From Baghdad with Love by Jay Kopelman (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT) 📕

the event that they can arrange to transport Lava into the Green Zone or the [military] base in the Green Zone? We realize that cell phone time is valuable, and we do not want to jeopardize anyone’s safety or security, but we’re thinking ahead. Don’t want to be in a situation where Lava can get on a plane, but can’t get on base.”

Me: “John, I am 99.9% certain that the NPR folks won’t be able to get Lava to the base in the Green Zone without a pass. The most likely scenario would be to have the NPR folks meet the Vohne Liche folks at the entrance to the Green Zone.”

David: “I will contact you again when I will need to have Lava brought to me in the Green Zone . . . I will let you know more in a couple of days.”

Ben Gilbert, the NPR producer at the compound, chimes in at one point: “There’s been a ton of e-mail traffic on this, so I’m a bit unclear on who is who . . .”

John: “If I understand this all correctly, here’s what’s happening: NPR’s Lourdes ‘Lulu’ Garcia-Navarro gets to Baghdad on the 17th; NPR’s Anthony Kuhn leaves on the 18th and Lava stays in the Red Zone; Vohne Liche’s David Mack would like to have Lava delivered to him in the Green Zone by the 29th; On or about the 30th, David will get Lava moved to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) where he will link up with the Vohne Liche guys going home; Once he’s on the plane he’ll fly from BIAP to Chicago; When he lands in Chicago, Lava can be picked up by someone from the Vohne Liche staff or one of us.”

Me: “Thanks, John.”

John: “We’ve been close so many times. This one seems like it’s as near as we’ve come to actually putting Lava on a plane and getting his furry little butt out of Iraq . . . I hope this is it!!!!”

But then the final kick comes.

David: “Can you confirm that Lava has all his health & shot papers in order? Recently we ran into a vaccination problem with one of our dogs & the military vet would not allow the dog to leave the country for an extra 30 days.

“I don’t want to see that happen to Lava.”

And it hits in the solar plexus, because everyone, including me, is leaving soon, and Lava doesn’t have thirty days.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

March 2005

Shannon, Ireland

It’s five thirty in the morning in a Shannon pub where a bunch of Marines around me punch each other in the arms, sing Irish folk songs, and make the bartender nervous as hell while I sit and gaze at the empty bottom of, like, my third or fourth pint of Guinness, which has to be the most bitter thing I’ve ever put in my body. I’m pretty sure it’s just a mixture of refined gasoline and molasses, but it takes a full twelve minutes of pulling and settling, pulling and settling before the bartender even serves it to you, and by that time you’re so thirsty and worried about your guys causing trouble, you all but get on your knees and give thanks when it arrives.

“And the band played Waltzing Matilda as the ship pulled away from the quay . . .” I’d really like to tell the guys to shut up, but I don’t, because I’m fairly impressed that they even know the words.

So I order another pint and carve grit out from under my fingernails with my teeth while I wait. It’s about the only thing I have with me from Iraq, the grit, only it’s probably not even grit from Iraq but from Kuwait, which is where we stayed for three days in a tent before we flew here to Shannon.

“And the band played Waltzing Matilda as we stopped to bury our slain . . .”

We’re on our way home, and we’ve just spent a year or more inhaling sand, and we fly into this country that’s as moist and green as an ocean and everyone’s all strung out from lack of sleep, wired about eating real food, wired about having sex again, and this unfortunate bartender is serving us our first alcohol as free men and listening to foreigners butcher Matilda. Jeez, we’ve got balls, don’t we? I wonder what these guys would do if they were standing behind a bar listening to a bunch of drunk Iraqis sing “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

I don’t know how long it’s been since I flew from the Syrian border back to Camp Fallujah and then on to Kuwait and then here. Days? Weeks? I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to get drunk and sleep for a while. I feel tired and itchy and dirty, like you do when you get back from patrolling the desert and the dust and the sand and the dirt fornicate with sweat under your collar and you’d do just about anything to get under a shower to wash it away. All you want is a shower. All I want right now is a shower.

By the time I got to Camp Fallujah from the Syrian border, Matt Hammond is already back in the States undergoing multiple surgeries for his wounds, thirty-one of the Lava Dogs are dead from the helicopter crash, hundreds of other Marines are on their way home in flag-wrapped boxes, and a whole new group of young Iraqi guys is being fitted with US cammies.

“For to hang tents and pegs a man needs two legs, no more Waltzing Matilda for me . . .”

If this had been a year ago, I would have arrived at Camp Fallujah feeling like I’d returned to a party at 4 am to find the music down and everyone passed out. One year ago I would have felt the “best” of the fighting had turned from Fallujah to Baghdad and would have done just about