Dispatch from Iraq: ON TO CAMP STRYKER: After dusty drive, greeted with 1-fingered salute

June 25. Route Tampa

We'd been driving for several hours, escorting a convoy farther north into Iraq. Our moonless route, Route Tampa, stretched out before us into the blackness.

Tampa had previously been one of the most dangerous roadways in Iraq for U.S. convoy operations, but years of military efforts here had obviously paid off. Attacks were down considerably. One non-commissioned officer on our convoy had likened the chances during his past year here of being hit to winning the lottery. The only problem is - another soldier retorted - was that somebody ALWAYS wins the lottery.

The first checkpoint on our route was the Romanian Bridge over the Euphrates River. This bridge is so named because it had been guarded by the Romanian Army during the early days of the war. Prior to that, it had been guarded by the Italians. Now it was barely guarded at all.

Crossing the Euphrates River, I was reminded of how young soldiers must have felt in 1945 crossing the Rhine River and pressing forward into Germany. We passed a lone Iraqi Police outpost at the entrance to the bridge.

The policeman assigned to man the entrance of the bridge that night was dressed in the light blue uniform shirt and dark blue pants of the Iraqi National Police Force. He was armed with an AK47 and stood stoically, looking almost comical in a uniform that was obviously five or six sizes too big for him.

We passed over the bridge, and I envied Pfc. Joel "Stay-Puff" Martin, and his view up in the turret.

For nearly 200 miles there was not a guardrail in sight. All 200 miles of rails had been removed to prevent insurgents from concealing IED's behind them. All that was left were the posts.

This, however, had not prevented the insurgents from chipping out three or four feet of concrete intermittently along the side of the road and concealing explosives under fresh concrete. Evidence of recently detonated IED's were visible along most of the route.

Every time we passed a section of concrete that was not the same color as the roadway around it, I would sink just a little deeper in my seat and clench my teeth, hoping that tonight, I would not be the first to win the lottery. The same happened each time we passed a dead dog. As the convoy would pass the carcass, we would swing wide, right or left, trying to give ourselves enough distance, just in case Fluffy was stuffed with explosives.

Money talks

The farther north we pressed, the more populated the area became and before long, small mud huts and villages dotted the hills and palm groves on either side of the highway. Soon, we began to see small shacks painted in broad green-and-white stripes with large letters that read "S-O-I DONT SHOOT."

Next to the shacks sat two or three local Iraqi men dressed in ankle length robes. They sat in the sand on cardboard or rugs staring at us as we passed. None waved.

These men were "Sons of Iraq." Most were former insurgents. Instead of being paid $35 to $100 by local Taliban or Al Qaeda operatives to plant and detonate roadside bombs or ambush U.S. convoys, they were now being paid even more by the pro-American Iraqi forces to make sure that nothing happened along the route and that we could pass in relative safety.

Apparently money talks, no matter what the language. I only hoped that these guys had been paid this week.

We continued into the night as the eastern sky began to lighten, silhouetting the villages and palm groves. Morning traffic began to increase as Iraqis got on with the business of their daily lives. Our convoy pushed through the traffic.

The Iraqis had grown used to the sight of 70-plus heavy transports lumbering down their dilapidated highways. They were only too eager to get out of our way and let us pass.

As the morning sun crept pumpkin orange into the sky, we made our turn toward our next stop, Camp Stryker, a sprawling multi-national military complex not far from Baghdad.

Groups of Iraqi children ranging in age from 7 to 12 came to the side of the road in twos and threes. They stood waving and begging for treats and food from the truck drivers.

We called these children "rapscallions" and they were not to be taken lightly. At the first opportunity, these little waifs would jump unseen onto the flat bed trailers and steal chains, gas caps, cases of water, or whatever they could grab and then run victorious into the cover of the reeds and vineyards. These little kids had cost the U.S. government thousands of dollars in lost equipment.

Up to no good

As we neared the front gate, I noticed a second group of children. They were older and appeared to be roughly 13 or 14 years old. My experience had taught me that nothing good can come of that many teenage boys gathered in one place. There was just something different about this group of kids that didn't look right.

Not one of them was begging for food, and one of them stood off to the side away from the others as if he was watching something.

I told Spc. Mike "Cool Breeze" Frazer to pull out of the convoy and speed up to where they stood.

As soon as they saw us coming, they fled into the village, but not before one of them turned and thrust a middle finger high in the air at Martin up in his turret.

Our entire truck erupted into laughter at the little would-be thief's bravado. Flipping off the cops translates no matter what the language.

We entered the gate and with the transports safely inside, proceeded to our staging area where we parked and stripped off our armored vests and ammo.

We would spend the night at Camp Stryker before proceeding to our next stop on the convoy the next day. I had played the Iraqi lottery for the first time and lost - and that was fine with me.