I remember a time when I would threaten a person for not respecting our flag and loving our country. "Love it or leave it," I used to say; "these colors don’t run" was another one. I

loved my country and thought it loved me back. I was gung-ho all the way.  I thought there was no greater occupation than to fight and defend one’s country. Hell, my dad did it, and his before him. I would often boast how there had been a Gaddy in every war since the American Revolution. I hoped to have the opportunity to defend my country in a war, like my dad, my uncle, and both my grandfathers

I attended and graduated from Virginia Military Institute, still believed in defending America, and was commissioned into the U.S. Army. I wanted to be the best soldier and patriot I could be. 9-11 happened and I was fired up, ready to go seek revenge for what had been done to my country and its people. I ridiculed the plastic patriots that were suddenly waving the flag and yelling, "America is #1," because I had been doing it for years.

I believed my government and its multitude of lies when it ordered me and others, to protect freedom, and spread it to the oppressed people in the Middle East.  The army was the army; it had its faults, but I was going to fight America’s enemy and I was ready, even excited. So, in October of 2004, I was deployed to Iraq; Northern Iraq to be exact, a nice little vacation spot named, Tal Afar. I didn’t find the enemy of America there; I found regular people who were just trying to be free and out from under the new oppression that we placed on them as a conquering army. I didn’t find crowds of cheering people thanking me for their freedom; I found hell; a place where death and destruction awaited the freedom-creating US Army around every corner.

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