As for training, there would be more. Eason Jordan, chief news executive, who put CNN on the map with the hardwire cable into Baghdad that allowed the network to report live exclusively during the first Gulf War, made sure anyone going to war got comprehensive war training. We spent a week with seasoned Brit and Aussie special-forces tutors who’d seen and done it all. We learned battlefield medicine; how to walk in a minefield (at least ten yards behind the guy in front, so if he sets it off, you survive); how to beat tropical diseases. We got chemical decontamination kits and top German-made gas masks—the same brand I later videotaped littering the ground around several abandoned Iraqi military headquarters.

In one exercise at a farm outside Atlanta, CNN guards dressed as guerillas captured anchor Daryn Kagan and held her at knifepoint. I tried to negotiate, buy time. I offered cigarettes to one, then looked him in the eye. Oops. Wrong move. Never look your kidnapper in the eye. They took her away. I heard screams in the woods. Er, sorry, Daryn.

More training: how to use the laptop video-editing gear, how to acquire a signal with fancy satellite dishes, how not to use infrared night vision on our cameras that could tip off a sniper. By the time we shipped out for Kuwait in February, we were almost ready. I got personalized dog tags, on chains—one to loop in a shoelace, the other to go around the neck, both with Social Security number, blood type, and name, so they’d know where to send the body.

The Pentagon promised almost total access. All we had to do was sign an agreement with the military. We could report the war—the good, bad, and the ugly, in real time or thereafter. The only catch: We had to have our local commander’s blessing, and that was sometimes a snap and sometimes maddening. From canvassing fellow CNN embeds, I learned that the Army appeared to be the most accommodating ground force, as Walt Rodgers illustrated when he raced across the desert towards Baghdad with a long line of Abrams tanks, reporting live at full gallop. And while Martin Savidge was allowed to keep cameras rolling as his Marine unit took fire and the vehicle he was riding on nearly went over a wall, other Marine units varied in their willingness to give permission to go live.

Arms and the men: view through mounted machine gun, top; Rey Narvais with photo from home, middle; LAVs in transit to first engagement in Iraq, above

New technology and the number of crewmembers assigned also made a difference in how much video we could send home. Walt and Marty, for example, had terrific cameramen and reliable videophones, as did other CNN teams. Meanwhile, a handful of embeds like me traveled solo and light, filing stories for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and CNN that gave the network even more front-row seats to war in exchange for our double duty.

It’s going to be camping—with a twist,” quipped a Marine colonel as he surveyed several hundred journalists who had descended on the Hilton Hotel ballroom in Kuwait City for their smallpox and anthrax shots, military IDs, and lessons on how to put on a gas mask (take any longer than nine seconds and you could die), when to jab yourself with atropine if you started drooling from invisible nerve agents in the air, and how to get ready to be down-and-dirty, as in no showers for, in my case, six weeks. Then it was bye-bye Starbucks.

We boarded buses and rode two hours to tent cities near the Kuwait-Iraq border. I wound up at Camp Shoup, named after a Marine Medal of Honor winner, where sandstorms raged, stinging the eyes, and Marines kept their edge training and wrestling in the dirt—and wondering if and when they’d get the word. Then it came: Pack up, no more phone calls home. Within hours, we were near “the berm”—the DMZ, marked by giant mounds of dirt separating Kuwait and Iraq. We heard someone yell, “MISSILES…TAKE COVER!” Scuds. One exploded nearby; others, we learned later, were blasted out of the sky over Kuwait City. I began reporting live salvos of rockets shooting like giant Roman candles into the night overhead to soften up Iraqi positions across the border.

“ GAS, GAS, GAS,” shouted a sergeant. I excused myself from the show to put on my mask, then resumed my report. “Art, you sound too much like Darth Vader,” my CNN handler said. “Call back.” (Like every gas warning, it turned out to be a false alarm.)

The next morning, we crossed the berm, a bumpy open-air ride in an LAV that zoomed up and down hills, past destroyed Iraqi armor and onto a flat expanse of desert in Southern Iraq never before touched by U.S. military might. That first night, the unit parked in a wide defensive formation. Exhausted, I heated up an MRE, something like chicken tetrazzini, emptied the contents of a tiny bottle of Tabasco on it, checked for poisonous snakes and scorpions, and tossed my air mattress onto the ground. I crawled into the sleeping bag and dozed off thinking, You are in Iraq!

