A soldier's final words

Barely a month after kissing his bride, Ashley, at the altar, Ari D. Brown-Weeks of Abingdon was deployed to Iraq. Less than a year later, the 23-year-old Army specialist died from injuries he received when the truck in which he was riding slid off an elevated road near Baghdad. He died Sept. 10, 2007.

A month later, Ashley, 21, received five trunks packed with her husband’s possessions, shipped from Iraq. She signed for every piece of Ari’s personal effects, right down to a pair of socks. Ashley’s mother, Debbie Tillery, said her daughter is still too distraught to talk about her husband’s death.

But, Tillery said, tucked among all the items and clothes was a bit of closure for the young widow and Ari’s family — a death-bed missive that spoke of love, honor and gratitude — a heartfelt farewell to those who meant the most to him.

“The grieving process has been tremendously difficult,” Tillery said. “Ari was an only son. I grieve for his parents, for what they have lost, for what they no longer have to look forward to. I grieve for my daughter Ashley, having lost someone who loved her so dearly, a love that so many never experience in a lifetime.”

The following excerpts are from letters and e-mails sent by Ari to family and friends during his deployment in Iraq.

From Feb. 2, 2007

Today was my first mission into Kadiymah, Baghdad. We moved out around 9:30. We pulled up to the gate to get off Taji and locked and loaded. Things are so different as soon as we come out of the gates, cars pull way off of the road at the sight of U.S. troops and stop.

We drive down the roads crossing back and forth across the divider as a tactic for avoiding being hit by IEDs. We made it a little ways down the road before one of the glass pieces on the turret fell off. We stopped traffic and went back to get it. We pulled security and put it back inside the humvee.

This place has got to be the heart of an area where a meteor hit. It mirrors what the cities in the movie “Independence Day” [looked like] after the aliens attacked. My eyes scan everything outside for snipers and IEDs. I don’t think I blinked once the whole mission with the exception of my nap. We pulled up to a more established neighborhood (still very low class) to do a dismounted patrol. People seemed more happy to see us. Little children waved and smiled a lot with a little nervousness not knowing if they can trust us yet. Kids played soccer in fields littered with trash, in bare feet.

Old men sit and talk amongst each other, stopping usually to nod and say hello. Some give us long glares, these are the ones we watch more carefully. It’s hard to see these beautiful little children wandering oblivious to the fact that they are in the most dangerous place on earth and not let your guard down. But you still try to let them know you are here to help them, smile at them, but still be ready to pull the trigger in an instant.

The Iraqi people seem so amazed by us and our presence. They watch us so carefully as we do the most mundane things. We continued on our way to Camp Liberty to pick up equipment for the interpreters. We had to wait a while for the people at Liberty to get the equipment, so I took a nap in the sun on top of the humvee. I dreamt of home, my wife. I think about Ashley constantly.

From Aug. 2, 2007

We are right now working on cleaning up an area controlled by Shiite militants loyal to al-Sadr. Every day it’s a fight for our lives — RPGs, IEDs snipers and so on. My good buddy was shot in the head about two weeks ago in this area. He is expected to recover but will need speech therapy and behavior therapy as well, because [of where] the bullet traveled through his brain. I will be done with combat missions in about eight weeks and should be returning home sometime mid-November. I have been here for a little over nine months now. I have a lot of crazy stories, too many actually.

From Sept. 4, 2007

I gave more thought to the whole “people not believing my stories,” ... it’s hard for me to tell them a story when the sounds and images are so vital to understanding the truth and reality of it. It’s hard to tell a story about what it’s like to be hit with an IED without the piercing boom and the deafening deep concussion that has the power to pick you up out of your seat inside a humvee and plaster you to the other side of the vehicle.

And that’s if you’re lucky enough to have the shrapnel not puncture the thick armor. It’s hard to explain what a firefight is like: how loud, the confusion, the steady burst of weapons, the distinct hiss of a bullet passing close to your head or the hateful splintering sound of AK fire.

No one could understand the sound of an RPG screaming in your direction and the feelings as you see it coming, to be knocked down by its concussion when it explodes. These are just a few things no one could understand. What it’s like to see your buddy shot down and to have to keep on fighting and put him in the back of your head for the time being. I mean, how could anyone even begin to imagine or put themselves in “your shoes” with things like these, because they have nothing to help them picture it, no experiences that closely resemble them. It is just too hard to grasp the reality of it.

I think it will be hard for me — when I come home — to listen to people talk about Iraq like they know something about it. These people are basing their opinions on the news. I think it will be hard to control my tongue sometimes because of the anger and frustration this place has instilled in me. These people think they can base their opinion on some misinformed liberal media.

And yes, I’m still a Massachusetts liberal, but the media is a joke. It makes me so angry to see the shit they print and put on television. It’s so far from the truth it hurts. It hurts because it adds to people’s misunderstanding of what it is actually like here and what exactly we do.

‘Thank you for a beautiful life’

As missions became more dangerous for Brown-Weeks, he had a feeling he wouldn't come home alive. In his last letter, Brown-Weeks wrote:

Many men have fought and died before I to achieve this way of life. I am honored to be amongst those who made the ultimate sacrifice not only for their country but for humanity. Some will not ever be able to grasp this mindset. I ask only that you try because there is a bittersweet truth in it.

In my last few breaths these are my thoughts. I know my leaving this earth may cause some a great deal of pain, but please take some comfort in knowing that I go with the great honor of serving my country and those who need its help.

I leave doing something I believe in, working to make a difference more than many can say. My only regret is this pain that [you], my loved ones, feel. I can promise you something though.

Keep me alive in your minds and hearts, and I will always be there looking over your shoulder. I will be there to hear your words, to cry with you, to laugh with you, so long as you never forget the times we shared. I will never be too far from where you stand. This I promise.

As I begin to drift away to the heavens, my last words to my beautiful wife and loving family — my love cannot die, it will always be with you. Thank you for a beautiful life and such a genuine love.