This column is intended as a means to sketch the life of deployed soldiers in Iraq to UAF students through the lens of someone of similar age and experience.

I’ve read memoirs of the crush of battle, the sweeping charge, the fire-crowned hill—but this war in Iraq falls short of its romantic lineage. The deadliest threat is an unlooked-for explosion, and fighting here is an anachronism.

Perhaps this is a good sign, indicating that insurgents view the Iraqi government as their legitimate target, not just as an arm of American occupation. But it also sanitizes the Iraqi War, making daily missions in this combat zone a deceptively mundane experience.

After two weeks acclimating and preparing in Kuwait, my company moved into Iraq. I was among the first to arrive at our final destination of Forward Operating Base Warhorse, near the city of Baquba in the Diyala River Valley.

This province is an incongruous mix of furrowed sand and muggy palm groves, although the first hints of winter rains portend a season of muddy sludge. While my soldiers scrambled to get the platoons’ vehicles and equipment ready, I accompanied the departing unit on its final missions, learning all I could from my predecessors.

Finally, the day came to take over missions. It was Sunday, the 19th of October, 2008. This single day culminated my four years at a military academy, a year in Army schools, and over a year of training with my platoon. Its beginnings were inauspicious. We were charged with facilitating a meeting with the local head of Iraqi Police.

The mission itself was simple, but due to its high profile status, there was little room for error. Army communications, however, rely on a complex system of radios and encryption, and we failed to find a satisfactory setup until over an hour after our scheduled start time, forcing us to rush from the gate, bound for Baquba.

The drive itself is short, about fifteen minutes. After a stretch of dry farmland, the road divides at a traffic circle into a boulevard. Since the invasion, civilians use one lane, and another is reserved for Coalition Forces. American Strykers share the road with convoys of Iraqi Army Humvees and Iraqi Police cars and trucks. The road takes us into Baquba, a city of two- and three-story buildings, bearing the scars of war and the economic sufferings of disrepair.

The streets are pocked with shot holes from old Improvised Explosive Devices, and the buildings are spattered with bullet holes and the crumblings of bygone explosions. The Iraqis crowd the streets, the men staring numbly as we pass. Some children wave in hopes of food or soccer balls or stuffed animals. Women in the traditional black hijab lower their eyes.

We arrive at the Police headquarters. The compound is similar to our own FOB, complete with guard towers and Hesco dirt barriers. Our unit pulls into a parking lot with an assortment of police vehicles, including the all-black Humvees of the Iraqi police SWAT teams.

We watch as a group of detainees are led, blindfolded and hands bound, from a detention facility to the interrogation area. Each man pulls the man behind him by the hem of his shirt. A handful of my superiors dismount to eat lunch and conduct business with the police leadership. Several of my soldiers accompany them as security. The rest of us are left to wait.

I strike up a conversation with a policeman through his office window. He used to work as an interpreter and has an excellent command of English. We joke about his fat boss and his bungling officemate. I try some of my Arabic on him. We trade lunches, an American MRE for a sheep pita. It’s my first Iraqi food, and I go in search of my platoon medic, anticipating the need for antacid. The sun has reached its zenith, and sweat pools on my chest and back, where my body armor rests its weight.

Eventually the meeting is over. We put our helmets back on and get ready to go. We leave by a different route, traveling through some tighter city streets and across a frail bridge. I keep my finger on the edge of my trigger and try to read the faces as we pass. I scan the roadside for wires or fresh digging, suspicious trash or the occasional dead dog, searching for any potential explosives.

We return without incident.

My first combat patrol is over. I consider it a success, having learned much of my own capabilities and my platoon’s readiness. Hiccups are expected, but must be remedied. The true threat in this war zone is not the enemy, whom we know to be lurking on the fringes and in the shadows, but our own complacency.

He knows not to strike until we expose our weakness. The American military has proven its unbeatable dominance during the last five years. The key to surviving this counterinsurgency is vigilance, just as vigilance seems increasingly unnecessary as uneventful days such as these continue to pass.

Matthew Delvaux is currently serving the United States Army as a First Lieutenant in the 1/25 Stryker Brigade Combat Team. Delvaux and is currently deployed in Iraq.

The views expressed in the column do not necessarily represent the official opinion or policies of the United States Army.