1st Lt Prifogle’s Blog

It’s easy to forget.  Forget why you are here.  Forget what you left behind.  Forget what left you behind.  It’s also easy to forget that you are here.  Here – in Iraq.  Habits, both good and bad, become routines and routines become a way of life.  Things that not too long ago felt like movements and sights from a movie are now daily routines that are involuntary movements – waking up and reaching for my pistol, brushing my teeth with a bottle of water, clearing my weapon before going into the chow hall, screaming “kill!” after every repetition in conditioning drills during MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program), saying ‘kill’ when passing by another Marine or as a response to ‘good morning ma’am,’ living in my office because there is nowhere else to go except the gym or running.  It’s normal to see the same people everyday and before they say one word know their mood and the kind of day they are having just from their expressions and body language.  It’s normal to anxiously wait for 1400 everyday to check on the mail hoping that somewhere someone is thinking about you and wrote you a letter to tell you why.  It’s normal to work out 3 or four times a day just to get away from it all and physically exhaust yourself so you don’t think about where you are or why you’re here.  Exhaust yourself to the point where all you can do is eat, work and sleep.  Thinking is no longer an option. 

        It’s easy to forget you are in Iraq.  In case you have never been on a military base (I had not until I checked into Officer Candidate School, OCS) let me explain a few things.  It is a self contained city.  It’s like villages in medieval times completely surrounded by a wall or moat.  Al Asad isn’t much different – if you walk out of our supply compound less than a block away is the main strip of base.  You have the Coffee Bean; it’s not Starbucks, but they do have MOAC or Mother of All Coffee.  There’s a Subway in the same building which also has the base theater which shows nightly movies.  Next to that is an area of trailers with shops set up.  You can get Turkish jewelry, a new car or motorcycle, rugs, anything you can design can be embroidered on anything you can bring in, and hookahs.  There is a Pizza hut and Burger King for take out and a large picnic area to dine in.  Next to that is the PX, a store with a little of everything except common sense items (for example I can buy eye make up remover but not face moisturizer).  They stock snack food, flags, cards, magazines, electronics, etc.  Next is the gym.  The gym looks like a giant converted warehouse.  There is an upper level that has the cardio machines and the main deck is the weight equipment.   

There’s also a fire station, the flightline, an Iraqi Shopping Center where you can buy “Jewelery”.  There are hair salons, the MP (Military Police) compound, tent cities that serve as temporary barracks and can cities that are permanent barracks.  The Iraqi Army has its own guarded camp and there are can cities where local contractors and vendors live.  There are camps within base for different units –  Camp Ripper, Camp Firebird, etc.  Really just about anything including a swimming pool and soccer stadium (urban legend is that this is the soccer stadium where Saddam’s son executed the soccer team that lost the world cup) is here.  There’s an oasis of palm trees that supposedly grew naturally in straight, even lines.  Legend is Moses or baby Jesus, or some other biblical character walked through the oasis.  This is my home.  This is my prison.  Everything you need – Thursday is karaoke night, Friday is hip-hop, Saturday Salsa, Sunday Swing – everything except space and freedom. 

Your body and mind can get used to anything.  Stockholm Syndrome is an example of that.  I’ve gotten used to Al Asad.  Seeing civilians on motorcycles is normal.  Seeing the same exact people every day is normal.  Working out 4 times a day is normal.  My mind and body has gotten used to it like its getting used to the rising temperature already over 100ºF.  This is all now normal.  So, it’s easy to wake up and go to work and go to meetings and training and not once think I’m in Iraq.  I carry a weapon everywhere I go.  I’m in a combat zone.   It’s easier yet to forget what “normal” used to be.  What it feels like to drive my bug, drive to the beach and run in the soft sand.  I forget what it’s like to hug someone, to kiss someone, to . . . All the things that used to be normal are a distant memory now.  Has it been four months or four years?  It all blurs together into one long Wednesday. 

        And then something happens.  You get an email about a memorial service for a fallen Marine.  Your internet and phone goes down on Mother’s Day because you are now in Rivercity.  Everyone’s first instinct is “Oh no, I need to call my family.” Then you realize a mother somewhere is facing the hardest day of her life today.  Another email is sent announcing a 21 gun salute for a fallen soldier – 19 years old.  These are the moments when you remember you are at war.  The times when you remember the husband, wife, mother, father, brothers, sisters, friends. . . all the things you left behind.  This is when you pray that they didn’t leave you behind, but know their life went on without you.

I left my life on pause.  My things boxed up in a shed and scattered at friends’ houses; a now an ex-boyfriend’s garage.  I think secretly this was my way of saying “I’m coming home.”  I left it on pause so I could come home and pick up the remote and unpause it.  Start life right where I left it; but, I know better.  I know that’s not how life goes.  Life goes on without me.  Children grow, earthquakes rumble, people die, people get married, babies are born.  None of it stops because I’m gone.  Someone came in and unpaused it all without me.  Life as I knew it moved on. 

It’s easy to forget.  Forget why I’m here.  Forget the dangers all around me.  Forget that my daily routines that are a way of life were strange and awkward not too long ago.  I forget what it’s like to pick up a cell phone and hit a button and call anyone I want, what it’s like to drive my car.  I forget the feeling of freedom at the end of the day – taking my hair down throwing on a favorite pair of jeans, strappy sandals and going out with girlfriends.  It’s easy to forget, but I hold on to the little things – a letter from my nephew, picture of my sisters and niece at an Irish dance feis, a video from home on Christmas morning, a daily email from Jill.  I hold on and remember what I have to go home to, remember what I left behind.  I remember that the things that truly matter will still be there.  The children will be an inch or two taller, but they will still be my Teed bug and Lady bug.  I will go back and get used to the way things are and soon enough this will all seem like a weird dream from another life.  

“You married or single?” Ali asks me bluntly. I am in Iraq wearing a flak jacket and Kevlar helmet and do not feel feminine at all. I am not surprised when I am greeted as “sir” in all my gear so this question takes me off guard. I have just introduced myself to Ali, an Iraqi contractor from Baghdad.

“What?”

“Are you married? With husband? Or single.” He asks pointing at the gold Claddagh ring I wear on my left hand.

“Oh, I’m single,” I reply and immediately add, “I have a boyfriend.” This is a lie. I bought the ring in the Shannon Ireland Airport on our trip, to Al Asad Airbase, Iraq.

“Are all American women as beautiful as you are?” He asks leaning close to me and making me extremely uncomfortable.

“Yeah. I’m pretty average.” I answer and start to walk a little further away.

Ali and three other men from Baghdad have driven across the desert to deliver 6 pick-up trucks, 2 SUV’s and 2 vans for a six month lease. US Military contracts are using Iraqi companies more frequently in accordance with the Iraq First Project, in order to rebuild the Iraq economy. This is my first contract and while I see Iraqi Soldiers around base, my interaction with them is very limited.

