In December 2002, with war looming, I learned I would be called up to the 98th Combat Stress Control (CSC) to deploy to Iraq. Several others had been ahead of me in the Professional Officer Filler System (PROFIS) position slated for deployment. One by one they dropped out. My anxiety increased as I moved up the priority list to become one of the remaining names able to deploy. My supervisor at Madigan Army Medical Center, near Seattle, was looking for another psychiatrist, and with his list growing short he informed me that I would be going.

I was not looking forward to this deployment and leaving family and home but was willing to do my duty. My anxiety was increasing. I was lamenting leaving family and was increasingly scared about going into combat.

I was not alone in terms of working my way up the list to deploy; CPT Mike Cole, a young Army psychiatrist, was moved to the 98th as well. Mike and I headed dutifully off to the 98th and 62nd Medical Detachment Conference in January, 2003.

Our mission was briefed to us: land in Turkey, convoy to a rally point near the port, drive 4 days across country to an assembly area, and then follow the 4th Infantry Division (4ID) across the border into Iraq. Our entry point was to be just east of Syria. We were to follow the 4th Infantry Division across the Euphrates, and then move southwest to Tal Afar. That city is just 30–40 km west of Mosul. Here we would be based at a secure airfield doing combat stress operations and other medical support.

We were told to have a duffel bag packed within 24 h. I had little idea about what to pack, but in hindsight did not do too bad a job. Uniforms, wet wipes, medical books, batteries, nets for holding things, a small fan, a head lamp, some snack bars, and pictures of family were packed. All were helpful. Especially the wet wipes.

Days went by. Turkey refused to let our troops into the country. Diplomatically it was a nightmare. Offers of billions of dollars in aid were made but refused. Debates on the TV raged on, with the outcome declared by three votes of the Turkish government. They refused to let the United States and the 4ID go through the country.

The news made us think we might not deploy. Unfortunately instead it resulted in a much more arduous and dangerous journey.

The days wore on, and each weekend was sought after like a life preserver and then held on to with the same fervor. Every Sunday night, putting my one and three year old boys to bed and hearing their prayers was painful. Nights were spent looking out at Mount Rainier in the moonlight. My head did not seem to be on right. I would be wrecked on the occasion of my 3-year-old saying “I don’t want you to leave,” or “I’ll miss you.”

In mid March the president gave a speech to the UN. One more time Saddam was given “one last chance.” That chance came and went. On March 19, 2003, the B-1 Bombers and Stealth fighters began the attack.

On April 1, the Turkish Parliament again rejected the US request to open its ports to the 4ID and Task Force Iron Horse . This now meant that there would be no northern front. Task Force Iron Horse would be rerouted through Kuwait with the same objectives: Mosul and Northern Iraq. It was a “much longer drive” as it was put by one of the members of the 98th after being briefed.

On April 10 we had definitive word that we would be sent to Kuwait and then be traveling North. Our weekends and time at home came to an end. Our flights were readied at McChord Air Force Base . We made our way to Fort Lewis, with family in tow, our gear dropped off at a collection point, and buses ready to take us away.

However, the vans to collect our gear “could not be moved” because the keys were lost. My family and friends visiting helped reload my gear, rucksacks, and duffels out of the vehicles that were keyless and drove the ¼ mile to the trucks that would take them to the aircraft. I held my boys, my wife, hugged my dad and my uncle, and then got on the big blue bus to McChord.

The bus driver honked as we passed the detachment as a last good by. He had been deployed twice to Vietnam. We drove under a freeway overpass. “We support the troops” signs and US flags were waved. We pulled into McChord AFB and were escorted into a hanger, and sat on benches with way too much gear.

The time there passed very slowly. It was a relief though to be finally underway and to really have said goodbye. No more life preserver weekends or roller coaster emotions -we were now committed. Everyone felt relief to hear the final farewell from General Dunn and then walk out on the tarmac to the plane.

Prior to boarding the plane I had prescribed sleep aids for those who wanted them for the flight. Most of our team did. The team climbed up the steps and made their way on board sitting in the first seats available. The flight attendants wore Uncle Sam hats and indicated that they could not care less if we buckled up or left the seat back up. Most of us made ourselves as comfortable as possible, took a pill and fell asleep.

In Kuwait we disembarked, walked about a quarter mile, to buses lined up and waiting for us. It seemed a long ride to our first stop, Camp Wolf. We were exhausted even though we had slept on the plane. The emotional toll and intermittent excitement had us all soon laying atop our gear and sleeping on the floor.

We did not exactly know what to expect, what awaited us or exactly where we were going. We received news that the war was going well: moving quickly through to objectives and “clean up operations.” After hoping so long that we weren’t going to deploy, we now hoped that we would end up staying in Kuwait or being sent home. However the 47th Combat Support Hospital Commander was working to find us a mission, and a place to go.

Our vehicles and equipment had been shipped to the Middle East; first it was headed to Turkey, then rerouted to Kuwait. We headed to a port there to pick up our gear. It took hours to find all of the vehicles and containers (called CONEXs ) in the hot Middle Eastern sun.

As we drove I looked at the sun setting; same sun, just a different world, one that was incredibly unknown to me and those around me. Hot, dusty and sandy. Local people looked at us curiously as we traveled. We headed down a dirt road following the vehicles in front of us and turned onto a paved highway.

It was dusk when we were well underway. Visibility was further reduced by the sand being kicked up by the numerous vehicles in front of us. We skirted along the border with Iraq and now moved through open desert in the dark with sand flying.

For minutes we drove blindly, only picking up a taillight at the last second, narrowly avoiding a collision. Hitting the brakes, we froze, fearing being rammed in the rear by the vehicle behind us.

This game of blind mans bluff grew significantly more dangerous minutes later. We were hours into the convoy when we heard the distinct clanking of tracked vehicles nearby. We saw ghostly figures of Abrams tanks from the 4 ID running parallel to us, seemingly only yards away. Minutes later the tanks on our left joined the HEMMITs, long large vehicles hauling ammunition, to our right.

Driving with no visibility, in the desert, in the dust and with tanks driving along side was clear insanity to this psychiatrist.