Naomi Kraima, 31, Biloxi, Miss.

I was working as an administrative assistant in 2000 and had two kids to support when I decided I wanted to serve my country and offer my girls a better life. My stepfather was a marine, which was a great example to me growing up. So I enlisted in the Air Force and soon became an aerospace control warning system specialist.

I was the person on the ground telling the pilots where their targets were. I loved it and thought I'd do it until I retired.

In early 2003, I was deployed to Iraq. I'm single, so my girls went to live with my mom. Sabrine was only 3 years old, and Carmen was 7 and we had to take her out of school. It wasn't easy, but we were told it was going to be only three months.

As soon as I arrived in Kuwait, we had to drive 300 miles in a 100-vehicle convoy to Baghdad. The hardest part was seeing Iraqi kids on the side of the road begging for food. The second day, the kids didn't approach us; they were just staring. I sensed something was wrong. Then I heard a boom and people shouting, "Take cover! Casualty! Casualty!"

The casualty turned out to be my good friend, a staff sergeant. He died that day. We weren't prepared for the possibility of losing someone so soon. I arranged his memorial, and we were told, "Mourn now, but this is it. You have a job to do, and you have to get back into your warrior mentality." So that's what we did.

Probably because I was one of the few women in my unit, I became a kind of therapist to many of the guys. They called me "big sis" or "little sis," and to this day that's how I sign my e-mails to them. The counselor in Iraq warned me, "It's OK to be a friend for now, but eventually you're going to need to deal with this stuff yourself."

After seven months, I was redeployed home. I thought I'd be able to leave what happened in Iraq behind me, but returning to everyday life was such a drastic change. I was so happy to see my kids, but at the same time, I didn't want anyone in my personal space. I was filled with anxiety: Even today I don't like to sit with my back to the door. I have vivid nightmares and often sleep in the living room just to make sure no one can get in and hurt my kids.

My mom noticed right away that something was wrong. But my kids were so young, they didn't understand what I was dealing with. I've gotten them into a therapeutic day camp for children of Iraq veterans, and I think it has been good for them. Things are slowly getting better for me, too. Therapy has helped me, and I've retired from the military. I now work for Disabled American Veterans, a nonprofit organization. I help disabled vets complete their paperwork.

My service in Iraq has made me even more appreciative of my time with my kids. Carmen is now 13, Sabrine is 8, and I had my youngest, DJ (who is 22 months), since I've been back. I'm most content when we're just hanging out or joking around or going to the movies. I've also found peace going to church. You will not see me bungee jumping or diving out of airplanes anytime soon! I've had a lifetime's worth of adrenaline rushes already.

Mary Herrera, 27, Somerton, Ariz.

Ever since I was a teenager, I wanted to join the Army. I grew up in a very patriotic home. I think that my parents and grandparents instilled in me the desire to join the service because, while our roots are in Mexico, they were so proud to be Americans.

I enlisted in the National Guard at 19 and was deployed to Iraq in March of 2003, when I was 22. I was an MP (a military police officer) so we were taking the prisoners of war and moving those who were tagged al Qaeda to Abu Ghraib, the military prison. On November 8, 2003, I was sitting in the turret of my tank, manning a grenade launcher, when we were ambushed. I felt a pinch on my right bicep, like I'd been flicked with a finger. I didn't know what it was, but it didn't hurt enough for me to stop firing my weapon. A few seconds later, I got hit in the forearm. I figured it was blown off, but I didn't look because I didn't want to panic. I secured my weapon with my left hand and ducked down to get my head out of the cross fire.

Two rounds of an AK-47 had broken my arm and blown the ulna and radius out of my forearm. I was treated in several different hospitals in Iraq, then in a U.S. Army hospital in Germany, and I was back home by Thanksgiving, at a hospital in the United States. My arm was almost amputated three times, but I got to keep it, though it doesn't work very well. Most of my physical therapy has been about learning to be left-hand dominant. It's hard to remember that there are some things I can't do anymore. Like if I'm carrying groceries in my left hand and I want to open my front door, I can't just shift the bag to my other hand, I have to put the bag down. This kind of thing used to upset me, but now I mostly laugh--after all this time, I still forget that I don't have full use of that arm!

