Wartime DISPATCHES AL ASAD, Iraq

[thedrifter]

Wartime DISPATCHES AL ASAD, Iraq
Correspondent Allison Perkins has been traveling through Iraq and reporting on soldiers who call the Triad home.

Darius Hyman uses a paintbrush to gently wipe sand from the metallic insides of his .50-caliber machine gun.

He removes the barrel, the charging handle, the bolt, moving each piece carefully, precisely. From atop the Humvee, where he and the machine gun sit nearly 7 feet off the ground, he looks over a row of Marines, all practicing the same ritual.

He yanks back on the charging handle.

Chaachink. That's the magic sound. It means the weapon is ready to be loaded and fired, ready to put a hole through almost anything it's aimed at.

In his five months in Iraq, the Marine private first class and Greensboro resident hasn't had to fire one round from the weapon he has come to call "a really good friend."

It's a record he hopes he doesn't have to break.

"The collateral damage it would cause," he says, pausing and shaking his head. "You would have to be in a pretty serious situation."

Many folks back home might consider Hyman's daily routine as serious as it gets.

The 23-year-old father of two, N.C. A&T student and Marine reservist is on his second deployment to Iraq. He travels in convoys, often in one of the first vehicles to rumble down the broken and pothole-filled streets of Iraq.

His job: to provide security for the long line of vehicles behind him carrying supplies and troops.

As they travel, often at a snail's pace, he looks over buildings, alleys and windows, searching for snipers and explosives.

Sometimes bombs are buried under mounds of sand. Other times, they're hiding deep in the crevices of the roads.

Hyman carries two personal items with him when he convoys. The first is a collection of sharp, metal fragments -- each measuring 3 to 4 inches in length and weighing as much as a small apple.

As he pulls them out of the Humvee, a Marine nearby yells, "Those will take your head off."

Hyman nods.

"It's a reminder," he says, turning the jagged edge over and over in his hand. "To actually hold something that has been used against American troops and has hurt a lot of innocent people.

"It can be very, very devastating."

He puts the shards of shrapnel aside and pulls a camouflaged Bible from his chest pocket. When he travels, it rests there, under his 35-pound vest of armor.

"I say my prayers," he says. "When you first go out, you feel a little naked, but once you start rolling, you feel like you have another type of protection over you and it's going to be all right."

Hyman's never fired the .50-cal, or the M-249 that rides at his side when he convoys. He has fired the M-16 rifle, the weapon he, like every Marine here, carries everywhere he goes -- to the chow hall, to the bathroom and to bed.

Hyman won't say where or when he's had to fire, or if anyone on the other end of the barrel died.

"I'd rather not say," he says, glancing away.

He prefers to talk instead about why he's here.

"It's for the freedom of our country, the pride of being a Marine," he says.

The wind kicks up as Hyman finishes checking his weapons. Sand blows against the Humvee, seeming to make his delicate cleaning a fruitless effort. Leaders shout as the countdown begins until the convoy lurches to a start. Today, they are headed back to Fallujah, where Hyman is stationed.

Three rows of giant, 5-ton trucks are loaded and ready. Their engines moan and hum as they prepare to leave.

Dust swirls around them, at times masking the giants completely and then exposing them again, allowing the sunlight's muted reflection to glow in the dusty rearview mirrors.

The trip could take a few hours, or it could take half a day. It's been known to take longer. There will be no breaks for sleeping, no stops at the restroom. The Marines eat as they roll and never take turns driving. Everyone stays in their spot; everyone stays focused.

After they arrive, the trucks will be unloaded; the weapons will be cleaned. Hyman and the others might grab a few hours of sleep before heading out the gate again. It's an exhausting existence, protecting the lives of his fellow Marines.

"It's constantly a matter of not, 'Will it happen?' but, 'When will it happen?' " Hyman says of the danger facing them outside the gate.

"I go out hoping I'll never have to fire a single shot," he says. "But I'll do anything I have to, to keep my Marines safe."

Contact Allison Perkins at aperkins@news-record.com

Ellie

[thedrifter]

Correspondent Allison Perkins has been traveling through Iraq and reporting on soldiers who call the Triad home. This is the third story in her series.
Wartime DISPATCHES

AL ASAD, Iraq -- Behind a door, through a dark labyrinth of makeshift walls made of hanging blankets, posters and strategically placed lockers is Lance Cpl. Jeffrey Nolen's home away from home: roughly a 5-foot-by-4-foot space he and his roommate can call their own.

