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Bob Smalanskas ’82
submitted this story of a U.S. Marine’s experiences during the initial
Iraq invasion.
Only
One Marine’s Story
By R.T. Smalanskas
There’s something about
Julian Kollias that caused me to stir inside. He quickly caught my
undivided attention. It may have been the thousand-yard stare he
possesses. I had heard about it, but
never actually witnessed the phenomenon personally. I wondered what deep
thoughts whirled behind his intense brown eyes.
Julian is far more
mature than his twenty-three-year young, handsome face reveals. When I
first met him on a business appointment, it was obvious this kid was for
real. Kollias has the aura and confidence of a man twice his age. He is
also very polite and respectful. How is all this possible, I thought?
After we talked further, Julian disclosed he participated in the initial
invasion of Iraq as a United States Marine. I was quite impressed and
became sort of humbled.
This is only one
Marine’s story.
 Private
Kollias described the palpable fear he faced, as Golf Company—attached to
1st Battalion, 2nd Marines—idled in Kuwait just days before the invasion.
He filled me in about the Fog of War: a gut feeling troops heading into
battle know extremely well. It expresses the mental uneasiness and
distress which arises from serious future uncertainty.
“You try not to do it,
but you find yourself looking to your right, then left, and wondering who
is going to get screwed up,.” Julian said, telling me with conviction that
it is an incredible emotion to face your own potential demise. “I began to
philosophize about who lives, who dies—and why? After enough of this
mental torture, I just decided if a round has my name on it; well, there’s
my fate.”
The night before Golf
Company crossed into enemy territory, Kollias and one of his buddies gazed
high into a starry Middle Eastern sky. The two Marines speculated aloud if
any folks stateside actually spent a moment of their weekend thinking of
them. They came to an ambiguous conclusion. “As we stared across a
pitch-black perimeter to Iraq and tried to picture what was ahead, more
anxiety circled through my head,” said Kollias. “But soon thereafter, calm
came over me, and I finally accepted the outcome—even if it included
death.”
This courageous young
man’s company secured the north and south side of Dog Bridge One, at
Nasiriyah’s infamous ambush alley. “This is where a U.S. tank plunged off
the bridge into the Euphrates River. All the crew drowned,” he said
solemnly. Julian also depicted the account of how fedayeen fighters were
on their way out of Nasiriyah and had no intention of messing with U.S.
forces—until they received a lucky break. “The 507th, Jessica Lynch’s
maintenance unit, became hopelessly lost and were sitting ducks,” he said.
“This successful fedayeen attack gave these guys some confidence. They all
came back in the city to fight us after the 507th got hit. I walked by
that burned-out, trashed amtrac several times.”
Backing the people
Every day, Marines were
required to patrol a decrepit, poverty-stricken city which suffered from
years of oppression under so-damn Hussein (as Marines appropriately
nicknamed him). A thirteen-man patrol geared up, locked, loaded, and
jumped in Humvees to ride thru hostile streets. Julian described the
apprehension they felt day in and long day out. “I started to view it as
going to work—only on this job, every day was a close call. I would
contemplate en route if this would be the day I get hit.”
On patrols, Marines
found Iraqi people desperate for hope and change. “They are a product of
their distressed environment,” said Kollias. “Sometimes it felt like we
liberated them, only so they could in turn oppress themselves. Iraqis will
progress only if the majority takes full responsibility for a better way
of life.” Kollias stated he liked Iraqi culture and found the lifestyle
intriguing. He also enjoyed the abstract sounds of Muslim prayers which
resonated from mosques every evening. “We all wanted to give Iraqis a shot
at a good life. Our Marines backed the people 100 percent. I truly hope
the situation improves.”
A soldier’s daily life
can move through a strange cycle from extreme action to monotonous
boredom. Golf Company was no exception to this wartime norm. Sergeant
Smith was educated in Shakespearean Theatre. He encouraged troops to
partake in a comedy show to relieve stress and dullness. It was a great
success. Julian became excited as he described the event to me: “We got a
ton of laughs, and our officers raved for weeks. The show was completely
hilarious, and it really helped morale.”
Kollias is a jokester
in his own right. This kid from Elkins Park, Pa., was known throughout
Golf Company as a tremendous imitator. In fact, R. Lee Ermey, who played
Sergeant Hartman in Stanley Kubrick’s classic war film Full Metal
Jacket, personally congratulated Kollias on his talent to mimic
officers. “Ermey told me he heard I was a funny SOB,” he said. “Some of
the guys called me Private Joker. No disrespect to officers, but sometimes
they are haughty and political—so impersonations of them can get some good
laughs. With that said, I would like to say our company commander, Major
Anthony Lanza, treated all of us with utmost respect and is an outstanding
officer.”
Julian kept a keen eye
on action surrounding him and drew sketches of intense combat scenes. “I
did a lot of drawing to kill boredom.” When I asked him to clarify, he
responded, “I drew a picture of some 3rd I.D. [Army’s 3rd Infantry
Division] guys clearing a building. Another one of my better sketches
shows Marines in a tough firefight.”
Primal disorder
It was now two hours
into my interview with Kollias, and it had become mesmerizing—like the
first time I read a Robinson Crusoe novel. But I was far from finished.
