Platoon patrols through danger on a dreary day

BAGHDAD -- The men of First Lieutenant Michael Anderson's platoon thought their Christmas Day patrol would be easy: just drive through town and photograph pictures of friendly local leaders for a guidebook to hand to the company that would be soon taking over their sector of southwestern Baghdad.

Under gray skies and a cold, steady rain, Anderson, 28, and his convoy of three armored Humvees from the Army's First Cavalry Division pulled out of Camp Falcon cheerily, with the guitar-heavy sounds of Metallica blaring from Sergeant Brandon Shaw's CD player. Specialist Steve Bobb, 24, of Meigs County, Ohio, gripped an M-16 and a mounted M-240 machine gun at the rooftop portal of the Humvee.

Anderson, a native of Griffith, Ind., said that while he hated being in Iraq over Christmas, he was thrilled to be going out on a mission. "Now I feel good," he said.

A few minutes into the patrol, their hopes for an easy afternoon were dashed. Headquarters radioed in with a new order: head to Route Irish, the deadly stretch of road leading to Baghdad International Airport, and secure it for an hour.

The mood soured quickly; conversations ended. Two of the battalion's men had already been killed and nearly two dozen injured on the road. Shaw, a 23-year-old State College, Pa., native sitting behind the wheel sullenly headed toward the airport. He turned off the Metallica.

Across Iraq, US soldiers tried their hardest to make the best of a tough, dreary Christmas. They celebrated with fellow soldiers and enjoyed visits by television host David Letterman, who entertained Marines on Friday near Fallujah, and by the punk band the Vandals, who performed for soldiers at Camp Falcon, south of Baghdad. Many guzzled nonalcoholic beer and champagne and longed for lights, sounds, sensations and warmth of Christmas back in the states.

There were some quirky holiday celebrations. At Camp Falcon, a soldier in a Santa hat drove a tractor with reindeer antlers mounted on top. One soldier had scrawled "Merry Christmas" into the grime caked on his Humvee.

Specialist Robert Rosa, 25, of Hoboken, N.J., wore his combat boots and a pair of Santa boxer shorts as he knocked on fellow soldiers doors' to wish them a Merry Christmas. "They thought I was crazy at first," he said. "Then they started laughing."

But for the most part Christmas Day passed by like any other, with soldiers fixated on survival and their comrades' spirits.

"To be honest, we're all about trying to get out of here," said Staff Sergeant Miguel Molina, 34, a scout from Hammonton, N.J., based in Baghdad. "You sit in the Forward Operating Base and you got rockets and attacks every day. You don't focus on all the holiday stuff. I just don't want to send none of my guys home in a body bag."

Like Molina, a 14-year Army veteran who has spent countless Christmases abroad, many of the soldiers in Iraq have grown accustomed to being away from their families during holidays. It is the young soldiers who may get depressed, grow discouraged, and are in danger of losing their spirits and mental agility.

During his first overseas deployment in 1991, Sergeant First Class Karl Kusch, of Cherry Hill, N.J., spent Christmas pouting in his room. Now he walks around camp, giving sad young soldiers pep talks.

"I make sure they're not out there hiding in their room waiting for the day to end," says the 16-year Army veteran, who will celebrate his birthday in Baghdad tomorrow. "A lot of the young guys want to do that."

But Anderson's platoon had no time to sulk on patrol yesterday. They were headed for one of Baghdad's most dangerous areas.

They made their way past Iraqi National Guard checkpoints, often the target of suicide bombers, past angry drivers waiting in gasoline lines that stretch for miles, past unwary motorists veering toward them, past minibus drivers careening down the wrong side of the highway.

Shaw revved the engine as an Iraqi teenager, who appeared to be cussing under his breath at the Humvee, walked in front of the Humvee.

"Get the [expletive] out of here!" Bobb, rain trickling down his face, yelled to drivers who got too close.

On two occasions, Shaw bumped vehicles to get them to hurry out of the way or prevent them from parking along Route Irish. Insurgents have planted bombs in such cars, triggering them as convoys drive by.

Tensions reached a boiling point, and Anderson turned on Shaw when the Humvee driver tried to push cars away on a nearby side street.

"Is this Route Irish?" he hollered. "Did I tell you to bump every car on the road? What if someone was slamming your car?"

The rain poured through the gun turret. The streets began to flood. Traffic came to a halt. The men got nervous; cars were behind them and ahead of them, drawing in too close.

"What is this?" Anderson asked. "Rush hour," Bobb responded.

The convoy jumped the median and drove down the wrong way. Their one-hour of tour of duty on Route Irish came to an end. The men relaxed and began heading toward the familiar, relatively friendly neighborhoods where they were to do mundane tasks.

"Have a holly jolly Christmas," the lieutenant hummed.