January 6, 2005 had come very quickly. Sgt. Scott’s alarm went off at around 5:00 a.m. that morning, letting off the signature beeping tone that I had come accustomed to while at Fort Sill. We woke up as a company, most of us still exhausted from the previous day’s activities. Most of our guys had a little packing left to do and rose from their beds quickly, eager to get everything ready.

I chose to lie in bed a little longer, hoping to conserve energy for the day’s mission. Some guys chose to head for breakfast, figuring it would be the only hot meal we’d be indulging in for the next twenty four hours. The mission alone would take us into the afternoon, and unpacking the helicopters upon arrival would certainly take us into the evening.

The mood in the tent was a little awkward, most of us choosing to keep to ourselves the feelings we had about our upcoming flight. Today was the day we would venture into the most volatile war zone of our generation. I prayed quietly that morning as I laid in bed, asking God to get us through our upcoming mission. Over the last three months I had come to know all of the men in my company well; I knew how many children they had, how much they cherished their wives and how much they had to live for.

Today was going to be the first time we actually faced a REAL combat mission. Though most of us logged combat flight time while in Kuwait, it just didn’t seem like combat. Iraq would definitely be different.

Elections were on the table for the people of Iraq, bringing an overwhelming presence to the insurgency. All across the country attacks persisted, fueled by the rhetoric of extremists like Al-Zarquai, the Jordanian terrorist responsible for the brutal slayings of innocent foreigners in Iraq over the past few years.

January 2005 was certainly not the ideal time to be entering Iraq, we all knew and understood that. We had been training for this day for over three months, preparing for this very mission. All our training was now what would carry us into the occupied zone, or the lack thereof for that matter.

Training deficiencies that once seemed resolvable were now insignificant; there was no longer any time to conduct training. Each one of us would be left to crew on instinct, knowing we had the knowledge it would take to get us through. This wouldn’t be the only combat mission we’d be flying in the next year, that was for sure; January 6, 2005 was just the first.

By the time we all made it out to the flight line that morning, we were pressed for time. We scurried around the flight line with glass cleaner and paper towels, dirty windshields now the only thing left to be tended to. My aircraft for the mission was 594, which was designated as "Long-Knife 72". I cleaned 594’s windshields as I carried a conversation with the rest of my crew. I talked about my wife and children a little more with the guys than usual that morning, probably because I was thinking so hard about them.

It’s hard looking back to imagine how nervous I was before our mission. The thoughts that registered within me were probably the root of this fear, building to the anxiety already present. I imagined in my head how hard it would be on my wife if anything happened to me, raising our girls by herself. I didn’t want my daughters to grow up without their father. I wanted to be there with them for all the special moments in life.

After running up the aircraft on the flight line, SSG Pruitt and myself got into the aircraft and secured ourselves for take-off. We taxied from our parking spot to the departure end of the runway at Camp Buehring, following behind the aircraft ahead of us in formation. One of the pilot’s in another bird requested take-off from tower. He was answered quickly with a take-off clearance and we were on our way.

As we climbed to two hundred feet I looked back out my window and noticed that an aircraft in the flight was still on the runway, left behind by the rest of us. I notified Mr. Trautwein, our pilot in command, that we still had a bird on the runway. He discovered while monitoring the radios that one of our aircraft got a caution light in the cockpit, an indication for the crew that a mechanical malfunction had occurred. The crew would be forced to stay behind and evaluate the problem while the rest of us pressed on with our mission. Within minutes we were flying over the border to Iraq.

The border was designated by a road guarded by rows of razor wire on each side and a solid yellow line dividing it. The road was well kept and clean, a far cry from the roads we would see as our journey progressed. I realized as we flew over it that my life too was crossing a road, only it was not guarded or divided or clean or well kept. A man is never the same after he has seen war. I knew this as I crossed.

We flew over stretches of desert after the border that were untouched by the corruption of modern technology. Homes were built of clay and soil, roofs of sticks and grass and clothes on the inhabitants were constructed from scraps of fabric. Most homes we passed were surrounded by makeshift farms tended with hand tools and hard labor.

Children played in the fields with soccer balls and sticks and each other. The children would pause only momentarily when we flew over, observing our aircraft and probably wondering how man could create such a contraption. As we flew away the children would return to their activities, some giving us a wave before we were out of their sight.

Men tended the fields of the country alongside women, each serving a specific function in the workings of the makeshift farms. Nothing grew from the rows of tilled soil but I could tell they had just been planted. It appeared as though the soil was well kept and fertile, much like the soil that I had come to know back home.

Sheepherders canvassed the country side with their flocks in search of green pastures upon which to graze. The herds were free to roam without fences and without sheepdogs, yet they stayed orderly together, fearful of a thwacking from their watchful owner. Some sheepherders walked across the land while others rode upon the backs of sturdy mules, each of them too concentrated upon their flock to pay any mind to the helicopter passing above them.

