My War Starts Today

In a few hours I leave.

I've spent all day getting my mind right for what it is that I will face in the next 15 months. Once I step off that C-130 tonight, I step into a world which very few of you have ever been. It is a place where people will be trying to kill me. It's a very weird sensation. I'm not really nervous, but I'm uneasy? I don't know. I know that I don't feel normal, that could be what it is that's bothering me.

Over the last few weeks I've slowly been turning into the warrior that I'm trained to be. Becoming callous to things that would normally unnerve me. For example today, before people started getting on the plane we all cut our arms open. Enough to draw blood, a rite of passage "bleed now, live later." I usually can't draw my own blood. I have a 3 inch incision on my bicep that I cut open with the saw blade from a gerber tool. I cut my gunner and the gunner for the squadron commander (SCO) too. It's weird. It's not intended to be too painful or gruesome, just some battlefield superstition, with no beginning, and I had no problem participating in it.

Don't take what I'm saying to be disheartening. I'm not turning into some cold-blooded killer with no conscience, hardly the truth. Rather, I'm building up a wall of sorts around myself to protect the part of me that I hold dear. The Caleb that you all know and love. He's still here, just in a temporary packaging. I've "turned it on" I've been slowly getting to this point, but now it is in full force. I am what I was trained to be. I am a warrior and unafraid. I will seek out those who look to harm the innocents and the children and I will destroy them. I will show mercy, but I will be quick to react to hostility. I am on a mission. I will never back down. Never give in. Its game time and I'm standing at midfield waiting for the kickoff.

I am cocked, locked and ready to rock. My adrenaline is up and I have developed and antsy energy. I can't keep still, my feet refuse to stay flat on the ground. My breathing is more steady. The blood on my sleeve has dried. The joking has stopped, and everyone is smoking that last cigarette and putting on their kevlars. Check your mags, 29 rounds, green tips. The spring is tight, good, no jamming. Clap the rounds to the rear of the magazine. Slide it into the mag well. Pull the charging handle. Watch the blot push the first round into the chamber. Double, Triple check the safety. Take one last look at Kuwait. Last time I'll see this place for a while.

Let's Roll.