It's been less than a week, but already the experiences of the war have had a startling effect on everyone taking part - and those reporting on it.

Our respirators (I stopped calling them gas masks days ago) and body armour now feel like a second skin. Go anywhere without them and you feel naked and vulnerable.

The protective suits which used to take 15 minutes of struggle to strap on are now in place within three. We used to complain that they were heavy; now we don't notice the weight at all.

In our combat kit, we look and sound like soldiers, which is a tribute to the Army's embedding system, in which journalists are trained and attached to military units for the duration of a campaign.

We answer to the Commanding Officer, we follow orders, we share the rations, we eat where the soldiers eat and we sleep where they sleep. The Royal Logistic Corps - where they go, we go.

The military language that first seemed like talk from another world is now our mother tongue. Terms like "sitrep" (situation report) and "be advised" have not so much crept into our language as carried out a military coup. Place is now location. Car is always vehicle. Pardon has become "say again".

ETD, ETA and IAD - estimated time of arrival/departure and immediate action drill - are now used almost constantly as we communicate with the soldiers and officers of the RLC. We know that dobhi is laundry, gash is rubbish and "chogie" is an affectionate term for the local workers.

We say ablutions, not toilets, and put up with flies, food and facilities that we would have sniffed at just three short weeks ago. Sniffing at the toilets today would be extremely unwise. The novelty of the American MRE (Meals Ready to Eat or Meals Rejected by Everyone) has long since worn off, but at least we're now experts in heating the food with the chemical packs involved.

We're becoming indoctrinated and recognise the sights and sounds of army life instantly. We've endured no fewer than 30 air raids since war began. Many have been false alarms - others have carried the chilling threat: "Incoming ballistic missile! Take cover! Missile in air!"

The wailing sirens or short, barked Tannoy alarms still send a shiver of fear down the spine, but after so many and not a scratch, we're becoming a bit blasé. They are more annoying than anything. The other night I fell asleep during one. On another occasion, the first everyone in our briefing room knew of the air raid taking place outside was when the all-clear came.

Having said that, no one ever relaxes and even the sound of a door being slammed is enough to make an entire room collectively throw a nervous glance over its shoulder.

Our arrival in the hotly contested port of Umm Qasr in southern Iraq raises the stakes even higher. We are now in (literally) uncharted enemy territory, though it's so dark when we arrive we can make out little. We've heard from media colleagues of fierce firefights in the town. We've glimpsed footage of Iraqi positions under attack and we're on constant sniper alert.

British TV viewers have had live battles piped into their front rooms while we have waited to slot into the front line on dusty desert holding areas, unsure of what lies ahead.

We hear the explosions in the distance and the occasional rattle of small arms fire but can do nothing except wait in the eerie, silent pitch black for our orders to move. It's hard to explain how unnerving it is to know that there are people outside in the darkness trying to kill you.

Snipers are holding up the operation to open the port for humanitarian aid and we are told to stay in our vehicles for safety reasons, There are ominous warnings of suicide bombers planning to mingle with civilians and specialists are still checking for booby traps and underwater obstacles.

Hours earlier, when we left our US base, we were given lengthy and frankly disconcerting farewells from those staying behind in reserve. As our vehicle was being prepared, TV pictures showed an Iraqi bunker being blown to smithereens at close range by a US tank and I found myself cheering along like a bloodthirsty Dallas cowboy.

Keith Harrison is from the Express & Star, Wolverhampton. This was a pooled dispatch.

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