Journal From Iraq by Juliet Macur

Juliet Macur, a sportswriter at The Times, was in Iraq to report on the war during August.

AUG. 24 | 4:56 AM BAGHDAD (8:56 PM NEW YORK) A Long Way From Home

After being in Iraq for nearly one month now, I have come to appreciate the toughness and resilience of American soldiers deployed here for an entire year. Being in a war zone is difficult enough, but little annoyances make it worse, and I'm amazed that the soldiers deal with it so well, considering how miserable their lives can be.

First off, when people say, 'It's not the heat, it's the humidity,' while rationalizing three-digit temperatures, they obviously have not been to Iraq. At FOB Warhorse a few weeks ago, I couldn't make it from my room to the dining hall - a 10-minute walk - without feeling spent and drenched. Such is life inside an oven.

Then there are the insects that the soldiers battle daily. Though I followed the lead of soldiers and dipped my clothes in a toxic bug spray before arrival, I've been attacked by sand fleas every night for the last week, even as I slept beneath my mosquito net. The fleas leave itchy, hard bumps, which turn into blood blisters if you scratch them, and the marks don't fade for several weeks. One kind soldier warned me today that some of those fleas carry an incurable disease. (I plan a trip to the medical unit tomorrow.)

But the soldiers say the worst part about being here is the lack of communication with home. As a reporter, I use a satellite modem and satellite telephone for sending stories and talking to the office, but contact with family and friends is minimal. And the soldiers? If they are lucky, they have Internet connections in their rooms. Otherwise they are stuck using the Internet at the base's morale, welfare and recreation center, which, more often than not, has a painfully slow connection, a time limit of 30 minutes and no privacy. (And when a soldier in a unit or on a base is seriously wounded or killed, the Internet is shut down on that base until the military can inform the family in person.)

The only time I used the MWR computers at a base, it took me 14 minutes to connect to my email homepage, so I had only a few minutes left to write a few short emails like, "Hi. I'm alive. Pass it on." Though I write short notes, I can't wait to get long ones in return. One soldier told me new emails from friends and family are what get him through each day.

Some soldiers miss simple things the most. "All I want is to take a shower without wearing flip-flops, or go the bathroom in the middle of the night without bringing a flashlight," said First Lieutenant David Suttles after being based at my last stop, Camp Normandy near the Iranian border, for seven months. Another soldier said he yearned to eat a meal with metal utensils, not plastic. Yet another just wanted to have a phone conversation with his wife without sharing it with a dozen other guys in the phone center at the same time.

But a few things make you instantly forget those inconveniences, like seeing the poverty here. Some Iraqis live in mud huts, or walk barefoot atop raw sewage on the street or sleep on their roof in the midsummer's heat, sharing one huge mattress with their spouse and several children.

And everything else in the world seems insignificant the moment you hear about soldier's death. Two unidentified soldiers from my first base, FOB Warhorse, were killed by an I.E.D. the other day, and, after getting to know so many people at the base, I felt kicked in the stomach.

I wondered if I knew them, if I had met them, if I'd know their faces if I saw them. I understood a little better how the soldiers here feel when they hear a fellow soldier has died.

Thinking about the deaths overwhelmed me and it is humbling to watch men and women summon enough strength to handle those emotions for months on end.

AUG. 27 | 3:08 AM BAGHDAD (AUG. 26 | 7:08 PM NEW YORK) The Fobbits

After bouncing around different bases in Iraq, I’ve come to realize that being deployed here means different things depending on where you are and what you do.

If you’re a soldier at Forward Operating Base Warhorse near Baquba, it means you can spend your evenings playing basketball in an air-conditioned gym. If you’re at FOB Danger, it means you can live and work in Saddam Hussein’s former palaces, chandeliers and all. If you’re at Balad Air Base, it means you use real bathrooms, which airmen call Cadillacs, and rarely, if at all, portable toilets like the other bases.

But if you are at FOB Normandy, it means your electricity goes out at least once a day and the sand fleas attack any bed not carefully wrapped in mosquito netting. If you are at FOB Gabe, you are used to swarms of flies and mortars hitting the base daily.

Like every realtor says: It’s location, location, location.

If your job requires going outside the wire, you have the chance to see Iraqis going about the day in their villages.

But in some cases, soldiers never leave their FOB at all, which means their view of Iraq is limited to the square mileage of the base. Those soldiers, I am told, are nicknamed Fobbits, a variation of the Hobbit characters in the Lord of the Rings.

