A veteran’s prayer for the holidays

Over the years I have spent some of the holidays far from home and family. During the Cold War, many were spent in Germany. The most profound was while I was in Iraq. That was the only time I really spent Christmas in a war zone — thankfully my last time, too.

In this season my mind and prayers turn to those who are out there still serving far from home in places like Afghanistan and Iraq. While nearly all the troops are pulling out of the latter, there are still many serving this nation in Afghanistan and other places like Germany, Japan and South Korea on ships at sea or under it. The men and women who call themselves Marines, Sailors, Airmen, Coast Guardsmen and — last be not least — those like myself, soldiers in the U.S. Army.

It is to these fine, brave people — the best America has to serve the nation in peace and in war — to whom my words are dedicated.

My mother and sister in Alaska sent a tiny, plastic nativity scene along with a foot-tall tree with battery-operated lights and tiny ornaments to hang from it. I displayed it on top of old MRE boxes and a small ammo crate with the cards sent from family and friends on my field desk at the end of my bunk.

I lived in a three-room trailer in a tiny room I shared with another soldier. It was one of hundreds of similar trailers scattered all over LSA Anaconda, near Balad, one of the largest posts in Iraq.

I was a mechanic for the 898 Engineer Battalion with the 81st Brigade Combat Team. I was a sergeant. My group was called Task Force Tacoma. On the ground since April, by this time we were seasoned soldiers. I was part of a small team that worked long hours inside and outside the wire repairing and maintaining the task force’s fleet of trucks and Humvees. Many of those Humvees and trucks were assigned to the Quick Reaction Force, scouts and the command group. These soldiers were “outside the wire” and took the fight to the enemy. They would drag back (or myself and others would recover) the damaged rigs for us to repair so they could go on their next mission. They were shot up, blasted by IEDs, or worse, lives were lost or soldiers severely wounded.

It was hard, dirty, dangerous work to keep up on the endless demands placed on all of us by these missions. Getting shelled by rockets, mortars and such nearly every day didn’t help either. That’s how the place earned its nickname “Mortar-ritaville.”

The incoming sirens were constantly sounding, and picking out pieces of friends wounded, and in some cases killed, made the job even harder. This was my life in a nutshell in December 2004.

In spite of the ever-present daytime heat, in December the temperature drops 30 degrees. I worked in a motor pool that was a motley collection of conex trailers, broken rigs and spare parts strewn about the gravel and sand. I was constantly covered in grease, oil and dirt, but I loved my job and those who served with me in that undermanned, over-worked section. We were once a section of close to 50, but were reduced to 18 prior to deployment. Eight of us were mechanics.

But it was that little Christmas display stuffed on top of boxes in my room that gave me a bit of hope — agift from loved ones for the holidays, a little shrine made in the prayers of peace in the midst of war. I guess this is the wish of many GIs at war. I can imagine wanting to have a little tree built into the side of a trench and decorated with bits and trinkets in World War I by battle-hardened soldiers. Or, Christmas carols sung in the lonely depths of the night by Americans and Germans during the siege of Bastone in World War II to be heard by the other across the line in the freezing cold of that snowy nightmare. I also imagine the half-starved, frozen remnants of George Washington’s army in the winter quarters of Valley Forge who prayed for food, warmth and victory over the British in the fledgling nation’s darkest hour.

Each was made in the hope of true peace on earth, goodwill toward all men in the time of social insanity — war — and by those caught up in it. It’s a humble wish that would just stop all the killing and death, even for just one day. But the hope that day represents is for it to last far longer, that the horrors of war would become something only read about in history books or shown in a movie.

We are, sadly, far from that reality, but these little reminders of Christmases past spent with family and close friends give soldiers like myself reason to carry on. The same holds true today.

In 2004, I spent Christmas Eve in my trailer. I was tired from the back-breaking work of repairing a Humbee that caught an IED with my partner in crime Sgt. Stankovich. My roommate SSgt. Phipps was out for the night, so I had our little room to myself. I put some Christmas music on my CD player, wrote some letters home. I tried playing “Silent Night” on my guitar. Smoked more than a few cigarettes outside and listened to the endless drone of the massive generators that gave light and power to the base.

I went back in and stared at that little shrine I had made and thought of times spent with my family during the holiday season in years past and a world away. I read a little from my scriptures and stuffed my M-16 at the foot of my bunk. I turned off all the lights and tried to sleep. The constant noises of the generators outside and the air conditioning unit in the trailer lulled me into a light slumber.

The crash of thunder sent me flying out of my cot and onto the floor. As my heart pounded, I realized it was truly a storm and not another attack. No sirens were screaming, just flashes of lightening followed by the loud crash of thunder. My hands shook.

The first signs of the PTSD that haunts me today were beginning to be felt back then. So, I picked myself up and back into my rack. From the snores coming from the other side of the wall lockers dividing the room in half, I could tell SSgt. Phipps had made it back from the telephone center. The man could sleep through an earthquake. I wrapped up tighter in my camo blanket, puffed my field jacket/pillow and the let the sounds of the downpour ease me to sleep amidst the shakes that threatened to keep me up.

The morning dawned. The sun came flying up as it did over there and dried the past night’s downpour away in record time. It was Christmas Day. I shaved out of my old canteen cup while listening to Armed Forces Network and holding my field mirror in one hand. I was relieved to find out I was granted a rare thing — a day of peace, so to speak. I was given the day off from duty.

So, I put on a fresh uniform, grabbed my weapon and stuffed my pack with a sketchpad and my drawing pens, plus the letters to be mailed home. I was going down to the Morale Welfare and Recreation Center to spend my time drawing followed by stuffing myself with a huge Christmas dinner with my buddies at the dining facility. For one day at least I would have a small measure of peace. I stepped up to that humble offering of the season and thanked God for another day of being alive and opened the door and stepped into the bright sun of Christmas Day.

It is my hope for all who serve — wherever they are — that they be granted at least one day of peace during this holiday season, and that all return home to their families safe and sound. That is this GI’s wish and a veteran’s heartfelt prayer.

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.