Written in 2004.

Imagine if you will, exiting a high performance military aircraft in flight at 140 knots 5 miles above the earth descending through the clouds into the unknown. I know this experience first hand. I was a part of a very special group of people. People whose forefathers on June 6, 1944 not only brought glory to our name, but defined what glory is: “Airborne - All The Way!” I am an American Paratrooper and a combat veteran…This is my story…

As Airborne Infantrymen it is our job to terminate the lives of those who wage war and promote terror on the innocent. We are the first forces in, and usually the last forces out. We are not the front-line, but rather we establish the front-line, being that we typically operate deep within enemy territory. We are highly trained and skilled in airborne operations, marksmanship, physical fitness, medical skills, battle drills, and intelligence gathering. We save lives by taking lives, sometimes loosing our own lives in the process to protect the United States. And we do it all with total dedication and zero hesitation.

After a long tumultuous childhood, I enlisted in the United States Army, 82nd Airborne Division on the 27th of August 2001. I joined for much needed college money and to become physically fit. I volunteered for Special Operations because I thought it would be exciting and adventurous to jump out of planes and blow shit up. Never did I really consider the notion of actually seeing combat someday. What’s the odds…It’s peace time. I was just going to have fun, see the world, and better myself as a man.

September 11... We all know the tragedy that occurred that day. All I remember is seeing the replay footage of the first plane crashing into the first tower. “Holy shit! What a freak accident. What was that pilot smoking?” I thought. Then I saw the live footage of the second hijacked airliner smash into the second tower. I then knew this was no accident, it was an unprecedented, unprovoked, and vial act of war.

I shipped out for boot camp, which consisted of Basic Combat Training intergraded with Infantry School (Echo Company, 1st of the 50th Infantry Training Brigade). Followed by Airborne School (Bravo Company, 1st of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment) in Fort Benning, Georgia. There I learned very quickly about discipline. The Drill Sergeants really came down on me for what they called my “street walk.” I wore a deep red indentation above the bridge of my nose from the Drill Sergeant’s ‘smoky-bear hat’ for a couple months. We were instilled with respect, integrity, honor, duty, loyalty, personal courage, leadership, and selfless service. Basic Training was not at all as hard as I thought it would be. Infantry School on the other hand was very challenging, especially the Survival, NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical), and Navigation Courses. We did constant physical training. I actually got an award for excelling my PT test with 115 push-ups in 2 minutes, 98 sit-ups in 2 minutes, and the 2- mile run in 15 minutes. Marksmanship was my gift though. I obtained the Expert Qualification Badge in both rifle and pistol marksmanship. As a matter of fact; myself, and my bunkmates, PVT Lindholm, and PVT Rivera, had the highest scores in our entire Battalion. The three of us later went on to graduate from the Pre-Sniper Course. We also did plenty of weight lifting, and even a 25 mile road march each carrying 85 pounds of gear up hill. I've never been so exhausted in my entire life, and that sultry, sweltering, southern humidity was just unbearable. We mastered jungle, desert, and urban warfare techniques. We practiced countless simulated combat scenarios. This became tiresome after a while. It was both physically and mentally demanding, but we were told to train as we would fight because if you were going into the 82nd or 101st Airborne, 10th Mountain or 75th Ranger Regiment, you're almost guaranteed to see combat at some point. I always took training seriously, but still never thought I'd be going to war. I almost dropped out of Airborne School. The only reason I didn't was good old peer pressure. I knew the man in front of me would probably jump, and the man behind would probably jump, and I just didn't want to be the pussy to bitch out. So I jumped, and I jumped many more times after that. I said to myself, “I rather die as a man than live as a coward.” My roommate was the former NFL linebacker, of the Arizona Cardinals (Jersey #43), Pat Tilman. He had given up a 3.5 million dollar pro-ball contract to join the Army with his brother, Kevin, after 9-11. Given that much money…I can’t say I’d do the same. I’ll never forget when our roomy, Craig, had just gotten this giant tattoo of parachute wings on his back. He was bent over in front of me, and I; wearing only my boxers and dog tags; was standing behind rubbing Neosporin ointment on his back. Pat and Kev walk in, and needless to say, the scene was open for plenty of gay jokes. Pat used to joke with me saying, “Koerbis is the first one out, last one down.” I was usually the first man out of the airplane, and the last one to hit the ground because I'm a smaller guy. All throughout training I had to work a little harder than the rest to prove myself because of my being ‘vertically challenged’. In all; training was a lot of sore muscles, bleeding blisters, and heat strokes, but yet it a strange way... it was fun. I will never forget that thick Georgia mud, or those awful stagnant swamps.