We talked very little inside the aircraft during the first hour of our flight, all of us consumed with watching the happenings below. I sat and admired the simplicity of the life I saw before me. The people took from the earth only what they needed to survive. Most probably didn’t understand why we were in their homeland and in that respect we were similar.

The countryside grew greener the farther we made it north, organized irrigation now becoming evident across the land. Power lines began to come into view and we began seeing homes with lights and stone and windows. Some homes were constructed entirely of masonry while others only incorporated stone into their earthen structures.

Homes became closer together and roads turned from dirt to asphalt as we neared central Iraq, evidence that Saddam’s régime concentrated more of its efforts and money on the heart of the country. The landscape changed from vast desert to luscious riparian plains with beautiful green rivers and creeks carrying water sporadically throughout the region. The rivers were guarded in most places by small buttes and minor cliffs on their banks, the inlands only protection against rising waters.

We flew aware of the danger yet oblivious to the beauty, transformed in an instant to a land of biblical importance that men had only read about in scripture. Life had begun here in the beginning of time and for centuries the land was holy and pure. Power and greed and oil had now turned what was once the cradle of all civilizations into a hellish battle between what we as Americans conceived to be good versus evil. The good, we imagined, was ourselves, and the bad all who opposed us.

We continued on our way, flying in a beautiful formation of aircraft that would have left migrating birds back at home envious. For a moment things actually seemed normal. We could forget for an instant the world we were in, focusing only on drawing warmth from the desert sun above on such a cold afternoon.

As a flight we were scheduled to stop in Al Kut for fuel at the midpoint of our journey and we almost made it without incident. Thirty minutes out all of the aircraft in our flight began to realize that we were all critically low on fuel. We continued on our route mindfully evaluating the fuel situation on our aircraft. We came to the conclusion onboard that, though we were cutting it close, we had sufficient fuel to make it to our refuel point. Other aircrews were doing the same, each evaluating if they could make it.

About fifteen minutes from Al Kut one of the crews realized that they couldn’t make it. Longknife 71 called the rest of the flight and notified the rest us that they were going to perform an emergency landing. They began their decent to the ground while the flight slowed back and watched their landing.

One of the other aircraft in the fleet followed 71 to the ground, and flew security for a few minutes while 71 descended. From my view out the right door I could see 71 get to a point thirty feet from the ground and then disappear into a cloud of dust. The landing spot looked relatively flat and dry with a small village that was separated from the LZ by a flowing irrigation ditch no more than five feet in diameter.

When the dust settled it was clear that Longknife 71 was on the ground safely. The blades began to slow back on 71 not long after they touched down. I could tell that the crew chiefs had gotten out of the aircraft and it appeared as though they were beginning to set up a perimeter.

LTC Dreiling made the decision to have the remainder of the flight continue on their way to fuel while she conceived a recovery plan. The decision to do so was probably the only reasonable option, since all of us were low on fuel, but it bothered everyone on our aircraft none the less.

We bumped up our speed in the flight so that we could get to Al Kut quicker, in hopes that we could get fuel and get back to check on our downed brothers. About fifteen minutes later we were on the ground at Al Kut shutting down our engines to take fuel.

As we shut down our company commander, Captain Crowley, began trying to conceive a recovery plan. It was decided that my aircraft, since we were the first to take fuel, would be sent out alone back to the site of the landing to provide security for the crew from above while the group at Al Kut figured out how to get fuel to the downed aircraft in a reasonable manner. We started our aircraft back up as quickly as possible and we were on our way.

As we were in route we discussed as a crew the rules of engagement should we find the crew in danger or already under attack. In our minds I think we were all planning for the worst. We were expecting to be flying into a ground battle that was being waged by men we knew, men who had families that we had broken bread with. I knew in my own mind that I would do anything to protect them.

Should I be forced to fire my weapon at women and children to protect my brethren, I would do so. I did not want to do so, but if I had to, so be it. I was willing to do whatever it took to bring my brothers back because I knew that if I was one of the men on the ground, my fellow soldiers would do the same for me.

We struggled to find the location of the downed bird for about ten minutes upon arriving in the general vicinity of where we thought they would be. We scanned the horizon all around our aircraft looking for Longknife 71, an eventually we spotted the downed bird. From what we could see from a distance it appeared as though a crowd of people had gathered about one hundred yards off the nose of the chopper. The crowd was out the right side of our aircraft as we approached the scene and I traversed my weapon towards them accordingly.