“In Iraq the culture is different. The women stay home. Make babies. You make babies after Army, No?”

He’s already asked where I went to school, what for, why I joined the Marines, and how much various items cost in America. We are waiting for the other men to get badges from PMO (Provost Marshal’s Office). After all the questions he’s asked, “you make babies?” takes me off guard.

“No. I don’t make babies,” I tell him.

“But you have boyfriend. You make sex with boyfriend?” He asks looking up to me. He is shorter than I am (at 5’ 11” this is normal), wearing dress slacks and a striped collared dress shirt. He looks like an average businessman. In America this question would be sexual harassment, but I’m not in America and we are both simply learning about one another’s culture.

“Do you have more than one wife?” I boldly ask to divert the question I don’t

want to answer about my sex life (or lack thereof).

“I have one wife and a young friend. Do you marry boyfriend and make babies

and cook? That’s what my wife does. She takes care of the children and house.” He asks, putting the spotlight back on me.

“I don’t want babies. I don’t want to get married either.” I say firmly.

“Why not? You make good wife, no?”

“No, I can’t cook and I don’t want babies. I’d make a terrible wife.” I answer smiling. I feel less threatened by this man and he stands back, respecting my personal space.

In order to be on base these contractors must have a background check. This is done using a retinal scan because many of the contracted workers have worn off their fingertips. They also must haven a military escort. The Major and Sergeant who are also escorting the men are more cautious, walking with their hands on their weapons and watching the men closely. I figure the men have been searched and checked by the military police and the only threat they pose to me is asking questions about making sex with boyfriend.

We climb back in the caravan of vehicles and drive to the flight line in a slow procession. I wonder if I am naïve or if these men really are a threat. This is their country and they are prisoners of this war being treated as though they are all insurgents. These are men trying to put food on the table. Then again over 4000 servicemen and women have died in this war.

We arrive at an area suitable for unloading and pull over. As his men offload the vehicles Ali approaches me again.              “So, if your boyfriend says I love you?” He holds out his hand signaling my response.

“If I love him, I’d say ‘I love you too’,” I say.

“And if he says ‘I want to marry you’?” He asks.

“I’d say no and then leave.” I say, matter of factly.

“What!” Ali looks as shocked as I felt when he asked ‘you make sex with boyfriend.’

“I don’t want to get married so I’m not going to,” I explain bluntly.

“But you love him,” Ali says, trying to figure out why I wouldn’t marry a man I love.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry him.” I squint in the sun. Even with $160 Oakley sunglasses, it burns my eyes. I wonder how strange this must be to him. A woman in the Marines who refuses to marry and make babies and is signing a $125,000 contract. One of his drivers starts the SUV and inserts a cassette tape. An Arabic song starts blaring.

“This song is about a man who is chasing his lover. ‘Habibi’ do you hear that – it means my love. She is leaving with another man and he is saying ‘come back to me my love.’” I listen to words I don’t comprehend about a culture and a place I don’t identify with. “You really not want to marry?”
I laugh. “No. Really, I don’t want to marry. I’d say no.”

“In my culture if the woman does not answer the question it means yes.”

“So, I’d definitely have to say “No”.” We both laugh as the sun slowly starts to set over the bleak desert landscape.

The Major recruits a couple Marines to test all the cars engines, lights, radios and VINs of the vehicles, as I sign the paperwork and shake his hand to acknowledge the business agreement. I forget that in Iraq they do not shake firm, but barely grasp the hand. I doubt after our conversation that he is offended by my American-ness. This is his country, his culture and I respect that, but Ali also respects that I’m American and my culture is different.

We caravan back to the gate and the contractors prepare to leave. The Major and I get out to say goodbye. Ali shakes the Major’s hand, “nice doing business with you.” Then he takes my hand and winks, “don’t forget me and what I said.” I smile and wave at the drivers, all smiling and staring at me from the cab. I jump back into our truck. How could I forget this man? The Major drives back through the gate and onto base as the setting sun lights up the sky like a plate of melted crayons – orange into yellow into pink into lavender into blue into desert.

            Why run?  It’s a question normal people always ask runners.  To most people it seems insane that anyone would wake up at 5 in the morning to go run 11.5 miles, but to a runner not running seems insane.  To a runner, running is as essential as breathing and eating.

            Unlike football or basketball running is a natural movement.  We learn how to walk when we are around 1 year old.  My mother loves to tell the story that I took off running when I was 9 months old chasing my older siblings and never stopped.  After we learn to walk, we learn to run.  The movement itself is simple, one foot in front of the other.  This is my mantra during marathons, ‘one foot in front of the other.  One step closer to the finish line.  One foot in front of the other. . .’  for 26.2 miles.  So, why do I run?  Simple, I have to run and I never stopped. 

            Marines feel the same way about taking on a challenge as runners do about running – it’s essential.  The challenges can be something as silly as drinking an entire gallon of milk in one hour or as basic as a pull up competition.  At the beginning of the deployment the XO challenged everyone in the command to run 11.5 miles on 5.11.  He sent out a training schedule starting at 3 miles and building up to 11 miles.  On Sunday May 5, twenty-one Marines of MAG-16 took on the XO’s challenge. 

            At 0500 runners start gathering outside the barracks near the starting line to stretch and nervously talk about what pace each one expected to keep.  When you run a race it’s good to find someone who runs your pace so you can keep each other on track.  At 0530 the runners assemble at the starting line and wait for the signal.  “On your mark.  Get set. GO!”

And we’re off.

            The run route goes from the barracks through the main side of base.  We run by the PX, Coffee Bean coffee shop, the main gym, past bus stops and groups of men and women (both civilians and military personnel) who clear the path as we plow through the streets of Al Asad like a herd of wild horses.  The route goes up to the flight line, passing Ugandan guards at the first checkpoint.  Everyone yells “Jambo,” a Swahili greeting, and flash our ID’s as we pass.  One mile down, 10.5 to go. 

            At 0545 in the morning the flight line is quiet.  The bustling activity of the day past and the day to come settles down for a few hours of recuperation.  We run along the empty road as the sun rises over the flat horizon.  For a runner an endless, empty road and wide horizon with a rising sun is heaven.  As the ‘runner’s high’ kicks in you feel like you can run forever and as you look over the stretch of land you know that you really could run forever.  When the high wears off and you turn the corner from the flight line back to mainside the dream about running forever is over and you realize 6 more miles is enough. 

