Photo Essay by Totten -- Excellent

Go take a look.

Michael J. Totten is traveling with US forces in Iraq.

Better reporting than network news.

“What are you doing here in August anyway?” he said.
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“A fine question,” I said as I seriously wondered why I hadn't waited for October or even November. The heat in Iraq during the summer is enough to make a religious man rail against God. I'm baffled, frankly, at how human civilization began in a place so inhospitable to human beings. Someone, I forget who, compared facing the afternoon breeze to sticking a hair dryer in your face while pouring sand on your head. That pretty much says it. It is much worse than in a place like Arizona, for instance, because you can hardly catch a break from it unless you stay on base in one of the buildings.

“It's ridiculous here in the summer,” he said. “At Camp Ramadi you take one step outside and dust explodes.”
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“It must be nice in the winter,” I said.
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“Actually, it's worse,” he said. “All this dust turns to mud.”
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The dust was finely grained, almost like talcum powder. The soldiers call it moon dust, and it's more than six inches deep in some places, like a soft inland beach.
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“It has the consistency of chocolate pudding when it's wet,” he continued. “Sometimes you think it's okay to walk on because the ground looks all cracked and dried up. So you go ahead and step on it, and then....GLORK!...your foot breaks through and you're more than boot-deep in the mud. You get that shit on you and it's not coming off. Winter is miserable.”
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We ate in silence for a few minutes while he, apparently, wondered whether or not he should say what he was thinking.
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“Are you going to bash us or what?” he finally said.
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“I didn't come all the way out here in August just to bash you guys,” I said. I felt some sympathy for his complaint, but was at the same time tired of hearing it. “I write what I see and hear, good and bad. You won’t get bad press from me unless you act badly.”
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“Thank you,” he said. “You'll be the first.”
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I'm hardly the first. I know several journalists, political liberals as well as conservatives, who write it straight and don't wallow in soldier-bashing. But the soldier-bashing that's also out there sure does make an impression. Every journalist who embeds in Iraq must hear these complaints as often as I did, and I heard it daily.
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We finished breakfast and loaded our gear and ourselves into the Humvees. The gunner in my Humvee made fun of our driver.
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“We got guys like him in the Army,” he said to me and jerked his thumb toward the front seat.
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“Short. Skinny. All they're good for is driving.”
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“Hey!” our short and skinny driver said in mock outrage. “You need us. Without us, y'all can't move out!”
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Lieutenant Davies rode in the front passenger seat.
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“What exactly are we delivering this morning?” I said.
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“Rice, flour, cooking oil, baby formula, and Beanie Babies,” he said.
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“No Beanie Babies,” said the gunner.
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“No Beanie Babies,” said the lieutenant.
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“We got Beanie Babies!” said the driver.
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“Ok, Beanie Babies,” said the lieutenant. “We're basically following the Iraqi Police at this point. They know who in the area needs help the most. Ever since the insurgency was beaten the economy has flourished. Shops have opened up everywhere. It’s definitely a good sign. But unemployment is still really high and lots of people are desperate.”
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We drove through blowing dust as the white sun rose above the plains of Mesopotamia.