Kindle Edition Amazon Amazon Kindle Category:  Military Publisher: Synergy Books Publishing ISBN-10:  1936434709 Type: Non-Fiction Pages: 409 Copyright: Jan 1, 2012 ISBN-13: 9781936434701 Price: $3.99 (eBook) Baghdad at Night is a true narrative written by a former 82nd Airborne paratrooper. This gritty work takes the reader into the heart of 'The Surge' of 2007. Baghdad at Night is a first-person narrative seen through the eyes of an airborne infantry scout during 'The Surge' of 07-08 in central Baghdad. The book encompasses all facets of life in the modern Middle Eastern warzone; this story gives the reader an intimate view of the soldier's life, from the bathroom to the battlefield. Baghdad at Night focuses on squad dynamics, interpersonal relationships, and the true nature of combat and fear as they are experienced behind the butt-stock of a rifle. The book also comes equipped with a comprehensive glossary that explains army slang, military acronyms, and region specific jargon.        Excerpt The next two days pass with little event. Our truck that was struck by the EFP has already been replaced, and D Co soldiers have already returned from the motor-pool after inspecting the new truck, making sure that it is up to par. The squad is already packed and ready for our next adventure in town. In a few minutes we will trudge downstairs to the trucks once again to set out on our next rotation, as we should have done two days ago. Hopefully we can make it there in one piece this time. Our rotation has been extended. Rather than spending an eight day jaunt at the JSS, we will spend the prescribed eight days at the hotel, followed by a five day jaunt at the neighboring Iraqi army base. Our rotations are to remain that way until our deployment is concluded. From the very cusp of summer, that day seems to be a great way off; a veritable eternity in the dusty, blood-laden heat. Down at the trucks, responsibilities have been changed. My duties for the new cycle, at least as it pertains to basic transit to and from the JSS, have been changed to gunner’s work. I lug the Browning .50 caliber machine gun up into the turret and secure it firmly on the pindle. Having worked in a gunner’s position before, I’m no stranger to it. I’m actually looking forward to a little bit of breeze and sunshine. Another added perk is that I get to stand up for the entire patrol if I so wish. Barring standing, I could affix the gunner’s sling just below the turret, which serves as a quasi-tropical ass-hammock, and sit for a while. Having a few options at my disposal makes me happy indeed. Not loading the weapon yet, as that will be done shortly before exiting the FOB, I take the time to seat a two hundred round ammunition can into the bracket on the left side of the gun, and then insert a cotter pin into the pindle, locking the gun into a horizontal position so that the cannon doesn’t wobble and flop around unsupervised; our platoon always enforces a rather ‘hands-free’ policy until we leave the wire. What’s more, leaving the pin in ensures that the weapon system stays locked into place making loading a much simpler, quicker, and more stable process. Running one last inspection over the gun, I feel that everything is kosher and as it should be. Before I leave the turret to run back upstairs and grab the rest of my gear, already neatly laid out on my bunk, I strip a .50 caliber round out of the ammunition belt and wedge it underneath the butterfly trigger, which is a heart shaped mechanism that sits horizontally between the weapon’s grips, allowing it to be pressed equally with both thumbs. Wedging a round underneath the trigger is the only sort of safety available to me, as there is no mechanical safety present on the weapon. With bumpy roads and quick vehicular movements around piles of trash, as well as the surprise explosions that happen from time to time coupled with my own Caucasian clumsiness, a safety is absolutely necessary. Conveniently, the round will stay tucked tightly into place, protruding a good inch on either side. In the event of contact a gunner simply has to smack the round sideways, bumping it out of the trigger well, thus freeing the weapon for immediate bang bangs. Up in the barracks, as is still customary these days, Zombie plays out while the rest of the scouts make ready for our jaunt. Freddy is already seated and waiting, no doubt conducting radio checks in the truck, and Duke is still absent, apparently hell-bent on malingering like a bitch for the rest of the week. “They say that it should get to be over a fucking hundred and ten degrees today,” Dick proclaims as he hook-and-pile-tapes his body armor tightly onto his torso. Cole joins in the conversation, “How hot does it get here, you think?” So I decide to add my two cents. “About a hundred and thirty is fair all summer long over the rest of the country, but here I’ve heard it can get to an excess of one fifty-five. The damned concrete city is like a ceramic oven in late July.” “Fuck, man, who told you that?” “I looked it up in the computer lab.” “You would. I hope to God you’re wrong.” “I know I’m right.” “You would.” “Make me.” Make me continually solves every goofy conversation, and I would recommend the flagrant use of the phrase to anyone. “Any word when Duke will be up again?” Cloud tells us, after a pause, “None yet.” “Well, at least he gets a bit of a vacation for a week or so.” Cole pipes up, “And a purple heart from what I hear. LT was talking about it earlier.” I desperately want to say rude, uncaring, facetious things, but knowing how my squad has previously responded to such drivel I decide to keep my trap shut in an effort to further maintain a deeper measure of tranquility throughout the coming rotation. Freddy enters the room just as I get all kitted up and ready to leave. “We need to make sock water!” Sock water, justly named though it sounds decidedly unappetizing, is the way to go, especially in lieu of the newly present and ever brutal summer heat. Though still early in the season, the Iraqi summer is upon us. Rather than sitting idly by and blaming El Nino for our temperature-based misfortunes, we are always on the lookout to devise new methods for keeping water cool. Even though the chow hall functions and has a refrigerated drink cooler, there is still no ice on the FOB; at least there is no ice that is accessible to us. Sock water is a distant, but well-attempted second option. All of our water comes from bottles, Oasis brand, apparently cheaply bottled by Mormons somewhere in northern Utah. As the bottles are only a liter apiece and quite slim, they fit neatly into any of our issue socks, which nobody really wears anyway. Hanes makes a much better black tube-sock, and everybody gets away with wearing civilian socks from home. So, being the industrious infantrymen that we are, thanks to a little bit of creative thought from Forrester, our military-grade socks have become refrigeration tools. Placing the bottle of water in a sock, preferably clean, and then soaking the whole thing with water creates a sort of heat diffusion mechanism. Thanks to good old conduction, or convection, whichever the fuck it is, the wet bottle-socks are then hung out of the windows of our moving Humvees, cooling the water slightly as we drive. Although never anywhere near cool or refreshing, the new system takes the bite out of the water, resulting in a refreshing, lukewarm plastic flavored beverage. Moving generally together in our gear laden turtle conga line, we trudge downstairs and into the waiting trucks below. There is no briefing today, and no prayer. The drivers know the routes that we are taking and the mission is simple: get to the God-damned JSS this time. We’ll do our best. I’m somewhat relieved, as my walking load for this rotation is going to be much lighter than normal, as RTO duties have been reassigned to Freddy for a bit, though he’s still our truck’s active driver. Before ten minutes have passed our convoy is rolling; the scouts are in the first vehicle once again with Cloud working as our acting TC. As our convoy halts at the lock-and-clear barrels, I use the crank on the turret to orient myself towards the large dirt berm and proceed to load the .50. I take pleasure in it, as it’s something new to do. I’m also already enjoying the natural air conditioning that comes standard with hanging the better part of my body out of the top of a moving truck. Taking the belt of ammunition in my left hand, I open the feed tray cover with my right. Carefully, I insert the rounds by laying them down in their designated place beneath the feeder claw, which is the initial mechanism responsible for feeding and holding the rounds in place. Locking the claw down, I firmly but gently slap the feed-tray cover closed and aim the weapon system square at the berm. Holding onto the grip with my left hand, I take the charging handle in my right fist in an underhand position and rack the weapon’s bolt to the rear. Letting the charging handle go, I’m met with a satisfying thunk. My weapon is hot. Done with the chore, I quickly load my rifle insuring that my selector lever is switched to the ‘safe’ position, then wedge it into a secure bracket in the turret beside me. Having gone about the necessity with great speed, I simply hang out for a bit in the turret, waiting for ups from all the trucks, and for our eventual, unavoidable drive to begin, which will take us eight long hours to accomplish. Though the drive to the JSS could take as little as a half an hour, we have a slated eight-hour mounted patrol block today, so as we begin to creep forward out of the gate I try to get myself as comfortable as possible for the long day ahead. As lead gunner, it is my responsibility to scare traffic out of the path of our convoy. I will do this by firing warning shots if need be, and generally aiming at anyone who doesn’t quickly respond to my polite suggestions regarding how they should quickly move the fuck out of way. Beyond that, in this position I have the first, and highest vantage point in the convoy. If there are to be enemies or bomb-type troubles about, it is my job to see the problems first. As we move along our main route to the west, I feel refreshed in my new position. Rather than being restricted to a meager ninety-degree view from my armored window, I can see all of Baghdad splayed out before me, and the miles of road up ahead which we are going to traverse today. We’re all on high alert as we approach the bridges, and the area just a few hundred meters short of where we got hit just days before. As our convoy makes its way under the overpass, we conduct our random lane switches. I have an affinity for the neighborhood on my left, as we’ve been told that it is a predominantly Christian neighborhood, right here in the heart of heathen Baghdad. Not visible from my current position on the road, there is a decent-sized church in the middle of a residential city block that is complete with bright, twenty-four hour lighting and topped with a steeple and cross. It’s amazing to me that the local rag-brains allow it to exist at all. As much as it seems terribly out of place to me, I find it equally beautiful. Sometimes we take a detour through the residential area nearby and drive past it, but today is not such a day. Eager to get away from the area surrounding the FOB and into our main area of operations, we are determined to make good time travelling to our sector today, sticking primarily to the main drags until we reach Moudan. As we come upon the crowded market district the convoy slows further, with all eyes peeled for