I graduated Airborne School, and went off to complete my training obligations at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. There I went through Air Assault School (The Sabalauski Air Assault School) were I learned to master helicopter rappelling. It was a very short but difficult course. After completion, I was assigned to my new unit, where I would spend the next four years of my life: 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company Task Force, 3rd Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The guys in my unit said that they don't care if I was a god damn West Point Valedictorian with the Congressional Medal of Honor, I need to demonstrate to them what I'm made of. That's how they do it with everyone new to this elite outfit. At first I was discouraged because I had to prove myself all over again. I enrolled in the pre-Ranger course, hoping to be accepted into Ranger School and earn the highly coveted Ranger tab. I’ll show them what Chris Koerbis was made of. I quickly dropped out because although I'll jump out a plane in the highest, darkest skies, I aint’ going near no water. I can't swim, and ever since I almost drowned I don't want to learn. Just after completing the Combat Life Savers (Paramedic) Course, and getting pinned with my new rank of PFC (Private First Class), we received our orders of deployment. Now I was going to be baptized under fire into my new unit. We were going to Afghanistan right after Operation Anaconda concluded, for no less than 6 months, no more than 1 year. As excited as I was to get front-line retribution for 9-11... I was scared.

We left out of Pope Air Force Base on a C-17 Globemaster and flew to Canada where we fueled up and ate. Than we flew 8 hours to Vicensa, Italy where we ate our last real meals. No one could believe how much I eat. My First Sergeant commented, “Good lord! Where do you put it all, son?” “I got a hollow stomach ’n’ the metabolism of a hummingbird First Sergeant.” I replied. Italy had some of the most delicious food I've ever had. Damn, how I love cannolies! We then took a nap prior to heading out on a C-5 Galaxy for the last 8 hours to Afghanistan. I had never flown in a C-5, and I was awe struck at the immensity of this bird. This thing made a Boeing 747 look like a damn Cessna. My battle buddy, SPC Sells, said, “Wait 'til ya' get to jump this bird. They exit us out the two paratroop doors upstairs, as they slide Humvees and tanks out the back ramp below.” We finally landed at our destination of the recently seized Kandahar airfield in eastern Afghanistan. We have traveled thousands of miles over seas and several hours in time. Its tomorrow there.

Afghanistan has got to be one of the most inhospitable, decollate places on earth. I quickly realized that the middle-east is a place were death, disease, and destruction is a way of life. The only place I know of where a person can experience sunburn and dehydration in the day and frostbite and hypothermia at night. It's a completely oppressed, poverty stricken, war ravaged country. I feel for the poor innocent people who have to live here. It is truly horrendous living conditions. I remember a time where we all went 3 weeks without bathing. It was horrible…not so much the body odor, but the prickly-heat. When you sweat too much the salt crystallizes in your pores and its extremely uncomfortable. The Supply Sergeant would issue us baby powder, but all it would do is turn to paste. Having the shoulder straps of my hundred pound rucksack digging into my prickly-heat rash didn’t make it any better either. My squad leader, SSG Pena, would have his wife mail us in baby wipes, which we called a ‘field shower’. Sometimes the sand storms would become so intense that we would have to wear our gasmasks in order to see and breath. I must admit though, I've never seen prettier skies, nor do I think I will ever again. When we first arrived in country we became somewhat complacent. Initially it was so boring. All we did is brief, and weapons maintenance, got pretty good sleep in the first couple weeks though. The boredom was soon broken, and replaced by intense paranoia. I remember the Arabian night skies being so beautiful, giving a sense of utter peace and splendor, and than suddenly enemy rockets fill the sky. I can't really recall any dates because you tend to loose track of time over there. I just remember coming to the realization that this was no game... this was war.

