From Cpl. Creighton Yost. USAR (re-typed but otherwise unedited)

"There are times when I make hope. When we as Americans make hope. Today we patrolled the outside area of Ar Ramadi, when we stopped the usual crowd of children gathered around us. Small kids, maybe 5 years old, left on the street alone all day while their mothers beg for food and water because the father’s dead. The kids are so sweet and curious, so much they get themselves in trouble w/ us for grabbing or yelling. But they have nothing. So we can’t blame them. Their sandals are falling off their feet and the clothes are torn and dirty. The worst have infected wounds, or obvious emotional needs. It’s hard to look at them and hate Iraq. The Iraq that we hate is the country that created these kids.

The men shoot each other, shoot at Americans and ignore their families. It makes me think about the kids in America. The kids that don’t know me, and never will. The kids that are safe and sound and only fear being picked last for playground games – not starving or being hit by a stray bullet.

Today as I gave the 20 kids that gathered around the hum-vee coloring books (we carry them just for the kids) one angel of a little girl pulled on my pant leg and asked me for food. Her huge dirty eyes touched me and I dug out some M.R.E. bread and cheese for her. Some of the older kids tried to take it away from her, but I hoisted her to my knee and kept the other kids at bay. Her and I just sat in the hum-vee while she picked apart the bread and cheese. In my broken Arabic I talked to her about her brothers, where she lived, and smiled and joked with her. She ate and then pointed out some things in the coloring book to me. Honestly, I didn’t understand anything she said, but still smiled and nodded to her.

My time to go on to my next mission location had arrived, and as I took her down to the street, I passed her some candy to take with her. I told her not to tell where she got it, and made her hide it in her little red dress pocket. As we left, I re-loaded my machine gun, put on my bulletproof vest and helmet, and wondered where her protection was for when the shit hit the fan. I don’t want to visit the hospital and see her there, cold, like I’ve seen other children. I wave bye to her and the other kids. They scream ‘Bye Yost !’ as we drove away, guns drawn and finger on the trigger.

Adults beware, children please be aware, I thought. I meet so many people here and she was just one. Hug Dylan for me. Count your blessings to grow up an American child."