It was Veterans Day, and a quiet young lady sitting in the back row in an 8th Grade classroom in Northern Virginia raised her hand and asked me meekly -- "Do you have any funny stories from Iraq?

I was accompanied that day with Great Americans from WWII, Vietnam, The First Gulf War, Bosnia, and Iraq. Some folks from the History Channel and the President's Veteran and Wounded Warrior Policy Office had arranged for us to meet with President Barack Obama and the First Lady in the White House. We had a wonderful breakfast with the President and other Veterans and then were asked to share our stories to 7th and 8th Graders as a part of the History Channel's "Take a Vet to School Day. It was a unique way to spend Veterans Day, and I was motivated by seeing the Commander in Chief, and excited to share my experiences in uniform with this next generation of leaders. The question from Natasha "…funny stories from Iraq, however, could not have come as more of a surprise to me.

I was expecting a question about service, or about my personal motivations for signing a military service contract at the ripe old age of seventeen. But here was this young lady who had just watched a History Channel Veterans Day video about gallant young men and women in uniform fighting for their lives on foreign soil … yet her question found the essence of Veterans Day. It is a celebration of our comrades in arms, a time to reminisce and thank them for keeping our backs, slapping our backs, and, if necessary, carrying us on their backs.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a funny story. I said. My driver when I was in Iraq was Sergeant Sean Scarborough. Sean was a tall; thin wiry kid from Texas. He was so thin, in fact that we nick-named him "Stick. Stick was the typical young 20 year old trooper in every way -- dedicated to the mission, sharp and skilled under stressful situations, and always keeping an eye out for his buddies. What made Sean unique, however, was his ability to keep his wits and humor, no matter what.  I relayed the story of how Sean had taught me an important lesson about "minding my Ps and Qs in a combat zone in his own style. There were many stories to share, and I told them one or two humorous musings, but I balked at telling them the funniest one - it was too difficult to tell at the time. I told Natasha afterwards that I would tell her the funniest story I had as soon as I got up the courage to do it … so here it is Natasha.

I was escorting an official from the Office of Reconstruction to our forward operating base (FOB) from the confines of the Green-Zone. A gentleman by the name of Noah Feldman, a 30 something smart-guy from Harvard Business School, who was working on the Iraqi Constitutional and Judicial Reconstruction Team. On this particular day, "Stick and I would give him a great story indeed.

Noah had been cooped up in meetings all day in the Palace in Baghdad, and asked to accompany Sean and me as we made our way back to our base.  I agreed, and on the way he asked to stop at a local market to buy falafels for him and his friends back at the palace. As I hesitantly agreed, Sean cautioned me -- "Hey Sir, I am not sure that is a good idea … We were in another unit's area of operations and we had not cleared the stop with my headquarters.  We were also in the smallest authorized convoy at the time, so I called it in.  "OK brother, note taken, we will only be a second. This good man has traveled all the way from Washington DC to have an Iraqi falafel -- we can't disappoint him, now can we?  Noah laughed and added "Hey, I missed lunch to ride with you guys -- I am hungry and not interested in eating MREs with you when you get back! We slowed to a snail's pace on the outer edge of a block long open market.

Noah was, unbeknownst to Sean or I, fluent in Arabic and he jumped out of the vehicle and quickly began negotiating with an eager young Iraqi kid to head into the market and fetch him the largest stack of falafels that his hands could carry. We were not going to stop in the market, with just three vehicles in the convoy and light assault weapons. I was not particularly interested in making us more of a target then we already were. This was 2003 and the tenor of the war was very different than it was at the height of violence in 2006. There were still sectors of Baghdad that welcomed the American presence, and attacks against American troops in this particular area were almost unheard of.  We were safe, and one of our Airborne Infantry companies was patrolling nearby, but I was not pressing my luck.

After five minutes of waiting, a crowd had gathered around Noah and Sean and me. The questions were coming at a blistering pace, and I asked Noah to interpret before he answered -- "Who is the next President of Iraq? "Why don't we have electricity? "Are YOU the new President? "Can YOU get the electricity turned on?

As the crowd began to grow, my comfort level waned, and I was relieved when I saw the bright teeth emanating from down the block bouncing up from behind the largest stack of flatbread I had ever seen. It was held tightly between two small hands from his waist to his chin. "Here, Here Airborne!  Airborne! Airborne! Clearly, the soldiers on patrol were dutifully teaching the kids in the neighborhood the most important motivating greeting of the day for a Paratrooper.

Noah handed the child a stack of dinars, and took possession of the valuable flatbreads that were scarce behind the walls of the Green-zone at that time. "Thank you! Noah said.  It was almost at that instant that the automatic fire of an AK-47 rang out. I grabbed Noah, and flung him to the ground behind me -- falafels flying. Was this simple celebratory fire? Someone firing warning shots in the air?  Scanning the streets, windows and roof tops for the source of the fire, I saw nothing; then again, the shots rang out. This time the cracks clearly indicated they were shooting at us. Sean scurried around to the front of the HUMVEE, providing cover, and yelled at us to get in as I pushed Noah into the back of the HUMVEE.  Before I knew it, Sean was behind the wheel and we were moving out -- dust flying  I looked into the back seat and saw Noah -- disheveled, and seemingly in shock. He was still faithfully holding onto his flatbread (at least one or two small heavily soiled pieces no larger than flap-jack pancakes were crumbling in his white knuckled hands clutched to his chest). As Sean down shifted  and pushed the needle to the hilt, the engines roared - Sean turned slightly and guffawed over the gunned engine -- "Hey sir, you still going to eat those??!, cause if not, I'll take em' over MREs any day!  The laughter continued all the way back to our FOB. 

I carry that memory with me to this day, the full display of leadership under fire, accompanied with the style and humor of a quick witted young soldier. Stick was at the same time chastising us for our foolhardiness, while maintaining the levity necessary to stay sane in an environment that was borne and bred to instill fear and anxiety in even the most "Steely-eyed Paratrooper. It is memories like this that give meaning to me on Veterans Day. It is a day to celebrate the men and women on our left and on our right that embody the greatest attributes of humanity.  Sean was one of those soldiers, and I will always remember him and celebrate his service to our country with a smile.

I did not tell this story that day to Natasha and her classmates, because I had just told it two weeks earlier under very different circumstances and could not bear to tell it again. You see, Veterans Day is a celebration of...