For reporter, Iraq brings heightened fear, simple pleasures

Editor's note: Ventura County Star reporter Dani Dodge returned last week after two months in Iraq and Kuwait with Seabees from Port Hueneme. This is her story.

Task Force Mike entered Iraq the day after the war started. It took 24 hours to reach camp.

During the drive, I stared into the darkness waiting for an Iraqi army to materialize. The Battalion 4 Seabees around me in the back of the Humvee, even the one with the M-16, were asleep. The driver shouted back that we were in the demilitarized zone, but the only difference I could tell was the big dips in the road and the tension on the radio when a dump truck broke down.

We had been on the convoy since noon. It was 1:30 a.m. The vehicles stopped often as the Seabees waited for the combat forces to move ahead.

And just like on any road trip, some people had to go to the bathroom. But there were no rest stops. Land mines were scattered on the edges of the highway. It was likely snipers had a bead on us. In the darkness, men relieved themselves by the side of the road while the women went between vehicles for the minimal privacy the trucks provided. Modesty had to be set aside. Senior Chief Michelle "Shelly" Lavoie, a tiny blond fireball who was fiercely protective of her troops, explained: "You've seen one ass, you've seen them all."

As dawn broke, we had no idea what we would encounter in Iraq. Gunfire? Hatred? Curses? Our first interaction with Iraqis was a family by the side of the road. The children waved. The man shouted: "You are my friend."

Many aspects of life changed once we were in Iraq. We most often convoyed at night, sometimes the trucks driving with their lights out. Seabees slept in the day in small tents that were like hothouses. I used shampoo to wash my clothes in my helmet. My diet consisted of three MREs a day.

Before getting on the first convoy, I had often eaten MREs in the large female officers' Bedouin tent rather than go to the galley so I had more time to work on my articles. There was a certain joy to opening MREs. They were like the grab bags I used to pull out of barrels as a kid. Other than the entree, printed on the bag, I never knew what would be inside. Some had Skittles. Others had "toaster pastries." Occasionally I found French vanilla cappuccino powder, which almost substituted for the Seattle's Best caramel lattes I craved.

But none, I realized, had vegetables. I wanted vegetables. One Seabee told me I was just picking the wrong MREs.

Seabees urged me to choose their favorite meals. One touted the meatloaf. I heated it up and took a bite. I've never tried Alpo, but I imagine this was worse, maybe like cheap store-brand dog food. Another said spaghetti was his favorite, it tasted just like Chef Boyardee. It became my second choice.

With the days and the sandstorms and the dust I breathed in the back of the Humvee on the convoys, a cough I had developed in Kuwait worsened. In the desert, the sand can get into a person's lungs and cause bronchitis. I also had a fever and my heart raced just walking from my tent to my truck. The battalion's doctor, Lt. Paolo Hernandez, said my bronchitis had turned to pneumonia.

As I was getting ready to go forward with a road building crew of about 20 people, packing my tent and putting my gear into a truck, Hernandez followed me with his stethoscope. He urged me to stay behind and rest. I declined. It was the first war project the Seabees would do and if the war was over quickly, it could be the last.

"I'll have to tell the C.O. (commanding officer)," he said. "He doesn't like to be surprised. You may have to be medevaced out."

After a day of building a road to allow tanks past a broken bridge, the road crew camped among Marines and Army at the Euphrates River. When the rest of the battalion's Task Force Mike joined us a day or so later, the Marines and Army moved forward toward Baghdad.

That night, there was an intelligence report that 1,000 paramilitary Iraqis were headed toward me and 400 Seabees. There was a feverish tension. The battalion's commanding officer, Cmdr. James Worcester, screamed at a Seabee who didn't know the night's password. Rumors outside the command center were rampant. Some people said the Iraqis wanted to take the bridge where we were camped. Others believed Iraqis wanted to increase the U.S. casualty count and picked the Seabees as a soft target. Fueled by the rumors, many Seabees were frightened.

Some thought they didn't have a chance. One Seabee tried to give his gun to Scripps Howard News Service photographer Todd Heisler.

The night was so dark, it made no difference whether my eyes were shut or open, the view was the same -- a flat black screen. I couldn't even make out shapes. I couldn't find my tent. It was bitterly cold. Although I knew air defenses were on call, a handful of Marines were down the road, and the Seabees had a good arsenal of weapons that could weaken Iraqi forces long before they got to our camp, it was the only night of the war I was profoundly afraid.

I spent the night on the metal floor of the medical supply truck, waiting anxiously for the Iraqi attack that never came. A little after 3 a.m., a Seabee came to the truck and said we were moving out. I asked why. "The C.O. is running scared," he said. "We don't have enough protection."

It was a rumor. And it was wrong. Later I learned that the threat had actually been downgraded much earlier.

Being in a battalion is like that. In the absence of memos and CNN, rumors and speculation become fact. Some Seabees started rumors as a game to see how far they would spread. They laughed when the rumor was retold to them.

