Sandbox Diary

HAIL & FAREWELL

2005-03-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

You know, I hadn’t thought about this when I started my blog, but ever since I touched down on American soil there’s been this nagging little thought lurking around in the back of my head that at some point I was going to have to shoot this blog and put it out of my readers’ misery. I’m afraid that my ravings would sound even less relevant than normal, without the inspiration of Zebras, homicidal zealots, and bureaucratic insanity to keep me worked up. With all that in mind, I decided the best thing was to quit while I was ahead, or at least not too far behind.

(With credit to Bill Mauldin)

Now I’m not an author, but I’ve read enough paperbacks to know that generally there’s a preface by the writer where he passes out his thanks for…oh, Aunt Martha’s apple pie recipe which kept him going, etc., and then manfully allows how any mistakes in the script are solely his.

You’ve probably snapped by now on the fact that I am getting this exactly backwards, and doing that at the end. This will come as no great surprise to my friends and family, who have long harbored suspicions (with some justification, actually) about my mental competence.

I won’t name all the friends and family who inspired and supported me while I was in Iraq, for fear that I might accidentally overlook someone and give offense where certainly none was ever intended. You know who you are, and I will always cherish the experience of seeing love made manifest in your actions. In fact, I received so much support that Ol’ Boy began grousing toward the end about having to go pick up “YOUR mail” every day and lug the care packages back to the office. Fortunately, Ol’ Boy could generally be bought off by sharing some of the chocolate.

For my conscience’s sake, I hasten to point out that my tour in Iraq was essentially a vacation compared to the soldiers who were at the tip of the spear every day. They had a 12 month (or longer) tour, compared to my 5 months. They went outside the wire much more often, or did the street fighting to reclaim a city from the criminals and terrorists. Those are the folks doing our nation’s dirty, dangerous work, and they deserve your admiration. About the only thing I had to worry about was making the mistake of walking under a falling rocket or mortar. That’s not even in the same league.

I remember being at the 31st CSH (Combat Support Hospital) in Baghdad around midnight the night before Thanksgiving. As I walked down the halls I saw soldiers in the lobby and hallway, passing the time with the small talk of soldiers everywhere about home, cars, and girls. Almost all of them had terrible burns, a few were on artificial legs, and others showed the stitched up evidence of recent surgeries. There, America, are your heroes. Take time ever now and then to think about them and what they’ve given to our country. They had all done their duty, and I thought of Robert E. Lee’s observation on duty that “no man can do more, and no man should do less”.

Regrettably, I have some apologies to make as well. I consider it a point of honor to reply to any letter or e-mail I get, and I received one from a SSG stationed in Korea who wrote me to comment on the blog. I replied to his e-mail, but for some reason the msg bounced back and I had deleted his address. So, Sarge, if you’re reading this, please accept my apologies.

I know that leaving comments through the blog site is not user friendly, so you can reach me directly at jerry.kendrick@gmail.com if you’d care to write.

So, like the military ceremony of “hailing” the new commander and saying “farewell” to the old one, I leave behind one life and resume another. It has been an honor and a pleasure to share my experiences with you. Please know that everyone I talked to in Iraq was aware of the support that you give to your soldiers, whatever your take on the war. That is a priceless gift – thank you. My most devout prayer for each of you is that at some point in your life you experience the same wonderful affection and support that I enjoyed in Iraq. I think it may be a rare experience, but it is one that is never forgotten.

24 HOURS FROM TEXAS

2005-02-27T20:11:00.000-08:00

OK, having insured that none of us are carrying knives aboard the plane, the stewardesses direct us to stack our rifles, machine guns, and pistols under the seat for our flight home. I will always treasure the memory of hearing the stewardess come on the loudspeaker system and tell everyone to make sure that there rifles were pointing in toward the center of the cabin. Tell the truth – even on South West Airlines, have you ever heard that?!! And no, I don’t know why it was important to have the weapons pointed toward the center of the cabin. Looks to me like they would have put a hole in the fuselage no matter which way you pointed them…oh, I get it! They were hoping somebody’s body would stop the bullet before it perforated the fuselage. Good thinking; I probably wouldn’t have thought of that.

I got a window seat, which meant that my left side got smashed by the plane body, and my right side got crunched in by the 280 lb Ranger in the seat next to me. He was a pleasant fellow, courteous, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, probably reverent…and I disliked him intensely within the first hour when he effortlessly went to sleep. I can’t sleep on planes, and I’ve always considered it extremely rude of other people to be comfortable when I can’t. I cleared my throat. I hollered to my friends at the back of the plane. I turned up my headphones to “detonate” and put them by his head. The only thing that would wake him up was if I had to walk across him to get to the aisle and walk to the bathroom. He must have thought I had a very tiny bladder, but serves him right for being so thoughtless as to be able to sleep while I couldn’t.

We had several in-flight meals, which looked suspiciously liked microwaved MRE’s (Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, or Meals, Ready-to-Eat, take your pick). We also had several in-flight movies, some of which even included the latest technological advancement, the “talkies”. What will they think of next?

After eight hours of annoying my row-mate (is that a word?), we arrived at lovely, vibrant green Shannon, Ireland. Well, I assume it’s vibrant green, based on their advertising. We got in about 0130 their time, and everything looked pretty vibrant black as near as I could tell. Ah, but here’s the good part: Shannon, Ireland is well outside the CENTCOM (Central Command) AOR (Area of Responsibility), which means that the infamous General Order No. 1 no longer applies – and for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, GO #1 was that bureaucratic masterpiece that prohibited (theoretically, at least) the consumption of alcohol so as not to offend our Muslim enemies. The Charge of the Light Brigade had nothing on the Charge of the Dehydrated as everyone except my teetotalin’ self attacked through the terminal in search of the nearest bar. Fortunately, we only had about an hour and a half at Shannon, so no one was able to do any serious damage to themselves.

After paying our respects to the Irish brew masters, we re-boarded the plane and set sail (well, wing, maybe) for Bangor, Maine. Deep in the heart of Yankee country. I started practicing my New Jersey accent in case anyone still carried a grudge about that little misguided family feud about a century and a half ago, but I was worrying for nothing. We got in about 0530 Bangor time, and as we left the plane (headed in search of yet another open bar) we were greeted by about a dozen wonderful Americans waving flags and offering cell phones to anyone who needed to call home. Then they opened up a little shop they had stocked with cookies, candy, and coffee and reminded us all once again of why we were damned proud to be Americans. I tried to leave a donation at the counter, and darned near got the bum’s rush – they weren’t about to take money from a soldier. On the other hand, they were collecting patches from all the different units that came through, and one of the guys was able to scrounge up the famous CID “Which Way Next?!” patch and leave it with them. I think everyone of us came away humbled and moved by the obvious affection of dedication of people who would make their way to the airport at 0530 on a Saturday morning just to welcome home a planeload of disheveled soldiers. God Bless’em everyone.

Another 4 hrs of cramped, sleepless flight and the pilot announced we were approaching Biggs Army Air Field, El Paso, Texas! The Davis Mountains sure looked good as we started our approach, and even if the country was desert, at least it was OUR desert. There was a loud cheer that went throughout the plane when the pilot announced that we were now at Fort Bliss, Texas, and as he turned the plane to taxi over to our dismount point, I caught a view that I’ll remember forever: a huge American flag that the base fire department had erected from one of their ladder trucks, blowing straight out in about a 30 mile an hour wind. Lord, that looked lovely!

Everyone was ready to grab their weapons from under the seat (all carefully pointed toward the center of the plane, by the way), and bolt out of the aircraft, but the Army insisted on doing things right. There was an honor guard and a band to greet us, and as we staggered off the plane the first person to shake our hands was the Fort Bliss Commanding General.

OK, I was impressed.

I was less impressed when I found out that we were supposed to assemble in an orderly formation and march off the tarmac to the reception area. I’m a CID agent, for heaven’s sake – what do I know about marching?! I was pretty sure that you led off with either your left or your right foot, but after that it all got dangerously hazy. My only hope of not spoiling the mood was to blend in with all the other desert cammie-clad troops and try to disappear.

And I nearly pulled it off, too…until we marched past a line of waiting family and friends and I saw the War Bride waving her little American flag and looking, oh, so lovely! Hell, I figured El Paso was so close to the border I could make my get away if they tried to court martial me for breaking ranks, so I ran over just long enough to collect a well-deserved and much-missed kiss from my Darling War Bride.

Gee, it’s good to be home!

LEAVING ON A PROP PLANE

2005-02-22T14:58:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or do you get a bitter-sweet feeling at those times that you are leaving one life behind and moving to another…like the last week at high school, or when you packed up and moved for your first real job? This past week has been like that – looking around at a dusty, ugly armed camp that has pretty much been the extent of my world since I first came here, and reflecting back on the experiences. Knowing that I won’t pass this away again, nor even sure that I would want to, but tremendously grateful that I had the chance to walk among heroes. I’m not sure what comes next, but I’ll meet it a little bit different man than I was before. And I guess that’s called living.

Certainly the world has more than enough folks that you’d just love to take hiking through quicksand pits, but I’ve had the great fortune to meet good folks in all circumstances and all lands. One of those folks is Guruprasad Mondal, who for the past five months has put food on my plate every evening. I never saw him but what he was pleasant, smiling, and gracious. Mondal has been working at the mess hall for about the past eight months, and is here on a two-year contract. Two years away from his home and family, and I’d bet that there’s no such thing as an R&R leave for him. Somehow over the past few months we managed to become friends across the serving line, even though we seldom had the opportunity to say more than a few words, and I wanted to leave him with some kind of souvenir. Probably something like a book with photographs of Texas would have been appropriate, but those are remarkably scarce in this part of the world, and Brown doesn’t deliver to this Zip code. Finally settled on a presentation coin that I received from the 22nd MP Battalion when they left, and gave it to him as I went through the line. Actually, my original plan had been to give it to him just before we left so that he wouldn’t have time to reciprocate, as I didn’t’ want him spending any part of what he made on a gift on me, but with our departure date yo-yoing back and forth I decided to just give it to him at the first opportunity. The next evening (my last at beautiful downtown Camp Liberty) when I went through the line, he got someone to cover his position and brought over a plastic AAFES (Army & Air Force Exchange Service) bag with a t-shirt and card in it, shook my hand and told me that I was his friend and his brother.

That t-shirt is a keeper.

At last the day that our replacements thought would never come: we were moving out, and they could inherit our trailers. Pathetic when people can look forward so eagerly to having their very own half of big closet to live in, but our spaces were highly coveted by guys who had been living like refugees for the past two weeks. Ben Franklin once observed that fish and guests both stink after 3 days…and as far as our replacements were concerned, we were definitely developing an odor.

I was a little concerned that the Loyal Opposition might not have the chance to give us a proper goodbye, but I worried for nothing. Ol’ Mohammed got up about 0130 the morning we left to lob in a few mortar rounds for old times sake and let us know he cared. One of them rattled the trailer, but since there were no new holes I didn’t see much point in leaving a warm bed and giving Mohammed the satisfaction of ruining a goods night’s sleep.

Did I say the “day” that we moved out? Actually, it was more like night. We met under the Iraqi moonlight for one last time to dance the duffle shuffle and pitch them in the back of what the Army eloquently calls an LMTV (Light Medium Tactical Vehicle). Its single most salient feature is that the bed is about, oh, thirty feet off the ground or so, and it’s *@!% difficult to throw a 90 lb duffle bag in it without hurting something useful. As usual, my highly skilled detachment of soldiers executed the maneuver with typical finesse…which is to say that the Taji crew were still asleep at 0400, the truck driver was recovering from a night of computer games, and the Special Agent-in-Charge couldn’t find his rifle. All in all, something less than an auspicious start to our departure, but then, any movement toward leaving Iraq is a good omen. Just before we left we heard a chopper going out and looked up just in time to see a Chinook firing off some flares as he crossed outside the fence line.

Even though we got off to a late start, there’s nothing like leaving a war zone to get you motivated, and we moved out pretty much on schedule, arriving at the APOD (Aerial Point of Departure…sheesh, couldn’t they just say airfield?!!) about 0530, just in time to sign up for space available on the next available flight, which turned out to be leaving at 0730. In the meantime, we got to cool our heels in a tent that George Washington probably slept under, and hadn’t been cleaned since then, either. Still, when you’re headed home, any accommodation looks like a 4 star, and everyone was happy except Taz.

Taz, you see, doesn’t like mice. I mean, he REALLY doesn’t like mice, even though the hospitable little rodents were kind enough to share their tent with us. Taz got his nickname from always moving in a whirl like the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character, and boy, was he ever in form that day jumping from mouse to mouse. I was profoundly grateful that we had turned in all our ammo before we left the base.

Much to my surprise, the C130 showed up right on schedule, and our friendly neighborhood Air Force representative told us that he was going to swing by and keep the engines running, so just pile in the back. If you’ve ever flown in a C130, you know that the seating accommodations are about like being snared in a fishing net, and this was no exception. On the bright side, it wasn’t all that crowded, and this one wasn’t dripping hydraulic fluid on me like the one I arrived in.

