I walked back from the phone center in a foul mood. The conversation with my wife was strained and the emails that I had gotten were aggravating.

While I was on the phone, there were three flights of helicopters right over head. I had seen a flight of two Chinooks on the way there. Now, the fifth flight in an hour was roaring over. All of them were medevac flights. Someone was getting their ass handed to them. These things have a way of spreading sometimes.

Once I got back to the hooch, I had enough time to fire up a cigarette. Then the first boom echoed out. I looked at my roommate. “That sounded like outgoing,” we lied to each other. I glanced at my watch. Too much time had elapsed since the first round. Outgoing was always in large numbers, like eight or more rounds. Fast, quickly one after the other. This was a single shot, so it couldn’t be outgoing.

We poked our heads outside. Another boom, farther off. “Oh, good. They’re at it again. At least we won’t have to worry about walking around in our armor all day again, since that only happens when peace breaks out.

Another boom, another, then a new sound. A buzzing sound, like a saw. We both stopped for a second. “Brrrrrrrrrr…..Pop.” “What was that?” he asked. “The Sea-Whiz! They’re shooting them down!” Thump. Brrrrrr…Pop. “That only happens when they come in closer, or at something important.”

The CIWS, pronounced Sea-Whiz, is a Gatling gun with a big-ass radar. Basically, it puts up a wall of lead. Originally designed to be a last ditch defense for ships to shoot down incoming missiles, it works on mortars too.

Thump….Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr…BLOOM!

Sometimes.

“Hey! They missed! Woo Hoo!” we whooped. Now we were getting out of hand.

Some other people came outside. “What is going on?” “We are getting pounded.” “What is the noise?” “The sea-whiz. They’re trying to knock them out of the sky.”

Naturally, when faced with something that is potentially life endangering, we follow the safest course of action and walk over to the berm to get a better view of the light show. The better to catch a wild experience, but maybe a face full of shrapnel.

The red tracers arced up into the sky. Brrrr…Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. White lights, red lines, booms, and pops. Thump….Boom. “Hey, they didn’t go for that one. Bastards.” Brrrrrrrrrrr “Man, they must be going through some serious ammo.”

“Well, think about it. It fires something like six thousand rounds a minute. That is a hundred rounds every second. And they are doing, what? Six? Eight second bursts? That’s a bunch of lead in the air at once. I feel sorry for the town downrange behind them. There’s got be a bunch of crap coming down in their front yards.”

Over a dozen rounds total. The Sea-Whiz goes for a bunch and we figure gets a good chunk of them. Not bad shooting.

I woke up before my body was ready. The exhaustion was set in and embedded. Dragging around the room, I got a cup of coffee, cigarettes, and sunglasses. Then I ducked outside.

The heat is already starting to build and it isn’t even 11 in the morning. Just now passing the band of dust on the horizon, the sun is baking everything under it. It is a rude awakening.

Overkill comes pouring out of his room while I am smoking and sipping the coffee. A large man from North Jersey, he is the resident comic and covered in chest hair as a testament to his Italian heritage. This morning, he puts on the Velcro nametapes on his chest. Wearing only that and his PT shorts, he croons to us. “Good Morning. Hey, is this alright for work? It’s a lot cooler this way.” We all fall over groaning and laughing at the sight.

I go and piss for the first time that morning. The urine is a bright yellow, and given that I haven’t taken any B3 recently, a sure sign that I am a tad low. Yesterday’s heat must have taken more out of me than I thought. I will have to make sure that I put down more than usual with the water on the checkpoint.

On the way to the chow hall, some of the guys start bitching about the internet, or rather, the lack thereof. I have been pushed into the role of internet maker since I am the resident guru for that and the last guy that they had stateside didn’t work out so well.

“How come we don’t have the internet yet?”

“Because the guy that we are supposed to get the dish from is on mission. And we need to start collecting up the money to put down on the dish.”

“When does he come back?”

“Fuck if I know. He usually goes out for three or four days. We still need to get the money.”

“How much is it going to be?”

“We already covered this. It will be about a buck twenty per person for the dish and between eighty and a hundred per person per month.”

“Well, how much then? Why don’t we know what the price is going to be?”

“Fine. It’s a hundred, and we don’t know the final because he said that he would try and swing us something that was a bit cheaper. What the fuck?”

“Well, I mean, guys have to plan, and this is like saying it’s between one and a thousand…”

“No, the fuck it is. This is an estimate, and there is a difference between a range of one to a thousand, and eighty to a hundred. That is apples and oranges. If you need to plan, think of the upper limit and the price is a hundred.”

The guys start to give my questioner, a ringer for Keanu Reeves without hair, a hard time at this point for being a dumbass. “From now on,” says The Keebler Troll, “if we have any ideas, we give them to Neo and let him think for a few days. Then the ideas will be idiot proof and we won’t have to deal with idiot questions from fucking morons.”

“Well, I mean…”

“Shut the fuck up Neo,” chimes in The Human Waste Disposal.

