From: Anderson Cooper CNN
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No names, just bodies. So many small acts of terror; after a while you
lose track of them all.

From the headlines and pictures you'd think it's complete chaos, but

the truth is much more complicated than that. The terror is targeted.
Some parts of the country appear peaceful. Other parts, anything but.

"It's nowhere near as bad as you see on TV," a young soldier says to
me. "Sure, you get shot at sometimes, but most of the time it's real
boring."

During World War II, British troops in Iraq used to say about the town
in southern Iraq they were based in, "Basra is the a--hole of the
world, but Baghdad's a couple hundred miles up it." Most American
soldiers in Baghdad today would likely agree.

On patrol with the 1st Cavalry, the hours trickle by. At noon it's 110
degrees, and sweat comes out of body parts that you didn't know could
sweat.

The soldiers are drenched, their skin slick behind camouflage vests and
wraparound sunglasses. You can't see anyone's eyes.

"I'm sweating more than an E-6 trying to read," Ryan Peterson jokes,
his hands never far from the machine gun perched on the back of his
Humvee.

Peterson, an Illinois reservist, was ambushed in April. He's not sure
how things here are going to turn out. "Frankly, it could go either
way," he says. Though he's proud of what he's done, he can't wait to
get home.

Back at base, a camp called Victory, there's row after row of
air-conditioned trailers, a Burger King, and a giant PX.

You can buy "Who's your Baghdaddy?" T-shirts, electronics and potato
chips or simply stand in the aisle and close your eyes, feel the cool
air on your face.

It feels like America, and though it doesn't last long, I'd be lying if
I said it doesn't feel good.

"It's tough being here, with all these lonely, horny soldiers around,"
a female friend of mine jokes. She's a civilian working for the
Coalition Provisional Authority, which was running the show here for
more than a year.

She hates it at times, but she can't imagine being anywhere else.

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Riding in a Black Hawk ... the heavy rotors slicing the air, your body
shakes so much your skin starts to itch. Feet dangle from the open
doors, blast-furnace heat bakes your face, sucking the moisture from
your lips.

You fly low, 50 feet off the ground, too close for an RPG to be
effective. You pitch up over power lines, then plunge back down. The
door gunner stays alert. It's hard not to be impressed by the high-tech
horsepower of American might.

Of course, Bremer's not the only one trapped in a security bubble. We
all are, and breaking out is hard to do. You speed along in convoys,
surrounded by barrel-chested guys with ceramic plates hidden underneath
their shirts, machine guns in hand. Their eyes dart and bodies shift as
a car swings out of nowhere alongside you.

You stay tense, expecting an attack, but nothing happens, and after a
while you stop noticing the weight of your flak jacket, stop feeling
your heart beat against the heavy ceramic plate on your chest.

I try to spend a couple of hours talking to Iraqis on the street, but
the head security guy shows me a note warning of terrorists driving
around looking to kidnap foreigners. We go out anyway, but only for a
short time.

The days blur. Night here is morning in New York, so you work around
the clock. At first I sleep only a few hours each day, wake up stunned,
my hotel blinds drawn against the heat, not sure where I am.

Everything else falls away. Family, friends, bills, mortgages. You talk
to people back home on the phone, and it's nice to hear from them, but
then you've got to go, happily distanced from the drudgery of that
life.

It's like being high and not wanting to leave the club. You keep
thinking you're going to miss something. One more pill, one more song,
one more hour. The key, of course, is to leave before it gets really
bad, but in the end, what fun is that?

The truth is, it feels good; even amid destruction, you feel alive.
It's not just some story you watch on TV -- pixelated people in a
faraway land -- it's living, breathing, it fills your nostrils.

In a rundown hospital, a young man lies on a plastic sheet, his body
burned. A suicide bomber blew himself up in a crowd of men waiting to
join the new Iraqi army. Thirty-six were killed; this young man
survived.

"When you get out, do you still plan to join the army?" I ask.

"Of course," he says. "It's an honor."

Despite all the bombs and bullets, the bloodshed and fear, it's
impossible not to notice the hope.

The morning I leave, terrorists hit the hotels with rockets --not
exactly the wake-up call I was expecting.

Three Iraqi guards are injured. Thankfully no one is killed.

Later, at the airport, when I'm standing on the tarmac and waiting to
identify my luggage before boarding the plane, a mortar lands a few
hundred meters away.

The impact, crushingly loud, shakes the ground. A black plume of smoke
rises high into the air. The other passengers look around to see where
the shell has landed; a nervous tremor moves through the crowd.

"It's all right," says a teenage Iraqi baggage handler, laughing. "It's
all right."