The young men of 1st
Battalion witnessed their share of death, destruction, and despair. These
kids deserve honor and respect, because in reality a nineteen- or
twenty-two-year old in combat is still a kid—one who is forced to grow up
fast, in an antagonistic environment thousands of miles from home. They
conducted stressful house-to-house raids searching for fedayeen insurgents
and contraband. First Battalion Marines caught perpetrators from the 507th
mutilation. Kollias was numb as he recounted a “total surfer dude from
California” carrying a broken, maimed Iraqi boy. The boy had picked up a
terrorist roadside bomb, was rescued by this Marine, and died in a pool of
his own blood. Our young warriors participated in mind-blowing firefights
and viewed results 99 percent of us couldn’t tolerate.
“I saw a revenge
killing,” said Julian. “An Iraqi in a pickup stopped in the street and
fired on another Iraqi man in an open market. He was shot four times—his
brains were splattered on a back, dingy wall. After that, complete chaos
ensued. All the townspeople came to gawk at the spectacle. I had to raise
my weapon to an Iraqi teenager to get him to back off.” Kollias was
troubled as he portrayed this incident. He told me of serious frustration
in trying to clear mobs from a dilapidated, dusty street and the anxiety
of being surrounded by all of this primal disorder.
Golf Company did not
suffer any casualties in-country. Unfortunately, two Marines that Julian
knew committed suicide back in the States. I asked him why he thought they
took their own lives.
“They couldn’t handle
returning to civilian life,” he said. “It’s rough. In the Marines, we’re
all brothers—especially in a combat zone. We work as a team to keep each
other alive. Back here, most everyone is oblivious about where we’ve been,
what we experienced.”
He went on to explain
that he hadn’t slept right since arriving back in Pennsylvania in
September, 2003. I sat in disbelief as this twenty-three-year old
discussed his permanent insomnia. “What do you do?” I asked.
Kollias described his
long, lonely runs down moonlit SEPTA tracks, at 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. most
every night. “It’s the only time I feel normal anymore. Just recently, I
was blasting hard down the tracks, headphones on, and my mind elsewhere. I
just happened to glance up and a bright, white train light was only twenty
feet away. One second later and I would have been crushed.” He gave me a
shy smile as he finished detailing this near-death experience with a SEPTA
train.
Time
warp
The next and final
scene Julian described first upset me, then pissed me off enough to write
this article. “When I hit the train station here (after the long flight
back to the USA from Iraq), I was dressed in desert combat fatigues
carrying my gear,” he said. “I looked around and noticed no one looked me
in the eye or said hello. I felt some awe probably, but most of what I
really felt was an animosity. It reminded me of the disgust we felt coming
from Serbians while stationed in Kosovo. You can feel it burning a hole
through the back of your head.” Kollias became slightly distressed as he
continued. I sensed his emotion—but he didn’t show much. “I was so excited
to come home,” he said. “I get here…and… Anyway, I said to myself—this is
what I fucking come back to? Right then, I wished I was still back in Iraq
with my buddies.”
I reviewed a vivid
scene in my mind: An exhausted, emotionally spent U.S. Marine is sitting
next to his duffel bag at the local train station. He stressfully runs his
fingers through dark, wavy hair, which is no longer in a high and tight
cut. Julian’s intent, deep brown eyes stare far beyond a thick, gray wall
planted ten feet in front of his face. His mind begins to spin. He’s
counted numerous hours and mused for months if his feet would ever stroll
on American dirt again.
Right then, ultimate
reality gives a sharp kid a classic wake-up even he cannot interpret nor
perceive. Many have arrived at this bizarre place before Kollias. He has
finally reached the infamous “welcome home soldier time warp.” Where is
Rod Serling from Twilight Zone? A 1966 GTO cruises down Main
Street, USA, and the radio is blasting out “These Boots Are Made for
Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra. Inside a modest rancher, a Ward Cleaver
lookalike is adjusting rabbit ears on a shabby black and white. Lyndon
Johnson appears in a snowy picture. His voice emits a static message which
miraculously becomes crystal clear. Out on the screened-in porch, Grandma
and Grandpa are sipping iced lemonade on cheesy lawn furniture. They
distinguish the slow Texas drawl—“I will not send American boys…6,000
miles…to do a job that Asian boys…should be doing for themselves.”
Over at the L.A. train
station, a U.S. Marine’s sharp blue eyes burn straight thru a massive,
concrete wall. He runs his nicked-up fingers through light blonde locks,
no longer in a high and tight cut. A ticket agent with a beehive hairdo is
stationed at a small circular opening in the glass. To her left is a large
hardware store calendar with big red and black numbers. The date reads
March 22, 1971. At the very same moment, 6,000 miles faraway in a Vietnam
jungle, two black American grunts are zipping their best buddy into a dark
green body bag. Their blood-splattered faces are contorted with grief and
sadness. Blank eyes lock, straining for a reason or some kind of answer.
They already know the answer—there isn’t one. One of the Brothers says
aloud, “Don’t mean nothin’… Don’t mean nothin’… Nothin’ at all.” His
friend nods in agreement, and they both trudge back to their unit, heads
high.
Today, when you run
across a United States Armed Forces veteran, regardless of the era—Take a
minute and sincerely thank him or her for their outstanding service.
Awaken from your self-absorbed existence, America. These quality people
have been keeping our homeland clear of battle smoke since 1865. If you’re
not a history buff—that was the year General Lee surrendered to General
Grant. There have been, however, two very horrendous exceptions. I say, no
matter what, that number stays locked at two.
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