            At the end of the flight line there is another guard shack.  We pass yelling, “jambo” as the guards wave and cheer us on.  After the gate it is downhill.  The best part of running uphill is knowing eventually you get to run downhill.  Running downhill is the closest thing man can get to flying like a bird.  The earth slopes downward beneath you and your limbs leap through the air.  The ground falls further away and each gallop feels like you are really going to take off this time.  At the bottom of the hill is one of the chowhalls.  Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, Airmen, civilians, and foreign contractors watch as they walk to their Sunday breakfast.  We run by the chowhall back to the starting point.  Halfway.  Repeat it all one more time and you’re done.   Mentally there are a few ways to look at this. 

The defeated – oh my god I have to do that all over again. 

The competitors – ok, I have to speed up and gain some time. 

The enthusiast – halfway done?!  I could run forever today, its perfect weather. 

The challengers – ok halfway done.  Just one more loop and I’ve done it! 

            I change between each perspective with each step depending on how many endorphins are surging through my body. 

            All 21 runners that started – finished.  First place for the males was Gunnery Sergeant Cortez Brown with a time of 1:16:03.  First place for the females was Private Kari Frampton at 1:31:05.  These two winners represent exactly what it means to be a Marine – setting a goal and pushing yourself to win.  All twenty-one runners took on the 11.5 on 5.11 challenge and pushed themselves to finish it under 2 hours! 

On behalf of all the runners –

Volunteers, thank you for your outstanding support (water, Gatorade, motrin, moral support) we couldn’t have done it without you.  XO, thanks for challenging us to push ourselves to reach a goal.  And finally, Runners.  Great job.  Next, 26.2, right?

It’s less than a month until the XO’s challenge 11.5 on 5-11. Slowly and gradually CWO Colter and I have worked up to 9 miles on our long Sunday morning runs (5 miles on our weekday runs). In the mornings the base is quiet, peaceful, awaiting the day to come. We run on our ledge at the end of the world (or at least the base) at 0600 and there is hardly ever traffic. An occasional HMMWV or standard white, pick-up truck will drive by and blow up a cloud of dust that is finer than regular sand, we call it ‘moon dust,’ making it difficult to breathe. As Marines or civilian contractors drive by they stare at us wondering what we are doing and we stare back wondering the same thing. We pass the same guards-shacks every time and wave at the Marines sitting duty. Every once in a while we will pass another runner and nod our heads at one another in a silent recognition. I always think good thoughts to them, wishing that the wind is at their backs and the flies are kept down during their run. I like to think they are wishing the same good thoughts back as we pass for an instant.

Recently, there has been an increase of the Iraqi military on the base. In the world of Supply we bid contracts to Iraqi companies as part of the Iraqi First Project. In the chow hall they sit with the Marines that train them or by themselves. The Iraqi’s have a camp on base separated by guards and fences like many other areas of base. They do not drive on the main roads of the base, instead they convoy across the dirt road that runs the perimeter – our running road. Lately, there have been an increase of convoys that drive by in the morning. They drive the same HMMWVs that American forces do except there is an Iraqi flag painted on the side doors. They drive military trucks with Iraqi soldiers sitting in the back – American forces would not permit this safety hazard. They drive by in their dark green camouflage uniforms and stare at us as we stare at them veering away from the road and the dust. As they pass I take a mental picture of the sight. Some of the soldiers look like mere boys. Young and clean cut, learning to fire weapons and train with the US Marines. I wonder why they joined the Iraqi Army. I wonder about the towns and families they left behind. I wonder if it brought pride to their families or if it was a bold move of defiance. Another truck drives by and the soldiers are sitting on the edge of the overflowing truck-bed. It is a picture that looks like it could be in National Geographic or Newsweek with a headline that reads “Rebuilding Iraq”. Some of the trucks drive by and the soldiers yell. I can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but the infliction in their voice and the leering stares reminds me of construction site cat calls back in the states. I stare back. I don’t avert my eyes. I don’t change the determined look on my face – I just stare. It doesn’t alarm me to see them. I’m surprised at the fact that I don’t feel a threat of danger. Instead it is just a sense of wonder.

This piece is a joint effort for our Commanding Officer’s monthly family newsletter.  My Marines, LCpl Shivers and LCpl Curlee helped write this piece.  I think it’s rather amusing so I thought I’d post so everyone can see the lighter side of life out here.  Kill.

Happy Birthday

On a deployment units become like family.  We work together.  We live together.  We eat together.  We learn each other’s button’s to push or not to push.  We learn the names of each other’s children and spouses.  We also learn to read each other’s facial expressions and the tone in each other’s voices.  Also on deployment Marines tend to find ways to embarrass each other – as in any group of people forced to spend so much time together.

The daily grind can be grueling after a few months in Iraq, but there are occasions to be celebrated here – Easter, wedding anniversaries, birthdays back home and of course birthdays out here.  In Supply, Corporal Marold celebrated his 21^st birthday here in Al Asad.  As a shop we took him to the chow-hall in order to celebrate with family dinner, cake and ice cream.

At a large table at the chow hall the Supply Marines sit together talking and laughing.  As soon as Corporal Marold gets up to get his birthday treat there are immediate whispers.  “Let’s sing him Happy Birthday when he gets back.  Really embarrass him.”  1^st Lt Prifogle says to the table.

“Are we allowed to Ma’am?”  Lance Corporal Shivers asks?

The Ma’am ensures that we’ll be allowed to and she’ll take the beating if anyone says anything and soon enough Corporal Marold walks back over to the table with his ice cream.

“Ready,” Staff Sergeant Sharpe announces to the table.  As she does Lance Corporal Shivers takes an enormous breath with his entire body and prepares to sing with bravado.

“HAPPY BIRTH…” Lance Corporal Shivers belts out louder than anyone else at the table.

“STOP!”  Staff Sergeant Sharpe yells like a drill instructor interrupting a church choir, drawing attention to our table.  “Not that loud, geez!”

Corporal Butler explodes with laughter! After a moment he tries to regain self control but, the best he can do is kick the table softly while smothering his mouth to cover up his girlish snickers.  Priceless.

We continue the song, much quieter this time, receiving even more looks now that we had caused such a commotion.  “Happy birthday Corporal Marold. . .”

Corporal Marold laughs and inevitably turns red.  Lance Corporal Shiver sits with his shoulders slumped down like someone just blew out his birthday candles.

“Shivers, what is wrong?”  The Ma’am asks.

“I just really like the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, Ma’am.”  We all laugh and enjoy our ice cream and cake.

At the end of the table Corporal Butler is still laughing at the whole incident.  He starts to choke on some food and after we realize he is okay – we laugh once again at the shenanigans of the evening.

Everything seems more dramatic in the desert.  Perhaps because the monotony of the days or perhaps the monotony of being around the same people; whatever the reason simple things like singing happy birthday in the chow hall or Corporal Butler’s laugh becomes more and more hysterical after time.  We celebrate, we live, we do the best we can with what we have.  Happy Birthday Corporal Marold.

