One day, Spc. Knick and I where on gate guard just outside Kabul. We were tired and bored, watching the Arabs go about their daily lives; guys pedaling junky bicycles with AK’s strapped to their backs, women walking around in scorching heat with full black burkas and face shrouds, and businessmen getting into the city’s public form of transportation…1970 era taxi cars stripped of there front wheels and pulled by two starved horses. Spc. Knick reached for the walkie-talkie to conduct the routine, hourly, radio check, and got startled by the sudden loud voice that erupted from it: “All OP’s (outposts) be on the lookout for a suspicious brown Toyota pickup truck with unknown subjects, armed with several RPG’s (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and a Dishka Heavy Machinegun that ran checkpoint….” And like clock work, I see that very truck coming straight toward the gate at a high rate of speed. Spc Knick just dropped the Walkie-Talkie and instinctively raised his M-249 SAW. Our ROE (Rules of Engagement) state: “You are not to fire, unless fired upon”. These guys never fired, but didn’t attempt to reduce their speed any either. It became apparent that they had every intention of rushing the checkpoint. I told Spc Knick to fire. I grabbed the Walkie-Talkie from the ground and just shouted, “OP 1 Engaging said truck! Twelve O’clock! 3..No…200 meters and closing fast!” I dropped the walkie-talkie to the ground and grabbed the AT-4 (Shoulder Launched Anti-Tank Rocket) and started to arm it, when I had to tell Spc Knick to fire again; “Fire! Specialist, Fire!” He was just staring down his sights silently. I aimed the rocket knowing it would explode ‘danger close’, yelled, “Back-blast area, Clear!”, without actually checking, and held in the trigger. “Fuck!!” I popped the sights open and pulled the safety pin, but in my hurried panic I forgot to cock the firing mechanism. Spc Knick finally laid down three bursts of automatic fire. First shots peppered across the road in front of the vehicle spewing dirt and dust up. Second shots cutting diagonally across the bumper and grill, blowing out the radiator, and shattering the headlights. And the third burst of fire swept across the hood taking out the engine. The vehicle still didn’t come to a complete stop until it hit a telephone poll off the side of the road, about 75 meters from the gate, at best. By this point our Platoon Sergeant and about 20 other soldiers convened on the smoldering wreckage. I saw the jagged, bloody, hole in the windshield and my eyes caught a pair of eyes staring back up at me from the ground. It was the drivers severed head! It didn’t even seem real. He had been totally decapitated. SSG Pena nonchalantly said, “That there gentlemen is a glass necklace. Always remember to buckle up.” “Yeah, and don’t fuck with America”, some soldier yelled out. That ended with a good chuckle.

A few months into our deployment I wanted to go home. With up to 130° F days and -20° below zero nights, malaria, typhoid, and dysentery, not to mention all the bullets and bombs, I just wanted to get outta' there. However, there was no time to think of home, some serious shit was about to go down. We should have known something was up when four Jumpmasters and four parachute riggers were assigned to our company. Yet we had no idea of what was about to occur. We boarded a C-130 Hercules. There were four blacked-out 130's and two A-10 Warthog escorts. About 15 minutes into the flight our Company Commander stood up and told us, “As you may or may not have noticed there is an aviation kit bag stowed directly under your seats. You will slide it out from under you and open it. Inside you will find a T-10 Delta (main parachute), 1950 weapons carry case, ruck harness assembly, and a reserve. You will remove everything but the reserve for this is a combat jump, and begin in-flight rigging. ETA (estimated time of arrival) to the DZ (drop zone) 3 hours.” As our First Sergeant went on to describe the operation order we rigged up. I asked why we weren't taken the reserve parachutes. SSG Pena told me, “Because it's a combat jump.” “Which means?” I asked. “Which means were only jumping 500 feet. Your reserve won't deploy at such a low altitude. Didn't they teach you anything in jump school?” he replied. In other words if my main fails to open... I'm dead. We all sat in route to the DZ. Seasoned Jumpmasters with hundreds of jumps under there belt were sweating, vomiting, and pissing themselves. The mission was this: Operation Raptor. Task Force Bravo 3/504 PIR attached to Charlie Company 2/75 Ranger Regiment, accompanied by SEAL Team 6 will conduct an airborne operation to seize the last known AI-Qaeda stronghold. It was the first night combat parachute infiltration since the invasion of Panama in 1989. We were making history.

