The Hotbox
My soldiers spent the bulk of the morning loading our armored LMTV with supplies – a thoroughly unpleasant mission made all the worse by the feverish sun. By time the truck was loaded the had painted their uniforms with thick, dark whorls of sweat. They took a few minutes to wring out their saturated tops and swallow long draughts of cold water and then they settled in front of our blustering air conditioner.
As the cool air spilled over them their drawn expressions smoothed over, and as the minutes ticked by you could see the heat borne fatigue bleed away. By time lunch rolled around they were fully resuscitated and ready to continue on with the usual business of the day. But loading was only the first half of the mission – the supplies still needed to get to their final destination out in sector.
Since I was the only member of the shop that hadn’t broiled under the withering sun I let my troops stay in the office and started prepping my gear for another convoy. After checking and rechecking all my gear I started donning the thick layers of armor and equipment, one heavy layer after another. There are times when our bulky equipment makes you feel like a strange cross between a medieval knight and a beast of burden, but as I snapped on the last of the equipment I couldn’t help but feel more of the latter. And then I walked outside into the baking heat and climbed into the waiting LMTV.
The cab was sweltering, I spent the first minute fidgeting back and forth to keep the seats from searing a hole in my DCUs. By time it had cooled enough to sit comfortably we were at our link up point and I jumped out to hammer through a convoy brief with our escorts. Once all the coordinations were complete I remounted the truck and listened to the whining roar of the engine spooled up.
And then we were off, slowly making our way off the FOB. I could already feel hot trickles of sweat slithering down the back of my neck before catching on my armored neckpiece. As we left the gate I battened down the open hatches, loaded my weapon, reached over and loaded the drivers weapon and then eased back in my seat. As soon as I sat down the air conditioner died. Maybe died is the wrong word – after all the vents were still blowing air. The only problem was the air it was blowing was as molten as the shimmering river of asphalt we were bearing down on. Under normal circumstances the thick armor slabs that coat the LMTVs are a blessing, but without air conditioning the cab quickly became hellishly hot. Before we had even hit the hardball my driver was asking if he could open one of the hatches to cool off. I waved him off with a half hearted smile. As miserable as the heat was I figured it would be better to lose a pound of sweat then risk losing a pound of meat to an IED.
As we made our way through the cluttered Baghdad traffic drop after drop of sweat kept raining down onto ballistic goggles, smearing the images into a blurred smattering of dark and light. It’s one thing to drive down a Baghdad street – it’s another to do so half blind. I pulled the goggles farther down my nose and let the sweat cascade into my eyes. It was uncomfortable but at least I could see through the goggles. Fortunately there wasn’t much to see, the Killer company escorts were bustling back and forth in broad lethal arcs creating a wide pocket of traffic for us to drive through. Their perfect symmetry was as beautiful as it was reassuring.
As we pulled into to the Iraqi compound I was desperate to get out of the cab. I jumped down to the ground, flexing my knees to absorb the extra weight of my armor and equipment. When I stood up I was amazed at how refreshingly cool the air felt against my saturated uniform. It was 118 degrees outside but it felt like a fresh ocean breeze compared to that armored hot box. I ordered my driver to dismount and left with one of the Killer Company NCOs to link up with the Iraqi Colonel. Once we arrived at his office we used a bastard mix of sign language, Arabic, and English to let him know the supplies had arrived. It took a few minutes to get the message across but once he understood he dispatched one of his soldiers to escort us to their supply warehouse.
As I left the building I radioed my driver and told him to follow me to the drop off point. As he climbed back into the cab I started to squeeze into the Iraqi soldier’s Toyota truck. It was only then that I realized how spacious our HMMWVs really are – I wasn’t sitting in that truck as much as I was cocooned in it. With all my gear on the only way I could shoehorn into the front seat was to assume an ungainly armored fetal position and wait for the claustrophobic ride to end. When we arrived at the warehouse I didn’t really get out – I just spilled out in one graceless motion. It wasn’t the commanding exit I wanted to convey but I just wanted to get out of that miniscule seat. The LMTV was following behind and as I got up I could see my driver chuckling at my ridiculous dismount.
As soon as the LMTV was in position a platoon of Iraqi soldiers started downloading the cache of supplies, chattering happily at the sudden appearance of this overburdened vehicle. As we stood back to watch the supplies downloaded several Iraqi soldiers in T-shirts came forward to stare at their strange armored benefactors. After a few minutes one of the soldiers finally came forward and asked in a conspiratorial voice “do you have the girl magazines” emphasizing his point by tracing an hourglass figure with his outstretched hands. I told him that all we had were the supplies on the truck but he persisted. “The Veronica magazines. Do you have any?” he whispered. I laughingly assured him we didn’t have any, but I had to repeat myself nine or ten times before he finally believed me. By time he was convinced that I wasn’t holding out on him the supplies were downloaded and we prepared to leave. As I was clambering back into the LMTV I hear the sharp, angry sound of automatic weapons fire on the perimeter fence. A moment later the lead gunship came over the radio and confirmed the perimeter was taking rounds. We buttoned up the rolling oven we were sitting in and the convoy made its way out of the gate.
By time we returned to the FOB I was soaked to the bone, my uniform a soggy, clinging mess. I made my way back to the office, slipped out of my armor and stripped off my soaked uniform top – desperate to be rid of the infernal heat. Then I sat down under the air conditioner and said a silent prayer of thanks. Another mission down.
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