Nolen's UNCG sweatshirt hangs above his bed. On the wall are pictures of family, friends and pinup models. And a snapshot of Nolen's mailbox.

"It reminds me of home," the Kernersville resident says. "It's got my name on it, my yard; it's home."

On his dresser rests his prized possession: a Bible given to him by his neighbor back home, Maj. Thomas Serrin. Inside are words of encouragement, written by Serrin and other friends and family.

The welcome scents of vanilla and strawberries waft from car air fresheners he's attached to a rotating fan, which stays on only if the power does. They help mask the stench of urine in the hallway that gets worse when the temperature surges -- even though the bathrooms are outside. Sometimes the power goes out, and the dark barracks get even warmer, and sometimes the water pressure in showers goes out.

For Marines in Iraq, this is the lap of luxury. This is what the grunts call "Camp Chocolate Cake."

Outside the concrete barracks, there's a cavernous base store with CDs, DVDs and a rainbow of junk food. There's a permanent coffeehouse, a Burger King and a Pizza Hut in trailers and a one-screen movie theater. A Subway sandwich shop had to close down for the summer, because the extreme temperatures spoiled the food. A gymnasium offers workout equipment, as well as martial-arts classes.

For Marine reservists of CLB-2, a communications unit based in Greensboro, life here is just a little easier than expected.

"Marines aren't supposed to occupy; they're supposed to be on the front lines," says Lance Cpl. Thomas Gaskins, 22, of Salisbury.

Nolen adds, "If you've got a Subway, you've been here too long."

As the Marines show visitors around, they are proud of the base they have built almost from the ground up.

Most days are a repeat of the one before. Ask what day of the week it is, and many people here don't know.

"Having a routine helps take your mind off of home," says Sgt. Brian Long, of Greensboro.

And, he says, the Marines know they're lucky to be on this base. Other Marine bases in the western part of Iraq have no base store and certainly no fast food. The Marines there eat the military-issued Meals Ready to Eat out of thick brown plastic bags. They sleep in two-person tents on the ground. Daily showers are rare.

In the beginning of the war, Long, now on his second deployment, said he didn't shower for a month. Nearly every day, they packed up their tents and hauled their things somewhere new.

"I thought I had a tan, and when I finally took a shower, it washed off," he said, describing the build-up of sand on his skin.

But the Marines repeat their motto to visitors: adapt and overcome.

In some ways, daily life at Al Asad is as normal as it can be. The town, situated in the center of a giant crater that some Marines think was a dried-up lake, was once the home of part of Saddam Hussein's forces.

Now, Marines here buy bikes in the base store to ease the commute along dusty, wind-blown desert roads on the base.

When the sun begins to set, and the temperatures cool from a stifling 120-plus degrees, they play baseball, football, even shoot each other with water guns.

But it's not like home. Insurgents toss mortars and shoot rockets over the perimeter. Usually their aim is terrible. Once, they nailed a tank of vehicle fuel.

Windows in buildings are taped with giant Xs, to minimize flying glass in case of an explosion.

Sandstorms obliterate their visibility.

Despite the stifling heat, the Marines are ordered to keep their sleeves rolled down to their wrists because the material will help clot blood, just in case.

While on a recent convoy, the vehicle traveling about 40 yards behind Nolen exploded.

"I felt every bit of that thing in my gut. Whoo," Nolen says. "We found the barrels of the weapons inside it had melted together.

"After it exploded, a guy inside it climbed out, threw an MP his camera and said, 'Take my picture,' and collapsed," he says.

The Marines sitting nearby shake their heads, knowingly. There's a collective understanding. Everyone has seen something similar. Everyone has a story to tell about "that one time."

In the meantime, they try to find some inspiration.

Gaskins -- whose wife, an active-duty Marine, was stationed here before he arrived -- describes the beauty of the place as a means of inspiration for marching on.

"You have to appreciate the natural beauty," he says. "There's a beautiful sunset in any direction you look. At night, you can see stars you've never seen before."

The base is also home to an oasis, where ancient legend says Abraham stopped to wash his hands.

However, the Marines can't visit it. It's behind locked fences and gates.

