Rick Bilodeau

Chapter One

June 7th, 1982

It seems like such a long time ago, dreaming of walking in dad’s footsteps. To be a Green

Beret, and really make a difference in the world. The world needed more people to aspire to

difference making. So, at seven years old a training program continued every day in the martial

arts; a black belt eventually was awarded. High school classes were a breeze. Just had to wait for

the opportunity to enlist at the age of eighteen years old. We trained together. He trained to stay

fit, its what war heroes do, he had been a career soldier. So, he didn’t have any reservations about

me enlisting. Being his only son, he didn’t want to lose me, but if I was to go anywhere dad

expected the army to make a man out of his first-born, I told dad the bus was an option, he

finally relented after many conversations and drove me to Detroit, to the enlistment center.

Recruits were sent for basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Basic training was a ten-

week program. With traveling done, back to training felt good. The goal; to be platoon captain.

Faced very stiff competition from three other recruits. We constantly pushed each other to raise

the bar for this promotion. With it came a lot of responsibilities, If the platoon screwed up the

platoon captain took the brunt of punishment doled out by our instructors. We spent many an

hour on our faces doing an incredible number of pushups. We had a knife fighting class where

each member of the platoon competed against other recruits. Knife fighting had become our

family’s specialty, dad had taught well, cut through the recruits like a knife through butter

breezing through every recruit.

1
 My drill instructor was so impressed. So, he took off his smokey and a challenge was

issued. All the recruits in our platoon formed a circle around us and started to cheer us both on.

The drill instructor was very adept with a knife, but so was I. The advantage was he didn’t know

I was well trained in knife fighting and hand to hand combat. He tried a forward thrust with his

knife and I stepped inside his arm, grabbing and slamming his knife hand against my knee while

using his forward momentum to flip him over my shoulder and onto his back on the ground,

swearing while on his back. Offering him a hand and helping pull him standing upright.

His first comment, “who taught you to fight like that?”

“My old man.”

“Was he in the service?”

“Yes, “I answered.

He said, “give me 50 pushups recruit, never help your opponent up, finish the job, it

might be your last.”

August 12th,1982

That was the turning point of my training. I did make platoon captain and upon

graduation, meritoriously promoted to Private Second Class. Upon graduation, orders were

given to report to Fort Rucker, Alabama, for infantry training. Once you are out of bootcamp

you have a lot more freedom. You report for training during the day and at night you can pretty

much do your own thing. Most guys hit the local bars and pubs. Settling for the gym, it felt so

2
comforting, like a second home. A soldier could never be fast enough or strong enough. We

were nicknamed “Grunts”. We did the dirty work in an offensive operation.

While at Fort Rucker we received news that our battalion was going to a hot spot over in

Iraq. This caused super excitement. Sure, enough word came down from our headquarters that

we indeed were going to Kirkuk, Iraq. A Patrol Base (BP) Outpost, not that far from the Iraq-

Iran border. Once our platoon arrived at Kirkuk, we settled in and started recon missions. Which

led to many a small skirmish between U.S. forces, Iraqi nationals, and Iranian militia. I

volunteered all the time for many a detail that was deemed dangerous.

Bound and determined to make a difference, no matter the cost, because we were in a war

zone, we were basically confined to camp. We could play soccer listen to music, watch an

occasional movie on an oversized white sheet that we stretched and tied to two poles. Life was

very dull unless you were on a mission which drew gunfire from opposing forces. This was a

new kind of warfare. You really didn’t see the enemy up close. Mortar rounds, sniper fire and

land mines that were planted under the sand on roads, these types of dangers were always

present, so you never got the chance to relax.

September 9th, 1982

We were encouraged to attend services on Sunday’s. Our services were held outside with

a makeshift altar on the hood of a transport jeep. Confessions were always available before and

after services were finished. There were many different religious sects in our platoon. Mine

happened to be Catholic. Our platoon chaplain was Captain Ben Willis, a Toledo, Ohio native.

He had been a chaplain in the air force but because of the shortages of priest or chaplains,
3
Captain Willis was on loan to our platoon. Captain Willis and I became good friends, often

hearing my confession. On more than one occasion I had fired on the enemy. I was pretty sure I

had hit the target because no return fire had happened, only a deafening silence. Which seemed

totally out of place because of where we were at.

Telling Captain Willis of my want to make a difference in the world. I mentioned to him

how dad was a war hero, and the plan; follow in his footsteps. He often asked me, “Is that why

you volunteer for all these missions?” I sheepishly nodded. He would tell me that there were

many ways to make a difference in the world. He would tell me,” Look at me, never in a million

years did I think I would end up in a giant sand box like this”. This really is a God forsaken

place, but here I am making a difference in the world.

Captain Willis encouraged me to take up writing to pass time when I wasn’t out on

missions. He said, “you might surprise yourself and come to like it.” “Especially writing poetry,

kinds of soothes the soul you might say,” he would go on to say. He gave me a worn brown

satchel in which to carry a journal. So, giving it a try and kind of liking it, managing to jot down

words and phrases every chance that came available. Even started putting a collection together,

although I was too embarrassed to send them to dad. Later found out he liked poetry, something

he had kept secret. Here is an example: The sky at times is completely torn, nerves, it seemed,

always worn. With bullets zinging, spraying sand, blood and sweat in a God forsaken land.

Boots sunk deep in pure white sand while your helmet and canteen carried in either hand.

Waiting for orders from our high command. No need to sigh and moan, U.S. soldiers here on

loan.

4
 February 8th, 1983

We had been here for at least 6 months. Patrols had been getting longer and seemed to

draw more gunfire each time we ventured out. Got winged a couple of times, flesh wounds, just

scratches, but enough to earn a purple Heart medal, which was awarded on February17th, 1984.