Oorah Wife- LCpl Shivers
Semper Fi Mom - LCpl Curlee

            “Captain White.”

            “Present.”

            “Major Thompson.”

            “Present.”

            “Lieutenant Colonel Maddox.”

            “Present.”

            “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”

Silence.

            “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  The voice echoes through the silence of the Memorial Chapel.

            Silence.

             “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  Now, with an annoyance in each syllable like the sound of a teachers voice calling for a child skipping class.

            Silence.

 “Lieutenant Colonel Walls.”  The voice from the back of the sanctuary announces the name one last time and I can hear tears coming through the Sergeant Major sounding off roll call.  Breaking the somber silence a solo bugle player belts out the notes in Taps as we stare at the fallen Marine’s picture, a pair of boots, an M16 propped up with his Kevlar on top and his flak jacket with his subdued field rank displayed on the chest.  The scene is something out of a movie, only it’s real.  This is all too real for me

            I did not know this man.  This Marine.  This Father.  This son.  This Husband.  This Friend.  But now I am at his memorial.  I wanted to pay my respects to a fellow Marine killed by a roadside bomb. 

            For a moment I think that I came to the memorial for the wrong reasons, or maybe just my own reasons.  I came because I wanted to feel something.  Pain or sorrow or sympathy – anything but a growing disdain for this war.  Anything but this nagging oncoming of nothingness.  This apathy towards life. 

I listen to the words of those who worked with him.

            “Being a Marine, a leader, wasn’t just a job – it was a way of life.”  I can’t help but internalize the words of these strangers.  I zone out as I picture my own memorial.  I try to imagine what people would say about me.

            “He is survived by his wife and four children.”  The chaplain announces to the somber room.  Nobody would survive me.  I don’t have a husband or family of my own.  Would that make it easier for a room for of strangers to accept my passing if something were to happen?  “She’s survived by her parents, and four siblings.” 

            I came here to remember what its like to be sad.  To feel something other then self-pity for my still being here ordering things that are more comfort related items than anything that can be contributed to the war efforts.  I came here to be reminded that I am in a war.  People are dying here.  I came here to feel – I’ve forgotten anything other then anger, frustration, exhaustion.  I forget what it’s like to not be here.

            The memorial ends with a photo slide of this man and his children, his Marines, his wife.  I fight the urge to cry.  I ask myself – why are you here?  At this memorial?  In this country?  In this war?  None of it makes any sense anymore. 

All the emotions that I had forgotten about flood my body and for a moment time stops.  I look at this man’s picture one more time.  I think about his family and the funeral they are attending on the other side of the world.  I think of their children and how they will never know their father.  I think of a woman who just lost the man she loves to war.  I think life isn’t fair, but for this man at least the suffering is over.   

*Names have been changed.

Let me tell you about the sky. It is perhaps my favorite part about being here. You have to picture yourself at home. Just sitting and drinking a cup of coffee – early, long before anyone else is awake. Now, imagine someone putting a giant bowl over you and everything you can see. Now, flatten out everything around you. Take down the tall buildings or mountains. Fill in any lake or ocean with sand. Look around you. There is nothing but endless sky. The color can vary. It can change as you look from one side of the bowl to the other.

Right now in Al Asad, Iraq it is 6:30 in the morning. The sun has been up for at least half an hour. In the morning light to the east the sky is a pale, dirty- white color. There is some light, but it looks like a dirty kitchen counter. Right above me it looks like the sand just picked up and filled the sky. It is a grey-brown color. I can feel the moister and tension in the air as the precipitation delicately decides where to go. It’s as if the band is warming up at a ballroom and the rain doesn’t know whom it wants to ask to dance – this piece of land or that? I see its decision on my computer screen and move into the doorway. I look to the west and instead of seeing a rainbow, which I might be able to see in San Diego or Indiana, I see a ribbon of blue sky rising up from the ground. You can feel the triumph and defeat as the rain fights to land on the ground in front of me before it gets pushed away. Immediately after landing, the dark specks on the ground start to disappear and the sky above me turns a cotton candy shade of blue. Birds start to come down from the trees and look for food. The threat of rain has passed. The smell of wet dirt lingers in the air for a few minutes; the wind picks up and takes the scent with it. All evidence of the morning sprinkle fades as buses start to drive down the road in the distance. There are a few bikers and trucks on their way to work now as the day begins just like every other day.

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee drifts out towards where I am sitting. I don’t move. I take a few minutes to take it all in. I woke up over two hours ago from a pleasant dream. It wasn’t until I walked outside in the dark and looked up to the sky and saw every single star in the galaxy that I remembered, “I’m in Iraq.” It wasn’t until I felt the rain on my hands as I typed that I remembered, “I’m in a desert.” It wasn’t until just now, writing this that I remembered how beautiful the sky is.

I’m sitting outside. It’s 0924 AM on my computer – California time. That means it’s 1924 (7:24 PM) here. I am sitting outside trying to get a connection to the wireless Internet. The cool air blows my hair in my face. I always let my hair down at night. Try to remember what it is like to be a woman. Two Marines or Soldiers (can’t tell in the dark) ride by on bikes.

“Hey are you going to call up and see if there’s mail?” I don’t hear a response over the generators in the back of the building. That is the soundtrack of the evening. I hear occasional footsteps of people coming and going out the gate and to the shower-house, but otherwise it’s a rather quiet out.

Quiet except, I am restless. A combination of loneliness, caffeine, exhaustion, sadness, adrenaline, sleep deprivation – all of it.

Another HMWVV pulls out to go on a convoy.

I remember that tomorrow is a memorial service for Major that was KIA. I remember in the calmness I am in a combat zone. This is easy to forget. Like all things daily chores become habits – clearing a weapon on the way into the chow hall, wearing a flak and Kevlar from the barracks to the office, running with a knife on me, practicing IDF (indirect fire) drills, all of it seems normal. Waking up in Iraq seems normal anymore.

More friends I have made out here are going home. This makes me sad. I am at the halfway point. This makes me sad. I can count down the days but I can’t count anything I feel I have done that will make a positive influence on anything. This makes me sad.

Another truck drives by and another. I wonder when my friend, Achilles, is going to stop by after chow. I don’t want him to know I’ve been crying, but I want a hug. I need to feel the warmth of another human being. Need to feel my own warmth against someone else.

I think this must be the breaking point. I have no emotions, but I can’t stop crying. I try to hide it because I’m a Marine. I should be tough. I don’t need to prove I’m tough to myself anymore – so I cry when nobody is looking. I can’t think of any one thing making me sad.

I have lived abroad before. I have been far away from everything familiar. In some ways being on an American base is more like being home then living abroad.

