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The National Guardsman, the citizen soldier called upon to fight for this nation in a time of war, is one of the least understood - and perhaps one of the most compelling - figures of the Iraq War. Saber's Edge is the story of a middle-aged Vermont firefighter called upon to be a soldier in the worst place on earth - Ramadi, Iraq. In a few short weeks Thomas A. Middleton went from being a suburban dad to a combat medic traveling between platoons, filling in for other medics and engaging in some of the fiercest and most crucial fighting of the war. This is the war as experienced from the ground level: days of tedium interspersed with the adrenalin of combat; moments of lighthearted laughter broken by the sorrow of loss. This is also the story of the unique wartime perspective of our guardsmen. Unlike the raw, unformed young recruit, the mature guardsman often comes with the burdens of family, experience, and a developed sense of self. Accordingly, Sgt. Middleton's story chronicles the inner conflict created by his long-time professional role as a healer and his newfound life as a warrior in the urban battlefields of Iraq. Thrust into a culture and theater of war that he is little equipped or trained for, the author tries to make sense of his actions. Coarsened by combat and increasingly disdainful of the local population, he receives solace and insight from his life-long faith and ultimately emerges as a man who understands his role in the world. Saber's Edge is also the story of the Green Mountain Boys of Task Force Saber: a story of comradeship and communion amid fierce street fighting in a crucial theater of the Iraq War (the eventual site of the \"Al Anbar Awakening\"). Based on the author's first-hand experiences and interviews with other soldiers, Saber's Edge presents a riveting account of modern urban warfare and the inspiring story of one man reconciling his actions in warfare.

Overlooking our forward operating base was an abandoned glass factory. The place was huge, with smokestacks and tall buildings that loomed over the base like the scepter of death. Our predecessors took sniper fire from the glass factory, and closed it down. It stood, towering over the perimeter of our base, acting as a barrier between us and some of the most violent neighborhoods in Iraq. It was January 5 and I was in my room on the computer when Lt. Gunn came into the area, yelling for everyone to respond to a mass casualty incident. A bomber wearing a

It is said that what does not kill you makes you stronger. The insurgents tried hard to kill me, but they failed. In their wake, they left a bitter and determined soldier who fought aggressively against them. The experience of killing the enemies of our nation was not the difficult one that I imagined it would be. Before I headed into combat, I used to think about how it might feel to take someone’s life. When it happened, I didn’t really feel much of anything. While there were home-grown insurgents who attacked us out of frustration or resentment, they were

Some men reacted to enemy attacks with fear. I got angry. I wanted to take the fight to the enemy. One night while working the overnight shift with SSG. Bert Severin, I let him know how I felt. Severin was the squad leader for the line medics assigned to A Company and B Troop. A mountain infantry medic from Jericho, Vermont, he moved with the light step of a cat stalking its prey. I made a point of standing guard, even though we didn’t have to, and I told SSG. Severin how frustrated and angry I was—just sitting there

Not everything that happened in Ramadi was bad. Some of it was downright funny. In the days and weeks following the Battle of OP 2, we were aggressive in our dealings with the local population. Our minds were made up: we would stop every car we suspected of carrying insurgents and try to gather evidence of their activities. In addition, every traffic stop we did became a felony stop: weapons aimed, thorough searches, and so on. On one such traffic stop, we thought we had the mother load. A car-load of wealthy-looking men drove by us. We pulled them over,

Two days after Christmas was my thirty-eighth birthday. What better way to celebrate than to ride along with SSG Murtha on a raid? We had intelligence reports that the occupants of a particular house were heavily involved in the insurgency. We kicked their door in and caught them completely off guard. The man in the house published propaganda and handled money for the insurgents. He had detailed notes about terrorist cells and boxes of pamphlets in his house. Evidently he was no stranger to our game of cat and mouse. He and his wife were asleep in the middle of

Our days in Kuwait drew to a close and we prepared for our unit’s first combat mission since the South Pacific islands campaign of World War II. Most of our troops flew into Iraq in a cargo plane, and then transferred to helicopters for the final leg of the journey. I tend to get airsick and I actually like driving, so I volunteered to go on the convoy. Our medical platoon used an up­armored five­ton truck that we outfitted as a mass casualty ambulance. My good friend Lt. Gunn rode shotgun while I drove. The lieutenant was a physician’s assistant

The streets of Tameem were a deadly and unforgiving place. Just venturing out there was putting your life in extreme danger. A slum with about fifty thousand inhabitants, it was rife with snipers, IEDs, and RPG teams. Every rooftop, every doorway, every corner potentially held a deadly ambush. The insurgency was alive and well here, and those who did not come here to attack us were driving through on their way to attack the Marines on the other side of the river. Many of the streets were narrow, with three- and four-story buildings built very close to the roadways. The

I rediscovered that slightly edgy feel I used to get during a busy shift on the ambulance, situationally aware, tactical, and on my game. Having resolved my moral questions, I came to embrace this combat mind-set. It was a good feeling, but I would also be just as content to ride around in the hummer all day doing nothing. One morning in early December, while I was on patrol with B Troop out on MSR mobile, we stopped at the main gate and were visiting with the medics assigned to Voodoo Mobile when we heard a huge explosion. Our other