It seemed like forever, but all too soon we were approaching the DZ. The Jumpmaster yelled, “10 Minutes!” by this point I felt as though I had a gut full of razor blades and my nuts were in my throat. The Jumpmaster then yelled out, “Outboard personnel stand up!... Inboard personnel stand up!... Hook up!” There was a simultaneous clicking sound of static lines locking onto the cable. “Sound off for equipment check!” Everyone was a go. “Get Ready!” The Jumpmasters went to each paratroop door and opened them. “30 Seconds! Standby”. The rushing wind filled the cabin of the plane and all you could see was pitch black outside as the roar of the engines deafened us. The Jumpmaster inspected the doorway for obstructions; meanwhile we swayed with the turbulence waiting for the green light and buzzer to jump. Suddenly some shots came right through the door and hit the Jumpmaster in the chest plate. He flew back clutching his stomach. The platoon medic unhooked and examined him. He may have broken ribs, and is clearly in shock, but he's not a priority patient. Another Jumpmaster took control of the door; meanwhile the A-10's returned heavy fire. I was sure we weren't jumping after receiving heavy enemy fire, there's no telling how many terrorists are down there, or what kind of weaponry they posses. By this time the A-10's ceased fire and SEAL Team 6 was already out the bird. There's no way we were about to turn back now. Finally the green light sounded. “Go! Go! Go! Go!” yelled the Jumpmasters as each one of us got slapped in the ass and pushed out of the aircraft into the complete darkness of the night. The prop blast blew me away from the fuselage of the plane as orange streaks came up from the ground. As I descended I prepared for impact not knowing how close I was to the ground. I didn't even know if my canopy was fully inflated. I lowered my weapons' carry case and rucksack; kept my feet and knees together, and slammed into the ground so hard I think I may have suffered a slight concussion. As I lay on my back hitting my canopy quick release, I tried to gather my bearings. I pulled in my ruck and immediately employed my weapon and night vision goggles, scanning the area as removed my 'chute. I proceeded towards the IR (infra-red) strobe light, which designated the AA (assembly area.) The IR light can only be seen with night vision devices and is invisible to the enemy's naked eye. As I continued to the double A, I met up with my fellow soldiers spread out amongst the DZ.

By the time we reached the AA we were ready to execute the assault. Note: some of the aspects of the mission remain classified today, and therefore we are not at liberty to discuss certain details. Soon the sun was rising. Enemy corpses littered the arid desert landscape. We conducted security patrols and secured EPWs (enemy prisoners of war) and confiscated weapons caches. Meanwhile, special bulldozer fitted Humvees were dropped in and began clearing a FLS (field landing strip) so the C-130's can come back in and extract us. My squad continued EPW search and seizure. Basically, if they appear dead you put two in the chest, one in the head to assure they no longer pose a threat. The injured and surrendered EPW's are zip-tied and quarantined. All corpses and detainees are searched for intel. As we conducted our intelligence gathering and analysis, a body suddenly got up and ran at us screaming, “Allah!” and detonated some kind of home made suicide bomb. I threw my battle buddy to the ground smashing my knee against the barrel of his M-240 machinegun. What was left of that young suicide bomber rained down onto us like raw hamburger meat. Since the bomb blew up and out, and since we hit the ground in time, none of us suffered any serious injury. Although; my knee hurt pretty bad, but I was awarded the Army Commendation Medal for meritorious action. We recovered some valuable intel from that mission, such as the Pakistani drug cartel is now protecting AI-Qaeda. These opium smugglers are very wealthy and posses many of our technological capabilities. Intel also suggests that Osama Bin Laden had established links with Saddam Hussein and other terrorist networks. However; although Saddam was pleased by the events of 9-11, he had absolutely and unequivocally no direct or indirect part in the act whatsoever. Also, it's been proven that Bin Ladens' terrorist network vases the entire world, he currently has operatives within the US. Its not a matter of if, but when they will attack again.

