I was in Iraq a while back. I tried to make a habit of sending email updates to family and friends. What follows below is one of those emails that I sent home. It was originally written to that audience of civilians so you may see some extra explanatory detail about something that seems obvious to you military readers.

All names changed, etc.

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Hi all,

Sorry my update's a little late, but I've just been swamped. I promise I'll send a regular update shortly. What I want to do today, though, is to offer a small snapshot of the nature of this war:

I took a short flight last night on a Blackhawk helicopter, traveling with the Brigade commander and some other staff officers from Camp Banger to FOB Boomer (FOB = Forward Operating Base). I needed to get some documents signed by the Division Commander (2-star/Major General Jack), and I happened to know where he was going to be in about an hour.

It was after dark when we got picked up - the helos dropped in at our LZ (Landing Zone) and the crew signalled us with flashlights to let us know we could approach and board. We lifted off into the dark night, headed south. I could see the lights of Baghdad below - some electric, many fires, but there were no lights for us - just the shadowy outlines of my brothers in the Blackhawk. Someone would occasionally turn his head to look out the window and I'd know it by the sudden appearance of the cat-eyes glowing on the back of his helmet. There was little talking - it's too noisy, and shouting gets old quickly. Besides, your shouts only carry well to the guy next to you.

We dropped onto Boomer LZ after about a ten-minute flight, where we were expected and picked up by soldiers with Gators who took us to the Headquarters building. We dropped magazines from our weapons and cleared them on the way, and then dropped our helmets and flak vests along the wall inside.

We all noticed, but did not dwell on, the memorial set up in the FOB Boomer assembly hall. Boots, medals in a case, rifle on-end with a helmet on top, dog tags dangling off the pistol grip, a picture of the fallen soldier. We were here for a memorial service - the Brigade had sustained our first combat casualty of the deployment. "Sustained a casualty" sounds so sterile and unfeeling, I know, but that's the Army for you - cold and impersonal. We're all business, don't you know.

As we waited for the service to begin, many of us took the time to catch up with seldom-seen faces. It's nice to have a few minutes when you simply will not be doing anything else, and crass or not, we took advantage of the grim opportunity to connect outside of the usual run of missions, meetings, briefings, etc., while at the same time avoiding talking about the fallen soldier. But that's the Army for you - cold and impersonal. You just never know when you'll run into Sergeant Jones again, especially in a war zone.

Eventually, the Company was formed up and stood there in front of the memorial, waiting. But . . . waiting for what? The distinguished guest, of course. Major General (MG) Jack hadn't arrived yet, and they couldn't start the service without him. He wasn't anything to the fallen soldier, but generals exist in a semi-political space so he was coming to lend the weight of his office to the event, and to offer his meaningless condolences. Everybody that mattered, anyone who really knew and cared about the fallen soldier, was already there, but they had to wait on someone who likely viewed the event as an unwanted hiccup in his busy schedule. Just one more example of the bureaucracy we deal with every day, even around a memorial service. But again, that's the Army for you - cold and impersonal. Even in death we have to keep up appearances.

Once the General arrived and the service began, I noted the precision of the procession of speakers. MG Jack and the unit commanders first, followed by the close friends offering remembrances. Then there was the Chaplain providing guidance and words of hope for the living. All of it was timed - the chain of command and friends each get four minutes, the Chaplain gets a little more. Like clockwork. Despite the emotional remembrances that made it obvious the fallen soldier was respected and well-liked, it was also obvious that we still had business to do and we were not going to linger unnecessarily. But that's the Army for you - cold and impersonal - and we've got precisely 42 minutes for grief.

I listened through it all, empathizing with my brothers in arms who had lost one so close to them, but I hadn't known the fallen soldier, hadn't even known of the soldier, until the fatal incident had been reported up to Brigade headquarters a few days earlier. I remained composed throughout. Like so many of my brothers and sisters, I too can be cold and impersonal. We are what the Army makes us.

At the end of the remembrances, the First Sergeant called the Company to attention and began a final symbolic roll call. "Private Alex Durant!" he called, and Private Durant promptly sounded off with a hearty "Here, First Sergeant!"

"Specialist Allen Murphy!" called the First Sergeant. Just like Durant, Specialist Murphy responded with a loud "Here, First Sergeant".

"Lieutenant Spencer!" he called next, and received no response. I could feel the distance between me and the deceased rapidly closing, and unexpected tears welled up in my eyes.

"Lieutenant Donna Spencer" he called again, but again there was no response from Lieutenant Spencer.

"Second Lieutenant Donna. Allison. Spencer!" he called for the last time, and silence rang out in response.

Lieutenant Spencer was not going to answer. I quietly wept for her, for her Army brothers and sisters, for her family back home - though I had not known her. She was one of us - one of the few who stepped up when almost nobody else will - and she was gone. I wept then for one I had not known, and I'm just about in tears again as I write this. I suppose that's also the Army for you. Maybe not quite as cold as I'd thought.

There were three volleys of M16 fire, and the bugler sounded Taps. At the end of Taps, many of the soldiers of the Company lined up to pay their last respects, stepping up to the memorial and saluting, some dropping to one knee to offer a silent prayer, or to leave a token of remembrance in front of Lieutenant Spencer's boots. Among them came the biggest fellow in the Company, a bull of a man wearing Specialist rank. He paid his respects, and as he turned from the memorial I could see tears streaming down his face, his countenance filled with anguish over his fallen sister. And that, truly, is the Army for you.

Our Brigade's first combat loss is a testament to the nature of this war. We lost 2LT Donna Spencer, a bright, dedicated woman in her mid-twenties, to the same sort of IED that you hear about in the news. Here in Iraq, there are no front lines. There are no rear areas. When you arrive, you are stepping into rough country. Don't misunderstand - it's not all bad. But when it is bad, there is no discrimination.

Y'all take care, and I'll talk to you again soon.

ps: If you're keeping track, I completely forgot to get the General's signature on those documents. Must've been distracted.