People drive SUV’s to the general dining facility, a single room as big as a department store with multiple lines for ice cream, cakes, salads and the main courses. The atmosphere is like an office cafeteria, jovial but bland. It’s probably praiseworthy that those who specialize in building bases and making them livable–legions of Army engineers and private contractors–had created a world in which the war merited a reminder on the base information sheet. Under the heading, “!!!Quality of Life Warning!!!,” it reminded residents that, while the living conditions are “excellent. DO NOT get complacent and get lulled into a false sense of security. We are in a dangerous place and there are people outside of the FOB who want to kill you! Stay alert, stay alive!!
Such reminders aren’t necessary on the other end of the war’s housing spectrum. Just a few days earlier I had been at an “observation post” near Baghdad, the most rustic base I’ve seen for U.S. troops. A few score soldiers lived in a dilapidated four-bedroom house. They slept in cots or on the floor, overflowing in an adjacent block building. The commanders of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles and mammoth MRAP trucks slept in their big machines (I’m told they like that, anyway). There was no running water and they had just built a couple plywood outhouses to replace the open trench that served as a toilet. There’s only enough generator electricity to power the essentials–radios and a couple lights in the alcove converted to an operations center. Many of the windows were broken and the house was bitter cold at night. This is “surge” living–pushing out to a neighborhood and living literally next door to Iraqis who need protection.
I don’t begrudge anyone the comforts of the big bases–many of those in residence there, like their more remote comrades, risk their lives “outside the wire” and they all face months away from home. In fact, I almost felt like they were the ones missing out. Life at the little outpost was more stressful, no doubt, but soldiers seemed buoyed by the knowledge that they were on the edge and cemented by the stark fact that they relied on each other not just for protection but in the mundane, as well. Entertainment came in the kind of biting humor and hard ribbing that breeds lifelong camaraderie. One soldier eased his buddies’ rooftop guard duty with very serviceable guitar performances. They rousted each other out of their sleeping bags if anyone was slow to wake in the morning. Rarely did anyone bemoan the dirty uniforms or the hair made brittle with dust. Upon returning from a couple nights at a slightly bigger base, a lieutenant stared at his cot in the dank darkness with familiar satisfaction. “It’s amazing how quickly something can start to feel like home,” he said. “I missed this.” On my last day, a platoon had extended the company’s reach into new territory and set up in a new house where they were planning to spend their first night. This one didn’t even have cots.
