Shiny boots, military boots. Shined to perfection in that military way. You never stall your motor here. Random gunshots up front confirm the stop of this UN aid convoy. At least having the motor going means the air-con won’t stop, damn desert heat.
Eighteen grand I earn, run this rig through a convoy in outer-west Iraq. Once every three months I get the holiday of my choice: I always go home to my house behind Byron. I never used to feel like a mercenary, but these days I’m not so sure. Then a dawn patrol at Tallow’s makes the mortgage worthwhile.
Time in the tube looking at flat rock now stands still in my mind, then returns to those black boots shining up at me in my air-conditioned cab. The heat fucks with your mind.
Money’s good running this trip, much better than sucking down pills and driving the Pacific Highway in a B-double. Still, it was much easier early on when we carried aid and food. Now with guns and ammo we become prime targets. Knowing the locals the way I do, it’s hard to blame them.
Yeoman, two worlds away from Iraq (only a vet will get that), a small port town, enjoys a few Aussies. Drinks, laughs, good food abound. Till the American Fifth Carrier Group comes to town. Suddenly 6,000 horny US Navy sailors are unloaded (in more ways than one) in a devout Muslim town. Honestly, give me a grenade!
It’s an easy job. You match the white line up in the windscreen with the white line on the back of the lorry in front. Two white lines in a convoy matched up = safety, so long as you can do it for hours on end at 140mph! Mercedes Benz rules in these circumstances. You can laugh. Till the next roadside bombing.
It’s the bridges with their spring-loaded mines that scare me (supposed to go off only with the weight of a tank, but over time and trucks, the mechanism builds up…and another aid truck bites the dust). But then again, I find it hard to sleep in the securer Green Zone – shit that comes with the job.
Still there’s the kids, fighting over the dead GI’s boots in front of me. I guess that’s life. I hope they fit: then the poor Marine’s life will have meant something.
A nice shiny pair of boots!
— Fong
