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.
This is the sixth part of a series that will appear every Monday this semester where we will publish the journal of Liz O'Herrin, a UW student who kept record of her experiences in Iraq and has decided to share them with the readers of The Badger Herald. We present this journal in hopes that you can gain insight to a small piece of the Iraq experience for American servicemen and women.
JUNE 5
Our departure date is starting to appear on the horizon.We had an alarm red the other day, which is basically an impending/imminent attack. Seriously, these insurgents are some persistent little guys. This place is a fortress, these guys are out of their damn minds. I mean at best, they might pick off one or two of us, but that all but gaurantees their immediate demise because the Blackhawks take off in hot pursuit every time they launch mortars at us.
I don't understand. They lob mortars at us every day, sometimes five times a day, and haven't killed anyone on our base in 250 days. They really suck at this mortar launching thing. But it doesn't slow them down much, and nothing really changes. I wonder if they just lob mortars over the fence just to remind us they're out there.
Anyway, back to the alarm red. We heard a strange siren, different from the ugly incoming klaxon. All of our eyes widened, we looked at one another and our jaws dropped. Alarm red? No way! My ex-Marine supervisor, who I thought would roll his eyes and sigh an exasperated sigh, hit the floor so hard I thought he knocked himself out. As he hit the ground, he simultaneously pulled his kevlar vest over the top of him. I was impressed. Dude doesn't mess around. I ran to get my gear and Captain hollered at all of us for not knowing what to do during an alarm red.
We did a bomb build today and videographers and photographers came out and documented it. We were all on our very best behavior. Didn't crack a smile, brows furrowed in concentration. Building bombs isn't funny, you know. Serious business, here. Our job can be pretty intense sometimes, so we had to make sure that intensity was conveyed. A few of the younger active duty airmen seemed to have finally accepted me. I think being a guard non-comissioned officer made them pretty resentful in my general direction. We get promoted a lot faster in the guard and the guard is generally accused of giving rank away, which the active duty tends to resent. Understandably so.
I'm still working on funny little projects for the chief and the captain, this week I'm juggling about four of them, all of which are taking far longer to complete than they should. One of my projects was getting funding for a Gator. Like one of those John Deere vehicles. You would not believe how complicated it is to get the government to give you money for something. It took me a week to do price checks, fill out a request form, and route it to the approximately 90 people who have to approve it. It took me a week to figure it all out and it got rejected in less than four hours. No Gator for the bomb dump. I have failed my mission.
It has been quiet, the days are still long but are seemingly getting shorter. It's hot: 110-117 this week.
I'm excited about going home, but I can feel the dread of the coming-home readjustment process. The dread sits in the back of my throat, threatening to gag me. Helpless dread. It's a shitty feeling, and one that most people will never understand. I don't even think other military people feel it as much as I do. I wonder why I dread it … but I know exactly why I dread it.