The world's coolest SUV

An MRAP.

See the Ford Expedition to the right for perspective.

Move over Cadillac Escallade. Go play with your tonka truks, dinky little Nissan Armada.

That's because the MRAP is in the House.

For folks who don't follow the latest in military vehicles, allow me to introduce to you the Mine Resistent Armor Protected (MRAP) vehicle - the latest and greatest thing that is out there protecting our Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines every day.

Designed specifically from lessons learned here in Iraq, this goliath represents the most advanced all-terrain vehicle the planet has ever seen. Able to take immense pounding from IEDs - and belive me, it can endure a lot - the MRAP is the closest possible combination of the security of a tank and the agility and utility of a Humvee.

When the apocolypse comes, you probably want to be in an MRAP. When the world is a nuclear wasteland full of mutant scorpions a la "Damnation Alley?" You want to be in an MRAP. Zombies? MRAP's got you covered.

There's pretty much nothing on this earth that wouldn't be improved with the use of an MRAP. Sure, Indy uses Corvettes as pace cars. An MRAP would be the pace car at a monster truck rally.

Now don't get me wrong. A Humvee is a pretty cool vehicle itself. And when it's up-armored (see below), it can withstand a ton of stuff. But a Humvee is so...yesterday.

I've never ridden in an MRAP yet, though I've sat in one. You're probably six to eight feet off the ground. The whole vehicle is very tall, but is surprisingly stable. None other than Gen. Petraeus himself, who got to take one out for a spin, said the thing has almost no tendency to roll despite its ungainly altitude.

Technically, the MRAP is not just one vehicle, but a whole class of vehicles, with varied different uses. There's the standard MRAP (above), and then there are a dozen or so variants, some made by different companies. One of them looks almost exactly like an armadillo on wheels, but unfortunately I don't have any photos of that one.

Still, these vehicles are worth every dollar we spend on them. Your tax dollars going to create these pricey, testosterone-dripping monsters is saved and paid back with interest by the lives that they are saving every day. More than a few soldiers owe their lives to the MRAP, and as these new machines rotate in and the venerable old Humvees are rotated off the more dangerous jobs, more and more American soliders will be able to get out alive and get back to their lives back home.

A slightly smaller variant.

Saddam's Party Boats

Saddam and his henchmen had a pretty cool setup here. This palace was kind of like a Hugh Heffner Playboy fun park in the middle of Baghdad. I keep finding evidence of this "Gone with the Wind" kind of opulence all around me.

The Al Faw Palace sits on an island in the middle of a large man-made lake. There are also smaller lakes and canals all around this place. Back in the day, the elite leadership of the Ba'ath Party would use this place as their private playground.

Saddam's Party Boats

Hidden in plane sight right next to one of the busy bridges that cross one of these canals is an unassuming, barn-sized metal building. A quick look will tell you it's definitely abandoned and forgotten. Although one of our coalition units is headquartered only a few feet away, it becomes obvious on close inspection that almost nobody comes here anymore.

Nonetheless, one day with a couple of hours to blow, I walked over to the place and walked right in. No fences, no signs, nothing to stop me. Certainly no safety precautions. OSHA, it seems, doesn't exist in Baghdad.

The pigeons make a subtle, deeply psychological

statement on what they think

of the Saddam Hussein regime...

Tucked inside this building are three oddly-placed boats, caked in dust, sand and several inches of pigeon droppings. They look rather haphazard, not coordinated in appearance. Although two of them sport similar blue-and-white pant schemes, the boats are so varied, you almost would think they had been bought on Ebay.

Two of the vessels are low in profile (see above) and look like they'd do for a quaint, romantic day on the river. The third boat has a raised deck that makes it taller and more awkward looking. It looks strangely like the ship "Orca" from Jaws.

"The Orca"

One of the two low boats has some Arabic writing on the side, which I obviously can't read.

Although abandoned and severely aged by neglect, it is obvious what opulence these boats once afforded to the old Iraqi elites. Through open windows you can see in to the carpeted walls, couches and expensive wood panneling, which remains intact, despite a little mold, spiderwebs and heat damage.

Climbing aboard the Orca, I discover evidence that earlier groups of Americans at this base did indeed pay a visit. In fact, I find to my surprise that it was indeed a group of Texans from my own home town of Austin, who left writings, Texas flags and other traces of their time in Iraq.

If you're from Austin, you know what this means...

