I can tell the crack of an M-16 from the boom of an AK; I know the most dangerous part of the night is from 2000 to 2400; I know helos don’t fly alone unless something’s wrong; and I can load and fire a 240 with a reasonable chance of hitting something.

I have seen the gun trucks return with cracked windows and bullet holes in their hoods. I have seen the blood being washed out of humvees; seen the flag draped caskets; the bodies in the field, bloating under the August sun.

I have heard the explosions, the quick bang of the RPG followed by rifle fire; the whoosh of the mortars, three at a time. Or the slow thunderous roar of an SVIED in the market place, enveloping the stalls, the fruit, the people, sucking the life from everything within reach.

I have ached from the weight on my shoulders; been bruised from the recoil of my rifle; I have felt the solid ground slam hard against my body, taking my breath… and the steel whipping into my thigh…

I have celebrated successful returns; toasted with .02% near beer, and shouted with joy when we finally brought that old building down. In spite of the loneliness, at times I have felt good here, alive. And occasionally, I have cried.

I have tasted the dirt of this war… inhaled its dust into my lungs. The familiar rhythm of the fifties is comforting. The bagpipes are outside now, outside the walls, so far away. I really think I’m gonna make it.

I am still me.

One of the guys traded leaves with SGT D. He’ll be going home to see his wife the day after tomorrow.

I am not sure whether he’ll be able to make the funeral or not.

I don’t really believe in that PTSD stuff. I mean, not for regular guys, like me. Maybe if my buddy’s brains had been blown out and spattered all over me, but you know, that’s really not that common. Most Americans live in these little concrete fortresses where the only time someone gets hurt is when the bad guys throw something over the walls.

But not those guys from the 82nd.

Down time

Constructing "grenade fences" for the humvee turrets. The guys are rigging homemade cages that they will drape cammo netting over. This hides them from snipers and also prevents grenades from being dropped into the turret (always a bad thing). There is even a story about a poisonous snake being thrown up into a turret out in
Anbar. Yeech.




SGT L. making sure nothing comes loose.



Small arms fire damage from Route Arrows convoy

War is a very sensual experience.

(my own version)

HEARING: I was surprised at how loud war is. The sounds are constant, grinding even, and sometimes, overwhelmingly loud. Like fireworks. Loud beyond human capacity accept audio input, so that you really don’t hear, you feel it vibrating in your internal organs. Other times soft like the crunch of a single boot on a twig, or the “pfsssst” of a star shell.

SEEING: The color of war is brown. Shit brown. Tan really... the color of dirt. Dirt on the truck, mud on the street, mud on the walls, mud walls… the whole war is like looking at life through a dirty windshield. Sometimes I google Spain or Ireland or some Pacific island just to look at the pictures and remind myself that there are still places full of beautiful living plants, and flowers. Even the blood turns brown after a while.

TOUCHING: It’s hard, like a Bradley’s armor. Cold, and angular, solid. There are so many trucks, and tanks and other large, hard vehicles; I am surprised at how used I have become to their being very close to me. Walking in the street two with two inches between you and a passing five-ton no longer elicits a flinch. How I long for a soft caress upon my shoulder, or just to hold a woman’s soft hand.

TASTING: War tastes like wax beans. Not exactly like them, but sort of generic - undifferentiated, like canned beans are. Metallic, almost. Cafeteria food, like when at college. Over-cooked steaks and Gator aid. And power bars. And stay-awake gum - yummy!

SMELLING: Oil and dust. Garbage. Occasionally burnt wood or cordite. When I remember, I take this pretty smelling conditioner into the shower with me, just so I can smell something nice once a day.

FEELING: Lonely. Late at night. And it’s just a little scared when a mortar lands a little closer than normal, and maybe just a little helpless. Not too much though, because you won’t let go.

SLEEPING: On a day to day basis, I have never been so tired in my life. Not even in basic training. So tired – It saps you, drains your mind. I have gone so long without a good night’s sleep that I couldn’t even talk straight. You get to the point where it doesn’t even matter if you get 8 or 6 or even 4 hours of sleep because whatever I do get is enough. You can work tired - and you’re not really expected to enjoy it anyway.