We will now observe a moment of silence in appreciation of the Rhode Island Air National Guard for providing transportation out of Iraq. A scrawny little state, maybe, but their Air Guard certainly does great things – like haul Texas boys out of Iraq and into Kuwait. Come to think of it, the C130 I arrived on was an Air Guard plane – Kansas, I think. Just exactly what is it we’re paying the Active Duty Air Force for, anyway?

Prior to this ride I was pretty convinced that C130 pilots made the softest landings of anyone I had ever flown with, but I now realize my error. They just throw the plane around the sky so hard that when you finally do crash onto the runway you hardly notice it. On the bright side, if anyone was shooting at us, they missed, and I gotta admit we would have been a darned hard target to get a bead on. If anyone ever asks, you can tell them it’s about a 45 minute flight from Baghdad to Kuwait City, as the C130 flies.

Camp Doha looks much better as you’re leaving than when you’re entering. For one thing, I arrived about 0200 in the morning, got marched straight through a briefing, and shuttled off to a flight about 4 hrs later. This time we came in at 11 in the morning, got assigned to some billets that actually had bed frames and a mattress, even if it was all set up in an old warehouse. Truth be told, we were living large for the circumstances.

I think the thing that struck me the most was the disorientation I felt. The day before I was in a combat zone, and now I’m walking around a base with signs telling you that you can’t park military vehicles in front of the PX, and no weapons are allowed in the mess hall. Not, of course, that they provide any place like a locker for you to secure your weapon, but I guess they figure a good soldier would figure out how to make sure his weapon didn’t get stolen. I accomplished that by carrying my weapon in the PX, and I felt like Lizzie Borden walking into choir practice with a hatchet. I noticed that I was developing a distinct impatience with garrison niceties, and much preferred the atmosphere at the forward bases. I figure that’s probably a normal reaction, but I’d enjoy hearing from any Veterans reading if they had the same experience.

Saturday morning we had to show up at the customs tent at 0930 in the morning to have our duffle bags searched and then sealed up for transportation to the airport. Perfectly reasonable concept, except that each one of us has three duffle bags, and the customs tent is about a half mile way. But, as I’ve pointed out before, I know the Army loves me and will take care of its little boy Jerry, so I called on the Chairman of the Movement Assistance Office (MAO) and requested a little movement assistance.

I was assisted in moving right out of his office. It seems that a contingent of only 5 people doesn’t rate a movement mission. Now, if there had been ten of us, well, of course he could have helped. It was becoming painfully clear to me that Chairman MAO was not going to be the source of my aching back’s salvation.

Clearly I was going to have to put my college degree to work and come up with a solution.

One thing I noticed about Camp Doha was that it was over-run with NTV’s (non-tactical vehicles, or regular ol’ cars and SUV’s). So I staked out a Chevrolet Suburban by the mess hall and pounced on the driver when he showed up. Putting on my best “Help a Buddy” expression, I convinced the driver, an Air Force sergeant, that his life would be forever enriched for hauling our bags in his nice, beautiful truck. The Silver Tongued Devil strikes again! Wojo scrounged through his bags and found a presentation coin we got from the 22nd MP Bn, and gave it to him in recognition of his service to his country, and us. I felt like I’d just bought Manhattan for trinkets!

Much to my relief our purloined truck showed up the next morning on time, and we got our bags into the inspection tent right on time. Customs did a fairly respectable job of searching our stuff, then we loaded the bags into the back of a truck which was sealed, and driven off to the airport. A few hours later we went through customs with our carry-on baggage, and that inspection was much more thorough. As I’ve come to expect on military flights, I could take my rifle and pistol aboard, but they wouldn’t let me bring my pocket knife.

At about 1800, we were locked down in a holding area, and at 2130 we were herded into a convoy of 5 busses and one armored HUMVEE, and made our way out to Doha airport, which is about a 30 minute ride. Each bus had one “shooter” on it, a soldier picked more or less at random and given one, count’em, ONE lousy 30 rd magazine with which to defend the bus if we were attacked. Other than that, our only response to an attack was to get close enough to club’em to death with our empty rifles. I guess that was the shooter’s job – provide suppressive fire while we snuck up on the main body and beat’em into submission. I must have slept through that class on military strategy.

Around 2230 we boarded one of the most beautiful MD-11’s I believe I have ever seen, or am likely to ever see again. Do I need to tell you that everyone cheered when the plane left the runway?

OF MICE AND WOMEN

2005-02-06T07:39:00.000-08:00

It would have been downright humiliating. Getting killed by a lousy mouse my last week in country. Even the most charitable obituary writer would have been hard-pressed to put a positive spin on that demise – “Local soldier dies gallantly in uproar over a mouse”. Somehow that just isn’t how I want to be remembered.

But first I need to lay out the terrain for you. Any place where more than a few soldiers might gather – say, the mess hall, the PX, or the Haji shops at the bazaar by the PX, are guarded by an elite force of soldiers who have been relieved of their regular duties while pending court martial or discharge for mental reasons. Their function is to demand your identification, nod sagely as if they looked at it, and be ever ready to kill anybody who looks like they might cause trouble. That’s the key here. You don’t want to look like you’re causing trouble.

I’m minding my own business, trying to steer clear of Zebras and other forms of pestiferous wildlife, and successfully negotiate the guards at the bazaar. Today’s mission: find some danged phone cards so I can call home and tell the War Bride my return flight has changed again. They’ve been in very short supply ever about a week before the elections. Once again, the phone cards that were promised for today will be in for sure, no really, tomorrow. Well, nothing for it but to try again later, so I meander down the aisle back toward the exit when what to my wandering eyes should appear but an unusually handsome specimen of rodentia Iraqus making a graceful run across the aisle. Right between two young female soldiers. I’ve heard pigs being cut that made less noise than they did. Between the two of them, I probably lost what little high-frequency hearing I had left. Both of them start running toward the exit, just as the guards charge through the door chambering a round in their rifles, and looking for someone causing trouble.

You can see this, right? There I am, standing with that insurgent-in-the-headlights look, causing trouble, with two screaming females running away from me, and two Joe’s nervously pointing their rifles at me. And all I can think of to do is yell at the top of my lungs, “Don’t shoot! It’s just a mouse!” I guess that was so ridiculous that they had to stop to figure it out, which gave me enough time to get behind somebody solid. I may not be smart, but sometimes I am lucky! Thank heavens for my high school extemporaneous speaking class.

I’ve been less fortunate at trying to get my detachment out of here, though. There’s all of 10 of us in the Detachment, so you’d think that it wouldn’t be all that hard to thumb a ride on a jet back to the States, but the Army doesn’t do small well. LT Colombo (name changed to protect the guilty) has just arrived in country, and it was his job to arrange our flights out. Since we were his first attempt, things have been somewhat…unstable, I guess you could say. Now in all fairness, I’m sure it didn’t help that half of us were going to Fort Hood, and the other half were being routed through Fort Bliss. Our first heads-up notification was that we would be leaving Kuwait on the 11th of February. Like a young girl on her first date, I believed his lie and spread the word to the assembled multitude. Called the War Bride, who made flight reservations to meet me at Fort Bliss accordingly. The next day LT Colombo called and said that he must have misspoke himself, what he really meant to say was that we would be going out on the 13th. Make another call to the War Bride, who adjusts fire and schedules a later flight.

Get a phone call from LT Colombo, just brimming over with good cheer and enthusiasm: Good news! I ‘ve moved heaven and earth to get you out earlier, so now you’re leaving on the 9th of February! Pack your bags, guys, you have to catch a flight to Kuwait on the 7th! Another call to the War Bride, who by now is on a first-name basis with the reservation agents at Southwest Airlines.

Time passes (but not much). I call Lt Colombo on the 6th to find out what time our flight to Kuwait will be tomorrow. Long pause. Uh, well, it seems there’s been a change. Now it’s absolutely positively for certain, probably, that we will leave Kuwait on the 12th, but we’re still flying up to Kuwait on the 7th. Oh, I inquire sweetly, and what time do we leave tomorrow? Well, he’s working on that, don’t you see. Still don’t have anything firm on that, but he’s sure that somehow something good will happen. I figure this time I can save the cost of a phone call to the War Bride, and preserve what little respect she has left for my ability to arrange something as simple as an airplane flight.

Stay tuned for more exciting adventures of The Journey Home.

One good thing did come out of all the visits with LT Colombo, though. The last time I was up at Battalion I stumbled across an Australian unit having a barbecue. I make it a point to never turn down an invitation to an Australian barbecue; my experience with that genre of cooks has been that they’re always bloody good company, mate, and today was no exception. They let me climb all over their armored scout vehicle and we swapped weapons and both came to the conclusion that their army got the better end of the bargain when it came to rifles. Heck, they got the better end of the bargain on just about everything; their standard tour over here is only 4 months! I diplomatically left the party early so I wouldn’t have to witness any violations of General Order #1: thou shalt consume no alcohol while in Iraq. Easy enough for a teetotaler like my ownself to comply with, but it strains imagination to the breaking point to believe a whole company of Australians get through a barbecue without someone discovering an abandoned case or two of Foster’s Finest.

Good on ya, mates!

CALL HIM HASSAN

2005-02-03T03:20:00.000-08:00

Call him Hassan, and her Yasim, for I don’t know their name, and more’s the pity for me. They ran a small shop behind the Division Headquarters, not much more than a camping trailer with a small refrigerated display case, a sewing machine, cheap cigarettes, and the usual souvenir items. And, most importantly from my point of view, phone cards to keep my cell phone alive.

Did I mention that I had the opportunity to meet one of the nicest, best-looking, most generally all-around wonderful guys this past Monday?

Yep. My replacement has arrived. And he brought along the replacement crew for the rest of the office. Things are a tad crowded at the ol’ home place, since we shoe-spooned them into our trailers until we leave, but you know, I haven’t heard any complaints. Sleeping double on a cot is not as bad as you might think…

Tried to call the War Bride to let her know the good news, and that it was beginning to look like I might actually be leaving this place I’ve come to know and loathe so well, but
I ran out of time on my phone card.

You know, it was being out of time on my phone card that led to my first meeting Hassan and Yasim. I hadn’t been able to find any on post, and Mumbles took me over to the little trailer that they work out of, and sure enough they had some phone cards. Hassan was working away over the sewing machine when I walked in, but greeted me with a smile and a reasonably accurate version of “hello”. His work area was pretty small, but he’d made room on it for a picture of his daughter, a little girl with big brown eyes guaranteed to steal any Daddy’s heart. Yasim had a pleasant smile and obviously enjoyed her customers. I liked them both almost immediately.

Probably hadn’t mentioned it before, since it was beginning to assume the characteristics of an urban legend, but Mumbles, our resident master of the under-the-table dope deal had somehow convinced the Engineers that we needed an office to work out of. Of course, he was probably able to make a pretty convincing case since we’ve been working out of the MP supply room and an appropriated trailer for the past six months. Now, I should explain that there is such a thing as FOO funds, an acronym for what I don’t know, but you can use it to obtain things for the office, daily operation, and what not. Plus, you have to spend it in country (no mail orders allowed!) so we help the Iraqi economy. We needed someone to put the flooring down in our new building, and didn’t have any contacts, so we asked Hassan if he might know someone. Yasim did most of the talking, and before long we had a crew to help with the building. Mumbles bought a couple of cartons of cigarettes of dubious pedigree, and I bought a coke and some munchies more to help their business than anything. I suspect there are a great many Iraqis like Hassan and Yasim – good, decent people just trying to make an honest living.

So the past couple of days have been busy, with our eager and oh, so-earnest replacements busily carting stuff out of the ol’ home place to the shiny new digs. Not everything is completely ready there, like the plumbing isn’t hooked up and there are no blast barriers around it, but hey, this is war. Ya gotta tough it out – especially when you’re getting about twice as much room, real live interview rooms, and twice the computer hookups.

Having a natural and commendable phobia against heavy manual labor, I found it necessary to depart the scene of such frenzied activity before some insensitive clod invited me to help. This coincided nicely with my need for some more phone cards, so I walked over to Hassan and Yasim’s little shop to see if they had any cards in.

For some reason, they had the trunk of their car stuffed with their sad little pile of merchandise, and I was worried that maybe they were moving to a different location. That seemed to be a reasonable hypothesis when I walked through the door and noticed the refrigerated display case dark, and the shelves just about bare. Not even the ever present sewing machine was there, the one that supported their family with alterations for soldiers, and especially the fire department here who pretty much had adopted them. Hassan wasn’t there, only Yasim and a dignified, solemn looking older gentleman who smiled nervously at me. Yasim was crying, and talking to a fireman.

I could understand Yasim being sad about moving away from great customers like myself, but somehow I doubted that was enough to provoke tears. I didn’t like the feeling I was getting. Not at all.

I followed the fireman out the door and touched his shoulder, and noticed the sadness in his eyes when he turned. Hassan was gunned down on the streets of Baghdad about a week or so ago, Yasim had been with him, and when he recognized what was coming he covered her with his body and took the bullets meant for both of them. Yasim said that no one would help her, until finally an ambulance arrived too late.

Hassan died for the unspeakable crime of trying to support his family as best he could.

We all die. Some of us will have more days recorded on our tombstones than others, but that doesn’t really say anything about the life lived in those days, does it? And against a backdrop of eternity, maybe it doesn’t matter if someone lived to be 80, and another man dies at 33. But it does matter – Lord, it matters so much – how a man lived those days, and how he met his end. Hassan lived an honest life graced by a pleasant spirit, and died defending his wife. That has to count for something, or everything counts for nothing.

