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Letters

Family and Friends,
River City. Have you ever heard this term before? It's a brevity term used in Western Iraq by the Marines. There were a few things that came to mind the first time I heard the term; I thought of San Antonio because of the river walk, I thought of El Paso because it separates two Nations, I thought of St. Louis and Memphis because they thrive off the Mississippi river. Without these bodies of water, these places have no life. I wasn't really prepared for the meaning, and fell silent when I was told its implications.

I am an American, I'm so proud of what I do, along with the other 120,000+ Americans that are here in Iraq. As the daily spin continues to get out of control in our country, and our Nation continues to become divided because of the way this war is propagated on your very own TV sets, we American Soldier, Sailors, Airman, and Marines are out here doing it. When American's stand up against a cause that they have no clue about—this war in particular—I'm quick to ask myself what exactly are they giving up? What deprivation do they suffer because of this war, what sacrifices do they make? Is it really a waste that 3000+ troops have died for the cause of Iraq? According to several Presidential hopefuls, it is. No American troop is a waste for the cause of freedom. None! No one can truly say anything about this war until they have walked in the shoes of so many that have come here, are here, and will come here. What sacrifices do American's make for this?

It's Valentines Day, and I'm told it's for one guy; a Marine who is fighting for his life. Ironically the President is speaking in the background on a TV in the waiting room. I can't quite make out what he's talking about, but I'm sure it's something to do with my being in Iraq. The doctors walk through the hallway full of Marines, Soldiers, and a few Airmen—that got the word—that area standing in three separate lines with their uniform tops off and their sleeves rolled up. One doctor looks at several troops in the eye's and tells the crowd thank you for what we are doing. He says, "Thank you men, you're doing a good thing. He's fighting for his life in there, and I think you guys are going to save him." The hospital staff is walking about; everyone notices their blood splattered boots. It's difficult not to be curious about what they are doing in the back rooms, but you know something isn't right. Two guys (staff members) continue coming in and out; their appearance is as though they were snatched from their living quarters to come help. They have rain boots on with shorts; the boots are supposed to be black, but tonight…they're red.

The ambiance of the hallway is filled with concern. We all notice and see people coming in and out of the ER. The look in everyone's eyes tells me they want to know more of why they are here; they want details. In their own minds—in mine too—they say this is the best they can do without doing what the person we are all trying to save, does. About sixty of us are standing in processing lines to have the opportunity to sit in the big chair and give what we all have, what makes us live. It's called the jewel of life, but tonight, in its rarity, it's called blood. We are going through the screening process to ensure we haven't been to countries that would prevent us from giving our blood, but yet we are in one of many contaminated countries…Iraq. People that have gotten tattoos in the last year are quickly turned away. There is a 20 question questionnaire that we have to answer before we move to the next line. Then there's the blood sample to ensure our juice is not contaminated with diseases. Next, it's time to wait for the results, and have the chance to give.

While I was enjoying a steak dinner at one of the mess halls here at Al Asad AB, a young Marine yells out over the noise of the crowd, and the big screen TV blasting a basketball game. Instantly, I knew something wasn't right; he yells for all O+ blood type personnel to rush to the hospital to donate blood. "There is a shortage and we need it now," he yells. Three of us from my group get up immediately and rush to the hospital. When we arrive, the place is empty; the appearance is as though we are the first ones there. We fear that we are late and will not be able to contribute. As we walk through the hallways of the hospital, there is silence, there is no one in site, "where do we go" we ask our selves. Then suddenly, around the corner, we come across a hallway full of people standing in line. They all have their sleeves rolled up waiting to be screened and give. Instantly, we get in line and start the process too. I hear people talking about where they were when they got the call to come give blood. Some say they were at the Post Exchange, other's say they were at other mess halls on base, or that they heard the announcement on the base broadcast system.

As I read through the literature about giving, I look up and see a young Marine being escorted by two staff member from the donation room; he's pale and having trouble walking. This act alone is that of courage and compassionate for life; he's here to keep someone alive, so much that his selfless act almost makes him pass out. Word is starting to trickle through the hallway about the cause, but I can't quit make out what they are saying. I'm next to be tested to ensure I'm a
safe donor.

Five pokes later and a busted vain, the test is over. My arm is in some pain, but I put into perspective why I'm here and the pain subsides. So I stand with everyone else in the hallway, in another line, waiting to give. Each passing moment, I see GI's go in to give, and their blood come out, still warm, rushed to the next room where it's being pumped into the wounded Marine. There is but a few minuets to do one last test of the blood before it's transferred into the guy we are all routing for. I only hope, as another warm bag passes by, that it's purposeful and will provide that what we value most…life.