Eventually, after several convoys, the Seabees reached the first bridge project north of Nasiriyah. The bridge would allow supply convoys to bypass the so-called "Ambush Alley" near Nasiriyah.

Halfway through the bridge, four of the other five journalists embedded with NMCB-4 left. I considered leaving with them.

Sand had sabotaged my computer and I was writing stories avoiding the keys that didn't work. I still was hacking so violently that people found me in the camp by following the sound of my cough. But I had gotten more than 300 e-mails from people saying I was the only connection they had to their Seabee family members. Most Seabees hadn't had access to a phone since they left the States. I thought about what I would be doing if I went back to Ventura County -- sitting at a desk, possibly rewriting police press releases. I thought about what I was doing in Iraq, telling the adventures and accomplishments of the Seabees. I decided to stay.

It wasn't until the Seabees had finished the bridge that the camp enjoyed so-called showers: rusty water flowing through a bucket with holes in it. It felt like I was back at the Hilton. But, when I hung my wet towel on my tent that night, Marine 2nd Reconnaissance Air Officer Tom "Soup" Campbell couldn't help but remark: "Dani, you can't have a pink towel in a war zone."

When we reached our next camp, Nick Oza, a Knight Ridder photographer, got news from home. Michael Kelly had become the eighth journalist to die in the war, and the first embedded journalist to die in combat. The Humvee he was in swerved while under fire and went upside down into a canal. Kelly drowned.

I saw his face again. Remembered his kindness. I knew then that I had to remain as long as there was a tale to tell. As long as my editors would let me. If journalists were dying for this story, it was even more important that the ones left stayed to tell it.

Called back by his editors, Oza left the next morning. I was the only journalist left with the battalion.

By the time we reached Baghdad I was well again. The Seabees were to rebuild a bridge into the city. The capital was still in the hands of the Iraqi Republican Guard, and combat troops needed to get in. We could hear the fierce fighting from our camp. By this point I had gotten into the habit of sending in a rough-draft story every afternoon, then working a while longer on it and sending in a final version just before dark. Since we'd left camp in Kuwait, we'd been under "light discipline," which meant we couldn't have lights on after dark because they would alert snipers and missiles to our location.

I was finishing the final draft of the Baghdad bridge story under a tarp, hoping light wouldn't escape, when I heard the first bullet aimed at the Seabees. I turned off the computer and let the rough draft stand, only calling in one last line to the editor: "As night fell, a sniper's bullet flew overhead."

At the same camp a few nights later, we were awakened when a minibus hit a land mine outside of camp. I'd had a bad feeling that evening and went to sleep in my flak and Kevlar, the only time since the night of the 1,000 Iraqis. When the explosion occurred and the ground under me shuddered, I was told no Seabees were injured. Do not leave camp.

I had decided early on not to distract the Seabees trying to protect themselves from attack. When the land mine went off, instead of following my reporter instincts, I just went back to sleep. Frustrated. In the morning, I learned the civilians aboard the minibus had gotten out alive.

As the Seabees finished their first bridge in Baghdad, one asked me if I would like to put in the last bolt. Honored, I said, "Yes." I was handed a 4-foot-long tool, lined up the bolt and tightened it down.

That afternoon, the chiefs got word the Fedayeen had been walking by our camp the past two nights and were probably planning an attack. The chiefs tried to get the convoy out to a safer location before night, but instead we weren't into the convoy formation until after dark. Several Seabees were missing. People shouted their names as Iraqi civilians moved past us, silent shadows in the moonlight. The Seabees weren't around. In desperation, one chief went back to the far end of the bridge. The men were there, still holding guard, unaware the rest of the Seabees were leaving.

After they'd jumped into a truck, we drove farther into Baghdad. We stopped to camp in an Iraqi Republican Guard training college where Marines and Army were patrolling and having nightly gun battles at the perimeter.

A nearby bridge needed to be built to allow humanitarian supplies into the city. Like the first Baghdad bridge, the original span had been detonated by Iraqis trying to prevent U.S. invasion. As some Seabees worked on the bridge, others roamed the training center looking for souvenirs. The days were filled with Seabees showing off the bayonets, sniper rifles, Iraqi medals and Saddam T-shirts they had "liberated."

Nights were filled with the sound of gun battles and explosions. Inside our camp, though, the Seabees rarely knew where the fighting was or why it was happening. The Seabees only kept track of what happened in their camp perimeter, the soccer stadium.

News from the outside was rare. My computer system didn't have the capability to pull up Web pages. Often, I couldn't even pull up the e-mails from people reading my stories, now numbering around 500. I was wracked with guilt that I couldn't respond to the e-mails, but my system was too slow to allow it.

There were stories still to be told. The Seabees were moving on to humanitarian missions after the bridge was completed. The people in Baghdad were dealing with their new freedom. I didn't want to go. Several Seabees suggested I needed to talk to their "psych counselor."

