The flight down here was uneventful.  I was lucky to be flying ASR.  I don’t know what the acronym stands for, but practically speaking it means you have a reservation.  The alternative is to fly Space Available, which means what it says:  you fly if there’s space available.  There were 17 people, mostly contractors, waiting for a Blackhawk that only had room for maybe 14 people and their stuff.

The moon was nearly full on my flight from Baghdad to al Asad, and I hadn’t realized the difference that makes.  Last night was overcast, and for much of the ride the only thing I could see was a faint line where the black of the desert met the dark gray of the sky.  Rarely at first, and then more often, I’d see the lights of little towns below—white lights grouped closely together, surrounded by darkness.  On either side of the helicopter a man gripped a heavy machine gun, staring out into the desert through night vision goggles.

The first stop was Ramadi; I think the base there is called Blue Diamond.  All the contractors got off, and a few soldiers got on.  After another short trip we were at al Taqaddum.  TQ is much smaller than al Asad and, right off the chopper, seems a lot more like an old-school military base.  We were directed off the chopper and into a terminal full of soldiers, Marines and their gear.  I found out today that TQ is a major transit point for troops coming in and out of Fallujah and Ramadi.

I did the embed shuffle last night; I got to my can after 1 am and had to be up and about at 5 am.  Actually I could’ve just begged off and slept in, but I was too groggy last night to realize it.  I ended up meeting some folks, getting breakfast and going back to bed for a few more hours.

I’m down here for a story on the guys who fly CASEVAC missions—going out to take wounded soldiers and Marines from the field to the nearest hospital.  The squadron consists of pilots, Navy Corpsmen who treat the casualties, Marines who maintain the aircraft, and crew chiefs who man the guns.  The Army helicopters that do these runs are unarmed and painted with red crosses set against white squares, marking them as hospital aircraft.  The Marines forego the protections of the Geneva Conventions and protect themselves with heavy machine guns.

The room and board here are as good or better than at al Asad.  The cans are comfortable, and the dining hall has fresh fruit and vegetables and an ice cream bar.  Unlike at al Asad, you open the door to your can and stare directly into a Hesco barrier—basically a big bag of dirt supported with a wire frame.  In essence they’re giant sandbags that can be filled with earthmoving equipment instead of by individual soldiers.  The risk of a mortar or rocket attack has declined a lot, I’m told, but it’s still something people keep in mind.  At al Asad the subject came up once or twice; at TQ I’ve already been told specifically, several times, what to do in the event of an attack.  But the risk, while real, is remote—one of the officers told me that only one person has been seriously wounded in an indirect fire attack since the base was established.

The CASEVAC area is a cluster of old buildings and American tents set next to the airfield.  The Marine choppers sit massive and gray on the runway, long and double-rotored.  In a courtyard formed by the old one-story Iraqi buldings the Marines have cleared away the rocks and set up a volleyball net; a few of the men were playing a game in the heat of the afternoon sun.  There’s a weight tent that heats up like an oven during the day.  I spent most of the day hanging out in a room in which shelves for a TV and a PlayStation had been built into the plywood wall.  I worked for a while but couldn’t resist sitting on the couch and watching most of “Office Space,” which one of the guys cited as an example of why he’s better off in the Marines.

As one of the officers said, there’s a fire station feel to the place.  When word of a casualty comes a buzzer goes off, but someone also rings a bell hanging outside in front of one of the buildings.  From when the bell rings it takes only a few minutes to get everyone onto a chopper and off the ground.  One chopper leaves to pick up the wounded; another gets ready to go in case the first one can’t fly for any reason.  Soldiers are consistently at the hospital within an hour of receiving a serious wound.

These guys (and a few women) seem to love their jobs.  I imagine it’s nice to make a tangible difference every day; you don’t have to search for higher meaning in your work when you’re job is to help save lives.  The Marines and Corpsmen who fly in the helicopters are also in the enviable position of getting off base everyday and sleeping on base every night (or vice-versa, if they’re working the night shift).  With the exception of some paratroopers two weeks away from leaving Fallujah for North Carolina, I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to soldiers or Marines who told me they wished they were outside the wire less often.

But soldiers and Marines who never get off their bases talk all the time about wanting to get out.  Part of that is wanting to share the same risks as their friends and colleagues in the infantry, part of it is wanting to get at the enemy.  I think a lot of it is just being stir-crazy; even the ice cream bar will get old after a few months if you’re in the same place doing the same thing every day.