By 1st Lt. Matt Spartz

Editor’s note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, was deployed to Afghanistan in May with the 101st Airborne Division. A 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois, he is submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

When I was a boy, I loved watching my grandpa, John Spartz, lead his VFW post during the Memorial Day parade in near-West suburban Berkeley.

World War II was more than half a century over, yet his Navy uniform was as crisp as it was in the faded sepia photo of his graduation from explosive ordnance disposal training.

I remember how proud he was a few years before his stroke when my dad’s boyhood friend, the mayor of Berkeley, presented him with the war medals he never received due to lost paperwork.

Grandpa Spartz led his final service parade on Tuesday. He passed away at the age of 91. And more than 60 years since his service, he was still given military burial honors.

It is a cold, necessary reality that the Army can grant leaves of absence for soldiers only when immediate family members, or their childhood primary care givers, pass away. Missing the last moments and burials of beloved family is yet another sacrifice thousands of service members choose to endure while serving away from home.

I’ve experienced the memorial services in Afghanistan of my fellow brothers-in-arms. Through the grace of modern technology I was able to experience the final prayers for the most influential service member of my life.

I called my mom, Nancy, on her cell phone just before my grandpa’s funeral. She clandestinely slid the phone into my brother Eric’s coat pocket as he helped carry grandpa’s flag-draped casket to St. Domitilla Church and then to his burial plot. Mom said I was a pallbearer in spirit.

Then at grandpa’s final resting place, the phone was next to my grandmother, Rosemary, as the Navy honor guard played taps and presented her with grandpa’s flag.

That was too much. I could see in my mind the fresh inches of snow that had blanketed Chicago the night before, and the red, white and blue flower arrangement my family put on display for me. The trumpet sliced through the cold air, over thousands of digital miles, and to my ear while I sat on a hard folding chair in an unusually quiet command center.

I could hear grandma’s voice as she accepted the flag, and tears welled in my eyes.

Their story bleeds true Americana. Grandpa was the son of Luxembourg immigrants. Grandma was raised in an orphanage. They eventually adopted two of their own, raising a total of five Baby Boomers.

Grandpa toiled for 40 years at tool and die manufacturing. Grandma started Berkeley’s first girls softball league. Grandpa was always the stoical family patriarch who knew the American dream was working hard every day to provide a better life for his family.

He had said a few years ago that no one should cry at his funeral because he had led such a good life. But I know we don’t cry solely for sorrow; it will be hard coming home and simply not seeing him anymore.

I had hoped he would make one more year, enough time for me to come home and see him one last time. But in a sense it’s fitting. Grandpa made sure he saw me off to serve our nation in another time of need.

He led that parade for so long. Next year, it’s my turn.

I faced my greatest fear in the sky-scraping mountains of the Pech Valley’s Taliban training havens, and now that fear no longer scares me.

My greatest fear was not death. I’ve been incrementally inoculated from the physical pains of war with every rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) that blew up within 20 feet of me without harm, and every bullet that has kicked up the dirt next to me, including the one that found a place in my right arm.

My greatest fear has always been that during the crucial time, when another soldier needed me the most, I would fail him.

During last week’s battle in the Pech Valley all I did was my job. Part of that job was getting air and artillery support for “Buka” platoon that was cut off from our main position. It was an excruciatingly hard task to get the right helicopters and artillery to their position, while my own position was being lit up by RPGs and with the enemy in hand grenade range. I had to fight my frustrations and instincts that told me to use my M4 carbine and fire on the enemy in front of me. I wished I could have had 100 grenades to throw.

Buka’s platoon sergeant, Sgt. 1st Class John Flemming, witnessed his men getting shot and rained with shrapnel. Under fire, Flemming administered aid to his soldiers, including patching an entrance wound in a soldier’s back and the exit wound in his chest. Once I gained control of the air assets, I sent them immediately for Buka’s position. Flemming guided the aircraft to provide suppressive fires for his position, long enough for his wounded men to be evacuated.

