But the Outer Fringe

Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old:
"No law except the sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled,"
Once more it knits mankind,
Once more the nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe.
-Kipling

It is hot here. I thought that it was hot before, but I was wrong; that was lukewarm, maybe, or tepid. Whatever. The point is that now it is definitely hot. It is August in Iraq, and the only thing that might be hotter is August in Kuwait. Thankfully, we’re only gonna be there for two days or so on the way out. I am so anxious to get the hell home that I’m having dreams about it. I dreamt the other night of sitting on my couch playing Oblivion and Jennifer bringing me beers.

I’ve been showing the Iraqi officers from the nearby battalion around the FOB. They will be moving in here when we leave, and they needed familiarization with certain aspects of the installation. I showed them where the ammo storage yard is, and the wells. Apparently Saddam had all thirteen of them running when he was here, but now only four or five work. There are also these enigmatic fields toward the north end of the FOB, with cyclone fences and enormous gates. The land inside the fences was so well-kept that the grass and trees inside are still green. They may have even diverted a spring or something over that way. I theorize that these were tiny game preserves, because I cannot think of why else there would be fields of grass and trees, fenced in, and so far away from any buildings. I wonder what kind of animals were kept.

We had some indirect fire today for the first time since I can remember. At least a month. It didn’t hit the FOB, but came pretty close. It is funny how you come to know, somewhere deep in your subconscious, the sounds of friendly and hostile fire. The range is not very far from where I sleep, so every other night or so I can hear the stentorian, masculine bang-bang-bang of the fifties as they’re test fired before people roll outside the wire. They don’t even wake me up. I even know the sounds of the det cord and C4 the EOD guys use to blow up IEDs out on the road. I don’t even lift my head up anymore when I hear that. But dammit, I know what incoming mortar and rocket fire sounds like; and even if I don’t hear it in the air, for some reason I’ve been able to tell, recently, if it was ours or theirs. Some of the older NCOs and officers say this happens to everybody—eventually even the dumbest people can realize the difference between American and hostile ordnance from sound alone. But this seems incredible to me. It’s like in Kingpin, when Woody Harrelson is able to tell that Randy Quaid needs to move three boards to the right when he lines up to bowl, just from listening to the sound of the pins being knocked down. It doesn’t seem natural to me. But I observe it in myself, and in others. All the firing and explosions we hear all the time, and it doesn’t bother us; but a couple of hours ago that round came in and all ten or so of us stopped talking, and the officers went inside to listen to the radio, and the NCOs went to find their soldiers to do a headcount, and everybody made sure they had ammo, without anybody having to say anything.

Sometimes it is like I’m living in another world, out here. I am anxious to get back to my own.