Richard Tomkins
UPI White House Correspondent

WASHINGTON, April 21 (UPI) -- What's the face of the Iraq war? Is it a scene of physical destruction people see on their televisions and in their newspapers? Is it a glimpse of sullen -- more often relieved -- Iraqi prisoners or celebrating civilians? Or is it the wave of camouflaged U.S. troops routing an enemy, and in typical American fashion, then embracing the children of a foe vanquished?

It's all that and more.

For journalists embedded with U.S. forces, the dominant feature of Operation Iraqi Freedom is, and always will be, the faces of individual Marines, soldiers, airmen or sailors with whom they lived, sweated and feared during the long slog to Baghdad.

There is, for example, the unidentified Marine with his mouth set in a grimace from the bullet that passed through his knee. He tried to wave off comrades who eventually carried him to cover during the heaviest fighting for al-Azimiyah Palace in east Baghdad. While being carried he continued to fire his weapon at the enemy until his ammunition ran out.

There is Marine Pvt. Aaron Davis, a jovial and slightly pudgy kid from California, who moved nearby with unbelievable speed and abandon, braving explosions and flying fragments from rocket-propelled grenades to help carry wounded to an evacuation.

There is Capt. Shawn Basco, a forward air controller, who handed out candy from Meals Ready to Eat packs to village children and food to their parents with the same personal sense of mission that earlier had saved scores American lives and snuffed out many an Iraqi one when calling in air strikes.

"You hear about the World War II generation being 'the Greatest Generation,'" Lt. Col. Fred Padilla, commander of the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, told this correspondent. "In a sense that's true -- we're certainly living off the equity they earned.

"But this generation -- call it Generation X or whatever -- is also every bit as extraordinary. They measure up." For 36 days this correspondent was in a unique position to gauge that sentiment. As part of Pentagon policy for media coverage of the war, I was embedded with Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, or simply Bravo 1/5. Bravo 1/5 was one of the first two units to cross into Iraq from Kuwait at the start of the land war (we would have been first, but Alpha Company broke the line of march and moved ahead of us). Bravo 1/5 captured a gas and oil separation plant in the al Ramallah oil fields in southern Iraq, routed Iraqi defenders while capturing a key bridge over the Saddam Hussein Canal in central Iraq, liberated village after village and a children's prison, fought its way into Baghdad through a gauntlet of RPG fire, and seized and held Saddam's 17-acre complex on the Tigris River despite a five-hour onslaught from Baath Party gunmen and foreign extremists. It was one of the heaviest battles of the Iraq conflict, with the besieged Marines nearly running out of ammunition.

Thirty-five Marines were wounded that morning and one killed. Luckily for Bravo, only three of the wounded came from its ranks.

In battle, the men of Bravo 1/5 fought with tenacious courage. In liberating a people long cowed by the repression of dictatorship, they acted with great compassion, and in many cases a great tenderness. "Operation Iraqi Freedom," a name they initially greeted with scorn and expletive, gained poignant currency as the Marines viewed the plight of the Iraqi people -- lives in unbelievable squalor -- and their explosions of joy at being set free from the grip of fear.

Earlier mutterings that the war to topple Saddam Hussein should be called Operation Sandstorm because of weather, or Operation Stand Still for the delays in march to allow logistics vehicles to catch up with advancing front line units, were quickly forgotten.

"I feel pretty good today," 1st Sgt. Bill Leuthe of California said after liberating a town near Baghdad and a prison for children, where charges were reportedly beaten every morning simply for being there. "I think we all do." Leuthe, Davis, Shevlin, Washburn, Malley, Lockett, Jones, Moll, Lyon, Bishop, Avilos, Nolan, Lockett, Meldoza, Craft, George -- the list of names of the men who did themselves proud, the Marines proud and their nation proud is too long to recite. There were more than 180 in the company; more than 200 when you add in attachments, such as armored vehicle crews and additional Navy corpsmen.

They were a cross-section of America. There were whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, American Indians and every hue and mixture in between. Pvt. Dustin Pangelinann, 23, was from Saipan in the U.S. Commonwealth of the Marianas. Fifteen members of Bravo Company were not U.S. citizens and represented the newest wave of immigrants to our country. Some were from Mexico and one was from Haiti. There were also several from Russia and Ukraine.

Some came from poor backgrounds, others were solidly middle class. One Marine, who didn't need to work because of a family fortune, enlisted in his late 20s in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. And yes, some even had had youthful brushes with the law.