In fact, they renamed Orca, or whatever its original name was, to the "Hippy Hollow" club. With no known history to go on, I can only surmise what this place was used for. From what you can find, it seems these Austinites turned this little Ba'athist vestige into what looks like a hip, happening...and possibly debauched...hangout.

Where once the elite Republican Guard Generals once had photos of honor of Saddam, a bunch of yahoos from Texas tacked up an image of a bad guy they obviously thought to be immensely cooler.

Some of the Graffiti one finds leaves a lot of interesting and intriguing questions. Was this a cool, relaxed hangout where guys just chatted and played a couple of games of poker? Or was something far more risque and beyond-the-regulations going on here? After all, there are more women now in the military than ever before, and despite the rules, boys will be boys and girls will be girls.

At least that's the impression I got when I saw this gem among the writings on the wall:

Some female soldier is forever immortalized inside Saddam's party boats.

Who knows. But if I ever do write my novel about life in Baghdad, these boats may get a place of honor, and perhaps- with a little added poetic license - can help tell a little tale about the life beyond the war here at Camp Victory.

Life on Victory...continued

Every now and then I take my camera with me out across the base. I snap a bunch of random photos. This was from a day when I passed a bunch of Army guys playing touch football on an old abandoned tennis court.

Mass

There's a lot of religion in a war zone, but not a whole lot of church. Yes, it's available on base every Sunday, but I work every Sunday, and so does everybody else. This week, however, was Ash Wednesday for Catholics, so I got my boss to give me a precious hour and a half off to go to church.

I walked over to mass with our senior enlisted person on our shift, Staff Sgt. M., who is originally from Columbia and speaks English perfectly, but had to resort to Spanish throughout the mass because she couldn't remember the English mass without a book.

The building is actually one of the free-standing "real" buildings on the palace grounds, not a tent or trailer. Not sure what it once was, but you cross a quaint (for concrete) bridge across the canal to get there. Kind of like Venice, only there are no boats going beneath it.

The chaplain, an older guy wearing combat boots that stuck out from under his vestment, gave a good sermon on contradictions, starting off with quotes from Genesis and other bible bits. How contradictory, he said, that we were here to use force to promote peace. But that, he said, was in the nature of the world.

He had a point, I guess. I realized it after communion. I took the bread, and then a sip of wine - probably the only alcohol allowed on the entire base - and then headed back to my seat. As I made my way through the aisle, I carefully stepped over all of the M-16s laid down across the path. Church, I thought to myself, was never like this back home.

Superbowl Monday

Yesterday was a rather normal day in most respects. Of course, being on live T.V. in front of 84 million viewers isn't all that normal. But everything else was.

It was Superbowl Monday. Sunday for y'all, perhaps, but we're 9 hours ahead of Texas time. I got up a bit early and walked over for my very important assignment. The Lt. Colonel had given me a task worthy of only the best and brightest 1st Lieutennant - picking up the food for the Superbowl party at Pizza Hut.

Yes, we do have a Pizza Hut here. It's in a little 10-foot trailer with a little phone-booth sized cachier's box a few feet away. I had gone there Sunday afternoon to put in my order, and right around midnight went back over to pick up the food. It was pretty lively in our little outdoor food court - a dusty open area paved with loose gravel. The coffee shop was doing brisk business in the very cold late evening and some of the soldiers sat around giving their predictions for the game. I waited until they called our number, grabbed the six large pizzas, and made the half-mile walk to work. As I went, the inside of my hands (those parts next to the pizza boxes) were snuggly warm. The outsides of my fingers, however, were close to getting frostbite.

I got in to work and we did our shift change. The day folks grabbed a slice or two and headed off before the night folks ate our pizzas and settled in for work.

About 2:40 a.m., we were splitting our time between work and watching the pre-game show when an announcement was made by the Public Affairs Officer that there would be a taping in the studio in five minutes for the National Anthem at the Superbowl. Any live bodies who wanted to come were welcome to do so.

My commanding officer, Lt. Col. Box, took one look at me, and then without a word, stood up and quick walked out of the room. For someone who is almost inseparable from his work - he comes in 2 hours early for his 12 hour shift - this was surprising. Soon, however, there were at least a dozen folks heading out. I wasn't planning on going, but then an Army Captain said she'd cover me if I went. So I grabbed my hat and headed out.

Within a few minutes, we were outside, across the way, and into the studio, where we stood up on a platform, just like you did for your third-grade class photo. The idea, we were told, was to show footage of some soldiers standing at attention for the national anthem. We listened to the banter back and forth between the Army cameraman in front of us talking into his headset, and the speakers, which broadcast the voice of the Superbowl producer, who spoke in a thick New York Accent.

