LITTLE ROCK — First of two parts
It was late - so late that some would consider it early - when Cpl. John Gonzales held the earpiece of the MP3 player to the humvee's internal headset wrapped around his Kevlar helmet.
The song "Midnight Rider" by the Allman Brothers Band blared through his microphone and into the headsets of the rest of the crew. Instantly, like a jolt of electricity to a light bulb, they perked up.
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And I don't own the clothes I'm wearing,
And the road goes on forever,
And I've got one more silver dollar,
But I'm not gonna let them catch me, no
Not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider.
Darkness held fast in the early morning hours; fatigue was more than just a temptress. In these long, dark hours, sleep is as much an enemy as a bullet from an insurgent's gun.
The humvee was miles from anywhere, somewhere between Balad and Baghdad on a road bearing the scars of war: blast holes created over the years by bombs lying in wait for U.S. troops. Some took lives, others, limbs. More than one of those blasts claimed the life of an Arkansas soldier over the past five years.
Taillights from the two gun trucks ahead of them glowed red in the distance. A string of tractor-trailer rigs three miles long rumbled along behind Gonzales' truck - fuel trucks that had just spent 12 hours emptying their loads into bladders at Balad Air Base so the U.S. Air Force could continue to fly.
The men of Bandito 26 of Arkansas' 1st Squadron, 151st Cavalry Regiment, 39th Infantry Brigade were there to keep those trucks rolling and their drivers - American contractors with KBR (formerly Kellogg, Brown and Root) - alive.
The soldier had escorted these trucks, each filled with about 9,500 gallons of jet fuel, north to Balad just two days ear-lier. Now the trucks are headed back south.
Night is their best ally, a time when the roads are void of traffic and darkness helps them to get lost in shadows.
It is also their biggest challenge since roadside bombs are harder to see as well.
TIRED PREPARATIONS
Two days earlier, in the blazing afternoon heat at Camp Adder - the unit's home - the men of Bandito 26 began their ritual of loading trucks with gear, snacks and drinks as if preparing for a week-long hunting trip. They were already tired.
These men of Arkansas' 151st Cavalry stay tired as they spend night after night driving. They grab quick naps in the daytime before preparing for the next mission. There is never enough time, never enough sleep and always work that needs to be done. This is life on the road for Arkansas' 39th Infantry Brigade.
Many solders pop diet pills packed with caffeine and energy-boosting herbal concoctions. Everyone drinks caffeine-driven drinks like Red Bull, Rip It and Monster - whatever it takes to stay alert through the night.
The smell of rubbing alcohol permeates the air as soldiers scrub grime from the banks of lights mounted on each vehicle. The lights are the eyes of a convoy, illuminating better than the noon sun the dirt shoulders and roadways where bombs lurk.
Spc. George Brown of Mountain Home worked on a bolt next to his humvee's steering wheel as Gonzales, of San Antonio, held the door open and waited to see if their invention would work.
The bottom half of an empty water bottle slowly snugged down under the bolt, fastening to the truck's armor plating.
It was a makeshift cup holder.
Spc. Kenny Weaver of Dallas sprawled across the humvee from the back seat as he worked on the radios. He kicked back the last dribbles in his can of Rip It and tossed it out on the gravel. Without thinking, Gonzales crunched it beneath his boot to keep it from being caught by the hot wind.
Sgt. Robert Kerr of Hazen was inside squadron headquarters, listening to the latest activity reports on the 280 miles of road they would cover that night. Outside, the wind kicked up dirt, creating a khaki-colored sky.
Everyone kept packing coolers and cleaning trucks, preparing to start the mission.
But no one thought they'd go.
A dust storm would delay them, they were sure. If the air is choked with dust, convoys don't roll.
Another convoy escort team lined their trucks up next to theirs and started their own packing ritual. There's no way they'd be leaving, the men said, but they packed chips and sodas just in case.
Kerr waved his arms, pulling his troops under a tent.
"We're going," he said in amazement.