We get to the chow hall. There is a mailbox there and I brought letters to mail out. But now, I just forget about that. It never connects in my head when I look at the mailbox that I need to use it even though I had planned enough earlier to bring letters. It doesn’t dawn on me until we are out at the Entry Control Point.

We get the daily brief and there is a whole lot of nothing predicted. On the other hand, that is what they said two days ago and a round landed about a hundred meters from my position.

That had been a rude awakening. I was in the bunker, armor on, but the helmet just taken off so I could vent some heat and pretend to cool down. We heard a thump that was rather close to the north. “What the fuck, here we go,” I said putting on my helmet. Even though it was off, I kept it within arm’s reach.

A few seconds went by. “Was that the launch or the….” BOOM!

“Get down!” I yelled. That was entirely too close for my comfort. Right next to us it sounded like it landed. “CP, this is Checkpoint Delta. It landed bearing roughly nine zero degrees, somewhere past CP Echo.”

“Anyone see smoke?” I call to my people.

“There.” T.J. points. I key the radio. “CP, CP Delta, estimated range 200 meters.”

“Roger, be advised: it landed about 100 to 150 meters on the other side of the berm from CP Echo.”

“Well, I guess that was a good estimate. CP Delta out.”

No activity predicted my ass. This is worse than weather forecasting.

I get down to the point and relieve the first shift guys. They tell me what has gone down for the morning, which was a usual day for the most part. Oh, except for the IED first thing in the morning. Seems that no one was lined up to get in and go to work early this morning. In fact, no one came across the bridge. Seemed fishy, and a quickie recon revealed that there was an IED on the far side of the bridge. So, now that we know what is was, on to the EOD show, who came out and blew it. Now, it was business as usual.

A quick survey shows that the point is a little lower on water and ice than usual. We have more than enough for the people here. The thing is, we usually give out water to the pedestrian traffic that passes by our point on hot days when they ask for it, and they usually ask for it on scorching days like this. But, we damn sure don’t have enough for that.

So, the answer is obvious: Nothing for them until we get another water drop. This would be a fun day saying no over and over. And since I am coming into this a tad low, me first. They live with chronic dehydration, I don’t.

The choppers cut through the air again. A few pairs of Marine Chinook helicopters flew overhead, escorted by Cobra attack helicopters. Someone somewhere is very busy. I don’t know if that will make the news, though. This is the war that you can ignore, not the one in the nation’s living rooms every night.

While we man our positions, the locals pass nearby on their way out. Most cast furtive glances. I stare back through my sunglasses. The expression I was casting must have been the right one, because few people asked for water. It was hot, too, hotter than in recent days. Glance at the Amriki, decide that the answer is no and the question is not worth asking, wrap a Shemagh around the head, and continue on.

There has to be one in every crowd, though.

“Water?” he asks making the motion with his hand of drinking from a glass or bottle. “La,” [No] I respond. He looks at me some more. Maybe I didn’t hear him the first time. “Water? Water?”

“La Mai,” [No water] I retort.

Oh, shit the Amriki is being persistent about the no water policy. It can only be because I don’t understand that it is hot and he is thirsty. Plus, he just came from the checkpoint that gives out the bulk of the freebies to the locals. So naturally, I should supply him with water since he passed up an earlier opportunity.

“Hot. Water?”

“Harrah zhin-dehn. Ah-ah-roof. LA MAI!” [Very hot. I know. No water.]

The local gentleman stood there for a second. The expression on his face was unreadable as to what thoughts were going through his head. But he was definitely thinking something. It might have been whether or not he should continue with the argument and wear me down with constant insistence. Or it could have been shock that the Amriki knew more pidgin Arabic than ‘no.’

I stared back with a blank expression on my face. The ‘no water’ policy wasn’t based on me hating him as a person. But the kindness to strangers extends only to a point, one where the needs of the soldiers on my point are met first. Plus, passing up the normal distribution point doesn’t constitute an emergency on my part.

No matter. He decided to drop the point and walk off. The slowed turn and continued unreadable expression led me to think that he was shocked that I spoke a smidgen. Fine, let him tell that to his buddies. And maybe next time he runs across an Amriki, he wouldn’t just assume that the American doesn’t speak any of the native tongue. Probably not.

Although it has been a nice sunny day so far, the horizon is darkening fast. It isn’t a wall yet, but the wind picks up. It is obvious to us what is coming since we have done this bit before. We all try to cover up our mouths as the sand and dirt start to kick up. A sandstorm is blowing in.

This isn’t the worst one that we have endured, but it is a good one at first. Soon, the dirty shitty taste of Iraq is in my mouth, the particles of the ground worming in through cloth and clenched teeth. The sky is hazy now, a milky dream while the air around us turns a light tan.

The pedestrians walking by start to jog trying to get to the end gate and their cars or taxis as soon as possible. Normally, I would yell at them to stop. Now, with the sand everywhere, I can’t blame them for trying to get the hell out as fast as possible. I want to run out of here too, but I obviously can’t.

