"An' we don't worry 'bout tomorrow 'cause we're sick of these four walls

Now what you think is nothin' might be somethin' after all

   Now, you know this a'int no through street, the end is dead ahead
              The poor folks play for keeps down here, they're the living dead."

It's so damn hot. You know why these people hate us? Because it's so goddamn hot that "chilled" water becomes "piss warm" (technical term) in about two minutes . The heat is like a red hot stake ran through my brain, turning me and the rest of Third Platoon into a group of Phineus Gages, the train-track layer with the misfortune of having a railroad spike driven through his frontal lobe.    

The quotes above are from Van Halen's "Mean Street." The words describe life here so expressly it's scary. Everything from the "crazies" to the mad faces to the same old talk we can't understand. Arabic is a bitch to learn. What's worse, in the city of Najaf, Iraq, many people speak Farsi. The culture looks solidly mono-ethnic from the outside, but once you begin to work and live with the people you see a fascinating infrastructure of tribes and perceived sub races. I.E. "I'm not Iraqi! I'm from the great land of Saudi. You American Pig!" At which point I punch him, or give him a quick hit to his balls with my rifle.

Hundreds of thousands of people mass to Najaf every year for the annual Hajj to the Imam Ali Shine. They want to visit (oddly) the temple that represents the Son-In-Law of Muhammad. I'll tell you what- the middle east does not have royalty per se, but by simply being related to the prophet you get a whole temple and a legion of worshipers in you name in the after life. He may not have got his 72 virgins, but that's not a bad deal  when you die. I'll be lucky to get a headstone that doesn't deteriorate in the rain.

There are pharaohs who used slaves and built pyramids in their names that aren't nearly as followed or sought after. Only tourists and archeologists care. Much less worship. These monuments to religion and living gods are looked down upon as archaic myth left from the past. Who wants to worship a Pharaoh from a thousand years ago? You don't, because they clearly aren't immortal. They're all dead Gods.
          

Religious icons are not so quick to die in the eyes of the Muslim people. It's arguable that the family and  relatives of the prophet get as much praise as the pope. There's that many Muslims in the world. Not just here, but in what is quickly becoming called "Europa." England, Italy, Germany, Sweden, SwitzerlandFrance is quikly becoming the new home to countless wayward middle easterners every day. Not only does it seem that America is systematically driving away anybody in Iraq that has the money and smarts to leave the country of the former Republic, it also leaves a dangerous vacuum in the upper echelons of the power system wide open.

    Iraq's social structure is remarkably different in many regards, some better and some worse than others. One of the more noteworthy achievements is that they have an excellent public education system, leaving virtually no adults who were illiterate. And those who showed promise were virtually guaranteed into posh England universities if they also have the family line to carry and the money to back it. This resulted in a surprise- many, many men speak fluent English and far more can understand it enough when some Jarhead calls him a "Sand Nigger." and especially

These people were the doctors, lawyers, politicians and other people who were typically baa'thist living under Saddam Hussein. For a long time they were the ruling class, virtually any important high paying or public office was held by these religious minorities under the watchful eye of Saddam's personal police. Similar to Adolf Hitlers' Gestapo and SS. I've met a man who had his tounge out cause he said something vaguely not Pro-Saddam. Although the Shia had vastly larger numbers, a Sh'ia man born anywhere other than Baghdad  and without family money  would be so lucky to own and run a crappy cart or market.

            The result now- with the land ravaged and unemployment reaching far beyond fifty percent- is clear. Thousands of angry, hot faces all looking at America with resentment. Every day, on patrol in the sun with sand fleas and giant mosquitoes in the hottest nastiest environment imaginable. This plays a huge part in the people being cranky. "Cranky" might sound a little off putting to describe people driven into jihaddist craze to kill me and every other Marine within sight.  If you don't believe me spend three days in one hundred and thirty degree weather and you'll think differently. Cranky is perfect; it's a blocky word that explicitly describes what you feel when a river of sweat and grime rolls down your neck for the thousandth time. You're used to it; there's nothing you can do about it and it's going to happen again. Even when you're sleeping. Even when you get out of the shower or when you wake up; dirt and human grease permeate the world.

