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.

“As we walked through the streets like a conquering army the people cheered and the kids danced. I often wonder if it had been a Communist army would they have been dancing? They say the people who lived on the Mason-Dixon line a hundred and fifty years ago had to be able to whistle the Battle Hymn of the Republic and Dixie with the same enthusiasm.”

Patrolling was a daily chore for most, but with each patrol was a new experience. One day we were showered with flowers, another we were hauling in one of the many weapons caches, or drinking chi in the house of some family. A week after our beautiful day with the children of Kabron, we crossed the river to the real An-Nasiriyah.

Across the river is where the market was. There were many schools, and of course the housing of an inner city. Weapons caches were found in any local building. Baath party headquarters were quickly discovered and the locals were eager to give up any information now that we were the new power in the city.

By every government building, and on all the street corners we found large paintings of Saddam. The people would gather around us and beg for us to tear them down. They were afraid to do it themselves. One day we met the artist who painted the portraits, “I do it because I have to. They would kill me if I didn’t.”

We walked down the main street of the town and it was as if we were walking through the streets of San Diego. We had to walk around people that were going about their daily lives. The only difference is that we carried rifles, and wore heavy gear. We turned into a small street, and the people began coming out of their houses. They were cheering for us. They offered us cigarettes and asked our names. The crowd became so thick it was hard to see the other Marines around us. It was our first experience with a crowd, so naturally it was flattering. We felt like a triumphant army marching through the streets of a conquered city. We were innocent to the past.

I remember sitting in a smoke filled room with the ceiling fan hanging over my head by a single wire. It was dark inside and a crowd that had been following us the last couple of blocks were outside cheering and yelling. Arabic men had piled grenades, mortars, and anti-aircraft munitions at our feet. The sweat rolled off our faces onto our chemical suits. A clean-cut young man in a gown approached me in my corner.

“Excuse me mister.” I looked up at this man who was staring me in the eye. He was only inches away from my face. I took off my helmet and smiled back at him. “I would like to introduce myself.”

I was surprised that this young man spoke good English. After the introductions he asked me a haunting question. “Why did you kill my friend?”

I was stunned and speechless. My first impulse was “Who the hell did he think he was to come straight out and ask me an incriminating question like that?” I almost replied, “Hey man, I didn’t kill anybody.” Then I remembered that I was a part of a system, and I realized that this question had to be handled carefully. “Who was your friend?”

“He was a simple man, a good man. He carried eggs. Your...” he paused for a minute with a loss of words. He made a motion symbolizing a helicopter. “It blew up his house. He was a simple man.”

I can only imagine the look on my face. My jaw was wide open and I felt far away from home and alone. “I am sorry, but I didn’t kill anybody.”

He continued smiling. I felt like he was getting satisfaction from seeing me quiver. From hearing me stumble for words. I couldn’t blame him. I have never had my next-door neighbors die in an air raid. He changed the subject and we began talking about the future of Iraq, and America. By the end of the conversation we were friends.

I will not forget the sinking feeling in my heart, the feeling like I had been the one who pulled the trigger. Many Marines talk about getting their confirmed kill. What was a confirmed kill? A kill witnessed by others. I think a confirmed kill is when you feel the death, and I could feel it in that question. “C’est le guerre,” I mumbled to myself. “Such is war.”

Later that day we cleared the hospital of weapons. The doctor who had treated Jessica approached us, and we asked what had happened to her. He said that both of her legs were broken, and her arms as well. I looked around the hospital. People were crying. A religious leader walked and talked to people as they lay on cots with IV’s that expired in July 98. When he talked they listened.

A man came in with one side of his arm completely burned. I was fifty feet away from him, sitting in a chair leaning on the shotgun. I caught his eye. He made a motion of a helicopter then pointed to his burned arm. It was a dressing change, but the wound was still fresh. Another man was rushed in wearing a blood soaked shirt. He was barely conscious. He had been shot in his shoulder, missing his thoracic cavity by inches.

The operating room floor was covered in dried blood with a thick cloud of flies. The doctor told us that there were American soldiers buried in the back, but the soldiers had already come to get the bodies. He did not want to speak to us more than necessary. The whole time he talked his eyes were on the floor, and when he did look up there was no life left in them. I couldn’t blame him. His hospital had two emergency rooms, and not enough supplies to fill them. I have never treated men who died innocently from a war that they were not even fighting.

It was only our first day across the river, and we had patrolled all day in the heat. We collapsed in the open room of our CP. I had been sick the day before so I hadn’t had anything to eat for two days, and we didn’t have any food that night. Almost everyone got sick at least once. The symptoms were that of the twenty-four hour bug, throwing up, diarrhea, nausea, weakness, pain in your joints. I lay on the dirt floor of the house we had taken shelter in. I remember trying to drink water, but the water was bad. I threw it up immediately. I was lying there with my eyes open, staring out the window, looking at the kids across the river as the mosque called the people to prayer. The kids were jumping in the river, and the women were gathering poisoned water. The water contained cyanide, and other chemical agents. We had not been taking any malaria pills, due to the fact that our Gunny had forgotten them back in Kuwait and all of our faces and arms were covered in red bumps. I was too sick to be scared. I was the first one to get sick, and had feared that I had caught malaria, or was suffering from a reaction from the river.