One of my Marines walk by, “Ma’am what are you doing outside?”

“Just enjoying the air and internet.”

“Oh, seems funny seeing you out here. We’re watching a movie if you want to join us.”

“Okay, I might. I’m just relaxing right now.”

He walks away. I am left alone again.

I don’t want to be here. I want to be as far away as I can possibly get from this place. This base. This desert. This building. This everything. I want to run until there is no desert left. No war. Nothing. I can’t think of anywhere I want to be though. I don’t want to be home. Don’t want to go to California. I don’t know what I want.

A group of Marines walk by. I count seven. I hear them before I see them. They don’t see me hiding in the dark. I watch as they walk in front of a floodlight on top of the barracks. Their bodies are silhouetted in the light. I can see the outlines of their rifles hanging from the sling on their body. I think again – you are in a combat zone. The temperature drops as another HMWVV drives by. The flood of emotions from the day wreck into my body and I think, you can probably fall asleep now.

I wake up. I barely open my eyes and the light in the room burns my eyes. I rub my eyes and hope I am not getting another eye infection from wearing my contacts while sleeping. I don’t think I could explain more scar tissue on my eyes to a doctor. My eyes burn and I rub them as tears roll down my cheeks rewetting the lenses on my eyes.

Where am I? I wonder before opening my eyes again. I’m not at home with Megan and Mom – that must have been a dream. Yes, that was just a dream. I let myself go back to sleep for a split second. Maybe going back and ending the dream will stop the confusion. Then it hits me. Not like the proverbial truck, more like when you cut yourself shaving and don’t notice until the hot water burns the spot where there is no longer any skin. More irritating than anything else. I’m still in Iraq – and I suddenly wish it was a real truck hitting. I try desperately to go back to the hazy lucid dream I was just in. I knew it was a dream in my dream, which made me enjoy it even more. I suddenly remember standing on the ruins of an ancient civilization in my dream. I imagine the ruins my subconscious created in my mind. I try so hard to go back into the REM sleep but my body is done resting now. I look at the clock it’s only 1130. I came back to my room an hour ago. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t even remember lying down. I take note that I need to start taking better care of my body.

I am pissed. I don’t want to go back to work. I don’t want to go to chow. Paralyzed is maybe a better word. I try to tell my body to move. I try to force neurons from my brain to my limbs, but nothing happens. I think of Dave, my friend and co-worker, who said in the last meeting our department had (this one disguised as a ‘leadership forum’), “There are plenty of reasons to be pissed off out here. Hell just being here is enough to piss someone off.” I think about this for a minute. Yeah I’m pissed off . . . just being here.

I don’t move. I can’t move. My body isn’t responding to anything but the increasing rage. Why am I even here? I ask myself.

This is trouble. When you get to this point it’s like asking the meaning of life to a rock. The rock doesn’t seek meaning, it just seeks existence.

I think about my Marines. I could have been murdered and they would just continue doing their jobs assuming I’m doing something somewhere that’s keeping me out of the office. They would cover the phone calls, “Sir, she’s PTing. Can I take a message?” Or “She’s out at the flight line right now.” Or “She’s not in. . .” They are great at taking messages, even if I’m sitting at my desk.

I try to pinpoint my anger. Am I pissed because something woke me up? It was such a pleasant dream. Am I pissed every time I wake up because there’s never enough sleep? Am I pissed because the temperature is rising and the sun is getting brighter everyday? Is it because Allen broke up with me? The first sign that life goes on without me. Now I have to deal with a broken heart in Iraq.

I don’t know why, but it seems every morning I get angrier. The opposite of the day – my temper gets shorter as the days get longer.
I let the temporary paralysis take over my mind and body. I feel like crying and screaming simultaneously, but my brain doesn’t send these neurons either.

Suddenly out of the 2,370 songs on my IPOD a Bob Dylan song randomly plays. Music has a magical ability to take me to the last place I was when I heard that song.

This was the song I was listening to on my way to PT at Ground Supply school. I was living in Wilmington, North Carolina at least 45 min away (more if you drive the speed limit). It was one of those perfect summer mornings where the sun was still on its way up and the dew lay thick in the air making each breath stick to your lungs like swallowed bubble gum. I had my windows down and I was driving in my bug. It was a split highway and at 0430 all four lanes were empty. I was listening to a movie soundtrack and this song came on and with my windows down, and the sunroof open I was enjoying the freedom of life – the freedom of being late and not caring, the freedom of driving along an empty highway, the freedom of being in control of my life. Not even halfway through the song I saw lights flashing in my mirrors. I looked down as I let off the gas and noticed I was now going 76 in a 55. In an instant all that freedom was replaced with a rule I had broke.

I got a speeding ticket that morning and ended up late to PT. Our Captain was singing cadences on our run and sang the ‘Cops’ theme song only inserted my name in the cadence.

I laugh as I listen to the harmonica play out of my computer. I remember the freedom of driving on the endless highway that morning. I remember the freedom of falling in love that summer. I remember the freedom of the endless possibilities life had for me.

The song ends and I remember I’m in Iraq. As the memory fades I think to myself, I was probably pissed off that morning too. It was a pt (physical training) morning, which meant I had to wake up and leave Mark in the warm bed at 4 A.M.

My dad used to tell me, “You have a choice. You can choose to be mad, or upset, or pissed off or you can choose to be happy, and not to let things bother you.” I don’t remember what I was mad at the day he told me this, but I remember it made me even more upset to hear him say that because I can’t control my emotions. I am controlled by my emotions. A prisoner of myself.

He’s right. I can be pissed off all day. Or I can make the best of this. It’ll be over soon enough and like life I will one day wish I had made the best of it. I try to pep talk myself into getting out of bed. It doesn’t work. My body doesn’t respond to my mind. Ok, Libby you HAVE to go to work. I roll over and fight back tears. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be like this. I want to go home. But where is home? I don’t want to go home. I want to go on an adventure. I want life to take over. I don’t even know what I want.

I get up and cross the street. “Good afternoon, Ma’am.” Two of my Marines sit working away. I just look at them and finally respond. “Good afternoon, what all have I missed this morning?” They fill me in on who called, what they are working on, etc. etc.

I am constantly amazed by their attitudes. They always act happy to be here. They are all making more money then they ever made. They are all 19 to 22 years old. They have made it out of their hometowns with something to write home about. I envy their naivety. I envy their attitudes. I know within the hour just being around them my attitude will change. Yes, I can be pissed. Dave’s right. There is enough to be pissed off about out here. Dad’s also right – it’s a choice.

Perspective.