In the end, Buka lost four warriors in that fight, and even more were wounded and won’t return to duty this deployment.

Yet the first thing Flemming did when our men were back together was thank me for saving his life, and the lives of the rest of his platoon.

I shook his hand in awe. I told Flemming I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have held my radio in one hand and my M4 in the other, effectively using both.

The antibody to my fear is love, delivered over and over again by the greatest soldiers who’ve ever existed, who’ve given their lives for something greater than themselves.

This love also can be overwhelming. After that hard fight, we honored the four Buka platoon warriors and two others who were lost. Just before the memorial began one of the Buka soldiers was standing next to me. Large, blown-up pictures of his friends, whom I barely knew, stood atop wooden easels behind the display of tan boots, upside down M4s with dangling dog tags, topped with a lone helmet.

With tears in his eyes that soldier turned to me.

“Sir, I never got a chance to personally thank you for sending us that air (support) the other day,” he said. “Thank you.”

My greatest fear is still that I would let a soldier down in his greatest time of need. But this fear no longer scares me. I would run toward this fear 1,000 times if it meant a chance to live up to the example that these men have set for me.

I was just the guy with the radio. Now I’m just the guy with the pen.

The men of Abu Company will never forget them.

Spc. Shane H. Ahmed.

Spc. PC Nathan E. Lillard.

Spc. Scott T. Nagorski.

Spc. Jesse A. Snow.

Spc. Shannon Chihuahua.

Pfc. Christian M. Warriner.

Copyright © 2010 Paddock Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, was deployed to Afghanistan in May with the 101st Airborne Division. A 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois, he is submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

Life on a combat outpost is a modern day Sparta. Far from the “flagpole,” or larger bases with high ranking officers, daily life revolves around one maxim – training for battle.

Without delving too deep into the existential, the similarities are pointed out by nearly every soldier who has experienced this warrior’s haven.

A common misconception about the legendary “300″ at Thermopylae is just that, that there were only 300 warriors. But each warrior had at least three supporters or future warriors with him to carry and service his gear, his food and his medical supplies. One of the books on our brigade’s predeployment reading list was Steven Pressfield’s “Gates of Fire,” which beautifully illustrates the warrior culture of the Spartans and their stand at the Hot Gates. But I never expected the comparisons to our modern battlefield to run so true.

Despite the relatively small size of many outposts, the population is distinctly separated into warriors and their supporters. Like the Spartans, the warriors serve one purpose – to fight their fight. Whether that be standing watch in a guard tower, patrolling the long-forgotten mountain villages, or firing a howitzer cannon, every day’s purpose is to increase the warrior’s proficiency in his fighting tasks.

The supporters may be other soldiers, but they are mainly civilian contractors or local workers hired from nearby villages. There are Russian contractors who keep the water pumps and generators working, Indian contractors who clean the chow hall and bathrooms, and local Afghans who transport trash, build new buildings and help cook the food.

Like the Spartans, the warriors eat, sleep and train together. They wake up early and conduct missions in the dead of night. Their refrigerators are stocked with scientifically formulated Gatorade and protein shakes; their gear is made from sweat-wicking, flame-retardant material; their weapons allow them to see at night.

To local, rail-thin Afghans, we must seem like prototypical Spartans on steroids. We may complain that our Army rations compare to American prison food. But as a chaplain told me after traveling to many outposts in Afghanistan, “There are no small soldiers.” The local workers’ eyes grow wide with wonder when they enter our sacred temples filled with dumbbells and barbells. Their faces are filled with suspicion as to how pieces of forged iron could grow necks and arms so thick, while these warriors still climb their mountains so vigorously.

Every day the warrior stretches his legs to the rosy-fingered dawn; his food is hot, his laundry is ready to be picked up, and fresh ammunition is descending from heaven on fat, white helicopters. All of the supporters exist to ensure that when the enemy knocks at his door, the warrior’s legs are strong, his fingers are as quick as his wits, and the lead is readily available.

