The Day My War Ended - by Don Gomez at NYT

American soldiers outside the Bayaa mosque in Baghdad on Oct. 7, 2003. Don Gomez

http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/atwar/2013/10/07/the-day-my-war-end...

By DON GOMEZ, October 7, 2013

Standing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of heavily armed paratroopers, I looked around at all of us, breathing heavily, angry and resentful, surrounding the Baya mosque in Baghdad. The previous morning, we had arrested the head imam because he was stockpiling weapons in the mosque. Now, under amber street lamps casting wicked shadows, his followers were gathered, demanding his release. My adrenaline was still pumping from the explosion minutes earlier, when one of them tossed a grenade at our line of troops, injuring more than a half-dozen soldiers and civilians. After that, order descended into a running street battle, soldiers wrestling protesters, bodies slamming into the hard concrete. Months of pent-up aggression were suddenly released in a cathartic, chaotic performance.

After that initial fit of violence, things were calming down. We had them surrounded, cornered, their backs to the mosque. Sweat ran down from under my helmet and into my eyes as I struggled to make out the mass of bodies in front of me, searching for a gleam of metal, the shine of a worn-out AK-47. They chanted at us: “America equals Saddam” and “Down down, U.S.A.!”

Imams with dark beards and large black turbans walked among the protesters, handing out bread and tea as our sergeants trooped the line in front of us, yelling and ensuring that we were packed tight next to one another like a Roman phalanx.

Behind us I could hear the rumble of Humvees and tanks, their guns canted over our heads, seemingly trained toward the dome and minaret of the mosque. Above us two helicopters circled, buzzing low, shining their industrial-strength spotlights on the crowd of protesting Iraqis. Hundreds of troops, tanks, Humvees and helicopters. All of this American firepower, focused on the people and the building in front of us, the mosque.

The situation was tense. One panicky soldier, one itchy trigger finger, and there would be a massacre. I was scared.

Off to my right I saw a squad of American soldiers turn to chase someone into an alley, loudly knocking over some garbage cans and startling us all. I laughed nervously and turned to the soldier next to me and said, “I know we’re not at war with Islam, but if someone took a picture right now. …”

That was Oct. 7, 2003. That was the day that the war ended for me.

I was there for the invasion when it was about finding illicit weapons and taking out Mr. Hussein and going home. I was sure that I would be home in time for burgers and fireworks on the Fourth of July.

The summer passed, and I was still there. Hot, miserable and not understanding what I was doing anymore. The insurgency began. We started getting hit more and more frequently. The looks from Iraqis on the street became darker and darker. I could no longer disarm anyone with a smile.

I’ve told this story a hundred times, refining it and polishing it and punching it up. It’s just as true as any war story ever was. It is the story I think about the most. It’s the thing I think about when I think about where it went wrong, where it ended or where it began to end. After that night, the war was never the same. The cool demeanor I prided myself on before was gone, replaced instead with a semi-panicky hypervigilance. I was a soldier determined to get home.

I cringed a little harder when we drove down the bomb-laden streets. When the platoon leader asked for volunteers, I looked around to see if anyone else would raise his hand first. My eyes flicked nonstop to every window we passed, every rooftop. My default reaction to anything I heard from anyone was distrust.

I was sadder when I called home.

Shortly after the protest, we moved from our small, company-size firebase to a new, megaforward operating base, complete with its own dining facility, dormitories, air-conditioning and showers. It was a welcome and wonderful change of pace from the spartan conditions we had endured since deploying earlier in the year.

The riot at the Baya mosque coupled with the move to the F.O.B. marked the beginning of the end of the war for me. I barely felt it then — just a deep-inside, tingling concern about what we were doing. I didn’t know what it was; I just knew I wanted to go home.

But it was the tipping point. If I were asked to look back and pick a time and place at which losing felt inevitable, at which the population turned from cautious supporters to cynics, that would be it. It was the day that I realized that winning from here on out meant simply not losing.

I’m sure every soldier has a story of where his or her war begins and where it ends. This one is mine.

Don Gomez is an Army officer. You can follow him on Twitter: @dongomezjr.