With Operation Raptor a success, we flew to another FOB. We continued to have following missions, Operation Mongoose, Operation Valiant Strike, etc. Stuff you wouldn’t hear about on CNN. Mostly because the international legalities of crossing borders to pursue the enemy into a neutral country. Not that I am at all admitting; nor would I be inclined to admit to; crossing into, lets say; Pakistan or Iran, to capture terrorists. I’m just saying while clearing mountains, subterranean tunnels, and caves, one may not be aware of their current location. Boundaries can get sketchy, and GPS (Global Positioning Systems) is not absolute…batteries die. And man did I hate those tunnels and caves! Cave clearing missions are scary as hell, especially for me. Being small in stature I get the privilege of being elected tunnel rat. This means I get to enter the small cave opening first. In the past we would just lob a couple grenades into the cave, wait for it to blow, and then enter it. But because many non-combatants like women and children would hide in these caves, we had to stop that practice. Because our night vision devices work on ambient light, which there is none in a cave, they're rendered useless. Instead, we use rifle mounted tactical flashlights. The disadvantage is that the enemy will know we're there way before we find out they are. This one former Mujahaden mountain complex was an elaborate network of connecting caves about three or four miles long. It was deserted, but once held Taliban equipment, so we blew it with a shit load of C4 high explosives so it couldn't be used in the future. Shit, one cave we cleared housed a 10k diesel generator and a portable hemo-dialysis machine. A Major from MI (Military Intelligence) said it was Bin Laden’s. Evidently, Osama is in total renal failure and will die without a kidney transplant or regular dialysis. I shit you not; that if it wasn’t for politics and bureaucracy; my unit, if not me, myself, could have gotten the kill shot on Bin Laden on more than handful of occasions. I mean I never saw him, but I just know we were real close. I think that after the big airborne operation, these other missions, despite the adrenaline rush, didn't seem to thrill us as much. Perhaps I've just been in country too long. I don't know what's more frightening, taking lives...or not thinking twice about doing so. All I knew is that I wanted to go home.

My wish was granted... but not under good conditions. I found out I was going home. “Hell yeah!” I thought. It's because I hurt my knee. They have to terminate my jump status, send me stateside, and grant me a medical discharge. However, that was not at all how it was. First Sergeant received an urgent Red Cross message from my mother's doctor. She needs me home. Mom was about to undergo a very risky surgery and her survival was only 15%. I had no idea. I knew she had bouts of cancer, she's been going through that for years, but she led a relatively productive lifestyle. She had always wrote worried about me, never once mentioning her own condition had worsened. This day turned out to be bitter-sweet. After the Red Cross message about my mom, we got our I monthly mail. I was so happy to have gotten a letter from my high school sweetheart, Stephanie. Steph was my very first love. I always said, “One of the hardest parts about life is finding someone worth loving. Harder yet is getting that person to love you back. And the hardest of all is keeping the love once you’ve finally got it.” I wrote her often telling her in no uncertain terms that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. But I rarely got letters back from her. I always assumed her letters to me just got lost in the mail, which happens quite a bit with soldier‘s mail. Some say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but sadly, the truer statement is, outta’ sight, is outta’ mind, and I later learned that lesson the hard way.

My wish was granted... but not under good conditions. I found out I was going home. "Hell yeah!" I thought. It's because I hurt my knee. They have to terminate my jump status, send me stateside, and grant me a medical discharge. However, that was not at all how it was. First Sergeant received an urgent Red Cross message from my mother's doctor. She needs me home. Mom was about to undergo a very risky surgery and her survival was only 15%. I had no idea. I knew she had bouts of cancer, she's been going through that for years, but she led a relatively productive lifestyle. She had always wrote worried about me, never once mentioning her own condition had worsened. This day turned out to be bitter-sweet. After the Red Cross message about my mom, we got our I monthly mail. I was so happy to have gotten a letter from my high school sweetheart, Stephanie. Steph was my very first love. I always said, "One of the hardest parts about life is finding someone worth loving. Harder yet is getting that person to love you back. And the hardest of all is keeping the love once you've finally got it." I wrote her often telling her in no uncertain terms that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. But I rarely got letters back from her. I always assumed her letters to me just got lost in the mail, which happens quite a bit with soldier‘s mail. Some say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but sadly, the truer statement is, outta' sight, is outta' mind, and I later learned that lesson the hard way.

A few days latter I was on the next flight to Reim Mein, Germany. It was just me, an LMTV (light mount tactical vehicle) and two Humvees on a cargo C-17 for 8 hours. Since there wear no seats, I got to chill with the flight crew in the cockpit. They let me help conduct an in-flight refueling which was a very interesting experience. Then after lunch in Germany I got on another C-17 and flew to Madrid, Spain where we ate dinner and cleared US Customs. Customs confiscated what they said were illegal war trophies. I had tried to smuggle back some souvenirs like an Arabian cutlass, hashish hukka, and this thing called a fulgorite. A fulgorite occurs when the intense electrical heat of a lighting bolt fuses the silicon of the desert sand into glass. The glass take the form of the lighting bolt and becomes imbedded in the sand. All these items were considered war trophies and possessing them is criminal. Who would of thought. Customs said even some of my photos were contraband. I did manage to somehow keep a Shiite Prayer Mat and some currency. We flew the remaining 8 hours into Pope Air Force Base, 20 minutes outside Ft Bragg, NC. I signed out on emergency leave at Brigade Headquarters and rushed home on the next available civilian airliner. It had been a very long day, and getting through airport security was quite annoying because my baggage was covered in explosive residue.