Fobbits don’t know what it’s like to take a convoy, or go on a raid for illegal weapons or insurgents, or what it’s like to come under small-arms fire while driving through a seemingly innocuous village. Some infantrymen or other soldiers with ample time in the field say that men and women who never leave the base aren’t real soldiers at all.

(In a letter to the editor published in today’s Stars and Stripes newspaper, Adrian Ducker, a soldier at FOB Gabe in Baquba, said that he had a problem with soldiers who complain about being in Iraq when they’ve only left their FOB once -- to go R&R.)

I met a few fobbits at FOB Speicher near Tikrit, and learned that some of them detest being stuck on their base. They told me that they grew so bored after several months at Speicher that they volunteered to go on missions outside the FOB. Their requests were granted.

So they went on convoys to villages surrounding the base and met Iraqi families, chatted with them and then, politely they said, checked the Iraqi homes for illegal weapons. (You would think that ruined their chance at an invitation for dinner, but most soldiers say the Iraqis were fine with the searches.)

Juliet Betancourt, with the New Jersey National Guard, said leaving the relative safety of the FOB has been worth it. She collected clothes and toys from people back home and handed them out to Iraqis who live around Speicher. Some families gladly took the donations, some refused them, but she said meeting those people and learning about a new culture has made her year in Iraq more tolerable.

Other soldiers at Speicher found innovative ways to leave the base. Several groups went on rides in Blackhawk helicopters this week to escape the base. The helicopters were flying around the FOB’s perimeter as part of a maintenance plan and the soldiers went along for the experience.

I can understand why those soldiers wanted a change of scenery. Speicher is a treeless, sparsely populated expanse of dirt and asphalt. Not much to see, not much to do. It is named for Michael “Scott” Speicher, a pilot who was shot down on the opening night of the 1991 Gulf War and is officially listed as captured by the Iraqis.

I had been warned before arriving that Speicher was a colorless place, but that the lack of character came with perks: It was safe and rarely hit by indirect fire. Soldiers said the last time the base was hit with mortars or rockets was two months ago.

They jinxed me.

At Warhorse, I was told that there was a good chance mortars would hit the base while I was there. None did. At Normandy, I was told the same thing. No mortar fire.

But on my first day at Speicher, just as I fell asleep on my cot at about 5 a.m., I was jolted awake by three loud explosions that rattled the walls of the wooden shack I was assigned. A minute or so later, a god-like voice rang out over loudspeakers. Though I was groggy, I got the gist of the message: The base had been hit. Everyone put on protective armor and a helmet. You should make sure that everyone in your unit is accounted for.

I woke up Max, the photographer I’ve been working with, because he was snoring away, oblivious. Then we donned our flak jackets and helmets. About 45 minutes later, the voice of Big Brother rang from the loudspeaker again, saying all was clear, but I fell back asleep still wearing my flak jacket, just in case, as the Apache attack helicopters roared around the sky above Speicher.

The next morning I learned that a rocket had hit a metal shipping container on base, blowing a gaping hole in it, toppling it onto its side and tossing it about 30 feet. The Iraqis, I’m told, don’t have the best aim when shooting indirect fire. That is fine with me.

I’m sure the Fobbits would agree.

AUG. 31 | 6:16 AM BAGHDAD (AUG. 30 | 10:16 PM NEW YORK) Pieces of Home, Far Away

Even though I’ve only been in Iraq for several weeks, I feel like I’ve been here much longer.

When I arrived in Iraq, most soldiers said they often slept through mortar attacks and didn’t bother putting on their body armor after hearing the initial explosions. Usually, after you hear the first few booms, the insurgents who set off those mortars run away, afraid of getting caught, those soldiers said. I couldn’t believe soldiers could treat the attacks so lightly.

Now I know how they feel.

Camp Anaconda here in Balad is nicknamed Mortaritaville and it lived up to its name the other morning. A mortar landed at about 6:30 a.m., shaking the aluminum housing unit I was sleeping in. As a newly minted expert on indirect fire, I listened to the explosion and could tell it was incoming.

Seconds later, a voice echoed from the loudspeakers, telling us to seek cover. But instead of running to get my body armor, this time I stayed in bed for a few minutes. After I heard the announcement saying all was clear, I leisurely rose to start my day.

You know something has changed when incoming fire becomes your new alarm clock.

And, as if this country were a small town, or a New York City block, I keep bumping into people I know.

