Spc. Jake Sere of Stagecoach
For those soldiers who have never experienced combat - the smells, the sights, the sounds - it is just a foggy film clip spliced together from images you've seen on the news or in the movies.
War is something we played as children, not something we go off to in middle age.
I remember my first exposure to war in late February 2002. I was on gate guard at Bagram Airbase about 40 miles from Kabul, Afghanistan.
Operation Anaconda had just begun and things were not going well.
The Taliban's troop strength and their unyielding will to stand and fight had been grossly underestimated. I watched as healthy young men of the 101st Airborne and 10th Mountain divisions climbed aboard dozens of CH47 Chinook helicopters and disappeared into the morning sky. I saw those same helicopters, now full of holes, coming back to quickly offload American wounded, then return to the fight.
At my entry control point, the first Humvee to pass carrying the wounded contained a critically injured U.S. soldier and a young Northern Alliance Afghani fighter.
A U.S. medic was frantically tending to the wounded U.S soldier whose screams could be heard above the rumble of the Humvee diesel engine.
A steady trickle of blood flowed from the head and shoulders of the Afghani soldier and spilled off the tailgate into the dusty earth. He was dead.
I stood staring in shock. I had seen dead bodies before on the job. But these were fellow soldiers, guys that I had never met, but brothers nonetheless.
I could not contain my emotions and the reality of it all struck me like a donkey kick in the kidneys.
Later that same afternoon, I stood and talked to a young Air Force pararescueman at an aid station.
"PJs" as they're called, are highly trained special operations medics tasked with recovery and medical treatment of personnel in combat environments. Their creed is, "That Others May Live."
This particular PJ told me that he had been left by his superiors waiting too long for his call to get out there. He had heard radio traffic from the battlefield and the wounded calling for help.
He was incredulous that he had been told to standby.
"I just want to get out there and do my job," he told me.
Twenty minutes later, I watched him finally run to a waiting Chinook and disappear into the mountains.
An hour later, he was dead, cut down by murderous enemy machine gun fire and mortars as he tried to shield a wounded soldier with his body.
I heard a year later that he was recommended for the Medal of Honor, but instead posthumously received the Silver Star for valor.
Ever since then I've often wondered how I would perform in combat.
Would I honor my own heroes by my actions? Would I act bravely when I needed to? Would I be that rock for my crew when our own Humvee is hit by an IED?
I hope that the answer to each of those questions is a resounding "yes."
For role models, I need only look to the only two soldiers in our platoon to have previously seen combat - Spc. Jake Sere of Stagecoach and Staff Sgt. Greg Sanchez of Las Vegas.
Jake Sere
Sere, a 30-year-old ex-Marine, served with the 1st Marine Division during the initial invasion in 2003.
When he was wounded after his Humvee was struck by an IED, Sere refused the Purple Heart. He told me once that he didn't feel as though he deserved the award, because his own grandfather, a WWII veteran, had been wounded under much worse circumstances.
Sere was a .50 gunner then and he still is today. He is the gunner for gun truck Wolfpack 4. Wolfpack 4 is our "back-door," the last gun truck in the convoy, charged with the responsibility of providing rear security.
I wondered what made a man volunteer to do this again, especially after having been blown out of his turret once before.
"Why not someone who's done this before, instead of someone who's never done this at all?" Sere asked, and then answered, "I've been here before. I've dealt with the people and know the area."
He still carries the reminder of that day - several small stones embedded in his left cheek.
I asked Sere if he ever thinks about the moment when his gun truck was struck.
"Not really," he said. "I just try to put it out of my mind and think about the job I have to do. It was hardest after I came home. I would wake up at night with night terrors."
Sere saw nearly continuous combat during the main invasion from March 19, 2003, to the following June.
"We pushed farther north into Iraq after that and did what the Marine Corps calls SASO (security and stabilization operations). We conducted mostly vehicle-mounted patrols and reacted to any anti-coalition forces that we would run into," he said.
"That's when I got hit. Fortunately, IEDs weren't as sophisticated then as they are now, so it could have been a lot worse than it was."
Sere has been an invaluable asset to this mission. His knowledge of combat operations and his expertise with the .50 caliber heavy machine is unparalleled.
Why does he do this again?
"Hell, I've got nothing else goin' on right now," he told me.
Greg Sanchez
Staff Sgt. Greg Sanchez, 29, served active duty with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, stationed in Vicenza, Italy.
Now the squad leader for our platoon's 3rd Squad, Sanchez has over 100 certified parachute jumps with both the U.S. Army and the Tunisian Special Forces.
"The only one that counts for me is my combat jump," Sanchez told me.
It's rare in today's Army to see any soldier wearing a coveted little gold star on his jump wings which signifies a jump made under combat conditions.
Sanchez earned his when he jumped into Northern Iraq during the early morning hours of March 26, 2003.
"I was the sixth jumper back from the door. The only thing going through my mind at that point was what my actions were going to be when I got to the ground - putting my weapon into action," he said.
"Everybody's rucksacks were so heavy. We all carried extra ammunition, water and mortar rounds. Our rucks were so heavy that we didn't wear body armor, to cut down on our jump weight," he recalled.
"All I wanted to do was get out that door. I was amped. As we approached the DZ (drop zone) we could hear the rounds being fired at us from the ground, ticking off the belly of the aircraft and see the tracers flying up past us. It looked like something out of Star Wars.
"After I jumped and hit the ground, I sank because it was nothing but mud. There was no moon. It was totally black."
Sanchez spent the night in his muddy fighting position staring into the blackness and waiting intensely for an enemy that never came.
"We were at the farthest end of the drop zone securing a runway at this airfield. I held my position until morning when I was relieved by members of another squad," he said.
"When (the insurgents) found out we were coming, they got out."
"I wasn't really scared. I don't know if it was because I was so young or just so confident in my training and my squad mates," he said.
Sanchez's first taste of combat was when his squad pushed into Kirkuk in Northern Iraq. For the remainder of his tour, he fought from street to street and building to building.
"I remember an old man that offered me a glass of water while I was on patrol. At first I was put off, because this old guy came up wanting to hug on me. He had tears in his eyes as he offered me the water and repeatedly thanked us for freeing him. Right then and there I knew that we needed to be here.
"Since then I've volunteered to come back here twice. The culmination for me is to come back here as many times as it takes so that my kids or anybody else's kids never have to come here," he said.
"Even if it means giving my life to do it."
I don't know of a single soldier, sailor, airman or Marine serving here that craves glory, medals or accolades.
I don't believe there is a single one of us that isn't a bit embarrassed by thanks and hugs and handshakes.
It's my experience that soldiers volunteer to do this two and three and four times - despite their demons - because it has to be done.
Someone once said, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
None of us here can stand by and just do nothing.