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The People I Protect
I feel it all the time. The glaring desert sun, that is, as it beats down upon my already ripe-red neck. I’ve walked the same patrol each evening for nine years now, alongside sergeant Coleman and lieutenant Blevins. We trudge through the Iraqi crowd on a street that just weeks before had been covered in concrete rubble, but has since been ground flat by the soles of thousands of leather shoes and rubber boots. The surrounding buildings, too, are flat; however, a barrage of bombs and bullets the instruments of their planarity. Each time I look around, and observe the sea of unfamiliar faces that form one all too recognizable, yet confusing, image of what I am supposed to be fighting for.
Never in my life had I spoken one word, in my language or theirs, to any of these people, beyond asking them to put their hands up and their weapons down of course. Yet still, I protect them. They shoot at me, they shout at me, they do everything within their power to make my life a living hell and still… I protect them.
Time passes at snails pace as we approach the last block of houses at the edge of the city; an area notorious for harboring Al-Qaida operatives. Our guards go up and our heads hover close to the pavement below. I look left and see Blevins’ hand fly up. I followed his left eye to the end of is barrel and out into the restless crowd. I see a path forming in the crowd about 30 kilometers down the street in front of us. Slowly, I raise my rifle.
After a few moments of restless anticipation and frightened dismay, my shoulders drop and Coleman breaths out a heavy sigh of relief as we see a four legged sack of bones, nose up and tail wagging, running playfully out of the crowd. The dog is closely followed by his young owner, who himself appears more like a khaki skeleton than a living, breathing human being.
We lower our weapons and Coleman falls to a knee as the dog runs playfully into his arms and licks his face. The young boy slows to a halt as he nears Blevins and I, his eyes fixed on the weapons at our sides. Looking at his face, pale in comparison to the rest of his bronzed exterior, I can tell that he has seen rifles like these before, however, unlike the common American view of freedom and liberation, he had only seen them used as instruments of death and destruction.
I have never met this boy before; however, for some reason, I want desperately to put him at ease. I reach into the back left pocket of my tan cargo pants and pull out the Hershey’s chocolate bar that had come, as usual, as part of my Saturday ration. I extend my hand toward the boy as an invitation to eat, however, he misinterprets the notion as aggression and recoils quickly.
After a few seconds of persuading, the boy, who understood not the meaning of my words but the softness and delicacy of the tone and timbre of my voice, reluctantly took the chocolate bar.
As he tears open the rapper, the sugary, melted goop contained within runs down his hand and forearm, but the boy expects no less, as he had probably never experienced the conventional crunch that we take for granted when biting into a solid piece of chocolate. Slowly, his tan complexion returns and a smile wider than the vast expanse of the Iraqi desert spreads across his skinny pubescent face. For 15 minutes or so, Blevins and Coleman take turns playing with the dog, which in an act of wartime satire we had nicknamed Saddam. I, however, sit quietly with the boy under a nearby awning and finished the residual of my morning graham crackers ration. If only for a moment, I find the reason for which I sleep in an unheated tent at night and walk the streets of a crowded militant city during the day.
Another 15 minutes passes and the sun begins to set on Mosul Iraq. Saadam is visibly exhausted by this time, the lieutenant and sergeant along with him. The boy and I remain beneath the awning as twilight sets in, occasionally sharing glances, leading to innocent smiles and brief laughs, which supersede our language barrier, seeming to say, “What the hell are we doing here”. Our encounter lasts just a few moments longer before our eyes meet one final time. I can see at this moment that something isn’t right, but I don’t want to believe it.
For the first time in my 10 month tour in this godforsaken desert, I see the face of the people whom I protect. A face that I can visualize during the frozen desert nights and hot mid-day patrols. A face, which when I feel like deserting my post and returning home to my air conditioning and solid chocolate bars, will remind me that someone out there still needs my help and appreciates my sacrifice. Unfortunately, this comfortable familiarity is short lived, as what happens next cut my final thread of faith in the people I protect.
Lying here in my hospital bed, I can still see the faces of Saadam, Blevins and Coleman; however, I like thinking of them the way they were, still in one piece that is, before the explosion that took each of their lives, murdered by the very people they were trying to protect. Unfortunately, I can no longer see the boy’s face. Occasionally, my nurse will prop up my neck, which was nearly severed by an IED blast in 2005, allowing me to see out the window of my third story room of the Washington V.A. hospital. Each time, I comb the crowd of people on the street below, searching for the face of the people I protect. But I can never find it.

as per my view...the work you have done here is really good, i like the part where you compared the flat roads and flat buildings. .. plus i like the level of details.