Tuesday, December 23, 2003

16:30 – Baghdad. The Solstice passed under clear and bright skies, providing Baghdad with one of the coldest days of the year. The chill was deep and the dry cold allowed me to see my breath for many hours into the day. I’d had enough of the office, though, and spent the holiday doing just about nothing for a change, alternating between lethargy and just plain laziness.

It rocked. Come the next morning, and I was about ready to get back to my duties, when I got a call from Carp over at the 95th, wanting to know if I’d like a ride to the pump station at Jadriya, south out of the CPA along the right bank of the Tigris. I could sit at my desk later, and immediately agreed. It was a trip out of the compound and a trip to some place new. Absolutely, I’d go, although I worked to effectively contain my enthusiasm. I mean, really. He is a Corporal, and I’m a fake GS-14. It wouldn’t look right to show too much emotion.

It had rained all night on the tin roof of the hooch and was still raining and still cold as I poked my head outside. I had two choices. To stay the most dry, I could rummage through the duffle bag (after dragging it out from under my bed) and find the camouflage poncho that was in there somewhere. But, no one else wears their ponchos, and I’d hate to, you know, not fit it – not be uniform, as it were.

Apparel choice number two was to wear the cotton field coat (in the ever attractive desert camouflage, of course) that the government issued to me, topped off with the black knit watch cap that I’ve worn for every winter I can remember. Sure, the coat wasn’t water resistant, but it was only ten minutes to the palace. I wouldn’t get too wet.

[This again was the build up.]

I hitched up with my crew of shooters in the parking lot. There were six guys in two urban assault vehicles, one a new Durango and the other an eight month old Suburban with enough battle scars to warrant the vehicular version of a purple heart and an honorable discharge. To a man, each camouflaged soldier had eschewed their Kevlar helmets in favor of black knit watch caps. Weren’t we the well dressed bunch? All uniform, but with the caps, not quite Army.

What’s more, since we were headed into a more active part of town, many opted for weapons shorter than the M-16’s they usually carry. The AK-47’s I expected. They’re light and reliable, and come with big ammunition clips. A couple of guys had the M-4’s, which are like shortened versions of the M-16/AR-15’s, and a few with very serious looking machine pistols (MP5’s, probably). Of course, there were plenty of semiautomatic pistols holstered in various configurations.

Well armed and dangerously well dressed, we mounted our vehicles and took to the Baghdad streets. Driving like thugs, we split lanes, and forced the more sedate Iraqis out of our way. Carp slid a CD into the dash, and the soothing sounds of way loud hip hop reverberated through the passenger compartment. There we were, me and my gang of U.S. Army homies, cruisin’ the Baghdad ‘hood, intimidatin’ the locals.

And my crew all knows all the words, and they bang their heads and sing along with Eminem and the chorus:

“You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo,

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”

Sorta gangland. Sorta intense.

‘Cept all de headbangin’ homeboys be lilly farmboys outta Arkansas - be rappin’ wid a twang.