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РІР‚СљThe odds are good,РІР‚Сњ Nicole replied, repeating one of her mantras, РІР‚Сљbut the goods are odd.РІР‚Сњ Morgan, the newbie, said sheРІР‚в„ўd hoped that she might meet a guy in Iraq, but not so much anymore. РІР‚СљBefore I came here,РІР‚Сњ said Ann (another pseudonym), the National Guardsman with goat-farm fantasies, РІР‚СљI used to like them-men, I mean.РІР‚Сњ The food in front of her was untouched, as it often was. SheРІР‚в„ўd just filed a sexual-harassment complaint against her supervisor. РІР‚СљWhat do the men gain from it being like this?РІР‚Сњ That was Silvana (a pseudonym), an economic analyst with several masterРІР‚в„ўs degrees.

Two soldiers stood up, craning to get a glance at us. She did security checks on the perimeter and was Command Sergeant Major HolcombРІР‚в„ўs assistant driver. Theresa was tiny, with more positive energy than a sunflower.

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Theresa, an MP, mused that we hadnРІР‚в„ўt figured out how to bring democracy to the Middle East, but we had managed to bring Southern fried chicken and grits. РІР‚СљIraqРІР‚в„ўs had a real ass-kicking this month,РІР‚Сњ she announced. Ex-Army, she was now a doctoral student and civilian analyst collecting research on democracy-building in Iraq. I counted how many women were in a room the second I entered: 63 men, two women 44 men, one woman. I was a civilian, ferried over by third-party contractors to provide analytical support for Rear Admiral Gregory Smith, the new head of public affairs for the Multi-National Force in Iraq. None of us had the security clearance to know what she did. Beside her was a Naval Academy graduate with shin splints and swollen ankles from carrying 80 pounds on 10-mile marches. There was a cropped-haired, soft-voiced woman in the National Guard who dreamed of starting a goat farm. One of us was State Department, another a civilian analyst, and others military police, or MPs. Grateful for another young woman to talk to, and perversely relieved by the addition of another female to absorb the male attention. We couldnРІР‚в„ўt see one another socially much, with our crazy work schedules, but we walked together whenever possible, and gathered for meals, six or seven of us, our trays loaded with barbecue and biscuits and salads drenched in ranch dressing. The table of women was at the back of the palace dining facility-DFAC to all of us. Men watched as we passed beneath an ornate ceiling of red-and-green marble and rows of glittering chandeliers. She carried a Bible, and I remember thinking this would help her. She wore her long brown hair down, though she wouldnРІР‚в„ўt for long. At 23, she was two years older than I was. I walked next to a woman IРІР‚в„ўll call Morgan, who was new and whom IРІР‚в„ўd met only the night before. military and State Department were working out of SaddamРІР‚в„ўs Republican Palace, in Baghdad. Some hours later, my brown ballet flats tapped softly on the marble floor. When I arrived at my desk, I put my head down.

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I walked past flashing TV sets and translators in headphones typing at their keyboards. I showed my badge at the palace entrance, coded into my office. Behind me, thick plumes of smoke rose into the sky. I ran my fingers through my hair and braided it as I left the Riverside Trailer Compound, where I lived, and threaded through the rows of sandbags, then past the statue of Saddam Hussein, its half-head lying in the sand. Back in my trailer, I dressed and slipped my embassy ID around my neck. I pulled my robe tighter.Р”Р‡inally, the attack ceased, and the sirens quieted. The bearded soldierРІР‚в„ўs eyes met mine and held. These men went outside the wire every day, in all that danger, that heat. РІР‚СљYou always say thank you when we buzz you through,РІР‚Сњ he said, smiling kindly. A marine offered me the one chair inside the bunker. A half-dressed contractor took furtive looks at my neck. A bearded, sunburned soldier stared at my feet.

I leaned against the wall and tried to stop my legs from shaking. The rounds hit like deep drums, but we were safe, packed together in 50 square feet of concrete. I should have slept in clothes, but my air conditioner was broken. The curly hair on their chests rose and fell with their labored breathing. Soldiers in military fatigues, some without shirts contractors in cargo shorts and polos other men in nothing but boxers. More than a dozen men squatted there and looked at me. I crashed into the duck-and-cover, yanking my robe closed. My robe fell open and flew out behind me.Р”Р„nother hit. I was lying there, panting, when I saw a bright-yellow bunker tucked behind a row of sandbags and palm trees.

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Another series of explosions, and I hit the rocks. The duck-and-cover bunkers were 100 feet away. I raced along a row of sandbags, one hand holding the robe closed.

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