I don’t know what Yasim will do now, or how she’ll support her little family. The terrorists – hell, they’re not terrorists, they’re just plain cowardly criminals – have accomplished their goal of intimidating a single mother, and she won’t work here anymore. The fireman told me that they were taking up a collection for her, and were going to come by in their truck to present it to her when she clears everything out this Saturday.

Hassan’s story reflects the hope, the tragedy, and the loss of the nation of Iraq. And I nearly made it out of here without tears.

Call him Hassan.

BOMBS & BIRDS

2005-01-29T23:31:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since I posted any pictures, and thought maybe you would like to see some more. The sunsets around here are generally pretty nice. I understand that the gorgeous West Texas sunsets are due to the dust in the air. I think probably here they’re fed by all the debris in the air from car bombs, but whatever, the effect is pretty nice.

This picture was taken at one of the artificial lakes that Saddam had built around his palace area, and I think it may be about my favorite. The lake always has lots of loons on it, along with a variety of cranes and kingfishers.

Here’s a picture of one of the sunsets I was telling you about that was taken the day we had a combination of sandstorm and rain. The sandstorm was pretty interesting; the sky turned an amber color and stayed that way for most of the afternoon. I kept feeling like I forgot to take off sunshades.

But just to keep things in the proper perspective, here’s a photo taken near the main dining facility. My friends with some military familiarity will recognize it as a UXO (Unexploded Ordinance) marker. I suspect the round is in the canal behind the marker, and EOD just decided it wasn’t worth the effort yet to try to blow it or recover it. All part of the local ambience.

BALLOTS & BOMBS

2005-01-27T21:34:00.000-08:00

The Iraqi elections will be held on the 30th, and everyone is expecting that the losers-in-waiting will do their best to disrupt them. Most normal operations around here have pretty well come to a stop as we throw everything we’ve got into capturing or killing known and suspected insurgents before the elections. My opinion is that the Iraqi’s will be so busy trying to kill each other during this period that we’ll actually enjoy a day or two of relative quiet on the base.

Apparently not everybody shares my opinion, though. The mess hall, PX, and all other shops will be closed the 29th and 30th to avoid any large gathering of troops. A pretty minor inconvenience for most folks, who like me probably have enough food left over from Christmas care packages to get them through the winter.

Which brings up one of the nice things I can say about being here – I’ve met some really nice folks at just about every turn. There is this one server that I see every night at the mess hall, an Indian fellow named Mandel. Whether that’s a first or a last name I’ve got no idea, but he has to be one of the most unfailingly pleasant people I’ve ever met. When I came through the line tonight he told me that the mess hall would be closed for two days…and then asked if I would have enough to eat. I’m really going to miss seeing him when I leave. He told me he signed up for 2 years here when he took the job, and I don’t think they get to go back home. I hope he’s making good money.

Under the heading of “you’ll laugh about this later”, Little John had a nasty run-in with the election process here in Iraq. We had an M16 in our evidence room that had been used in a suicide, and the unit it belonged to was getting ready to re-deploy back to the States and had been hounding Little John to get it released. Conscientious agent that he, LJ coordinated all the paperwork, and escorted a unit rep over to the evidence room to pick up the rifle. So far, so good, right?

Maybe you saw this coming, but since everybody and his neighbor’s cousin has his very own M16 over here, it tends to be a popular weapon of choice among the suicidal, and we have more than one M16 in the evidence room. Funny thing about Army rifles is they all look pretty much alike…black, scratched up, and tape or paint on the stock. So you can forgive the evidence custodian for signing over the wrong M16.

YOU might could forgive the evidence custodian, but not LJ, who had to make a fast and furious space-a (space available) flight on a cantankerous Blackhawk to retrieve the troublesome rifle, and replace it with the right one. That was on Monday. You know, Monday – the day the sandstorm hit and shut down all non-essential air travel? So here’s Little John stranded at a helipad 4 miles from the nearest tent, and him without his sleeping bag. Not to worry, though – here comes another chopper, but LJ can’t get on because it’s carrying ballot boxes. The next day another chopper finally shows up – and once again LJ gets bumped in favor of ballot boxes. Two cold nights later, after sleeping on a concrete floor in just his (unauthorized) black fleece and long johns, he finally manages to catch a hop back to the office, and gets in about 0130 in the morning with no one to meet him, and has to walk about two miles from the helipad to the office. To add injury to insult, LJ has never been particularly comfortable about traveling outside the wire, clinging to this foolish notion that there are people out there who might want to hurt him. (I’ve talked to him about this unhealthy xenophobia, but he persists.) Anyway, he’s starting to nod off on the chopper flight back when a loud noise nearly jolts him out of his seat. That can happen to you when you try to sleep next to a .50 caliber machine gun. He wakes up just in time to see the chopper kicking out flares, the .50 banging away, and visions of a chopper crash dancing in his head. Heck, since he got back, we can barely get him to leave the office to go eat now. As you might imagine, he is somewhat less than enthusiastic about democracy in action in Iraq.

Our replacements are becoming the stuff of legend by now…right up there with the Lost Battalion. We had reliable information from a confidential source that they had left the U.S. on the 21st…which turned out to be unreliable. Then Battalion assured us that they were in the air on the 22nd. And the 23d. And the 24th. Dang, won’t somebody please let those poor boys land somewhere?! Anyhow, we got an e-mail from one of them on the 26th, saying that they were somewhere in Kuwait with a lot of sand around them, (that really helped narrow it down), and he didn’t know the name of the camp. Said they had tried to call the Kuwait office at the number Battalion gave them, but that number had been disconnected and was no longer in service…and uh, did we have any suggestions? (Thank heavens for Morale & Welfare internet services!) We called Battalion to pass the info along…and were assured that they were in the air and would be here any minute now. Consistency, as you can see, is a valued trait at Battalion.

Anyhow, last word is that the Donner Detachment should catch a bus out of Camp Fukawe tomorrow, move out smartly to Doha and sit there until the election is safely over, and then fly in to Baghdad . We plan to welcome them with a compass and a Battalion phone list.

One final thought; it occurred to me as I was walking across the camp the other day that I’m trapped in the middle of a Country and Western song – I’m surrounded by guns, trucks, and trailers! On the other hand, there are no trains and no beer, so obviously I was mistaken.

OK, so it wasn’t a final thought. AFN radio has deteriorated seriously since I was last forced to listen to it. Now I’m pretty broad-minded in my appreciation of things musical, and I like both kinds of music – country AND western…which is unfortunate, as it’s only played between 0315 and 0316 every other Thursday. The rest of the time you have a choice of rap or listening to an Arab station.

You know, Arab music’s not all that bad once you get used to it.

WOODY'S UP, HARRY'S DEAD, AND I'M SHORT

2005-01-23T05:19:00.000-08:00

Normally it’s no problem for CID Agents to eat alone. Despite our winning ways and solicitous concern for our fellow soldiers, they tend to look at us with all the affection a mouse has for a cat. Poor PVT Woody didn’t have much choice, though; there just wasn’t anyplace else to sit, so he nervously laid his tray down in front of us and began eating without looking up. Now for those of you not familiar with the military, an E-2 Private has typically just gotten out of basic training, so with my incisive investigative instincts, I figured he hadn’t been in the Army long. Poor kid nearly spilled his plate when I spoke to him, and turns out I was right – he had just finished up his AIT (Advanced Individual Training) and shipped right out to Iraq. PVT Woody was all of 19, if that. Skinny and freckles, looked like he would have been out of his depth at a high school prom, and here he was just starting out his tour in Iraq, with a rifle slung over his shoulder that was nearly as big as he was. A man in a boy’s body. We didn’t have time to get into how he’d come to be in the Army, or what his plans were after the Army…or if he had a girlfriend, did anyone write him? As I picked up my tray and headed for the exit, I desperately hoped that PVT WOODY had a good platoon sergeant who would keep him alive long enough to grow up, and began to understand how good sergeants thought of their platoon as their kids.

One of the things that we get stuck with by default is taking fingerprints for immigration of the soldiers who have joined the army as a shortcut to becoming U.S. citizens. Actually, this is really something their S-2 shops are supposed to be doing, but they can’t be bothered with such details and give these poor guys the runaround until they finally wander, dazed and confused into our office. My theory is that if someone is willing to risk dying to earn his citizenship, I can find the time to take his fingerprints. Last week we had PFC Harry (real name changed) come into the office and ask if we could do his prints. He had immigrated to New York City from ….what, Nigeria? How quickly we forget. A quiet guy, and pleasant. He’d wound up with an infantry unit from New York state, and was a driver on an armored Humvee (M1114) when they went out on patrols. That was Monday, and I wished him luck as he left the office.

Wednesday I was checking the casualty reports and saw that there had been a traffic fatality, with an M1114 rolling into a canal and killing two soldiers who had been trapped inside – the doors were combat locked, which makes them harder to get open, and of course they had on about 40 lbs of body armor and ammo, and the canal was just narrow enough to keep the doors from opening at any rate. Two GI’s managed to find an air pocket and buy enough time to lose their gear and figure a way out, but PFC Harry wasn’t one of them. Their buddies went back for them and managed to get HARRY out, but he’d been under for too long by then and didn’t make it, although he revived briefly on the way to the hospital.

I looked over the sad file of paperwork we collect from the mortuary on incidents like this, and I didn’t see anything listing Harry's citizenship. I wonder if there’s some provision for a posthumous award of citizenship, or if it even matters. PFC HARRY didn’t die in combat, but he was a casualty of the war as surely as if he’d been shot, and paid the ultimate price to be an American.

I’ve seen just a bunch of death investigations since I’ve been here, since we were at one time working all the hostile fire deaths, but this was the first time where I could put a face and a voice to a soldier killed, and that made it a little harder. I’m glad there are people like PFC Harry who want to be Americans badly enough to put their life on the line, but it really makes me wonder how we came to that. Hard to say, but I’d guess that maybe 5% of the Army consists of people earning their citizenship in the military. Does that bother you? There is just something profoundly wrong when we become so soft, so fearful, that we have to look to others to fight our battles. Maybe I’m just misreading the situation, and I hope so. Lord knows there are a lot of American young men and women shouldering the burden.

Rumor has it that we may be returning to the States around the middle of February, and as usual, the rumor mill has been working overtime. All week we’ve heard that our relief had left the 21st, so we were expecting them…oh, say today. Then we hear from Battalion that no, that was all a mistake, they had to wait and come over with another unit, and maybe they’ll leave today. Sheesh. I’ll believe it when I walk through the door. Best case scenario, we could be on the Freedom Bird in about 20 days. Or so....

And another thing, we turned our ammo in this week in anticipation of the relief picking it up. Another classic example of bad judgment on my part. I’m grabbing up about a dozen loaded M16 mags, and this time they can have them back just before I get on the plane!

ODE TO THE PETER PRINCIPLE

2005-01-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

Ever notice how every silver cloud has a black lining? Take the relief-in-place (RIP; now you know yet another Army acronym, but don’t worry – I have lots more) of our old Battalion by another CID Bn rotating in from the States. Both Bn’s shall remain nameless for reasons of national security, protection of the guilty, and my innate paranoia.

Now clearly the tearful departure of the old Bn was a cause for rejoicing, since it signaled that our replacements were on the horizon. That, and it’s an old Army tradition to get all teary-eyed and nostalgic over the departure of bureaucrats-in-arms; we sit around and sing army songs, roast MRE’s over an open fire, and pass out medals to prove how brave we were. All very moving.

It seems, however, that Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) NEW didn’t like the way LTC OLD ran his shop. No, that’s not quite right. Better to say that LTC NEW’s blood pressure would have blown a sphygmomanometer right off his arm. Hope you appreciate that word – I had to look it up. Down in the basement of Bn there is a little-used room with a large conference table in it, set far back from the passing public eye that was used in happier days as a break room. Well! That sort of mollycoddling certainly had no place in the new Reich, let me tell you. Forthwith it was transformed into a sterile conference room, the AFN TV banished to a dusty closet, and uncomfortable straight-backed chairs placed strategically lower than the padded Commander’s chair at the head of the table.

LTC NEW noted with no small disdain that LTC OLD didn’t have a full-time driver assigned to his personal use. How in the world can you be expected to inspire fighting men when they might chance to see you DRIVING YOURSELF around the base?! Fortunately, LTC NEW came prepared, and promptly picked a driver for those 30 minutes a week he might have to drive around. Unfortunately for the driver, there no longer is a break room, so she is forced to wander the hall’s like a spirit forever seeking its rest until summoned to the Great Office itself.

Ah, and all those filthy crumbs and coffee cups at the desks! Away with them! This is a professional organization, and we don’t eat and drink at our desks. If you absolutely had to succumb to hunger and thirst during duty hours, you could do it in the break room. Or, you could have done that in the break room if one existed anymore.

Regrettably, I only learned of the aforementioned changes after LTC NEW decided to drop by and inspire his far-flung outposts. Forewarned would have been forearmed; instead, I had placed my faith in the vain hope that his driver would a) get lost; or b) wreck out on one of the strategically-placed speed bumps on his way over.

