Good Evening Iraq!

A kevlar vest on my chest and a kevlar helmet on my head I push plastic into my ear cavities. The plane like a prehistoric shark opens its mouth and I walk inside the belly, no windows, no view from above to below.

After landing we walk into the hot darkness and climb aboard a bus headed for somewhere else, just so we can wait for another bus.

The landscape reveals sickly trees struggling to grow straight, a few stars, the tired eyes of soldiers, the hefting of duffels, neon Taco Bell sign, street lights, round abouts and armored cars. Gasoline fumes and dust burrows into my hair, sweaty synthetic clothing, mildew and burning plastic waifs through the air.

The wet CHU (referring to my trailor with a bathroom) is a luxurious space with plastic panels, a bed with a mattress, a night table with a lamp, two closets, a window, air-conditioning and sand.

While other soldiers share cramped quarters, I sit alone in my room wondering what everyone else is doing.