Dear Suzanne,

At yesterday's mail call, I received a package from my sister (Beth) containing some books you mailed to her for shipment to Baghdad. Beth said she related the story of a paperback book saving my life (more properly my leg). I want to thank you for the time and the trouble. Books out here are a salvation, and an escape from the daily dance of death.

I am an infantryman, a grunt. I lead a squad of men and boys daily out on the streets of Baghdad. The politics of this mess cease to matter outside the gate. In the end, only getting my boys home intact will measure my success out here, and there are some very nasty characters who want me to fail, some on the other side, some on ours. We go just the same though, every day.

On September 30th of this year, my little squad was tasked with going over to brigade and escorting EOD out to look for booby traps (IED's). This was a last minute deal, and we had already worked all night, so it was a hassle getting the guys moving and out the gate to meet the time hack. I shoved the necessities in my cargo pockets (GPS, toothbrush, paperback, you never know how long you will get stuck at brigade) We rolled through town toward the martyr's monument (brigade headquarters) with the sun revealing another hot day to our left. I ride shotgun in the lead humvee, doors off for visibility and eyes out for attacks. It is nice to ride like that, just my guys and me, two trucks against the wide world.

We rolled up to an overpass, a tan ribbon over dust and dirt. There was no traffic, always a bad sign. The terrorists usually warn the Hajji's (slang for locals) if they can to stay off the street, but the job is the job, so we roll on at about 30mph over the crest of the overpass, Valier and I exchanging a look as we crested the summit.

Everything went silent and gray. A modified artillery shell, buried in a joint of the pavement, exploded about eight feet from my seat. We flew a bit, and came down and stopped more by reflex than anything else. I jumped out of the humvee, to discover my right side was sort of bloody and unresponsive to input from my brain, and that I was deaf. My job at this point is to see to my boys, I had one wounded in the rear truck (John W., asphalt took a dime sized chunk out of his ankle) and my gunner (Jason B.) had some light peppering. We set security, patched up the ankle of John, and set off for home to do a proper report.

When we returned to our compound, my job was to report, but my duty was to see my men were treated at the aid station. Our aid station is not exactly the pinnacle of professionalism one might hope for, so I am down there, dried blood all down my right leg, seeing that my guys are properly treated. It is then I begin to notice my thigh HURT, which is odd, as all of the blood was down around my calf. I felt around in my cargo pocket, and the paperback I has hastily grabbed before we left is dented and distorted, and a piece of shrapnel about the size of Ritz cracker has gone through the material of my pocket and was stopped my the book. A piece that would have just taken my leg off, but thanks to the book, I was left only with a bruise about the size of a softball.

The book was HANDLING SIN, by Michael Malone. Not a great read mind you, but as supplemental body armor it is first rate. It is just one of those things you grab when there is an uncertain future, but that future certainly involves waiting. I have always been an avid reader, and now have proof that it really does pay off. That may sound cliché, but all war is cliché in the end.

Again, thank you for the books. My sister is a worrier, but her heart, though overlarge is in the right place. The books will be enjoyed, on that you have my word.

Regards,

SSG Dyer
B 3/124th Infantry
Baghdad, Iraq