Then I felt what seemed like rain, but the droplets were the size of cotton balls, fatter than any I’d ever seen on a rainy night in Georgia, and appeared to be floating down in slow motion. My first thoughts—a chemical attack—an airburst of some nerve agent. I thought of my wife,

I thought of my sons, my Jack Russell named Zipper. Groggy, I tried to scramble out of the sleeping bag, reached for my gas mask, resigned that I was about to die in some convulsive horror. Now where the hell did they tell us to jab the syringe of atropine? I waited for the poison chemicals to hit my bloodstream. Only nothing happened! By God, maybe it was just Iraqi rain! Blessed water for the parched desert! “Hey, it’s raining, Art,” said Sanchez. “You may want to get back in the truck.”

There I was, crisscrossing Iraq with a Marine recon unit, the first to go into many villages to look for paramilitary and try to thwart ambushes. The unit was the so-called “tip of the spear,” and also provided highway security and backed up other Marines with an array of weapons. Since Charlie Company was fast and mobile, I had to travel light. I shot digital stills until sand killed the camera; shot video with a small Sony; wrote dispatches (often under hot ponchos to keep “light discipline” at night); then set up satellite phones to e-mail the copy and the stills and answer lots of encouraging messages, including those from families of the Marines I was with.

Through it all, I kept the camera rolling. Always on the move, I didn’t have enough time or know-how to send the images back by satellite: Cobra helicopters firing missiles at snipers on the Euphrates; firefights; Marines at war; Marines at rest; two puppies the unit adopted as mascots who dined on Italian food, slept through battles, and grew into true dogs of war.

The satellite phone was my lifeline. The Marines kept it charged with their inverters (I’d fried mine the first day). I depended on them for my safety. The least I could do was let them take turns calling home. I’d hitch a ride to headquarters, work a few sources, then go live with the latest updates on the infamous Chemical Ali, how the war was going in Charlie Company—guerillas hiding AK-47s under civilian robes to set up ambushes, a few high-ranking POWs captured, intelligence reports of foreign-trained terrorists taking up the fight, and mass Iraqi desertions. So much to talk about, so little battery time. I’d talk, until the connection was lost or the battery died, sometimes in the middle of a firefight.

“ We just lost Art,” I heard anchor Aaron Brown say one night. “We hope he stays safe.”

Getting permission to use the phone was often an issue. Sometimes the commander of the unit was away hunting Fedayeen, and those left in charge were unwilling or unable to reach him. Just saying no was often their easy way out.

So it went. I’d brief them in broad terms on what I planned to report, and then use my best judgment so as not to put the men—or yours truly—at risk. It was often frustrating. At one point, the Marines demanded we turn in one brand of satellite phone called Thurayas, saying the French had sold Iraq special codes to the GPS system inside them—so the Iraqis could use journalists’ phones to target U.S. forces we were embedded with. Unable to confirm that, I wondered whether the real reason might be to rid the battlefield of our phones and make it easier for the U.S. to target any Iraqis phoning home. I could never confirm that either. It was well known that Iraqi military and government officials used Thurayas. I surrendered mine and switched to the Iridium satellite phone that CNN had given us a backup.

Comparing notes with other embeds later, I learned that the more seasoned, senior-ranking officers were often the most cooperative; the younger officers less so—more prone to second-guessing and, in my case, initially banning the use of the unit name and even the names of Marines for the most innocuous human-interest yarns. It was a dance, initially, a nervous back and forth of who do you trust. I was able to reason with most of them, but not all.

As it turned out, there was no way I could even ask permission to go live during the friendly-fire debacle that night in Nasiriya. The Marines had already confiscated my phone—without explanation—and I was helpless to protest. It all started as night was falling. I heard the growl of an angry NCO, furious for some unknown reason. “HARRIS, GET YOUR SHIT OFF THE TRUCK! YOU’RE OUT OF HERE!”

From someplace on High, mistaken word had been passed down that I’d sinned, that I’d mentioned the names of dead Marines in a CNN.com piece, before families could be notified. That was impossible, I tried to explain. I didn’t even know the names of Marines in that specific unit—not to mention that what they were accusing me of was a sin no respectable journalist, much less an ex-Navy PAO, would ever commit. No matter, confused young Marines who had become my friends were ordered to throw my stuff back onto Sanchez’s ammo truck for my pending departure, and so they did. I reassured them it wasn’t their fault. It had to be a misunderstanding.

