Of trucks, bombs and the smells of Iraq

It's been a week now, and I'm still doing fine. I'm a little sunburned, at times a little frustrated, hungry and worn out, but over all doing alright. I've seen the new Stars Wars movie, re-read A Thousand Acres, received my first gift from an Iraqi man (a bottle of "Hot Dollar" perfume) and tried to catch as much news as possible about the unveiling of a 91-year-old man who has the most ironical nickname in history.

I've also seen several homemade bombs explode, including a few close to base. The PX in my camp, a military-style Wal-Mart where I go almost every day and where I watched an outdoor screening of Revenge of the Sith, was the scene of a rocket attack two days ago. One soldier died and a few more were injured, three seriously. On top of being awake for 34 hours during one stretch at the beginning of the week, losing my government ID for a whole day, and ending up at the wrong base for the wrong story yesterday, I consider myself perfectly lucky.

I've been on patrol four times now, including one overnight stint earlier this week. Going "outside of the wire," as the soldiers call it, is nerve-wracking and tedious all at the same time.
It really is luck that keeps everyone sane here, if you can really call it luck or sanity. I've heard gunfire and seen explosions in Baghdad, but none were ever close enough to put me or the soldiers I was with in danger. Last Sunday, I spent eight uneventful hours on patrol with a platoon from New York City. A couple of hours after we got back, the insurgents mounted a somewhat coordinated attack involving dozens of U.S. and Iraqi soldiers about two or three miles from our base. More than a dozen car bombs went off, and some soldiers said they were pinned down for more than an hour in ambushes of gunfire. In the end, one of our soldiers was shot in the butt, and several Iraqi soldiers were injured. They killed seven insurgents.

So you just never know what's going to happen. I've adopted a new saying. A boring day is a good day. All the soldiers agree.

I've only been really nervous once, though. Starting at midnight on Tuesday, I went with a mix of American and Iraqi soldiers to do some searches of neighborhoods in the Hurriya district of Baghdad. The Americans think some of the insurgents have been hiding out here, since the Iraqi Army has managed to clean up other, nearby parts of the city.

The patrol was hard. The mission was simple: cordon off a pre-selected city block and search every house on all sides for signs of the insurgency. The hard part was coordinating the effort between two languages, in the cover of darkness with tired, anxious people, all while standing in the midst of an open canal full of sewage. I had to keep putting my notebook in front of my face so I wouldn't gag. At least it kept me awake.

The commander of the mission had hoped to do three searches during the 12 hours, their first of three such patrols for the next three days. They were running three hours behind by about 6 a.m., and they pulled into the second area. After another two hours (now in daylight, of course), the 12-truck convoy was readying to move again.

It hit me that we'd been there a long time, enough for someone to make a phone call, set some bombs and wait for us to pull out of the cramped neighborhood streets onto a wider boulevard, where the insurgents generally make their move. I asked the captain about it, and he said, yes, it is a concern, but he didn't seem shaken. I was on edge till we got back to base nearly seven hours later.

Nothing ever happened. And sometimes when you're out there, you feel like it never could. Every group of soldiers has at least a couple of guys whose sole mission is to try to make you laugh. They get bored easily (most of the guys I've been with so far go on patrol at least six days a week), and they pass the time by talking about past attacks, past girlfriends, past DVD releases, past jokes on each other. They make a point to stop by Iraqi streets and homes who are friendly to them. They buy flatbread from some families and accept tea from some mothers. I've had Iraqi flatbread, which is like pita bread but much better, and been offered tea. I had to decline the tea, cause I had two more hours to go before I'd see a bathroom.

I've also seen more of Baghdad in the past few days, including a glimpse of the Tigris River. There are shopping districts where the food and goods are sold inside, rather than in shaky tents on the curb. There are restaurants, huge, huge houses and even, every once in a while, a small plot of green grass for someone's front yard. We drove by a huge park with green soccer fields and buildings that look like offices, hospitals, government agencies. Still, no matter where you are, trash is everywhere. An pouring sewage into the street and then hosing it toward a public drain seems to be the most common form of plumbing here.

During the overnight patrol, I also got a first good look at the Iraqi soldiers. They wear American uniforms left over from the first Gulf War. They have mismatched flak jackets and Kevlar helmets. Most are thin. The worst, though, is their trucks. The Iraqi Army soldiers drive around in Nissan pickups. Their gunner sits on a platform in the back, and the gun is mounted on the roof of the truck. The other soldiers sit in the bed, outside, with no protection at all. Some trucks have windshields with holes and web-like cracks from past gun battles. No wonder so many have died. A roadside bomb just destroys them.

Yesterday I was at a firing range, learning how the Americans are training this new Iraqi Army. The Iraqi men, the Americans say, are eager to fight for their new country. The Americans seem to enjoy the teaching, if for no other reason than it means they'll get to go home sooner rather than later. Still, the image of foreigners in American castoff uniforms made me wonder. What will all of this look like 10, 20 years from now? Haven't we been here before?

I'm probably going to spend a couple of nights at another camp this weekend to learn more about the Iraqi soldiers. I hope to get to talk with them (a few do know English, but the Americans always have an intrepreter). They have to take the bus to base each Monday to get to base, live there, then return home on Friday. They get paid and get three meals a day, but they also put themselves at risk by going home, because they could easily become a target. Why risk it? A stable job? Patriotism? I'm sure it's a bunch of reasons, and I'm curious about them all.

Alright, enough of my guessing. I'd better get back to work. Oh yeah. I got the perfume from a man who was working at an Iraqi Police station, where the soldiers I was with had stopped to rest. He gave it to me through the soldiers' translator, a man the Americans call Bruce. The translators usually use Americanized names and cover their faces in public to protect their identity and their lives. Bruce spoke perfect English and worked very well with his lieutenant and helped me out as well. When he brought over the perfume, on behalf of this other man, he asked if I had a sister for himself. I said, but of course. He asked how old she was, then paused, and said, "It doesn't matter." So good luck, Amy.