Dust. Fine, powdery dust that floats in the air like baking flour. It coats everything in a fine layer of misery, from the trucks we drive to the bolt carrier group of the rifle I carry. It permeates everything that I own, clogs my nostrils, scratches my eyes, and taints my food. It envelops me like a warm blanket, bringing a strange degree of comfort and insulation from the death that is everywhere.

The smell of diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid, and av-gas. It’s the smell of American power. We brought a staggering amount of mechanized machinery with us to this land, and it all runs on petroleum based products. Diesel spills from every truck, and hydraulic fluid leaks like rain from the overhead lines of the helos. The fuel farms are the lifeblood of the campaign, and they always seem to be upwind.

Nighttime. It’s when we live. Operations mostly run at night, because we own it with our advanced night vision optics. The heat is a little more tolerable, and we’re lesser targets for Haji. The sleep deprivation imparts a slight touch of delirium and a surreal texture to the experience, but that’s part of what makes it irreplaceable. Nighttime means brutal exhaustion, but also reward for the effort.

Skylines. Sunrise or sunset in the Middle East is something to behold. To climb atop the bunker and watch it happen is an experience so big I can’t comprehend it. Looking out across the desert in the blistering heat of midday. The cradle of civilization, a truly ancient land. The Tigris and the Euphtates rivers. Babylon. For crying out loud, this is the land they’re talking about in THE BIBLE! A kid from Georgia just can’t top that for sheer magnitude.

Youth. The young Marines I serve with are a new generation. Being a re-tread Marine, I’m 15 years older than my ranking peer group. These guys were just learning to walk when I took the oath. We can’t relate to each other on much of anything, other than the mission. They piss me off with their casual attitudes and belligerence, but in rare moments when they don’t realize I’m watching, I love the hardness of their spirit. Belligerent little assholes. They’re different, but we’re all Marines.

Purpose. My purpose is to serve. To serve, I have a mission. My mission is the business of caring for dead Marines. Young or old, enlisted or commissioned, all dead nonetheless. My mission sucks, but it provides a purpose that is tangible. All one has to do to see the direct result is turn on the evening news. Invariably, somewhere in there is coverage of another military funeral. If that Marine, Sailor, or Soldier was killed in Anbar province, my unit was the first to drape his body with the colors of his country.

I went to Iraq longing for a purpose, and I’ve grown to hate that. I should have been more careful about what I wished for.