any signs of devices that may or may not go boom. Though impossible to see even if they were present, we are somewhat assured of our safety today, in spite of the blast earlier this week. Apparently route clearance traversed the road using imaging toys, scanners, and whatever the hell else they use to find bombs just hours before. Granted, a device can be placed in a matter of minutes. Regardless of the cold reality, there is a bit of assurance to be had knowing that they were recently here. At least I can take comfort in the fact that if we do get nuked today, at least EOD made the effort to try and make sure we didn’t. Neat thoughts to live by. We pass through our previous expedition’s explosive kill-zone with little event and no detonations. Everybody breaths a little easier. I enthusiastically call down from the turret, “Well, guys, we didn’t explode and die and all that shit!” Freddy from the driver’s seat replies, “Amen to that brotha.” The rest of the drive breaks into neat mini-missions to pass the time throughout the rest of the patrol. Sometimes we halt and dismounts are called to get out and talk to locals. Sometimes we just halt, wait, and watch. More and more throughout the day, with dwindling options for new routes to take through the same square city blocks to look at the same scenes, we find ourselves traversing the same routes, in the same lanes, over and over again. Come and get us. Lap two. Come and get us. Lap three. Being early in the day, traffic is heavy, but most vehicles are smart enough to move over and get out of the way of the passing military convoy. Some people, for whatever reason, are reluctant to do so. In such an event, I scream at them at the top of my lungs, leveling my weapon at their startled, apathetic, or horrified ‘But why Mista?’ faces, and I make them move. A common ambush tactic in any theatre, in any part of the world, is to park a vehicle in front of a convoy before an attack is initiated, hopefully barring the way of advance. This is what we’re constantly on the lookout for, and also the very same situation which prompts my rage-aiming and lack of cordial mannerisms towards the general public. Provided that the traffic is flowing, we move with everyone else along the right side of the road. When that is not a feasible option, we take some liberties with the local traffic laws (Who gives a shit anyway?) and drive on the left side of the road, counter-flow. Who’s going to stop us? If both lanes of travel are sufficiently packed, but there is room in the median, we move to the center of the road and continue, sometimes forcibly grinding our Humvees along the sides of any traffic that cannot manage to get over far enough or fast enough to accommodate us. Sometimes in turning lanes, sometimes half up on strips of concrete that serve as lane dividers in the center of the road, we continue down the middle of the street. Our tires are big, and we have great suspension systems. Common sidewalks are an easy enough obstacle to surmount, provided that one of our drivers doesn’t fail to see an open man-hole, having us end up as prisoners in an up-armored truck, high-centered at the hip in a sewer main. We’ve been pretty good about that lately, as we’ve not created that awkward and unsightly situation for a few months; we’ve learned our lessons. As the day begins to drag on I can feel the heat of the new summer roaring to life. My hands and neck are covered in sweat that already saturates my gloves and armor. I can feel more perspiration constantly dripping from the back of my neck and helmet, and yet more running down the insides of my clothing, all the way down my ass and legs, where the wet yuck has begun noticeably pooling into my boots. I drink water constantly, as we all must. I don’t care much for the extra chore of sock-water creating, and drinking warm water doesn’t bother me much. I’ve also read somewhere that the body is able to process warm water faster than cold, so the temperature of the fluid, while not delicious, is just fine by me. Halfway through the patrol I feel myself starting to bore a bit, so I have Cole pass me up a pinch of Copenhagen Black and it helps me to regain my focus, as well as giving me something to do with my tongue. As the sun starts its descent into evening-ish-ness, our patrol comes to its end with our convoy rolling happily through the ECP of the JSS, and I think to myself, BOHICA. Doubtless the crew stationed here will be quite glad to see us, as their rotation was scheduled to end over two days ago. We’re late, and as a consequence so are they. The rotation will continue as usual as if the two lost days never took place at all, and that’s the end of the story. Calendar days mean very little to us. My truck is slated to be parked at the west ECP, which is good for me. I get to leave the weapon system as is, and simply have to take myself inside, sit down upon a cot, and wait with the rest of the squad to hear what our rotation is going to be, when our patrols are, and what positions, up or down, that the scouts will be manning first. Scouts are blocked in to be on high-ground first, followed by an early morning patrol. Our rest shift this cycle will begin as the sun comes up. We perform our shifts. High-ground and gate shifts go as planned, and our foot-patrol is largely uneventful, with locals constantly assuring us through our interpreter that life in the neighborhood has never been better, that there are no problems with violence, and that things are really just whiz. Fucking right. I believe them. There is also a common request to get the public water up and running again in Moudan, and we tell the local people that we will look into that matter and solve the problem, if at all possible. I’m sure that Cloud will take it up with command. Maybe. Of course there are problems with violence in the neighborhood. The nearest morgue is five miles away across town, so the locals bring their dead to the JSS. There are bodies every day. The days drag on, each one much like the one before it. We drink water, eat sparse MRE meals, stare at the jagged city, endlessly walk, and do our best to stay alert for the next attack, looking, watching, and biding our time. Our JSS shift will come to a close in a half an hour, at 0600. My squad should be waking up shortly, but I beat them to it by having one of the last scheduled radio guard shifts. Sitting in the command post in front of the radio, I listen to transmissions as they fly across the net, trying to glean any information that I can from the actions and happenings of others that may pertain to us. Every half hour I perform a radio check with battalion command insuring that there is a good, constant communications link between this outpost and the rest of the battalion at the FOB, as well as across the theatre. Alone in the post save for the LT, who is currently slumped over upon himself, sound asleep in a shitty, sparsely padded chair, I enjoy the one perk of having a running television, three channels included. Two of them are too fuzzy to make out, but the Iraqi version of VH1 is up and running splendidly, and coming in loud and clear. While I listen to the radio, make radio checks, and take notes, I rest my tired eyes on the comforting and familiar early morning glow of the tube. The channel coming in is obviously piped out from either Kuwait or the Emirates. Also, it could be coming from another developed, secular Arabian nation that I don’t know the name of. Either way, the music videos are filled with beautiful exotic women, handsome men, and catching, modern sounding pop-music, although the songs carry strong undertones of Arabian and Indian influence. I enjoy the quiet music. It’s exotic, and it reminds me that I’m very far away. It reminds me that the world is a wide open, fun, and energetic place; at least it is everywhere else but here. In great contrast to the bloody, dusty, dying city in which I find myself, the images on the screen are filled with dancing people basking in afternoon sunshine, complete with ocean views and palm trees. Partying, dancing, clubbing, and romancing. I even saw one a moment ago that appeared, although set against the backdrop of almost tribal sounding music, that all the Arabs had gone to New Orleans for MardiGras. The jovial beats, happy flutes, rapid drums, and optimistic tones of love songs lift my spirits a bit. It’s good to see a little bit of proper Arabian culture every once in a while, even if these sort of broadcasts are somewhat outlawed by states which adhere to Sharia government. I make a mental note and decide to take a vacation in a ‘good’ Arabian land sometime in my life, be it Kuwait City or Dubai. It would be nice to see the good part. Soothing for me, I think, to see a modern Arabian civilization as it should be. The experience of an exotic vacation locale would surely stand in stark contrast to the twisted, violent, and bombed-to-Hell cultural climate that I’ve become so accustomed to these past months. My radio shift comes to a close as a member from the newly arrived platoon, who I do not know relieves me from my chair, and subsequently, my music-video fueled cultural experience. Also, I’ve found that most of the women in these parts are hotter than Hell, unveiled faces and all. I would love to get me one of those. Back up in the bay, my squad as well as the rest of D co, is hurriedly and jubilantly throwing on the rest of their gear, happier than larks knowing that we are soon to be free of the dreaded JSS once again. Unlike usual we will not be returning home today, but rather, we are simply gathering up the trucks and virtually moving just across the street, taking up residence with soldiers from the Iraqi army and the Second Cavalry Division, camping out in the new location for four or five more days. How long the rotation will be has not yet been decided by command. We are going first. The length of the trips that follow will be dependent upon how effective our time spent in our new home proves to be. The checks on the trucks are half-assed at best, with everyone knowing that we are to park them once again in five minutes’ time. Radio checks go up regardless of the short stint, and our five truck convoy departs the JSS with all soldiers and equipment accounted for. Taking a right, rather than the customary left after leaving the JSS, the drivers must pay grave attention and be exceedingly careful as they maneuver the trucks through a narrow alleyway that cuts between crumbling brick buildings and bad masonry work, and is also flanked by bollards and trees. The alley proves surmountable, though at considerably slow, careful speeds. I’m rattled back and forth a bit in the turret, feeling the cratered, uneven waves of the broken alley as we creep through, in some cases coming to almost a complete stop as fine movements are made with the steering wheel; our side-view mirrors narrowly miss some of the bollards by a matter of inches, and a brick wall by even less. Emerging from the narrow alleyway we arrive in a wide open round-about, overgrown by an open bazaar market that seems to have fallen out of the sky, splattering dirty Arabs and vegetable carts haphazardly about the crowded space. The chaos of the market does little to facilitate smooth traffic, but the locals move out of the way and allow us to pass easily enough. I feel jubilant today in my turret, out in the early summer air. I can hear everything from my new position: the conversations of those who pass by, dogs barking, vendors hawking their wares, distant gunfire, and the rhythmic sound of incoming helicopters. Though it’s miserably hot, I feel brisk today, with the promise of some new scenery, a new chow-hall situation, and the curiosity of whether we will be receiving bunk-beds, cots, or neither. Working at Mad should also be a refreshing turn of events for us, as I’ve heard it told that they have no Americans on tower duties; the only real shit job seems to be working the ECP, which is currently being handled exclusively by an American MP unit as their sole occupation. This means more directed patrols and operations, as well as less time spent trying to defend ourselves. A guard-free rotation means that there will be more time for planning and orchestrating important and complex operations, rather than simply filling the space with endless high-ground shifts and the monotonous work of continually checking vehicles and IP identification cards. The ECP that leads into the Mad compound is well guarded, and the entire post is completely surrounded by towers and heavy, tall brick walls. Much, much better than the shit we’ve got going on less than two blocks away. Rather than a simple open entryway, we pull into the compound and are greeted by lines of shifting toll-booth like barriers, as well as privates and specialists from the MP unit moving long strings of concertina wire out of our way. I can’t speak of concertina wire’s stopping power against a floored truck laden with explosives, but it’s comforting to see that the MPs are trying to do active things with the ECP regardless. It’s a good sign. Maybe we won’t be blown up in our barracks here after all. “Looks like a new home, eh boys?” “Pearce, it looks like more of the same brown crap. Watch your mouth with all of that optimistic ‘This is Vegas!’ horse-shit.” “Roger, Sergeant. Although, flapping my gums as I am wont to do, I’ve heard it told that they have a functioning dining facility.” Nobody bitches at me for that particular comment. Instead of griping, there is a pleasant silence as we roll unopposed through the ECP, as the rest of the minds in the truck wonder off to prospects of chocolate muffins and breakfast bacon. Freddy says, “Point taken. Wonder if it’s any good?” “We’ll find out soon enough.” Mad is a much smaller post than our home FOB, and we make our way towards our designated parking area quickly. It’s a small dirt field, maybe half an acre at most, that lies in the shade of some old yellow cinderblock buildings that were obviously destroyed by missiles or bombs in years passed, and have since suffered no repair. I’d put my money on the good old ‘shock and awe’ campaign. Bushes of a kind I do not know flank the small dirt square, at once giving the place a sort of park-like feel which I find to be very much to my tastes, however out of place the thought seems. Since Mad is a base that is not under direct American control, we cannot simply leave our trucks open and the weapon systems hot, so we lock and clear our heavy weapons and take them with us, taking care to lock our trucks with heavy padlocks, as well as sealing off the top hatches of the turrets from the inside. Carrying all of my personal shit including my rifle, assault pack, and the .50, I fall in with the others, clumsily stepping along with the rest of my squad as we follow our LT like a bunch of ducklings, each of us uncertain as to exactly where we are going. Everyone except the LT and the D Co platoon sergeant that is, who have already received an advanced tour of our new digs. “We doing eight hour mounted patrols this shift here, like the FOB?” I ask the question to nobody in particular, but I’m a bit eager to divert my attention from the load I’m carrying, as the Browning is digging into my right shoulder something fierce, and I’m having to work double to keep up with the brisk pace of the rest of the squad. Freddy speaks up, “I heard we’re going to be on for a four-hour patrol every day. Beyond that, I think we’re going to act as a QRF for the surrounding forces. Seems like kind of a wonderful sham gig to me.” “Amen to that. That sounds all right.” Standing just up ahead about thirty meters or so, I see our new home. I’m immediately impressed, as it doesn’t look the slightest bit destroyed. It even looks a bit peaceful, surrounded by more strange exotic greenery, as well as other buildings that seem to have also survived the war thus far. There’s even a bit of shade, and that’s just swell. In the hopes of new bunks and a bit of much deserved relaxation, we form a line as a platoon, and the twenty-five of us march slowly up a lopsided concrete staircase and past what looks to be the building’s designated smoking area, then into the ground floor doorway. The building is much different from the others that we have become somewhat accustomed to during our time in-country. Rather than a dilapidated looking structure made out of faded yellow cinderblocks or simply of structured, poured concrete, our new home is made of brown bricks, looking from the exterior much like any American elementary school, or a local library that could be found in any town in the states. Though I’m not the best critic of architecture, I like the building. The familiarity of it does me some good. Three stories tall, the interior has entirely finished dry walling and paint, which is a huge surprise in this town. As me and the squad march toward the stairwell that will take us up to our new home, I’m also pleased to find that the floor is covered with some rather nice panels of brushed concrete or slate, rather than the usual barren concrete and dirt floors that we have become accustomed to. Down the hallway just beyond the rest of my advancing brethren, 2nd CAV soldiers are busily mopping the far hallway, preserving the dull shine of the floor in true army style. I say, “Who remembers how to run a buffer?” as we start walking up the staircase to our new home on the third floor. Cole addresses the group, “I will buff anything. Any floor, any tile, any slate, granite even. Shit, I’d happily buff linoleum if they fucking give us chow and we don’t have to rot in a fucking concrete room for eight hours a day.” “Would you buff a cock?” “Shut the fuck up, Pearce.” I see the comment for what it really is: not a quippy snipe, but comedic, jovial assent. We’re all quite happy to have arrived, if not exactly at the Taj Mahal, at least to some new crap to look at. Our path leads us up an even, modern feeling staircase before it empties us out into another clean, newly polished hallway. LT calls out from the front, “All the way to the back boys; bay’s on the right.” With that, our gaggle makes its way to the end of the long hallway and takes a right turn into a sizable open bay, which is in fact much larger than even our permanent living quarters back at the FOB; this room makes our usual accommodations look very tiny in comparison. Rather than joining us for the initial moving-in process, our LT and the rest of the squad leaders gather across the hallway in a small room that has already been established as a functioning CP by the 2nd CAV soldiers that previously used it. In patent scout style, my squad moves unopposed to the back of the bay as we claim our bunks as far back in the right-hand corner of the room as we can go. “Well, beds fuckin’ win out. No cots to be found.” There is a subdued, bubbly excitement present as me and the rest of the guys place our gear down on our newly claimed bunk-beds, complete with mattresses both above and below. The mattresses are horrifying, as they are adorned with cute little teddy bears and other multi-colored cartoon characters. They also present a repeating, calligraphic script that says ‘Love you, Love you,’ over and over again. Though I can’t vouch for the aesthetic value of the décor, I can’t hate the mattress. It’s a real mattress for fuck’s sake, thin and naked though it may be. Cole turns to the group as he deposits his gear, “You think these were donated by Disneyland or some shit?” “Naw, dude, the Mickey on there is a clear copyright rip.” I say so, because the assortment of Disney-esque characters and Mickey look-alikes, although surprisingly well rendered, are all colors of the rainbow. A tan mickey in particular catches my attention. Love you, love you. “Hey, Cole, your mattress loves you.” “And, Pearce, you should know, I love my mattress. Love it, love it.” All gear having been downloaded, we lie down on our backs for lack of anything else to do. If we were free to explore our new home or to seek out food or coffee, we would have been told to do so. Instead, while we wait for the word to come back from the CP pertaining to which squad is going to do what and when, those of us on top stare at new shapes on the ceiling, while those of us below, heads peacefully resting in the shade of our new bunks, hidden away from the glare of bright fluorescent lights, reflect on the words etched in front of our faces: Love you, Love you. Sure you do, teddy man. Sure. You and all your friends. Rapidly losing the battle to remain conscious, I resign myself to a quick afternoon nap. Doubtless, in the event of any excitement, I will be among the first to know. One time, just this sweet blessed once, the scouts are not called onto station only fifteen minutes after arrival at a new post. Even more remarkable, is that nobody is. D Co is given a straight eight-hour nap, all squads included, save for a few unlucky privates whose destinies are entwined with that of the radio in the CP. I awake from my heavy slumber at about six in the evening, along with a few others. Chapel is among them, and over a quick drink of canteen water and light speculation about what the rest of our rotation will entail, we think, each of us in his own way, about the future, and just how long we will be staying at our new post. Which at this point, from the view of my lower-level, comfortable, and shaded mattress, staying for an extended period of time doesn’t seem like such a bad deal at all. Word has it from the LT that aside from a few mounted patrols that will be conducted later in the week, we will be assuming QRF duty for the rest of our rotation at Mad, which basically means that we’re on call to respond to any and all local emergencies, not unlike any local fire department in the states. Only our job won’t be to fight fires; our job is fighting firefights. Those are two totally different things. To break the monotony of our rotation and to add some variety to our scheduled mounted patrols, there will be a joint operation to clear and sweep local neighborhoods with the Iraqi army in about five days from now. Until then, it looks like we all have some much needed quality time with our reading back-logs and our PSPs. Fully rested, with nothing new yet on the docket, Chapel and I decide to venture forth into our new post in an attempt to find something to eat, a place to shit, and generally just get a feel for the new environs. I grab my rack and weapon to prepare for the adventure. Not being on a totally secured American FOB, it can’t hurt to take all of my ammunition with me, even though body armor is not required, thank the gods. “Two whole hours to kick it, Chapps; whatever shall we do?” “How the fuck should I know, cupcake? Let’s go have a look-see.” There is a platoon briefing scheduled at eight o’ clock, where we will undoubtedly be informed of the recent neighborhood goings on, as well as officially beginning our QRF rotation. Far from symmetrical, our seemingly endless week of responsive down time is going to be punctuated with eight-hour drives, as well as the aforementioned neighborhood clearance operation, the details of which will be disclosed to us at a