             So that's it- in a nutshell. Angry people. Loud trucks. Guns. Explosions here and there. Mortars that you hear leave the tube but can't hear land. Always afraid the next one is going to land on your head. The only thing more constant and overwhelming than the heat is fear. Even when you walk around and act like everything is okay- like this is just another day. The fear is there because at any moment you could die, and I don't mean like "you could die from a heart attack or stroke at any time just because," no, I mean you could die like right now, right now like that guy because he's dead and he's right fucking there."  That's a whole different kind of scared. I can recall almost everything of 2004 except how scared I was.

           Does that seem odd? To not be afraid of the physical death, the bullet through the flesh or the shrapnel through the skull; but to be afraid of the fear. Because the bullets may not come but the fear is, it's strangling you softly by making your throat harsh and dry. It's making your heart beat too fast, your eyes dilate too much. Dammnit, if anything is going to kill me it's this. But I live with it. Just like I live with the grime and the wet socks soaked through my boots. I deal with it because everybody else does, and nobody gets any special treatment. I can't hear anything, I can't breathe.

      It's all there in the song. Down to the smallest details.

 "See, a gun is real easy

In this desperate part of town

Turns you from the hunted to hunter

You go an' hunt somebody down

Somebody said "fair warning", Lord

Lord, Strike that poor boy down!"

            That part seems accurate for both sides. Even as Eddie Van Halen grinds out a massive solo I can see the angry Islamic warrior in solemn prayer, and then vowed to pick up the gun. It's obvious. Music is the soundtrack for life. In Iraq is all pop radio and top forty. The Iraqis would hang me if they heard the kind of music I listen to. It's always on.

        Pop Culture is at a standstill for the Marines  overseas, a song can tear through a battalion of Jarheads and become the newest cool thing. Everything from Seether's newest album to "Take my Breath away". It doesn't matter. In our own Isolated bubble we're always searching for the newest thing. If only because over arching fear and paranoia feels a lot better whilst listening to AudioSlave.        
       When your iPod randomly plays "City" when you leave the base you can't help but feel like God is watching. Why He would choose to communicate via expensive Apple products, I'll never know. All I know is you are blessed when that happens, and you're MP3 player becomes the iGod. When things sync up to a song, you feel like it's a scripted movie. AC/DC for the firefight and Bone Thug's "Crossroads" for the funerals -21 gun salute and all. The lord has a plan above! I won't die this day.    

        It's August 4^th, 2004 and we're leaving the base for the second time. It's 5:30am and nobody has slept yet, but it's slightly cool so we're not cranky. Being a Marine is many things, but being able to take pleasure in the smallest of pleasures is our greatest gift. It keeps us sane as we leave the base and head towards the no-go zone.

    Word is the Colonel got on the wrong side of it on purpose; he wanted somebody to shoot at him/blow him up so we could take the city. Colonel Mayer doesn't fuck around. Later I head his new command was Okinawa. All I could think was "Holy fuck, we're going to war with Japan. Or North Korea. Fifty-Fifty chance." The colonel is a very nice and polite man, and he's easy to work for. He's the kind of man who would walk up to Kim Jung Il, have a very pleasant discussion about economics or film, and then he would proceed to bitch slap the dictator of North Korea. He'd get away with it too. It should be noted that a "Bitch slap" from a  Marine is more like somebody punching you with the back of their hand.

             I'm willing to bet the shit has hit the fan in the downtown area as we head straight for it at fifty miles an hour, the fastest a loaded and fully armored caravan of Hummvees can go. Everybody is fleeing the city. What looks like a wall of cars and human flesh is pouring down the street to our left. Any animals in the city are long gone. There's nothing left but those who are there to fight. At least that's what we're told. We've seen firsthand women and children armed to the teeth. The problem is nobody wears uniforms.

    The difference between an Iraqi that loves Americans and an Iraqi who wants to kill you is where he's standing. The only assumption is that everybody is getting out, that much is obvious. There's not a soul in this town that can't see the mass exodus. The general consensus is anybody who hasn't left at this point is staying to either lay a trap or an IED  or an ambush. The word from comman is "If it's breathing, stop it from doing it again."