At Camp Speicher, I ran into a man I knew while growing up in New Jersey. As a teenager I worked as a cashier and waitress at his parents’ restaurant. I think I had a crush on him. Now that guy, Jimmy O’Connor, flies Blackhawks for the New Jersey Air National Guard. Here, so far from home, it was wonderful to see a familiar face.

And the other day I ran into another soldier I knew - one I had just met a couple of weeks before at Camp Warhorse.

I was in the middle of touring the Air Force Theater Hospital in Balad when my escort said one of the patients knew me and wanted to meet with me. The patient had been injured, he said. My heart sunk.

That patient turned out to be Robert Ogura. He was the soldier driving the Humvee that I was a passenger in during a hair-raising convoy ride from Camp Warhorse to Camp Normandy, a ride I had written about in an earlier blog.

He walked up to me groggy, with a huge bandage around his head.

Ogura, who is 22 and from Minnesota, was in the hospital with a head injury. He had been hurt when a car bomb exploded about 50 meters from his Humvee on the road from Warhorse to Normandy.

A suicide bomber had veered into the oncoming lane and Ogura hit his head, just under his helmet, on the gunner’s turret when his driver slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. Ogura was knocked out cold. Now he had a terrible, unrelenting headache and doctors said he had a concussion and a chip in his skull, just above his left eye. But I was so pleased to see that he did not seem to be badly injured.

Robert said that I probably didn’t remember him, but of course I did. How could I forget my first convoy?

"I told you that the road to Normandy was perfectly safe and look how we meet again," he said sheepishly, while squinting and touching his bandage.

I told him that I didn’t believe that road was safe anyway, especially with him driving like a maniac. I laughed.

He said he was actually driving carefully that day because he knew I had been terrified about going on a convoy. He said he also told the gunner not to fire any warning shots at cars that got too close to the convoy, something they usually did.

Then he laughed.

Since that conversation, Ogura’s headaches haven’t gone away and, in an email, he wrote that his doctors fear that his injury may be much worse than first suspected. He said he might have some brain damage. No matter how much time you spend in Iraq, no matter how tolerant you’ve become of the explosions or the weather or the bugs, hearing a young man say that is something you never get used to.

Soldier in Iraq

So I am sure of this: Long after I return home to New York where I know I’ll finally be safe again, I’ll think about Iraq. I’ll wonder where the suicide bombs have exploded, where the roadside bombs have gone off, where the mortars have hit.

Then I’ll remember what nearly everyone says in Iraq when parting, which is, "Stay safe."

And I’ll hope that those soldiers I’ve met make it home safely, too.

SEPT. 2 | 9:10 PM NEW YORK The Dogs of War, and a Plane Home

While I was talking to one of the medics a few days ago at Camp Anaconda, there was a shootout at one of the base’s gates, so Max Becherer, the photographer I’m working with, and I decided to follow that medic to the scene to watch him work.

Once we walked outside the main gate, we passed a number of American and Iraqi soldiers, looking serious as they manned a series of checkpoints leading to the entrance, M-16s and AK-47s in hand. On our left was a holding area where Iraqi day workers waited for clearance to enter the base. Evidently, one man in traditional Arab clothing didn’t pass muster. That man, plastic handcuffs binding his wrist together, shot us a dirty look as an American soldier escorted him into a waiting vehicle. I kept watching him anyway, wanting to see what a real, live bad guy looked like.

After walking for about 100 meters, we were in no-man’s land, with nothing but a chain-link fence on our left and right.

The medic said: "Wow, this is as far away from the main gate as I’ve seen any reporter go."

I felt like a pioneer, so I walked farther out because it seemed safe. Then a series of gunshots rang out. So much for seeing the medic perform his job. Max, obviously much braver than I, continued toward the checkpoint where the injured people were. I race-walked back toward the main gate.

As it turned out, the shootout was between two taxi drivers, which in an odd way reminded me of my Manhattan home. By the time Max got that news, I had already taken refuge next to two bomb dogs, Grommet, a Belgian Malinois (a breed similar to a German Shepherd), and Timer, a German short-haired Pointer. It calmed me down to scratch them behind their ears.

There are bomb-sniffing dogs and attack dogs all over Iraq. Some, like Grommet and Timer, are brought here by civilian contractors. Others, like Jacco, a Belgian Malinois I met at Warhorse, are military working dogs.

Dogs are considered dirty and are rarely kept as pets in Iraq, where insurgents have even strapped bombs on them and shooed them into crowds. But these working dogs are treated like royalty because they are so good at what they do. When they smell explosives, they sit and stare at their handlers. Other times, they work long hours, often in the hot sun, searching vehicles or palm groves or homes for explosives. And in their downtime, as you would expect, they like to chew their toys. (Jacco’s favorite is a red rubber thing that looks like a beehive.)