When I got home I saw my mother's health had deteriorated. Around the same time I got home from the war, my childhood best friend John was released from prison and came down from Jersey to visit. John and I were best friends since before kindergarten and had gone through just about everything together. It had been many years since he had saved me from going to jail, and it was great to see him again. John and I reminisced old times and he wished my mom well. Unfortunately; we had grown apart. His persistent criminal lifestyle contradicted the code of conduct of my government occupation. It was great reliving those crazy childhood days though. They where undoubtedly some wild and crazy times we had! Perhaps someday he will out grow his current thug ways and we'll be able to hang out again.

Soon my mother went through a long, agonizing surgery. The day of her surgery I hoped for the best but prepared for the worse, just as I was trained. I was so worried about my mom and my men over seas. I needed to get out. So I finally got the balls to see my high school sweetheart, Steph. Funny how a man can survive such a difficult childhood and 6 months of sustained combat, and yet still be terrified to talk to a beautiful woman. I'll never forget when Steph pulled up in her driveway and saw me standing there. Now I know I'm certainly not the most attractive man in the world, but I know I looked sharp standing proud in my dress uniform with gleaming medals upon my chest. Steph got out of her car saying, “Oh my god! Chris, what are you doing here? You're suppose to be in Afghanistan.” “Well I'm glade to see you too sweetie.” I replied as I embraced her. Her hug melted me just as it always did. That night, was singly the best night of my entire life. Even after going so long without, I never though it was even physically possible to make love like we did that night. We experienced pleasures unparalleled. I finally asked her to be my wife…And she said, “Yes!” I couldn’t wait for my mom to wake up so I could tell her that I have finally started my own life. I’m gonna get married to the girl of my dreams and be the dad I always wished I had growing up.

My mother beat the statistics...she made it home two weeks later, but her quality of life was over. It turned out the actual tumor was inoperable. She now had a tracheotomy and stomach tube, and could never talk, eat, or drink again. She needed tube feedings, and obviously could no longer operate a motor vehicle or tend to her household. There was months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments ahead for her. I contacted my chain of command and requested an extension of my emergency leave due to my mother's situation. Command said “absolutely not.” I've already exhausted my annual leave allowance and they need me to return to theater. I was lucky to have even been allowed a consecutive 30 days leave, and my unit needs me back. I was also reminded that AWOL (absent without leave) during wartime is considered desertion, punishable by execution. Operation Iraqi Freedom was being kicked off and I must return. While I was on leave, all my mission essentials were dispersed amongst my squad. This adds to there load and slows them down and can compromise the mission. So I reluctantly followed my orders.

I flew from Wilkes-Barre, Pa to North Carolina. I flew from Pope AFB to one of the smaller Hawaiian Islands were we had lunch and refueled. Coming to think of it I never even got my lay in Hawaii. From there we landed in Tokyo, Japan were we transferred onto another plane. Tokyo was like oriental Vegas! I flew with some Marine Expedition guys onto the USS Constellation aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. As we approached the ship I thought there was no way we would make that landing. The ship was like a cruise but with fighter jets in place of swimming pools. Open seas, clear blue skies, safe distance from Iraqi missile attacks, very, very windy though. The sailors weren't use to seeing any army guys on the ship so they found me interesting. The few Marines onboard gave me an arrogant attitude. They gave me comments like, “A.R.M.Y-Aren’t Ready for Marine Yet.” Hey, we all know M.A.R.I.N.E stands for Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential. One said, “Hey killer, the only thing that falls from the sky is bird shit and dumb-asses, and I ain't seeing no feathers on you boy.” I calmly replied, “Oh yeah, we’ll I don't see any Marine Recon wings on your chest, what's the matter there devil-dog, ya' too scared or too stupid to go all the way?” I don't get the whole grunt against jarhead thing; we're all on the same side. The Rear Admiral took me up to have a cup of coffee with him. We talked about the differences between army and navy life, I showed him a picture of my Steph, and told him how pissed off I was to have to leave my mom like that. It was different; my Commanding General would never have had coffee with me like that. I ate at what they call a galley, which was cramp but the food was excellent by army standards. The sleeping quarters were cramped and hot though. It was a brief but interesting experience.