He briefed his men on the latest bombings, the convoy plan and was met with cheers when he told them they'd be escorting KBR trucks, not foreign nationals. It's easier because the KBR drivers are on the ball. They keep up and communicate with the soldiers as they roll.
Foreign truck drivers don't maintain their trucks well. And, anytime the convoy stops, the drivers pile onto the roadway and lie down to rest or start a fire to make tea.
To many of these soldiers, escorting foreign drivers from Third World nations is like herding cats.
The sky was still brown as the men climbed into their gun trucks.
Radios crackled to life. Gonzales' radio, however, spit out nothing but static.
The clock was already ticking on this convoy, there are places they cannot roll through if dawn beats them there. Delays often breed delays.
And a broken radio is a common delay.
Soldiers shucked their body armor and sprawled across their trucks and on the shady edges of blast barriers as Gonzales' crew drove over to the radio shop.
The haul they'd make that night is about as far as the drive from Fort Smith to Memphis. But that's the end of any similarity between the two.
HITTING THE ROAD
An hour later, as the sun dropped in the sky, the six gun trucks turned out of Camp Adder toward Camp Cedar, where more than 40 tractor-trailer rigsand their American drivers waited on them.
The men were quiet. There was little chatter as they looked out at the camels and desert and waving kids on the side of the road.
"It's the beginning of the convoy," Gonzales said. "It's always quiet in the beginning."
It was dinnertime. The crew of one truck offered to pick up to-go plates from the chow hall while the rest went to the truck yard to corral the civilian trucks.
"Do you feel like wings or a sandwich?" a voice asked over the radio.
The answer from another truck was quick: "I'll eat anything."
Kerr and Gonzales chatted with the KBR drivers, coordinating how to distribute the humvees among the trucks, while waiting for the manifest to be set.
Styrofoam boxes of chicken wings and Mexican food passed from truck to truck.
Sgt. David Moore of Flippin didn't bother to take off his helmet or body armor. He simply popped his head and shoulders out the hatch of his light armored vehicle and grabbed a burrito.
Brown looked at Gonzales and asked if the roads were still open as the sky continued to darken with dust.
"Quit beating a dead horse," Gonzales said. "It's not changing. We're going."
Then he briefed his crew on which KBR drivers had radios and where they were in the lineup.
"The cat in the back is Jim," he said.
The shout to load up came as the sun disappeared. Trucks rumbled, lurching toward the gate.
The men spoke about the mission, whether they'd make itall the way through to Balad or get stopped by a bomb or sidetracked by breakdowns.
These roads are the great unknown. As these men leave one camp, they wonder where they'll sleep that night. There's no guarantee they'll make it all the way to their destination. There's no way to tell what will happen in the hours to come.
"You have to think positive," Weaver, nicknamed "The Choirboy," said from his perch in the gunners turret. "If you think positive, positive things will happen."
A QUICK FIGHT
Weaver and Gonzales are members of the Texas National Guard who volunteered to extend their tours of duty to help fill out the 39th's ranks. It is never an easy transition from one unit to another since no two units operate the same.And extending soldiers see their friends head home as new, unfamiliar faces move into their place.
"After being here 10 months, it's difficult getting used to how a new unit does things," Weaver said. "They don't do things like we did. It just takes a while."
Weaver extended for just 60 days. He's scheduled to head home in the next few weeks - unless he chooses to extend again.
Spc. Richard Young's voice crackled over the radio from the lead humvee. There was a southbound convoy bearing down on them as they pushed north toward a bridge.
"Come on," said the soldier from Springhill, La. "I beat them to it."
Kerr, convoy commander, called back to his gun trucks, asking them if they could push faster. One of the humvees struggled to push past 50 mph for days, since one of the refueling tanks at Camp Adder had been filled with unleaded gasoline in a holding tank designated for diesel. Several military trucks were damaged by the KBR goof. The trucks had to be flushed, some engines replaced, and none were running the same.
"Let's try it," Kerr said. "We may have to slow down. These trucks are pieces of s***."