The Rhino just got hit on Irish. I don't have anyone in that convoy, but Col M. from upstairs is in it. No one is supposed to have been killed - 'don't have many details yet.

[Late Note] It was an IED. Everyone was okay. The Colonel is back now describing how he was watching the explosion as it blossmed towards the them (and bounced off of the bullet-proof glass - thank God). Those Rhinos are tough.

Our George Helping Out

Our George looking down from the secret room in the back of the palace basement.



George warning his buns on some steam pipes.



George shutting off the power to the Baghdad grid.



I always have my George.

Baath Party Headquarters

Entrance way to the old Baath Party HQ. This building was actually targeted in the very first air strike of Operation Iraqi Freedom.



Destroyed windows. If you think this is bad, you should see the OTHER side of the building.



I am sitting in a chair around the corner from the conference room where they thought a JDAM would catch Saddam and his ministers. There is nothing left of the conference room, but Saddam wasn't there.

a sad place

We walked from Shields to the Baghdad Police College, which is adjacient. There are shots in the distance; they seem to take even less notice here than we do on Slayer. I guess for the Americans it's still something different, the whole deal of being here and the explosions and the fighting. We keep it separate in our minds because we know - we want - something apart from here to be able to go back to. This place is just a long interuption to our real lives back in the world. That's part of the key to it all - for most of us, that real world still exists. For the Iraqis there is no R&R, no rotations home after 12 or 15 months. I think when Americans start to cross this real world line - when they forget the "other" place they came from - that is when you start to live the war, instead of just visiting.

They are converting some old dorms into housing for the new Iraqi judiciary. The mortality rate for those who serve on the bench has sky-rocketed over the past year or so, and I guess grouping them all together here makes it easier to protet them. In the shadow of the MOI building. Rule of law, and all. My opinion is that it makes for one big, fat, juciy target.

Just behind the building is a walled-in spot of grass - not too big, really, but any grass is unusual here. It's a playground with little play ground things - painted tires and monkey bars and stuff. And fours guys carrying AK-47's in the corners. This is for the children of the judges who will live in the dorms.

And as I stare at it, I realize that this little rectangle of real estate represents yet another reality - that of the children at war. That of a childhood punctuated by gunshots and check points dangerous shadows in the night and relatives who disappear and never come back. Suffer, little children.... I wish that I could bring you to my world.

I don't think about it.

Down Irish to the IZ. It's gotten so it's actually routine. Through one ECP, swing around to Hiafa street, past the CHS and out through Assassin's Gate. Onto the bridge over the Tigres - it's muddy as usual. There are Iraqi armored cars on either end, and some type of patrol boat in the river, but I can't see how they would actually imped a bomber if he wanted to drive onto the bridge and detonate himself. Well, we're over now, so that's their worry.

Downtown is pretty busy. Lot's of police and IA's around. We pass a market spread out along one of the streets - markets always attract crowds and crowd in Iraq is just another word for "large defeseless target." So we have set up concrete blast walls separating the venders from the road - unfortunitly, their most obvious effect seems to be to slow traffic by taking up an entire lane of the street. Already the barriers are plastered with posters - mostly religious leaders and memorials to people who have died, I think. Baghdad might be called "The city of Posters." Perhaps not as enticing as "The City of Lights," but you have to start somewhere, and the bar's pretty low.

We're on Route Brewers now heading towards Sadr City. I have never been this far east of the river before, and I am a little apprehensive. I think it's just that the name Sadr City conjurs up so many images from CNN; Madhi Army check points, troops being ambushed from the roof tops, wounded being ferried out on the top of with tanks... but it seems pretty calm from my perspective. At least for now.



At one point an auto in front of us pulls over & we stop. You don't want to stop unless you absolutly have to, but you definitly don't want to pass a vehicle that has just pulled over either. I hate that you have to think of these things every time you have to go somewhere. Even the simplist decision can get someone killed. Do we move, or do we sit there? Luckily, after a minute or two the car pulls back onto the roadway and we continue on.

We pass the Interior Ministry Building going into the chute for FOB Shields (they refer to this building as JAM headquarters because of the number of police who moonlight as Madhi Army soldiers). There are a LOT of Iraqi police and soldiers around, but they are not as reassuring as having American soldiers around.