I sit in my office on another Al Asad morning. My Marines are still asleep. The office is quiet for a change, but I know it’s only a matter of a few hours before Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, civilians, just about anyone you can imagine on this base coming or going through our warehouse-office door. I sit and remember I am at war. Then I remember how many of the folks coming through the door are coming just to chat or bring us crack-in-a-can known as Rip Its and Shock Coffee Triple Lattes. I think of all the Marines who we support who don’t come by to ask for anything, just come by to say hello and escape from their jobs for a few minutes and I smile. I enjoy the company the day will bring.

In the early morning I look over the pictures on my computer and on my wall. I miss my family. Rebecca, My Bug, my Paige. I miss the sound of children – the universal sound of hope, beauty, and innocence. I get to work and get distracted before I even start. I open up internet explorer – the biggest time stealer in the world. I need an address so it’s a legitimate query this time. I type in the words “Ould Sod” and the search engine brings ups pages about the local pub back in San Diego. I write the address down and think to myself, it’s already 5:30 I really need to get some work started. I’ve already wasted an hour just waking up. I don’t get to work. I hit the ‘view photos’ link on the page. I look at old pictures of Mick and Tony with funny haircuts and other patrons who have celebrated deaths and births and passing time with a pint of Guinness in hand. It’s more then just a pub it’s a family. I find my girlfriends in the pictures. Bloomsday 2007 pub-crawl. I remember that day. I was fighting with my friend Lisa and she randomly text’d me. Her drunken gibberish forced us to talk again and make up. I remember Jill calling while I was in LA. I laughed at her babbling and listened to her stories of how much fun it was. I was stuck in traffic driving back to my friend’s house after a long day of classes. It was Saturday. I remember being pissed off because I was stuck in traffic and not there having one last pint.

I know the feeling of missing it. Always, missing it. At home I miss dance recitals, piano recitals, birthdays, holidays. With my friends I miss pub crawls, weddings, birthdays, deaths. I go through other picture Albums “The Ould Sod goes to Petco Park,” “Bloomsday 2005” and earlier pictures. I try to remember where I was in June 2005 – Officer Candidate School. I had no idea my life would lead me to a pub in San Diego and then to war to miss it. I look at older pictures on the site. The faces are the same – younger and thinner, but the same jovial smiles. I wonder where I’ll be in another three years. Maybe in San Diego, maybe not. This is the longest I’ve lived in one place since I left home at 18. It’s always been six months here onto the next adventure. Six months there moving again. I’m now 26 years old and still have no desire to stay in one place. I start to think about the friends I made in Scotland. I remember how terrified I was of moving there for six months. I left with a blank passport and two full suitcases and came back with a desire to never ‘settle’. I still keep in touch with my friends although now time has separated us more than distance. I look at my cork board with pictures of my friends from New York City, school, home, San Diego. I miss them all in a way that I hope they are doing what they love at this very moment. I hope when they think of me they don’t worry, but assume I’m having one hell of an adventure. That’s what I think of when I think about them. They must be doing what they love and it keeps them too occupied to keep in touch with me. It’s better to think this way.

I try to get to work again and realize I haven’t emailed Jill in a day and a half. I don’t email my mother but once every few weeks, but Jill keeps me updated on the lives and times of everyone in San Diego and I feel like I’m still a part of it – like I haven’t fallen into the black abyss of deployment – so we write almost everyday.

I write Jill and get back to work. Not too long after I get my focus back my Staff Sergeant walks in from her morning run. I didn’t see her at all yesterday and she says the first thing she says every Wednesday, “Ma’am! I haven’t seen you in days.” I laugh because Tuesdays are filled with meetings and training. She sits down at her desk and calls her girls and her husband. Every morning starts like this.

I start to fall asleep, so I walk outside to stretch my legs and see if the sunrise is worth chasing down to get the perfect photo. I walk back in check to see if Jill is still up and working on the other side of the world – emailing me back equally as distracted. I wait for an update caught between hoping I’ll get a response and hoping her crackberry is turned off and buried under a pile of clothes. I hope she’s at the Sod this very moment having a pint.

Sgt B walks in, “Good morning Ma’am, can you give me a ride to the Headquarters building?” The day has already begun and it’s just past 7.

“I’ll take you Sgt B.” SSgt Sharpe announces from the other corner of my office where she can hide.
I can hear the vehicles outside driving by; 7-tons, armored HMMVW’s, trucks beeping as they pull out of our lot. Yes, another day has already begun. I wonder if someday I will miss this. This quiet hour in the Iraq morning, sharing an office with my SSgt who is more like part of my family now then my chief – I can tell you her daughters’ birthdays and favorite colours. I wonder if I’ll miss watching my Marines trickle in half-awake as the clock ticks closer and closer to 8. If they are here less then five minutes early SSgt Sharpe gives them a look. If they are here at 8 or even a minute late she takes them outside for a ‘counseling’. Will miss trying to catch that perfect sunrise again? The first time I was too busy taking pictures of it to really enjoy it – let me have another one and this time I’ll leave the camera in my wall locker. Will I miss waiting for Microsoft Office to pop up on the corner of my screen with “Jill Klemmens”? I think about all the other places I miss now and how I missed somewhere else while I was there. The irony makes me laugh to myself, because even though I’ll miss this someday I can’t stop myself from missing somewhere else right now. An email pops up from Jill in response to the picture I sent of her on the pub crawl, “Oh geez! I do not need to be on the ould sod website!” I laugh and get back to work. Back to missing the things I miss. “Go have a pint,” I write back and as I hit send realize it’s time to go to the gym – I missed my whole morning.

Things That I Miss (and unfortunately cannot be sent through the mail).

1. The sound of a child’s voice, their laugh, the eternal hope in their eyes.
2. Human contact other then a handshake – a hug, a kiss,
3. Lazy Sunday afternoons.
4. Naps in the sun by the pool.
5. Driving my Bug (I almost miss traffic, but I still hate LA).
6. The Ocean.  God I miss the ocean.
7. Cell phone and my usual suspects to call in a day– Megan, Deb, Jill, Tonya, Mom.
8. Guinness.
9. The Ould Sod.
10. Karaoke with Alex.
11. Shopping (and if you know me you know I hate shopping).
12. Going to the grocery store.
13. Cooking (or at least having the option to cook – that might be a better way to put it.)
14. Being only a plane ride away from home if something happens.
15. Being able to plan trips I’ll never take, but really believe I’m going to go if only for a minute.
16. Bitching about the price of gas, but being grateful for a car and money to buy gas.
17. Wearing make-up, leaving my hair down and feeling like a woman).
18. My favorite pair of jeans (okay this one might be able to be mailed out, but I have no idea where I stored them!)