A truck comes up to our position. What a suck-fest, now we have to get out in the soup and search a vehicle leaving. I am half tempted to give it a quickie job, but then what message would that send? Wait for the bad weather, the Amriki will slack off? Nope, I hate it, and feel bad about making the driver wait in the dust storm while we toss the inside, but that is life in Babylon.

The truck is clean, of contraband but not dirt. We let it go, and huddle back under the overhead cover and camo netting. This does not offer much protection, but at least we don’t get the full on blast of rushing sand and wind. It’s more like being rubbed with fine grain sandpaper softly rather than being sandblasted.

Sunglasses are a must. The wraparound shades keep the dust out. Most of the others put on ski goggles in an attempt to keep the dust out. Anything to keep out the fine grains that seem to come from everywhere and get into everything.

Finally, the storm abates. It doesn’t last long, maybe twenty minutes. This was a shorty and not really that bad. More of a nuisance. Before we know it, the wind is gone and the sky is clear.

The radio lets us know that there is a convoy coming in. This is a late one; most of the major convoys are already in. But here it is, coming down the road at my point.

We look for the IDs and pass them on to be scanned for fun stuff. Fun being defined as anything that goes boom, pop, or can get unwary GIs drunk or high. We hope for door number three all the time. Of course that never comes, but then neither does door number one. Which is a fair trade.

Out come the trucks to the search pit. Out come the drivers. Time to play feel up the sweaty locals. Turn around, arms out, and touch, and bend, and touch, and bend. It’s like a sick exercise. There is a characteristic smell to them all, that is like no other smell, and it is bad. With a capital ‘bad.’

But we manage through this. These drivers speak a combination of Turkish and Arabic. The Arabic we can handle, that’s what the interpreters are for. Fortunately, Providence has favored us with a soldier who was born in Turkey. So, onto the radio and a quick call for code name Snacks. She comes out into the heat from her point to mine. Sorry, honey, but you have to tell this dude that I am going to jack his shit in a minute.

Ever helpful, she does just that, and manages to charm him into turning it in as a gift to her. Right. Nice play, dude. I don’t care how it happens; I just need the contraband without compromising my authority. But this works just as well, as long as they don’t get any bright ideas for the future.

Now that is finished, I call up to the command post on the radio and give the needed information for the day. Numbers have to be checked and balanced. This is so that we don’t forget about somebody on base and have, gasp, some local wandering loose on the camp. Never mind that the numbers never add up. We do it as a best guess I suppose.

But the calling of the daily lotto numbers is our cue to transition to a different posture. Now we are closed for business. It is all security from this point on. Not as much manpower is needed for the security detail, and some will be cut loose to do whatever, their five hours in the sun so far having taken its toll on us. For most, another four hours to go. For select others, hasta la bye-bye.

Tonight, I am one of the others.

We wander out to the bus and hop on. It is a relief to me that I can skate out early today. There is still more to do, though, even if it won’t be out at the gate in the heat. I wouldn’t mind staying on the gate more if it wasn’t for the fact that I always end up doing insanely stupid shit and the leadership doesn’t listen if I ask for a change in duties. Nice effective use of the squad leaders I say.

On long days, I usually, mostly, get banished to the CP for the later portion of the shift. I would rather be out in the heat. The CP is like a lobotomy in slow motion with a dull spoon through the nose.

I come back in. It is dinner time, but I am not hungry really. In an hour, the chow hall will close. But, I have already squirreled away some goodies in my room nestled in my fridge. So, the hell with the chow hall and with a water bottle in hand, I mix up my late afternoon meal: crystal light and a handful of jellybeans.

NCO Evaluations are due and I have the reports to write for the people in my section. This is a little different from developmental counseling. In counseling, specific is good. In evaluation reports, vague is good. Specifics are sort of wanted, mostly not.

I hammer out a couple of reports going off the notes that I had scribbled earlier. Paperwork is one of the least favorite aspects of my job, mostly because it requires so much and is constantly revised. But, it has to be done, and occasionally, I am able to do someone good by it.

After I have the initial parts done, I wander over to the Platoon Sergeant’s room and give him the copies that I have. He looks it over, frowns, grunts, and basically rejects it. Time for some revisions. We go over it in detail, add this, take that, and that too. Make this better. Out come the five dollar words. When it is done, most of my comments stand, only a couple are pulled and reworked entirely. But, more importantly, it is done, and I can go back to my area now, right as the other troops are coming back from their shift.

My room is the natural meeting place. I am a natural focus of information due to my position, plus I am low enough on the food chain that there isn’t the barrier imposed by rank. Also, I have the fridge and usually keep it stocked. As long as people continue to stock it, I will continue to open it up to the public.

We hang out in the front of my place finally. Some of us, at least. Smoking and joking, we put away a few sodas, wishing they were beers, thinking of home, talking of the funnier points in the day. The oddities, the strangeness, the locals, the environment.

Away in the distance, we could hear mortar rounds landing in the distance.

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