Dispatch from Iraq: Malfunctions and shooting stars

July 10 Camp Adder, Iraq

Murphy's Law states that whatever can go wrong will. Now, I don't know who this Murphy character is, but if I ever run into him, he's got a butt-kickin' comin'!

Murphy hitched a ride on our convoy this week. It should have been a milk run - an easy three-day round-trip from Arifjan, Kuwait, to Camp Adder in Talil, Iraq. It started out simply enough. We were optimistic but only for a little while.

The drive to Camp Beuhring just south of the Iraqi border would take only three hours. We would stay the night at Beuhring then proceed to Khabari crossing on the Iraqi border and finally into Iraq and onto Talil, another six hours away.

Once the convoy linked up, we were on our way. We crossed the border uneventfully and started to gain convoy speed. On the way, each gunner picked out a spot in the desert to test fire the big .50 caliber machine guns. Pfc. Joel Martin's voice crackled in my headset announcing that he was ready.

I called over the convoy radio net, "WOLFPACK 3. TEST FIRE, TEST FIRE, TEST FIRE."

Instead of the usual loud staccato thump of the gun, I heard only two rounds and a muffled click, followed by "Sh**!"

Martin's gun had sheered a round off inside the barrel, leaving a large chunk of brass casing jammed in the chamber. We had to stop the convoy so I could jump out and grab a spare barrel from the hatch in back.

Five minutes later, Martin had done a complete barrel swap and the gun effortlessly spit out the remaining nine rounds.

Few other gunners in our company could have diagnosed the problem and had it fixed in as little time as Martin did.

"That's why I love you," I chuckled, and we were back underway. Sort of.

Another malfunction

The next gun truck in line, manned by veteran heavy machine gunner Spc. Jake Sere, also experienced a complete malfunction of its gun.

Now, I said that few gunners besides Martin could have fixed his gun and had it back up as quickly. Jake is the exception. Jake served two previous tours in Iraq with the Marines as a .50 gunner during the initial invasion and is the only gunner in our convoy to have seen combat (and to have been wounded doing so).

With both guns back up and functioning, we were again on our way. Sort of.

Just ahead of us, the convoy suddenly stopped. The two-lane highway was blocked by a foreign flatbed tractor trailer truck from our convoy. We pulled up alongside to find out what was wrong as the rest of the convoy began to shrink in the distance.

The Pakistani driver in broken English said simply, "Battery, no good."

"Yeah, that happens when you don't put water in them," I replied.

As several other Pakistani and Ugandan drivers scrambled over his truck, swapping out batteries, I got out and stood watch, cradling my M4 and checking my watch. Forty-five minutes later, we were on our way - again.

Tracer sighted

It was dark by the time we finally caught up with the rest of the convoy. Hot, frustrated and hungry, we drove on. The night air cooled and I cracked opened my window a bit to allow in some fresh air. Just then, Martin called over my headset that he had just observed a single glowing tracer round that had been fired in our direction from somewhere behind him. He told me that it had passed roughly 15 meters above him and petered out about 100 meters past us on my right side.

I asked if he knew where it had come from or if he had heard the shots, knowing that near that glowing bullet is usually four others that are unseen.

Martin said that he had, but that he was sure it had been a tracer round.

I called it up to the convoy commander, who in turn called it up to our battalion in the rear, who in turn had a collective aneurysm.

Never mind asking if any of us were hit, they wanted to make sure that we didn't fire back and ventilate someone's mud hut or vaporize a camel.

I assured the convoy commander that we had not engaged anybody - and, oh by the way, we were OK, too.

Mystery solved

In the end, Martin's mystery tracer was likely a very bright shooting star. It would be days before the guys let Martin live that one down. I tried reassuring my very embarrassed gunner that he did his job, and to feel good about it. I don't think it worked, but at least I was grateful for a little excitement, and I made a mental note to have a star named after him when we got home.

Our only danger on the route being an errant meteor, we finally pulled into Camp Adder.

Once our gear was stowed and our vehicles locked, we shuffled off to our tent, a cramped, dust filled GP medium. I walked inside, brushing past the flap and clicked on the lights. The floor was covered in little berms of dirt and sand, as well as the remnants of the previous occupants. Empty water and Gatorade bottles, papers and an old sock littered the floor. I grabbed an upright cot, flipping it back onto its legs, and brushed off the dust which floated up in a cloud.

It was 1 a.m. when we settled in for the night. I awoke at 10 a.m. drenched in sweat. The air conditioner had stopped working. I laid there, my breath whispering over my bare chest being the only cooling breeze in the now stifling tent.

We were not the only occupants in the tent. We were just squatters. We had apparently occupied a tent already inhabited by large flying ants and lizards.

I was certain that by now Murphy was enjoying our suffering.

Late that afternoon, we were told that we would be leaving that night and return with the rest of the convoy to Kuwait. The nine-hour drive back would be uneventful. I rode in silence, contemplating when my next mission would be.

• Underhill can be contacted at lawdog5311@hotmail.com.