My first really bad experience was contracting dysentery. All our drinkable water is purified, but on the few occasions we got to shower the water was non-potable, (not purified) and I guess some of it got in my mouth or an open cut or something. I ran in and out of our tent for a few days vomiting and shitting myself at the same time. It became so bad that I went to the aid station. The Doc examined me and said, “You're lucky you came in when you did or you'd soon be kissing the sand”. I was severely dehydrated. They gave me a bedpan and barf-bucket and stuck me with a liter of saline. The medic handed me the IV bag and said, “Here. Hold.” and walked off. I thought he went to get an IV pole, but he never came back. Just as my arms started to give out, my Platoon medic, Cpl Kokidko came in to re-supply his aid bag. He said, “Sweet Jesus, they left you like this? Don’t worry man…I got ya”. The IV was already flowing wide open, so to rapidly infuse and hydrate me quicker, he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the bag of solution and pumped it up. Our platoon has a bright and caring medic. What an awful illness though.

My first tactical patrol involved checking the perimeter of the encampment for breaches in the wire. We came across the Hajji village. Its funny cause, aside from the vast religious and cultural differences, and aside from the language barrier…The guys and I weren’t really that different from the Afghanis. The U.S. Armed Forces is primarily made up of young, poor, kids from broken homes just trying to escape a difficult past and better themselves. In this respect we were essentially the same. Afghani refuges circled the wire. Most were young children begging us for food. “Friend, biscuit?” they would say with pleading eyes. I really wanted to feed them but it was against our orders. If we feed one starving child we would soon be overran with refuges trying to get some food. After a while the village people came to the conclusion that we weren't feeding them so they would yell, “Fuck-U-R-Mutter!” I kinda’ understood why a lot of Arabs hate us. They’re all dying from starvation, and in America people are dying from obesity. Sometimes they threw rocks at us. One time, I had to chamber a round to scare the kids away. As soon as that bolt slammed forward in my rifle, those kids got the hell out of there; except one little boy. He couldn't have been more than 5 years old. He looked up at me through the razor wire with tears in his eyes and asked, “Why?” I was thinking the same thing... All the kid wanted was some food.

A few Afghans from the Hajji village helped us locate landmines. It all started when we were on a roving patrol along the FOB (forward operating base) perimeter that borders the refuge camp. We heard a series of blood curdling screams. We quickly ran parallel to the razor wire, till we reached the gate and ran into the village. SGT Gross radioed into the OOG (Officer on Guard) at the TOC (Tactical Operation Command). An adolescent male was standing outside a home holding a crying little boy. We pushed them aside and walked right through the curtain covered front entrance while the screaming ensued. We cleared the room as the two kids followed behind us yelling, “No! No! No! No! If you see it, they kill her” SPC Sells threw the older kid to the floor with some force. We found the source of the cries in a back room. These four women had this naked little girl held down to a table as a man was sawing at the child’s vagina with this glass knife. I was horrified by the blood, trigger finger itching, confused, and kinda in shock. SGT Gross butt-stroked the man with his M-4 rifle and kneed him in the stomach as he dropped to the floor. That move was illegal being that the guy never attempted to attack us, but we didn’t understand what was going on at the time. The four women started praying or something, while they stood in front of the nude sobbing girl trying to shield her from our view. I heard a loud ‘pump’ and looked behind me to see some Private sporting the 12 Gauge Breach Shotgun cautiously entering. Immediately followed by our XO, (Executive Officer) Platoon Sergeant, and a medic with pistols drawn. “What the fuck is this!!!” Platoon Sarg exclaimed. The medic went to render aid. XO held his head and squinted in disgust as he says with reluctance, “Stop…..What we just walked into is called a clitoralectomy. It’s a cultural thing. And as sick and twisted it may be, you all know we are not allowed to interfere with their cultural, or religious practices…Let’s go.” “She needs help! Anesthetics, Antibiotics.” The medic pleaded. “I say waste these fuckin cock suckers!” SPC Sells yelled. There was a unanimous, “Fucking right!” “No! As much as I’d like to myself. No. Get outta here…That’s an order. Move!!” I couldn’t believe we had to just leave this kid to be butchered outta some barbaric cultural belief that; “If a woman can not receive sexual pleasure she will stay a virgin until marriage and infidelity is less likely afterwards.” As we walked out the house, PFC Lyons commented, “What ya thinks gonna happen to that girl?” “They will kill her.” I heard in a foreign voice from behind. It was those same two kids. “Men seen her uncovered. Her get buried to her neck and stoned by village men, for being not clean.” Platoon Sarg adds, “That’s fucked up!…Sir, c’mon. We can’t just do nuttin’. Who’s gonna know if we intervene?” “Let it go.” XO replied as they got in their Humvee. The kids said, “NO! There is booms there…and there”, he points out in front of the Humvee. The earth did look disturbed, so the XO gets on the Sat-Com radio and calls in for a Sapper (Combat Engineers) Team and an EOD (Explosive, Ordinance, Disposal) Team to check their claim out. The Al Qaeda had these mines made out of wooden crates filled with rocks and nitroglycerin which is completely undetectable by medal detecting mine sweepers, and there were no bomb dogs in country as of yet. And I’ll be damned the kids were right on. These kids we came to know as Akbar and Habeeb, often see or hear about where landmines and IED’s (improvised explosive devices) are planted. They probably saved the XO, Platoon Sarg, Private, and Medic’s lives that day.

