• As I sat in the Humvee, I stared out the window into the vast and endless sea of sand. How could anybody live in such a country? Days were spent laboring in the sweltering hot sun and nights involved pressing your arms to your chest to hold what little warmth remained. There was always the constant threat of death as well. Every day, there was a bombing of some sort. Unlike the criminals of the Wild West, these acts of terrorism had no apparent or direct purpose.

    I then began to think how lucky I was. To be born in America that is. We've got it easy...most of us at least. The problem with America is that people wouldn't apply themselves and close themselves to the opportunities for the betterment of their lives. These people here though...they had no opportunity. In some ways I pitied them...but like many Americans I still held that bit of sentiment in my heart.

    The events of 9/11 brought a horrifying sweep of racism throughout America. As to be suspected I suppose. Forgiveness isn't exactly a trait that the human race as a whole can be expected to possess.

    My thoughts were interrupted once again by another knock on the back of the head. Rook, with his cocky little smile, innocently pointed at Captain Mac.

    "How was your patrol Doc? No problems I assume?" He said in a laid-back tone.
    "You know it Cap..." I said.

    Nothing ever happens during patrol really. You're either walking along the perimeter of the base or walking the perimeter of the town. Perimeters this, perimeter that... Probably the most intense thing to happen during a patrol is getting into an argument with one of the natives. I can honestly say that I've never really cared to learn the language of the Iraqi's but then again, I can see why it would help to know it.

    One time on my first month of service, I was charged with holding down a checkpoint with Cap'n and the others. Anyways, some Iraqi in some ugly little sedan comes rolling up and he doesn't have his damn papers on him. So, with my trust little translation book in hand, I tell him that he can't pass and he needs proper identification and papers. The guy jumps out of the car and damn near punches my lights out before Hughes and Doyle come and pin him to the car. Apparently instead of telling him, "You don't have the correct papers" I told him to go screw a goat or something.

    "Good to hear." Mac said.

    We rode in silence for about another 10 minutes before the radio sprang to life.

    "Bravo 2-4, this is base do you copy? Over."

    Mac picked up the mic and clicked the respond button.

    "Roger base, this is Bravo 2-4. What can we do for you on this fine afternoon? Over."
    "Bravo 2-4, we have received a report that there has been small arms fire reported in your vicinity. We've sent Delta over to investigate and we've not heard back from them in some time. We request you and squad go investigate as well and give a hand to Delta squad should they need it."
    "Copy that base. Can do. Bravo 2-4 over and out."

    Mac released the respond button and gave a nod to Hughes. A smile crossed each of our faces. Without any warning, Hughes shifted gears and threw the Humvee into full-on reverse and spun the vehicle a full 180 degrees. Suddenly we were headed back the way we came and into, what we hoped to be, combat. For the first time in my miserable months here in Iraq, I would experience a genuine live-fire operation.