Still, I was stunned and angry as the convoy headed out of town. Sanchez had his orders—to drop me on the outskirts of Nasiriya, the other side of the bridge, to face an angry colonel and, in all likelihood, a one-way ticket home. Then came the friendly-fire free-for-all between Charlie Company and a Marine supply unit on the other side of the bridge. Hell was happening all around me, and there was no way I could phone home, or CNN—just keep the camera rolling, take notes, and pray.

Finally the shooting stopped, leaving some Marines almost giddy from escaping death. The convoy cranked up and started moving. Sanchez still had his orders—drop me off at headquarters.

“I’m really sorry, man,” he said, piling my gear by the roadside—cameras, rucksack, laptop, sleeping bag, tent. “Make sure you take an MRE, you get hungry.”

And off they went to refuel. I got my phone back, took a seat in the dust, and called CNN for a read-back of the article in question. Turns out, it was the Pentagon that had released the names—after next-of-kin had been notified. A senior officer had misread it, a colonel, and barked the order to send for me down the line. I was to meet him at 2nd Marine Headquarters across the bridge, so here I was.

“ Harris, WHAT are you doing here?” asked Colonel Ron Bailey, who happened to walk by and didn’t know that one of his officers was probably getting ready to send me home. Bailey, the commander of 2nd Marines, was a tough, smart, and kind man with a very dirty job. I told him what happened. He shook his head, trying to hide what appeared to be disgust. “Get back with your unit, son. THAT’S an order.”

“ I ’d like to find the colonel who gave the order and clear the air, sir, if that’s all right.”

“ Fine,” said Bailey, striding off. When I located the officer and tried to explain, he seemed unable or unwilling to grasp it. Apparently irrational from exhaustion, and overwhelmed at losing his men, he simply teared up at the mention of the dead Marines, and again accused me of releasing their names.

“ Sir,” I said, “you are wrong. I am not the enemy.” I asked him to reread the article, and he’d see that the Pentagon had released the names. I also asked him to clear the air and my reputation with the other Marine unit, and my own. He refused. “I wouldn’t go near them,” he smirked, walking away. “They are really angry at you. You never know what might happen.”

Several days later, General Rich Natonski, head of Task Force Tarawa, approached me and apologized for the incident. I shrugged it off, trying to keep perspective. After all, my duty was to report what I saw and learned—and tell their stories.

Within the hour, I rejoined Charlie Company, which now had orders to turn around and head back down Ambush Alley. Along the Euphrates, snipers hiding in burning buildings kept firing rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) and had to be cleaned out. Single file, the LAVs paraded past their positions—“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” shouted Marines, as the ammo truck sat in convoy traffic. Then we were moving again, and the LAVs took cover behind walls and blasted away with 25-mm cannon, mortars, machine guns, their firepower earning them an Iraqi nickname, “The Destroyers.”

As soon as one sniper was put out of action, another appeared to take his place, until, under unrelenting bombardment, the whole building came tumbling down. The night echoed with the whine of Iraqi ambulances taking their wounded to the hospital. “Now THAT is music to my ears,” laughed one young Marine, recalling how RPGs had barely missed his light-armored vehicle and those nearby. Indeed, the Marines in Charlie Company hit peak morale when performing what they were trained to do—fight a war—and no one shied from calling in air strikes to knock out machine-gun nests hidden in the base of a mosque, where secondary explosions suggested ammunition was also being stored. At night, 500-pound bombs dropped two miles away shook the ground on our side of the river. Once I realized it was not incoming, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Charlie Company was ordered north, but never did reach Baghdad. It had other jobs to do—making sure the road to Baghdad was safe for supplies and other troops. Orders kept changing, and the company would sometimes split up and head off to different villages where paramilitary and Baath Party renegades were reported. At one house, I followed a sergeant and his five men on a search. No one was inside, said the elder, as a dozen women and children ran out the back. A house search brought out more than a dozen young men—one with Iraqi Special Forces credentials and a uniform and military web belts that, the elder explained, were for climbing date palms to harvest the dates. Handed the Arab-to-English translation card, I realized we were outnumbered, and, as several of the men smiled, I explained that the sergeant was the “mushareef.”

“ Oooooo,” the Iraqis said in unison, appearing impressed at what I hoped they’d think was the superior force and firepower at their doorstep.

Mushareef means “general.”