They helped us save many more lives and limbs. Some of the guys thought they knew because they’re the ones that put the bombs out there, but I never did. I became pretty good friends with Akbar who thought he was about 18, and his little brother Habeeb who was about 9 years old. They were the only survivors of their family which was executed right in front of them for protesting the Taliban. Sadly; somehow the enemy found out that the refuges were helping us out and gunned down almost the entire Hajji village. My friend Akbar died. His brother Habeeb survived the attack. He gave our squad a puppy in gratitude for giving him food and medical aid. It was a cute little mutt with more bark than bite. We were going to train him to sniff out landmines. We named him “Claymore” after the infamous antipersonnel mine of the Vietnam era. Claymore used to always walk a good 25 meters or so in front of us, and as long as we stayed in our dogs' tracks we should be alright. One day on a routine roving patrol, Claymore spotted a sidewinder snake. Well, being a curious pup' he went over to investigate it. He sniffed and pawed at it. We called for him to come back to us but he was having so much fun, or at least until he was bit. He yelped out in pain, started to hobble back to us, fell over, screeched, got up again, and finally collapsed in SSG Pena’s arms. He soon went into convolutions and died. We laid him onto the hot sand and noticed vultures circling overhead, waiting to tear our dog apart. We couldn't burry him though because of the threat of hitting a mine. SSG Pena looked at me, holding out his hand and said, “Incendiary.” “Say again?” I asked. “Just gimme' the grenade.” “Rodger that Sergeant.” I replied as I handed him my thermite grenade. He pulled the pin and cremated Claymore on the spot. I'll never forget that smell.

The first time I evaded the grim reaper is still some what of a haze to me. Our platoon was in a transport CH-47 Chinook helicopter. After I basically begged the crew chief to let me man the gun, he allowed me to tether in next to him and take the M-60 Machinegun. I loved hanging off the chopper tailgate taking in the view. I remember being amazed when our chopper crested this mountain; as the valley on the one side was nothing but shifting sand dunes and dust devils, and the valley on the opposing side was lush with the green and pink of opium poppies as far as the eye could see. While in flight, we suddenly hit a thermal draft and the rear of the chopper violently dropped. I slid off the tailgate and was hanging out the bird by my tether. The crew chief was dangling right next to me trying to pull himself back into the bird by climbing up the machinegun barrel. As he helped me climb in with him, I accidentally kicked an entire can of ammo out the ‘chopper. My Platoon Sergeant and the Crew Chief started yelling back and forth at each other. It got really heated. I thought they were gonna’ start throwing punches. Platoon Sergeant seemed to care more about the fact we lost an entire can of ammo than about the fact the crew chief and I nearly fell out the sky. The next thing I knew I threw up all over my gear…Nerves I guess.

