I'm probably a pretty bad soldier. Granted, I don't read and sleep on convoys the way one guy I know does, but still----I keep looking at the people we pass. Whose sister are you? Whose mother? Whose father? Looking at them sometimes produces the sudden and sharp feeling for losing my own. Looking at them sometimes makes me feel like even if you have lost your own, if you can aid someone else's, yours won't be totally lost to you.
On convoy days, we get up early, and start getting ready----lining up ammo and vests and helmets, stuff to do while sitting around concluding whatever business it is we have to do where we're going. It's monotonous. The humvees are really loud, so it's not like you can have deep discussions, either. You look out the window first out of desperation, then out of curiosity. And then, maybe, recognition.
There have been IEDS and VBIEDS along here recently, and yesterday morning, we had actually planned to take a different route because the main one was too dangerous. By some mysterious alchemy, the route was cleared, and so instead of going to Karbala, we headed to Najaf.
This is such an ancient country. Parts of it along the rivers seem almost primeieval, with the ten foot rushes and the fan-shaped palm trees. You expect to see a dinosaur, especially at sunset, when the earth is black and the sky is gold. Long stretches of it are lush, and then abruptly it changes to dry sand and dust. Fields of garbage pass by the windows in multi-colored heaps, and there's always a few stray dogs or people picking hopefully through them. ..."
My lord, that woman has a way with words. Please, someone get her a book deal when she gets back stateside.
