TEN SECONDS

      It was New Year's Eve, but it was hard for me to find much reason to celebrate during a war. 

      And I'm sure that was also true for most of the other American soldiers on duty in Iraq at that time. 

      I was stationed in a northern part of the country that was called Nineveh Province. That's where the U.S.-led coalition fought some of its fiercest battles against insurgent forces after invading Iraq two years earlier.

      To avoid being miserable over the “holiday,” I kept on telling myself that I had the best job on the planet -- as a 28-year-old executive officer of a U.S. Army cavalry troop  after graduating from Marymount University in Virginia.

      I was an expert marksman, but not a trained sniper. I didn't thrive on taking another's life, but I would without hesitation if called upon to do that.

      The food I ate wasn't "great," but I was eating more often and better than "The Greatest Generation" of soldiers did in World War II. 

      I didn't shower every day, but I was cleaner than those that I protected there. 

      I didn't dream of being home, but did miss my family.

      During the previous year, I'd been transferred twice -- first from Alaska to the U.S. border with Mexico and then to the border between Syria and Iraq. I’d seen things that I'd never seen before, and frankly never imagined seeing.

      After two years of training in the frozen wilderness of Alaska for this deployment, I had to adjust quickly to my new location with deadly heat and unwelcoming hosts.

      For five months, I'd seen some of our armored fighting vehicles blown up, I'd seen some of my men get hurt and return to duty. The frustrations of fighting a cowardly, yet increasingly annoying enemy, were mounting.

      Then, six days before the end of the year,  “snapping” started during a large one-day operation. They called it sniping, but trust me, it was snapping. 

       You’ve seen action movies. Bullets flying Matrix-style, like in a video game.  But you’ve never really seen what it's like to be in combat 

      I won't glorify the firefight.

      It was around the school where I was operating. And the conflict was moving in a clockwise direction, from a position of  seven o’clock to two o’clock.

      My involvement lasted only 10 seconds, but that was enough to convince me that the movies had it wrong.

      Ten seconds was also plenty of time to show me that no place on Earth, let alone Iraq, was safe from violence.

      Try counting…. one Mississippi, two Mississippi. . . Snap-snap, whiz, two bullets made holes in the adobe-esque wall of the school about nine feet from my face.

      My first thoughts, oddly, were not so much about my  being in danger or to take cover, or even to return fire, but about how I would describe that singular event. 

      My other top concern was for the safety of about 200 military-aged Iraqi males who were together in another school courtyard, opposite mine. I was hoping that a stray bullet would not nestle into one of them

      Those men were my "guests" in a sense because I had "invited" them to the school as part of a city-wide effort to round up explosives and gather intelligence. 

      Now, they were under orders to sit on a cold floor and remain silent while awaiting their turn in an investigative  process  -- wondering if they would be found guilty or not.

      I was stared at, spit at, cursed at.

      An hour later, in a nearby area which I called a "release yard," I was thanked for efforts we made to rid the town of bad men.

      So I was the devil to some Iraqis, an angel to others.  

      And when I was with my comrades, I knew that  being the executive officer of the troop meant that I had to try to be all things to all people.  I handled maintenance -- food, supplies, morale and welfare. I was the "bad guy" if need be. And at times I was even the goat. 

     Being the hero? Never. 

     But I was at the epicenter for the mission at the school that day, with help and technical know-how from a small team of specialized individuals. 

      It was a good day, bullets included. It also was a rarity for my men. Until then, these  members of the Crazyhorse Troop of the 4th Squadron 14th Cavalry Regiment were  nearly always in action for one of two situations. 

      Either they were dealing with Improvised Explosive Devices, known as IEDs  which destroyed nine of our vehicles. Or else there was indirect fire with our awesome mortar platoon, knocking out more than 10 enemy safe houses or personnel.

      Under those conditions, it wasn't surprising that my troop had the most contact, the highest casualties (not always death), and the greatest success of any unit in our Brigade. Those were facts.

      Seven of our soldiers were awarded a Purple Heart, the solemn distinction given for being killed or wounded as a result of enemy action.

      Every member of my troop, except two supply clerks, qualified for the Combat Action Badge, which is a special recognition given to soldiers who had been engaged in enemy actions. 

      And we had the most battlespace for maneuvering .

      So I wasn't thinking about a party on that New Year's Eve, when 2005 was drawing to a close, 

      Instead, I was thinking about the performance of the men in our troop that year. I knew that we were good at what we did, and we did it because it had to be done

 Gabriel Scheinbaum is a former captain in the Army.