The Angel of Death as we start down Route Irish. It's really some type momument to flight that Saddam had set up on the way to the airport, but we all refer to it as the Angel.

We never like to see traffic because it slows us down, thereby making us a better target. Often, a firefight in one part of the city will back up traffic in another part of the city for hours. This is downtown, just over the bridge heading towards Sadr City.

Iraqi Armored car at checkpoint.

Iraqi Police technical on the Bagdhad Police College compound.

Iraqi flag flying over the Interior Ministry outside of FOB Shield. FOB Shield was interesting because the entire time we were there you could hear small arms fire. Not a lot, and sometimes it came from different directions, but it was always there.

Me just outside of Sadr City.

For Keith

Into the breach once more, yes? My brother? Let’s hope this is the last time, for both of us. Good luck today - I am thinking about you.

And in June we’ll be together and we’ll have that cognac.

Nine

We’d heard about the nine. At first it was just a blurb in the daily update, just another number in a briefing filled with numbers. Nine bodies. Nine lives. Nine mother’s sons… nine thick black rubber bags. Nine was a lot, but not the worst. There had been worse, hadn’t there? But all from one platoon? I don’t know. But that was a lot. People whispered:

Did you hear? Nine from the 82nd.”
“Where?”
”Diyala.”
“East?”
“Yeah. It’s getting worse out there.”
“How??”
“Truck bomb, I think. I heard they couldn’t even find the pieces from a couple of them.”

But you just shake it off, you know? There but for the grace of God go I - that sort of thing. Out here to do a job, and it’s all a part of the job. Until D. got the call.

I was in the next room when it came in, all the way from the States. He dropped the phone. What can you say when someone tells you that your best friend was blown apart?

They were no longer in the same unit, but they were still on the same base. And, back in the world they still lived on the same street. Last year D. took over mowing both lawns while ______ was deployed. It’s just what you do. He had a picture on his desk of his wife and his and ______’s wife together…

what do you say? what can you say when someone’s world crashes down in front of you. Do you say “Buck up, son. My friends have died too,” and assure him that he’ll get through it. That the pain will go away? do you lie?? you never get through it – they’re just gone and you’re empty. just another huge hole inside of you. Like when Mike died. You don’t get over it. too much empty, and then you die too.

You can’t just keep running… running… every time you feel something Or maybe you can. Fuck this goddammed place. Fuck fuck fuck fuck

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I made D. turn in his ammo for a couple of days. And so tomorrow we head out, riding east. Without our best gunner. And my damned foot still hurts.

Anais,

Anais,

I have that little lead soldier that you gave to me on my nightstand next to my bed. I look at it every night, and think of our trip to University City. I think of coffee shops and bobo tea and new jeans and stop signs and the root beer factory.

Study hard and stay safe, my precious daughter.

The March

Zero three thirty. My cell phone alarm goes off. Why in the hell do they have to start these things so early? Sitting up is an effort. Shit, shower, shave. Tape the arches, tape the heels… it’s gonna be a long walk today. Double socks and lace everything up TIGHT.

Zero four thirty. Mile zero. Button up the flak vest. Check that everyone has extra ammo. Go over the plan - the route clearance guys have already gone in. Just another walk in the park, right? Lock and load.

Zero five forty-five. Mile two. Okay, we’re past the last guard tower now. Rifles port and starboard. We’re going pretty slow… this doesn’t seem so bad. I can’t believe how dark it still is. We started in the pitch black and it’s still pitch black out. A little spooky, actually. And getting warmer. I am glad I brought extra water.

Zero six eighteen. Mile three. Do you know what’s strange? The buildings aren’t lit. I just realized that’s what’s been throwing me off – the street lights are on but the buildings have been dark all along. No lights going on as people get up to read their papers, no mothers flicking on the bedroom lights to tell their sons or daughters that it’s time for school…

Zero six fifty-two. Mile five. “Thwump!!” A mortar goes off, everyone freezes. Just one round, waiting…. then the star shell bursts far overhead, off to the east of the river. It’s one of ours. Collective sigh of relief as the little ball of artificial light ever so slowly floats down on its parachute.

