"Hey, cool shirt." Or at least that's what I think he said as he brushed past me. It was kind of hard to hear over the steady drone of an idling C-130. The heat was approaching 130 degrees, and the C-130's engines were kicking up sand on everything in a 100-yard radius. Not to mention that I had never been so absolutely terrified as I was at that moment when some desert-colored blur brushed past me and commented on my wardrobe. I looked down at my blue polo shirt and felt some sense of familiarity and comfort when I saw the embroidery that surrounded an emblazoned Eagle that said "NRA STAFF."

My next thoughts were to develop a plan of egress that would remove me from the scorching tarmac into a building that might not only provide shelter but answers to myriad questions, because I was standing in the middle of Mosul, Iraq, smack dab in the center of a war.

Don't get me wrong, I asked to be there. Truth be told, I begged. In fact, to the dismay of many friends and relatives, I diligently and tirelessly worked to get there for months. For whatever reason, my application to be an embedded war correspondent had been stonewalled by the Army from the beginning of the war. It might still be in some bureaucratic limbo had it not been for one lucky email that I wrote to the Division Public Affairs Officer of the 101st Airborne.

Maj. Trey Cate of the 101st replied to my request to become an embedded journalist. Within hours of its receipt, I was preparing to head to Iraq to report on the guns, uniforms and equipment of U.S. soldiers in Gulf War II. It was shortly thereafter that Mark Keefe, a friend and editor in chief of American Rifleman magazine, suggested that I take a film crew over with me to record segments on the guns of the 101st for "American Rifleman TV" on the Outdoor Channel. The crew consisted of Randy Schoening, cameraman for the Outdoor Channel and host of the show, "Adventurebound Outdoors." Randy, after a good amount of coaxing, agreed to come along but only for seven days. At my own request and with my boss' generous consent, my tour of duty would be 30 days, enough to qualify for the Combat Infantryman's Badge if my MOS was an 11Bravo. Now technically I wasn't TDY for TAR. This was on my own time and dime all the way. All I had from the Rifleman staff was a letter of introduction that secured my visa and press credentials, as well as their good wishes for an enjoyable summer vacation.

Following in the time-faded and dusty footprints of NRA's World War II correspondent Bill Shadel, I set off on the adventure of a lifetime. I would bring back a lot more than photographs and memories. I would be profoundly affected in many ways, not the least of which was a newfound sense of patriotism as well as an undying respect for American servicemen and women. My biggest shock was not the record-setting 137-degree heat (seven consecutive days), getting shot at (three times) or being attacked by wild dogs (once, well not exactly attacked by dogs, just set upon by one hungry enough to try to pull my socks off while I slept). No, my biggest shock was the reception I received from everyone I met and asked who I was and why I was there. Which brings me back to my first minutes in country and the Airport in Mosul.

The sign in huge block letters on the side of the airport read "Mosul International Airport." I searched for an entrance and found one beneath a sign that read "D-REAR 101st AIRBORNE (ASSAULT)." Maneuvering around a six-foot high maze of sandbags, I found the entrance and entered what was locally called the Division Rear HQ, Tactical Operations Center or D-Rear TOC for short. I called my Point of Contact at Division Main HQ, and then took a seat in the lobby with Randy while we waited for a ride to our new home somewhere on the outskirts of Mosul.

While we were sitting there in the lobby, looking as out of place as Osama at a Tupperware party, a curious major approached us and asked if we needed help. I told him we were journalists waiting for a ride to D-Main. He then asked the inevitable: "Who you guys with?" To which I responded "The NRA and the Outdoor Channel." He said, "No kidding? For real? Hang on a second, I have someone you need to meet." He turned and stuck his head inside the TOC and yelled, "Hey GUNS, you gotta' see this."

Now back home I have faced this situation a few times. More than once I have been asked where I worked by some stranger. Having taken the message of St. Peter's denial to heart, I always answer, "the NRA," boldly with great enthusiasm. To which the frequent response has been a quizzical, "The NRA?" My next reply is the broadside that usually gets my point across that I won't stand to be messed with on this subject ... "Yeah, the National Rifle Association, you may have heard of us, we're in all the papers." My inquisitor will then usually grunt and mumble something as they wander off or express great delight at meeting a kindred spirit. As "Guns" emerged from the TOC to meet us, I was placing my money on a kindred spirit.

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"Hey, Guns, these guys are with the NRA, can you believe that?" Guns walked up, extended a hand and looked at me again for the second time that day and said. "You mean that shirt is for real?"

Recognizing him as the desert-colored figure that passed me on the tarmac earlier, I realized I was in friendly territory. "Wow! That's awesome!" he exclaimed as I explained who we were and why we were there, "I'm an Endowment member!" he added and with a smile as big as Texas he introduced himself as the 101st Airborne's Air Force Liaison, Lt. Col. Donald Koehler of Ft. Campbell, Ky.

He took one look at us and quickly realized we were fish out of water, quite literally. We were severely dehydrated and didn't know it. He gave us bottles of water to guzzle and invited us back to his sanctuary, an enclave off the main terminal floor that served as a broom closet and barracks for Air Force personnel, of which Col. Koehler was the only one at that point in time. We explained what kind of show segments we wanted to capture on tape and he quickly volunteered to show off his original Air Force procured M16 rifle and did a great job as our first victim on camera. For the remainder of our stay that scene repeated dozens of times.

Once we arrived in Mosul, Maj. Cate made arrangements for us to bivouac in a former hotel re-named the Civil/Military Operations Center or CMOC for short. It was the HQ of the 431st Civil Affairs Battalion from Little Rock, Ark. Sgt. Pitts of the 431st assisted Randy and I to our room on the sixth floor. In this, the former five-star Nineveh Hotel, floor selection was a catch-22. Lower floors were within easy RPG range and higher floors were a bear to access as the elevators were always a 50/50 proposition. (Sgt. Pitts own third floor room was blown up by an RPG two weeks after I departed; he escaped serious injury).

On the first evening of our stay at the CMOC, the elevators were nothing but a fond memory and we trudged up all six flights to deliver nine suitcases, boxes and AV cases to our room. To say I was hot, sweaty and tired would be an understatement. Never before had I ever felt all three so acutely. Sgt Pitts looked at us in our collective crumpled heaps and said, "Which one of you is from the NRA HQ?" I looked up and said acknowledged that I was indeed from Fairfax HQ. Then with a face that did not betray any emotion, good or bad, he said, "Fine, follow me, Colonel Bishop wants to see you."