I spent August 13th, 2003 in Baghdad, Iraq. I was stationed at the southern edge of the Baghdad International Airport compound. My unit, 1st Battalion, 4th Air Defense Artillery, was in charge of perimeter security for the airport. I had just spent another day struggling to get all of my work done without becoming yet another victim of the oppressive heat. It was the end of my day and I had nothing on my mind except food, cards, and rest, in that order.
After choking down another unidentifiable army dinner, I went out the back door to the patio next to the pond for our nightly game of spades. We picked our teams and began playing our game, once again fighting the heat. Water vapor from the pond turned the whole area into an outdoor sauna. We bid our hands as sweat poured off our bodies. The cards quickly became sodden and difficult to manipulate due to the humid air. We had become accustomed to it and that evening was no different than any other.
A mortar dropped into the pond with a “sploosh” 50 yards from me and exploded. The booming detonation rolled through the ground at my feet and sent a spray of water 150 feet into the air like an Iraqi version of “Old Faithful”.
When I entered the females’ room my order, “We’re under attack! Get your gear on!”, was greeted with dumbfounded stares. At that point adrenaline and frustration got the better of me and I yelled “Get your f*%@ing gear on or your going home in a box!” What finally got them moving was the shock of hearing this statement from someone as mild-mannered as I. Satisfied that they were taking appropriate actions I exited the room to report back downstairs.
Thesis: Coming under mortar attack in Iraq showed me how adaptive I am.
I took off my gear and my friends and I went back outside to finish our card game. The fear and adrenaline were all but gone by then and I knew that there was nothing to do but go on as we were before. We had survived another attack. I had adapted to this new event and was ready to move on. I just hoped the Iraqis would keep on missing.
As I neared the head of the stairs I came face to face with my battery commander, Captain Ruiz.
“What are you doing up here? Why were you in the females’ room? Why aren’t you downstairs with everyone else?” he demanded, thrusting his chest out and trying to look commanding. On top of everything else that was going
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