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Spent much of the day in Baghdad traffic. Traffic jams have always been frustrating; but never quite so stressful. Baghdad streets are busy and jammed with dented cars and donkey carts. Street-side markets are packed. Appliances, computers, carpets, generators, clothing, vegetables. Shops up and down both sides of the main avenues, and carts full of cheap stuff. And little boys running out to passing cars. A couple of them were selling boxes of tissues I think. We were stuck for a while going donkey-slow and one little urchin followed along for a while giving his best sales pitch to my armored glass window. I ran out of facial expressions explaining my non-purchase of his box. Charades: ‘No money’. ‘Don’t want it.’ ‘Not sure what you’re selling.’ ‘You’re too close to the vehicle.’ ‘Why aren’t you in school?’ ‘Why is the traffic so slow?’ ‘Don’t step in that-‘ ‘Too late.’ ‘Yes, that is quite funny.’ I have little control over my convoys anymore. In my old job, my transportation was internally supported; if I wanted to go to some meeting my company would perform the mission and I had my own humvee and crew. Now I’m dependent upon a support unit to come and pick me up and take me downtown. The crews vary in quality and attitude. I have found there is no such thing as courteously aggressive. That was the golden mean I tried to achieve with the patrols I led. But you really can’t drive a convoy of humvees through a city and be nice and stay safe at the same time. If you try to be courteous and respectful of Iraqi drivers and pedestrians, you put the lives of your soldiers at risk. Suicide drivers are known to meander the streets waiting for an easy target. Most crews I ride with are the completely belligerent type. We’ll jump the median and drive down through oncoming traffic; we blare annoying sirens and force everyone in our path to pull over; we’ll shout at, throw water bottles at, point weapons at and occasionally shoot at cars that don’t get out of our way fast enough. Sometimes we drive so aggressively that we’re not really paying attention to where we’re going. I don’t know how many times we’ve stopped traffic to do a three-point-turn, or jumped a curb to pull a u-turn or we’ve driven around the same traffic circle two or three times before we get headed in the right direction. It has to be somewhat comical, as well as being amazingly aggravating to the native onlookers. And it’s very difficult to wave and say ‘Sorry!’ while you’re pointing a .50cal at somebody. I don’t know what Arabic for ‘A--hole!’ is, but I’m sure I’ve heard it. On the other hand, my crew today was docile. As our velocity slows, the potential methods and directions of attack multiply. And the crews that put you in a situation where an attack seems more likely are also the crews you don’t really feel comfortable getting into a firefight with. I didn’t always think my old crew was the most experienced or best-trained unit, but at least I knew what they were capable of. In a way, Hollywood gets one thing right about military clichés. It’s usually the guys who just got there, or the guys about to go home that get hit. Statistics proves it. There’s a steep learning curve at the beginning, and then there’s a struggle against complacency when you think you’ve seen it all. The toughest thing about this place is that can never let yourself be comfortable, ever.