Yesterday, Ibrahim, who was deployed to Iraq about a month ago, said that the building where he was e-mailing me from was attacked by a rocket. He said he wasn't sure what happened to the rocket, but it didn't end up hitting the building, and no one was hurt.
He said this is the way it is over there. He said he's resigned to his fate, and that he knows there's a round of gunfire or an IED that's going to get him, and there's no longer any point to worrying, or being scared, or fearing death.
A week ago, he was part of a convoy in which he watched one of his buddies lose both of legs and an eye, and another one lose a hand. He was charged with the task of packing up Legless, Eyeless Guy's possessions and send them back to the states.
I treat every conversation, every e-mail, as if it were our last, because it's hitting home: it very may well be.
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