Zero seven eighteen. Mile six. The vest is starting to get heavy. Back in the rear you get a ten minute rest to catch your breath for every 50 minutes of marching. We’re not doing that here, for obvious reasons. This area is supposed to be secure, but standing still is almost like asking for a sniper to take a pot shot, secure or not. They say Juba is always watching, and he uses a very powerful scope.

Zero seven twenty-six. Still mile six. Sun rise. I am breathing through my mouth now – we all are. My shirt is soaked. My hips ache. Watch out for the damn gun trucks, they take up almost the entire width of the road as they barrel by, trailing diesel fumes…

Zero eight fifteen. Mile nine. One foot in front of the other, over and over. Head hanging down with the weight of the helmet. Sweat drips off of the tip of my nose. I wish that I’d remembered my knee brace. Quite a few guys are limping, and my own feet are just screaming. Some Iraqi was on the corner passing out bottled water as we passed. Most just stare…

Zero eight fifty… not sure where we are. The IPs on the corner point us in one direction and we just go. Shoulders aching, legs moving on their own…

Zero nine ten. Somewhere past mile thirteen or so. I so want to just dump this vest on the side of the street. It feels as if it weighs sixty pounds and I cannot breathe. Feet blistered, legs numb. Tripping on every rock or curb. No one is looking around, everyone just stares at the ground in front of them. The sweat from my shirt chafes my arm pits as I swing my arms…

Zero nine eighteen. Mile fourteen. Oh God I can see the end. We did it. You wouldn’t think 14 measly miles could kick your ass so much, but it does. All this extra gear doesn’t help. Stand up straight. Oh, just fuck it. I can’t wait to sit my ass down and take my boots off. And when I do, I am never, ever, going to move from that spot again.

Post script: I carried Our George the entire way. He traveled in his usual green laundry bag, but I did take him out several times. He was very brave.

Our George in today's sand storm. Look closely and you can see that he's already getting covered with sand.

Morning watch

Route Redsox

I was down on Route Redsox 4 times yesterday (actually, down and back - it was a long, tiring day). Not Irish, but they are all the same, pretty much. Irish is just more famous because it's between the IZ and the airport, and those are the only places 90% of the reporters go.

Well, okay, Irish may be a little more dangerous than some of the others, but if you ever saw a map of the various incidents & attacks over the course of a one week period you'd never describe this place as a "low intensity" insurgency.

The picture of the airplane coming in is the last checkpoint on Redsox before BIAP. I tried to get the damn thing right overhead, but I wasn't fast enough.

Guess what? My boss (Lt Colonel L.) just asked if there was a possibility that he could talk me into staying for another tour. It's good to know that you are appreciated, and I guess that's probably the best way he could show it.

But my answer was still no.

Sunday morning

Bombing in West Baghdad. We were trenching for cable when the Ka-RUUMMMP sound washed over us. It was so loud we all stopped to look.

Back from Route Arrows

I swear to God that I had a bad feeling coming back. We were providing security for a convoy of KBR fuel tankers on Routes Arrows and Irish. But nothing happened. All safe.


With George on Route Arrows

50 in the turret

Tarawa or Baghdad?

Karaoke night

Almost eleven. Karaoke night at the club. The usual dregs, a few who for some-unknown-reason actually think they’re good, others who just go up because their friends tease them until they do. It’s a little bit like American Idol in a war zone, but it’s something to do, and every once in a while a song will bring back memories so that for a minute you can forget how lonely you are.

The night was nearly over – probably one or two more songs and that would be it. And then this really young looking kid got up to sing – he was wearing the new digital camouflage trousers with just a tan tee shirt, not filling it out but baring his gangly scrawniness for all of us to see. He wasn’t more than a PFC, or maybe a Specialist at the most… heck, he couldn’t have even turned 18 more than a couple months ago. I admit, this kid’s body language just screamed loser, and there were more than a few smirks in the crowd. But the kid ignored them, proceeded methodically up to the stage, set down his rifle, and then adjusted it, before standing up to speak to the DJ.