Chatter in the trucks ranged from stories of home to jokes as the convoy rolled along for miles, moving closer and closer to Camp Scania, a refueling point south of Baghdad. It would be their only stop until they reached their destination.
The friendly jabs turned to shouts as gunfire broke out from the dark, western flank.
"Gunfire!" Young shouted through the radio as the bullets tore through the darkness toward the trucks.
"We're taking small arms fire at the [Iraqi police] station!" he said.
Adrenaline bypassed any caffeine in the soldiers' systems in the first few trucks as they maneuvered to fire back.
Iraqi police zipped in front of the gun trucks and returned fire into the night. With the police in the way, the gunners of Bandito 26 couldn't fire back.
"My finger was itching," said Spc. Chris Galan of Texas, Young's gunner. He wanted to fire back so badly that his finger twitched as he watched the bullets fly in front of him.
And then, in less than a minute, it was over.
Questions from squadron headquarters would stretch on for hours, though, as radio operators back there tried to get a picture of what happened. They wanted to know how many bullets were fired, how many insurgents were firing, and on and on, frustrating the men in the gun trucks as they continued their mission north, finally pulling into Camp Scania to refuel.
The men stepped out of the trucks, shed their body armor and let the night air dry their sweat-soaked uniforms.
"That was the first time we've taken small arms fire," Kerr said.
"I don't care if I don't fire a single shot all year," Young said. He, like many soldiers, has seen enough gunfire.
Galan talked about his frustration over the inability to fight back because of the Iraqi police who moved into his line of fire.For those few seconds, as the gunfire continued, he felt helpless.
Within a half hour it was time to load back up. The break was over.
A voice came over the KBR radio as the tractor-trailers maneuvered in line with the gun trucks. The civilian drivers bicker among themselves.
"There's no excuse for that, you need to pay attention!" one driver yelled to another.
"Feisty," Gonzales said as he raised the radio to his ear.
These men don't dwell on the fact that their three-milelong convoy is a slow-moving, highly flammable target. They simply focus on the moment, on the patch of dirt in front of them and whether the trucks are still behind them.
It is no secret that these are fuel tankers. They have "flammable" warnings splashed in red across their flanks. Many times, these trucks are the target, not the military vehicles. They go up in a ball of flame, making a statement seen for miles around.
"I don't think about what I'm hauling. I can't," Gonzales said. "I think about my immediate vicinity. My biggest concern is taking care of the soldiers with me. I rely on them as they rely on me."
THE TRIP'S TENSE END
A red flare cuts through the sky up ahead.
The convoy found a roadside bomb. It was 2:30 a.m.
Dawn would break in just three hours. A debate began on how long it would take until the bomb disposal team would show up. If it's too late, they may have to turn back to Camp Scania and wait a day before pushing into the capital city. As the curfew lifts at dawn, the routes become too clogged, too dangerous and too slow.
The men debated the window - daylight was just a couple of hours away. They had to be north of Baghdad before dawn. If not, they'd spend another night at another post and face another night on the road. They repeatedly checked their watches while fighting sleep. Sitting still is the hardest part, there is little to keep their attention. Finally, more flares streaked in the sky ahead, the road was clear.
The bomb was a hoax, an empty artillery shell with wires poking out. Insurgents test troops, watching what they do.
Dawn arrived by 5 a.m. as the convoy pushed onto an onramp in northern Baghdad that was already congested with dump trucks filled with dirt and gravel.
"And so comes another beautiful day in the land of paradise," Gonzales said to his crew.
A maze of on-ramps looped above and around the convoy as they rolled past a dump and rows of tall, crumbling apartments. It's an area that causes the hair to stand on the backs of some of the men's necks. This is a stretch of road - called the "widow-maker" - is known for sniper attacks.
"This makes me nervous, man," Gonzales said. "I don't want to be blown up. I've still got stuff to do."
Weaver spun around in his turret to stop an oncoming car.
"You won't get blown up."
Front Section, Pages 1, 13 on 06/22/2008