 Tensions are running high. The waves of people have faded, all that's left are the few brave policemen directing us towards the under siege police station. Our allies look exactly like the insurgents we are supposed to be fighting, the only difference is that they wear blue shirts. The often will wear the same dark hoods the bad guys use, to protect their identity to the rebels. Many a good Iraqi policeman has been kidnapped and beheaded for no other reason than the Insurgency and Mahdi militia don't take kindly to authority. Least wise any kind of semi-military police force paid directly from US funds. Subsequently, all "fighting age" Iraqi men are forced with a choice: "Do I join the Police or ING" (Iraqi National Guard, the newly formed state sponsored military the we, the Marines of First Battalion, Fourth Marines  are currently training) "Or do I join the insurgency because I started hating America when a stray bomb killed my uncle?" Most choose the former or (luckily) decide to stay neutral. Other do both. Oftentimes where faced with finding a dead militia man who just last week was doing push ups and eight man body-builders with me or a blue shirt who decides to shoot at us.

            My friend, Lance Corporal Jack Davis is in the back of my humvee. I deftly drive in between road dividers and trash in the road could just as easily be an IED. The BLT (Battalion Landing Team) has been locked in a firefight for days now. Davis and I have been running casevacs and supplies for the last 24 hours. The concepts of days, nights and time are meaningless now, its just periods of sleep and movement, followed by boredom with a nice dose of chest clenching fear for good measure.

    The BLT (Battalion Landing Team) just had it's first casualty (a nice word for "Dead as all bloody hell," but you're not allowed to pronounce death, only a Naval Medical Officer can do that) I just happened to be driving the only Humvee that had a flatbed. All the sudden I'm in charge of moving all dead bodies, friendly and foe. Davis was on top of the truck with his SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon). But not before we received the body of Sergeant Yadir Reynoso, USMC.

    It was, on the whole a complete mess, and something that never leaves your mind.

Sgt Reynoso was shot in the face. Apparently at extremely close range. The story from Weapons Company was that they were pinned down by five to ten enemy fighters with grenades and AK-47s. Eventually Reynoso said the two most dangerous words in the Corps: "Fuck it." He rose from cover and took out as many bad guys as he could. They say he got six of the bastards before he was hit. The bullet penetrated his skull and still had enough power to make a rather large exit wound. In movies, when somebody is dead, is just an actor holding and exhaled breath. Dead people are nothing like that. For one, all the blood loss and lack of heartbeat makes them look pale. Reynoso was from Mexico, and he looked whiter than Danny Bonaduce. The most haunting thing is when the body is moving on the stretcher. The don't move and bounce and shift their weight on the stretcher for comfort. They are literally limp. As limp as you can be. Never again to walk again or bark orders.

        He was an instructor of mine at the School of Infantry. My friend Lance Corporal Matthew Trotter told me it was exceptionally  bad for him. Not that he particularly liked the man, but when Trotter was a student in Reynoso's platoon he would say every day "I hate that motherfucker! I wish he was dead!" I don't know if that bothers HotTrot or not, but I'd like to think he's made amends.

    The body was moved to the back of our truck. Davis and a photographer named Lucian Reed (Google his stuff, it is out of this world) moved it onto the flatbed. Even though we were under fire Lucian was cool. He acted just like one of us, except he carried a camera instead of an M4 carbine or M203 Grenade launcher. I hear they made him an "Honorary Marine". Which is a pretty damn big deal when you have to sweat and bleed in boot camp for thirteen weeks to earn the right to wear our sacred emblems- The Eagle, Globe and Anchor. Next time you see a truck or a bald guy with a fat wife driving down the freeway you'll be see the EGA somewhere on the bumper.

        The next thing that happened was awful. It still haunts me, and I know Davis is losing more sleep over it every night. The exit  wound on Sgt Reynoso was bigger than you would suspect.

        When Davis went to adjust the fallen Sergeant, his hand went completely though his skull. Far enough to where he could feel his eyes "from the backside." Davis was from there on covered in blood. There was so much of it from dead enemies it started to build in the back of the truck.

    Luckily, there was no obstacles to over come while I raced back to the FOB (Forward Operating Base) Lucian left to get more film. I just stood there with Davis and hugged him as hard as I could while he cried. Does that make you think we're pussys? Well, fuck you.. We  live, breathe, exercise and shower with each other. It's not sexual in anyway, it's just something that we all have to do. When your with a Company in the fleet Marine Force  you soon realize that you love  everyone in your tiny world. It's the most beautiful thing I can think of.

