.

The day before their little boy had seen me pass by on a patrol. A few blocks down the road I heard him begin yelling at me in Arabic. He was running as fast as his little legs would carry him. He was only five at most. I tried to tell him to go home, but he wouldn’t listen. He grabbed my hand and walked with me talking in rapid Arabic.

The rest of the Marines told me to get rid of him. We couldn’t have him follow us the whole way. I tried repeatedly to tell him to go home. I made hand signals, but he ignored me. My walk was a trot for him, and he held my hand the whole way speaking in between breaths. I didn’t mind having him along if he could keep up, and I kind of liked having a little buddy. So I held his hand and listened to him talk.

“Doc, tell that kid to go home!” one of them started insisting.

I explained to him that I couldn’t; that the kid was a friend of mine. I figured he would eventually get tired and go home himself.

The Marine turned around and started yelling at the kid. The little boy stood stunned, then just yelled back. I could never have yelled at that little boy for his innocence. An Arabic man grabbed him and began taking him down the street. The boy was kicking and crying the whole way.

“That’s how you have to do it Doc. You got to let these people know that you’re in charge.”

“And who is to say that boy wasn’t just kidnapped. Was he endangering our mission? Kids follow us every day. The only difference is that I know this one.”

“You don’t understand Doc.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

That was the end of the discussion.

As we walked into the house the children came out to see us, but the little boy did not. I was afraid something had happened to him, and hoped he was just mad at me. I had some things from an Easter care package that had been sent to me. I had some bunny ears, bubbles, candy, and a lot of left over MRE’s. We passed them out to the family as a present.

I put the bunny ears on the little girl. She stood smiling with her hands behind her back looking up at us as she always did. We said our good byes.

They were not in the usual spirits that they had been in before. They did not offer to sell us anything, or give us tea. I hope it was nothing. I just shook their hands and then we walked out of each other’s lives.

We took trucks out of the town, early that morning, then hoped on a C-130. It was a long ride. Hot, and the engine fumes filled the cabin. When we landed we were in Kuwait. There was nothing special about the place, but I did notice that the hangars were shot up. They told me that it was from the first Gulf War. The Iraqis had taken all of Kuwait’s officers and lined them up in those hangar bays, then killed them.

The people who were stationed there were all Army. They showed us to their chow tent. We stepped into that air-conditioned tent, and it was as if we were being released from a prison. We were returning back to a real world.

It was that moment that the war was over. There were coolers full of ice cream and Snapple; a serving line with Chicken Cordon Blue. They treated us all like war heroes, and offered us as much food as we wanted. We filled our bellies, and laughed together for no reason.

It is a feeling I cannot describe. It all seemed to wash away. It became a memory. It was a feeling of relief that we would never have to do that again. It was as if some one snapped their fingers and we woke up. It doesn’t even feel real anymore, because it was such a different place than that of which we knew.

The Helos arrived and we loaded our gear. We flew over Camp Bullrush were it had all begun. We flew over the desert and into the Gulf. Kuwait City stood like Emerald City. The crew chief passed out ice-cold American sodas to all the men on that bird, and we lifted our drinks in a toast. And as the Tarawa came into view we knew that it was over, and we drank to everyone making it back alive.