"Bury My Heart in the United States"

An Iraqi, a tired American Soldier and...A MUST READ!

A Letter Home by Sergeant Grant L. Pratt III, 1st Cav. Baghdad, Sept. 2007

Sergeant Grant Pratt, III is on his second tour of duty in Iraq. He is a Platoon Sergeant with the 1s Cavalry and supervises 23 other medics and an aid station in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Baghdad. This letter home was sent September 11, 2007. In his own words he describes how one Iraqi has given him hope:

I wanted to take this opportunity to let everyone know of an experience I had here that really affected me.

I have wondered over the last seven months of my deployment if this war can be won militarily, or if there is any hope that this country can embrace a democratic government. In my eyes the people seem more intent on themselves and their contempt for other each other than making things work here.

With the things I have seen, experiences, and watching friends die I kind of believe that our endeavor here is pointless. I did not believe that there was a single Iraqi in this country that really cared if the violence stopped or that there were any that did not want to kill every American they see. Then I had something happen the other day that (did not change my mind necessarily) gave me some hope.

About a month ago an Iraqi came to my aid station; he is one of the Iraqis that works with us as an interpreter. His name is Sam and he is 20 years old. He came to my aid station with a severely broken and lacerated finger after it was shut in the 300 pound door of an armored vehicle. I spent about two hours cleaning his finger and suturing it, all the while making small talk. He continually told me how he wanted to come to America and join our Army so he could come back and do more for Iraq. He told me of how he loved Americans and all he wants is to become one.

I listened and talked with him until I was finished with my procedure and wished him well, and in my mind dismissed most of what he said as just words and never thought much else of it.

On September 9th it came across the radio that one of our vehicles had been hit by an explosion and we had one soldier killed, two wounded, as well as the interpreter that was with them. I put my gear on and went with the squadron commander to the hospital to check on our injured men.

It was quite a gruesome sight. First I saw my medic, who had minor wounds, then went to the young man who had served as the gunner. He had received blast wounds to the leg which had torn away a majority of his outer thigh. I then went to view the body of our fallen brother who died due to a head injury. We helped console the other members of the platoon as this was the second Soldier they had lost in five days. Overwhelmed by the experience, we walked in to see the interpreter, which turned out to be Sam.

Sam had suffered severe lacerations to the head, resulting in over 40 sutures and staples. He had a small skull fracture and a small brain hemorrhage. Despite his severe injuries he would only ask how the others were doing. He was covered in blood and in extreme pain and just wanted to be sure that the soldiers he was with were okay.

Once satisfied they would be taken care of, he took my commanders hand and said, "If I die please take my heart to the United States and bury it there." We assured him his injuries were not mortal and left him in the care of the doctors at the hospital and told him we would be back the next day to see him.

The next morning I received a call from the hospital telling me that Sam was going to be released to an Iraqi hospital, but that he did not want to go. He feared that because of his ethnic background that he would be denied treatment and sent away. I told them I would call back in a few minutes and that we would come and get him and continue his care at my aid station. After 20 minutes of talking to the commander and making arrangements, I called the hospital and told them we would be there shortly to pick him up when they informed me that they had already released him, and had given him money to get to the Iraqi hospital. Needless to say, we were a little upset.

We began searching the area around the hospital and could not locate Sam. We were worried that he would fall into the wrong hands as any Iraqi that works with the Americans are often killed because they are aiding the enemy.

Three hours later we got a call from the gate to our base that Sam was there. He had walked from the hospital to our base, about seven miles in flip flops and pajamas, despite fairly significant injuries. My medics brought him to the aid station and as we laid him on the bed I looked at him and said "You are a pretty tough guy." He grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes and said, "I knew if I got here you would take care of me, Sergeant."

Tears filled the corner of my eyes and I replied "You bet I will." He then said, "I had to get back here for two reasons. First the memorial service for Johnson (the soldier we had lost a few days prior) is tonight and I cannot miss that. We also have an important mission tomorrow and they need me." I informed him he would make it to the service, but would not be going on patrol anytime soon. He argued for a short time then agreed that it would be in his best interest to relax for a couple of weeks before going outside the wire, but still insisted his guys (the U.S. Soldiers from his platoon) needed him.

Later that night I sat two rows behind Sam as we paid tribute to our fallen brother and watched as he mourned and cried with the rest of us. I realized he is as committed as the rest of us and is considered a brother to us.

I just got done rechecking his wounds and talking with him. He still insists on going back out with his guys because they need him. He talked about his dreams of living in California some day. I have to say I admire this guy. He displays courage like no other Iraqi I have seen and in some ways made me think again of my views.

Despite what you see and hear on the news, there are Iraqis like Sam that are dedicated to seeing their country succeed. There may not be many, but some sacrifice along side us with a simple dream of their country being better off, or like Sam of being an American citizen. It gives me some hope that things will eventually work out here, and that someday Sam will be an American citizen, because he has earned that right.

Grant

COURAGE IN THE FACE OF DEATH

One-In-a-Million Mike Moore, Fighter Pilot

I still see Mike as I last saw him... that moon-lit night in conversation with me, heroic, willing himself to live and love his family until he died. He was imbued with the "fighting spirit" and seemed born to fly. I didn't believe then, nor could I know, how soon the final flight of his would be.