       We returned to the front lines in the cemetery without incident. Night hadown the night due to our night vision and more importantly, the AC-130 Gunship. It has a dozen ways to see everything on the ground from every angle. It uses an assortment of weapons, Mini-guns and turrets for sure, but the real surprise is it uses 155mm ARTILLERY rounds as direct fire. Imagine how shitty it would be to be in the blast radius of a High Explosive device that's eighty pounds.Now imagine the same thing except the thing hits you directly on the head after its fired downward with the added energy of a thousand foot fall. The 155mm shell is as big as your torso. The AC-130 never misses and the Iraqis know this and have the good sense to hide in one of the millions of graves in the Wadi-al saleem cemetery. The AC-130 is a loud rumbling monster that strikes fear into all on the battlefield. It's hard to sleep, because do you really know that the Gunship can tell the difference between a Marine and an Iraqi?

    Davis and I are happy to return to a subdued battle field. Even though we both know tomorrow morning all hell is going to break loose, now that we're in this ultra-sacred cemetery, we've effectively pissed off a lot more people who are most assuredly gathering arms to meet us at dawn.

       We didn't say much. Not until I parked in my security position. The back of the truck was saturated with blood and body parts. When I stopped, all of the blood sloshed forward, over the divider and right into the passenger and driver seat. We  were literally covered in the blood and guts of friends and enemy a like.

    What do you say when that happens? Surely laughter relieves stress as a safety mechanism. But when your soaked in blood with tiny pieces of flesh and bone all over your uniform Where is the funny? I'm a stand-up comedian, but there wasn't shit to say.

        I decided that Davis needed rest far more than I do, so I wanted first watch. Davis is from Wolf County Kentucky, and like most southerners and all infantry Marines dip. "Hey, Jack," I said, "here's my last dip, take it. I got another can in the back."

    Davis slowly turned in the passenger seat to look at me. His eyes were dilated too much for it to possibly be safe. Both of his eyes slowly drifted independent of each other, as if his eyes were trying to find something to look at other than this damn bloodbath of a war. "I..." he began slowly, "I can't man I just can't"

"What the hell?" I responded, "You've been dipping since you were ten years old and today is the most stressful day either of us have ever had."

"I just can't!" his voice was louder now, with a dangerous edge to it, I hoped he wouldn't stab me in the middle of the night out of pure shellshock, "I can't man! I just can't do it!"

"Listen, fucknuts," I was starting to get pissed, "You clearly need the nicotine more than I do, so you are going to take it," Davis and I were the same rank, so the authortive was really just posturing, "you'll take the fucking tobacco if I have to shove in your fucking mouth."

Davis snapped his head to the left and stared at me  like he was contemplating where to hide my body after he cut it up "real good". "Listen to the words coming out of my mouth," it was a Chris Tucker line, but a good one for the circumstances, "I. Can't.Take. A. Dip." A long silence occurred, "fucker."

"Why the fuck not, Jack? Did you meet God through all the death and he told you to quit using?" I was being friendly-sarcastic to bring the mood to a calmer state. "because I sure as shit wish he'd tell me if the Socks are going all the way this year. Finally."

Davis looked like a man tired of fighting anybody, much less a Marine in a petty argument. "Look man,"  He sounded somber and took a deep breath, "I can't take a dip. Look at me. My hands are covered in blood. Lots of it. See?"

I felt like a dick for not noticing. But my brain was fried from no sleep in the past Thirty-six hours. "Come here, brother." I pulled out one of my piss warm canteens and proceeded to wash his poor bloody rough hands. They were callused from years of hard work on a farm and then in the Corps. Once finished I put the canteen back in its pouch and dried my hands. "Open your mouth, Marine." He complied, and I gently placed the last of my Copenhagen Long Cut gently in the pocket of his mouth, between the lower lip and his gums. It was the least I could do.
         I started to hallucinate on post that night, but I was determined to let Jack sleep for four or six hours.

    The things I thought about on post were horrific, as I knew. What I didn't know was that as soon as I left the Corps, the whole grisly day would play in my head every night as soon as I closed my eyes.