There are parts of Afghanistan that I’m sure can be compared to the fight at Thermopylae (holding off insurgents before the evacuation and closing of the remote Combat Outpost Keating, for example). I’m sure more philosophical points can be made comparing the debate over the 2011 proposed draw down to the decision whether to fight the invading Persians (didn’t they visit Afghanistan?).

But the daily, sweaty, dusty life of a Spartan existence at a combat outpost is fairly black and white: Come back with your shield, or on it.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, was deployed to Afghanistan in May with the 101st Airborne Division. A 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois, he is submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

On a recent “Meet the Press,” host David Gregory seemed to try and pigeonhole Adm. Mike Mullen on the real objectives of the war in Afghanistan. Sparked by the recent striking picture on the cover of “Time” magazine, Adm. Mullen was not to be cajoled away from our mission of protecting the people, which is the central objective in counter insurgency.

But sometimes I think those who are on the outside looking in don’t truly understand what it means to “protect the people.”

There are very strict rules and guidance for shooting large-caliber weapons and ordnance at our enemies in Afghanistan. In this highly complex counter-insurgency campaign, our use of lethal force does need to be weighed very carefully. Being an artillery platoon leader, I deal with these issues daily.

I hoped this week would begin with an uneventful Sunday morning. The sun had barely risen into the swirling gray marble sky. Suddenly in the distance, began the sound of “popcorn” – bullets crackling around the outpost – followed by a low, vibrating explosion.

After experiencing more and more of these scenarios your sleeping subconscious seems to constantly monitor its surroundings, like a submarine silently scanning the dark ocean for enemy ships. This learned Pavlovian awareness makes falling asleep a hard balance for some. Every rock crunched under foot outside and every loud door slammed stands your hairs on end and briefly shuts your focus to fight-or-flight mode.

I grabbed my rifle and sprinted to the operations center. The popcorn subsided and we used our cameras to scan for mortar impacts. There was another low thud. The camera whirled around and spotted smoke rising from the small rock village outside our outpost. It seemed no one was injured and there was no major damage to the buildings. Our Afghan National Army brothers were already speeding in their pickup trucks to the impact site to take care of their people.

There was some intelligence on where the mortar fire was coming from. Years ago, as my soldiers will tell you, our standard response would be to rain our high explosive howitzer rounds on every known enemy position around the post.

But there was possible civilian infrastructure in the area, and the handful of mortars hadn’t hit the outpost. No more mortars were fired. We didn’t shoot at one target.

Here we watch normal Afghans, hanging clothes lines in their yards and kids hitting cricket balls in their fields, no more phased by a mortar hitting their village than an American driving past a fender bender on the interstate. Not until a mortar actually hits in their courtyard can they be seen running for shelter in the nearby mountains.

A fight-or-flight response to danger has no cultural boundaries. Anyone presented in the face of danger will illicit an adrenal response, and it will most likely affect them when the event is over. Sleeping under the constant threat of explosions takes some getting used to.

But this is their reality. The women hanging clothes most likely grew up with the threat of stray bullets killing loved ones, and the kids playing cricket now represent a new generation that has to grow up unphased by mortar explosions.

We as members of the military have a certain readiness response that we train for, to protect ourselves and pursue the enemy. But our cohabiting Afghans have lived in the crossfire of extremism and senseless violence for decades.

It has been a hard pill to swallow for the military to voluntarily put harsh restrictions on its most powerful weapons. But in a war for the people, we need to keep the sheets hanging on the line so that Afghan kids can stop trading in their cricket balls for mortar rounds.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate of University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. From there, he will be submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

The Army is a culture of validation. We walk around with our resumes on our chest: rank, airborne and marksmanship badges, even the perception of prestigious versus bland unit patches. But possibly the No. 1 validation of a modern warrior is the combat patch.

A soldier wears his unit patch on the left shoulder sleeve to signify the unit to which he belongs. When he has deployed to a combat zone with that unit, he then also wears that patch on his right shoulder sleeve.