Now I should explain that our office hours generally run something like 0730 to 1900 or so, six days a week. Sunday is a down day, and only the duty agent is expected to show up at the office. I know, I know what you’re thinking. How do you ever get anything accomplished if you’re going to take off one day a week? Fortunately, LTC NEW dropped by to correct our error in judgment.

So there I was, sitting behind my rickety desk at the office, minding my own business as usual when what to my wandering eyes should appear but LTC NEW and his driver. I was impressed. I mean, here’s this busy little martinet who finds time in his schedule to pay a social call on the great unwashed. I’m so impressed, in fact, that I stand up and offer my hand in greeting, which he accepted with all the grace of a hypochondriac kissing a leper. I then offered an introduction of one of the most promising young warrant officers I’ve seen lately, but by now his store of hospitality had been exhausted, and he resumed glaring around the room while the young warrant waited vainly for some sign of recognition.

It can’t be healthy for the veins in your neck to bulge out like that.

I braced for the worst. I could see the local papers now: “Local soldier executed by commander in Iraq for keeping a disorderly house!” I could only hope that they wouldn’t print my name and bring dishonor on my family. And I at least had the peace of mind of knowing that my will was duly witnessed and tucked away in a safe place. Obviously, I would be interrogated at the very least, and perhaps if I confessed my sins I would be allowed to redeem myself through hari-kari. I rehearsed all the answers in my head: name, rank, serial number…was there anything else? Oh, yeah, I could tell him about the 15 cases we closed out this week, while we opened up another 10. I could tell him about the all-nighter we all pulled responding to an attempted murder, processing the crime scene, taking statements collecting evidence. I could tell him how we’d mounted two convoys through a high risk section of the city (well, basically, ANYWHERE in Baghdad is high risk, so maybe I’m exaggerating). With baited breath I waited for the fateful interrogation to begin:

“Chief, why are the lights out on that side of the room?”

“Uh…because we didn’t turn them on, sir?”

“Well, it looks like a (expletive deleted) cave over there! Driver! I’ve seen enough! Get me out of this place!”

Just my luck. Out of all the possible LTC’s I could have got, I had to get one that’s afraid of the dark!

I got to re-live that afternoon in all it’s glory when I was summoned to the Palace a few hours later to explain why our duty agent hadn’t responded to three calls the night before. Now, there was a question I could answer! We had, in fact, responded to two – and the “rape” that was reported in the MP blotter turned out actually to be a peeping tom – a kind of sexual ocular assault, I guess – and the “stabbing” turned out to be a GI that merely displayed a bayonet in an argument. The third call we never got.

Just because I could answer doesn’t mean that I got to, mind you. This was obviously meant to be a one-way conversation, so I practiced my thousand-yard stare and nodded encouragingly at what I thought were the appropriate places.

And then, he got around to what was really bothering him: It seems a certain senior warrant officer whom I hold in unusually high esteem had failed to shout “attention!” when a LTC entered the room. Argh! What could I say – guilty as charged. My only excuse was that the last time I knew about that kind of pomp and circumstance was nearly 30 years ago when a kindly old Drill Sergeant was beating it into my head. Somehow the knowledge had atrophied over the decades. To make sure it doesn’t happen again, I’ve started jumping up and yelling “attention” anytime anyone over the rank of second lieutenant walks through the door. Very annoying to the staff, but they’ll only have to put up with for the next couple of weeks or so.

The guy that’s paying the highest price for our incompetence, though, is Old Boy, our faithful mechanic. Since he was the culprit who feloniously, and with malice aforethought, failed to turn on the lights on the east side of the room, he is now assigned as full time battalion watch. His job is to maintain surveillance on the battalion and alert us anytime LTC NEW leaves the Holy Land. Don’t feel sorry for him, though; we’ll pull him off as soon as we develop some informants in battalion to pass on the info to us. Given the level of morale there, it shouldn’t be hard to recruit somebody!

FOXHOLES AND ATHEISTS

2005-01-14T03:41:00.000-08:00

Fortunately, I haven’t had to spend much time around foxholes (around here they tend to fill up with camel spiders, and that takes all the fun out of it)…and I doubt that I’ve spent much time around atheists, either.

No matter how much it disappoints the ACLU (bless they pointy little heads), I get the impression that a sizeable portion of the Army is Christian, and proud of it. The last time you went to a restaurant – how many people did you see saying grace before their meal? I’ve been watching the GI’s at the mess hall for sometime now (not much else to do!), and I would guess a good 40% of them bow their heads for a quick prayer before they start eating. Now, granted, part of that may be just asking for divine protection from the quality of food they’re about to partake, but I think it goes beyond that. Don’t get me wrong; you’re average Joe is not particularly interested in going to church, and not overtly religious. We are, after all, talking young men in their early 20’s for the most part, and the flesh may well be weak, but still I get the sense that they do have some kind of core spiritual belief. Not, of course, that they would ever admit it publicly.

Maybe an appreciation for the spiritual comes with maturity, and a lot of these young men have had to mature in a hurry here. And too many of them never got the chance to mature further, come to think of it. But when your buddy takes an overdose of shrapnel right next to you, and you walk away with just scratches, it’s bound to make you wonder about exactly what’s going on. Any war carries with it the seeds of the worst in man, and the best. Negotiating your way between those two poles sure makes you think about some kind of an anchor to hang on to.

Ran across an article in Stars & Stripes last week (extracted from The Wichita Eagle) that talked about theodicy (yeah, I had to look it up, too – means the justice of God in the face of evil; in other words – why do bad things happen to good people?), and it posed this paradox: “If God is God, He is not good; if God is good, He is not God”. In other words, if God is God (all powerful & omnipresent), he permits evil, which is not good. On the other hand, if God is good, but can not deter evil, he can not be all powerful and omnipresent. Well, it didn’t take long to figure out that I was hopelessly out of my theological depth, so I summoned a convocation of the other Agents in the office and posed the question to them.

Oh, Lordy, what was I thinking, starting a theological discussion with a bunch of cops?! The discussion generated a lot of heat, but precious little light, I’m afraid. We were fortunate to have an interpreter with us at the time who is Muslim, so we had the advantage of a little different perspective. A diligent search failed to turn up any soldiers of the Jewish or Hindu faith, so we weren’t able to get any direction from those religions. If there were any around, they probably heard the argument and decided it was a good time to evacuate the area…all in all, commendable good judgment on their part.

I wish I could report back to you that 8 cynical cops were able to untie the Gordian know that has bound theologians since the dawn of time, but we didn’t arrive at an answer that anyone thought was entirely satisfactory. I guess the closest we got to some kind of consensus was that it all boiled down to faith, whether you were Muslim or Christian. I can not intellectually reconcile how God can be omnipotent and good at the same time in the face of so much unwarranted suffering – but I don’t have to. I just know that He is at once God, and good. I like what Charles Spurgeon, a 19th –century preacher had to say about it: When we cannot trace God’s hand, we must simply trust His heart.

For those of you scratching your heads and wondering where in the world this blog came from, don’t despair. I’ll be back to talking about Zebras and firepower in upcoming pages. Why, just the other day I saw a Lithuanian armored personnel carrier go by with a….well never mind, I’ll cover that later!

The Army Loves Me, This I Know, 'Cause the Army Tells Me So

2005-01-09T05:53:00.000-08:00

For the past four months the Army hasn’t quite been sure how best to protect their little boy, Jerry. At first they piled up big baskets with sand and stuck them around my trailer. Then someone else’s brother-in-law got the contract for force protection, and they hired some Iraqi’s to come move those baskets (Hesco baskets, if you must know) away from the trailer.

Somehow, I didn’t like the logic of hiring Iraqi’s to remove my protection. But I gotta admit they went about it with real enthusiasm, so maybe I was wrong….

The next two weeks my protection from shrapnel consisted of good ol’ thick aluminum trailer walls. It ain’t easy sleeping in your body armor, but it can be done if you’re highly motivated. Finally, a big ol’ crane visited the area and set up a couple of concrete barriers about 6’ x 6’ along the front of the trailer, although they didn’t put anything in front of the door. Guess the shrapnel has to have some way to get in, after all. Much better, although I still was left with an uncomfortable feeling of what happens if a mortar shell hits BEHIND the trailer. OK, time to move all the furniture, clothes, and equipment against the back wall. And I kind of like the symbolism of my copy of War and Peace soaking up fragments. I’d have bought a thicker book if they had one.

Tuesday morning this week I noticed that at last someone had gotten around to putting a concrete barrier in front of the door. Right in front of the door, to be exact. I also noticed it Wednesday night when the warning siren went off and I bolted through the front door for the bunker at about two in the morning. Silly me, trying to push that concrete block out of the way with my nose. (Memo to Self: Make sure path is clear before running out of door in the future.)

Along with their commendable efforts to cut down on the number of perforated bodies they have to patch up, the Army has also gone to considerable trouble and expense to keep us warm. When you come through Kuwait on your way here, you go by a Rapid Issue Facility (RIF) warehouse, where you’re issued some neat, high-speed stuff that has skipped the normal army supply channels to get it in the hands of soldiers as soon as possible. Outstanding, says I. ‘Bout time they didn’t something logical like that. Among the neat stuff you get is a black fleece jacket, lightweight and warm, just about perfect for the desert mornings and evenings around here. Take it off when the day heats up, it packs down to nearly nothing, and you’re on your way. About as close to perfection as the old P38 can opener.

I know I’m pitching a softball to you guys that were in the military, but here it comes, anyway. What do you think happened when it turned cold here and soldiers actually started wearing their issued jackets?

Yep. Command Sergeant Major Zebra nearly had a stroke. One day all is right in his Army, and the next day, he’s surrounded by soldiers wearing UNAUTHORIZED clothing. Good grief, there’s not even a place to put a unit patch on those things, or worse – no place to sew all those stripes on! How in the world can an army function if the head Zebras can’t be identified from a hundred yards?!! Clearly, something had to be done to restore order before morale completely disintegrated and the Iraqi Expeditionary Force turned into some kind of Air Force Rabble or something. So the edict goes out across the land, let there be no more wearing of the fleece as an outer garment. If you insist on trying to stay warm, you wussy, you’ll wear the jacket in shame under your shirt.

Fortunately, this edict (also known as a FRAGO) only lasted about as long as it took the General to walk over to the Zebra shed, dressed in his black fleece jacket.

I am pleased to report that despite this setback, morale and discipline are still holding up.

Friendly fire isn’t. That pretty much sums it up. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Joe is as big a threat to you as ol’ Hajji, but it does pay to be careful. If someone gets careless and has an accidental discharge as you’re coming in, or gets a little too paranoid, it would be pretty easy to find yourself on the wrong side of an American machine gun. Add the confusion that’s unavoidable when you have joint American-Iraqi operations, and things can get crazy in a hurry. I don’t think I realized exactly how big a threat that is until I got over here. I get a little nervous every time we come back inside the wire and go through the checkpoints. All it would take is one shot, or one loud boom, and things could go south in a hurry. One of the things I noticed as a cop was that it might be hard to make that first shot, but after that the next 20 or so came pretty fast – and it’s hard to yell loud enough in the middle of a gunfight to get it stopped.

There is a daily summary here called the Seats Report, which is a compilation of significant activities that occurred across the theatre during the day. Any unit or convoy that is attacked or fired on reports the incident, and the capture or killing of enemy forces is reported, along with recovery of arms and ammunition. Maybe it’s just an aberration, but it seems to me that the quantity and quality of attacks against U.S. forces has slowed down lately. A good many of the attacks consist of just a few rounds of small arms fire, or an RPG fired in the general vicinity. And everyday we’re killing or capturing key targets, something that I suspect is not very widely reported in the press, and maybe that’s just as well. Another encouraging sign is that we’ve established an outpost on Haifa Street in Baghdad, right square-dab in the middle of Baghdad, and are patrolling the street there, which is where so many attacks have come from in the past. When it was first set up the insurgents tried to drive us out, but they were quickly killed or convinced to take up more peaceful pursuits, and the area is considerably calmer now. That is exactly what the Iraqi Police and National Guard should be doing, but I guess it remains to be seen if they’ll step up to the plate on that.

Good news! The replacement battalion for our battalion HQ arrived this morning. That will mean a lot of confusion initially as a new command takes over, but most importantly it means that our relief shouldn’t be too far behind them. Calloo, Callay, oh Frabjous Day!

STAKEOUTS AND FIREWORKS

2005-01-02T11:24:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure whether I should be happy or disappointed. I wasn’t sure what to expect for New Year’s at Beautiful Downtown Camp Liberty, but truthfully, I always secretly harbored a suspicion that our friendly local hosts would try to stage some sort of celebration in our honor. Once again, Islam has let me down.

Those of you familiar with CID will not be surprised that I rang in the New Year working a stakeout on an area that has been frequently burglarized. Considering that the next best option was drinking luke-warm white grape juice at the Morale and Welfare Tent, it really wasn’t that bad a deal. There’s nothing more depressing than being around a bunch of soldiers making fools of themselves on grape juice.

