Individual barracks rooms are in trailers that cover the base in long, straight lines, their porch lights a guide to night-flying helicopters. Enlisted soldiers live in pairs and do what they can to make their quarters feel like home.
Pfc. David Usry, 25, of Tampa, is Girardin's roommate, a stocky cook with a nearly shaved head and the oldest member of this social club. Sitting on his bed, just a few hours before having to go back on duty, Usry smiles after mutilating a foe in the game Mortal Kombat. "I play every chance I get," he says, the clock passing 1:30 a.m. "I should be asleep now. Oh well."
Spec. Criss Sanders, left, trounces Spec. Robert McKinney and Pfc. David Usry in a game of Halo in a trailer at Camp Liberty, on the outskirts of Baghdad.
(Josh White -- The Washington Post)
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Sitting next to him is Spec. Robert McKinney, 23, of Brooklyn, N.Y., whose eyes go wide when he shoots at an enemy in Halo. "Don't beg, don't beg," McKinney chimes in. "Everyone gets to die."
"We sort of zone out and know we can sit here and kill each other, and no one gets hurt," McKinney says later. "Everyone comes out alive."
The soldiers taunt, jeer, high-five and let out profanity-laced tirades when their abilities are overmatched or their move to the controller's "shoot" button is just a moment too slow. At one break, Spec. Brian Schroeder, 25, of The Colony, Tex., strummed Radiohead's "High and Dry" on an acoustic guitar before fading into a jam with Girardin, playing an electric. McKinney and Sanders join in on air drums, laughing.
Some nights, the soldiers play against one another from their separate rooms, having wired together a network. Some have satellite television in their trailers, while others have Internet connections. Tonight, they're all together.
It's not all gaming, all the time. They flip through American magazines and offer exclamations about how beautiful Jessica Simpson is or how they'd love to be holding a cold brew. The soldiers reminisce about home, the parties they're missing. The windows and floors occasionally rattle from helicopters overhead, and a loud boom signals some sort of explosion nearby.
Girardin joined the military right out of high school to straighten out his life, worried that he could become consumed by drugs or lack of ambition. The tall and lanky teenager sat forward and put down his controller, dropping a playful singsong tone in favor of a much older voice.
"I've been able to do so many things," Girardin says. "Within a year of joining, I've been to Germany, Iraq, Kuwait, Qatar, and I'll be traveling Europe for two weeks in March. I've thrown a grenade. I've shot a gun. I'm a veteran of a war, and that's cool. I'm proud of that."
The soldiers bemoan basic training and talk about how hard their drill sergeants were on them. Girardin complains about the work he had to do: "Basic training was the worst experience of my life. At least in Iraq, I can go back to my room and play video games and drink soda and eat candy."
Sanders, who exudes much more wisdom and experience than his 21 years might indicate, says the Army helped him focus. "Think about it -- when you came to the military, how many push-ups could you do?" Sanders asks Girardin, needling him.
"Not even 10," Girardin replies. When Sanders asks him how many he can do now, Girardin guesses: "I don't know, like 60."
Usry picks up a controller to get ready for another four-way game of Halo, another hour closer to his pre-dawn shift. He yawns and fiddles with a pack of Royale Club menthol cigarettes, which cost 50 cents a pack.
"It's 2:30 again," McKinney says, shrugging his shoulders.
"I'm a night owl," Sanders replies, hitting the start button one more time.