Many of the soldiers in my platoon come to our Afghanistan rotation, Operation Enduring Freedom X, able to wear multiple combat patches – a specialist on his fourth deployment, a staff sergeant on his third deployment.

During a short month in Afghanistan, our combat outpost already has been mortared, peppered with AK-47 fire, and rockets have shuddered our doors. But with a blank right sleeve, things seem incomplete. Now it was time for the platoon to be validated in the eyes of our peers.

Our battery commander, Capt. Mclynn Howard, flew to our combat outpost just for the occasion.

My platoon was called to attention. It was the usual 110-degree summer day, the new screaming eagle 101st patch sweating in my hand. I took my place at the front of our formation and saluted Capt. Howard. He saluted back, shook my hand to exchange the patch, and fastened it to the fuzzy, blank spot on my right shoulder. Then we went to each of my soldiers and validated their right shoulders with a new screaming eagle.

It is a great day when a soldier receives his first combat patch. Back home in garrison it tells his peers he has performed his duty; he has done what he signed up to do, and served in a combat zone.

But for many soldiers the true validation is the one given to the enemy, whether he has a patch on his right shoulder or not.

Before the moon rises in the east and blankets our valley with light as the sun does the day, the nights are the kind of blackness that sucks at your eyeballs. The lack of light pollution creates the kind of darkness that forces you to memorize every step to the shower and scan the dirt one foot in front of you with a red-lens flashlight, left and right, like a blind man tapping his cane down the sidewalk.

Then the stars fade through the thick blanket like imaginary light specks after holding your breath too long. The moon rises and the valley becomes visible.

That night, the Taliban decided to have a validation ceremony of their own by landing a few rocket-propelled grenades in our perimeter and putting a few new air holes in one of the soldiers’ huts.

And the next day was Memorial Day. Our flags flew at half mast, thankfully in honor of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice before us and not for anyone during our rotation thus far.

But the new patch on my right shoulder made me really feel part of that brotherhood, the legacy of our Army at war, and to have been validated in this, the next-greatest generation.

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate at University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. From there, he will be submitting occasional reports for the Daily Herald.

When the suicide bomber and squad of reported Taliban dressed in U.S. Army uniforms used grenades to breach the gate at Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan, the morning of May 19, my eyes shot open. I pulled one ear out behind my Bose headphones and listened intently, as if my hearing could zoom in like a sniper scope through the thick silence and pick out the specific noise.

After a year of firing more than 2,000 artillery rounds as a fire direction officer at Ft. Campbell, Ky, and multiple combined live fire exercises with our infantry units, I was used to the low thud of indirect fire. But now that I was in Afghanistan, something didn’t feel right about the crunching bass booming so close.

I put the headphones back on and closed my eyes. There was another thud. Then some indistinguishable noise. I slowly opened my eyes this time and looked around the half football field-sized tent with aluminum-framed bunk beds stacked 28 deep, seven wide, with barely 18 inches in between. The sun had yet to crest the jagged mountain peaks that surround the base like a bowl. No one stirred.

At this point I figured some shipping containers were being moved across the base, or someone was getting in some early morning training. Only later would I learn that a group of Taliban on a suicide mission would almost get passed U.S.-trained snipers, wounding nine Americans in the process.

Once the official reports got to the tent where more than 300 other soldiers and I were staying, the collective blood pressure rose. Laptops closed, boots were tied, and magazines of ammunition were passed out.

The only problem was the 68 soldiers in my unit had a collective 12 rounds. The other units weren’t much better off.

A few captains in the tent came up with a hasty plan to pull security around our tent with the combined firepower we had until more information came our way. A group of soldiers were given three rounds a piece and sent to the corners of the concrete slab of our domed tent.

We hurried to our positions, and then we waited. And waited.

A few privates carved tic-tac-toe in the dirt. Others sat at a picnic table in their T-shirts and smoked nonchalantly. The sun was hot and a quick wind blew wispy dark clouds from the north over the snow-capped ridgeline.