Nolen, who turned 21 the day the unit left North Carolina, laughs when he's asked how he likes Iraq.

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be," he says. "I thought we were going to be shot at the whole time."

The hardest part, the Marines say, is not knowing exactly when they'll head back. And then, anticipating when they'll return again.

"I plan on coming back," says Gaskins, who is counting the days until his wife and he can be home at the same time and start a family, buy a house, get a dog.

She plans on leaving the service in the spring. He'll stay in; he expects to eventually return to Iraq.

"We're both Marines; we can handle it," he says. "We know what to expect."

The Marines don't talk about the policies or politics of the war.

They don't judge, at least openly, whether the United States should be in Iraq.

What they make clear is that they are Marines and they love their jobs, no matter how much they miss home.

"This is a life experience that will never be forgotten," Gaskins says. "There will be stories and friends for life. You'll never forget these things."

Contact Allison Perkins at aperkins@news-record.com

Ellie

[thedrifter]

Greensboro Marine inspires through gospel dance

Article published Jul 27, 2005


AL ASAD, Iraq -- Lance Cpl. Troy Gray has a tough decision to make: follow his heart or his head.

One will lead him to the stage; the other, to a 20-year commitment to the Marine Corps.

For the moment, he's doing both. And he's found a way to inspire others, not only those living in a time of war, but who are on the front lines.

Gray, 21, an active duty Marine and 2002 graduate of Smith High School, is deployed to the western region of Iraq for a one-year tour. During the day, he keeps track of Marines -- their pay, entitlements, personnel records.

In the evenings, he choreographs and directs a gospel dance ministry that he helped create.

Gray was first introduced to dance at age 7 when he attended his mother's dance rehearsals. Sometimes when choreographing, they couldn't remember a move. Little Troy did and showed them where they went wrong.

"It came naturally to me," he says.

Later, Gray joined a group called Pizzazz Dance Co. in Greensboro and has performed with the company since, learning jazz, hip-hop, tap, African and liturgical steps.

During his last three years at Smith, he became the only male cheerleader, a distinction that still turns heads.

"I was home in a barbershop last October and they recognized me," he says, grinning. "They said, 'You were that male cheerleader, weren't you?' "

In Jacksonville, N.C., where he is permanently stationed with the HQ Marine Aircraft Group 26, Gray occasionally choreographs the dances for the Jacksonville Raiderettes, cheerleaders for the local semi-pro football team.

One glance at Gray's perfectly toned arms and chest and he could easily be taken for a dancer, or a Marine. Being both, he says, has earned him some "looks."

"They say, you're a dancer, you're a Marine, but Marines have that title of being hard," he says with a sigh. "I am hard, but I'm still a Christian."

It's a sentiment echoed by the members of the dance ministry he's helped build.

Sometimes they're late to practice. Sometimes they don't show at all. That's the nature of war.

When they do, it's hot inside this cavernous auditorium. There's no air conditioning to rescue the performers from the 118-degree heat outside.

A hot breeze, much like what it feels like to stand next to a vehicle's exhaust pipe, blows in and out of two open doors on either side of the stage. Often the openings are also their only source of light for rehearsal.

The dancers usually come straight from work. One performs in her camouflage uniform and dusty, tan boots. Under Gray's direction, she moves across the stage gently, silently.

"It's all about what you feel in your heart," Gray says. "Most people think you're just up on stage. But when I'm up there, there's music and a connection with God. That's the spirituality the crowd feels."

When his deployment to Iraq ends, Gray intends to return to Jacksonville and establish a dance ministry there, too.

But will he turn dance into the career he often dreams about?

At one time, he planned to attend the N.C. School of the Arts in Winston-Salem and then try his luck in New York City. Then again, he's fascinated with the struggles faced by Marine recruiters and thinks he might like to join their ranks instead.


"Recruiting means stability. A stable paycheck, stable job, stable everything," Gray says. "But dance, that's where my heart is.

"I'm still debating," he says.



Contact Allison Perkins at aperkins@news-record.com
ONLINE

To listen to Perkins' firsthand accounts from Iraq and to view a multimedia presentation, visit www.news-record.com

Correspondent Allison Perkins has been traveling in Iraq and reporting on soldiers who call the Triad home. This is the fourth story in her series.

Ellie