Crossing into Iraq in that never-ending convoy felt like being caught in a river’s current, we flowed across the border in an inevitable stream of war machines. In the afternoon light of the desert we poured through breaches in the berms and tank trenches on the Iraq-Kuwait border, passing long-abandoned UN border posts standing a useless watch. Further on, as darkness fell, we began to pass the GOSPs.  Saddam had ordered them set on fire, so we drove through the jets of flame spewing from the earth.  At the closest we maybe got within 200 meters of a GOSP on fire, maybe as far as 400 meters. That may sound like a long ways away, but the heat was so intense it felt like my face was melting. The hot air blasted through the open windows of the truck and we held our arms up to give our faces a little relief.  This was one of only two times the entire invasion when I didn’t drive.  Randy was driving, and I was in the front passenger seat because Nate and Matt had taken my truck to go get the Kuwaiti linguists.  At some point past the GOSPs the call of nature called, and I had to piss.  We couldn’t stop, of course, so I opened the door and managed to turn around in the seat, even in all my armor and gear. Facing the rear I opened the humvee door and expressed myself as we drove through the night.  I left a trail of piss into Iraq.

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