A US soldier tells of unit's daily perils

Globe copy editor Bill Johnson, on leave for a stint with the Rhode Island National Guard, has been serving in Iraq since April. He wrote this on Thursday.

BAGHDAD -- It is a new season here. We are halfway through our projected one-year deployment. The daytime temperature is down to about 100 degrees. And as the Muslim holy month of Ramadan begins, insurgent attacks are growing more frequent, and more deadly.

Attacks last week showed, as if we needed a reminder, that the Green Zone in central Baghdad has become more dangerous, our base on the southern edge of the city has become more dangerous, and the roads we travel in between are more dangerous.

An early-morning rocket attack on our base killed two soldiers. We are hit practically every day now with mortar and rocket fire.

Suicide bombers breached the heavily fortified Green Zone for the first time. Back-to-back lunchtime attacks destroyed a restaurant and a bazaar, killing several people.

Rhode Island Guardsmen housed near the marketplace ran over when they heard the explosion, and had to help pick up body parts. I drove past the restaurant that afternoon to see a pile of debris and twisted girders.

Another day, our convoy barely escaped a bombing. One of the biggest risks US soldiers face are improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, the crude but cruelly effective roadside bombs that insurgents detonate as we pass.

Worse still are VBIEDs (vee-beds), or vehicle-born IEDs, or what the Army calls car bombs. An IED can kill you. A VBIED almost certainly will. Last week an IED went off when the rear vehicle in our convoy, in which I was riding, was about 50 yards past it. None of us was hurt.

Life for a soldier in Baghdad these days is permeated by peril. You stand guard at a checkpoint, looking for bombs. You walk to chow, aware you're still in the enemy's aim. You lie in bed listening to explosions outside your window. You survive the days with increased caution and even greater fatalism.

Today we drove past the site of the IED again. Traffic was normal; clusters of schoolgirls in blue jumpers and white headscarves were walking home. (When all is unusually quiet, we sense danger -- it could mean a bomb has been planted and the locals know to stay out of the way, but don't necessarily care to warn us.) We made it safely back to base.

Amid horrific scenes, Iraqis are trying to live life as normally as possible, and when we're off-duty, so do we. Some guys get up at 3 in the morning to watch the Red Sox on satellite TV. Many keep in touch with their wives and kids via telephone, instant messaging, and Web cams -- but the "how-are-you?" and "I-love-you" messages often omit the shuddering truth.

Last Sunday night, I was lying in bed at 9:30 reading a letter. Outside were explosions from another mortar attack. From the room next door came cheers during the Patriots-Seahawks game. It felt weird.

The explosions used to be a periodic annoyance, like being awakened by the garbage truck. We gripe about the inconvenience of wearing our helmets and armored vests all the time now. What isn't heard amid the hail of mortar fire is growing anxiety and frustration. Some toss and turn at night; others are tormented by nightmares.

Last month, which now seems like a long time ago, we had a blues concert on post. About 100 soldiers gathered around the basketball court, as others played volleyball or soccer, to check out the group that had come from Buffalo to entertain the troops. For one evening, against a red desert sunset, a soulful strain played, uninterrupted by explosions.

"You've been gone too long in darkness," the bluesman sang. "Now it's time you came back to me."