Note from the desk of the opinion editors:

It is easy for us to forget the sacrifices American soldiers serving abroad make to represent our country. In a charged partisan climate in which the actions of civilian commanders are scrutinized and used as fodder in mudslinging campaigns, we can overlook the thousands of ordinary Americans making us proud in extraordinary conditions.

Introduction

Below you will find my journal that I kept while I was deployed to Balad, Iraq. It is comprised mainly of two things: events that happened and my immediate reactions to them. I didn't document too much of the redundancy, the sheer boredom of most days, the routine I went through over and over again. The magnitude of that which I experienced most frequently will probably not be conveyed through this journal. Instead, I documented things out of the ordinary, experiences that I deemed worthy of remembering at the time; boredom was slightly less noteworthy than mortar shells exploding.

Looking back now, it feels like a haze. I have nearly put the entire experience out of my mind. It is hard to remember most of it without opening up my little black notebook and re-reading journal entries. It is easier not to think about it. Perhaps that is my way of coping, of dealing. Certain things make me remember — driving past fields of sunflowers, exceptionally hot days, loud noises, hard boiled eggs. Largely, I feel unaffected by my experiences in Iraq — but I know this cannot be true because I feel my blood boil when I read the news every day. There are certain things that I experienced that I did write about but that won't be found here. This is mainly for security reasons; my friends are still over there. There is one event that happened in particular, at the hospital, and that is a story that will likely never be shared. It is the anomaly of my memory: I think of it often and it brings me to tears still. I feel that by keeping what I witnessed to myself, I am in some way protecting that bloody Marine's dignity.

I knew before I left for Iraq that I wanted to share my experiences when I returned, so that my friends and family back home would have an unbiased, firsthand account of a 22-year-old girl's experience in a war zone.

MAY 14

My arrival date. Feels like I have been here forever. Starting a routine.

Lesson learned today: First impressions are important.

I spent all day getting trained on the layout of the flight line and screwing up 12 mods of countermeasure flares. I wonder if we will be screwed when we have to build bombs, because it is taking us hours just to do a flare right.

I'm being short with people I work with but I can't help it, I'm so frustrated. But it's a dull frustration — I feel like I can't really feel feelings.

After knowing my ex-Marine supervisor for five days, I have come to the realization that he may or may not be insane. I was drawn to him initially because he was one of the few who seemed to have his shit together and have everything figured out. A person you would want to do a job with, because you knew he could protect you — or rather, cover for you if you screw up. Screwing up explosives tends to be a pretty big deal and garners a lot of attention. My goal for this deployment is keeping my nose clean and staying out of trouble. I got chills down my spine realizing he could actually be crazy.

I need Visine. I think I'm getting a sty. Too much dust.

I'm starving but they haven't gotten our transportation to the bomb dump figured out yet. Somehow, we are in Army lodging and are at least a mile away from any other Air Force personnel. I don't mind living with the Army at all, but getting to work consists of waiting for a bus to maybe show up. When it doesn't, we have to run a mile in full Kevlar gear to make it to our next bus in time to get out to the bomb dump. I refuse to wake up three hours early for work just to eat and get there on time.