As we began our first circle around the scene, we realized that Longknife 71 appeared sloped forward, the nose touching the surface of the field. The main landing gear wheels on each side were buried underground. Without knowing it was mud that the aircraft had sunken into, it looked as though the aircraft had crashed hard into the surface. The field they landed in looked dry and stable, but chalky white dust on the surface was masking mud below. The mud looked thick and uncompromising and the trail left behind the aircraft showed just how hard Longknife 71 had landed. There was an impact mark twenty yards behind the idle aircraft that was left when the aircraft’s tail wheel contacted the ground before the came to a complete stop. A village was off the right nose of the idle aircraft, and high voltage power lines ran parallel to Longknife 71’s tail, probably half a mile from the left side of it.

The crew on the ground was composed of the typical four man crew; two pilots and two crew chiefs. Glenn Moya was the Pilot in command and Mickey Hohol was the aircraft’s other pilot. The crew chiefs were Jeremy Roberts and John Thurber. As we continued our first circle we noticed that three of the crew members had set up a perimeter around the aircraft, but one man was missing. I could recognize Thurber, Glenn and Jeremy, but I couldn’t seem to find Mickey.

We got close to the aircraft on the last half of our first circle, still scanning for Mickey. Upon focusing more on the crowd of people off the aircraft’s nose I realized that Mickey was actually in the crowd, holding his Iraqi Smart Card as he communicated with the people that surrounded him. The smart card was given to all of us back at Fort Sill and was designed for just such an occurrence. It contained basic phrases and their phonetical spelling, allowing us to communicate with locals if we were ever put in a situation that required such.

It seemed the crowd was more fascinated with Mickey than they were hostile. He must have seemed an intriguing sight to the people; flowing hair and a tan complexion that seemed right out of a movie. My anxiety level was greatly reduced when we made that first pass. I could tell that the situation had reached its climax without incident, and that was fine with me.

Now that we knew the crew was in no danger the most pressing issue at hand was how to get the downed bird fuel so we could continue on our mission. Back at Al Kut the other crews had conceived the idea of filling five gallon jugs with fuel and flying them out to the scene. They knew that because they only had a limited number of jugs several trips would have to be made. Jack Jones and his crew were selected to make the fuel drops, probably because Jack was a maintenance test pilot and would be able to assist recovering the bird if anything significant had occurred to the aircraft during their landing.

At the scene we continued to circle for security, keeping an aggressive posture to quell any thoughts the people below might have about staging an attack. The guys on the ground also kept an aggressive appearance and tended to their perimeter dutifully. After about ten minutes Mickey made his way back to the aircraft and left the crowd to tend to themselves.

The sunlight from the afternoon was doing little to quell the cold air engulfing the desert. The more we circled the scene the colder I got. It had seemed throughout the day that the farther we got north the colder the air became. The guys on the ground were bundled up and trying to keep warm however possible, but such a feeling must have seemed forethought in respect to the situation in which they had found themselves.

I look back now and wonder just why in the world we only planned on making one fuel stop during that mission. The countryside of Iraq was littered with fueling points for aircraft by the time we made it into theatre. I can’t and never will understand just how our planning cell came up with the idea of stretching our fuel status the way we did. We found ourselves in the situation we were in because of poor flight planning, but such a fact is insignificant when in such a predicament. The only thing your mind can focus on is how get yourself out.

We continued to circle the downed bird, scanning the horizon for any unfriendly forces that might have caught wind of the situation. As the possibility of an enemy engagement or hostile action became less likely, I began to pay special attention to the small village that was near the landing site. The village was made up of twelve buildings constructed of mud and sticks fused together for structure. The buildings were connected by an array of livestock corrals that fenced a small herd of sheep and dairy cattle. Most of the buildings had a square or rectangular appearance, but one was round and a little taller than the others. Alongside the village, between the buildings and the landing site, was a slow moving creek that seemed stagnant and slow. A few locals tended clothes and water pails near the creek, seemingly unimpressed by the whole situation. A small truck was parked on the opposite side of the village, it’s hood and driver door open, probably left unattended during the chaos of the landing.

The villagers did not seem hostile and were more than likely just amazed at the sight of such a machine, in all its wonder, left stuck in the muck that made up their winter farmland. Helicopters are still a marvel to me, and I have flown many hours inside of one; to someone who never sees such things, such a sight must be majestic.

As we circled, some of the villagers made their way back into their homes, poking their heads out every so often to catch a glimpse of us as we flew overhead. We got in radio contact with the crew on the ground and they assured us that they were all unhurt and ready to get back to the mission. Mr. Trautwein let them know about the recovery mission being conceived at Al Kut; the crew was happy to hear this.

About thirty minutes passed by before the recovery team was on scene. Mr. Jones and his crew approached the area and asked for a situation update. Trautwein told him that the enemy threat seemed insignificant and that all crew members were safe and accounted for. He shot an approach for the vicinity of the downed bird and prepared for landing. We continued to circle close-by while he landed and began to evaluate the situation.

When Jones landed he planted both main landing gear wheels into the soft ground with the same force that Moya’s crew had.

"Great," I thought, "Now they’re stuck too."