When they sing, most people stand somewhere behind the teleprompter so that they can read it, and it’s set towards the front of the stage for this reason. But this guy walked out in front of the thing, right up to the edge of the platform, and just stood there facing the crowd. Head down, eyes closed… I wondered for a minute if the poor kid had just froze, until the music started…. It was the helicopter that came first, faint, but coming closer, louder, until it seemed the speakers were going to burst… The song was Goodnight Saigon, and I swear to you that this scrawny kid, this skinny-assed, eyes-closed scrawny kid - the one we were so ready to make fun of just minutes before - was just pouring his God-damned heart out, pouring his whole anguished soul out into that microphone.

One by one, the normally raucous tables went silent… a last oblivious group was even shushed. All eyes were on the kid now, and there he was, singing about US. It was one of those odd moments when you just know that a song is about you specifically, and it all makes such perfect sense that it doesn’t even matter that that can’t logically be possible. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

By the second chorus someone on the other side of the room started to sing along that part about “until we’d all go down together ….” And in a second she was joined by almost everyone else there, every table, and that was when we became brothers. White, black, Army, Air Force – holding on to each other through a song. By the end we of the song were all singing that we’d all go down together… all go down together… together… until the whoop whoop whoop of the rotors finally came back to drown us out.

Then there was silence. Just silence. The kid picked up his rifle, stepped off the stage, walked across the floor…. and right out the door. He was gone before even the first fist started to pound the table, and then more and more and more fists, and clapping and shouting now, and we were cheering. Really cheering, and pounding, and shouting at the top of our lungs. Cheering this scrawny kid for singing his damn heart out, for us. It was good, and it went on for quite a while, pumping our hands in the air, even after the kid must have been way, way out of ear shot. Finally, as the cheers died down, what had been an absolute roar faded into one huge, intertwined conversation as everyone tried to describe to everybody else what they’d just heard. And as I turned to pick up my cover before going, I noticed that Chris was still sitting there, crying quietly. And that was good, too, because I didn’t want to cry alone that night.

I keep thinking that the last trip will have been be my last trip, but I am leaving again tomorrow. Mookie pulled his boys out of the government and his black pajamia gang are starting to set up road blocks again. Things are definitly going to get interesting here.

But I will stay safe, as always. I'll be back late Friday. Take care.

Baghdad Nights

Some of the nights here are absolutely gorgeous. The sunsets can be magnificent, with deep purples and reds and golds streaming across the sky – I think all the smoke serves to diffuse the light.

Tonight a full moon was backlighting the clouds. It’s hard to think of how to describe it, but it looked like something you’d see on a sympathy card – so pretty that you have to stop and watch… haunting, almost…

I also noticed a new white light up on the hill. It’s rare to see a light on the hill – it’s usually the hill is blacked out (for obvious reasons). I wonder how long this new light will last?

Just another Monday

It was a busy morning and I was running a little late. “Did I miss the brief?” “Yessir, but there’s not much today. I was saying that there was an IED at the second overpass on Irish yesterday, followed by small arms fire. Standard Haji TTP. No one was hurt, but keep an eye out. And BDOC says everyone is riding red until further notice.” “Okay, thanks. I’ll take chase today.” “Roger sir.” “Let’s lock and load everyone!”






It’s been a while since I rolled with the guys, and we have new trucks now. Well, not really new, but they have all been upgraded with GPS, re-engineered roll-down style windows (the old ones opened like a vent and sucked dust like you wouldn’t believe), and external bolts for removing the doors after they’ve been half caved in by an IED. Plus, they installed new radios and a fire suppression system for the crew compartment too. If they crammed much more into these things there wouldn’t be room for the crew. As it is, it’s, a bit of a cramped ride for anyone over, say, 4 foot-eleven.





Our little band makes it through the ECP with the usual wave. We used to travel with either two gun trucks, or two guns and a slick - but now all convoys outside the wire have to include at least three vehicles and each has to carry a crew served weapon. As we speed up onto the highway, I glance up at the gunner with his tan coveralls, fire-proof Nomex gloves, and scarf-and-goggles combo covering his face, and, for about the hundredth time, I am reminded of that old Rat Patrol TV series.