Supplies were running low. People were no longer given bottled water, but instead filled their canteens with chlorinated water from water bulls. Each time I tried to drink it, it made me ill with stomachaches and bathroom runs. The Seabees were limited to two MREs a day. Aggressive flies matted our faces and hands. Biting ants stalked us.

Seabees started getting sick. Flu-like symptoms swept through the camp. Others developed pneumonia.

Then, it was Easter morning. For the first time in a month, the Seabees ate a communal meal: T-rations. T-rations are precooked trays of food that are heated in vats of boiling water. There were chewy brown scrambled eggs and waffles with the consistency of cardboard. There was creamed beef and sausages. The Seabees were thrilled to have anything other than an MRE and ate with enthusiasm. Except for the canned peaches, I found it inedible. I couldn't wait to get back to my tent for a spaghetti MRE.

Afterward, an Easter morning service in the abandoned Iraqi Republican Guard stateroom brought beauty to the blighted grounds. The soaring tenor of Personnelman 1st Class Imo Taylor made me cry as it filled the once-grand stateroom that was now a mess of broken windows, dusty furniture and cracked tiles.

"Have you ever been sick on your bed of affliction and doctor did all he could do," Taylor sang in his Baptist-church-trained voice. "... God specializes in things that are impossible."

I put off the inevitable departure as long as possible, then caught a convoy headed south as the final bridge was being completed. But a truck in the convoy broke down.

My farewell from Baghdad was a man in black taking pot shots at the convoy with an AK-47. I was in the back of a Humvee and when the machine gun's rapid fire rang out, I simply ducked down behind the bags stacked in the vehicle. I had to get up a few times, though. I needed to get my notebook. Then a pen. Then a quote.

If the man in black had been looking at me, I'm sure I would have reminded him of one of those figures at a carnival shooting range that pops up and down. But after being in Baghdad for two weeks and being under fire before, I had no fear of this sniper who couldn't seem to hit the broad side of a dump truck. Without distracting the Seabees, I got my story.

When I arrived back at camp in Kuwait, I had a half-dozen reddened bug bites on my face, one that had scabbed over next to my nose. Like teenagers left too long on their own, my eyebrows were wildly out of control. My hands, the only things that stuck out from the uniform I wore, had taken on a dark tan, while the rest of me was as ivory as always.

That night, Chief Jayme Rainwater put a Tom Petty CD on her stereo in the women officers' tent and blasted the song "Refugee" in honor of my journey. She and I had struck up a friendship over love of motorcycles. I admired her tough attitude. While I had been in Baghdad, she had been in Kuwait running a camp. Together, we screamed out the lyrics of the song and she announced: "You don't have to be a refugee any longer."

The next day I donned civilian clothes for only the second time in the war. (The first time had been to interview Iraqi civilians.) I inserted contact lenses. I applied mascara. A military photojournalist I'd met the day before didn't recognize me.

I went to another camp to wait for the convoy to the Kuwait International Airport to catch my Saturday flight. But once I got to camp, I was informed my plane wouldn't be leaving until Sunday at 22-hundred hours.

"Hurry up and wait," I grumbled, taking out my contacts and putting my glasses back on, wiping my tired eyes and smearing the mascara.

After two months of living with the Seabees, instead of relishing the fact I was in a big empty air-conditioned tent all by myself, I missed the female officers I'd just left. I knew that Rainwater had probably picked up another poisonous desert lizard and was wearing it on her head again, and who would want to miss that? And then I realized that for me, the war wasn't about conflict and violence. Fortunately, the Seabees saw little of that. And as an embedded reporter, I saw only Battalion 4. For me, it was about the bonds forged between people and the strength that provides in times of extreme stress. I wished I was back with the Seabees of Task Force Mike as they built the pathways to freedom for the Iraqis. I wanted cappuccino powder.

That night, I was tempted to use the sand a few feet outside my tent, instead of walking to the flush toilets. I repacked my bags, only to discover in my backpack a hidden cache of hoarded MRE "Cheese Spread" packets. I imagine they are the sorry sister of Cheez Whiz. But I'm not really sure. I would never eat Cheez Whiz.

Part 2. Part one is here:

For embedded reporter, Iraq became a story of firsts

Also, for those interested, Dani is going to have a LIVE CHAT SESSION on Thursday, May 8, at Noon-1PM. I'm not going to be able to attend, that but I would appreciate it if someone here did, and reported on it. I would like it if someone asked her if she intended to write a book.

You will have to go to www.insidevc.com to preregister for that chat session, I guess.

Thanks very much for posting these two great stories. She bonded with the Seabees and it changed her life, but, of course, this is what journalists are not supposed to do.....so we'll hear more about that from the anti-war/anti-military/anti-America crowd.

Great read!

Side note:

It never occurred to me the embeds were receiving email.

I wish I'd emailed Michael Kelly to tell him how much I (we) loved his writing.

Thanks--I feel dusty, dirty and itch from the flies just reading this well written series!

The Tarheel

What a delight to read. I'm glad to see something like this because you have this image of a "journalist" in your mind and this give you hope.

This woman sounds like a real keeper.

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