Between Cultures

On April 2, 2005, a month-and-a half after arriving in Iraq, I was in combat for the first time. We were pounded with mortars, rockets, grenades, vehicle-borne explosives, and smallarms fire for nearly two hours. After the fighting stopped, I interrogated a few of the Iraqis who were picked up by Marines during the attack. After I wrote my reports for the night, I went to the chow hall, ate breakfast, and walked back to my bunk. I lay down and slept like a baby. I slept well every night I was in Iraq. I easily shrugged off every issue that complicated my life: problems with girls, disagreements with superiors, arguments with friends. I would grow angry about the situation in Iraq from time to time, but my anger never affected my work, and I never lost any sleep over it. But when I returned to the United States, things were different.