We pass the Route Irish Birdman (a statue of a skinny man with wings that Saddam had set in the median), a number of conspicuously whitewashed walls that used to have pictures of el Presidenté on them, an small MP convoy, and, off on the left, the squat stone building that serves as an Iraqi Police station. I am always slightly surprised to see that it is still there, but it’s still standing. Although I know the route by heart, traveling it always elicits that tingle of expectation.





There are an unusually large number of checkpoints set up along Route Irish today, mostly manned by Iraqi troops - probably it’s because of the surge they are supposed to be taking the lead in.


Iraqi patrol closes the road

Iraqi checkpoint

At one point all westbound lanes were closed off and we actually had to cross the median and travel against traffic, sirens blaring. Usually we only use the sirens for intersections or traffic circles, but, well, there it is. Armed convoys don’t stop for other traffic regardless of where it is. I wouldn’t bet that particular trick makes us a lot of friends on the road.



We pass a sand-bagged Iraqi checkpoint manned by a bored machine gunner. He’s wearing a black baseball cap on backwards and points his machine gun at us as we pass - this is so typical, typical of their laquadasical attitude towards the whole war. Even their officers seem to believe that if they can’t make any money off of it, it’s not worth bothering with. Only the holy rollers act like they have any type of mission in life, and unfortunately it is to make everyone else think just like them. What a fucked up country.

Traffic is relatively heavy. I am watching the other cars, observing. I focus on the passengers, sort of leaning forward to the side window, and then back – even though the glass is bullet proof, I’d rather not make myself a visible target through the window for too long. I am wondering which one of them might hate us enough to try to blow us up… the angry looking teenager in the tee shirt, maybe? The unshaven older man with the veiled woman and two kids in the back? The beat up grey sedan with three middle-aged men, all talking at once?

Then, there’s smoke ahead. A lot of it, white & billowing up and out. The turrets all swivel towards the commotion - that’s always a problem because everyone wants to see what’s going on. “Gunner, get back to your six! [watching behind us]. “Rog.” As we approach, it becomes apparent that the smoke is enveloping an overpass, but it’s coming from the street below. I hear the police sirens now, as we start up the incline… “Slow down, lead…” You can hardly see the truck ahead. No one says it, but we’re all wondering, was it a chlorine bomb? What does chlorine gas look like, anyway?

Turns out a car blew up under the overpass, but it didn’t seem to affect the overpass itself. At least our humvees made it across. Emerging from the smoke we picked up speed again. There are two Apaches overhead, headed for LZ Washington in the International Zone, I assume. Corporal Jaeger in the turret waves towards them - it’s always good to have friends overhead.


I am still watching the helos when Jaeger suddenly shouts: SMALL ARMS!!!” “WHAT?” “SMALL ARMS FIRE ON THE RIGHT!! I saw the flash!” Just then the gunner ahead of us opens up, the rat tat tat tat of his 240 seemingly far away in the distance.




Returning fire

Our diesel engine whines loudly as Sgt Lane stomps on the gas… these trucks always seem to struggle with the weight of the armor. We slowly pick up speed… finally, ages later, it seems, our own gunner lets loose: RAT TAT TAT! Empty cartridges glint and tinkle in slow motion as they fall out of the turret…. Combat patrols are taught to stop and engage the enemy - routine convoys like ours are just supposed to clear the kill zone as quickly as possible. “Keep going!” “Can you still see them?” “No, I only saw the flash!” “Oh shit, are they still firing?” “I don’t think so. I can’t see anything.” “What was it?” “Two reports, two flashes, but they could’a been targeting the helos…” “Maybe, I didn’t see any flares.” “That’s only for heat seekers, you dumb shit - not small arms.” “Okay everyone, that’s enough. Keep an eye out in case there’s any more.”



But there was no more that trip, no more bombs or smoke or firing. There never is, it seems, once you’re all keyed up like that, ready to go. After a while the chatter on the radio calms down and once again I am the observer, watching… watching the war and wondering.


In front of the Embassy

Sometimes, I imagine myself in front of Keith’s class again. And some boy asks if I ever shot anyone. It’s always the boys who ask that question, and it’s always the precursor to what they really want to know. Not did you shoot at someone, but did you kill someone? Did you take a life?