I'll never forget my very first fire fight. There was a big mission coming up; Operation Mole. A cave clearing mission with almost absolute chance of enemy engagement. I was ready, and then I was dropped. Turned out there was another mission being conducted that day so they were short on helicopters, and the Blackhawks we would be air assaulting in didn't have enough seats for everyone. Being that I was a Private at the time and a newer guy to the unit. I was left behind at the fire base with my battle buddies Tim, and McKenna. We were all pissed. We really wanted to be a part of this mission and now we were stuck stacking sandbags and taking trash out. When the three of us left the encampment to burn the trash, I swore a saw some movement out there, but with the waves of heat radiating off the ground distorting our perception, none of us could make it out. At one point McKenna says, “I swear to God, that’s definitely people.” “Just SF (Special Forces) coming back in from an LRP (Long Range Patrol)” Tim replied. “Yeah, I’m sure its nothing. Probably just fucking camels or some shit.” I added before looking again to see that there was a hoard of about 30 of those mother fuckers. We just gazed into the distance at them, as they gazed back at us, and it seemed like time had just completely stopped at that moment. And than they opened up on us with AK-47 assault rifles and RPK machineguns. We dropped to the ground and low crawled as fast as we could about 20 meters to the trash pit and rolled into it. The trash burn pit was about a four foot deep trench, burnt black and corroded with human waste and half burnt garbage, but provided us needed refuge non the less. We immediately popped up and returned fire. Unfortunately, all we were doing was running trash; therefore we weren't in “full battle rattle.” We didn't even have a Sat-Com Radio, or I-Com (walkie-talkie) to call for help. Tim had his M-249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) with 400 rounds which he soon exhausted. McKenna had his M-4 with an M-203 40mm grenade launcher, but he had no grenades on him. And I had my M-4 assault rifle. I remember looking through my scope seeing the terrorists' bodies dropping. It was the strangest, most exhilarating, and frightening feeling in the world to be hunting someone who was hunting you. Palms sweaty, heart pounding… I don’t care what your political views are, race, religion, gender, age, education, socioeconomic background… When its round for round, do or die, kill or be killed, everything else but human survival goes right out the window. I would wager to say, that there is no more honest and humbling a place in life than the foxhole or the death bed. Every aspiration, desire, pride, intellect, wisdom, bravado, vanity, financial worth, materialism, prejudice, inadequacies, its all totally irrelevant. This is the time when faith in a higher power provides most comforting. Soon I ran out of ammo for my rifle and resorted to my sidearm. Unfortunately, a 9mm pistol doesn't have the effective range of a rifle and therefore it proved useless. Tim, McKenna, and I looked at each other as the enemy advanced on us and knew this was it. We were huddled together in one big hug, waiting for the rifles to point down at us. Our 9mm Berettas cocked back to take as many of them as we could with us. All I could keep saying was, “Please God let this be a head shot! Lets get this over with.” I wasn’t exactly terrified by my own death…It was more infuriating, that these guys had the audacity, to steal my life from me. Apparently, someone heard all the gunfire and called in air support, or perhaps it was just a routine flyby. All I know is, suddenly out of nowhere, two Apache gun ships flew overhead of us and opened fire with a 20mm API (armor piercing incendiary) Gattlin gun, and a slue of 2.75” HEDP (high explosive, dual purpose) rockets, and a Hellfire missile or two. They damn near emptied out their whole weapons platform. Overkill on their part, but well worth the excessive force. They lit those fuckers up like the Fourth of July! They then circled back around us in formation, came to a hover, and gave us a salute before they took off. I wish I could have thanked those pilots for saving our lives. They deserve the Distinguished Flying Cross in my opinion. All three of us received the Army Achievement Medal for that day. The irony was when our unit returned to base, it turned out they never made contact with the enemy that day. We got the first confirmed kills in our company... the guys who were left behind.

