There is the walk to dinner. The walk to the tent. The walk to work. The walk to the gym. And there is the walk to the lonely desert lake, ringed with razor wire and sandbags, little fish splashing in the moonlight.

The war, audibly raging in the distance, is only a hollow reminder of the grim fights of 2005. Although I still cringe when I see satellite maps of Sadr City, and remember the paralyzing malice that runs through the alleys there, the West Baghdad rifle fire and the roaring helicopter guns I hear daily drift past me like the sound of traffic.

In this place, soldiers have elaborate social networks, giant televisions and greasy fast food, cellphones and SUVs. Soldiers are bent on self-improvement, soft on cynicism, big on smiles. Still grinning at little cameras from Saddam’s throne.

It is sheltered enough to really remember what home is like, and just distant enough to make you appreciate the little niceties of first world living. Quality doorknobs, for instance.

In little utopias like this, strategic decisions are made for the soldiers in the city. If you need attack helicopters to save your patrol from being overrun by hordes of screaming religious fanatics, you must ask them of men from another world.

I almost drove right off the base in my Ford Explorer the other day without meaning to. It’s interesting to think that anyone could do that - just roll out for the day with a full tank of gas, ammo, clean water and a picnic lunch.

from sunny baghdad,
ben