Soldiers joked about having to stand guard in buddy teams in order to have enough fire power to take out the enemy.

The next tent over was the local national living quarters, which was a diverse as any Chicago neighborhood. But now anyone not in uniform looked suspicious. Their darting looks and the way they walked around any group of soldiers gave away their new uneasiness with our heightened status.

An hour or so passed by. My stomach growled at the noon sun boasting above. I dreaded the thought of the dining facility staying closed more than the actual threat of a suicide bomber sprinting across the street in front of me, past the 12-foot concrete blast barriers, and taking me with him to meet Allah.

Slowly, more buses appeared on the road; the Kiowa and Apache helicopters were no longer buzzing in circles, and we got the word that we were “all clear.”

Luckily, I thought, it was the middle of the night in the states and no one knows that I’m in the middle of CNN’s breaking news. Then I realized that this was my initiation with the real war, and that it fulfilled the stereotype many people experience — war is 10 percent horrible, frightening violence and 90 percent horrible, excruciating boredom.

Here is my inaugural piece!

Lombard soldier ‘excited to get off the bench’

Editor’s Note: Army Lt. Matt Spartz, a lifelong Lombard resident, is a 2008 journalism graduate at University of Illinois. He recently was deployed to Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. The is the first of occasional reports he is submitting to the Daily Herald.

More than three years after first deciding to join the Army, I will finally be going on my first deployment, to the eastern provinces of Afghanistan. Halfway through college, when things were at their worst in Iraq before the Sunni awakening, I had my own personal awakening to fulfill a boyhood longing of being a soldier.

Now the focus is on Afghanistan. Two years of training in the Reserve Officer Training Corps, Air Assault school, Basic Officer Leaders Course, Field Artillery school, Pathfinder school, the Joint Fires Observer school and a full year at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky in the 101st Airborne Division, and now it’s time to get in the game.

When people ask how I feel about deploying, I tell them it’s a lot like when I played football at Glenbard East High School in Lombard. As soldiers we have raised our hands and volunteered for this task. Deploying after three years of Army training has been like double football practices during hot Chicago summers, practicing after school all week, and finally getting to play varsity on Friday nights.

It’s like the varsity game, if the Army were a sport, but the stakes are much higher. The night before my Army varsity game I meticulously cut my hair the way I’ve taught myself to do over the years. I play my favorite soundtrack of metal songs. My girlfriend and I go out for some American barbecue and a cold Sam Adams.

The final pep rally before my deployment was a weekend of packing up my townhouse into storage with my family, which also happened to fall on Mother’s Day. Just like every good football team has an entourage of coaches, it takes a village to deploy a soldier. The time they spent to ensure my transition to deployment was as smooth as possible is happening thousands of times a day across our country.

The selfless hours families put into packing, every well wish from old friends, and every cold beer bought by a stranger for a soldier in uniform galvanizes the resolve of our deploying warriors.

This is the bosom of confidence with which our families, friends and strangers send off their sons and daughters wholeheartedly to the modern battlefield. I hadn’t had the privilege until now to know the patriotic vein of support that still runs deep in our society.

When my family and I said our final “see ya laters” (not goodbyes), my mom gave me a rosary made with worn nickel emblems and pearl-colored beads tied back together with cotton string. My great-grandmother gave it to my mom when she was in third grade. My great-grandmother’s brother brought it home from his war. Behind choked tears my mom said she was told he’d had it blessed by the Pope, and she mandated I bring it back safely.

We soldiers fight in the moment for the safety and honor of our fellow soldiers. But we continue to raise our hands in the long war for the love of our families, our friends, and every stranger who supports honoring the cause of something bigger than themselves.

I am excited to get off the bench, put on my helmet, and head to the front lines. And eventually, our cheering crowds will push our military team across the final winning goal line.

Despite multiple days with temperatures above 40 and 50 degrees, patches of snow remain in the shady places of the world.