I met Jacco on one of my first days in Iraq. His handler, Air Force Staff Sergeant James Richey, knocked on the door of the wrong CHU. I opened the door and there was Jacco, tongue hanging out. He immediately walked over to me and leaned his entire body on my legs and licked my ankle. Now that’s love, considering how dusty and grimy ankles can get in Iraq.

One day, months earlier, Jacco worked so hard in such harsh conditions that he needed to be given IV fluids. And last month, he and Sgt. Richey worked for nearly three days straight to provide extra security for the Joint Coordination Center, which houses an Iraqi police station and other government offices, in downtown Baquba. Rumors had cropped up that a suicide bomber was planning to enter the building, so Jacco was sent to monitor people coming into the facility.

No suicide bomber came those days, but one managed to make it into the building about a week later, a day when Jacco wasn't working.

A man blew himself up in one of the JCC’s dining halls, killing two Americans – one soldier and one contractor -- and five Iraqis, and wounding nine others. Even with bomb dogs, soldiers with guns and security guards, this place is never completely safe.

Days after that, in a Balad Air Force theater hospital, I bumped into some of the soldiers wounded that afternoon. One had lost her hearing because the blast was so loud. Another had a huge bruise on his thigh and could barely walk after a concrete wall fell on top of him.

Considering I had met so many injured soldiers in the past month, I walked onto a C-141 military plane that would fly me out of Iraq feeling lucky to be leaving without a scratch. I recalled the words of one of the commanders I met, Lt. Col. Roger Cloutier, who told me this about being embedded with his unit: "We won’t get you killed, if we can help it." I’m glad that they did their job.

On my departure flight, I strapped myself into one of the red webbed seats that lined the plane’s walls and looked out the tiny window as the plane zoomed into the sky over Balad, where planes and helicopters are frequent targets for insurgents. For a moment, I was sure I saw tracer rounds near the plane’s wing and I yelped, but then I realized it was just the plane’s lights. Even after a month at war, I’m still a little jumpy.

After such a rollercoaster of a month, I felt exhausted, still itchy from my flea bites and dirty because even washing your clothes in a washing machine doesn’t seem to get them 100 percent clean. Yet I felt guilty to be leaving.

While I could leave Iraq behind and fly into a safer world, others must stay behind. Like the Iraqi translators I met who risk their lives to work with the Americans. They take on nicknames like Tommy and Sammy and Johnny, and sometimes wear hats, sunglasses and ski masks to try to keep their identities a secret. Or the Army soldiers, most who have several long months left in their deployment, some who go on convoys every day, despite the dangers of roadside bombs all around them. Or the Iraqi civilians who must dodge bullets or tiptoe around I.E.D.'s just to shop for food.

I was surfing the Web today and learned that August was one of the bloodiest months of the Iraq war. While I was there, 81 American soldiers died in country. But the only soldier I knew was killed outside of Iraq.

Staff Sgt. Jeff Rayner -- whom I met at Camp Warhorse while working on a story about the 467th Engineer Battalion, an Army Reserve unit that looks for roadside bombs -- was killed this week in the United States, on Aug. 30, his first day of leave. I had interviewed him and quoted him in a story about the 467th’s soldiers using sports as an outlet for their stress. He was a nice guy, very helpful, courteous and genuine. When I returned to the States, I was supposed to send him the copies of my article about the 467th, so he could distribute them to the soldiers at Warhorse.

But Sgt. Rayner, 27, was stabbed twice in the chest with a switchblade and died during an argument with another man who, police say, had been dating Rayner’s girlfriend.

I read about the incident on the Internet while searching through the archive of war deaths, and called his parents in Tennessee, just to make sure it was the same Jeff Rayner. It was. His sister, Anita, told me that no one but his mother saw him when he arrived home in Nashville on Monday night. He had gone off with some friends to celebrate his return.

So, his sister said, it seemed like he had never returned from Iraq.

It was heartbreaking to hear that he managed to survive the scary job of searching for roadside bombs, but then died at home, where he was supposed to be safe.

It just reminded me how fleeting and uncontrollable life can be.

You could travel in a convoy every day and never be harmed by a roadside bomb, or you could be traveling in your first convoy when the bomb explodes and kills you.

In the end, I suppose, it’s just the luck of the draw.

Maybe Iraqis are right when they always say, "Inshallah," which means, "If God wills it."