Now your typical stakeout is kinda like first dates – lots of false alarms and not much happening. The best part of it was having a good seat for the midnight show. The arty boys on the south side put up about a dozen illumination flares exactly at midnight. Now, I know the Army would never approve of something as frivolous as wasting perfectly good ammunition just to ring in the New Year, so I figure it had to go something like this:

Infantry Joe gets on the occasionally working field phone to DivArty (Division Artillery) about 6 PM on New Year’s eve, and tells them he just got some reliable information from a captured insurgent that there’s going to be an attack at…oh, say midnight tonight, and can he go ahead and pre-register for some illumination rounds? And I can just imagine DivArty saying – are you sure six is going to be enough? We don’t want to take any chances of not giving you guys enough support. We’ll just go ahead and make it an even dozen. Good luck repelling the evil hordes…and oh, yeah, Happy New Year, Joe!

Stakeout postscript – well, our Bazaar didn’t get broken into, but about 30 minutes after we broke off the surveillance, some Filipino contract workers got into a discussion about cutlery about a hundred yards from where we had been. The loser was stabbed five times with a pretty nasty-looking knife and nearly bled out before someone noticed him on the side of the road and got him over to the troop clinic. They did a quick patch job on him, and then, to quote the Doc who worked on him, “Sometimes the drug of choice is JP8” (helicopter fuel). They evacuated him out to the big hospital in Baghdad, and last I heard he was still alive. Here’s the kicker though – even though we have to work the case, no one will prosecute it. The guy that did the stabbing isn’t subject to military justice, the Iraqis have absolutely no interest in taking on this case, and the Philippines don’t have any sort of extraterritorial jurisdiction. About all we’ll accomplish is to have the guy fired and sent back home.

Have I mentioned the latest Force Protection Measure at our Mess Hall? Ever since the bombing at Mosul, they've had an ambulance parked in front of the mess hall loaded up with stretchers. I've been losing weight ever since! Wouldn't want to put out the survivors who had to carry me out, and listen to them griping about how much I weighed. That, and there's just something about the stretchers that doesn't help the ol' appetite, you know?

Not sure, but think I may have blundered my way into posting a link on this page that will take you to a collection of photos made since I've been over here. I can't get to it, you understand, because the Army server doesn't trust me to go there, but hopefully you can. Thanks to Al Leiby, my old Army buddy, for hosting the pictures.

SGT ZEBRA AND THE CROWS STRIKE BACK!

2004-12-30T21:51:00.000-08:00

Ol’ Boy, our faithful mechanic and chauffeur, is normally not what you would think of as a troublemaker. He generally doesn’t spend enough time awake to get into trouble in the first place, come to think of it. But this week he was drawing fire like Carolers in front of a Mosque.

It all started out innocently enough when Ol’ Boy went out and bought himself his very own radio-controlled model airplane. I should have known that letting Ol’ Boy use a powered ANYTHING without adult supervision was inviting disaster, but I was distracted filling out Department of the Army Form 3873-A, (Accounting for Expendable Supplies in a War Zone).

Ol’ Boy got off to a promising start by crashing his plane into the side of a Colonel’s Suburban, who took it with all the good grace you’d expect of an O-6 who hasn’t had a beer since he got here last March. After that, OB happened onto the idea of picking on something smaller than him, and started buzzing an unfortunate crow that happened to be sitting on post near our trailers. Denny was having a great time chasing the crow around, right up to the point where the crow gave out the secret crow distress signal, which brought about a dozen of his buddies into the fray, and they started whacking the plane around. With visions of his new toy spiraling into the ground in ignominious defeat, OB decided it was time to bring the plane home to Papa and put it up while it still had both wings.

It was that “home to Papa” thing that got him in trouble. When he flew the plane back to where he was, it was hotly pursued by almost a dozen very irate, homicidal crows who now had visual lock on OB. The best part was that OB had locked his trailer door, and had to stand on the step fumbling for keys while the crows were buzzing him. Now he’s pestering me for a Purple Heart, under the theory that he was injured fighting off Iraqi Insurgent Crows. Fat chance. If I don’t get one for all the paper cuts I’ve sustained in the line of duty, he ain’t getting one for losing a fight with a stupid bird.

OB is a quick study, though, and figured out that the crows would probably leave him alone at night. Now, true there was a problem with being able to see the plane at night, but he solved that little problem by strapping on a couple of chem-lights to the plane. When I first saw it, I thought they were the slowest darned tracers I’d ever seen, until I realized that not even Iraqi tracers do loops. Actually, it looked kind of Christmassy, what with a green chem.-light under the right wing, and a red one under the left wing. Filled with the spirit of the Season, I wandered off to the office to fill out some more forms, and left OB under the supervision of Wojo. In retrospect, perhaps not one of my better delegations of authority.

Somehow or other, OB’s little airplane had attracted the attention of the Supreme Plenipotent Command Sergeant Major that I had such a pleasant discussion with earlier. SGT Zebra roars up in his customized Chevy Suburban with Kojak lights flashing awy on the dash, and demands to know who the ranking person is at the scene. That would be Wojo, a person never noted for his fondness of Zebras, Plenipotent or otherwise.
SGT Zebra: “Who authorized this…this plane flying?!!”

Wojo: Good evening, Specialist Zebra. We weren’t aware that authorization was required.

SGT Zebra, sputtering: “Now see here, soldier, can’t you see my stripes in the dark?! I’ll have you know I’m a Command Impotent Major Sergeant, and you’ll treat me as such!:

Wojo: You got it, mac. Now what can we do for you?

SGT Zebra: First, you can stop flying that damned aircraft. It’s a hazard. It’s evil, wicked, mean and nasty. Good for nothing, bad in bed, and better off dead!

Wojo: Good grief, Corporal, I had no idea a model airplane was that dangerous! We shall forthwith cease and desist…uh, exactly what was it we were endangering again?

SGT Zebra: Damn it, man, I told you I’m a Imperial Sergeant Maximus, now get that straight. And speaking of rank, what rank are you? What’s that “US” thingy on your collar?

Wojo: Well, Sarge, that’s what CID Special Agents wear, in accordance, as I’m sure you’re aware, with AR 195-2.

SGT Zebra: CID! (Stepping back…) Say, you’re not one of those guys that walks around with loaded guns in the mess hall are you? Your guns not loaded is it?

Wojo: Why, yes, it is. Here, let me show…

SGT Zebra: Stop it! You’re threatening an endangered species! I’ll report you to …CID!

Wojo: Calm down, your Sergeantness. I’ll see that this miscreant is duly punished, and that his lethal model airplane stays parked. We’re all One Team over here, after all!

SGT Zebra: That’s more like it. He could have caused a helicopter to crash if it had hit that fool machine of his. We have lots of 10 ton helicopters flying at 20 feet over a billet area, after all.

Kids. You just can’t let them out of your sight for a minute. I now have OB’s toy locked up in my wall-locker, and he has to come get me to supervise him when he goes flying. I’d hate for the fighting 38th MP Det (CID) to get credit for downing one of our own choppers, after all.

Happy New Year, my Friends and Family! Never forget that you sleep safe at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on your behalf. (Tip of the pen to George Orwell….)

2004-12-27T00:13:00.002-08:00

Christmas

CHRISTMAS PHOTOS

2004-12-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

The mess hall here really went all out to put out a good spread for Christmas. They even had Rappin' Reindeer, which wasn't exactly my style, but, hey, it's the thought that counts. After the blast in Mosul, security was tight getting in, but the wait was worth it. Thought you might want to see some pictures from the Mess Hall. This ain't your father's mess hall....

Now about Christmas eve - we had a litle party at the office where everybody drew numbers for a gift. Granted, the shopping opportunities here were a little limited, but everyone was pleased with their trinkets and we had a good time. About 30 minutes afterwards, while we're all basking in the spirit of Christmas cheer (since they won't let you have any other spirits here), we heard a bodacious (that's LOUD, for you not familiar with that military term)boom outside the building, and realized our Muslim brethren were helping us celebrate our holy day with fireworks. They're so damned thoughtful that way. While we were outside, we heard a gunfight cranking up in the direction of the post exit onto Route Irish. One of the FNG's, Young Billy, thought it might be a range. We pointed out that even the Army wasn't Scroogeish enough to run a range on Christmas Eve, and besides, the volume of fire was much too intense. Then we started seeing the tracers arcing out into the air. We all grabbed up a cup of hot coffee and crowded outside to watch the fireworks, which lasted for about 15 minutes.

Ha! Bet your Christmas didn't have that, huh?

(If you don't see any pictures, it's because my able assistant, Igor, hasn't gotten around to posting them yet. We have to do an end-around because the Army server won't let me post photos directly.)

They gave us real silverware for the occasion!

The Dessert Table -

Our Christmas Cabana -

THEY MISSED ME

2004-12-24T07:29:00.001-08:00

My apologies for those of you who may have wondered if I was all right after hearing the news of the bombing at the mess hall in Mosul (fade to Sally Fields accepting the Oscar : “You love me! You really love me!”. I probably should have posted something sooner to let you know I was OK, but it somehow seemed kind of pretentious to assume I rated that high in your thoughts. Darned glad to know that I do!

Mosul is well north of us, and has always been a mortar magnet. All of the mess halls I’ve seen over here are pretty similar, so I can imagine only too well how much damage an explosion in one would do. The first assumptions were that some raghead just got lucky with a rocket or mortar, as all of the bases get IDF’ed (Indirect fire – mortars and rockets) pretty regular, despite our best efforts to reason sweetly with the disgruntled few.

Early on I started hearing a buzz that it was a suicide bomber, probably an Iraqi National Guardsman (ING), and it appears that this is indeed the case. So far, the Iraqi security forces have been a pathetic joke, and unless they develop the motivation and skills to police themselves and ruthlessly seek out and engage the insurgents our efforts here will have been in vain. I’m not optimistic that will happen.

Had an interesting conversation with an MP Captain who supports the Iraqi Police Stations in Baghdad. The U.S. was so concerned about abuses by the Iraqi police that when we dismantled them and put them back together again, the only thing we would arm them with was second-hand AK47’s and Glocks, plus a light machine gun or two. Plus they have no armored vehicles, half as many sets of body armor as they need, and radios that don’t work half the time.

Bad deal, right? It gets worse. The Iraqi police system is composed of at least three separate and unrelated divisions – the major crimes unit, that does investigations, the patrol division who do what we would generally think of as police work, and a third division that sits around the station, drinks tea, takes the occasional walk-in report, and are charged with abandoning the station and their weapons if someone looks at them in a threatening manner. Guess which Division most of the cops think they belong to? And the Divisions don’t talk to each other, of course. My MP Captain was telling me that he finally got one station to actually put patrols on the street, and the third day of patrolling they had a van pull out in front of their Land Cruiser and riddle it with AK47 fire, killing one officer and wounding another. American cops would have beaten the ground flat to find and…uh, arrest…those guys, but the Iraqis took this to mean they were taking too many chances with too little protection. Gee, imagine that. So now they sit around their station and drink tea, while murderers walk the street with rifles slung over their shoulders.

And there’s one more twist. Since this is an American/British show, there is a lot of tension over which model of policing the Iraqis should use. The Brits naturally prefer their system, and we want to make them into San Francisco PD East. We should probably contract out the police training program to the Italian Carbinerri; their model seems to me to be the most appropriate. But whichever model is used, it won’t succeed unless politicians are willing to defend the police and army from CNN and the host of critics who seem to think you can reason with armed zealots.

Well, you can - as long as you have superior firepower and lots of high explosives on your side.

As long as I’m ranting, might as well sound off on the media coverage of the Mosul bombing. Did anyone else besides me get the impression from watching the breathless, concerned faces on TV that we have just sustained the greatest and most devastating loss of life since the D-Day? What this country needs is not a good five cent cigar, but a better understanding of the definition of war. I am in no way minimizing the tragedy of those soldiers and civilians killed at Mosul, but it was just another day in a war. I can’t imagine the media in WWII, Korea, or even Vietnam going as completely bonkers over what is really just another battle, and I’m afraid we’re conditioning the public to believe that wars can be won without casualties. Iraq is the opening round in a war against Muslim extremists, and we had darned well better recognize it as a war and quit whimpering when we get an occasional bloody nose. If you want to use it as a goad to get mad and destroy the enemy any way possible, good on ya, mate – but please don’t bring out the crying towels and try to second-guess everything.

I know, I’m not being very direct about my feelings. I’ll work on that.

But on to more cheerful subjects. Today is about my favorite day of the year – Christmas eve, and not even Iraq can dampen that enthusiasm. Now, being away from my wife on Christmas eve can, but that’s a whole ‘nuther web page. The day got off to a good start when I grabbed up a MRE and Dr. Pepper and headed over to the artillery pad to watch the 155mm self-propelled guns ring in this day of peace and love. With my usual impeccable timing, I got there just as everyone was leaving. They really should publish a program or something.

All the agents are getting together about 7 tonight to swap some gag gifts and give some recognition to the Christmas Holiday. I’ll probably get a lot of shampoo and hair conditioner as usual. Sigh. Then after that I’ll come back to the trailer and hope desperately that we don’t get a duty call so I’ll have the time to drown my sorrows in a DP and meditate on the flashing lights of my little Christmas tree and recall all the pleasures of Christmas past with family members no longer here. And celebrate the joy of the wonderful friends and family in my life now.

Merry Christmas, ya’ll.

THEY MISSED ME

2004-12-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

ANGELS

2004-12-22T22:42:00.000-08:00

The message below is shamelessly plagarized from the late Paul Crume, a former columnist for the Dallas Morning News. I don't think he would mind my use of his column, though.

