We packed our vehicles tightly up around the EOD truck. Several soldiers dismounted with their weapons and assumed predetermined positions among the Humvees on the road. The rear doors of the EOD truck opened and a nervous-looking Air Force airman emerged, then another. Together, they lowered a robot to the ground from inside the truck. It resembled the Martian rover minus the solar panels, but complete with miniature tank tracks, and articulating arms. All told, it was about the size of a child's tricycle.

I had seen some of the other robots that preceded this one at the FOB. I also knew that each robot was given a name usually taken from someone's beloved pet back home, a clever quip, or Maxim magazine's latest girl. In the covered area where the robots were kept, a memorial for past robots who would not be making it home was chronicled on a plywood wall, complete with period of service and the occasional loving send off like, "We will not forget you, Sierra. Our love goes with you to robot heaven."

After the airmen prepared the robot with its load of explosives, they hurriedly went back to the safety of their armored truck; the security detail lingered, finishing their cigarettes, eventually returning to the protection of their own vehicles. Soon after, "Chastity the Robot" cruised merrily down the road ahead of us as we sat in the vehicles watching and waiting. With the fog, she was almost out of sight by the time she reached the IEDs. But squinting my eyes from the back seat of the truck, I could just make her out, doing her lifesaving work.

I was in the NCOIC's (non-commissioned officer in charge) truck, so I had the opportunity to listen in on a headset. "Five-minute warning," the voice announced, and the robot began its return to us, becoming more defined as it drew nearer through the fog.

Moments later the voice announced, "Two-minute warning."

The NCOIC began to speak into his headset, "Two-minute warning guys, button up." With that command the gunners in each of our trucks crouched down into the truck and flipped a hatch down over their heads, partially occluding the opening above them.

"We're all buttoned down, EOD. You're clear. It's your show," the NCOIC announced.

"Roger that, Tiger One," the voice replied, and only seconds later added, "Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole." And then, BOOM! A mushroom-shaped plume of black smoke and debris bloomed up from the ground, 40 or 50 feet high, and then faded up higher, drifting left over the reeds and the air above the fields, slowly fading back, disappearing into the blank fog.

"Oh, that one sucked," an anonymous voice stated on the headset.

"Yeah, it did," another previously silent voice added.

The robot, having stopped back within the cluster of vehicles for the controlled det (detonation) now began its journey back to the blast site to relay images through its electronic eyes.

After what seemed like a long while, I could just make out "Chastity" through the fog, just having stopped where the dirt had scattered across the road. The voice from the EOD truck spoke up again, "Looks like we didn't get it all, guys. We're going to have to blow this one again."

"Fuckin' cherries!" a voice grumbled over the headset. The robot once again began its work on the now partially destroyed IED, its arms faintly visible through the fog, placing another charge.

There are a few things one should understand about this scenario. First of all, the EOD team can only hear the NCOIC of the security detail, and only when he chooses. They cannot hear the commentary by the others. Secondly, the EOD team has several things against them. To begin with, they are Air Force, not Army, which, with or without merit, is a social disadvantage on an infantry post. To make matters worse, their tour is four to six months as opposed to the Army's 12 months. This is a privilege that most Army soldiers take like a kick in the shin.

Lastly, this four-man team is new, so they may be a little nervous and are, in fact, inexperienced. But a more important bit of background is unspoken. These four are the direct replacements of the three killed and one injured from an incident earlier in the month. This fact, I suspect, further alienates them, as the previous team had earned the respect and friendship of the soldiers on the FOB. Secretly, people hate the living replacements of the ones they loved who died -- like a grandfather's second wife.

The morning went on with us stopped there in the road. There were several IEDs in that one area and five controlled dets overall. With each one, the process repeated itself with only minor deviations. "Chastity" would travel down and attach the charge and return, the five-minute, then two-minute warnings would be given, the order to "button up", and the final, "Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole," and the climactic explosion just after. The only variation being the reloading of explosives onto the robot for the partially destroyed IED and the slight modifications of ridicule spoken over the headsets.

The boredom was undeniable, and I felt a distinct urge to begin reading the paperback I carried in my cargo pocket. I decided, however, that I was still outside the wire and I should not appear too complacent. Relaxed is fine, respected in fact, but complacent is not, especially for someone of my rank. Besides, it was not Grisham, it was Chaucer, and I didn't want to be the target of their ridicule later on. I had learned that lesson with "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

I happened to look up at the gunner at one point in between detonations. I could only see him from about mid-torso down, but from where I sat, I could see him slowly cranking the handle that rotates the turret, a half-turn forward and a half-turn back, creating a slight side-to-side, back-and-forth rocking rotation of the turret as he leaned against it. While I couldn't see his face, I could imagine it. His eyes were glazed, focused on some distant, indistinct point in the fog behind us. Perhaps he was imagining a favorite food or car he wished he had. Perhaps he was rocking himself to sleep. In any case, after several hours of blowing up these IEDs, we pushed on, and Capt. Chase and I were dropped off at the patrol base.