But they all shared two things. They were Marines and "Devil Dogs." Not hyphenated Marines, just Marines -- the "Few and the Proud," carrying on the tradition of courage their regimental forebears showed at Bellieu Wood and the Argonne, at Guadalcanal and Okinawa, at the Chosen Reservoir and Inchon, and at Hue.

"None of you had to be here," company commander Capt. Jason Smith told his men before crossing the border berm into Iraq from Kuwait. "You all chose to be here by becoming Marines, by doing something good for the world. "Take a look around you. We are all different ... what other military force or country in the world can say that? The fact that we are all different and live with each other and focus together under adverse circumstances tells me and the world a lot."

This group of men, this collection of Marines, he said, comes from a nation that "is going to war to defend an idea" of freedom, rule of law and human dignity. "We're going to war to make the world a better place because we don't want to happen again what happened on Sept. 11."

It's difficult to convey the rich texture of the men who make up Bravo 1/5 and the special camaraderie among them. Words just aren't adequate enough. But they are truly a band of brothers. Even the company oddball, the Marine who somehow never seemed to fit in or pull his own weight, was looked out for and protected with the concern like that of a big brother looking out for an awkward sibling.

Bravo 1/5, in a sense, proves two truisms this correspondent has discovered in 30 years of reporting, much of it in war zones: Sharing a foxhole is the ultimate bonding experience, and the word "cliché" needs a new definition. According to the American Heritage College dictionary, "cliché" is "a trite or overused expression or idea" or stereotype. All too often it is used with a negative cast. Yet clichéd characters and generalizations are based on truths.

Take the characters in any war move you've ever seen. There is the jokester, the screw-up, the smart mouth, the lothario, the kindhearted sergeant with a tough-as-nails exterior, the good-natured medic and the caring-but-firm commander. It's no wonder these characters exist on paper and celluloid. They exist in real life, just as the scenes of GIs passing out candy to civilians, sharing their last smoke or holding up a magazine pin-up to troops in a passing convoy. Clichéd in the context of Bravo 1/5 should be a label of honor, because it mirrors America and is replicated throughout our society and military services.

The commander of Bravo Company is Capt. Jason Smith, from Baton Rouge. He fits the image -- tall, square-jawed, a good-natured, decent and erudite man who requires things be done correctly. A graduate of Louisiana State University with a B.A. in history, his main goal in Operation Iraqi Freedom -- other than accomplishing unit missions -- was bringing everyone home.

Watching him one night, when troops were out setting an ambush, was like watching a parent of a teenager waiting for his or her child to return home from a New Year's Eve party to which they had driven. The silent pacing was enough to drive one crazy. Any casual mention about how the company had been lucky in the casualty department would result in a quick, sharp look of reproach -- don't jinx good fortune by talking about it.

The executive officer is 1st Lt. David Gustafson, a quiet, shy Swede from Maynard, Minn., with a wicked sense of humor. The only graduate of the Naval Academy among the company's officers, his educational background is often a butt of jokes. So too his efforts to conceal the cigarette smoking he'd taken up since crossing into Iraq. And then there is Gunnery Sgt. Ron "my first name is Gunny" Jenks, the company logistician. Before battle, the Gulf War veteran would sternly but lovingly caution his men on mistakes to avoid and advise on lessons learned the hard way. His "OK, gents, let's get a move on," inevitably followed his barked orders. But for all the sternness, there was the old clichéd heart of gold. Gunny Jenks always had words of encouragement, always knew who was married, who expecting a child and made it a point to inquire about them. He loaded up on cigarettes, parceling them out to his "knuckle heads" when they ran out in the Iraqi desert.

"They're like my own kids," he'd say in quiet moments -- not in front of them, of course.

Bravo 1/5 has now left Baghdad. It is heading south toward Kuwait and an eventual return home to California. But there will be no rest for the weary. After an expected parade in Oceanside and a few weeks of reunion with family, the band of brothers will ship out to Okinawa to complete a previously scheduled deployment.

Operation Iraqi Freedom will become just a memory, and another ribbon of honor for men serving their country.

Post script: This reporter took his leave of Bravo 1/5 on April 15. It was one of the hardest farewells I've ever had to make. In the 36 days I spent with them, I had been welcomed and made part of the family. The idea of leaving my band of brothers was wrenching, yet my family at home was also calling. In the end, I left quickly, with few goodbyes. The sight of a blubbering reporter was something best avoided. Speaking with other formerly embedded reporters in Kuwait turned up similar emotional pulls.

God speed, Bravo 1/5. Semper Fi (Semper Fidelis, "Always Faithful," the Marine Corps motto).