Embedded by Wesley R. Gray Page A

enemy’s likely approach when it means you have to stand in 130-degree heat? Fields of fire? What a complete waste of time. AK-47s make a loud cracking sound when fired so you know exactly where the insurgents are the minute they start shooting. Entrenchment? Okay, so the Marines want us to put signs two hundred meters ahead of our position? That makes a ton of sense; now if someone is approaching us, we’ll give away our position so we can’t surprise them. Great idea, Marines (see photo 4 ). I’m afraid Iraqis and Americans will never see eye to eye on this.
    I continued walking to the different positions, bounding from one place of cover to another, doing what I had been taught in all my training. I looked at every weird spot on the ground and rushed past danger areas. On the other hand my comrade, Captain Chin, strolled along calmly. “Sir,” I asked him, “aren’t you worried about the snipers from across the Euphrates shooting at you?” Chin casually said, “Gray, don’t follow my example and make your own decisions, but heed my advice. At the pace you’re going you’ll last a few hours out here. You’re wearing eighty pounds of shit and it’s 130 degrees outside. I know it seems counterintuitive to be complacent at times, but it would be a shame if I had to write your wife a letter because you died of heatstroke.” I thought Captain Chin was speaking the truth. I’d die if I kept this up. I had a much higher chance of kicking the bucket from heatstroke than from an insurgent sniper on the other side of the river with a broken AK-47, no aim, and a reliance on Allah to put the bullet in my head.
    For the rest of the day I operated with less tension, but only to a level where I still felt comfortable—I was not taking any stupid risks. I was not a salty combat vet yet. I wanted to ease my way into this. After a few rounds of checking out Iraqi blocking positions and realizing they were up to Iraqi standard, I decided it was time to go chill with the Iraqi medics.
    The medics were the smartest Iraqis with us. They had established a foothold on a great shade spot under a former bank building that had been crushed by a 500-pound bomb a few years earlier by coalition forces. The building was in total shambles, but the warped roof structure provided amazing shade (see photo 5 ). I figured I could kill two birds with one stone: I could learn a little Arabic and I could cool off a bit.
    â€œAs salama aleikum” (Peace be upon you), I muttered to the two Iraqi medics. “Wa aleikum salam” (And upon you peace), they eagerly replied, smiling from ear to ear. After a five-minute exchange of pleasantries in Arabic, the two Iraqis showed me to a piece of choice rubble that made an excellent seat. I was not at a Starbucks, but the discussion I was having was fascinating. Luckily, one of the medics, Hussein, was a former English teacher in Baghdad. With my developing Arabic skills and his rudimentary ability to say some English words, we pieced together a great conversation.
    Hussein was a private in the Iraqi army. He had a well-groomed mustache, embracing smile, and soft features—a sure sign his life had not been rough. He was thirty-eight and looked his age, which is saying something for an Iraqi. I have met a few Iraqi soldiers in their thirties and forties andall look as though they were only a few steps away from a six-foot hole in the ground. Hussein was different. He was a modern man, well educated, and had led a simple middle-class life. He had a wife and two young boys of whom he was very proud. I could not figure why this guy was a jundi .
    Things changed for Hussein when OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom) commenced in 2003. After the initial invasion and chaotic aftermath, he was left with limited options. He could move to southern Iraq and make $50 a month continuing his craft as a teacher—a fifteen-year career—but he would not