RAMADI, Iraq — Poets tell us that unheard melodies are the sweetest. I can't confirm that. As the Marines might say, I have no "situational awareness" of unheard melodies.

But I have a good deal of knowledge about overheard conversations. A reporter embedded with troops is surrounded by conversations not of his making, and they often carry a raw reality about the war in Iraq that is unavailable anywhere else.

Like the two Marines sitting at adjoining computer terminals discussing an e-mail one of them had received from a severely wounded Marine now recuperating in the United States.

"He says he's got one of his artificial legs, and when he gets the next one he'll be able to run again."

"Did he mention his hand?"

"No."

Or the two Marines discussing the assault on Fallujah. Neither could have been more than two years out of high school. One had been part of the assault and was going home with his battalion, the other was just arriving as a replacement.

"Were you guys scared?" asked the new arrival.

"No we weren't," said the young veteran. "We weren't alone; we had each other."

It's an unavoidable part of being embedded. There is no wall between you and your news subjects. You hear and see things of strategic significance. There are restrictions about reporting "big picture" things. But mostly it's the things of personal significance that you witness, the "little picture."

With a frontline Marine infantry company, I overheard a kind of kangaroo court involving a Marine who had sold an infantry T-shirt to an outsider.

"You sold your shirt to a POG?" demanded a gunnery sergeant in a stern tone.

For outsiders, infantry troops are called grunts. And grunts derisively call all outsiders POGs — Persons Other Than Grunts. Rips on POGs are a frequent topic of blasphemous graffiti.

The sergeant made his charge and eyeballs clicked onto the squirming defendant, who tried desperately to explain his action. All the essays in the world about the brotherhood of war could not have brought home the lesson more sharply.

I heard infantry troops quizzing a Navy medic about the combat death of a Marine. A sniper's shot had hit beneath the Marine's flak jacket and struck his neck.

The Marine had been killed weeks earlier in the daily guerrilla fighting that has characterized the Marines' fight with insurgents here. I wondered why the Marines were so interested after such a long time; there had been other casualties.

Then I realized this conversation had occurred before and that there was a ritual to it.

"How quickly did you get to him, doc?"

"I was there within a minute, he was already gone."

"He didn't suffer, did he?"

"No, he didn't suffer."

With that answer, the Marines were satisfied and moved on to other daily chores, like manning sniper positions and watching for missiles and rocket-propelled grenades fired by insurgents.

Some conversations provide a peek into the Marines' lives at home, before coming to Iraq.

One Marine was complaining bitterly that Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agents raided his house and took away his collection of large and small weaponry. A colleague suggested that having weapons is perfectly legal.

"Not when you're the subject of a restraining order," came the answer. Oh.

Most bases have Internet and phone centers. The phone calls can be heard by all. Some are joyous "can't-wait-till-I-see-you." Others seem to involve the purchase of trucks and automobiles when the Marines return home.

But others are very sad, involving obvious cases of stress and suspicion among marital partners. I've tried to train myself to shut those conversations out. I've noticed a kind of informal protocol: When a Marine is having one of those conversations, others avoid eye contact with him and suspend their usual rough-edge humor.

Sometimes the strongest emotions are expressed only through ritual. Last week I was talking to a lieutenant in a weapons company. With his wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like the youth pastor at a church rather than an officer from a unit that had been involved in some of the toughest of the Ramadi fighting.

A sergeant walked in gingerly carrying the U.S. flag that had just been lowered from outside the company headquarters. The lieutenant and the sergeant began ceremoniously folding the flag.

Rude reporter, I continued asking questions.

"Please wait," the lieutenant said quietly.

I noticed nine dog tags attached to the flag.

When the flag had been folded, I asked the lieutenant how many Marines from his company had been killed in combat.

"Nine," he said.