I've always liked the article, and I like it even more this year, for I have felt the brush of angel wings in the prayers and support of my friends and family. God Bless you all, and Merry Christmas!
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A man wrote me not long ago and asked me what I thought of the theory of angels. I immediately told him that I am highly in favor of angels. As a matter of fact, I am scared to death of them.

Any adult human being with half sense, and some with more, knows that there are angels. If he has ever spent any period in loneliness, when the senses are forced in upon themselves, he has felt the wind from their beating wings and been overwhelmed with the sudden realization of the endless and gigantic dark that exists outside the little candle flame of human knowledge. He has prayed, not in the sense that he asked for something, but that he yielded himself.

Angels live daily at our very elbows, and so do demons, and most men at one time or another in their lives have yielded themselves to both and have lived to rejoice and rue their impulses.

But the man who has once felt the beat of an angel’s wing finds it easy to rejoice at the universe and at his fellow man.

It does not happen to any man often, and too many of us dismiss it when it happens. I remember a time in my final days in college when the chinaberry trees were abloom and the air was sweet with spring blossoms and I stood still on the street, suddenly struck with the feeling of something that was an enormous promise and yet was no tangible promise at all.

And there was another night in a small boat when the moon was full and the distant headlands were dark but beautiful and we were lonely. The pull of a nameless emotion was so strong that it filled the atmosphere. The small boy within me cried. Psychiatrists will say that the angel in all this was really within me, not outside, but it makes no difference.

There are angels inside us and angels outside, and the one inside is usually the quickest choked.

Francis Thompson said it better. He was a late 19th-century English poet who would put the current crop of hippies to shame. He was on pot all his life. His pad was always mean and was sometimes a park bench. He was a mental case and tubercular besides. He carried a fishing creel into which he dropped the poetry that was later to become immortal.

“The angels keep their ancient places,” wrote Francis Thompson in protest. “Turn but a stone, and start a wing.”

He was lonely enough to be the constant associate of angels.

There is an angel close to you this day. Merry Christmas, and I wish you well.

ATTACK OF THE MUTANT ZEBRA

2004-12-19T08:01:00.000-08:00

Good ol’ Army! Just as I was worrying about coming down with a terminal case of writer’s block, the Army bureaucracy stepped in to save me. As my regular readers know, I’m big on minding my own business. So there I was in the mess hall, minding my own business in a military sort of way, when some derelict with more stripes than a mutant zebra slithers up and hisses, “Chief, you have a magazine in your pistol.”

The guy is obviously fishing for compliments, so I praised him for his astute powers of observation and try to go back to enjoying my swill. No such luck. The Zebra brays something about being the supreme plenipotentiary Command Sergeant Major of some organization or other, and informs me that base policy requires all weapons to be cleared before entering, and I’d better get with the program.

OK, this ain’t my first rodeo, and I don’t make the beginner’s mistake of pointing out that he is obviously going to lose this argument. If nothing else, I have bullets in my gun and he doesn’t. But never mind that. I’ll try casting pearls before swine, or in this case, zebras. I’ll beat him with his own stick. Between bites of some long-deceased mammal, I point out to him that Army Regulation 195-2 specifically authorizes CID agents to lurk about in an armed status, and that generally, AR’s outrank local municipal decrees by RLO’s (Real Live Officers, as compared to the higher life form of Warrant Officers) who are looking for an excuse to get their name on a memo.

The Zebra blinks, but he’s tough and recovers quickly. “Chief, I don’t care who you are or what you do, you gotta comply with our silly, I mean, relevant, regulations just like everyone else. We can’t have soldiers eating dinner with loaded guns. Why, just the other day we got a nice letter from Sarah Brady and Handgun Control, Inc., that what we’re doing is right.” I can’t help but notice that his bright red face goes nicely with all those black stripes. And I sure can’t help but notice that he is now screaming and spraying DNA samples in what used to be a perfectly non-poisonous meal.

The trick to dealing with enraged zebras is to show no fear, maintain eye contact…and smack ‘em soundly between the running lights with a large, heavy object. Regrettably, bludgeoning him with my plastic force would only infuriate him more, so I once again try the voice of sweet reason. “Sergeant Zebra, when you were back at the zoo at Fort Hood, CID agents ate at the mess hall on a regular basis while armed. We’re still agents, and we’re still in the Army. What’s the difference?”

I can’t make this stuff up. Here’s what he said: “I’ll tell you the difference, Chief. That was back in the States, and now we’re in a war zone. We can’t allow soldiers to go around armed in a war zone.”

Oh, this zebra was good. Now it was my turn to blink, temporarily stunned by an absolutely masterful delivery of unbridled stupidity. With shaking hands, I reached to open a shirt pocket, and pull out my ace: FRAGO 658, dated 6 Sep 04, reluctantly concurring that it was OK for cops to carry loaded weapons. But not soldiers. Fortunately, under the terms of FRAGO 658, I qualified as a cop.

SGT Zebra turned his head and covered his face like a vampire seeing the dawn, then stamped his feet and stalked away. Probably looking for some private fresh off a combat patrol who didn’t have clean boots to pick on. Zebras. You gotta love ‘em.

This news just in: heard from a MI (Military Intelligence) type that some of the haji RPG gunners believe that Americans have a “force field” around their vehicles to deflect incoming projectiles. Fortunately for the hajis, their scientists have managed to come up with a way to defeat our force fields – you just wrap a garbage bag over the head of the RPG round, seal it up good and tight with duct tape, and this blocks out the secret emissions that deflect the round.

It also produces the greatly-to-be desired effect of screwing up the arming mechanism on the RPG’s so they don’t detonate. Which is probably even more proof to the frustrated RPG gunner that the evil American force field is especially strong. Maybe he’s supposed to wrap TWO garbage bags around the warhead?

While this may come as a shock to some of my friends, I’ve been attending Sunday services somewhat regularly here. (Well, 3 times in 3 months. It was enough to rate a phone call from Ripley’s Believe it or Not.) The choir is good, even if they do sing songs I’ve never heard in a church before. I don’t know. I may keep it up when I get home, but I’m sure going to miss seeing machine guns stacked by the pews. Somehow, it just won’t seem like Sunday without them.

Hope SGT ZEBRA doesn’t find out about this!

P.S. In an unusual burst of energy, I published two pages today, so you might want to check the previous page,
METEOROLOGY & GLOBALIZATION

METEOROLOGY & GLOBALIZATION

2004-12-19T07:51:00.000-08:00

Get this – I had to scrape ice off the windshield of our NTV (Non-Tactical Vehicle) the past two mornings. Who’d a thunk you would have to worry about defrosting your windshield in the desert? By noon it was over 60 again, though.

It’s interesting to watch how people react differently to the weather. A lot of the GI’s (females excluded) continue to wear the usual desert camies as usual, while the Indian and Filipino contract workers are waddling around in parkas with the hoods drawn tight and give every indication of being in an advanced stage of hypothermia. For the poor gunners going out on the convoys, it must really be rough. Being up in the gun turret and barreling down the road about 55 mph at 0730 has got to be cold, so you’d throw on everything you could find and borrow. But 4 hours later you’d be burning up.

Tuesday afternoon they had a large car bomb (VBIED – vehicle borne improvised explosive device) go off at the main entrance to Camp Grey Wolf in the Green Zone. Two of our agents were attending an Article 32 hearing (the military equivalent of a Grand Jury) there, and were pretty close to the blast. Fortunately, none of our guys were injured, although you did kind of have to yell at ‘em for a day or two afterwards to get their attention. Explosions are funny critters. There was an Iraqi guard only about 20 yards or so from the blast, and he survived. Other civilians further away, and in vehicles, were killed outright. Our MP escort had to leave through the scene right afterwards, and it was a pretty ugly sight. The next day there was another VBIED at the same place, and again, all they killed were Iraqis. I guess you have to be from the Middle East to see how any of that makes sense. It appears they’re willing to keep blowing themselves all up until we get tired of watching them kill each other, which strikes me as a pretty strange way of fighting a war. They have succeeded in making the highway to the International Airport a very dangerous stretch of road, though. The CG (Commanding General) here has struck upon the idea of lining the highway with a continuous concrete wall about 12’ high.

He’s got to be in violation of General Order #1: (No alcoholic beverages allowed). Lining the roadway with those will only create an artificial valley that leaves no escape route for vehicles if they’re attacked. One dead vehicle would jam the whole roadway, and it would be a regular turkey shoot.

I was afraid I was going to be the oldest guy in theatre here (I’m 54, if you must know, but I don’t look a day over 60…), but hey, there are some OLD guys here – I mean like, 57 and 58 or so. Or better. They’re Guard or Reservists, I’m pretty sure, and I know this deployment has to be hard on them. It’s a measure of their dedication to duty, honor, and country that their here and didn’t try to find a way out. And a reflection, I suppose, of how deep the services have to dig to staff this little brouhaha.

The face of war has sure changed, too, and I’m not sure if it’s a move for the better. When I get my laundry done, I drop it off at the KBR (Kellogg, Brown & Root) laundry, where a bunch of smiling Filipinos write up my ticket and see that my laundry is properly lost. When I go to the mess hall, I eat food prepared and served by Indians. And when I dive for cover at the side of the road to avoid an incoming freight truck, I cuss out a Turkish driver. Or when I need the building worked on, I call KBR and they send over a couple of American civilians to fix it. I drew my supplies in Kuwait from an American civilian. American security companies are the hired guns that guard company executives and local VIP’s. All of the functions that used to be carried out by soldiers have been contracted out – and now they’re talking about hiring civilian security personnel to do law enforcement duties on the base.

I wonder if this is a good thing. Oh, sure, it lets us say that we sure do have a small army, and avoid the painful discussion of whether we need a draft, but it seems to me to be a game of smoke and mirrors. You can probably pay starving Third World Nationals enough to put up with being mortared occasionally, but what if we fought a more competent enemy that tipped the cost/benefit analysis to the other side? And what kind of moral issues are raised when we hire other nationalities to take risks that properly ought to be borne by Americans? How long would it take us to staff up the Army with cooks, cleaners, and truck drivers if KBR couldn’t fill their quotas? When one of those security companies light up an Iraqi citizen, is there anybody who assesses if it was necessary or not? The line between soldier and mercenary seems awfully blurry there. Worse, it seems to me that too few are taking the risks for too many who just can’t be bothered to take time out of their oh-so-busy lives to take their turn behind the gun. And I don’t mean that in any personal way against someone who hasn’t been in the service; hell, I probably wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for Tricky Dick and his Merry Band of Selective Servicemen. But somehow I know that the country, and the individual, are both a little poorer when the duty – and the honor – of fighting our battles isn’t borne equally across all income levels. I’ve seen the attitude among some well educated and well- off families that their children certainly shouldn’t have to risk their lives for the country, and I don’t see how anyone can see that as anything but deeply troubling.

Entirely too much thinking for one night. I’m going to pop-a-top on a nice, frosty Dr. Pepper and meditate on how much an empty truck bouncing over the speed bumps outside sounds just like a mortar shell hitting too danged close.

CHRISTMAS COMES

2004-12-11T23:17:00.000-08:00

Christmas comes. Even in Iraq, it comes. I think maybe my first clue was when I heard the notes of Silent Night drifting through the front door this Wednesday, and saw four soldiers from the 1st Cavalry Division Band standing outside, resplendent in desert camo and red stocking hats. God bless’em. We needed that. I hope the damned Imam outside the wall caterwauling to Allah heard it, too. It amazes me how many people they can cram in those Mosques with all the weapons in there. Guess they’re good organizers, or maybe there’s a Baghdad branch of the Container Store around that specializes in racks and containers for RPG’s, 155mm artillery rounds, and AK47’s.

Even Trailer Trash Village is starting to perk up a little. A few of the local denizens have covered their doors with wrapping paper, and one especially festive soul put up a little lighted artificial tree on top of the bomb barrier in front of his trailer. A Christmas tree on a bomb barrier. Don’t you just love the imagery?

Me, I’ve always been a sucker for Christmas. Even like the Christmas carols at the mall – or in this case, the mess hall. I’ve spared no expense or effort in decorating my trailer – there’s a stocking hung with care over the bed, a 3’ artificial tree with red & green M&M’s under it, and a candy cane stuck in the straps of my body armor. Wouldn’t that make a great Christmas story – soldier saved when candy cane stops bullet! And if all else fails, I can always eat the thing.

Pa Pa, our Detachment Commander, takes a somewhat different approach to Yuletide cheer. Scrooge comes off as a regular Lord a’leaping by comparison to Pa Pa. I’ve caught him pulling the artificial needles off our pathetic little Christmas tree and sticking pins in our Frosty the Snowman doll. He’s constantly badgering the Division Chief of Staff to issue a frago (army talk – fragmentary order) banning outward celebrations of the Season. He’s been in a funk ever since he learned that we wouldn’t be leaving this month like they told us. Some guys just got no sense of humor. But that’s OK. I consider it my Christian obligation to bring him around, and I’ve personally assembled a band of merry carolers to serenade his trailer about 0100 Christmas morning. If that doesn’t get him in the spirit, I just don’t know what will.