First they did a test shot. Then the producer asked if we could salute. This, however, wasn't going to happen. You don't salute indoors, and we're in a studio. So the best we could do is stand upright at attention. Then we had to give him our location and unit for the graphics.

"Multi-National Corps - Iraq" the Army cameraman said into the mic.
"Multi-National C-o-r-e Iraq, right?"
"No. Corps. Spelled C-o-r-p-s."

Finally they got it right and set up the shot. It was a simple pan from left to right. For any reader who may have taped the game, I'm in the picture at the very beginning, and it quickly pans away from me (email me a screen shot if you can...Edit: someone did. It's below).

That's me on the second level, on the end.

(centered under the word "National")

I'm in a lighter-colored uniform

(known as the DCU, as opposed to the greenish ACUs of the Army

and the other light uniforms of the Marines (below and to my right).

Of course, it wasn't exactly live. It was about 10 minutes prior to the actual national anthem, so as we stood there at attention as the camera made two passes across our formation, I sung the song in my head. The camera, however, was taking time and getting lots of footage, and I was singing a little fast. The cameraman was still filming when my imaginary "Star Spangled Banner" ended. So I did the only thing a true God-Fearing Texan could do. I immediately struck up the band for a rousing mental rendition of "Texas, Our Texas." It was this second pass, I'm convinced, that they ultimately used. So if you see one Navy guy in a sea of Army uniforms standing even more proud and respectful than the rest, you know why.

That being done, we got back to work, and for the next four hours, caught the game as we worked our way through our morning tasks. Eventually, we all stopped working for the last couple of minutes to catch the exciting end to the game. Having no team of my own to root for, I did what I always do in that case: root for the underdog. Hence I was excited to see the end of the game and the upset win.

It being a Monday, I had half a day off. It's about the only time off I ever get. So as I stepped out of the palace to head for breakfast, I walked excitedly towards my rendezvous with scrambled eggs - as opposed to the exhausted, downcast trudging that I normally do.

About halfway towards the dining hall, I heard a loud boom off in the distance. I turned and instantly knew where it was. At the same moment, I heard the sirens go off, again, in the distance. It was another base, about a mile away. I listened patiently, but there were no more explosions. A rocket, most likely, I figured. Fortunately, my fellow soldiers at that base didn't have their post-game celebrations disrupted to badly, for as I later learned, no one was injured.

Later that day, of course, I was walking over to that very base. I needed to pick up some supplies at the post exchange, which is larger at that base than at ours. Normally, there's a bus that takes you there, but I had time and needed to actually get outside and see the sun. As it neared noon, it had warmed up to a very pleasant low 60s day.

Arriving at their food court, I got in line and ordered from Taco Bell. Taken along with the pizza in the morning, this is the first time I had eaten junk food twice in the same day since I've been here. On the plexiglass window at the cachier's box was a note:

Due to convoy problems, we are currently out of hot sauce, cheese sauce and beans. Taco Bell appologizes for the inconvenience.

"Great," I thought. "The taco bell supply truck hit an IED."

After eating, I went to the Bazaar. This is a medium-sized metal building where Iraqi merchants sell gifts, supplies and trinkets to the soldiers. It's meant to supplement the exchange, and you can buy all sorts of things there, from Iraqi flags, to old currency with Saddam on it, to power tools and Hookah pipes.

I had bought my guitar here a few months back, and now I picked up some new strings. I also bought a gift for a friend of mine. As I was waiting to check out, I noticed a small clear plastic box with money in it. At the top was a slit to drop your donation in, and a sign saying the donation was for the Bazaar workers who had been killed. Not just 'killed' as in random violence, but murdered in retalliation for working here...On our base...Because some screwed-up person thinks that the guy selling me guitar strings is an infidel and apostate who has insulted all of Islam.

There were photos too. One of the vendors who had been killed looks like he was about 19. The poor kid was just trying to help his family. He could have taken money from an insurgent group to shoot RPGs at a rival group's mosque. He could have built an IED into a soccer ball to target children. He could have been a suicide bomber. Instead, he chose an honorable profession. And for that, he was killed.

