Going Home

I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything that I’ve experienced in my professional and personal life was a preparation for what I would encounter in Iraq. Someone less initiated in the horrors that humans manufacture would have entered today’s Iraq and died of a heart attack. Believe me, everyone who is struggling to live and work in this blistered country does so at great risk.

I had planned to stay here until Dec. 14, but my trip will be cut short. I’ll be coming home within two weeks. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

A couple of days ago, I paid two Iraqi men to take me to Fallujah. I won’t go into detail about the arrangements because I wasn’t supposed to go. A curfew was about to blanket Baghdad in preparation of Saddam’s verdict, and travel to Fallujah, about 40 miles away, is pretty much forbidden to those who don’t have business there. In my opinion, I had business there.

Aaron was killed in Fallujah, and I wanted to retrieve something from that city for De’on. I knew something – sand, rubble – would help her. She would have something to hold during those days when the grief over Aaron’s death assaulted her. I wanted to get to Fallujah badly. So I went.

I’ll explain briefly what happened. Through research, I was able to find the area where the Marines were attacked by the insurgents on April 26, 2004. All that remained of the building where Aaron fought was rubble, and there wasn’t much of that anymore. I picked up small pieces of what was left of the structure, and I bagged some of the soil for De’on and her sister, Lisa. I know I spent too much time there thinking about Aaron and the battle that claimed his life, but the presence of the Marines settled my uneasiness. Fallujah is still a hotbed and anti-American sentiment is high.

While I was minding my own business (!!) examining pieces of the rubble and ignoring the stares of the locals, a pickup truck sped up close to where I was and then screeched to a halt. The men in the cab and the bed rushed out and opened fire on the Marines nearby. I was about 20 feet away from the nearest shelter so I sprinted for cover. I didn't know I could run that fast. The insurgents drew a bead on me and one of the Iraqi men who drove me and opened fire. I was about five feet away from the building and was shot in the upper thigh. A shot hit my chest, but I had my vest on. I always have it on over here. The Iraqi was hit in the shoulder, but he's going to be OK, too. I'm sure they wanted him dead most of all since he was assisting an American.

The wound isn't bad, and the Army folks fixed me up pretty well. The shot to the vest cracked a few ribs. I'm just thankful I had the protection. I'll be leaving for home in a few days because the Army doctors said I need to have everything checked back home. I'm waiting a few days for some of the soreness to dissipate. I've always healed quickly.

I plan to return to Iraq, but I don’t know when that will be. I am grateful for everyone’s prayers and support. Those prayers provided more protection than the vest and helmet.

Vest and helmet. $2,000. Prayers and support. Priceless.