ON THE ROAD TO BAGHDAD – A sickening WVOOOOOM! accompanied by a desperate call of INCOMING!!! woke me from my battle-weary sleep.

In the fractions of a second that my poor, numb brain registered the sound of the 122mm rocket that landed 20 feet from our camp, I thought, “Where do you get off lighting those things up so close to sleeping souls?” We were lined up in our sleeping sacks, trying to erase the horror of the day’s battle that left four Marines dead and another 17 injured, when the explosion awoke us.

“Where do you get off lighting those things up so close to sleeping souls?”

We had traveled 31 miles yesterday on a highway controlled by Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard. Everywhere we went we were met with machine-gun fire and rocket-propelled grenades. My writing colleague Jim Landers sank back at the end of the day mumbling something about having stepped into hell.

I had barely extricated myself from my cocoon, when another rocket flew over us. The lieutenant colonel said the counter battery was tracking the source of the rockets and would destroy them.

The men of the Bravo command amphibious assault vehicle (AAV), with whom we had made a home for the last two days, looked at each other, shaking. And then the third one hit.

I jumped out of my sack, barefoot in shorts and a T-shirt. I collected my chemical suit, gas mask, Kevlar helmet, hiking boots, glasses and backpack and ran to the AAV for shelter.

“Oh my gawd, it’s a mermaid.”

“Oh my gawd, it’s a mermaid,” a young lance corporal, Keith Chandler, had barely covered up his skivvies with his sleeping bag before I trampled over him and perched myself on top of an MRE box, cursing under my breath. Getting into the AAV with all my protective gear normally takes me about a minute of huffing and puffing, and Lance Cpl. Chandler watched in disbelief as I leapt forcefully into the 3-feet-high entrance, throwing equipment in all directions.

After about 30 minutes, we straggled out, shaken, ready to take our chances. I crawled back into my sack, whimpering small comforts to myself.

If it was going to happen, then it would happen, and hopefully it would be quick. 

I prayed as I waited for sleep to take me away from the misery and fear. I thought, I don’t care what it takes – who gets hurt or who gets killed – just, please, make them stop. And with each explosion of our artillery, I cheered in my heart because it was one step closer to making me safe.

“I don’t care what it takes – who gets hurt or who gets killed – just, please, make them stop.”

Only the chickens

The following morning would reveal a minibus with a man, woman and two children lying in a pool of blood; a sedan with a man in the passenger seat covered in a blanket; a man lying prostrate in front of a delivery truck; two men lying next to a car, one of whom was believed to be a three-star general in the Republican Guard; and countless others at various checkpoints.

After weeks of waiting for action, we seem to have gotten it in full with the 2nd Tank Battalion. Each day is increasingly hectic as we race toward Baghdad, blowing through town after town, only waiting to resupply ammunition and to evacuate the dead and injured.

Rattled and shaken

My stomach has been weak since last night’s close call. Several journalists traveling with us have quietly begun talking about leaving. We are rattled and shaken. And the increasing violence to which we bear witness is taking its toll.

For myself, I can only say that I am determined to see Baghdad, if my will permits.

Zebullah, 12, listens to an English lesson from his nurse Abdul Satar through a window at the Khoja Bahauddin Hospital in northern Afghanistan. Zebullah’s foot was injured and his two uncles were killed when the Taliban fired a rocket into their house during a Taliban attack on their village.

Editor’s note: On Oct. 10, 2001 Cheryl Diaz Meyer, staff photographer for The Dallas Morning News, left Dallas for Tashkent, Uzbekistan, to join News reporter Tracey Eaton. The pair have journeyed to Dushanbe (D-YOU-SHAHM-BEH), Tajikistan, where they ventured across the Afghan border to Khoja Bahauddin (HO-juh BO-DEEN). After nearly two weeks in Khoja Bahauddin, they have moved on to Taloqan (TAHL-oh-KAHN), where they were awaiting the fall of Kunduz (koon-DOOZ).

A couple of oblique references need to be clarified: “John” is John Davidson, visuals editor. “Massood” is Ahmed Shah Massood, former leader of the Northern Alliance who was assassinated in September.

Cheryl and Tracey are more than our co-workers, they are our friends, part of our newspaper family. Through Cheryl’s e-mail journals, we’ve been able to feel and be part of their incredible journey.

Ken and John,

More people came in last night from Khoja Bahauddin, Massood’s town, which is some 1 1/2 hours from the Tajik border where many journalists are staying and where the aid organizations are also located. It’s not on the map because it was created four years ago when Massood was pushed north by the Taliban.

This town is where we anticipate to work out of. News is that the Monday convoy, which we were supposed to be on, was held up at the border overnight by Russian guards. They left at 10 a.m. and arrived in Khoja at 10 a.m. the following day. They slept on the ground or whatever.

In Khoja Bahauddin, we should be 1 or 3 hours away from the front lines – there are varied reports. It’s a drive plus an hour on a horse through a river. Supposedly the Northern Alliance cannot make a move because they have inferior weaponry so they are simply waiting for the U.S. to bomb the Taliban there. There is some firing back and forth, but it’s just a show. They are too far from each other.

The Northern Alliance got hold of a bunch of rations dropped by the U.S. and have kept most of it and pawned the rest at the market where journalists can find American peanut butter and other items the Afghans have no clue what to do with. They eat rice and beans most of the time.

The foreign ministry in Khoja Bahauddin was Massood’s place before he was killed. NBC is camped on his property. Many others have simply pitched tents in the so-called “garden.” Word is that they are serving free rice three times a day for the journalists. I will pick up some hard cheese and salami for the first week or so, and then we’ll go to canned meats and fish after that. I have decided to hire a second car for the ride to the border because we simply have too much baggage; we are loaded down with water and other supplies.

I am thrilled to think I have convinced a fellow from Bloomberg to part with his sleeping bag after he leaves in some four days. It’s fancy, small and very, very light. The ones at the local sport shop weigh a ton.

Apparently we must buy a generator. There is little electricity there, and with all our equipment needing recharging, we won’t be able to rely on kindness. Apparently journalists are feeling frustrated by the amount of equipment breaking down due to the sand and are getting quite ornery about whatever is working. I tried to scam a beautiful red small generator off an Austrian fellow who’s returning to Moscow soon, but he was too fearful of the repercussions with Russian customs. It was quite a lovely one, however.

For your comfort, some 1,300 or more journalists have gotten accredited in Dushanbe on their way to Afghanistan, and no one has gotten hurt. So things are rough but not terribly dangerous, it seems. There’s more danger to our equipment and personal health than anything.

Cheryl