Gary Morsch is an Olathe physician who founded Heart to Heart International, a relief agency, and also founded a company that provides emergency services to hospitals. He is a lieutenant colonel in the Army Reserves. This is an account of his last tour of Iraq with the Reserves taken from a book that will be published next year.

When I joined the Army Reserves as a doctor in 1993, I didn't do it because I was pro-war, or because I thought that waging war was noble. I joined the Reserves because of the opportunity I have to ease the suffering that war causes. As an Army doctor, I have the privilege of not only caring for our soldiers, but also of caring for civilians caught in the crossfire, as well as those we call the "enemy," the prisoners of war. In the midst of combat, I get to take care of America's finest, as well as the "least of these.

" I cared for all of these groups during my recent deployment to Iraq, and learned a valuable lesson about how we classify people.

I went to war with mixed emotions. Even though my heart was heavy in saying goodbye to my loved ones, I also had a sense of excitement and enthusiasm for the opportunity to serve others.

The night before my departure from Fort Bliss, Texas, I drove around the little town nearby and heard church bells ringing. It was a small Catholic church, and I went in and sat in the back row. The Scripture was I Corinthians 13, the well-known chapter on love. I knew that would be my mission in Iraq. No matter what else I would be called upon to do there, I wanted to love every person I met or served, whether a wounded American soldier, an Iraqi POW or an innocent civilian.
 
My assignment was to be the field doctor for a battalion that had set up its forward operating base near the Iranian border. I had a physician's assistant assigned to me and eight combat medics. We were the medical team for the group of soldiers. My normal duties were to take care of soldiers in the medical tent, provide supervision and training to the medics, and visit the two detainee camps to take care of prisoners of war. The work was seven days a week, and the shifts were 12 to 15 hours each day. There was no way to distinguish one day from another, so they became known for the unique thing that happened that day - "laundry day" and "chapel day," for instance.

Occasionally, I still found time for a little fun. A senior officer asked me if I wanted to make a visit to the tank company that patrolled our perimeter, about two miles away. When we were done inspecting them, the colonel asked if there was anything I wanted to see or do. I quickly asked if I could get a ride in one of the tanks.

He let me do more than ride - after a short driving lesson, they put a radio helmet on me and squeezed me down into the driver's hatch and away we went. The gunner gave me instructions and told me to drive as fast as I wanted. I pushed the 1,500-horsepower turbo engine to the max, and we flew through fields, across ditches and over berms, spraying dust and mud and water everywhere, including on the gunner and the colonel.

Most of my experiences were very serious, though.

One day I sat in the back of a Humvee with a POW with a severe abdominal infection. I asked myself the question that probably every soldier in that convoy was asking: Why are we doing this for someone we consider our enemy?

Despite my initial commitment to serve "the least of these," it seemed unfair. I could see risking my life and the lives of American soldiers for another American. But risking all this for an enemy POW?

So there I was in this armored vehicle, wearing about 50 pounds of body armor, helmet and weapons - the full "battle rattle." We drove down the highway as fast as we could, trying to make ourselves a more difficult target to attack, tailgating the Humvee in front of us so a suicide car bomber couldn't get between us, and being tailgated by another Humvee behind us. Sitting in front of me was a soldier monitoring the radio, getting messages from the Humvees ahead of us, then yelling this information to the gunner and me.

The Saturday before I left was one of the most amazing days of my life. I was scheduled to see patients and make rounds at the POW camp. One of the prisoners I had cared for pulled me aside and told me it was an Iraqi tradition to give a good friend a gift. He slowly slipped a ring off his hand.

"This is my wedding ring," he said. "I haven't seen my wife in many years, and I probably will never see her again. I'd like to give it to you.

"I was stunned.

"No, you must keep it," I eventually said. "Someday you will see your wife again."
 
"No," he said. "I want you to have it," as he pressed the ring into my hand.

We hugged and said a tearful goodbye, and then I walked out of the POW compound. My duties had come to an end. It was time to return home.

I left on a plane full of wounded soldiers. The airstrip was under attack even as we taxied for takeoff. But I was at peace. We are called to serve everyone, regardless of their classification. When we do, as I saw in that gift from the POW, we see how we are all the same.


Gary Morsch and Dean Nelson wrote Heart and Soul: Awakening Your Passion to Serve, published by Beacon Hill Press of Kansas City, now in its second printing. Their new book, What Now? Finding Meaning and Significance for Your Life, includes Morsch's accounts of his time in Iraq and Kosovo, as well as experiences from around the world as president of Heart to Heart International. What Now? will be published in 2005. Dean Nelson is director of the journalism program at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego.