BAGHDAD, Iraq — I knew something was strange as soon as I woke up. An eerie yellow haze at the window instead of the morning sun. I climbed up to the roof and looked out over Baghdad toward the blue Bunyah mosque. It had disappeared behind a thick curtain of microscopic dust.

Dust clouds the air over Baghdad.

I had never experienced a sandstorm. I instinctively tried to stop breathing until I could get indoors.

We were about to leave to shoot a report on an Iraqi paralympic competition. “They can’t go ahead with it!” I thought.

When we called, however, they said it was still on. So we piled into our car and set off for the running track.

On a good day, the streets of Baghdad are dusty, blanketed with dirt, crumbling concrete and assorted trash. This dust , swirling in the high winds, is lighter but more penetrating. It fills your lungs insidiously.

But, as we drove through Baghdad, I saw, at the most, two or three people with masks. Most were walking purposefully through the haze.

As we passed the Green Zone, where the United States Embassy and Iraqi government offices are located, I saw a man in running shorts and t-shirt jogging on the street.

At the running track the athletes were arriving, some missing legs, or arms. Many are victims of the war. In the distance, a loud explosion roared. The athletes and their friends muttered but quickly returned to more important things. Bombs, sandstorms - it’s a nuisance but nothing that will stop them from competing.

Paralympic athletes train on, despite the dust.

But the storm, the worst in years, did shut down Baghdad Airport. The helicopters that roar every few minutes through the skies of the capital were grounded.

Back in our bureau everything - computers, cameras, monitors, desks, pens, coffee cups, my eyeglasses -was covered within minutes with a fine yellow talcum. There was no getting away from it.

In 2003, just after the start of the invasion of Iraq , a giant sandstorm blanketed southern Iraq. Some Iraqis began calling it “Allah’s Shroud,” God’s protection from the “invaders.”

To me, it’s just as exotic. A sandstorm in Baghdad. Like Ali Baba’s 40 Thieves, I said the magic words “open sesame!” and waited for the skies to clear.

BAGHDAD, Iraq – They live at Camp Stryker, part of a massive military base in Baghdad, in an eight by 15-foot military trailer with two single beds pushed together. When we stop by to see them the electricity is out. They’re sitting on a storage box, holding a flashlight, chatting in the heat.

But 27-year-old Captain Jessica Hegenbart and 33-year-old Chief Warrant Officer Brian Hegenbart — both Blackhawk pilots — say they’re not complaining.

They’re married but under traditional Army rules they would not be allowed to live together. Now, under a policy quietly introduced in 2006, they can –- if housing is available. Watch video report

“I think it makes it easier for us to unwind than some of the other folks here that don’t have their spouse, their best friend, here to share that with,” Jessica says.  “It’s harder to communicate over the phone and through email and that’s something that we’re really lucky to have.”

I ask Brian if his fellow pilots are jealous. “Definitely!” he laughs.  ”Maybe not true jealousy, but in a joking manner I get it all the time from the guys, you know! If I complain about somethin’ they’re like, whatever, yeah, your wife’s here!”

But it’s no laughing matter to know up close the dangers your spouse faces. Brian flies infantry troops on assault missions against al-Qaeda in Iraq; Jessica transports military personnel. They fly the same black helicopters, with two gunners at each window, weapons ready.

“I don’t usually worry,” Jessica says, “unless he’s getting to the point that he should be home and it’s going on a couple hours and I feel like he should have been home by now. So I try not to think about it otherwise.”

Brian adds: “I call her right when I get back in the office,  just to let her know I’m back, just so she doesn’t have to worry.”

Back in their trailer — part of a row of the same white “mil vans” protected by concrete blast walls where other personnel, some of them married, live — the Hegenbarts show us the trappings of home: mini-refrigerator, microwave oven, a TV, Playstation and computer, all bought at the PX on base.

Their identical uniforms hang together on a coat stand. Jessica says that on early mornings, when she dresses in the dark, she sometimes puts on Brian’s uniform by mistake.

They’ve been married for three years but Army regulations still apply: no public displays of affection.

I ask them if they ever hug or kiss each other in public on the base. “No m’am,” Brian says. “It’s hard sometimes but it can wait until we get back to the room.”

Watch video report on married military life in Baghdad