Surely the odds of surviving 730 days in Iraq would catch up with her only son, she thought. If you were to look around the rest of the subdivision, you would probably see plenty of families who were oh, so sympathetic to Soldiers and families dealing with this war. They would give fake hugs and smile bravely, and reassure my Mom that everything will be okay.

It's easy to say things are okay when your son is in college down the road.

2003:

G-Day kicked off and we watched the armada fly overhead, inbound to Baghdad. I rolled across the border on 27 March, in a Humvee that had plastic doors, a poncho for a roof, and whose wheels were buckling under the weight of my platoon’s basic load of fuel and water. My driver and I were wearing the new Interceptor Body Armor, but like many U.S. troops in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom, had no protective plates.

The march up went fairly smooth, despite the “mother of all sandstorms” and sporadic enemy contact. We drove in silence as we passed the bodies of dead Iraqis, some still hanging from the turret of their burning tanks. A few days later, we reached our destination, a spot known as Objective RAMS, near Najef. My platoon’s mission was to do what we did best, which was set up and operate airstrips and helicopter landing zones. We immediately began working a dirt strip to land C-130s on, expediting the flow of supplies up to the just-beginning Battle of Baghdad.

But as everyone knows now, that Battle didn’t last long, so we packed up and moved to an abandoned Iraqi base north of Baghdad. Life in that phase of the war was like a scene from Apocalypse Now. We had no showers, laundry or hot food. We all lost massive amounts of weight in the heat, and it was commonplace to witness or participate in a firefight at random times. There was a very surreal, Mad-Max quality to everything.

In August of 2003, we were preparing to return home when the ugly rumor of year-long tours began to circulate. Our commander called a formation, and sure enough, it was true: we were doing the year. It is interesting to note at this point that even though the common soldiers and junior officers had to do a year, both my company commander and battalion commander rotated home after only six months because their “command tour” had ended. Lucky them.

In March of 2004, we came home, and I looked forward to the end of my army contract a year later. The army had been good to me, I had served proudly in combat, but it was time to move on…little did I know what was coming.

In June, we were alerted for a SECOND year long deployment. We all sat in stunned disbelief, totally unable to comprehend how a Transportation unit gets tapped for another 12-month stint after three months at home. Furthermore, we were all briefed that those of us leaving the army… well, we wouldn’t be. The Stop-Loss had arrived. In October of 2004, I boarded a plane and landed at the same Kuwaiti airport I had left only seven months prior.

Welcome to Operation Iraqi Freedom III.

The Soldiers in my unit were something else. Though almost 40 of us were stop-loss’ed, they still put their heads down and did a job that no one in America seems to want their children to do. Some of their contracts expired before we even deployed...and still theyserved. In February I should have signed out on terminal leave, but was instead sitting in a muddy, drafty tent north of Baghdad. Needless to say, the bitterness and anger began to seep in.

Another spring, another searing Iraqi summer, andwe began the process of going home….again. As the plane took off from Balad (following a mortar attack, of course), I was in utter disbelief that I would never set foot in Iraq again. This had been my reality for as long as I could remember.

Two days ago, I became a civilian.

There is a bizarre mix of emotions to deal with when you have been constantly on guard since March 2003. There is the constant hyper-alertness, the butterflies that come into your stomach at loud noises and sirens, and the stereotypical sleeplessness at night.

There is my seething anger at the evening news, as some anchorman flippantly says, “The attack happened just west of Baghdad. Two American Soldiers were killed.” I want to scream at the television. I want to stop the newscast and make them show those dead Soldier’s pictures, and hold them there until every person watching has them burned into their minds forever.

I also struggle with resenting my peers who chose not to serve. I grit my teeth as I pass every college-age civilian male walking around in the mall in his long hair and trucker hat, young and care-free in a way that none of us will ever be again. I want to take him down to the recruiting station andlook onas he signs up to take the spot of some stop-loss’ed Soldier.

Luckily, there are other feelings too. There are the fond memories of my brothers I served with in Iraq, the indescribable bond that we share forever. There is elation and joy. It is an unbelievable feeling, to know that I am home now, home forever. I can go to college, or be a cop or a rodeo clown, or whatever I want to. I earned that, at least.

It would be so easy to slink back into civilian life and live a quiet existence of anonymity, wouldn't it? Who wants to come home from a war and keep talking about a war? But maybe the fact we are home now makes us responsible. Maybe it gives us the burden of telling our stories, however uncomfortable we may feel, so that the ones still Over There can come home. Maybe....just maybe... seeingour faces and hearing our storieswill bridge the distance that allows America to so casually send her sons and daughters to war.

Please help us continue bringing you unfiltered stories straight from Iraq and Afghanistan. Click here to donate.

To arrange an interview with this veteran, contact media[at]iava.org.