I don't know death

By Sgt. Zach Mott
3rd Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division

CAMP TAJI, Iraq – I don't know death.

Death has visited the doors of my neighbors and even that of some of my friends. But, his intrusions on my life have been, thankfully, few and far between. My paternal grandmother died when I was barely old enough to know who she was and my maternal grandmother died after a long battle with emphysema. That's it.

I am currently on my second tour in Iraq and have enjoyed relative calm in the 15 months I have spent "at war," so to speak. I've fired 45 total rounds from my assigned weapon while in Iraq. Forty of those rounds were aimed at silhouetted targets at a qualification range and the other five were aimed at the dirt mound surrounding the test fire pit. My only experience with the, by some accounts, omnipresent roadside bombs was more than 200 meters in front of me and too small to damage much more than the dirt it pushed into the sky.

As a journalist, my job is to go where the Soldiers go and cover what they do. Through either a twist of fate, or some other force, those patrols, missions and other tasks I've covered have been harm free. Death, it seems, does not have my address.

But, there are Soldiers here that know death all too well. Some know him well enough that he's become an unwelcomed member of their squad/platoon/company/battalion/brigade/division/life.

I covered a memorial ceremony recently for five Soldiers killed by an improvised explosive device that opened my eyes to a new level of pain and anguish. None of the previous ceremonies I've covered hit me like the emotional sucker punch this one provided.

Five Soldiers killed in one incident is the most my brigade, the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division, has experienced in two-plus tours in Iraq. But, it was far more than that. These men who died were the good guys – the ones you root for when the times get tough. They were the ones that helped motivate an entire company of men to achieve great things. With the simple, mindless act of one coward, Staff Sgt. Gary Jeffries, Sgt. James Craig, Cpl. Evan Marshall, Spc. Brandon Meyer and Pfc. Joshua Young were taken from the families they both dearly loved and who dearly loved them.

The remaining members of that Jan. 28 patrol responded not with rage against the well-hidden, heavily-armed enemy – instead, they responded with decisive actions that fulfilled the warrior ethos of "I will never leave a fallen comrade." They fought back for nearly three hours to ensure their friends' bodies did not end up as a war trophy for the enemy.

To listen to those men, now more than a week removed from the attack, recount tales of their now deceased comrades is enough to bring a tear to even the most battle-hardened veterans' eye.

I can't begin to understand these five men who died. I can only go off the stories that were told and the emotions on the faces of their friends and brothers-in-arms. From that, I can see they were well-loved, well-respected and deeply missed.

I don't want to know death – there's far too much of it floating around in this country. I know that every time I go out the gate is another chance taken and another step closer to that ultimate fate. But I know if I am covering Soldiers like those described above, I will be in skilled hands that are capable of accomplishing whatever mission lies ahead.

I can only hope that if death does knock at my door, I am remembered as fondly as these five heroes were.