later time. It doesn’t take Chapel and me long to find the chow hall, although the amenities leave much to be desired. Rather than a full-service joint like we are used to back at the fob, chow is conducted by a series of deliveries over ground and air from surrounding American posts. Foodstuffs that are only a little bit removed from the standard MRE fare are moved in bulk to Mad, where they are served by privates from all battalions present out of thick green thermal serving tubs, much the same way that field chow is served back in the states. The menu is roughly the same as any training exercise in the woods of Fort Bragg: instant mashed potatoes, flattened pork rib patties, and American-imitation Japanese-style yakisoba, which is a personal army favorite of mine. Tonight we get the pork rib patty, some rolls that could have been made by somebody’s crazy aunt, well-meaning though not as skilled as we would like, and some sort of cream-corn gruel. As a big accompanying hooah, our staple ‘Rip-It’ energy drinks are here as well. As an added perk, located just outside the chow area on the first floor in the hallway are a series of shelves that stock chocolate muffins, immortal type, quantity: many, at all hours of the day or night. I plan on being good friends with the chocolate muffins, as they are much better than the bricks found in random MREs, and apparently they are quite free, and available in bulk. No, seriously; we are actively encouraged by the chow-hall personnel to fill our pockets with them. It’s just that fucking awesome. After Chapel and I finish our meal, clean-up is a relatively simple process; rather than setting trays in their appropriate bins, chow here is conducted solely upon paper plates, which we promptly throw away in real plastic American style trashcans. “Downright satisfying. Where’s the can, you think?” “Fuck the can, D. Where’s the smoking area?” The mention of fresh, sweet tobacco fills my stomach with a sort of happy tingling as I realize that I’ve not smoked for upward of ten hours now. “Right. Pissing can wait. First thing’s first.” “Little brother, you have to get your priorities straight.” Across the hall from the small bay filled with plastic tables that serve as the impromptu chow hall, a number of certifiably legit Arab merchants have set up shop in small rooms adjacent to the central hallway, three of note. Not the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker as in days of old, but rather, the shmog guy, the pirated DVD guy, and the aspiring barber guy. All of which we plan on frequenting in the near future, political affiliations be damned. Like John Lennon said, religion too. Chapel says to me, “I think there’s a line of shitters just outside the building to the east. You got your Charmin, pipsqueak?” “I most assuredly do. Care for a loaner?” “Please.” “Pashalooista.” I take some of the ready roll from my pocket, wrap about two poops’ worth about the flat of my hand, and rip it free as we walk down the long hallway. “No Russian please, danke, you know I don’t understand a lick of that shit.” “Konyechna droog moi; neither do I.” Pleased and a bit self-assured by a bit of my own linguistic foolery, I hand the ripped-off wad of nice, mailed straight from home American-grade toilet paper to Chapps as we step out into the fading summer light of central Baghdad, together as brothers in arms. Or in this case, brothers in porta-shitting. The smoking area is just to the left of the building’s primary exit, elevated on a slab of concrete that serves as a sort of mini-porch, and sequestered away from the main entry by a group of unknown trees that are different, although not too far removed from the normal, run-of-the-mill swamp trees that can be found in Georgia or North Carolina. “Can I bum a Camel Wide?” I’m sporting a full brick of Marlboro Menthol Lights, my brand of choice, but I like to mix it up every once in a while. “Only out of the kindness of my heart. I’m already running low. I bought a stash of Miamis though, just in case.” “Cool, Chapps. I still have half a carton of minty-Americans if you’re inclined. I got ya.” We don’t really keep track anyway. Talking about cigarette commerce is drummed down to mere formality. If I’m ever out of smokes, God forbid, I know Chapps has one for me. I know it’s the same way with him. Besides, I like a break from menthols every once in a while. As we light up, with the scent of the Tigris river on the light summer breeze, I smirk to Chapel, “You know, I hear from some of the Mexican types that menthols make you impotent.” “Bullshit. But it couldn’t hurt to stay away from additives. If it doesn’t make your dick fall off, surely it does something else nasty to ya.” “Like crystals in your lungs?” “Bingo, Small-fry.” “I haven’t discovered any yet, but next time I cough up a geode you’ll be the first to know.” “You just wait, brother; you’re not my age yet. You’ll be coughing up all kinds of civilizations by then.” The smoke feels good on my lungs and fulfilling to my soul. A little taste and feel of the American way of life, right here in the middle of Hell’s septic tank. Thanks to Allah for the fresh air. The Tigris River is not sanitary; tonight’s relaxing river-breeze smells like a thousand-year-old open slit-trench. We smoke the rest of our cigarettes in silence, puffing in and blowing out our smoke in a sort of mock-synchronization, with nothing much more to say. As the sun sinks low in the Baghdadi sky, the fading light of the evening threatens to tell my mind that I’m somewhere just off the Vegas strip. The meditative, mechanical exercise of smoking gives us something to do, as well as sating our addictions. There’s nothing like it. Reveling in the last tendrils of the fresh smoke, staring at the bleak early summer horizon that’s visible between the jutting concrete buildings that can be seen over the walls of the Mad compound, I know Chapel is thinking the same things I am. I’m thankful to be alive. I’m happy I got to eat. I’m glad to be smoking. And, I’m going to be happy as fuck when I get the Hell away from here. “Shit?” Chapps says. “Shit-poop.” “Shit-poop?” “Yeah. Shit-poop. And I think I’ll nickname a dog that someday.” “What the fuck, D. Troubled youth nothing. That sounds like bad parenting.” “Yeah. Like Killer’s any better.” “Killer can, and will eat your face.” “True that. Ditto and stuff.” We put out our cigarette butts in a staple Folgers coffee can, no doubt set in place by some Sergeant Major as the tip of the spear in a feeble attempt to curb the rash of Middle Eastern cigarette butts that litter every square inch of the city. Dare to keep Baghdad beautiful. We make our way down the short concrete staircase and onto the dirt road that separates our living quarters and chow hall from the rest of Mad, as well as the beautiful, clearly visible line of porta-shitters that eagerly await our presence just a few short meters away. “Catch you on the flip side, yo.” “Whatever, Boondock.” Chapel laughs at my humor, but it’s not altogether undesirable. We got a copy of The Boondock Saints by mail the other day, and since then it’s been the platoon DVD whore. We all pass it around, and everyone loves it. Although it’s not at all dark yet outside, the inside of the porta-can is almost completely dark. Lucky for me, I’m normally quite the prepared soldier. Extricating my red lens head-lamp from my right cargo pocket as I take a seat, I affix it to my head and switch it on. I stare at the surprisingly clean floor of the little plastic shit-house as I let nature take its course, and for once, simply delight in my situation and where fate has seen fit to find me. Much better than the JSS this is. No getting shot at yet either. Yet, anyway. A few minutes pass before I tidy up, suddenly feeling much better about the world and my station in it. As I link up with Chapel just outside my own little plastic door, we begin the short journey back to our bay to await the briefing that will outline formally our responsibilities for the rest of our stay. It’s a quick walk back up to the barracks: simply across the little dirt road, up four exterior concrete steps, into the building, up a small staircase, down the hall, then through a doorway to the right. It is a journey that we will hopefully take many, many times in the near future. Still having a bit of time to spare, Chapel and I each go our separate ways, back to our bunks in our own designated squad areas. Being fully awake, I decide to succumb to the call of my PSP and silly tactical war game, in light of the fact that I’ve been a man about town for going on eight days now, and have not yet turned the machine on. Happily, I reach into my right pocket and pull out one of the clear cellophane wrapped brownies, no doubt imported from a happy place made entirely of sugary glaze and chocolate clouds. I bet they even have a castle there. Beer too. Bit by bit as I play, I pop pieces of the delightful pastry into my mouth, and it reminds me ever so slightly of the wonders of the outside world, far from war and fear; far from death and despair. I move my little sprites through digital battle after battle, as there is still at least an hour to relax before our briefing is scheduled to begin. Between each instance of pixelated combat I take the time to outfit my troopers with healing items and tactical diversions, as well as to outfit myself and the rest of my group with newly researched and manufactured weapons and armor. I give my soldiers as much as I can spare, me being the tactically proficient and benevolent general that I am. After only a half an hour of triumph, I resign from my quest by placing the machine back into its designated living space in the black darkness of my assault pack, not so much out of boredom and satiation, but instead with concern for the longevity of my own battery supply. I neglected to bring my charger on this particular outing, being completely unaware back at the FOB that our newly appointed duty station would be complete with electrical outlets and a reliable supply of juice, undoubtedly supplied by a real power plant somewhere nearby, rather than an improvised network of gasoline-fueled generators. I make a mental note to remind myself that from now on, electronic extravagances and luxuries will be fully available at the semi-modern Mad, and I should prepare myself accordingly. Time to start packing some adapters. Happily thinking that the remaining six hours or so of charge in my childish toy will get me fancily through the next week of drudgery, I let my eyes close, shortly after one more furtive glance at the script just above my eyes, mechanically scrawled onto the lowest-bidder’s mattress above me. Love you, Love you. I think sarcastically to myself, ‘I love you too,’ as I slip away for a quick nap in the half an hour that remains until our formal briefing. The time passes quickly, and before long I’m awake with the rest of the crew. As directed by our platoon sergeant, we gather up our kit and prepare to assemble out at the trucks, ready to go, where we will receive the formal briefing that will hopefully detail the coming escapades of the long night ahead. Chapel is most likely already down at the trucks with his own squad, doubtless making sure that his troopers are squared away. Since he’s not present to accompany me on my walk to the trucks, I simply make the journey in silence with my own scout squad. Duke has still not returned since becoming a casualty, although we hear small updates over the radio channels day by day. Apparently he is on the road to recovery and his diagnostics completed; soon he will be deemed worthy to come back to active duty, RTD style. My squad and I walk in silence through the late evening, our feet treading upon the dusty concrete sidewalks and dirt roads of the Iraqi military installation. There is nothing much to talk about this evening. Not, at least, until we are duly informed of the duties we will be pulling tonight. After our briefing maybe there will be something interesting to say. I will be a dismount this evening, and Dick, excited about the possibilities of manning the gun, will be taking Cole’s usual position in the turret. Cloud will be filling in as a TC for one of the other trucks, while Brass will be the TC for my truck. Freddy is driving as usual, and Cole will serve as the left side dismount in my truck once again. When we arrive at our vehicles the majority of D Co is already assembled. Relieved of my position as fifty gunner, I simply drop my kit and armor in the rear right passenger seat of my designated truck and seek out the rest of the smokers to do my duty before the formal briefing begins. There is one cigarette, mostly partaken of in silence, and then another. Then another. More than an hour passes as groups of soldiers mill about their trucks, with their sensitive items accounted for, and their radio checks completed. Some soldiers set their gear up as temporary backstops or pillows on the ground, leaning against them and simply nodding off, or waiting in semi-comfortable positions while staring at the ground or sky. More than likely, the orders we were no doubt set to receive over an hour ago have since changed, having already been replaced by a new condition, situation, or route. Smoked out, and not desiring to stare and listen to the night sky anymore, I sit rumpled up into an almost comfortable ball amidst my gear in the back right passenger seat of my vehicle, eagerly waiting, half-awake, for the news that will shed light on exactly what the Hell we are supposed to be doing tonight. Before I can fall fully asleep our LT and platoon sergeant finally muster the group into a twenty-five man huddle. The smokes are put out, though the dip spitting continues. Idle chatter stops and body armor is donned as we all press in close to hear what needs to be said. The LT begins, “All right, listen up.” Though not assisted by night vision I can see everyone clearly, illuminated by the familiar white-orange glow of a street-lamp much like I would find in any city in the states. The long shadows of my fellow soldiers are cast across the dirty concrete and road as recently kicked up dirt and dust from stomping boots form a strange sort of fog in the blue glow of our Humvee headlights. Unanimously, the drivers have all turned the engines over in their trucks, ensuring that the radios are fully charged, and that the trucks themselves are ready to pull out when needed. “Drivers, go ahead and turn your vehicles off.” During the brief pause five paratroopers leave the group, and five diesel engines cut off one by one with their echoes dying in the night, giving way to sounds of far off prayer chants in the city, as well as the braying of a lost-sounding donkey. There’s a newly relaxed feel to the briefing, as pairs of headlights blink out one after the other. “Tonight we had a scheduled patrol in and around the neighborhoods of Fad and Moudan, but that’s changed.” “Elements from the second CAV, First ID, and Redwater are all working ops in those areas tonight, so to stay out of the way we’re pulling QRF for the next twelve hours. Relax. Shoot the shit. Chill out. Take your cute little naps, but we’re on call all night. Run the trucks for the AC if you like, but stay by ‘em. Make sure to run them enough to keep the radios at full charge. If we get the call we’ll be pulling out at a moment’s notice. Hooah?” “Hooah,” we all reply. It’s not a loud and boisterous basic-training huzzah, but rather a muted, simple, unanimous acknowledgment. Amen. With that, we all break back to our trucks to resume our small time conversations about the worlds we’ve all left behind. We resume our tobacco breaks and our tiny, however effective naps, ever grateful to be freed from the wretchedness of eight-hour tower and high-ground shifts, at least for the time being. I find Chapps amongst the dark faces milling about the trucks and proceed to smoke one more cigarette with him while generally talking about nothing, and everything, as the night wears on. We wait. And wait. And wait. 0145. 0210. 0247. Not a damn thing changes. Foregoing my hot, small space in the back of the Humvee, I’ve laid myself bodily out across the back of the truck, lazily reclined while looking at the stars with my hands folded behind my head in the quiet night, with my legs hanging freely off the back of the vehicle a good three feet off the dirty ground. Somewhere not too far away, small pops and rat-tat-tats can be heard echoing away from distant concrete surfaces. Although not close enough to cause immediate alarm, the sudden fracas makes my stomach tighten ever so slightly. That could be tonight’s siren call. I do my best not to focus on the distant gunfire, and I try to divert my attention to other things. Knowing full well that it would be quite against the rules, I wish that I had brought my Zune with me tonight. Some tunes would do me just right about now, looking up at the sky, dreaming about Emily, and awaiting the bright rays of the morning sun so that we can get on with our duties and pass one more day. I just love leaving the days behind. Nodding just slightly, I’m roused by a rally call from the LT. Knowing full well what that means, me and the rest of the squad catapult ourselves off of, out of, and up from the Humvees and the ground, quickly grabbing our gear and armor as we gather hours later as we did in the beginning, huddling around our LT for the latest news. It begins in the same monotonous fashion that it always does. “Listen up, men.” As if we could figure out how to listen down for fuck’s sake. “Redwater elements in Tiger square, smack dab in the center of Fad, are getting hemmed up by an unknown-sized force of insurgents fighting from emplaced positions in a three-story building that flanks the main traffic circle; mount up and get your game on. We’re going to bust ‘em out.” The distant gunfire can still be heard in the city, now having picked up frequency and intensity. The angry cloud of noise now makes perfect sense, as does our new mission. We’re going to drive right into the middle of it. Just like that, we’re in the trucks, this time acting as a fantastic quick reaction force, firing up the engines and performing our last radio checks. Rather than waiting until we arrive at the berm or clearing barrels as is the usual standard, we are given the order to lock and load in place, right in the middle of Mad. With knives and my M-4 being my only weapons, loading goes quickly. Insertion, charging, bolt release, and safety. Dust cover closed, and I’m already ready already. “Truck One, up.” “Two up.” “Three up.” “Four good to go.” “Five’s good.” Even through the thick ballistic glass of my window, now tightly shut against the night, I can still hear the not too distant reports of automatic weapons fire, no doubt originating from tonight’s scenic destination. I’m concerned. I’m happy. I’m nervous. I want to kill one. “How we doin’, guys?” “Ready to drive into some shit, Pearce?” I give my enthusiastic reply to Cole, “You God-damned know it. Let’s get us a couple.” Freddy from the front, “A couple? Fuck you, D.” He’s good natured in his speech, “Why not a dozen? Why not the whole goddamn town?” “You ready for some Carmageddon then?” “Fuck the steering wheel, dude. I’ll hit one if I can, but I’d rather just shoot out the fucking window.” “Fucking Carmageddon nothing then. You’re goin’ GTA.” “Fucking right.” “Your mom.” “Fucking right.” The rest of the truck laughs at our excited interchange, including Dick up on the gun, laughing loudly and intentionally through the intercom system on his headset, though we can hear him in the flesh just fine anyway. Cole sits in the passenger seat beside me, ecstatic as the rest of us, not saying a word while busily packing a fresh can of Copenhagen, looking to get a fix before what is certainly going to be a bit of a fight. “Hey, Cole, pinch man?” No banter. No harassment. None of the usual condescending bullshit, Cole just smiles at me and flips over the can. Gratefully, I fill my lip full of the fresh stinging chaw and flip the can back to him. Though not southern by origin, I can give a pretty good yee-haw noise now and then, and I promptly do so, temporarily filling the quiet truck with more welcome chatter. Our estimated time of arrival at our place of business is only three minutes away, leaving precious little time for speculation and small talk. In near silence our small, but heavily armed convoy rolls out the gate, waved off by cheerful seeming MPs, ever vigilant in defiance of the late, or early hour. Bon Voyage. Our trucks take a right hand turn onto the main road that serves as the primary entry port to Mad. We drive around the large traffic circle which normally serves as the central market for this locale in the early mornings. Now the space is bare and quiet, save for a few Iraqi army trucks scattered about the square while the soldiers that belong to them talk, smoke, and sleep the hot summer night away. Taking another right hand turn, the trucks are given the order to pick up the pace. Rare enough due to the normal amounts of traffic on the road, the acceleration feels good and excites me. We’re on the way to a fight. “Ho, my leg’s shakin’. It’s gonna be a good night, motherfuckers!” Dick reports his physiological condition from the gun, but he doesn’t sound scared one bit. On the converse, it’s clear that he has a case of the excitement quakes. There’s probably a bit of fear in there somewhere, but no more than mine, no more than Cole’s, and no more than Freddy’s. I crack my window a small hair, less than an inch so I’m still protected by the bullet-proof glass, and take a deep breath of semi-fresh night air in an attempt to slow the beating of my heart. Another left turn. Here we go again. The city looks a bit macabre and totally abandoned tonight, just on the other side of my small tourist’s window. I can smell garbage and the token smell of tan, dry dirt. As we near our mission area and the site of gunfire to which we are running, I can hear the noise escalate. Our platoon sergeant croaks across the radio, “Four hundred meters. Keep your eyes peeled. Dismounts standby. Oh, and gunners: watch your lanes.” No reply comes over the net. Brass, directly to my front, calls out over his shoulder, “Okay, you guys. Be cool. Heads in the game.” Just outside the mock huddle in our moving bullet sump, I can hear the gunfire picking in volume and intensity. “Watch the rooftops!” The call comes over the radio, but I’m uncertain of which truck it issued from. From my window I do just that, scanning the rapidly moving concrete pillars, windows, and bits of shadow that glide across both my naked eye and my night-vision monocular. Somehow the deep, electronic green looks more freakish than average tonight. The lights are brighter with heavier blooms, and the shadows are more pronounced, and somehow darker. One more left turn and the gunfire becomes deafening, surrounding us all as we pull into the center of Tiger’s square. Brass from the front, “Call them when you see them.” His order, though completely sound advice, is rather unnecessary as the combative scene unfolds before us. From across the massive traffic circle to our one o’ clock, at about two hundred meters away, dozens of muzzle flashes and fully automatic reports fill the still night air, directed already at us, and still upon the small three truck element of Redwater troopers that for whatever reason are still parked in the center of the square. As our trucks slow to a halt I can see the shadows and silhouettes of the contractors crouched behind the trucks, pie-ing out as best they can to stay covered behind their lightly armored pickup trucks and return fire. Fighting against a large force in a fortified position, it is clear that they are desperately in need of assistance as none of their trucks are sporting any heavy weapon systems. With the volume of fire hailing down on them from the target building, it’s a wonder that they are still alive, though the combat has only been on for four or five minutes at most. After eagerly anticipating the order from our platoon sergeant, our gunners begin to have their field day. Over the net, “Gunners, check fire on Redwater in the square. White trucks are friendly. Heavy enemy elements are present in the building to the one o’ clock. You are clear to engage.” There is no verbal acknowledgement. No reply. Instead of common verbiage the night suddenly grows much louder. Dick starts rocking off with the .50 in proper, violent six round bursts. The sound of the massive weapon’s angry shouting immediately dampens all other noise, and my ears begin to ring. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. Brass from the front seat yells at the top of his Southern lungs, “Git you some, Goddamnit!” Our convoy rolls to an easy stop as we round the bend in the traffic circle and parks in its Lazy-W formation seemingly of its own accord as we arrive at the battle. The position forms our convoy into a jagged crescent, with the front of the formation nearly perpendicular to the target building, which is now only a hundred meters away. I call across to Cole, “Get a can ready!” The bright trails of tracers and sharp whizzes of naked rounds fly past my window; the wild sounds of ricochets and our own gunfire reverberate into the night as the smell of hot gunpowder and burning brass fills the musty air inside the truck. Nothing further needing to be said, Cole and I work frantically to unstrap the pile of ammo that sits tightly secured between us in the back seat. After freeing some of the boxes from their ratchet straps with my shaking hands, I proceed to crack each 200-round can open one by one, checking that everything is in order, and that the rounds have not become entangled in a way that would interrupt a smooth load. Another radio call comes through the din, “Dismounts, prepare to step off.” As I place my hand on the door handle and look out the window I can only see the blinding flashes of tracers, American and insurgent alike, as all of our trucks and dozens of the enemy sling everything they have at each other. At least we’ve taken some of the pressure off our friends. I jump in my seat as a round impacts the truck somewhere near my door, and dozen more whizz by, giving my armored seat the over-under treatment. Looking out the window at the green hailstorm, my testicles try to climb their way into my ass. From my angled position, looking on from the safety of my now tightly shut window, I can see four or five muzzle flashes from enemy positions in the windows. Dust and debris fly free of the target building in small chunks, as the façade and windows of the structure are being continually filled with our own two cents. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. “Feeling a slight pucker, Cole! You ready to hit this shit?” The noise in our truck, the lead truck, has become slightly more deafening since the Mk-19 behind us started to open up, blowing away not only our ear-drums, but also any living thing, be it man or beast on the first floor of the enemy structure. “Ready as I’ll ever be, motherfucker!” “Can, I need a can!” Dick’s gun has gone quiet, all out of baby-batter, so I hoist him up another can. His reload is shaky and filled with colorful language, but it’s quick. Before much time passes the gun is up and running again, deafening us all with its reports and showering the inside of the vehicle with hot brass. Hopefully it’s showering somebody with hot caffeinated death at the other end too. There are no real signs of enemy casualties yet, as the gunfire refuses to cease. James comes across the net once again, “Lead truck, we have Apache CAS on the net; shine the motherfucking one o’clock. Dismount.” This is, having finally arrived, the nightmare call for dismounts. It is also the savior call of the evening, as we have some avian help close at hand this morning, ready to lay some leaden Hell in the name of Jesus and ‘Merica. And me, for fuck’s sake. “Get it!” Thinking of nothing, lest my spirit abandon me, I quickly throw open my door and step out into the maelstrom erupting in the very center of the square. We’re pretty good targets now. Lucky for me, heavy concrete supports stand just a few meters away from my truck door to our three o’ clock. I quickly shut the door behind me, exposing my body to the enemy fire while taking the time to politely close the door behind me to protect those still inside the truck. With my metal cover closed up and gone, I start to run for concrete as Cole rounds the back of the truck behind me. There is no orderliness to our dismount. Ten of us have now exited the vehicles, with six paratroopers in my group, and four in the other; we begin our fervent run in a chaotic gaggle, moving to the far side of the road as fast as we can. Angry sounding bullets impact the ground in front of my feet, and especially eerie projectiles miss us by flying only a few inches above. I find this extremely motivating, so I sprint even faster. Sliding into home, I take up a position of cover amongst the sturdy concrete pillars as Cole takes a professional and hurried dive, landing just behind me and to my rear, finding safety behind his very own cylinder of concrete. Brass has also dismounted into the crossfire with us to do the honors of aiming a heavy infrared laser at the target building. Our job is not to engage targets in the building; that’s already being attended to by the heavy weapon systems in the trucks; our M-4s could not do a better job than two .50s and three Mk-19s. Firing our own weapons would only serve to give away our new position and complicate the very important task at hand. Instead of firing, Cole and I cover our trucks by pulling security on an alleyway to our right-hand side, scanning rooftops across the square, and generally protecting Brass from any unseen enemy activity as he aims his laser at the target building, now a mere eighty meters from where we crouch behind cover. On the other side of the square to my nine o’ clock I can see our other squad of dismounts, four in all, doing much the same thing we are, securing the areas on the outer periphery of the traffic circle while doing their very best not to expose themselves any further to the enemy fires. The night drowns in the din of men screaming and the thick, acrid smell of gun-smoke. Reports from dozens of weapons echo from every wall, and the traffic circle has become an orchestra pit for the dark symphony of murderous instruments. The enemy fires continue on, refusing to die. The mass of fighters that greeted us are most likely heavily wounded or dead, but the fight still drags on. There’s no telling how many enemy fighters still remain in the structure. Nothing detrimental has come across the net yet, which means that somehow in all the fray, our Redwater friends are still alive, and apparently, they are quite excited to be fighting from the open now that they have some heavy hitting friends in their corner. There are no casualties that I know of on our side, though through the fervent gunfire I can hear the dying screams of enemy combatants bellowing out against the night, trying as best they can to let their pain be heard. Through the sharp explosions from the 40mms and the thump-thump-thumping of the fifties, some of the screams that can be heard emanating from the target building sound as if they are angry, in a rage, while others are clearly fading laments. The pained screams are windows into dying minds and bodies; souls that are being ripped bodily away from their sundered hosts. It chills me to the bone with fear; it excites me and tempers my own sense of righteous indignation. I hate, hate, hate them. I can feel the hot fear starting to leave my body; I love that I can hear them die. I scan my sector and see nothing, save for a bit of movement in a few lighted windows across the street from our position, but I do not fire. If I was a terrorist genius, I would not have left the light on. It’s more likely that the movement belongs to frightened children or housewives, trying as best they can to understand exactly what is happing to their neighborhood, just outside the windows of their homes. Shouting at Cole I ask, “You got anything?” “Nothing, man. Looks clear.” The three other D Co soldiers that dismounted with us also give small negatives and head shakes. Nobody can see shit, other than the maelstrom still erupting from the target building directly to our front. Brass holds his laser, visible only through our night-vision optics, steadily at a third story window of the building that is the sole target of our selective rage. Amazingly, AK-47s still fire at us into the night. Though most of the enemies appear to be somewhat smarter than they were a short minute ago, now mostly firing from relocated positions on different floors, their side of the fight is sounding decidedly less motivated than ours. I can now see no more than six different flashes from enemy weapons, which is less than half the volume of fire that we were subjected to when we arrived. I can hear the report come over Brass’s M-bitter radio. “Tally, one mic out.” One minute until the big noise. One minute to salvation, elation, and the total silence of death from the fuck-sticks who decided to make a big row out of all this tonight. Apparently in the know, the Swiss-cheesed Redwater trucks, somehow still operational, break from their small formation in the center of the square and proceed to pull out behind us with personnel firing at the target building from driver’s seats with pistols, passenger seats with rifles, and truck beds with as many cuss-words as would make a seasoned seaman blush. “Dismounts! Mount up!” Though somewhat diminished from the severity of the fight, enemy fire continues to rain down all around us. Though it was necessary for us to have left the vehicles in an attempt to get a more thorough grip on security around the square, I feel uneasy and naked at the prospect of crossing the Tracer-Styx once again. Aware of the call to mount up, the gunners on our trucks double their rates of fire, going cyclic in order to make sure that our enemies put their heads down, thus making sure that we survive our return journey. Here’s one for suppression. No time. No choice. Together, the six of us take a sprint back to the trucks. As I run I can hear a new, hot salvo of 7.62 rounds whiz crazily above my head; I hear another pop and see a round impact the dirt just inches in front of my running boots. Should have learned to lead better, motherfucker. Arriving first, I open my door for Cole, who barrels directly through the middle of the truck, eliminating the risk that would arise from running all the way around the truck again. I’m sure he’s more than happy to bump Dick in the legs as he passes as a worthy trade for making a markedly shorter journey. Taking cover behind the door, I slip inside the vehicle, relieved and feeling safe once again, tightly behind Cole; Brass is already safely inside, seated once again in his position of command, now leaning slightly out of his open window while still aiming his green laser at the target building. “Tally Ho!” Immediately, immensely, the night is filled with noise louder than the fervent gunfire. The roars of engines and rotor blades scream from only thirty feet high, as two AH-64 Apaches burn through the night above us, flying overhead at what seems like a hundred miles per hour, emptying everything they’ve got into the target building. They’ve got quite a bit. Chain guns belch and make the night shake. Through my green eye, from corner to corner, two floors of the building erupt in sparks, concrete chips, and fire, as the structure and whoever still reside within are mightily ripped apart by thunder and steel. Dick shouts down, “Holy Fuck!” The display is quick, but it is unequivocally the most intense and amazing sight I have ever beheld in my mortal life. Quickly, a second chopper passes overhead, firing a barrage of hellfire rockets into the structure, one per floor, blotting out the world with its fury and causing a pounding in my head like I’ve never felt before. I don’t need to say anything. We saved the day. Our work is done. And the birds have saved our day. Though admittedly, we were doing a pretty good job by ourselves. I listen in mute shock as another report comes over the radio telling us all to sit tight, as the birds are coming around another time for a slower, more thorough pass. The square is bathed in a quiet, deep ringing stillness, filled only with the close sound of helicopter blades and the nervous excitement that foretells of their return. “Ten Seconds. Tally!” The birds clip in again, this time at much slower speeds, hovering just above our heads as they make their pass. Not shooting rockets this time, each bird, one of which is clearly visible through the gunner’s turret just above me, unloads another volley of chain-gun fire, methodically sweeping the floors of the target building. It’s beautiful. The sparks and the pure noise of the brutal display is somewhat spiritual. I take a moment, helpless now from my voyeuristic passenger seat as the might of a superpower rips the small dirt-people fortress apart. I feel prideful, as a veteran might on the fourth of July. I feel jubilant and safe. I was just out there. I feel… I feel like a fan of the winning Super Bowl team. See, I told you so! In a moment the display is over, and the report comes over the net that the birds are on their way home, after being given a prompt and audibly heartfelt thank-you over the net from our LT. “Man, those guys are fucking cool.” I say to nobody in particular, and nobody refutes the fact. I crack my window a bit, just slightly, and press my face near to the hot summer morning breeze and inhale the sweet smell of life, of danger surmounted. Danger surmounted smells like melted concrete, cordite, and Fear-Spice body odor. On the still darkness of the morning air I can also smell the exhaust from our trucks and the gunpowder of recently fired rounds. I can hear the ringing in my ears telling the story of the small, but somehow meaningful fight that just took place, and I can clearly perceive in small measure, the scent of blood, shit, and burnt hair on the light early morning wind. “Radio checks. Trucks sound off.” “One up.” “Two fuckin’ up.” “God-damn three up.” “Four, Hella up.” “Five, break.” There’s a pause. “Five up. Shit.” Our platoon sergeant strikes back, “No swearing on the God-damned, mother-fucking radio.” Nobody gives a shit about the sudden, illegal, and unanimous bout of senseless vulgarity. Nobody is going to bitch at us about it tonight. Nobody gives a flying fiddler’s fuck. We can say whatever in the Hell we want to say tonight. I guess there really is a time and a place for everything. In the new quiet of the morning, in the total stillness, save for the lonely sound of rubber on dirt and the steady rumbling of diesel engines, we turn slowly around the circle as we head back from whence we came with our gunners still scanning their zones. Us dismounts stare out of our windows once again, every man in overt, quiet reflection and deafened disbelief, each himself considering the boisterous events of the hour in his own way as we pull back through our small slice of town, back toward Mad, and indelibly, indisputably, a bout of good, sound sleep. That is, unless we get called out again. Hey, when I was little, I thought I’d like to be a firefighter. I had no idea, mind, what manner of fire that would be. The drive back to Mad goes quickly; the radios stay hushed, and no conversations are started. We listen to the radio reports as we drive, snooping in on the aftermath play-by-play as a trite, quick synopsis of our sector’s events are relayed to neighboring units and friendly elements around the zone. As our truck pulls lazily into the ECP I can feel my whole body relax; the tremors are gone and a sudden, peaceful exhaustion courses through my entire body. Rather than the usual hurried breakdown, as we are still on call, we simply park the trucks, shut the engines off, download our gear, and wait in smoky, red-lit huddles for the next word from our LT or platoon sergeant. “How’d that feel, Dick?” I omit the customary ‘sergeant,’ and am excused, as everyone could really care less about now. “Like a fucking game, dude. Like a surreal, loud, high definition fucking game. Just wild, man.” “You think you got you one?” Freddy, coming around the truck, lends a hasty reply, “I think you took out the entire third floor by yourself. Just sparks, man, saw the whole thing out the windshield. When I wasn’t trying to plug my ears, that is. Jesus, that was loud.” With nothing to do but wait, I seek Chapel out among the rabble from the other trucks. “Hey Chapps. What’s up?” “Fucking Armageddon, same as every other day.” He smiles at me, a large stream of Camel smoke issuing from his mouth as he laughs a bit. “How your ears doin’, D? Dick got his rocks off, yeah?” “What?” “I said – you’re a jackass.” Knowing full well that my ears aren’t that far gone, he quickly tunes in on my cliché joke, and the comment is forgotten. I light up a cigarette of my own, while silently excusing myself from the rest of the group to stare up at the dark and cloudless sky, thinking about just how quiet the night can be, and how quiet it has always been throughout the majority of my life. I also wonder if I’ll ever be able to hear the sound of silence ever again. My ears have always had a slight ring in them. From music first, and the army second. Now, with the healthy ringing blasting through the amplifier in my head once more, I wonder, as I drag on my sweet smoke, if it will ever truly go away. Our smoke breaks and excited conversations about the evening don’t carry on for very long, as soon we are summoned forth by James once again. It’s casual and not intense like the first briefing iteration. We are told first and foremost to stay close by the trucks, letting our respective squad leaders know if we break away to piss or shit. We’re told to keeps coms checks up and running every hour on the radios, and blessedly, we are also commanded to drink some water and take a nap. As we break away from the circle, I’m giddy with the elation that I’ll soon be unconscious once again. 0400. Just a few more hours of QRF standby and we’ll be clear to go back to the barracks, take care of our gear, and then grab some real shut eye before the slated mounted patrols and joint Iraqi operations begin. I’m not long in the back of the truck before I nod off, tucked tightly into the cozy, safe space amongst my helmet, nods, armor, and weapon. My weapons cleaning episode is quick and easy; none of the dismounts fired during the engagement. The same cannot be said of the gunners, however, and they are all busily cleaning their heavy weapons, fully dirtied in the intense fight just hours ago. Sensitive items checks are carried out as usual, and once again I lie on my bunk and stare at love you, love you. It must be roughly eight o’ clock in the morning, but my head still says that it’s just past midnight. I forego the opportunity to grab some simulated breakfast foods, but instead take the time to lie down and catch a few winks after changing my socks and undershirt. For not having engaged in a particularly large amount of physical activity, I sweated like a horse at full sprint last night. Running through a hail of bullets will do that to a man I guess. It’s all well though; my blouse has been sweat starched for upwards of a week now, and I don’t feel that it could get any crunchier anyway. I awake at around ten, my nap having naturally concluded itself. I take the time to brush my teeth, bath my underarms and crotch with baby wipes, and apply a fresh coat of deodorant under my armpits. Morning, sunshine. I’m ready for the day. We’re not pulling out on our operation until noon, so I figure I have time for a sit in the privy, as well as the obligation to myself to grab some chow before we head out into our new neighborhoods and proceed to do some knock and talks accompanied by the local Iraqi army. It should be a pretty chill detail, except for the fact that our dismounted foot patrol is slated to last a full eight hours. There are running bets that suggest the day of knocking will be over after only four hours or so, which is the usual breaking point of the Iraqi army work ethic. That is, they can feasibly hold out that long if they are given a steady IV drip of chai tea, cigarettes, and falafels. Finishing my personal maintenance activities, I make the long walk to the Humvees quite by myself, beating the rest of my squad there by a good fifteen minutes. No reason in particular; I just have no other place to be. When I arrive at my designated truck, the lead truck as usual, the doors and roof are still chained and padlocked, so I drop my kit and light up a smoke for lack of anything better to do. Before long, the rest of the gunners and drivers trickle in. I offer a hand, helping to hoist the heavy weapon systems onto their pindles, and I help with coms, firing radio checks back and forth with the drivers. Another half hour passes, and we find ourselves pressed into the early afternoon huddle once again. Although not yet dressed in my armor, I can already feel the sweat starting to bead down my back. We’ve been told that it should be over 125 degrees today in the summer Iraqi sun. It’s early July, and I’m told the brunt of the summer heat has yet to hit. Over the next month or so we can all expect temperatures in slight excess of 150 degrees; we’re not very excited about the news. “All right people, listen up.” “Today should be a simple affair. Stay close to your interpreters and Iraqi pals. Also, command wants us to directly report any instances of Iraqi soldiers stealing from the houses of locals. There have been a lot of complaints of that nature recently, so we’re going to step on that shit if possible.” “That being said, written reports. Don’t attempt to apprehend, beat to death, or shoot any of the IA who are doing this, understood? Killing all of our joint-patrol buddies would certainly be bad PR, hooah?” We give a unanimous acknowledgment, but it’s not all seriousness. Chuckles and guffaws radiate throughout the platoon. It’s a wonder this country is still even here, with the manner of stupidity that issues forth from its so-called protectors. Our sectors and routes are promptly briefed to us, and then, as is usual, we’re back in the trucks and on our way to another nearby traffic circle where we will link up with a detachment of nearly one hundred IA soldiers, and then move east to west, door to door through our entire sector. I laugh quietly to myself in my passenger seat, just thinking thoughts. Back in the states we jump out of airplanes at least once a month. Sometimes as many as three or four times depending on jump schedules. The 82nd Airborne remains the largest and finest parachute infantry group in the world, but still, we drive everywhere we go. We’ll be using interpreters to talk to locals, assessing their living conditions to see if we can help at all with basic considerations such as humanitarian food relief, electric power, and culinary water supplies. Linking up with the IA goes smoothly, except for an incident that startled the crap out of us. An accidental discharge from an Iraqi soldier’s AK ripped the sky open in three places just after we arrived. Nobody was killed. Nobody, at least for the next two city blocks. Beyond that, who knows? As prescribed, our patrol goes clumsily and slowly, with Americans on one side of the road and Iraqis on the other. Our gray formations keep their proper spacing, and we’re all business as we roll through city block after city block pulling security, remaining focused on the task at hand. The American side of the street looks like a military patrol. It’s different, there on the other side. The Iraqi soldiers cluster together, look for nothing in particular, and talk and smoke cigarettes as they be-bop along with their rifles hanging forgotten at their sides, or sling-less, swung clumsily about in their hands. Those that carry their rifles in the low-ready position put us constantly on edge, as they sweep their careless muzzles across us time and time again, without a single thought for ‘don’t flag your buddy’ protocols. Also as predicted, many chai tea breaks and falafel stops are needed. For minutes on end we stand idly by and wait for the IPs to stand around and smoke, eat multiple lunches, and sip away at chai cups before having our interpreters goad them into continuing on. Three hours into the joint patrol, Freddy and I cue onto a curious phenomenon. “Hey, Freddy, is it just me, or are there like, only forty or so IAs left?” “You are astute my friend. Either there’s a bit of attrition going on, or we’re under a well- planned, deftly executed ninja assault.” “Hashishins.” “Ah. Right. A Hashishin assault.” “Good Lordy.” Breaking away from the central group, ten soldiers from D co, us scouts included, proceed down a narrow mulhalla with the small remainder of half an Iraqi element, maybe fifteen soldiers in all. We walk quickly, with the early afternoon sun-dot reminding us that we won’t be pulling this detail for much longer. One more hour is the word coming across through the ASIP radio slung onto my back. The larger operation has apparently been cancelled, as command can no longer deny that our friendly elements have been slowly but surely abandoning us, and will soon leave us alone, in the very center of Moudan on foot. “One more hour roundabouts, Freddy.” “Yeah. This particular mission didn’t last very long, did it?” “Nope nope nope, as predicted.” I do my best to keep pulling security and stay alert as we traverse the small mulhalla, making random, thorough, and quick stops to peek inside dwellings while talking to locals about any pressing matters of the day. Primarily, we try to find out whether they have concerns about, or have witnessed any recent suspicious, violent, or dangerous behavior in the ‘hood. The answers are always the same. Nope Mista, everything is great. Everything is fine. We’re just living here, safe in paradise, without a care in the mortal world. More likely, closer to the truth, their smiling faces and calm assurances about the groovy present state of life is probably a simple mechanism to get the IA soldiers out of their homes, lest any of their personal property be illegally requisitioned for the greater good of Iraq’s finest. I walk two meters in front of Freddy, and about three behind Cloud. The rest of the scouts and D Co march on ahead, trying as best they can to communicate with the IA, as well as putting forth effort to remain vigilant about scanning windows and rooftops for any present threats. Just to my right, about three feet off, I walk side by side a tired looking IA. We tried to speak moments ago, but he speaks no English, and I stopped giving a flying fuck about the Arabic language a few months ago. So, rather than communicate like a bunch of modern folks, we just smile at each other while pointing to windows, pieces of strange garbage, neighborhood children, and anything of interest to make the walk seem to go a little faster, and a bit more sociable. Weapon at this side, with no sling, just his fist, he walks beside me with an MP3 player earphone plugged into the right side of his head, and a piece of foot-bread clutched tightly in his left fist. Apparently, one of his tactical pouches is filled with some sort of cream cheese in a plastic bag. He does his best to avoid stepping into the large rivulet of sewage that snakes down the center of the mulhalla, all the while busily stuffing his face. Across the street to the right, about fifty feet away, I can see a mural depicting canoes on a stretch of swamp land, sailing their fishing rigs across an impressively painted stretch of cinderblock wall. Nodding to my new friend, I point with my index finger and motion towards the mural, for no other reason than to receive a nod of assent back, in an effort to keep the primitive conversation going. He looks in the direction of the mural and suddenly trips, causing the cheese laden chunk of bread to launch crazily out of his grasp. With the reflexes of a small cat, he lunges toward the errant missile and promptly trips again, this time with horrifying results. As his body lunges forward one of his loosely hanging frag grenades slips its spoon, and in a terrible, butt-fuck-on-ice pirouette, he clutches at thin air and misses again as the armed explosive plunks dramatically to a splashing halt in the dirty water at my feet. Less than a half second goes by, and I’m diving toward the brick wall and dirt floor to my left, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Frag out!” “Fuck.” I hear Freddy exhale the fuck-word before I feel him slide into home beside me. Some members of our squad dive for cover, while the rest dumbly turn to stare slack-jawed at us in an attempt to understand what has happened. Akhmed. I’ll call him Akhmed, stands by for another whole second as he stupidly gazes at the fallen frag. Some of the IAs begin to backpedal in mute horror, while others simply stand, stare, and attempt to process the last moments of their lives. I look away from the frag, craning my neck to the left; I feel the grinding of my helmet biting into the old yellow bricks a half-inch from my face. My buttocks tightens and I open my mouth; I brace for the blast, and the pain. Three seconds. Four seconds. A heavy, anticipatory stillness hangs about the crowded alleyway, as everyone has no alternative but to wait and see how the grim event will transpire. Five seconds. A bit more. Seven. Ten. Freddy and I let out a long sigh of relief as we come to grips with the fact that we may indeed not be mutilated by an errant explosive device, dropped in a river of sewage just three feet away. “Okay, Mista. Okay.” Akhmed laughs and smiles at me, then promptly reaches into the sewage to extricate the soggy grenade from the swampy fluid. Brown and gray tendrils of moss and shit hang from the glinting wet metal of the device. Looking closely, it becomes clear that Akhmed, in his infinite wisdom, simply had the grenade hanging from his chest by the spoon, for God knows how long. Rather than the spoon having been triggered, and the explosive armed by the absence of the pin, the whole spoon and release mechanism had become unscrewed from the grenade; it was never armed, and the blasting cap still hangs peacefully and friendly-like from Akhmed’s chest. “No problem Mista; no problem.” Suddenly speaking decent conversational English, and with a cheesy smile, Akhmed proceeds to screw the blasting cap back into the explosive device, restoring it to its former position once again, where it hangs sodden and inert from his chest. “Right.” “Right.” Without another word, Freddy and I climb onto our shaky legs to catch up with the rest of the dudes for the next half hour or so of the doomed patrol. Dick can’t help himself. “A little jumpy there, huh D?” “No. Not jumpy one bit. Before, at least. Nope, just following standard procedures.” The joke is only a small prod; a miniscule sarcastic gripe. I saw the look of mute horror on Dick’s face, the mirror twin of mine, while the shit-bag drama was unfolding itself. Gotta love the Baghdad this week. At least I didn’t pass out, hit my head, and get a purple heart. “Maybe I’ll get a purple heart for that.” Dick’s gaze immediately transforms from amused to disappointed, angry, and sullen. He has taken Duke’s side in the matter, and obviously takes offense to my ill-witted statement. With marked spacing between each word, he flatly, angrily says to me, “Shut-the-fuck-up, Pearce. I’m serious about this.” I smile. “Rod-Ger Sah-Gent!” I could really give a shit. I’m still pumped from almost being blown into Kibbles.

Five Stars (Amazon) Like Being There
If you want to know what it is really like to be in the United States Airborne Infantry in Baghdad Iraq this is the book. Dallas Tells the WHOLE story, not just the sexy parts. Baghdad at Night immerses you in the culture, thoughts, and day to day life of modern soldiers fighting in Iraq. I served in Iraq 2003-2004 and highly recommend this book for anyone who wants to know more about what life in the modern wartime infantry is really like. --Brady

Five Stars (Amazon) Highly Recommend
Not having served in the military, I was eager to learn exactly what it is like to be in a theatre of operation during war time. Dallas Pearce has written an honest and intimate look at the 'day-to-day' life of those who are called on to do the messy reality of our public policies. Through his superb use of real language and imagery, the rest of us get to see exactly how the sausage of war is made. We get a glimpse of the mind numbing boredom of life on duty as well as the adrenaline fueled sensory overload of being in harms way. Our soldiers have earned from me an even greater measure of respect after reading about how these men overcome each and every obstacle to perform their duties with professionalism and great courage. Dallas does not create hollywood caricatures of his unit or romanticize their struggles. He simply tells it as he saw it using a remarkable writing style suited well for the task. I enjoyed his book a great deal and would highly recommend it to those who also want an honest portrayal of life in a modern military unit. I look forward to his next work, as this one left me wanting more. --SteveO

Five Stars (Amazon) Puts you right into the book
Great Book. It shows you what our military went through as they served in Baghdad during "The Surge". He is a great author. It brought back memories from when my husband served in Vietnam. Our son was over in Baghdad with the 1st CAV the same time that Dallas was there. We even met Dallas Pearce because he stayed in one of our cabins. Very nice guy just telling his story. --MamaC