Every time I think Clarksville is boring I find something new that makes me wish I didn’t have to leave. Most of these discoveries come from my neighbor, Sara, who unfortunately just moved out (but not away). Clarksville is no Nashville, and definitely no Chicago, but it has the amenities of a decent college town and the quaint features of an old-world village. Within driving distance there are the malls and restaurants, but also the Riverwalk and boating, Dunbar Cave (which I still have to explore), and hiking and biking trails. This newest one, the Pollard Greenway, is only six miles from my house.

This was also my first time trying out some black and white shots with my Nikon. I hope to pick up a few more techniques and equipment before heading off to Afghanistan.

As David Brooks mentions, Joe Biden’s interview was laughable. I’m not sure he had his usual coffee pick-me-up before the show.

But the biggest knock out of the episode was the proverbial ass-kicking to freshman representative from Illinois, Aaron Schock (R-18). As the now youngest senator ever in the House and first born in the 1980′s (woo!) I think he bit off a little more than he could chew. I’m not sure Vice President of the Peoria School Board and finishing his Bradley finance degree in two years qualified him to speak for the Republican party on the political ping pong that has taken place over national health care legislation, or to rebuke the claims of those with more time in Washington than he’s been alive.

Now as an Illinois-bred, card-carrying member of the born-in-the-80′s clan, I want to see one of my own excel. But appoint the youngest, least experienced member of the House as the deputy minority whip and then go toe-to-toe on Meet The Press? Well I was the vice president of my high school class, so maybe I’ll use that on my Secretary of the Army application.

I hate Rachel Maddow, but she does her research. Schock was unable to respond with anything more intelligible than Republican-spun PR threads of gold. I smell a mimbo Sarah Palin coming from the Great Plain State of Illinois.

He couldn’t even compare the hypocrisies of his party to the general hypocrisies of the Obama administration. What about the backward-looking blame games Obama promised not to play upon taking office, until the PR problems got really hard. Or how about promising to create jobs and cover down on the deficit by spending billions of dollars borrowed from China?

I think it’s great he is able to have so much success at such a young age. But this guy better have his staff brief him up to speed on matters outside the school board if he has ambitions for another term.

And maybe he should consider going back to Bradley for the two years of International Relations, Constitutional Law and Public Policy that he missed out on.

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I arrived late Monday and began in-processing on Tuesday. I was planning on doing Permissive TDY (“vacation” days where the Army pays for a place for you to stay while you look for housing). But of course no one told me I needed to request those days on my leave form when I left Ft. Sill and then have it modified here, instead of requesting the days here.

So, I’ve been paying out of pocket to stay at the Holiday Inn. I can’t complain too much — I love this place. But I’ve been in a bind to find housing ASAP so I don’t continue to pay out of pocket.

Well yesterday was amazing because I finally found, pretty much, the perfect place. It’s a 2 bedroom, 800-square foot townhouse a half mile off the river in Clarksville at the top of a hill overlooking the downtown. It’s also an end unit, and it was also available IMMEDIATELY…. Thanking the Big Guy for days on this one…

I’m in a sort of disposition with my arrival. I got here late Monday, so I didn’t have any in-processing appointments on Tuesday, and because of the four-day weeknd for Memorial Day, other appointments got moved or cancelled. So it looks like I’ll be in the Replacement company a little longer than usual.

But for now I’m looking forward to (fingers crossed) my parents being able to come down this weekend with a U-haul full of my furniture.

This week was unbelievably stressful. Not to mention once again being torn away from Brittany for who knows how long now… So I’m looking forward to having the fam come help me move in.

I’ve also actually been…wait for it… treated like an officer! In-processing here has been DREAM-like compared to in-processing in the school house environment. We have appointments set up to get different things taken care of, such as gear issue and finance. And I have been treated with respect everywhere I’ve gone by soldiers of all levels.

Amazing!

Things are better, and it looks like they will continue to get that way.