Our first fatality took place along the Afghani-Pakistani, Hindi-Kush mountain range. It was a high elevation mountain range, and we were all dragging ass between all our gear, and suffering from the headaches and sometimes nosebleeds of altitude sickness. We were taking what we thought was a short cut, traveling through a valley. We stayed close to the ridge line for cover and concealment. As we sat down to some much needed field chow we started having pock shots fired at us. We had the SAW gunners and Grenadiers return fire as we searched with Thermals (heat imaging sights) for where the shots were coming from. Then a voice from 3rd platoon screamed out, “Dennis is hit! Medic! Medic! Private Dennis is shot.” As our sniper got a fix on the enemy and took him out with one shot from the Barrett .50 Cal, “Boom!” We all circled Private Dennis. Platoon Sergeant yelled out, “Spread out men! Don't create a target for those bastards!” Meanwhile, our sniper hit his mark; a chunky red mist sprayed out from behind a thicket of bushes and a body and Draganov rifle tumbled down and landed in the valley at our feet. He was facing away from us with his rib cage completely avis orated. His once tan face was now as pasty white as my own. Although his entire thoracic/abdominal cavity was now hollowed out, somehow he was still alive. We didn't finish him though, that would be to humane; we let him wrench in pain for the last seconds of his terrorist life. Dennis took a 7.62 threw the side of his body armor, which just happened to be the only point on the bullet proof vest that can't withstand a 7.62 round. The high velocity rifle slug had punctured and collapsed his lung. Our platoon medic ripped open his vest and BDU (battle dress uniform) top and started an IV as the Company PA (physician's assistant) put in a chest tube. Dennis screamed out in pain and then blacked out. The one medic said, “I lost radial pulse…Hold up…He’s got no carotid either.” The PA dragged his stethoscope up and down Dennis’s bare, bloody chest listening intently saying, “He’s in cardiac arrest! Start an airway.” Then he stabbed a big-ass needle of atropine directly into Dennis's heart as the medic pushed epinephrine. They began to perform CPR. With each compression blood would pour out of the chest tube and was absorbed into the sand like a sponge. Our First Sergeant radioed in for an urgent/priority medevac with gunship escort. Sgt. Winters offered to take over chest compressions so the medic could rest for a minute, but he refused, yelling, “Let me do my job!!” And they continued CPR for some time, but with a massive pneumothorax, and what we latter found out to be a shredded aorta, it was to no avail. The PA pounded on Pvt. Dennis's chest and handed our CO (commanding officer) the dog tags as he asked, “Can you get the Chaplain up here...we lost 'em.” Some of the guys sobbed over Dennis’s lifeless body, some took turns urinating and spitting on the terrorists mangled body. Then First Sergeant yelled at us, “Hey!! Stop fucking around! Secure the area! And pop red smoke to mark the LZ (landing zone).” “Yeah, I don’t wanna be filling this chopper with anymore bags. Hooah!” Our Platoon Sergeant added.

I don't think any of us will forget the evening that 18 year old Pvt Jared Dennis lost his life in defense of our freedom. Up until than I never witnessed that kind of death up close and personal. I can see how so many have come to both find and loose their religion out here. I also won't forget the chaplain's grievance speech about his death. He said, “We will all miss Jared. He was an outstanding soldier. But we have to understand that our business is death, and unfortunately, business is picking up. Now a lot of folks back home view us as just a statistical number on the 6 o’clock news. And we have to accept that we are all expendable assets and acceptable losses. It comes with the job. But we have devoted ourselves to doing the right thing. We stand up, while others stand down. And I know the victims of September the 11th our smiling down at us. Let us mourn for Pvt. Dennis, but we have an obligation to move on, and make this world a better place for our families. God bless you all men. Airborne!” Then all of us removed our desert boonie hats and put on our garrison maroon berets as we kneeled at Pvt. Jared Dennis’s boots, rifle, and helmet stand. We all hung our heads in silent prayer and remembrance, and where snapped to attention as the 21 gunshot salute commenced. Seeing that final folded American flag is a very somber and sobering experience indeed.

I remember a lot of days where we were really bored, itching for a good mission to come up. Someone once said, “War is unbearable boredom interrupted by moments of unfathomable terror.” This one day we had just established a patrol base. We hung out, just joked around, and shared stories with one another. It was a typical night; more stars than you could possibly imagine. The layered dark purple into black sky is so crystal clear that you can see a satellite streaking across above. The desert night is a vacuum, in that without night optics, it is so black you cannot even make out your own hand right in front of you. And its completely absent of any sound, other than your own breath and movements, and the momentary eerie whistles of wind cutting through the crisp, frigid air. I was manning the gun from my sleeping bag in a dug out fighting position. My eye lids where heavy, and my face was cold against the cheek weld of the M-240 machinegun. The desert was so beautiful and tranquil but there was the omnipresent anticipation for that one bullet to suck my very last breath from my lungs. I looked over at SGT Winters about 25 meters away, and gave him a wave. Then the sand in front of our position rose up into the air like a cloud of choking gas. The actual sound came after the impact of the rounds. Surrealism comparative to nothing you can imagine having not been there yourself. We all returned suppressive fire as SGT Gross radioed coordinates to a 155mm Artillery Battery in the rear. My arms were shaking violently as hot links and brass buried me alive. I could see the waves of heat coming up off the barrel as my ears started to ring louder, and louder. “Cease Fire! Cease Fire! Cease Fire”, I heard yelled out from all directions. When the guns fell silent all we saw was the impact of the artillery rounds. It was spectacular! Amazing how them artillery boys can’t even physically see their objective, and yet they were right on target. After a very brief AAR (after actions review), I was relieved from guard duty and fell right to sleep. To think…I just went right to sleep. (Continued)