Peace surfaced here. Hard to imagine a person finding peace through war, but no one finds peace in war—peace finds you. It crawls into your sleeping bag and helps you fall asleep, nudges your arm, tells you to turn over, think about home.
I wasn’t writing home. I wasn’t writing a death letter, either. I was writing a death journal, a piece of fiction meant for my family and my fiancee, Sara.
Most likely, they were writing the same type of macho bullshit that I wrote, trying to sound tough with their words in case words were all that made it home.
Unfortunately, just like bullets, you can never get words back once they have been sent out into the world.
War becomes a part of you. It is a feeling just as much as an experience. If you can’t feel it, you weren’t paying attention. And if you weren’t paying attention, you are probably dead anyway.
I was enjoying the great human trophy hunt and, looking back, it scares the hell out of me
I wanted to see my family, but didn’t want to leave the other guys. The people waiting for us were strangers, even though I knew every last one of them.
No matter what the reason, the ways I tried to justify the situation, the second-guessing that lingered, nothing could change the fact that people stopped existing because of me.
Who supports the troops? The troops support the troops.
I wanted people to know that we fired rounds into moving trucks and open windows to survive, not for anyone else’s freedom. Not for the Democrats. Not for Republicans. Just to survive.