Two hours have passed, and I'm still waiting for my opportunity. As I look around the room, I see so much generosity. It's reassuring to know that if it were I in that room, fighting for my life, every single one of these individuals would be here for me. To see Gods work before me reassures any doubt of the blessings that he provides. It's heartfelt; the Holy Spirit is present in every soul here tonight.

I strike up a conversation with Gunnery Sergeant Castro; he's from El Paso Texas and will return home in two weeks. We talk about the southwest and how much we miss the sunsets and the warm winters. We are becoming complacent about being here as time goes by; we don't want to think of the possibilities so we talk about other things. He has been here for seven months now; he's on his second tour. He was part of the fight for Fallujah back in 2004 and talks about it vividly as though it were yesterday. As time passes, a nurse calls for him to report to the lab. When he returns, he's upset because he was told he can't give; he tested positive for Hepatitis C. Like every third world country we are exposed to, there is always the possibility that we come home with something more then the memory.

The doctor comes back into the hallway to give us an update; everyone becomes silent. Holding back from emotion, he says, "He's going to make it. I'm not saving his life in there, you guys are. It's your blood that's keeping him alive, good job." Statements like this only reinforce our purpose for being here.

"Diaz…Tech Sergeant Diaz," I hear off in the distance. I look up and see a Med Tech standing with my charts waiting for me to come down the hallway; it's my turn to keep this heart beating, today…on Valentines. I sense in my heart, this is the last opportunity I have to provide my life blood for my fellow Freedom Fighter. I walk proudly to the room, get comfortable and let the process begin.

15 minutes pass, and I've given all they will allow me to give. As the tech gets me cleaned up, I see the nurse poking at the bag filled with my blood. I get up and walk over to the table where my blood rests. Already in prayer, I lay my hands on the bag and say that I give this blood to God and reassure myself that no matter the consequences, thy will of the Lord be done. My part is the best that I could give. I tell my blood, which is about to enter a man who is striving for life, to reach his soul a tell it, "Be strong and of good courage, do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go" (1 Joshua 1:9). As I walk away, I feel confident that what I have provided, like those before me, and yet to follow, has already given this Marine life.

As I leave the hospital, I run into Gunnery Sergeant Castro…with a BIG smile on his face. He's been cleared to give and is getting back in line. Where does this spirit come from? On this night, I have had a life altering experience that will never leave my memory. What I will certainly not forget, unfortunately, is the good bye I had with Gunnery Sergeant Castro. He tells me that one Marine died before we arrived, and the one we are pulling for is losing blood as fast as they are putting it in. He has been given blood six times over now; he doesn't own an ounce of his own blood anymore. He also says that the doctors are trying to stop the bleeding, get him stabilized, and on his way to Germany for surgery. "It was a pipe bomb," he says, "it was so powerful that it killed the first Marine and ripped apart the mid-section of the one we are trying to save." "God Bless You," he tells me. "Be safe and get home soon," I say.

The van is silent as we drive back to our side of the base. We all wonder what will happen to the Marine. We hope that he makes it. He has given up so much already, today. He's a fighter, and in my mind, I believe he'll make. God will bless him, as he blesses all of us today. It's unfortunate that someone will have to get the call today, that their loved one died, and that another loved one is clinging for his life…today, on Valentines. We all sacrifice something, but today, these Marines sacrificed even more. There is so much love in the spirit of the world on this day, but no love can compare to the love given by all those Marines, Soldiers, and Airmen in that hallway tonight.

As part of my daily routine, I walk to the phone center at 11pm to call Marcella. As I walk to the center, I reflect back on what I just did, and pat myself on the back for what we all did. God put me at the right place at the right time tonight. There is no better gift, then the gift of life. As I make it to the phone center, I walk around the corner and there, on a chair, is a white sign with red letters that reads, "Temporary Closed due to River City." I pause and wonder…is it for the Marine that died already, or did the second one die too?

River City is a brevity term used in Western Iraq by the Marines. River City is declared base wide when a Soldier, Sailor, Airman, or Marine dies in our area of operations. All communications are shut down until family members are notified. It's a good policy to allow the military, humbly, to tell family's the fate of their loved one. So tonight, everyone on Al Asad is unable to call home to their loved ones and tell them we love them, especially today…Valentines Day. It's nothing compared to what was already given up today. There are no sacrifices that can compare to this. No American that lines up to protest for my presence in Iraq, will ever sacrifice anything compared to what we Freedom Fighters have sacrificed today. There is no amount of blood, albeit a pint of blood, which will ever bring back what was lost today. River city…well, now you know what it
means. God Bless You.

-Eddie a.k.a, Tech Sergeant Dia


TSgt Heriberto G. Diaz Jr.
MWHS-2 Det A JPEC
Unit 78092
FPO / AE 09502-8092=20