As I watched the kids swim, and listened to the songs from the loud speaker, I felt like I was outside of my body for a second, almost like I was in a dream. I recovered the morning that we left to move across the river. One of the other guys and I sat in the room as the night closed in on us. We were tired from the day’s events. We began talking about the war. I was still holding on to the notion that we should have tried for a peaceful resolution. He became upset, and we were arguing. I couldn’t argue that night. I had lost the heart for it. I was beginning to believe that our presence was possibly needed there, but I was still holding onto the desire for peace. That conversation was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

There was another patrol where we were clearing a house. It was around lunchtime for us. We cleared a house that was located next to a mosque. The family was in charge of its upkeep. They invited us in warmly. A young girl who looked no older than 15, and spoke good English, invited us to stay for lunch. We accepted the offer and the men escorted us into the sitting room. They made sure we had pillows at our backs. They brought in bread, and boiled tomatoes with lima beans. There was a bowl of soup on the tray. It was a thick broth, with chunks of white meat in it. The girl told us that the meat came from the goat’s underside. I put a piece on the bread and tried a bite as to not be rude. It was extremely tough and hard to rip. I chewed on it like you would chew on bubble gum. One of her six brothers sat beside me. His wife had died years ago, and left him only a son. He was deaf and mute. He made horns with his fingers then pointed to his tongue. I realized what it was that I was chewing on. I took a closer look at the meat and could see the taste buds of the goat’s tongue. If I had quit eating it would have been rude. I took another bite of the meat, and chewed it with a fake smile.

The girl told us that she was 25. It was hard to believe. She taught English in a school, and 26 people lived in her house. The family had a good sense of humor, and I felt peacefulness in the house. I felt that they were good people, and that the house was full of love. Mike asked how it was that she was not married because she was beautiful. She bowed her head then looked up and smiled. He immediately realized that he was rude and began to apologize. She told us she was sick, then pointed to her side. I don’t know what kind of cancer she had, but I began to see strength in her that most Arabic women possessed. She was teaching for the remainder of her years, and her words on the war were probably the wisest I had heard. She was devout in her religion, unlike most of the people we met. She was able to laugh and joke with us as she pointed to the pictures on the wall explaining the prophets that they honored. The women and little girls peered at us through a crack in the door as we finished our meal. Any time I would look at them they would giggle then close the door only to reopen it seconds later. We left the house and regrouped on the street corner.

The barbershop was open for business. I hadn’t had a haircut for weeks, and the Marines had found some clippers and were insisting that I get a “high and tight.” As a compromise I went into the barbershop for a hair cut. I placed my gear in a corner, keeping my flack jacket on and my helmet in my lap. He draped the cloth over me, and spun me around to get a look of myself in the mirror. It was the first time in a month I could study my face. I had a thick mustache that had been growing since we had left the ship. My hair was natty from three weeks without a shower. I kept staring at my gear through the mirror watching the men who were gathering around it, but they paid no attention to it. Boys gathered in the window and crowded into the room to see the American get his hair cut. The barber had no electric razors, and used only scissors and a comb. The room had the usual high ceilings and was painted a light color of blue with a wooden frame around the mirror. The plaster was chipping in some places giving the place character. I felt like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter with his pistol under the cloth watching as the hired guns crept up to the window from off the street. I was nervous that the men by my gear would get curious or take off with it in a dead sprint. It was one of the best haircuts I have ever received. When I was done, the man offered to cut off my mustache. I laughed and replied, “Laa, menfudlick.” No thank you. I had begun growing it when we left the ship and I shaved it when we got back on. They said it added years to my face, making me look like I was in my late twenties. I paid the man with an MRE.

Although most patrols were strenuous and long, there were some that were enjoyable. Some days we would go out in the streets with our money. We bought headdresses and prayer beads. One day the man who owned the shi sha bar by the main intersection invited us in for a smoke. The intersection was a block away from the river, and in the middle stood a statue of a prophet with his arms out and palms up. He wore a thick beard and stared down the main road. The sidewalks in the circle were wide with many benches to sit on. Restaurants and shi sha bars lined the town circle.

We sat down in the houses’ finest seats and smoked all the different flavors they offered. The men from the town sat with us and we talked in our hand signals and broken languages. They invited us to their restaurant. They took us to the second floor. We sat by the windows staring down at the people as they were beginning to finally go about their lives. We ate goat meat with boiled tomatoes and onions on bread. We drank a case of Pepsis in the old glass bottles. We came back many days after that. Ten of us could eat and drink for eight dollars.

I remember that last day we were in An-Nasiriyah. I sat there drinking a cold Pepsi looking down on the streets. I did not want to leave. I was falling in love with the town. Perhaps I was becoming trapped by the dream we were in. I was like Peter Pan in a never-land, forgetting that there was a real world out there for us. The streets seemed to hold their own soul that I was becoming affectionately intertwined with. The town was becoming a part of me. The world that I live in was becoming distant and seemed like a fantasy. Email, televisions, cd players, and ice in a drink. I was forgetting that I was not a citizen, or a part of these streets. I was a bystander, a visitor.

Now that I am back, those streets seem like a dream, another world. There was a definite difference in the way I saw the streets, and the way that the Marines in my platoon saw them. They felt like it was a chore to be a part of them. They felt they were policemen in them. They felt the power of being able to walk into any store and men wait on you hand and foot. They felt entitled to that service because they were liberating the people who served them. They pressed the standards of western civilization on the people because of their anger at the town for killing Americans in bloody battles, or because they were being forced to be away from their families because of the conflict. I felt like a visitor. I felt that I was intruding into peoples’ lives by walking into their homes. I couldn’t understand them because I have never lived in a town where gunshots ring out through the night on a routine basis. I made my mistake when I tried to force that philosophy on others in my platoon. After all, we do need people like those men who are not affected by the poverty and filth of foreign lands, who can separate themselves from the reality of that dream, and follow orders. It is men like that who are able to fight wars.