In a land where sand is much more plentiful than all the stars in the universe, I am quite miserable. I remember the 3rd day we were here. 126 degrees. It was either 126 outside, or 118 inside the warehouses, and I didn’t know which one was worse because the humidity in the warehouse was just horrible. I couldn’t stop sweating for hours. Now, after a month and a half later, we sleep in air conditioned tents that shake violently against the 20 mph wind. But it’s air conditioned. So I sleep on my cot, quite content I can stop waking up with sweat on my back. But now I have to walk 10 minutes everyday to eat. The post office I work at is 1.5 miles away, and tht takes at least 20 minutes. And all the while the sand blows in your face and I keep my fingernail long to get them out of my ears. It just turns into mud during a shower and Q tips push them in. All that and I’m just a postman. I wonder what they are going through, the rest of us in Iraq. And I am doing everything within my power to find out.
Sometimes I wonder. There are 150,000 people here. Do people realize what it’s like here? Do they remember us at all? Or are we just something to talk about with relatives ad friends? Oh, I know a guy serving in Iraq. Oh yeah? I know two. Are we memories of those that remember us for the sake of remembering? I didn’t tell anyone other than those I wanted to know because of that reason. I was afraid that I was going to become a martyr, nothing more than a subject in a 2 minute conversation. I hate being here, but what bothers me more is that people without genuine interest in my well being have made this war and me into something they know more about than the person next to them.
It’s miserable here. I never thought sand could hurt, but it really does at 20 mph on your face as you’re walking. I never thought I would forget the color green but it’s now an illusive memory. I never thought a lot of things, but this deployment changed a lot of things. I haven’t seen Iraq yet, but I’ll make my way eventually. But I’ve seen what’s left of it. The stripped humvees, the trucks riddles with bullet holes, the men mounting 50 cal, another truck blow to bits by a single RPG. Then there’s the columns of idle tanks, hundreds of them, lying in the sand. A few of them are not serviceable and will probably get blown up. The helicopters launch themselves during the night, another run to Iraq. And there’s the distant hum of a C-130 in the air. Can’t make it out but its probably guarding a convoy. And everyday an entourage of soldiers make it into the warehouses we once called home, tired, restless, wondering where the past 8 months went, wondering when they will go home. Few of them will find out they will go to Afghanistan afterwards. Others have already been there. It’s been 18 for them. Me, I’m barely starting my 7.
Do people know soldiers here die everday Or are we just simply numbers to them? 1 here, 2 there? Does it sound like it’s not that bad? Surely it isn’t when the people we ‘liberated’ want Saddam back. At least with him, they say, we had power, water, jobs. Now, everyone’s shooting at us, and we dont’ even know why they don’t know. And a comrade stops by, accompanying a buddy home, in a casket. Is it worth it? Do people know about our sacrifice? Or is it something they like to say to themselves now, I once knew someone and he left for Iraq.