Once I was finally able to return home to recuperate, it was great to spend time with my parents, siblings, nieces and nephews. But honestly, being medically discharged from the Army was the hardest thing I've ever had to deal with. I just never believed my injury was so bad. I thought, it's a gunshot wound, they'll fix it up. In fact, I wanted them to send me back immediately. My company was still in Iraq, and it felt wrong to be enjoying the comforts of American life, sleeping in a clean bed with no sand, while the rest of my guys were in Iraq. I was in a cast after surgery and I said to the doctor, "Send me back and I'll just man the radio." He replied, "Are you crazy? You have skin grafts, you already have an infection; it's not a good idea."

But being in the military was all I ever wanted to do. I never had a plan B. Even today, whenever I go back to the hospital and I see all those kids in uniform, I still wonder, Do they love it as much as I did? Do they have as much pride as I had when I put on that uniform?

It doesn't bother me that public opinion has turned against the war. When you join the military, you take an oath to protect and defend the country, whether or not you agree. But I'm glad that people can have their opinions, whatever they are, and I'm proud that I got injured protecting our freedom. I would do it again.

Right now I'm trying to get back into the Army. I would love to go back to Iraq. I can still fire a weapon with my left hand. But in case that doesn't work out, I just finished a bachelor's degree in social psychology, and I plan to be a social worker for soldiers just coming back from Iraq. I can help them realize they're not alone, and that even if they feel like they've wanted to do one thing for their entire lives and that they're not good at anything else, they'll find something else. That's my plan B.

Connie Rendon, 44, Portland, Texas

I'd been serving in the Army Reserve since 1988, doing monthly drills. I almost got sent to Iraq when the war started, but at the last minute there were enough soldiers going over there. In January 2004, though, my unit went to serve in Operation Iraqi Freedom. It was scary. I didn't want to leave my husband, Hector, and my two sons. At the time, Oscar was 15 and Hector F. was 12. But I'd raised my right hand and made a commitment, so of course I went.

On September 8, 2004, I was delivering food and medical supplies to another unit in Baghdad when an improvised explosive device went off. I knew immediately that I was badly injured. I had to hold my right hand with my other hand to keep it from falling off, and my jaw was gone. The next thing I remember is waking up six days later to see my husband and dad by my side in the ICU at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. I spent a year recuperating in Fort Sam Houston, in Texas, near my home. My right hand was almost amputated, my face was fractured, and most of my jaw had to be reconstructed. I also had a collapsed lung and a broken arm. I'm home now, but I'm still going through medical treatments and surgeries.

In a way, being at Walter Reed was easier. When you're in the hospital with other wounded soldiers, you're not embarrassed about how you look, and no one expects you to do things like you used to. When I got home, my husband and sons wanted us all to go out as a family, but I just didn't want to. It wasn't that I wanted to be alone; I just wanted to stay in. It was hard on my family. I hated the way people stared at me, as if they were wondering, "Man, what happened to her?" I had to learn to ignore it and to tell myself I should be proud of my scars, that I did a lot to serve our country.

My experience has also been hard on us financially. For one thing, my husband had to take a leave of absence to take care of me. And although I've now gone back to work, I took a big pay cut because I'm not able to do my old job, training pilots, because of injuries to my hand and back. Luckily, organizations that provide financial support to wounded veterans have helped with the bills.

Recently I learned how to drive again: Injuries to my hand and neck made that impossible for a while. It was huge! I used to depend on my husband and friends to get to my medical appointments. When I was up to it, my husband took me to the high school parking lot and made me drive around, just like a teenager. It is a big relief to be independent again.

For a while, the accident never left my mind. I've had to train myself to think about the positives in my life: my family, my friends, my faith. It's because of my faith that I'm here today. I try not to listen to the news from Iraq anymore. I did my part and I got hurt, and now the only thing that's important to me is getting better.

I wasn't ready to die then, and I don't plan to die soon. My plan is to make the most of the life I've got. In fact, I'm looking into going back to college to earn another degree. I feel like I've been given a second chance.

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