My political views began to falter. I no longer could swallow what the public was being told. I knew it was different than what the talking heads on the news and the spin-doctors in the government were saying it was.

I floated around thinking about what I had done, what I had seen, where I had been. It all seemed surreal. I was trying to talk to my friends at home and they didn’t quite get it. They tried to understand but nothing could put it into terms they could grasp. This went on for several months, but I never quite connected with anyone well enough to explain it. I began to feel isolated and alone. I thought that I would never get anyone to “understand” me. Then sometime around August something happened that made me realize how I was to come to terms with it.

Cindy Sheehan had moved into Crawford. The small town of less than 1000 had been turned into the site of a national media spectacle. The mother of a soldier wanted to know why her son had been killed. She needed to hear from the President what the real reason was.

I felt a pull to the town just to see what was going on. A buddy of mine and I made the 105 mile drive to the north on a Sunday afternoon. Little did I know that this trip would change me forever. I sat down and wrote this with memory still fresh in my head

My week had been a little off. I had this nagging feeling since Sunday evening. I thought it was school starting or maybe I was coming down with something, but tonight I figured out what it was. I had yet to find the correct words to describe my and my buddy’s trip to Crawford on Sunday. I then came to a solution. There is no way to describe it. You had to see the helplessness, fear and disillusionment in the eyes of the people. You had to see the white crosses. You had to see the world turned on it's ass in microcosm in a small Texas town. But here goes nothing...

On the drive to Crawford, we mused about what to expect in Crawford. We came to a consensus and decided that it was going to be a circus. Upon arrival, we were not disappointed.

On our drive through town (approx. 10 seconds), we saw protestors from both sides lining the main strip. Neither side was making an effort to talk to the other. There was a tension that you could taste. Somewhere out there was the answer to what caused the tension. After a quick turn around, we headed back into town and fell in behind a "Peace Bus." We knew we were on the right track.

As we made the turn onto the road leading to Camp Casey, a knot formed in my stomach. I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing. Am I supposed to be here? Am I betraying my brothers in arms like the media says? Is this the right thing to do? I couldn't answer the questions. So I drove on.





















We drove past Camp Casey 1. Protestors were on both sides yelling at us and at each other. This was the circus that we had talked about. I noticed the white crosses. I tried to ignore them and focus on the road. My buddy made a comment about how nice the country side was. It helped snap me back from the blackness I was beginning to feel. We drove past the turn to Bush's "ranch" and made our way to Camp Casey 2.

We parked on the road and began to walk towards the area. Part of me wanted to run. I still wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing, but as we crested the hill and I saw the cross memorial. I was certain that I knew someone in there. I knew I was in too deep.

We paid a nominal visit to the crosses, and then moved into the tent to see what was going on. I saw posters for varying organizations. I saw the 15 ft. coffin covered with the names of fallen soldiers. People were milling about, talking about this and that. The knot tightened in my stomach a little. But I drove on.

My buddy had to pee, so we went over to the Porta-John area. A woman wearing an organizational button approached us. She asked our names, but was more concerned about our stance on the war. "Are you guys against the war," she asked?

I shook head and begrudgingly mumbled yes. I am against the way that it has been handled and managed. I am against the massive loss of life on both sides. I was then struggling with the plausibility of being against the war and for the troops. I then told her that I was a veteran. She turned cold. I think she saw me as a threat. I walked away.

I had noticed a tent set up near the rear of the camp. My interest was peaked, so we walked over. It was the tent for Iraq Veterans Against the War (IVAW). I stood outside for a few minutes and finally mustered up the guts to go in. The first guy I talked to seemed a little distracted. But there was another vet there that seemed more interested. We started a short conversation about where we had been stationed in Iraq and what not. Normal Army guy chit-chat, but there was more in that conversation than anyone could have known.

My buddy saw the whole exchange, but I'm not sure that he got it all. I saw in the other vet’s eyes that he knew exactly where I was without even asking. I saw that he understood my pain. He shared the demons I have. I said more to him in five minutes than I have to anyone since I got back six months ago. My healing began at that point.

I knew then it was time to face my personal hell. I walked over to the crosses and I began to look at each one. I said a prayer and told them that I would use the rest of my life to make sure that they were not forgotten. I wanted to find the parents of each one and give them a hug. I wanted to tell them that their son or daughter had not died in vain. That they fought for each other and a ticket home. I wanted to go back to the second that they were killed and rescue them so that their families would stop suffering.

When I was done, we got back in the jeep and rolled down to the other camp. This one was more chaotic. Had more of a militant feel. These people were there to get a message out. I listened, but something else was calling me. The first set of white crosses we had passed. They were sitting there begging me to do something for them. All I could do was walk and say a prayer.

I started down the row heavy footed with my friend. We walked together for a bit, exchanging glances at names we thought we knew. I adjusted flowers and even righted a flag that had been placed upside down. I then began to get ahead of him. I just kept walking. I got half way through and tears began to stream down my face.

I was angry. I wanted to run up to Bush's house and kick in his door. I wanted to force him to tell me what we were fighting for. Why all of this death? What reason did he justify this with? What allowed him to sleep peacefully at night while I tossed and turned with the sound of gunfire and mortars in my head?

As I calmed down, we headed back to my Jeep. Amid the honks of cars and the screaming of protestors, the true message was there. Never forget the fallen. I took one last look around and drove on.

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