This kind of stuff angers me to no end, and it motivates me every day. The stories I could tell are without end. Misery, to be sure, but also courage. And it is the courage that motivates me most, because it's the courage that gives me hope. The young girl who escaped from Al Qaeda thugs and leaped from a three-story building, breaking her legs rather than be raped and held hostage for ransom - a ransom that funds the insurgency. The young son of a shiek, who saw a suicide bomber targeting his father and the American troops he had grown to love. The boy tackled the bomber and held him down until everyone could get behind cover. When the bomber blew his suicide vest, the only other victim was that young hero.

When you put it all in perspective, then, you realize how special a place like America is. Our greatest contest is played out not on the bloody battlefied of sectarian war, but on the gridiron, amongst passionate men who struggle, compete - but ultimately shake hands at the end of the game, regardless of the outcome. We have superbowls not suicide bombers. We have political primaries, not political assassinations. Ultimately, you can't help but stand proud when the national anthem plays. Because you realize that the "bombs bursting in air" were endured, overcome, and transcended, and are nothing but a memory in our own nation's history. We should wish only the same for the Iraqis, and hope for a day when the things that unite them overcome those which divide them. All countries, all people deserve it. Certainly, they do most of all.

Halfway through, Old friends and New Faces

Well I just crossed the halfway point of my deployment. I'm here for 10 months, which is more than most Navy folks, but less than most Army folks. It's kind of hard to believe that I've been working non-stop for over four months without a day off that whole time. In that span I've put nearly 50 percent of my actual hours into work. In that time, I have completely forgotten about most luxuries. I haven't sat on an actual couch since September.

But while I've still got a long way to go, it's the end of the road for my hard-working and long-suffering comrades. We had become a fairly tight-knit group, but they're all going now. The army typically swaps out whole units at a time, so the corps that I work for is all going back home to Fort Hood and a new corps is coming in to take its place.

Of course, I'm an individual augmentee, which means I stay on as a holdover. In my smaller group of co-workers (about 15 officers and enlisted), there are four of us who are staying. Suddenly, we have to learn a whole new group of personalities to work with and share common experiences with.

When I arrived, the folks I began working for were sort of the grizzled veterans of Iraq. They'd been here for a year, and most were on their second tour. They were smart. Even the youngest Non-commissioned officer knows more about Iraq than almost every member of congress. It's what we do. Intelligence and analysis. And these guys and gals had learned their trade well.

I thought that I could never get to that level. Certainly not in only 10 months. But in the crash course immersion program I've been through, I realized that 1 month here is as intense as 5 months in my regular job back home.

This all hit me as the new folks arrived. Quite a few of them began asking questions that seemed to me to be very naive. Questions that I thought everyone knew the answer to. Of course, it was only gradually that I realized that these people are basically where I was five months ago.

With five more months to go, I feel like I'm finally hitting my stride in usefulness. Gone are the days when I wondered if what I did really mattered in the big scheme of things. Now I know it does, and I take pride in my work. Even if it means spending extra time to make sure every little detail is right, it's worth it. Decisions are made, ultimately, off of the work that I do. Decisions that affect real people.

That's what I remind myself as I move on. Even though it's the downhill slide, there's no room for sloppiness. Next month, though, I get my glorious two weeks of leave. A chance to recharge my batteries and come back for the home stretch. And then it's work, work, work, but at least the end will be in sight.

Just an ordinary day

It's been a while since I just gave folks an idea of what an ordinary day in my life is like. For those new to the blog, I mentioned earlier that my job is not the kind of thing I can talk about in a lot of detail. I'll simply say that I'm an intelligence officer working for the Multi-National Corps - Iraq. The corps, for those not knowledgeable about army organization, is the big-picture guys. So I can say I've got a pretty good idea of what's going on here.

Most of my days are essentially groundhog day, over and over again. I'll give you a glimpse into them by just describing one of them that occurred this week.

I got up around 11:30 in the evening. Still don't have a roomate (sshh--don't tell KBR), so I turned the lights on and got ready for work. I wear one of six nearly identical uniforms to work every day. In fact, other than my PT clothes, I have not worn any other clothes since September. It seems like a land far away and a distant memory when I wore suits to work. Or for that matter, jeans.

