Michael Woodard

The scene of the attack is an ugly place, conjuring up a bitter taste that comes from deep down in the back of your throat, leaving a lasting sensation of utter hopelessness and despair. This landing will be difficult. I must get us down near the wounded man.

We came there in the spring of 1963. Our house stood alone in the newly subdivided farmlands south of Nashville. Its only companions were scattered foundations representing the future homes of families whose lives we would share for years.

Medics flung open the cargo doors and deposited an Iraqi man whose drawn and lined face exposed a life well acquainted with war and hardship. Shouted instructions to “Get him to Balad!” — the site of the big American trauma hospital — sent us on our way.