I was sent to Iraq early last year to fight against Saddam and his loony terrorist-type freaks. We came through the northeast tip of Kuwait as part of a surprise attack on the city of Karbala. We were just missed by a missile attack on our position, so we ended up driving something like sixteen hours. Try to imagine a convoy of vehicles stretching literally from horizon to horizon, nine miles long, trying to sneak into Iraq, where everyone knew we didn't belong. Try to imagine a convoy that large with no places to take a dump; no toilets, no outhouses, not even a bucket, since those were packed up for the future mopping and cleaning details that were sure to ensue.

We finally stopped after two endless days of driving through the desert, sand storms and missiles looking to make our day not so nice. We got the word to rest, or eat, or do whatever for the next six hours before we were to get moving again. So of course I stuffed my face with the best military rations I could find (mind you, that took some digging). And then I fell asleep.

I was awoken by the blazing sun on my face, trying to melt it off. I put on my headphones and tired to forget where I was. A little time passed and then I felt an urge, you know the one I'm talking about. Although only military rations had been provided for us, some of us had managed to smuggle things like chips, salsa, and Cheetos into the country. After two days of driving and eating on the way, it had all decided it was time to come out. Since I had time, I looked for a place to take a dump.

Remember the convoy length? I looked around for some sort of privacy, but there was none -- and it seemed everyone was trying to do the same thing as I. I looked out to the right and all I saw was the open desert and bare, gleaming white asses shining at me in the sun, each belonging to someone trying to shit -- it was almost elbow to elbow in the desert with shitters. I like some privacy when it comes to doing the deed, of course, so I decided to look elsewhere for a better (and closer) place to poop. I thought that under my truck might be good, so I scouted it out. But everywhere I looked I saw others who seemed to be watching what I as doing. I had no other choice: the cab of the truck was about to be introduced to something very ugly.

I looked for something to poop on or in, but there was nothing I could or wanted to get rid of. So I started to scrounge around the convoy -- a trashbag would have been fine, but no one would give them up. I looked further and found a cracker box sitting on my gas tank. Someone had left it there for me to pick up. So I took it in to the truck.

My partner had just left to go and fix a radio, so I had a perfect opportunity to do the deed. I piled our gear between the seats in case he were to come back mid-shit, put some cardboard up over his window and locked his door. I put my poncho over my window and locked my door.

Total privacy -- but at a cost. Iraq is not the coolest place on earth. It's actually scorching hot. Now here I was in an all-metal truck, the windows up and blocked, in 100-110 degree heat, with the tip of a poop touching the cotton of my boxers, with nothing to shit in but a damned cracker box, with privacy that was costing me every ounce of water in body as it drained from my pores in rapid fashion.

Sweating, I ripped my uniform bottoms down and hovered over the open end of the box, praying my aim was true since I'd be sitting in that seat for about another week. I felt the lumpy brick exit my ass and felt the box move to conform to the shape of the nugget -- my aim was right on target. I managed to lay a log directly in the box and not get any on the outsides or on my seat (or on myself!).

I put the box on the dash, wiped my ass (which was now soaked with sweat), and stuffed the toilet paper into the box. I fixed my pants, rolled down the windows, took the box outside, and decided to put it back on my gas tank right where I found it. I was happy that I was now empty and that I could finally relax for another day or so before the next episode -- military rations do that to you, they stop you up pretty good. I left the box on the tank so when I drove off it would fall off and be lost and forgotten.

The convoy ended up staying there till well past nightfall. After another nap, I got up to mingle and see what was going on. I decided to take a normal piss while I could -- as opposed to trying to drive and pee in a bottle. Although I had gotten good at that, I felt it was still better to just pee where I pleased. I went to the truck tires in the rear and noticed that the cracker box was now gone.

I laughed and peed behind my truck, just trying to imagine what that poor soldier who picked up closed, heavy box of crackers discovered.

-- Ziburism