After throwing my uniform on, I grab for my holster. In it is my 9mm pistol. Attached to the side of a holster is a small pouch holding one magazine of ammunition. I used to carry two, but they were too bulky. Yes, there are scenarios when I might need it here on base, but even those are highly unlikely. Even when I go to another base, it's rarely necessary. Most of the threats you face on base are indirect fire, and a pistol isn't going to do much against that. Still, if one of the local nationals on base turns out to be Al Qaeda and decides to attack with some kind of smuggled weapon (a highly remote possibility due to security), he'll find himself outnumbered 15,000 to 1 by Soliders, Sailors, Airmen and Marines...and the occasional Blackwater guard...who are all trained and ready at a moment's notice. Despite the lack of a real threat, I wear it everywhere I go (as is required), with the sole exception of the shower. And the guys cleaning the shower are always guarded by a soldier with an M-16.

As for my M-16, I don't need it on a day-to-day basis, so it's locked up at the armory. When I get the word that it's time to go outside the wire to another base, I can pick it up within an hour.

I step out of the trailer at around 11:40. It's still wet and muddy outside, and once I pass my improvised deck (made of pallets), I'm out in the mud and goo, picking my way along with the aid of a flashlight. For the most part, I can avoid the thick mud and the puddles by staying on the gravel paths (see four posts back), but the mud is inevitable. Nearing the chow hall, there's a field you have to cross that is just a vast pit of mud. There's one spot near the edge that's a little more compact, but it's right up against a canal, and you don't want to try walking there at night, and especially not in slippery mud. The drop into the canal is 12-15 feet, the canal is deep, cold and probably full of every type of chemical and amoebic dyssentery crap you can think of. And if you go in, you will not get out. Not until someone comes to help you, at least.

So I just go straight through the mud, and it quickly cakes onto my boots, rendering them heavy and encumbering. As the surface area spreads like a fat snowshoe, they pick up even more mud. Eventually, I'm flinging mud off with each step, but nonetheless, I always pick up more and more. Finally, I reach an open area of gravel, and I swish my shoes through this, trying to clean off as much mud as I can before I get to the chow hall. Once there, I clean my boots as good as I can on the mats and go inside.

It's midnight chow, so it's a late dinner for most of the guests, but it's breakfast for me. Still, I usually get something like a hamburger, because my lunch in six hours is everybody else's breakfast, and all I'll be able to find then is eggs, bacon and french toast. I eat my food in a hurry and am out of the DFAC (Dining FACility) by 12:10. I then re-enter the sea of mud, heading for the palace.

I arrive at the gate.

"Malu le ley," I say to the Tongan guards, as they check my credentials.
"Malu le ley," they respond.
"Fe fe aku?"
"Saibe," they say.

I've just told them good morning and asked how they are, and they always respond "fine" regardless of how long they've been standing in the cold rain. The Tongans are very professional, very disciplined and very big. The average Tongan is around 5' 11" and weighs about 230. They're also about the happiest and friendliest people you'll ever meet. They laugh, joke, and they all love to sing. Frequently, they pass the time by doing a kind of South Pacific version of a barbershop quartet. Of course, they're good at what they do, and I have no doubt that they'd be ready at a moment's notice to drop the song, lift their weapons and engage someone who needed a little hostile welcome from the natives of the only island in the Pacific Ocean that has never once been conquered by an outside force.

I next go over to the foot-washing area. They've got these large, very high pressure hoses out to one side of the grounds, where you must wash the mud off your shoes before entering the building. It's cold and dark, so you can barely see without a flashlight. And you can't exactly hold your flashlight while simultaneously holding the hose in one hand and balancing on one leg to clean your opposite boot. In the dim light, however, you can usually see the big chunks of mud coming off the boots. If you're lucky and there's someone in line behind you, he'll shine his flashlight for you.

I then go inside, and go to work. I start at 12:30 a.m. and work until about 12:45 p.m. The job varies for different people, but for me, a lot of the work is front-loaded in the early hours.

I take as many breaks as I can to strech my legs and get my mind off the work, which can be stimmulating, boring or disturbing, depending on the day. At one point during the day, I come out and see a young black female soldier sitting on a bench, eating her breakfast. She's wearing a plastic Hawaian lei and a small flower in her hair. Of course, she's also wearing her camouflauge uniform and has her M-16 sitting next to her, so it's a really odd picture. And then I see the reason for it. On a table a few feet away, people put all the stuff they receive but can't use. It's kind of like a big swap table (see my Christmas post). Sometimes we get the wierdest stuff, and apparently today, someone has sent an entire box of little plastic Hawaian leis. I pick up a couple and look through them. They're pink, purple, blue, red and orange (the kind the girl is wearing).

Now I'm sure everybody wants to help out the troops, and I can't disparage anyone's efforts, but who, in God's name, sits around thinking, "How can I help win the war on terrorism? I know, I'll send a box of plastic Hawaian leis to Baghdad! That'll do the trick!"