I gather our Muslim brethren are still unclear on the concept of Christmas. About 0845 Saturday morning I heard the unsettling sound of walking rocket bursts – i.e., they sounded like they were walking closer as they came in. Fortunately we had a little hill between us and the bursts, but we didn’t know that till later. The shrapnel ate up an unoccupied trailer, and gave our Command Sergeant Major an opportunity to demonstrate his emergency dismount procedure from a bicycle. I’m REALLY sorry I missed seeing that. Oh, and for you purists out there, the rockets were the ever-popular Chinese 122mm type.

Anybody familiar with the old Infantry saying “If you die first, we’re dividing up your stuff”? We had two agents hop the freedom bird in the past week, and the same theory was at work. We barely had time to dry our eyes from the tearful farewell to beloved comrades before we fell on their empty room in search of anything they might have left behind. (Note to self: be sure to clear my room of any embarrassing personal items before I leave) Heck, it was more fun than shopping at Walmart. Ol’ Boy grabbed up a dandy hammer, Wojo got a set of slightly stained sheets for his bed, Mumbles found a bayonet, and I low-crawled out with two, count’em TWO! Extra magazines for my rifle. Bogalusa Boy left with a bottle of…nail polish remover?! Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Gee, we’re gonna miss’em.

GUNFIGHT RULES

2004-12-07T21:44:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure who should get credit for these rules, but a lot of it sounds like it came from Clint Smith, of Thunder Ranch fame. Credit for the last half, of course, goes to Murphy.

Rules of a Gunfight

1. Bring a gun. Preferably, bring at least two guns. Bring all of your friends who have guns.

2. Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. Life is expensive.
Only hits count. The only thing worse than a miss is a slow miss.

3. If your shooting stance is good, you’re probably not moving fast enough or using cover correctly.
Move away from your attacker. Distance is your friend. (Lateral and diagonal movements are preferred.)

4. If you can choose what to bring to a gunfight, bring a long gun and a friend with a long gun.

5. If you are not shooting, you should be communicating, reloading and running.

6. Accuracy is relative: most combat shooting standards will be more dependent on "pucker factor" than the inherent accuracy of the gun. Use a gun that works EVERY TIME. "All skill is in vain when it rains in the flintlock of your musket."

7. Someday someone might kill you with your own gun, but they should have to beat you to death with it because it is empty.

8. Always cheat, always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose.

9. Have a plan

10. Have a back-up plan, because the first one won’t work.

11. Use cover or concealment as much as possible.

12. Flank you adversary when possible. Protect yours.

13. Don’t drop your guard.

14. Always tactical re-load and threat scan 360 degrees.

15. Watch their hands. Hands kill. (In god we trust. Everyone else keep your hands where I can see them.)

16. Decide to be aggressive ENOUGH, quickly ENOUGH.

17. The faster you finish the fight, the less shot you will get.

18. Be polite. Be professional. But, have a plan to kill everyone you meet.

19. Your number one Option for Personal Security is a life long commitment to avoidance, deterrence, and de-escalation.

20. Do not attend a gunfight with a handgun, the caliber of which does not start with a "4". (Desert Fox’s corollary, ignored by the U.S. Army: Do not attend a gunfight with a long gun, the caliber of which does not start with “3”.)

Laws of Combat

If you’re short of everything but targets, you’re in combat.
Anything you do can get you shot, including doing nothing.
Incoming fire has the right of way.
Don’t look conspicuous, it draws fire. Corollary; If you look conspicuous, try to look unimportant because the enemy may be low on ammunition.
No plan survives the first contact intact.
If the attack is really going well it’s an ambush.
The enemy diversion you’re ignoring is the main attack.
The important things are always simple, the simple things are always hard.
If the enemy is in range, so are you.
Never forget your weapons were made by the lowest bidder. Friendly fire - isn't.
Recoilless rifles - aren't.
Suppressive fires - won't.
You are not Superman; Marines and fighter pilots take note.
Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
Never draw fire; it irritates everyone around you.
No inspection ready unit has ever passed combat.
If the enemy is within range, so are you.
Military Intelligence is a contradiction.
Air defense motto: shoot 'em down; sort 'em out on the ground.
If you can keep your head while those around you are losing theirs, you may have misjudged the situation.
The most dangerous thing in the combat zone is an officer with a map

PHOTOS II

2004-12-07T07:57:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know, creative title, but ya gotta work with what you have. Here's a photo taken of me trying to impersonate a soldier. Autographed copies are available for a nominal fee -

And here's a photo of your typical Iraqi Automotive junkyard:

And a shockingly graphic photo of your army at war -

Finally, an Iraqi Arms Depot -

Apologize for tying up your computer so long to load the pictures.

PHOTOS!

2004-12-06T00:08:00.000-08:00

OK, I've typed my fingers to a nub trying to figure out how to defeat the Army's filters and get some photos posted to my blog. I have a Plan "B" working, which hopefully will let you access them from the page, but until then I've posted some photos on a web-hosting site. You can access them at this address - and let me know if it works for you.

Never mind, guys - Plan "A" bombed for reasons that would be immediately apparent to anyone reasonably computer literate; i.e., beats the heck out of me. But Plan "C" may have some hope (check back to the blog "Shanghaied to Babylon" for a real, live, authentic photo installed via Plan "C".

German Scientists are working on Plan "D" even as we type. In the meantime, I've stored some pictures at this address; you should be able to cut and paste it onto the browser and go there.

http://home.ripway.com/2004-12/214962

Will be adding more photos later.

BLIMPIE IN HAPPIER DAYS

2004-12-05T21:27:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Turkeys

2004-12-05T21:25:00.000-08:00

2004-12-05T21:16:00.000-08:00

ECCLECTICA

2004-12-05T03:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes my mind doesn’t run in a straight line, or maybe it’s only schizophrenia, but I just can’t get focused on a single theme for this page. It just ain’t been that kind of week, folks.

First, I seem to have touched a nerve with the veterans in the audience with my last blog on the subject of Intramural Fly Killing. I heard from Viet Nam vets who had chalked up scores that made me dip my Kevlar in admiration, and from one Desert Storm vet who claimed (claimed, mind you) to have downed a fly on the wing with a MK I, Mod II LUST (Light Utility Supple Thingy – rubber band to you civilians…). And he was a Tanker, not even Air Defense – but you know how those tread heads do tend to exaggerate. It’s having to breathe all that gunpowder smoke in confined spaces that does it to ‘em. I can only assume that this feat was accomplished in an office less crowded than mine – after whacking a couple of my fellow desert detectives with errant rubber bands, I was forced to resume more conventional means or look for a different place to ply my sport. Obviously they’re not familiar with the concept of collateral damage.

Which brings me to the eagerly-awaited topic of saluting. This is one of those rock-and-a-hard spot deals. I saluted a Lt Col when I first got here, who promptly upbraided me for saluting in a combat zone; something about marking him as a target. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t such a bad idea….but that’s not the point. No, the point is I corrected my evil ways, and walked by a female Major with a fraternal smile on my face …and got dressed down for lack of professional courtesy. Upbraided, dressed down – can’t they even agree on a damned direction?! But, see, the problem is not just with RLO’s (Real Live Officers); it’s even worse with the enlisted swine, particularly the feral Privates that lurk around the mess hall trash cans. They hide behind corners and the ever present blast barricade, exposing their beady little eyes just enough to tell when you’re coming down the road with your hands full, then they spring at you with full military ceremony and execute an exaggeratedly perfect salute while you drop your lunch or shift weapons and low-yield explosives to free up your saluting hand. Doesn’t help to shake your head, or wave them off, they insist on rendering you the honors for your rank, and stand there looking so…so military!...until you return the salute. Damned irritating, I tell you. But if they derive such pleasure from it I suppose they should be humored. All part of taking care of the troops, stiff upper lip, that sort of thing.

But I waste your time, gentle reader, with these trivial details of the horrors of life in a combat zone. Gather ‘round, while we speak of betrayal, skullduggery, and shattered hopes littered like casualties across the desert floor. Let us speak, then, of the ancient and dishonorable Army tradition: shuffling your re-deployment (going home!) date like a pack of cards. Our Battalion for the past six weeks has been sending out announcements that our relief would arrive about 15 Dec, with a departure date for Kuwait and the Freedom Bird around the 29th of December. Having played this little game before, I ignored the departure dates at first, until Battalion started beating up on me for not getting out transition training plans, etc. Darn, it was starting to look like this might be serious! So the guys started packing up and mailing home all the stuff they could live without for the next six weeks or so, and wanting to be good hosts, we contacted our replacements to brief them on what to expect. We knew we were in trouble when we made first contact with our relief, the 69th MP Det (CID) (a fictitious unit – Military Intelligence assures me that Bin Laden himself reads my blog, so I’m not giving away military info – opsec, for you Joe’s out there). Turns out they hadn’t even gotten an alert order yet, and weren’t planning on being here for a while yet. Fortunately, Battalion was able to explain the problem to their satisfaction….”oops!”

Wonder if it’s too late to get my desert camo bunny slippers back from the post office?

The situation wasn’t a total loss, though – Hot Lips had a Court Martial to make at Ft Hood in early December, and Battalion figured it didn’t make much sense to fly her out to Texas for a week, and then fly her back to come home with us a week or so later, so they went ahead and cut her redeployment orders. She flew out of Kuwait yesterday. As Ol’ Boy pointed out, at least we saved the women and children!

As for the rest of us, hell, we’re soldiers. Ain’t no thing. Every one is taking it with our usual good grace – you know, kicking over the trash can, slamming the door, random gun fire, sticking hat pins in voodoo dolls, that sort of thing. My favorite is the big sign outside the office that says “No investigation without embarkation!” On the bright side, Battalion is now off our Christmas list, so that’s one less card to send.

Keep them cards and letters coming, folks!

IDLE HANDS

2004-11-28T00:12:00.000-08:00

Twenty-three!

I know Bubba, you’ve been wondering to your self, “Self, what does a decent, self-respecting GI do for entertainment in the equivalent of Midland run by a Taliban City Council?”

No alcohol. No racy movies. Heck, no movies. No fraternization. No felonious mopery without adult supervision – and that’s danged hard to find in the Army. Speed bumps every 20 yards – you can’t even speed unless you’re in a tank. Ever wonder what happened to worn-out tank tracks? They make speed bumps out of them, that’s what. The Army is big on recycling and saving the planet, one war at a time.

Twenty-four!

Oh, sure, this is not exactly a Mecca of entertainment, but let me tell you, the American soldier is nothing if not gifted at amusing himself. Why, just the other morning I saw a group of enterprising soldiers grab their PT clothes and jump into one of the palace lakes for a swimming competition.

Most of them are expected to make full recoveries from the mysterious rashes that developed on their skin the next day. But one of them won the lottery – got medically evacuated to Landstuhl, Germany, where they have better medical care – and Lowenbrau. Or maybe it’s the same. I get confused.

Twenty-five! Twenty-six!

And it’s not like you can’t go buy a movie at the PX and watch it on a VCR. Not a DVD, of course. None of the movies the PX carries were made after the invention of DVD’s. I haven’t been lately, but Grumpy was all excited about the PX getting in some new titles – I think Patton was one of them. Or maybe Full Metal Jacket. Rumor has it that Apocalypse Now is due in any day now. Be still my beating heart!

Then there’s always the gym, conveniently open 24/7, with a friendly, courteous staff who speak what we think is probably Sanskrit. Yosarian would love this (remember Catch 22?): the gym is really pretty well equipped, air-conditioned, free towels, and all the cold water you can drink, but…and here comes the catch – some syphilitic RLO decided that anyone in the gym had to be in full Dessert Cammies, presumably so that we could all snatch up our rifles off the weight rack and charge fully dressed into the infiltrating hordes to defend the honor, such as it is, of Camp Liberty. Imagine our chagrin should some embedded cameraman catch us OUT OF UNIFORM and engaged in combat! Oh, the shame.

But I have to admit the latest entertainment proposal has some merit (twenty-seven!). We’re currently engaged in a heated competition with the MP’s next door to see who can kill the most flies in one week. Naturally, as in any civilized sporting event, you have to have rules. Baiting and trapping is prohibited. So forget about those 37 carci (carcasses?) steadily decomposing away on the fly strip above your head – they don’t count. Normal snacks that might be routinely found on any desk top are not considered baiting, unless declared excessive by the referee (1SG Taylor).

No, they have to be taken fairly, in honest, hand-to-wing combat. To discourage inflated figures, all kills have to be confirmed either through gun (swatter) cameras, or witnessed by at least one person of the rank of Sergeant or above, who is responsible for collecting the remains in the event the losing side demands a recount. Which, if necessary, will be conducted solely by soldiers from the great state of Florida…. Probables are allowed, but it takes three probables to equal one confirmed kill, and the probable must have suffered serious structural damage and not be expected to return to the field of battle for at least 24 hours. In the event that the two teams tie on confirmed kills, probables may be used as the tie-breaker. The use of firearms is prohibited, as is the use of explosive devices larger than the standard Black Cat firecracker.

Chemical agents were quickly disallowed, as we’ve taken enough flack over weapons of mass destruction.

