Week 1

As I walk along the canal the sound of choppers gets closer. Hydrilla and algae cover much of the surface water in the man-made canals below. The gurgling from the drainage conduit is faint against the thump-thump-thump of Apache rotors in the distance; the running water soothes me as I make my way from Al Faw palace to the Omaha Beach life support area. At Omaha Beach LSA reside the cramped living quarters in which we soldiers live. But we are lucky to have what we've got. I watch the sky as the thick-beamed search lights from the choppers scan frantically for some person, or group of people on the run through the back alleys of Baghdad. It's easy to imagine pilots on some mission of great interest or importance. Maybe they're part of a quick reaction force, or conducting a search and destroy mission for of a high-value individual from Al Qaeda. My peaceful walk continues as do the last remaining sounds of a waning war. Behind me is a loud clang. Someone in the dark moves quickly and my eyes fix on his silhouette. Unconsciously my hands reach for my rifle. A sudden tinge of heightened awareness instantly prepares me to fight. My eyes adjust as I see the dark figure throw away his garbage and walk back through the noisy gate surrounding his compound. Clang. It was a false, but instinctual alarm. The Apaches fade from earshot and off into the night.

On some days you can hear the distant sounds of gunfire. Camp Victory has not been attacked by rocket fire in five months now. I ponder the recent wartime events as the steak and shrimp and crab legs from dinner settle in my privileged stomach. My stroll along the canal banks of Saddam's Water Palace continues. As I question the cush-ness of my part of the war, I recall how the majority of those in the [edited] Battalion thought nothing of slapping on an [edited] combat patch on their right shoulder to signify their involvement in the war; it's too easy to consider yourself a warrior just for being here.

Armored MRAP patrol vehicles pass as I turn down the dusty, rock covered road leading down to the Omaha Beach LSA. The dark path opens up to a fortress of 15 feet tall reinforced Jersey barriers surrounding the collection of fragile 15' x 10' tin boxes in which we soldiers live. Walking through the countless lines of barriers is the closest I've ever felt to being a rat in a maze. Despite the reinforced-concrete protection, this area is jam-packed with suicide and random hazards. Electrocutions and deadly fires are the most common causes of death. American suicides are next, followed by rocket attacks. Since rocket attacks have stopped, suicides are unfortunately the more common cause of death. However, my biggest concern is with random electrocution in the shower while applying my apricot face scrub. Every soldier deserves a noble death, and lying face down in a shower stall just isn't it. To counter this, I've begun shutting off the water while lathering up. In my mind this seriously lowers the odds that I'll die of random electrocution. Day seven of my part of the war is successfully over, but I've still got to shower again tomorrow morning.