BEIRUT, Lebanon – Can’t stop thinking about what one of my former security advisors from Iraq said to me in a cafe here in Beirut just two days ago. “It’s quiet now Cal — but this is Beirut … at any moment, within 24 hours, the city and country could be thrust into complete chaos.”

Government loyalists add tires to a burning barricade outside Beirut.

Today, chaos is what happened.

The Hezbollah leader, Hassan Nasrallah, gave a speech in the afternoon, reacting to what the government had said about Hezbollah’s telecommunication network (a private network used by Hezbollah for communication.) It was exactly as expected — a fiery speech in which he said the government’s actions were tantamount to a declaration of war against his group.

After the speech we headed out into the streets to tape a brief “piece to camera,” while it was still light outside. Within minutes, deafening gunfire broke out all around us. A group of Lebanese Army soldiers starting yelling at us to come towards them and take cover behind a large building. The rounds were snapping close to us as we ran behind the building.

Cameraman Christian Streib, who has lived in Beirut for a decade, snapped into action — immediately filming. We tried to do a “piece to camera” but with all the gunfire, I could hardly hear my own voice. I found myself screaming at times, and gave up pretty quickly.

The firefight was raging when Christian spotted gunmen on a nearby rooftop. He remarked that he got it on film — something I still cannot believe. I kept telling him he was making me nervous as he filmed about, but the truth is he’s a seasoned as they get, and it was the simple gunfire, now coupled with large explosions from rocket-propelled grenades that was really making me nervous.

For the Lebanese Army, gunmen on rooftops is a nightmare. Snipers are tantamount to death in gun battles, and it almost assured that no-one was going to brave this street.

After a short while we made the decision to make a dash to our car, and try to get back to the bureau. With no medical gear or security and the city getting dark, we had to go. We ran to our car … all the while rounds snapped close. In the car I could hear our Senior International Correspondent Brent Sadler, who is the most knowledgeable person on Lebanon, remark that he had not heard RPG fire in Beirut in years. Not a good sign, I said to Christian.

As we drove around the city to avoid the neighborhoods where the fighting was continuing we passed a restaurant which was full with people. Less than a kilometer away from a raging gun battle, people were eating dinner — as we drove by in our flak jackets!

Such is Beirut – a place where it’s quiet … until it’s not.

Watch my report from Beirut

BAGHDAD, Iraq — After four years, I’m standing in a room with the finest press corps in the world. After four years – they’re throwing ME a party.

We’ve been through hell and back … and back again.

From Fallujah, Mosul, Ramadi, Tikrit and to the depths of Baghdad – we’ve literally, spilled the same blood, in the same dirt. Corny? Maybe … But it’s true.

We’ve lost friends, loved ones, and colleagues. I choose not to count those who have died, gone missing – or simply disappeared. And that’s not counting those who have made ultimate sacrifice, and are often forgotten: those in the Iraqi press, choosing to try to make a difference in their own country. The numbers of lost are just too hard to imagine.

Many of my colleagues have not disappeared here in Iraq – they’ve gone “home” and we’ve never heard from them again. Truth is – what is “home” after four years in Iraq? I wonder how any of us can return home.

I’m humbled by a line I saw in a mini-series about World War II: “I wonder how I’ll explain all this when I get back home.” I do wonder how any of us will explain this place.

Our families – they don’t know … and we would not expect them to – how could we? We don’t want them to have the burden of worrying about us. Because if they do, we can’t do our jobs with that on our shoulders along with everything else that we’re faced with.

And the simple, humbling truth is: we believe in this … If anyone didn’t they would not be in this room.

We have had “close calls,” we have made mistakes – we stay up at night, wanting the world to care … But they will never care enough in our minds. So we choose not to sleep.

We miss our families, our loved ones … But there’s something about this story – we cannot shake it. It sticks to you like duct tape – something that is a running joke … Injured? Stick some duct tape on it. Break that piece of equipment? Stick some duct tape on it. We do love our duct tape …

Our tourniquets, bandages, flak jackets, gum, cigarettes, scotch, water, Gatorade, “wily-X eye protection glasses,” boots, radios, “go-bags”, lucky charms and helmets. Don’t leave the bureau without them. Especially the lucky charms – everyone’s got em’ and they work … Until they don’t … Welcome to the embed world. Welcome to Iraq.

We make jokes (bad ones), band together, and look after each other. We’d lay in front of oncoming traffic for any number of our staff members – everyone is equal here in Baghdad. We cut corners, we give the military cigars – and yes, we lie to each other, party together and forgive each other - because in the end – we’re bonded by something we can’t describe.

We love our security – for without them … You’d see nothing from this country. The sound of silence would be overwhelming from a war that could not be covered without the names of many a former Special Forces soldiers; the names of which – you’ll never hear. Talk about a silent sacrifice.

I choose not to name names, not to list those that are forever my friends: rather this simple thought for those who know who they are.

These are the finest people I’ve ever had the honor of meeting, and they know full well; I breathe this story like it’s oxygen … And I will be back again.