***

Greetings from the Desert!  I know I haven’t been updating this, so I’m sorry if you’ve been worrying about me or waiting for a post.  Life here has been busy and the internet in my room has been down for about two weeks (I can’t get on my blog from my work computer).  I’ve been doing okay.  Getting used to life out here and doing a lot of physical training when I’m not working.  My running partner has almost convinced me to run Ironman New Zealand in 2 years.  Right now I’m shooting for another marathon in October.  I’d like to get a time that qualifies me for the 2009 Boston Marathon (the 2008 qualifying time for my age group is 3 hrs 40 min – I can do it!). We’re training for a ½ marathon my XO is running in May.  If you’re a runner you know that running is as addictive as any drug and out here you have to have something positive to work for or you will lose your mind in the daily grind.

Work has been busy.  I’ve made friends within most of the squadrons we support and now squadrons are starting to come and go; so the last few weeks have been full of goodbyes and hellos.  Life does that – brings someone to your life for a minute and then takes them away.  I believe everyone is part of your life for a reason; maybe it is me that is in their life for a reason.  Either way, they’re here and gone in an instant.  It’s not normal goodbyes out here.  I’m so happy that they are going home safe and sound that it’s not like saying goodbye at all.  Part of being in the military is getting used to making friends fast and saying goodbye even faster.  I hope each one of them makes it home to find their loved ones well and then make their way to tropical beaches with beautiful sunsets and tropical drinks with umbrellas because they deserve it.  It’s always been hard for me to say goodbyes.  No matter how used to coming or going I am.  Goodbye’s are markers that time is passing and passing quickly.

I think its funny how life can take you just about anywhere and you can get used to it.  I already have some good (and bad) habits.  (The bad being mostly chocolate – please don’t send me any it’s my weakness!!).  I lift weights every morning and I’m starting to see muscles develop that I didn’t know I had.  I’ve been running at least 3 or 4 times a week and gradually adding more mileage and more runs.  I get up at 4 or 4:30 every morning to read or write.  My Marines don’t come in until 8.  It seems early, but it’s nice to have some time alone.

I haven’t been able to go on any more missions outside the wire, but I’m working on it.  I am trying to digest the things I saw and the things we did and write it all down without putting our OPSEC (Operational Security) at risk.  I will post more essays soon.

In the meantime take this away from my trip - Go hug your child, a niece or nephew, a neighbor.  Go look into their eyes and appreciate the beauty, the hope and innocence; those things that are universal to children.  Even in a country at war the children are the most beautiful people I’ve seen.  Their laughter is the most fulfilling sound I’ve heard since I’ve been in country.  Try to live 6 months without a child’s giggle or joy out of playing a game of high five – it’s miserable.  This is what I miss the most and you can’t put that in a box and mail it out (well, you can but make sure you give them lots of water and granola bars to snack on).  So, because I can’t, go hug a child that has enriched your life.  Let them know how special they are and that I fight for them.

On days that I doubt the good I’m doing here or the fight I’m fighting I remember my babies (Becca, Teed, Paige, Olivia, Ian and Malcolm).  I remember the children I met in Rawah.  I remember I’m fighting for their freedom.  I’m fighting for their opportunities to make this world a better place – hopefully one without war and poverty.  That’s what keeps my spirits up on days I really see no point or end to all this.

My Marines are doing well.  They keep my morale up when I’m having a bad day and I try to keep theirs up if they look down.  We are physically separated from the rest of our unit.  We live and work in a little compound known as Rock Ridge and because of our isolation we’ve become a little family down here.  The Marines know each other’s button’s to push or when someone needs to get out of the office for a few minutes.  Their best skill is knowing when to answer my phone; “Sorry, she’s not in right now, can I take a message?”

Finally, I’ve made a deal with my lifting partner.  I told him I was going to send at least one letter every single day (we walk by the post office on the way to the gym).  In the last week I’ve done it, but I only have the address of my family and a few friends back in San Diego.  I guess I figured I’d email more, but the internet is a pain.  I’m running out of things to write them so if you want to be part of this please send your address to Lisbeth_Prifogle@yahoo.com (or a note in the mail).  I’m not doing this to receive mail back (although mail is always a morale booster).  I’m doing this as a practice in self discipline, a practice in writing and most importantly because we have forgotten the art of hand writing letters to old friends.  What is a better addition to our busy day then sitting down with a cup of coffee and reading (or writing) a note from someone who is thinking about you?  To me reading or writing a letter is as good as sitting down and having a cup of coffee with that friend.  If you can’t physically be with that person you can be there in spirit.  Plus, you cannot be interrupted in a letter! So you can babble on about whatever you want for however long you want!  Oh I’m also doing this to improve my hand writing skills – right now I think I could fool the FBI with my ever changing scribbles (seriously, you’ll see – in one letter it looks like at least 4 people have taken turns writing it).

That’s the most current update with me.  Hope this finds everyone in good spirits and good health.  Happy St. Patty’s day!  Make sure you have a Guinness for me and Cheers – to Life!  And all the wonderful and strange places it takes you and people you have and will meet.

Love,
Libby

All-
Good morning (well it’s a little before 5 in the morning here anyways). I just wanted to post a quick update and let everyone know I’m okay. The mission in my last blog went well and I’ll be posting more about it soon. Life out here has been insanely busy which I guess is good because it makes the time go faster, but leaves me with just enough time to work and sleep. I’ll post more in the next few days. Miss you all.

Cheers,
Libby

I. Rivercity.

Rivercity is when we are cut off. Something has happened (usually unbeknownst to those of us on base) and a Marine, Soldier, Sailor or Airman was killed or had to be medevaced. They implement Rivercity so that we don’t contact our families or fellow service members to spread the news, and then they in turn tell someone else and eventually through the grapevine the family of the service member finds out by rumor before official correspondence.

I believe in omens. Believe that there is a higher power that created everything. This being – this hand – doesn’t control fate, it writes it. It doesn’t make things easy for us to see, but gives us signs to help us find our destiny, our path. It challenges us so that we can find the meaning in the journey. These clues are omens. Not everything I see as an omen is always an omen; and there are probably things I have mistook for an omen that are mere coincidence. I will be the first to admit I have made mistakes in this life – plenty of them. Tonight I try to decipher if life is giving me an omen or coincidence. Tonight is the eve of my first trip outside the wire. Tonight we are in Rivercity. Tonight I pray. I pray to this higher being; not to protect me, not to save me, but to let me see my enemy first, to let me see beauty in the world again after seeing the things I might see. I pray, even though I don’t believe in prayer anymore. I pray that this is not an omen. That Rivercity is just a coincidence.

Adrenaline. Combat vets talk about how adrenaline takes over you body. Tunnel vision. Tunnel hearing. Adrenaline stops pain and Marines who have been shot or hit with shrapnel continue through the battle without noticing their injuries. Adrenaline – nothing more then a chemical released from the brain. Adrenaline will make me insomniac. It feels like the night before I left. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t not sleep. When you can’t sleep you think. Think of all the things that could happen. Think of all the things you did in your life. Think about all the things you didn’t do. Think like this is the last night of the world.