I don’t know if I could do that again, talk to the kids, I mean.

Bumper sticker on Humvee: Remember, it‘s pillage first, then burn.

Another conversation overheard in the mess hall

Those guys were on the roof of the trailer again last night. Did any of you hear those guys?

What guys?

The guys that crawl up onto the trailers at night. They’ve been doing it for a week.

Maybe they’re some of Mookie’s boys (Mookie is what we call Muqtada al-Sadr). Were they wearing black pajamas?

Yeah, maybe they were Ninjas, come to take you out!

Aw… F-you man. These were those signals dudes, trying to set up that illegal satellite again. [my ears pricked up at this – it’s entirely possible that were talking about a couple of my guys]

What are you talking about? You can set up a satellite.

Not the satellite, dummy. They got an old satellite antenna, and they built a decoder box for it and they’re trying to set it up on top of the trailers so they can sell people satellite TV. Didn’t you get the flyer? [now I knew they were talking about my guys]

I thought you told them to go away last week?

I did, but they’re back. All they’re gonna do up there is give some Haji sniper a good target. And with my luck, the asshole will miss them and put a hole in my hooch.

Yeah, but how much are they charging for satellite service? Do you still have the flyer?

You’re an asshole, Rob.


[Note to self: have the Staff Sergeant inventory all of our satellite dish antennas tomorrow]

When I close my eyes, sometimes I see myself looking out of the helicopter door…. and below me the ground is covered in snakes.

Suicide watch

She seems normal, a slender black girl. Not attractive, quiet. Embarrassed? Ashamed maybe? Or just shy? I don’t talk to her. I know it’s wrong, but what can you say? “Hey, I hear you couldn’t take it out there? But don’t worry, I’m sure there are plenty of other jobs you could do.” I make myself busy as she stares ahead.

She’ll be leaving tomorrow on the Medevac rotator out of BIAP. Until then we’ve been instructed not to leave her alone, not even for a minute. All she does all day is look at the computer screen... not surfing, not emailing, just staring. When she goes to the bathroom one of the two females on the floor have to escort her - they don't like that because the door to the stall has to be open even when she pees.

Her friends come by throughout the day to say good bye. Some bring small gifts, tokens of friendships cut short. Mostly just magazines or snacks, stuff for the flight. Their conversations are quiet, uncomfortable. Like she’s no longer one of them... no longer one of “us.”

Or maybe, they see a little too much of her in themselves.

Stars and Stripes headline:

ALL ACTIVE DUTY ARMY TOURS IN IRAQ STRETCHED TO 15 MONTHS!

Morale is plummeting.

So far though, it still looks like I will leave on the 9th.

Mark and George

Checking out some damage to the palace


George Living it up on the beach

Scarred Bookstalls

A single flower lies upon a large pile of rubble in M_______ Street. Four days ago this was one of the few neighborhoods in Baghdad untouched by the war, a warren of cafes, bookstores, and small restaurants. Some considered it the intellectual heart of the nation; others, the soul of Baghdad. Old men smoked tobacco and sipped their tea, watching the passers by through the large plate glass windows. Businessmen searched the newsstands for the latest Gulf News, while students from the university haunted the foreign sections of the bookstalls, as likely pursuing a work of French poetry, or even the Bible, as one of the ubiquitous Islamic religious tracts. It was the one place where a love of books and learning was worth more than whether someone’s great grandfather was a Shiite or a Sunni.

I suppose it was inevitable that the war would come to here too. War does not respect books, or learning. Or aspirations to become something better. When the car exploded it annihilated twenty-four people in an instant, including the driver, his passenger, a bookseller, six students, and a father with his son who just happened to be passing by. Six more later died of their wounds. Now the police, the fire trucks, the screeching ambulances, even the street cleaners with their hoses, are all gone. Only the blackened façades of the empty bookstores remain; their wares ripped and burnt. The crater is eight feet deep. I fear the scar runs deeper.

I had forgotten how nice it felt to be healthy and rested. Actually, I haven't felt this rested in ages. Literally. Well, I am not certain how long an "age" is, but it's been a while. To bad the weather doesn't match my mood.

