Day One

…Day One
27 July 2007

It’s 0830 and the sergeant is kicking at my cot, “Tanner. Rise and shine, sunshine.” “What??” “I said, rise and shine sunshine.” “Oh. Er…okay” It’s surprisingly cold in the tent as I rustle a fresh uniform from Mt. Ruck. I find myself looking forward to the heat of the day!

I get over to the JNN site about 0930 with a light coat of sweat already weighing down my uniform. Both suns have risen already, and I find myself looking forward to the chill of the tent! (That didn’t take very long, did it?)

The convoy to the government center will leave at 1100 hrs this morning. “Sweet! So, can I get the truck to pick up my bags?” “HAHA! Better make a couple trips!” “Shit.”

Back at the tent, I quietly repack my mountains and prepare for a slow, laborious transport. First up: Mt. Ruck! Like a taller, sweatier, and much better looking Quasimodo, I hunch, gimp, and grunt my way across the dust fields. I do my best to avoid putting too much pressure on the bruises left by last night’s adventure, but alas, there is no escaping the patchwork of black and blue (don’t worry, it’ll heal soon!). By the time my shoulders go numb, I’ve reached the bench and gladly drop my forest camo patterned burden. Looking down at the monstrosity, I can’t help but smile as I think to myself, “Yup. There I go. Moving mountains all over Iraq!” With that, I walk back across the fields of moon dust.

The cold air of the tent is almost painful as I peel off my jacket and unstuck my shirt from as much of my skin as possible. Just looking at the duffel bag is enough to get me sweating again, so I sit down on the end of my cot and take a break.

Five gloriously cold minutes later I put my still damp coat back on and load duffel bag hill onto my back. I find that I can stand pretty straight but still decide to keep it one bag at a time. I’ll be back. Opening the tent door was like being back on the sauté line with all eight flames blasting overtime. The dust is so light that it twirls and dances with the heat waves rising from the baked earth. It’s actually quite fun to watch; until, that is, the sweat starts stinging your eyes. It’s very common for these dances to become full tilt, spinning love affairs between earth and wind. Tornado like in appearance, these “dust devils” routinely pop up just to cover as much of the world (to include mouths, ears, food containers, etc) with dust and sand as possible. Anyway, I dropped the bag on the bench and set off through the fields for one more trip.

The heat has started to seep in through the cracks. Are the A/Cs even on?? My whole uniform is more than damp at this point. It’s not even 1030 and the outdoors has turned into a Viking range set to self clean. Just one more bag. I remember when I was at the NEX going back and forth trying to decide which bag to buy. The sixty-five dollar, half ruck sized super bag? Or the thirty-five dollar, half ruck sized generic bag? As I look now at the bulging pockets and seams stretched so tight that I can almost hear their agonized screams for mercy, I’m really glad I didn’t opt for the cheap one! And, as I secure those tough textured straps over my shoulders and grope about for my IBA and weapon, I’m really glad I decided to shove that pillow down the back of it!

Now all of my gear is staged and I’m pumped for the convoy. But…where’s the convoy? Oh, it’s not coming today? I see. Sunday instead? Okay…breathe…just breathe. I survey my mountain range. “Oh, Shit.”

Luckily, an easy solution presented itself. I went to chow and waited for the truck to become available. Hey, I’m no masochist (though everyone who knows I ran a marathon in Iraq may disagree). But I digress. Lunch consisted of another to-go box; this time filled with a corn dog, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a fish sandwich with cheese. Oh, and a couple of diet cokes and a slightly cool Gatorade. Trust me, it’s better than MREs!

The truck pulls up in a cloud of dust at noon. The mountains get loaded in the back and I climb into the mercifully air conditioned cab. I could fall asleep right here and now. But before my eyes even close, we are back at the tent and I’m reclaiming that squeaky cot. Surrounding it with my mountains to create a valley of slumberous peace. As I settle in, it gives an exceptionally loud groan as if to say, “Yeah, we’ll see about that, buddy.” I let out a sigh and reply, “Hey, I can dream, can’t I?” *CREAK* “Oh, yeah. I guess I can’t!”
The tent starts to get active so I abandon my hopes for a nap. It’s 1430 by my watch and the heat outside is physically beating on the walls of our vinyl fortress. So, naturally, I decide to go for a walk.

I’ve heard that the “hajji-mart” here is world class. Especially when it comes to movies that are still out in theaters! I’m told it’s housed in an old warehouse near the JNN site, so I brace myself for another journey through the fields and enter the wall of invisible flames. By the time I get there, I feel as if I’m melting from the inside out and my uniform seems to verify this at the moment. I enter the warehouse expecting a cornucopia of seemingly under priced shiny things, knock off electronics, and cases to the roof of things like faux-lex watches and nikee shoes. What I find instead is a dirty, hot, and, most importantly, empty warehouse, save for one kiosk of movies. Hopes and shoulders down, I mosey over to peruse the depressingly few titles when, lo and behold, the space beyond the kiosk comes into view. Racks of movies. Shelf after illegal fucking shelf of DVDs graced my eyes. Burning the image into my soul.

After an hour or so I had finally seen as much as I could take in for one trip. I made my way to the money man and placed my selections on the table. For Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Blades of Glory, Evan Almighty, and a seven in one of Jackie Chan movies, I paid ten dollars. That’s right friends! Ten bucks for the whole package! I just hope the quality justifies the price tag. We’ll see.

I get back to the tent and just kinda exist 1745 when hunger overpowers the urge to remain plopped on my conversational cot. I am determined to dine in the Dfac this time in the hopes of a more well rounded culinary experience. I opt for short order this time (one can only have so much corn and lima bean mix, after all), and as I’m in line to get a burger, the scent of fresh baked bread sends my olfactory glands into a frenzy. Just to my right is a friggin bakery! Shelves of real bread, a plethora of rolls, and even a nice selection of pastries has captured my full imagination. The smorgasbord spread before my mind’s eye is all consuming. I look down at my tray find, to my surprise, a cheeseburger. I must have just auto-piloted my way through the line. And now I stand before the gates to whole grain nirvana and all I can manage to say is, “O-Oat bread, p-please.” And then I have another shock as he takes the loaf of oaty goodness, hand slices a wonderfully thick slice and presents it as though it were Excalibur. With trembling hands I take possession of my carb loaded destiny. The whole ordeal proved too much for me. I could tell when, of all the things I could have done with it, I turned it into half of a tuna sandwich. *sigh*

And with that heavy memory I return to the tent. Here I sit. Existing. Waiting. Planning my doughy future.

It’s 23:58 and I’m feeling fresh and clean from another cool shower. If I can manage to stay awake, I’ll give Squirrely a call on her lunch break. I really miss her. I yearn for the smell of her hair and the warmth of her lips. It hurts just to think about. Then, all of a sudden it’s…