Not an ordinary drive
Soldier describes convoy duty in Iraq
May 4, 2007
On Tuesdays and Fridays, The Sun is publishing e-mails sent by Jason Henderson, 23, a 2002 Naperville Central High School graduate who is serving in Iraq, to his mother, Cathy Henderson of Naperville.
Today we publish an excerpt from one of Henderson's undated e-mails.
Things here can never just happen as they are supposed to. The average person might expect the military to be some sort of well-oiled machine. One might even make the assumption that since we have been over here for half a decade that things had been pretty well figured out. Routines had been established, and jobs pretty much understood. Such is not the case though, not by a long shot.
The time is 1945, that is 7:45 in the PM for those of you who haven't become hopelessly addicted to 24 yet. The place is OP Eagles Nest, a forward presence in a particularly nasty section of the city known as the Malaab. I was laid out in my cot, wrapped up in a sleeping bag as the air conditioner above me did its utmost to freeze me out while those in the back of the room flirted with dehydration. I am doing my best to escape this place with some help from Willy Nelson's rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
Just as I slip off into a world of lemon drops, blue birds, rainbows and Texas, my reverie is interrupted by a shake of my foot. My team leader stands over me, with that all too familiar and thoroughly disgusted look on his face. A look that can only come from being locked into the Army against his will for a second deployment to the same city. Even though his look tells me all I need to know, I ask anyway, "What's up?"
"Get your stuff on, we've got convoy duty."
"Ugh, how long?"
"We leave in 15 minutes. Should be a pretty quick drive, but you know how it is."
"Yes I do." My muttering goes unheard as he morosely heads for the door. I stretch away the last remnants of sleep and begin to get ready. My boots come on first, tied just tight enough to stay on. Next comes my top, sliding smoothly over my t-shirt. I grimace as I feel the cold layer of sweat that seems to be a permanent part of my uniform these days. The IBA (think bulletproof vest) goes on with a little bit more of a struggle, the side plates managing to catch on my pants yet again. My rack (vest with pouches) goes next, the weight from 700 rounds of SAW ammunition somehow managing to rest entirely and not so comfortably on my lower back.
Finally I sling my weapon over the entire affair with no small degree of annoyance, pick up my helmet, and head for the door. I make it to the truck a few steps behind my team leader, who decides that this is one of those days where he would rather drive. As much as I would like to lament the fact that this gave me nothing to do, I have to admit that I enjoy riding along in the passenger seat from time to time.
As I checked the radio, the gunner climbed up and settled down into his hammock style seat. As the rear vehicle, we waited for the Humvee and the tracked vehicle (like a tank, but carries passengers instead of a big gun) to get moving in front of us and we fell in. We jumped onto the median of the 4 lane divided highway as usual. The median, aside from having slightly fewer potholes than the road, also is a much more difficult reach for the IED layers.
As usual, the trucks in front of us take a few minutes to get up to speed, but soon enough we can see the dust cloud from the lead Humvee get larger as it opens up the space between it and the 113 (tracked vehicle). It is at this point that we get our first clue something is wrong. Instead of a lumbering acceleration, the track continues to crawl at its agonizingly slow idle speed. We attribute this initially to the driver and make a few off-color comments about his driving ability and mental capacity. After this goes on for a few minutes we realize that something else is amiss here and pull up to investigate.
(To be continued.)