I sent it home to dad, told him to put it in our trophy case for now. The months flew by, another

tour in Iraq requested and granted, getting accustomed to the feel of sand everywhere, it almost

felt like home. Captain Willis also stayed on as Platoon Chaplain. Nice to have a familiar face to

share meals and conversation with. He was going out on missions with us. Giving us blessings,

last rites. Hearing confessions of dying soldiers, always seeming to make a difference to those

around him. Growing admiration for him by all the soldiers more and more with each passing

day.

March 31st, 1983

Kept track on a whiteboard of how many missions went on and how many days injury

free, had racked up several weeks of plus days, not so great was other soldier’s luck. Several

had died and a few others badly wounded. Many returned to stateside with a flag draped over

their casket, others to nurse injurie, both came home, their time in Iraq abruptly ending with a

long flight home to a hero’s welcome. Captain Willis had said, “Those soldiers had made a

difference and those that died, should be remembered for their sacrifice while those that lived

still had emotional scars to match their physical scars.” I wasn’t sure which was worse, to be

honest. They were heroes, all of them.

June 17th, 1983

5
 At the beginning of June, we had ramped up our patrol schedule, it seemed like we were

going out twice a day and even at night. We went out on the 5th day of June, a Saturday. We

headed out at night trying to reach Al Kut. We were lulled by the beauty of the Iraqi skyline,

beautiful pink and yellow colors. The colors should have been a warning to us we were 20 miles

out, and the night was eerily quiet. We were on a road that was uncharted. So hard to see when

you’re running with no lights on to not give our position away. This night it wouldn’t matter.

Iraqi nationals had set up land mines and had set a trap for convoys traveling at night.

The attack started with flares going off, it seemed in all directions. The nighttime sky

which moments earlier had been so quiet and beautiful had turned deadly bright. We were

sitting ducks on this road, exposed to enemy fire. Iraqi nationals were armed with night vision

scopes on their rifles. They could see us even when the overhead flares and burned out. There

were makeshift buildings to the right of our position, but we were pinned down. Our convey had

some kick-ass soldiers on it and they quickly countered with their own weapons. I was shot in

the arm; luckily it was my left arm. I could still shoot back. Once we had our wits about us

those flairs helped us return fire. We were holding our own. The lieutenant in charge of the

convoy made sure he radioed in our position and command was sending Choppers and troops to

our location as backup. The Iraqi’s started using mortars to keep us in check. Each minute

seemed like hours. The radio man and the Lieutenant were hit by mortar fire. Parts of their

bodies went flying past me. Looking at what was left of the lieutenant’s head, one eye still open

staring at me with his one remaining eye. Fighting off the urge to throw up, grabbed my rifle

again and started looking for targets to shoot at.

6
 The reinforcements were still several minutes away, so we were still being shot at with

rifle fire and mortar fire. I spotted Captain Willis blessing a bleeding solder. Seems like his

work was never finished. Mortar shells were landing all around us, seemed like it was only a

matter of time. Several soldiers decided to try and slide into the driver’s seat of each convoy

truck. I was next to the leady truck when it finally moved. I moved with it. We had gone about

20 feet when the truck’s driver’s side wheel hit a land mine. The explosion sent me flying about

10 feet backwards. Part of the front part of the truck became detached and flew in the air and

landed on my left knee, pinning me to the ground.

When you’re in a situation where you’re incapacitated the seconds turn to minutes then it

seems to be hours. This was a weakness of mine that crops up from time to time. I was pinned

under heavy metal, all I had was my knife, which by the way was a gift from dad. “Never leave

home without it,” he would say. Solid advice from a soldier to a soldier. The situation being

under this heavy piece of truck, my knee was bad, even if I wasn’t trapped, I doubt if I could run

for cover much less walk. Stray bullets were still zinging by the truck where I had stood just

moments before.

My pant leg felt very wet, knew it wasn’t sweat. The mind starts to unravel when you go

into shock. Voices of soldiers moaning in the night air, most of it friendly. A familiar voice

whispered loudly. Barely recognized Captain Willis’s voice as he crawled towards me on the

ground, his 45 drawn and ready to fire. His neck and shoulder were bleeding from gunfire, but

he was alive, and he was coming for me. He whispered so softly, could barely hear him. He

whispered, “the chopper will be here in a few minutes,” but Iraqi national soldiers were

approaching. We had to make it to the building that was on the right side of the road. It would
7
provide some cover for us until help arrives. He started to use his helmet to dig. So, he could

pull me out from under the truck metal. He dug for a couple of minutes and then pulled me out.

Not able to stand, so he threw me over his shoulder and slowly started for the building.

I heard a couple of bullets hit the doorpost and heard Captain Willis gasp. He had been hit

again. Somehow, we got through the doorway, before he collapsed on top of me. He rolled off

me facing the doorway. An Iraqi national was coming through. Captain Willis got off two

rounds to the chest, and the Iraqi fell in a heap right in the doorway. As Captain Willis bent over

a bloody crucifix dangling from his neck and whispered, “I hear the chopper, you’re safe now”.

He said, “go make a difference,” That was the last thing remembered before losing

consciousness.

June 21st, 1983

When I woke up, a male nurse had just changed the bandages on my leg. Grabbing his

arm and asking at the same time, “What bed Captain Willis was on”. The nurse gently took my

hand and said, Captain Willis didn’t make it back alive. He then handed me a box with Captain

Willis’s crucifix in it, still had blood on it from his neck wound. “What about a brown satchel is

that here also, I said loudly.

The nurse said quietly,” yes, I’ll bring it to you”. I wrote dad a letter. Telling him what

had happened and told him that on Captain Willis’s tombstone at Arlington it should read

Captain Ben Willis “A Difference Maker.” I pulled out my journal, held it in my hands and

began to cry.