My morning run was almost over as the road curved through the pines towards the Post Gym. It dawned on me that I had a comprehensive understanding of the war, having been in Iraq in its beginning and again at the end of Operation Iraqi Freedom. In between I trained troops. I finally had a story worth telling. The compulsion to write down my goofy adventures overcame the inertia since college that limited my writing to post-it notes, Emails and greeting cards. Inspiration mixed with boredom and beer got me typing. Strangers in grocery stores thanked me for my service, and I avoided wearing my uniform in public. People hailed heroes at sporting events, placed Soldiers on pedestals. Mr. and Mrs. America didn't have a clue past what they saw on TV. The naiveté continues to piss me off fiercely. Heartache isn't the monopoly of Special Operators - the Men in Black. The petroleum specialist or mechanic halfway around the world feel the same loneliness amongst many. Going home can be harder than leaving. It doesn't matter what your job was downrange. But sexy and violent sells. What about scoundrels in the Army? It seems an ageless tale.I kept replaying my overseas adventures in my head while fighting dandelions in my yard or while driving the 175-mile weekly commute back to Fort McCoy. My Battle Buddy, Hank Molina would pester me during phone calls to write down our hilarious criminal acts from Operation Iraqi Freedom One (2003-04). Finally, I relented to the nagging pressure from my mind while remodeling the exterior of a Hotel in Charleston, West Virginia. The book outline took two nights and a two six packs, I mean three. Quickly, I became used to feeling that a portion of my work at night was basically crap. But it was fun. If I could make myself laugh, then that alone was worth the effort. Making myself cry because my writing was incredibly moving was sometimes due to alcohol, sometimes not. Resumption of a lifelong passion was very satisfying.Not a big fan of the fickle Uniform Code of Military Justice I worried about telling the world that I stole the most bad ass up-armored bulldozer ever built, supposedly. It seemed wise to retire before my entire confession was in print. But like we used to say, "what are they going to do to me? Send me to Iraq?" I'd love to go back, at least to Kurdistan.I was hesitant to make my voice so dominant, but my nephew, who helped me story board the various lines of effort (themes), convinced me that he wanted to know my opinions, observations, recollections, everything about the war from my point of view. Mike said he'd never be in Iraq so he wanted all I could give. Writing the story directly to him meant I could be my goofball self. Finding the ludicrous in Iraq was easy.Soldiers got hurt and reminders of loss came to the fore, like Jessica Lynch. Perhaps a cathartic project is all the book would amount to. But I didn't see any representation of ordinary Soldiers in Iraq in media that was even close to reality. Didn't women deploy? Where's their atta-girl?To change the tone while the story came back to the States, I eliminated all dialogue in Part Two "McCoy". It's a method, I guessed. Reverting back to using dialogue, brought vivaciousness to theater, I hoped. My battle buddy Hank, provided illustrations of BIAP (Baghdad International Airport), the huge city itself, plus the book design. I included a glossary of Military acronyms plus a listing of US Army rank structure for civilian types.Ultimately, I figured out the war. At least to my satisfaction. Eight years of my life was dedicated to the people of Iraq and my sisters and brothers at arms.Soldiers with addictions, personality disorders, a family crisis back home can profoundly affect a person's mental stability. I was guided through the hairiest of situations, especially during my first deployment. Tony wasn't just a hook or a crutch, gave me the courage to write this.