Embedded journalism from the front lines of
Afghanistan & Iraq ~ by Mike & Carlos Boettcher

That night we departed from War Eagle, finally making the last leg of our journey to Apache. We were due to arrive via the Silver Lion Express, a convoy that traveled between the various COPs in Aadamiyah, its primary purpose shuttling people around, getting personnel and supplies where they needed to go. They met us outside Brigade HQ, a train of four Humvees, their headlights cutting through the dark  Baghdad night.

We managed to get all of our gear into the trucks, which was no easy affair; the humvees were already full with supplies, and it looked like we would have to carry much of the gear on our legs. I didn’t mind much, in truth I was always fairly embarrassed by how much luggage we carried with us, which really wasn’t that much: some camera bags, a couple backpacks, and a monopod. We tried to travel light, but wherever I went, I looked at the soldiers traveling with me and felt a bit like a diva, traveling in high style, by Baghdad standards at least.

It didn’t really matter: when we got in, the crews of the humvees were almost silent, the growling engine and steady click of the rotating gun turret filled the void left by lack of conversation. We headed out, driving past the high concrete walls, into Baghdad proper. My view out the window was obscured by the bag sitting on my lap, and I resigned myself to staring at camo-patterned cloth for the drive, unsure at how long our trip would last.

Occasionally a soldier would speak, the driver, or perhaps the man sitting in the passenger seat. None of what they said had a conversational tone, every word was packed with information, orders: where to turn, possible threats, how the humvee was handling. There was no flow to their speech, they spoke in the abrupt staccato of an awakened sleeper, everything  said with groaning effort, syllables and vowels forming half-remembered words.

It wasn’t hard to gather that these men were exhausted, and I wondered how long they had been driving, how long they had been hopping from COP to COP, performing their duties, manning this odd taxi service. It was like being a hitchhiker, picked up by men at the end of a long road trip. At first, you think the silence is because of you, that some error was committed when you stepped in the car. But before long you realize that nothing is said because everything has been said, every topic of conversation touched upon and run through; to continue talking would be only going through the motions, and that was energy better spared for other efforts.

An odd taxi service to be sure. How many trips had they taken together? How many more would they take? I couldn’t properly wrap my mind around it, around the endless loop their job was. It occurred to me that in more dangerous times the trips would have an edge of excitement, danger, if nothing else. Now, it was just eternal routine. I wondered which the soldiers preferred.