I first met Michael Moore, former Navy Fighter Pilot, one year younger, (30) married man with a son, Mikie, the same age as my son, in the Spring of 1984. Mike was a strong, wiry, tough man, my height, mustache sporting, same age, and married with two children.

We each accepted a request from our church sponsored Boy Scouts to be adult leaders. I had recently trained as a police officer for Simi Valley, California. Mike had just been grounded from flying fighter jets off carriers for the United States Navy. A routine physical exam discovered leukemia.It was hard for me to imagine that this no-nonsense energetic former fighter pilot was suffering from a form of leukemia that required frequent blood transfusions at UCLA Medical with no known cure.

Mike Moore was equal to any task, hard charging, and living an apparent normal healthy life. Leukemia didn’t stop him from enjoying hearty outdoor adventures that year. Devoted to his two children Teresa and Michael, Jr. he loved his wife Marilyn with an uncommon devotion. "I loved her from the first moment my eyes laid sight on her," he once told me on a camping trip, then shared their meeting and romance. It was as if Mike was sorting through every memory in search for "meaning" and purpose in his face off with mortality.

“God and guns” types, we tried to avoid talking finalitys. But the reality was that Mike needed to live like life couldn't end, and yet daily consider what an "end" really meant to not just himself, but in every way to a young wife and kids. I watched him in moments of quiet frustration and struggle; the fighter pilot couldn’t give in to a killer without a weapon to fight back with. Like boxing shadows he balanced anger with humor as he seemed to take swings at the phsyical evil robbing him of youthful love and a bright future. I thought that with prayers, Mike would be the one-in-a-million who beat the odds. I regularly offered friendship and the devil-may-care attitude he enjoyed, as I watched real courage confront one word youth can’t process well; “terminal.”

Mike simply lived fully, laughed as hard as he played, and took life one day at a time, without regrets. Once in-awhile, he hinted to his mortality and I would hint back at his immortality.“You’ll probably outlive me!” I often assured. “Well, maybe so – you’re such a wimp, Pratt,” he’d reply grinning. I was observing a man humbled as he found himself powerless to stop the enemy fighting him from within. I also witnessed a man “really living” that year.

Marilyn and her love meant the world to him. He once told me wistfully, “I never get tired of looking at her.” Mike spent all the time he could with her and the kids as he also taught the boys we led to be men. Mike never surrendered to his enemy, not even the last night we talked.

I called ahead to borrow Mike's truck for a move we were making. At dusk I arrived to his pleasant home amid orange trees. A light out back soon revealed Mike stumbling from growing darkness. “Now I know I’m gonna die!” he grumbled. “I can’t even pull the engine out of my car!” he angrily reacted, holding his grease covered hands and arms up in disgust. I was tempted to say, “You’re not going to die, Mike,” but an inner voice whispered to me, “Yes he will. Let him talk.”

I peeled an orange from a tree. We ate the sweet fruit and talked for a half hour. My heart was heavy. I’d never seen Mike so down. “I want to raise my kids! I don’t want someone else to do it!” he insisted. He looked at his hands again, shook his head, and tossed me the truck keys. “Taking my wife to an air show Saturday with a student pilot,” he said. “Should be fun.”

At a stoplight the next afternoon I heard, “Hey, I like your truck! Ugly driver though!” Mike laughed as he passed by taking the family out to the local Sizzler for dinner. “See you Monday!” I chuckled and waved. Twenty-four hours later he hemorrhaged and bled to death in Marilyn’s arms, a student pilot flying them to an air show in central California. He lived with love and passion up to his last breath, and in that Mike never stopped teaching a lesson to others.

From Micheal Moore, I learned to “really live” and love that year. I also learned how a "real man" dies. There are different kinds of courage. Michael Moore would have rather gone down in combat against a fighting opponent, but then he did, didn’t he? Yes, real men can fight, but Mike showed that real men can also love deeply and fully. His wife knew that, so did his now grown kids.

I've been to the children's weddings. I see Marilyn now and then, and realize Mike would still be saying, "I never get tired of looking at her." And once in awhile I wonder if Mike Moore isn't really assigned to missions after all, whether trying to get through to a young fighter pilot today, or whispering in his loved one's ear -- "I'm here. It will be okay. Be strong. Love, laugh, and believe. God is there, and so am I."

I miss Mike. I don't understand why God takes men of courage, skill, and love -- the kind the world really needs when it's in a tough pinch as we are today. All I know is that we haven't seen the last of him. His influence lives. And my faith teaches me he'll be back to hold Marilyn in his arms again, and be the father to his children again, and be once again, the friend every man can count on.

Because Mike isn't with us, let me offer this written memorial: “HOORAH! Mike --your one-in-a-million story of courage and love lives! This last hoorah is for you -- LT. Michael Moore, fighter pilot!*

*When I wrote The Last Valentine in 1997 I dedicated the story to Mike Moore and the love of his life Marilyn. It is a story of a WWII Navy Fighter pilot and the wife he left behind. See http://www.jmpratt.com/ go to "Published Works" and click The Last Valentine.