Leaving behind our tour in Iraq

By Shane Sandretto

I write this column from my command post as I monitor two of my platoons on what is the last patrol of our squadron. At 7 a.m. this morning we will be relieved in place by another unit. We have spent the last six days orienting the leaders of that unit to our operational environment and soon it will be time for them to take the lead as our tour, OIF V, the “surge,” is coming to an end.

A second unit will inherit our equipment and has been sharing our living quarters for the past week or so. This morning, as soon as my platoons return from the final patrol, we will put all of our theatre-provided equipment on display and the commander of this second unit and I will inventory it together. Then it will be his.

He will have our equipment, someone else will have assumed our responsibilities and all that will remain is for us to go home.

Just before I began to write this, I was thinking about this tour and comparing it to my last tour, OIF I. Did it mean more this time? Did we accomplish our mission? Have our efforts made a difference? Was it worth the sacrifice my men paid? Will we look back on this with pride? How will history judge this war? What are my wife and baby doing right now? I was thinking of all these things when I heard the tell-tale sound of rockets.

The sound of rockets is a high-pitch as air rushes to get out of the way of the speeding projectile, the thump of an impact and an explosion. Only one of my platoons was on the forward-operating base and its leaders immediately went about getting accountability of everyone. No one was rushing about or getting too excited; it was all very routine.
Soldiers in the new unit that share our barracks were wide-eyed and their commander came to my command post to see what was going on.

“Rockets sir,” replied my senior noncommissioned officer on duty. He looked at me with concern on his face. I waved my hand, shrugged, and pressed play on the DVD I had paused when I heard the first shriek pass over our heads. He seemed less than calmed by my casualness.

Then it hit me, as I sat in my command post wearing slippers, pajama bottoms and a T-shirt: we’re the salty old veterans. When did that happen?

This commander and most of his men have been deployed before. I guess they just aren’t adjusted to the sights and sounds of the battlefield yet? There was some small talk between my men on duty in the command post and his soldiers trying to learn everything they could before we leave. The difference between rockets and mortars — how they sound and how you can tell the difference. Whether it matters ‘cause, “both’ll getcha dead.” How the molten projectile is formed by an explosively-formed projectile and how good the local flatbread can be.

The radio squawked on the squadron net and informed us that the rockets had missed the forward operating base and an accountability report will not be required. Everyone is my command post was relieved, more because they would not be required to wear their body armor to chow in the morning then the fact that no one had been injured. Honestly, I felt the same way.

I went back to the DVD but didn’t really watch it. I was thinking about recent events: Basra, Sadr city and the recent rise in indirect fire. I pondered what it means, still picking at my enemies’ brain and I had less then six hours left to fight him. Is the insurgency gaining steam again? Was the lull just a winter vacation? Had our enemy taken the time to rest and refit? Was this just a send off as if to salute our leaving? Was it an attempt to inflict fear or casualties on the incoming unit? Does this mean we weren’t as successful as we thought? Will time tell? How long will this war be carried on the shoulders of the armed forces alone? Will reducing the number of units after the surge create a vacuum the enemy can fill?

Since I didn’t have the answer to any of these questions that moment I thought of other questions as I passed the time. Did I drop my laundry off yesterday or the day before? Is it really over for me this time? When will I deploy again? How old will my daughter be when I do? Will my wife divorce me if I spend a third year here? Where did I put my cell phone before I deployed? How much will a new battery for my stored car cost me? Will my dress uniform still fit?

My mind was wandering and I didn’t have many answers, but I can tell you my cell phone is in my assault pack; I dropped my laundry off the day before and I’m confident that my marriage could survive another deployment if it has to, but I’d rather not test the theory.

Later today we will be relieved of our combat duties and by the time you read this most of my troop will probably be either in Kuwait or Kansas. We will reunite in Kansas and finish all the post-deployment requirements, health surveys and re-integration training. I wonder how many of my soldiers will come to work telling stories of traffic and how they almost went around it by driving on the sidewalk or against traffic as we do regularly here.

I’m sure that a working stoplight will look out of place to us for some time. But that is another story I will write from the comfort of Ft. Riley, most surely with a cold beer next to my laptop.

Shane Sandretto lives in Waterbury Center. He is commanding a U.S. cavalry troop called the Bandits in Baghdad.