I make lists. I never manage to keep track of the lists, but the act of making a list commits the list into my memory.

The things I didn’t do:
1. Will – I never finished writing it or had it notarized.
2. I didn’t change the oil in my car.
3. I didn’t end my cell phone contract before I left.
4. I didn’t finish the ‘Last Letters’ to my family – in case something happened.
5. I didn’t leave plans for my funeral. Guinness, lots of Guinness. “Without You” playing. Pictures. Happy. I want everyone to be happy for the time they shared with me, not the time that they lost me.
6. So many goodbyes I didn’t get to say.
7. Run a marathon under 4 hours.
8. Go to Venice.
9. Run an Ironman Triathlon.
10. See the Grand Canyon.
11. Go to Mexico.
12. See the Great Wall.
13. Travel to the pyramids.
14. Publish a book.
15. Climb Mt. Everest.
16. Live in Tokyo.
17.

This list could go on forever. I start a new list. The things I did do:

1. Loved someone.
2. Let someone love me.
3. Hurt someone.
4. Loved someone so much it hurt.
5. Forgave someone who hurt me.
6. Didn’t forgive someone who hurt me.
7. Lived in Scotland
8. Traveled to Ireland
9. Went on a Boundary Waters Trip in Canada.
10. Took an oath to defend the constitution of the United States as a United States Marine.
11. Lived in New York.
12. kept journals for 11 years
13. Ran a marathon
14. Ran another marathon
15. Saw both the Pacific and the Atlantic Ocean
16. Gambled
17. Shot a 240G machine gun
18. Threw a grenade
19. Visited the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington Cemetery.
20. Held a newborn baby minutes after she was born.
21. Started working on my Masters Degree
22. Served my country in a time of war.
23. Wrote every day.
24.

This list could go on too. I stop for no particular reason. I am sitting at my desk. Watching my Sergeant prepare her gear. She arranges her 9mm magazines on her cartridge belt and fidgets with the holster wrapped around her petite thigh. She tries on her Modular Tactical Vest (MTV); alone it weighs over 10 lbs. Add in the weight of the enhanced sapi plates, ceramic plates that are over an inch thick to protect the vital organs from shrapnel, side sapi plates, ammo and a first aid kit – it’s over 40 lbs added to her 120 lb frame. She also carries 7.5 lbs in her M4 (a more compact and high tech version of an M16) and her pack of snack food and water.
I watch my Sergeant go through her preparations meticulously and curiously. This is her first trip to Iraq. This is her first mission outside the wire. She pulls each piece of gear out and plays with it – figuring out what it does and then deciding whether or not she needs it. In preparing we were offered gear from a grunt, a pilot, and other Marines from our unit.

We are also offered advice, “If the infantry is out there Ma’am, just let them do their job. I’ve had Lance Corporals tell me what to do in combat and I followed because I knew my life was on the line.” “Keep your head down.” “Take lots of pictures.”

Sergeant B finishes sifting through the gear. She wears her combat load as she looks across the room and asks, “Ma’am, do you want to look through this?” She sounds confident and looks ready and I wonder if the same thoughts about Rivercity are going through her head – Is it a sign or coincidence?

The First Sand Storm

Living in this dessert is something that most American’s will never experience. Personally, I wouldn’t mind going without the experience myself, but life had other plans for me.

We had our first sandstorm yesterday.

A cold front had crept in over the last couple days. It had been getting warm enough to go running with only a t-shirt, but the temperature started to drop and the wind picked up momentum. About midmorning the wind started howling with more force then I have ever heard wind howl. Over here there is nothing to stop it – no skyscrapers, no forest, nothing. Just barren land. Out here the wind is completely free, unlike the human inhabitants (or at least those of us restricted to base).

I like to think the wind is a spirit. It travels the world. It is a prisoner to gravity, weather patterns and obstacles. The wind has a very particular role or mission it must accomplish. In the desert this spirit is free. Here there are no chains. It can dance under the stars or just lie under the sun. It is not restricted by its duty or its obstacles. In my 13 mile prison cell there are many days when I daydream about becoming the wind – dissolving into the air and leaving everything in a magical whirl.

By noon I could look straight at the sun. It felt more like a sci-fi movie than real life. I looked straight into the sun and it didn’t hurt my eyes. I looked at it, just like I stare at the moon – transfixed. The fine layer of sand that normally coats everything was picked up by the wind – the perfect dance partner. I think the sun was trying to shine harder to get through the debris in the air causing the whole sky to turn an eerie shade of orange. Before a weekly Staff Meeting our Doc described it as “tangerine,” but our Communications Officer called it “peach.” Apparently they were both hungry. I walked outside and it felt like the children’s book, “James and the Giant Peach.” It was no longer an endless horizon – it was a dome closing in on us. It felt like we were trapped in a snow-globe and wrapped in orange wrapping paper.

After our weekly staff meeting I needed to get away from work for a few minutes. I decided to take a drive. This is what I do when I can’t run – I drive. Either way I have to be moving (even if it is within the confines of a snow-globe). I drove to the ridge that protects base. It is a wall of dirt 50 ft tall. From the top of it base looks like it sits in a bowl. The wall would be a perfect sledding hill if there was ever enough snow. To get to the road you have to drive to the edge of base. If you go any further there is a guarded gate, but if you turn you can continue up an empty road to the top of the world. This is my thinking spot. There are ranges and Marines along the road, but most of the time and especially during a sandstorm it’s empty. I like to drive along the road and look outside of base – nothing. Nothing but space and desert. The other side dips down into the earth and base emerges from it.
Driving through a sandstorm feels like driving through a snowstorm. The air is dry and you can only see 20 – 30 ft ahead. The wind takes its partners, the sand and sun, and together they do a jig across the desert horizon.

I drove down the empty road looking from one side to the other. Desert. Base. Desert. Base. When the road ended I drove back to my shop. Some of my Marines were standing outside looking at the sky and trying to breathe the coarse air. For most of them it was their first sandstorm too. I joined them for a few minutes as the wind screamed past us. As it dodged the warehouse buildings in our compound, the wind shrieked like Sirens. For a few moments I closed my eyes and joined the wind and the sand. I dissolved into the air and flew far away into the setting sun.

I wait for the next sandstorm, so I can run away with the wind again.

Winter in Iraq

When you tell people “I’m a Marine.” There are various reactions. If you are the stereotypical Marine – tall, young, male, athletic – I imagine the response to be, “Oh thank you your service, we’re so proud of you.” If you are the less stereotypical