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Carl Nolte (front center) with troops from Company C, Seventh Infantry Regiment, Third Infantry Division, in Kuwait on March 21, 2003. He spent time embedded with the troops on assignment to cover the invasion.

This past week wasthe 20th anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, the beginning of a war that went on for years.

Television marked the anniversary with film of the opening air attack on Baghdad rockets, bombs, a shock and awe demonstration of American power. Other media had pieces about the rationale for the war: regime change, the threat of weapons of mass destruction. There were reports about the price of the war: 4,500 American dead, about 270,000 Iraqi deaths, mostly civilians. And shorter pieces about life in present-day Iraq.Now few would quarrel with the view of Alejandro Rodriguez, an Army medic who served in Iraq. I think it was a big mistake, he told National Public Radio on a program marking the anniversary.There are lessons from the wars in Iraq and later in Afghanistan, bitter lessons. But there is another lesson: how hard it is to be in the military in wartime, how confusing the face of war really is.I was able to see some of it as a reporter for The Chronicle in the Persian Gulf War and later in Iraq. I am thinking now of a night in late March 2003.I had been assigned, with other reporters, to cover the war and was embedded, as the term was known, with the Army. Embedded reporters went with the troops, ate what they ate, slept where they slept, went where they went. I was with the first platoon, Company C, Seventh Infantry Regiment, Third Infantry Division. It was mechanized infantry, designed to move fast, with lots of armored vehicles.I had been with them for two weeks, maybe three, first in Kuwait, waiting for the war to start, then in Iraq. The soldiers were young men, the youngest 18, the oldest Staff Sgt. Benito Rodriguez, who turned 40 on March 21, the day we crossed into Iraq. I was the outsider, of course, with gray in my beard. I told them not to worry about an old guy like me. Id bring them luck, like a mascot. So they let me tag along.I listened to their talk. They never talked about politics or why they were in Iraq. They talked about the Army, about home, about what might happen. They were apprehensive, but if they were afraid, I could not see it.We were in desert country, bare and sere, heading north. We had bypassed the cities and had seen nothing. One day we stopped at a place we called Firebase Raider and waited. Toward dusk, a sandstorm came up. It was very fine sand, red colored, making it hard to see.Rodriguez came back from wherever hed been. Listen up, he said, We have a mission. He said our outfit a string of Bradley armored vehicles and other equipment would head back south, the way we had come, toward the city of Najaf. The enemy had some forces there, and they were attacking our supply line. We have to take care of them, he said.We got into Red Four, the code name for our Bradley. There were eight of us: seven soldiers and me. Three men, Brendan Dillon, the driver; Mark Brown, the gunner; and Rodriguez were up front. Four soldiers, infantrymen called dismounts, an old cavalry term, were in back, sealed inside an armored box. I sat next to the hand grenades.The Bradley is a formidable weapon, a tracked vehicle, almost as big as a tank. It weighs 25 tons, carries a 25mm cannon, a machine gun and an anti-tank missile launcher.Just after Dawson cranked up the engine, one of the men, Ben Lee I think it was, said we ought to have a prayer. Lee was a serious man who had a quote from the 91st Psalm on a card taped to his helmet: I will say of the Lord he is my refuge and my fortress. My God in him I trust.Now he said: Lord, take care of us, and he mentioned each of us by name.Then the Bradley roared off, clanking and roaring, down some unknown road. The trip took all night. No one in the back could see anything. No one said anything. We tried to sleep, but we were crowded back there, with weapons, armored vests, helmets. Legs cramped up, beyond uncomfortable.After a very long while, the Bradley slowed, stopped, started again. It was first light. There they are! someone up front shouted over the earphones. I couldnt tell who it was. Maybe Rodriguez, who was in charge, maybe Dillon, the driver. Brown fired: Wham! The Bradley bucked. There was more firing. We could also hear other soldiers on our radio circuit.The Bradley jumped and swerved as Dillon chased something, somebody. In the back, we didnt know what it was; it was like being inside a horse during a cavalry charge.We were firing on people in black, we heard. The enemy, whoever that was. The firing stopped, and we stopped too. The rear ramp went down. Everybody out! was the word. The soldiers piled out, took up a firing position. A gray morning. Nothing. Nothing to see.After a while, everyone got back aboard. From the radio chatter it was clear that we had killed a number of the enemy, whoever that was; we had never seen their faces or knew who they were. Brown, the gunner, was willing to talk about it. We caught them by surprise. It was them or us. You know what I mean? Ben Lees prayer had come true. None of us were hurt.In the weeks ahead, the Third Division moved up to Karbala, then across the Euphrates River and occupied the Baghdad airport. The enemy army melted away.We thought then that we had won the war. The unit I was with stayed behind for some time, facing another phase of the war. It was not over after all. It was like we were in a spiderweb, caught in the middle of the web, Rodriguez said of that time, and we didnt know who the spiders were.

Carl Noltes column appears in The San Francisco Chronicles Sunday edition. Email: cnolte@sfchronicle.com

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20 years ago, we invaded Iraq. Now we look back at it as a big mistake - San Francisco Chronicle