Reflecting on my life in Iraq

From where I sit on a bed built from plywood and 2-by-4s, the 6-by-6-foot area around me has been my modest escape from reality for the past 11 months. It sits snuggly inside a 13-man tent, with walls assembled with olive drab rope strung here and there, along with camouflage ponchos and sheets hanging by multi-colored clothespins. A scrap wood computer desk sits parallel to the bed, cluttered with letters from home, personal hygiene supplies, assorted boxes of stale food, DVDs and assorted military rank and patches.

To my left lies my gear – weapon, ammo, bulletproof vest, helmet, gas mask and uniform. It’s funny that I find comfort in this sardine-can type space, but it is what I am accustomed to, and it suits me for now. It is better than what lies outside. Southern Iraq has been my home since departing Kuwait in June 2003.

Here I am not known as Travis. I’m Sgt. Hill. I have served patriotically in the Maine Army National Guard for more than five years, and people find it hard to imagine that I am here of my own free will. As crazy as it sounds, I am here because I volunteered to assist another unit, and with me are 27 other brave, devoted Maine souls.

As humans and Americans we are driven to aid others in need, and to all of us, Iraq was definitely a place calling for help. We all made huge sacrifices in our decision to come here; I left behind two gorgeous sons and an amazing wife. At times it seems unbearable, missing my oldest son’s first day of school, my youngest son’s first birthday, along with every holiday. Times like those made the stresses and loneliness of this place infinitely more difficult. And hearing my son repeatedly asking me when I was coming home tore through my heart. As a soldier I refrained from crying, but the baby inside me exploded into tears.

My experiences have been intense at times, everything from dealing with the 160-degree temperatures in August with no air conditioners or freezers, to pulling security for convoys’ safe travel. At the beginning we would escape our tents at night to stand in the cooler 120-degree weather outside of our tent, and on the horizon just four football fields away, would see bullet tracers in the night, bright neon streaks headed in every direction. We would just gaze and pray, knowing that out there was our protection, our own saviors in camouflage, fighting to keep us all safe. My prayers would also include that we would never be in a situation like that. God be with the soldiers that are.

The engineering company I’m attached to has built 10 new buildings on base and maintained the road leading to the dreaded capital, Baghdad. Remodeling old and decaying Iraqi buildings has also been part of our mission, along with hundreds of little things we have done to make other soldiers lives here better. We may not have done what we thought we were going to do, helping the local Iraqis build schools and hospitals, but we have made a difference to other Americans going through the same thing as us.

If the Army had a last name, it would be Duty. Every soldier here dreads that word, knowing that when that word flows from a superior’s mouth, something wretched is getting ready to take place. Here we have had the liberty of exciting human feces-burning detail, washing the showers, guard duties, and guarding local nationals while they work on base. On one late night in February, I heard that word being directed to me, and I felt a knot in my stomach. I was to be the sergeant in charge of a handful of soldiers responsible for guarding a local Iraqi’s contracting group on base for two weeks.

The first day was hectic, going to the site pointed out to me, and dealing with the long and grueling process of getting the locals on base. Speaking no Arabic and trying to find your group in a huge tent filled with dozens of Iraqis in not an easy task. Upon getting them on base, we finally headed to the building they were to work on.

There I began to see first hand the work of third country nationals. With medieval tools and worn-down bodies, these men worked their hearts out.

I saw a part of the locals that I have never seen before; the ones I failed to see as I drove down the streets just days before. I did not see them as enemies but as men. Men working for their families and making a measly $4 a day for their troubles. My heart opened for them and I wanted to learn all I could.

Throughout the next week I tried to speak to them the best I could, through their broken English and listened to the stories they had to tell. Stories of before the fall of Saddam, and how they were ordered into the Iraqi army or suffer horrible consequences. The more I spoke with them the more I learned, and started speaking Arabic as well as they spoke English. I learned their names, talked with them between work and ate with them daily.

Those men had hardly anything to offer, but always offered just the same. If only all Americans had the hearts of the men I met. Due to now speaking some of the language and knowing the ins and outs of the duty, I was tasked to be in control of the group for the remainder of my time in country. This “duty” I thought was so bad turned out to be one of my best experiences in Iraq.

Now I am duty free again and the little tucked-away area in the city of tents will no longer be mine. I am grateful it is my time to go home. Iraq has taught me a lot of who I am, and has opened my eyes outside the bubble of the United States. The bubble that many Americans live within, blinded to the rest of the world, the safer more carefree life. No regrets from me though, through what I have seen and done, for now I am a better person. And a better person on his way home at last.

Though I am on my way out, a new soldier just arrived in country, sharing the same last name and the same blood as I. A man who like me will experience a life never thought, and feelings never before felt. A soldier to keep the peace and make the world a better place. He is my brother and it is his turn. He will be in my prayers every day until he comes home. May God be with him and bring him home safe.

Sgt. Travis Hill is a member of the Maine Army National Guard’s 133rd Engineer Battalion. Friday he will return home to his wife Erin, and two sons, Taber, 5, and Brayden, 22 months. His brother Jason is also a member of the 133rd and left for Iraq in January.