At some point in the morning, I get time off and run to breakfast. I get a little time to chat with some friends, but then I have to hurry back because my boss, an Army Lt. Colonel, needs his breakfast and can't get away. So I box it up and take it back.

I usually am serenaded on my morning walks by the sounds of the Mosque loudspeakers across Baghdad calling the faithful to pray. On this day, I'm walking with an Army Captain who works in my unit and has become a good friend, despite the fact that I'm a redneck white Catholic Texan and she's a black, Muslim Brooklyn native. As we go along, she explains what we're hearing. "That's the call to prayer...and now this is a reading...one of the Surras..." I take her word for it since my Arabic is an odd mixture of stuff I learned from some travel tapes and stuff I learned in the short Army language class I took. So I know how to order lamb in a fine restaurant in Damascus, or to tell someone to put their hands on their heads and not move or I will gun them down...but very little in between.

Back at work, I plow back into my tasks. Only another 6 hours to go, and then I get three hours of freedom! When it's busy, I can be going non-stop. When it calms down (which it's done a lot now since most of the insurgents are safely dead), then it seems boring as hell. Some of the guys who work in my area and don't have as taxing of a job play "Risk" on the computer. I hear them calling out to each other:

"Sgt. Hall, you'd better watch your ass, because I'm coming for you in Kamchatka."
"You'll never penetrate my Asian defenses, Gunny."

or

"Major Jones, your puny forces in North Africa are no match for my legions in Southern Europe."
"Bring it on. Oh, and when you're threatening me soldier, don't forget to call me 'Sir.'"
"Yes sir!"

I usually either do work for the next day to get ahead, or when things are really quiet, try to knock out a chapter in a book. I'm re-reading "Clash of Civilizations" now, and since it's professional reading, I don't feel too guilty. Anyway, slow days are good days because there's a direct correlation between how boring my job is and how few Americans are being shot at.

Things ebb and flow throughout the day, but finally, 12:45 comes around and I'm liberated. Stepping out into the sun for the first time, I'm initially blinded. As I head across the bridge from our man-made island, I swap salutes with the folks passing by. A blackhawk helicopter takes off from a nearby pad and swings my way. With his nose drooping down menacingly, he sweeps over me at 50 feet. I try not to look up, stare in awe, and oogle like a kid, but it can be hard sometimes. Another blackhawk comes directly over, just like the last one, as I'm midway across the bridge. I can almost hear "Ride of the Valkyries" as I walk, and the roar of the engines, the sun on my face, and the brilliant reflections on the water rejuvenate me again, after a long and exhausting day.

I head back to the chow hall for lunch. This time I've got a novel with me: the Da Vinci Code. Never read it when it was big, and frankly the only Dan Brown book I read before was unimpressive. But it's good, and worth all the hype. I read as much as I can, weighing down the pages with a banana as I cut my food and eat.

There's a big concert today at a nearby base. Brooks and Dunn are in town. But the timing's all bad, and I know if I would try to make the show I wouldn't get all of my 6 hours of sleep. When you have no days off, getting your sleep becomes vital. So I skip the concert, interesting as it may be, and head back to my trailer.

The sun has dried some of the mud, but it's still there in long, chocolaty patches. Maintenance trucks and sewage trucks with Arabic writing on them squish through it, throwing up huge fountains of sludge behind them as they go. The workers, mostly TCNs (Third Country Nationals) trudge along in their galoshes, but no Americans have them, with the exception of the contractors (one girl had blue ones with flowers). We've just got our combat boots, which we wear day in and day out. Of course, I'm tempted to break out my rubber chemical boots, as a chemical attack on this or any base is unlikely. But I don't, and in the end, I just take off my boots outside the trailer and wrap them in plastic before bringing them in.

Back at the trailer, I finally have some downtime. I take my clothes to the laundry and then play a little on my guitar before reading another chapter in the novel. I head to the shower around 4:30 p.m. and am back in bed at 5. I reach for my alarm clock and set it for 11:15. Then I clothes my eyes. 150 days in a row I have done this. Another 30 days and I finally get two weeks of leave. Two whole weeks of no mud, no 12-hour days, and time to relax. And then I come back for another 130 or more days of boring, dull, ugly Iraq. At that time, I'll be able to look back and feel pride at what I've done, I guess. Right now, all I feel is the need to get sleep and be ready for the next day. And the day after that...