It poured and poured and poured while I was sick. The hooch leaks. The generator flooded out, so the electricity was out too. When the rain wasn't too bad you could hear the rumble of explosions in Baghdad, sometimes followed by the rat tat tat of a machine gun. It seems they have been going at it most of the day.



Tomorrow will be my first full day of work in a while.

I close my eyes, but I am not tired. Instead, I am weary. I ache. I think I have a temperature… I lay here, sweaty, weakened… useless. And all the more guilty for it. The medic spoke to the doctor, and gave me drugs in a little plastic baggie. “Yes, it’s going around. I had three patients just yesterday, and we were chock full all last week. Come back if it gets any worse.” At first his chipper tone sounds so artificial, but then I remember the patients he must deal with who don’t have the flu. The ones they carry in.

And so I lay here. I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday, but at least the diarrhea has stopped. Tomorrow I will go to work.

Oh yeah, HAPPY EASTER! I have to go find a sick call that's open. I think Saddam's Revenge finally caught up with me. Worked until almost 0500 last night, back in at 0930 this morning. But as soon as the Lt who works swings shows up I am outta here. Don't forget the spare plate for dinner! I love you all.

Just got the word - I'll be leaving Iraq on the 9th of next month. I'd be a lot happier if I wasn't so tired right now.

The Army was conducting some sort of operation outside the walls last night. And they were so sneaky about it. At dinner none of the infantry showed up, but a bunch of humvees were lined up behind the mess hall to pick up take-away dinners. Then I saw the whole line of gun trucks and Bradleys all lined up ready to go next to the Gate. And about 8:00 PM, they passed the word that everyone had to don full gear at 0200. Like THAT's not a tip off. Jeez...

All I know is that I was asleep at 0200. There were some explosions about 0220, but not a lot of small arms fire... I just rolled over, checked the time, & fell back asleep.

Iraq is where my dad is

When i was hugging him goodbye, i knew that if i wasn't strong, then nobody would be, so i smiled and it really didn't hit me, until he was walking away, down that hallway, and when he was far away enough so that he couldn't see, although i kept that smile plastered on my face, i let 2 tears escape my eyes. 2. that's all, if i had let any more go, i would have lost it, lost everything, all control, composure, the tinted glass window that obscures the real me in front of her would have shattered, and that's all i have left of my home life right now.

Wow, i must have looked really pathetic, skinny jeans, wide eyes, feet turned inward as a nervous habit, and that coffee. i had a vanilla latte from starbucks, and i was clutching it like it was my lifeline, afraid to let go, because at the time, that latte is all i had to hold on to, and in all actuality, without the caffeine from it, i probably wouldn't have even been awake for this depressing little parting.

And that ticket checker lady, she was looking everywhere but right at us. like it was our moment, and that it was indecent to look in, well thank you lady, i appreciate it. more than you know.

So now i feel trapped in this house. i wanted to get out tonight and just not think about this whole thing, but i can't. so i'm left to wander this house alone, not sleeping (even though i could use a good 24 hour sleep) just thinking about thoughts that i honestly would rather forget, for the time being.

Anais

BIG MAX

This is BIG MAX. BIG MAX used to work for the Iraqi Civil Defense Directorate, which is a part of the Ministry of the Interior. That’s what they call the federal fire service here. BIG MAX was reported missing from a fire station in Baghdad about 6 months ago. Then he turned up in front of the Hiafa Street Gate into the IZ. Actually, he was headed straight for the gate, stuffed full of explosives. The soldiers at the gate were good shots.



So BIG MAX ended up at the local auto body shop. The body shop workers washed out all the blood, patched the radiator, replaced the shattered windshield, and bumped out all of the assorted dents and dings. Oh, they filled the forty-six bullet holes, too - it took a lot of Bondo.



And so BIG MAX was looking pretty good again. Now he’s a proud member of the Slayer Fire Protection Service, sitting pretty in his new yellow paint job over at Fire Station Number 2. Who ever said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

Machine shop

This is our machine shop. Like any good shop, there is NOTHING they
cannot fabricate. George likes helping out on the drill press.