I then flew off the ship deck on a CH-53 Sea Stallion into Kuwait were I was reissued my weapons and sat in on 3rd Infantry Division’s brief. The whole briefing; besides being a motivational speech; was their commanders drilling us on chemical attack procedures. They said it was certain that the Republican Guard would hit us with Scuds as they did in the first Gulf War, and we would be exposed to nerve gas. Man, that was a scary thought. I then road out in the back of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle with a massive 3rd ID convoy to join up with my unit, which was already on the outskirts of Baghdad. A Bradley is not designed around comfort, but it is well armored, and hermetically sealed to protect us from the predicted chemical attacks. It was a very long, quiet ride down legendary Highway 6. The very same road taken to the capitol over a decade ago in Operation Desert Storm. What little resistance the front of the convoy encountered I never really saw. Most of Saddam’s Tanks were already diverted, and being crippled by the Marines on the other side of the country anyway. We stopped briefly here and there along the way, and I remember feeling so humbled as I stood in the presence of the ancient, shimmering Tigris River. To think this is the very same ground that the all life, civilization, and religion arose. Jesus Christ, Mohammed, Abraham, Babylon, Mesopotamia, Noah’s Ark, The Garden of Eden, it was all right here so many centuries ago. The undeniable historical significance of this land was breathtaking to think about.

The sun was just setting over the great cross sabers arch when I arrived at our patrol base. At that moment basically my whole platoon circled me shaking hands, hugging, and deluging me with questions of home and information on what's going on in Iraq. I was kind of glad to be back, I missed my guys. They were telling me that SSG Karnop was MIA (missing in action) SSG Karnop used to talk about nothing but his adoring wife and kids. Well, his adoring wife sent him divorce papers in the mail. She had basically said, “I'm sorry but I met someone. I can't sit around all the time waiting for you, I have needs. This is what I want in alimony. This is what I want in child support. Sign here and mail this back”. He couldn't handle it. He had removed his vest and helmet and just walked off into the desert and hasn't been seen since. How the fuck could a bitch do her husband like that? I was outraged and disgusted myself about that one. They said most of the Iraqi Republican Guard (Saddam’s Army motivated by paycheck and fear) saw us, dropped arms, and surrendered in droves. The Fedahyhem (Saddam’s ‘SS’ motivated by nationalism and being martyrs to Islam) were fighting veraciously to the death. I then noticed Spc Sells from my squad wasn't there. I was sadly informed that he was killed in a Republican Guard ambush in Basra one week earlier. Just than as we were bowed in a moment of silence, our Lt (lieutenant) ran over and said, “No time to bullshit men. Oh, howdy ‘Kirby’ (his nickname for me). Welcome back to hell's kitchen. We're going on a series of building raids in central Baghdad. The choppers will be in at 1400 Zulu. Gear up! You good to go there Kirby?” “Yes sir! Lets kill 'em all, let Allah sort 'em out.” I said. “Air-fucking-borne! Corporal.” Lt replied. “Corporal??” I asked. “Field-grade promotion! Congratulations Kirb. Ya’ made your hard-stripes”, Sgt. Winters commented. Couldn’t have been there for more than one hour, and already I find out my friend died, I got promoted to a junior NCO (Non Commissioned Officer), and I'm going on a high risk mission. Pretty overwhelming.

We jumped aboard the Blackhawks and flew into the inner city. We needed to clear certain buildings that were said to be hiding Weapons of Mass Destruction; most likely, a basement chemical/biological weapons lab. About 20 minutes later we were ready to air assault. We were hovered about 30 feet over the rooftop of a multi-story building. We fast-roped out and breached the roof fire door with the pump shotty and hooligan tool. As we worked our way down the stairwells searching and clearing rooms, the Iraqis ran out the building. As they exited onto the streets outside, the Blackhawks circled over them blasting a recording in Arabic: “Al kowat al Amerikia! Kef ow atlook al nar!” Farsi: Askaree Amerikee! Dresh ya fire may Kenoom!” and English: “American Forces! Stop or I will fire!” If they failed to cooperate, there were warning shots fired down in front of them, followed by getting cut down with M-60 Machineguns if need be. After that one building was done we cleared a few more before getting back on the choppers on a soccer field a couple blocks away. Soccer fields are abundant in Iraq and provide an excellent LZ. The very next night we did another series of air assaults and raids, but this night went bad.

We became pinned down between three blocks, taking fire from 360 degrees. Urban conflict is like no other in this respect. We’re fighting them in their own towns, they have a million places to hit and run from: windows, rooftops, sewers, alleys, vehicles, minarets (mosque prayer towers). Its like a game of terminal hide and seek. The enemy would utilize a terrorist’s method known as “hugging”, staying in or around hospitals, schools, and religious sanctuaries, using women as shields and children as bombs. They knew our ROE would never allow us to radio in an air strike and just bomb them out. And by this point; the enemy knew about our Class III IBA (individual body armor) so they would aim for our heads, faces, and necks. But, usually they would just ‘spray and pray’, sweeping at our legs and feet. They knew we would never leave a man behind, and if they wound just one soldier, at least two more would be needed to carry that one out. SFC Stetzer, 1st Platoon’s Sergeant, got his face slashed open from RPG shrapnel, and our CO got shot twice in the thigh. There were many wounded, none dead as of yet, but that will soon change if we can't get them to the doctors at the Aid Station. The Lt, medic, and I all radioed in for medevac, but no one came. We had close air support; an AC-130 Specter gunship was sending 105mm Howitzer rounds down at the enemy’s fortified mortar positions, and the medevac choppers could get caught in friendly fire. I heard over my Sat-Comm handset, “Bravo 6, this is Medevac 9, over.” “Go ahead Medevac 9”, I replied. “Bravo 6, be advised, medevac is in route. Break... The LZ (landing zone) is too hot for medevac. Standby. Over.” Our platoon medic, Cpl Kokidko grabbed PFC Lyons handset and yelled, “Hell no Madevac 9! These guys need a fuckin' surgeon! There's no fuckin' way me and the PA can save 'em all!” I never seen our medic so mad. He's usually such a soft-spoken devout Christian. I couldn’t argue with he’s triage assessment, these men are critical and we’re under heavy enemy fire with no soon means of exfiltration. I look to my left and right for leadership, SSG Pena was with SGT. Winters using his PAQ-2 (rifle-mounted Infra-red laser and flood light targeting system) to paint the enemy’s location for the AC-130, so I was on my own over here. I made a command decision and decided to throw the casualties in the back of some Humvees and try to drive out.

My team and I rounded up all the casualties, and following the Geneva Convention, I took a white turban off one of the enemy bodies and smeared blood in the form of the Red Cross, which I slung between two rifles. By international law no one can fire at anything under the Red Cross. Well, I guess the Fedahyhem didn't read up on what constitutes a serious war crime, because as I stood in the back of this Humvee holding up this Red Cross banner... I got shot in the back. The force of the impact flipped me forward over the side rail of the Humvee. I tumbled down the road and everything went from a luminescent green to an eerie black; the result of my NVG’s (night vision goggles) getting knocked off my head from the nearly 40mph fall. I crawled around in a panic feeling for my NVG’s and rifle as I heard the sound of a diesel engine and Tim’s voice running up on me. They quickly scooped me up in a fireman carry and threw me in the corner of a Humvee. By this point; Spc Whang said, “Fuck this mission of mercy shit, I’m shooting back!” and started roaring on the Ma-Deuce (.50 Caliber Machinegun) turret. Some other soldier then jumped in the trail Humvee’s Mark-19 (40mm Automatic Grenade Launcher) turret and began letting it rip. While we sped out of there with all this fire, I started to remove my vest. Tim got me in a bear hug from behind. Tim and Spc Wright were yelling, “Don't take it off Chris, don't take it off!” Clearly it was stupid for me to be taking off the very vest that would save me providing I got hit again, but I wanted to see how bad I was bleeding. I started trying to fight off my own friends. Wright said, “He's buggin' out yo! Help me disarm 'em.” He wrestled away my pistol and took my blade, as Tim held me down in that bear hug. Wright later claimed I got so wild, that he had to put a rear mounted choke on me till I went limp. The thing is; when you get hit, its an involuntary physiological response that your adrenal glands flood your bloodstream with adrenaline; “fight or flight response”, and common sense goes right out the window as the body begins to go into shock. I’m thankful that the guys understand this and forgave me for turning my sidearm on them.          (Continued)