One of the biggest sticking points was whether juvenile flies counted as full credit. The argument raged back and forth for hours, with the advocates pointing out that juveniles were actually more sporting, given that they were quicker and made smaller targets. This was countered by the old-age and treachery party, who advanced the theory that juveniles were more naïve and therefore easier to ambush. A thorough search of the internet provided no precedent for deciding the issue, so we were forced to boldly go where no fly swatters had ever gone before. By a 37 to 29 margin, it was voted in that any fly, of whatever age, would count.

In case you’re wondering how I (twenty-eight!) know so much about this, I was selected for the rules committee. I really wanted to be on the committee that picked our team jerseys, but Hot Lips insisted that she was genetically better qualified for that position. Sexist pig!

Excuse me, I have to go now and dribble some cookie crumbs on my desk. Midweek scores will be announced over the Armed Forces Network at 1500 on Wednesday afternoons.

FIREWORKS AT THE OASIS

2004-11-22T09:36:00.000-08:00

I heard the first two explosions about 2115, Sunday night, and didn't think anything about it, as we seldom take more than two rounds at a time. It was the next explosion that got my attention - it had violated the rule of two, and sounded closer. I didn't like the way this trend was developing.

Poor judgment being one of my more predominant traits, I stepped outside to see what was disturbing my nightcap of Dr. Pepper on the rocks. If you've ever witnessed the grand finale of a 4th of July display, that will give you some idea. You could hear the whistle of something uncomfortably large coming through the air, and there sparks and airbursts in the sky. My first thought, of course, was that somebody was trying to harm Blimpie again, which got me some riled up. What did Blimpie ever do to deserve that kind of abuse?! Then the flashes started coming from the horizon, with the trailer rattling from the booms. Couldn't tell if the booms were outgoing artillery or incoming rounds, but either way, it was making an impressive racket. For one brief shining moment of sanity I considered making an unannounced jump into the nearest bunker, but decided against it. So far the rounds were staying well south, and if the danged fools kept shooting like that one of our patrols or a chopper was bound to light them up. After a few minutes things returned to normal, and then helicopters started going out hunting, which only added to the din.

Found out what happened the next morning going through some after action reports. 10 - 15 audible explosions were confirmed on S. Victory (the camp south of us), and one of the patrols out at the time reported seeing multiple rocket launches. A search team located 4 rocket launchers, each with 15 individual launch tubes, and 17 unexpended rounds near the launchers. Based on the empty launchers and the rockets in the tubes that had misfired, it looks like about 45 rockets had been fired. The rockets were Chinese Type 63 107mm. Victory was very fortunate to have sustained no injuries, and only minor shrapnel damage to a trailer. Glad I don't live on the wrong side of the tracks.

Walking back from breakfast the next morning I heard the sound of a vehicle running on flats and looked up to see three armored HumV's limping down the road. Their crews had named the vehicles and painted their name on the side: Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Apocalypse Now. Crucifixion was in the lead, with Resurrection rolling right behind with two shredded rear tires and bullet splatters down the driver's side. Apocalypse Now was bringing up the rear, but looked like she had made it through the fight unscathed. Crucifixion and Apocalypse Now were bringing their wounded brother safely home, guns up and heads high. Hooah!

SHANGHAIED TO BABYLON

2004-11-20T22:27:00.000-08:00

Whoever said that opportunity only knocks once didn’t get it quite right. Sometimes it can be as persistent as a sales pitch over the phone for long distance service. Like how I wound up getting shanghaied to Babylon. Hey, that could be a book title – Shanghaied to Babylon. All rights reserved, Kendrick © 2004.

So there I was, bureaucratically minding my own business, disapproving leave requests and writing up counseling reports, when Wojo saunters up to the desk. Always a bad sign when Wojo saunters. And not a very pretty picture, either.

“Say, Chief, how’d you like to fly out to Camp Babylon and help me do some interviews on that indecent acts case? I hear the anti-aircraft fire out there has really died down lately.”

“No. Go away, kid, ya bother me.”

“Really, Chief, it’d be fun. And the unit says they’ve got some great accommodations for us if we have to stay over. All I gotta do is call and add you to the manifest. What do you say?”

“I’d hate to deprive someone else of the adventure. Go ask Bogalusa Boy, he likes those whirly things. Ain’t no way I’m getting in something that’s noisy, slow, and draws fire like a 12 point buck on opening day."

“Gee, I’d do that, but you know he’s out helping the office in Taji. And you know I wouldn’t willingly pick you for a partner if I could possibly find anyone else. Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Chief, I just meant you got lots of paper to shuffle and things. Important stuff like that.”

“Forget it. I ain’t going. I won’t fight and you can’t make me. No way am I going outside the wire. Read my lips: No, No, and Hell No!”

So our chopper flight (#1117B) left at 0900 Wednesday morning, which is awfully danged early to be up, even if it is the Army. Ol’ Boy accompanied us, as a reward for his faithful service in driving us on just about every convoy outside the wire. During his whole tour here he’d never been on a chopper, and I figured if anybody deserved some recreational flight time it was him. That, and he told me that he had qualified on a Blackhawk helicopter simulator computer game, and if both the pilot and co-pilot got shot he could bring us down safely. It’s like chicken soup – can’t hurt, and might help.

I suspect we were party crashers on the flight, which appeared to have been originally chartered for an Italian Major General (MG, 2 star), Italian Brigadier General (BG, 1 star), and their protective service detail, which from all appearances were recruited from some Corsican street gang. I didn’t think knives like that were legal, even in a combat zone. Note for my shooting buddies: the PSD were armed with M4’s, fitted with Eotech or Trijicon sights with no rear sight backup. You’d have thought they would have carried some kind of racy Beretta submachine gun or something, but I guess maybe their army runs on the principle of low bid, too.

As our birds started their approach to the helipad, a mortar shell landed past the east edge of the runway. I don’t know if it was an actual mortar attack, or if the ground crew just sets off an explosive in the area to make the loading go faster, but if that was their goal, it certainly worked. Everyone hit the choppers at a run and dove for the nearest empty seat.

And now I should tell you about the term “seat” as it applies to a Blackhawk helicopter. Think of them as a canvas folding chair on steroids, bolted to the floor, and designed for anorexic teenagers. By the time we got 4 of us squeezed onto the seats with all our body armor and gear, we didn’t need seatbelts to hold us in place. If the side door had ever slid open, the poor guy on either end would have popped out the side like a cork from a toy gun. On the other hand, the leg room was a little more tolerable; I’d have to guess I had a whole 6 or seven inches…but then, I had to share that with the MG across the row from me. Naturally, the guy next to me is sitting on my seatbelt, and took offense when I yanked it out from under him…which flew across the aisle and whacked the MG across the chest. I have to admit, he took it with considerably more good grace that I would have expected from a general officer, although his bodyguard looked decidedly displeased.

Helicopters may not be the most elegant creatures of the air, but there’s nothing to compare with the way a chopper just seems to spring into the air – especially when the pilot is in a hurry to clear a hot zone. Not that we sprang very high, mind you – the pilot added just enough altitude to clear the buildings in the area, and fire-walled it to the south. I found out later it wasn’t just that the pilot had a fear of heights (although he did), but rather that coming in low and fast didn’t give the AK crowd time to set up on you before you blew past them, plus we were low enough that the booster motor on any SAM missiles would have shot them over us… so while the SAM is furiously looking up and around, we’re low-crawling away underneath it. Clever, them rotorheads. I just hope their theory works. Still, we were so low I couldn’t help but think that a kid with a slingshot, much less a rifle, could have made life interesting. But, since we were blowing past at about 120 mph, he’d have to shoot in a hurry, and maybe he’d miss and hit the guy beside me. Hopefully that Corsican bodyguard that’s still glaring at me like I hit his General on purpose or something.

The flight across the rural Iraqi countryside was like speed-leafing through the picture pages of the Old Testament. True, you’d see the occasional dilapidated old car or truck rusting away in front of a building, but for the most part the mud brick shelters surrounded by goats and donkeys could have come straight out of the pictures in your basic Sunday School primer, complete with the women in head-to-toe dresses working in the fields. I had the feeling that if I’d been a bird flying over the same area 500 years earlier the scene would have looked much the same.

Occasionally the chopper would claw skyward 15 or 20 feet when we approached a high line wire, or maybe an over-achieving palm tree, but mostly it was just low and fast. At first I tormented myself with visions of the Faithful hiding behind every palm tree or bush with an RPG or AK47, but it finally dawned on me that might not be the smartest thing for them to do. Engaging two Blackhawks in the open without a quick escape route is a fairly straight path to martyrdom; more likely they’d try to whack us near a city where they could run into a mosque and pray forgiveness for their hostility. That was my logic, anyhow, and it certainly made the trip over the countryside more enjoyable. Some of the adults would wave at us as we flew past, and nearly all the children would run after the choppers and wave. Wish I’d had some bags of candy with streamers tied to them to pitch out. Unfortunately, that might have provoked the mujadeen into killing the children for cooperating with the Americans, so maybe it’s just as well I didn’t.

Our arrival at Camp Babylon accounted for the only two U.S. helicopters there, and it was a little disconcerting to be setting down on a field populated by Soviet helicopters. Not sure exactly what kind, maybe Hips, is that one of the NATO names for their mid-sized choppers. They belonged to the Polish garrison there, so naturally their equipment was Warsaw Pact stuff. I liked their squadron insignia, though – a bright yellow, smiling camel with some jaunty desert goggles over his head. Foolish flippery like that would never have been tolerated on a U.S. chopper, more’s the pity.

Camp Babylon is primarily a Polish garrison, and commanded by a Polish BG (more about him later). Apparently mindful that the ruins of the Tower of Babel were located within easy mortaring distance, the camp was populated with a staggering diversity of nationalities – Polish, Italian, Lithuanian, Ukrainian, El Salvador, Bulgaria, U.S., and one rather bewildered-looking Dane, plus the usual Indian, Philippine, and Pakistani guest workers. Oh, yeah, and some U.S. Marines, just to add to the confusion. Lord knows what kind of language they speak, though you can generally communicate with them as long as you use small words and lots of hand signs….. (Let me make it clear the Jarhead Jab is all in good inter-service fun – the Marines did a helluva job in Fallujah, and represent what may be the best of American martial spirit)

The Euphrates runs through the camp, with palm trees and various flowering bushes in abundance. It certainly makes our camp look like the parking lot of a cheap apartment.

Naturally, Hussein built a palace there, supposedly for one of his renegade sons. It sits on a hill covered with flowering shrubs overlooking the Euphrates, and probably cost enough to provide inoculations for every child in Iraq. Politicians, you gotta love ‘em.

OK, that Polish guy, the camp Commander? Did I mention that Wojo is Polish (Wojo being short for Wilcjzewski, however the heck you pronounce that). Nothing would do but he had to have his picture taken with the General as a point of Polish-American pride. Visions of writing a “Dear Sir” letter to my commander from a Polish detention facility danced in my head at the thought. Yeah, right, Wojo, we just walk into HQ, let’em know that if the General’s not to busy, can he come out right now and get his picture taken with some decrepit-looking GI?

So we just walked into HQ, let’em know that we’d like to have our picture taken with the General right now, if it’s not too much trouble, and could you please tell him our time is important? And the General comes out all smiles and shakes Wojo’s hand and poses for the picture like a natural-born celebrity. Wojo said he smelled like vodka and breath mints, but hey, in my book the guy’s all right. I would have loved to hear the conversation between the General and his aide when our request was announced – probably something like, “General, sorry to bother you but there’s a crazy Amerikanski harassing the staff who won’t leave until he gets his picture taken with you. Would you please do us all a favor and make him go away?”

We managed to wrap up all our interviews about 30 minutes after our choppers left, and found ourselves without any clear cut plan for getting back home. Not to worry – we’ll just go check out those nice accommodations that Wojo was telling me about and get settled in. As the ranking visitor, I got the VIP suite – a plywood cell 5’X 10’, with a great view of a concrete wall and pleasingly located next to an unmuffled generator. But to be fair, it did have a bed frame with something resembling a pad and a pillow (no pillowcase). Wojo and Ol’ Boy got a slightly larger version with two army cots of dubious lineage and suspicious stains. No blankets to be scrounged, but fortunately we brought our ponchos, and I had a towel to throw on top if it got really cold. I managed to stay pretty warm by getting up constantly and looking for camel spiders through the night. Kept hearing their eight hairy little legs scratching across the floor every time I nearly got to sleep.

Memo to self: include spider spray in travel kit. Better yet, don’t travel.

We had lunch at the camp dining facility, and ate outside in a dining area on the banks of the Euphrates. Our resident guide brightly pointed out that we were dining in the very building where Hussein executed the Olympic athletes that failed to bring home the gold for dear old’ Iraq, and gave them a decent burial by pitching them in the Euphrates. Ah, that Hussein, what a joker. What’s taking so long getting that guy executed, anyway?

On a little brighter note, the mess hall interior had a high dome with huge chandeliers and an elaborate mosaic inset into the ceiling. It was also gaily decorated for Thanksgiving, which must have been something of a puzzle to the 95% of the camp who weren’t Americans. And I noted that the food was of the same general species served at Camp Liberty, although served with considerably less good cheer and not as well prepared – which meant the menu was tailored to American tastes. I could just imagine the Ukrainians muttering as they carried off their hot dogs – “Borsch. Why don’t they ever serve borsch?!”

One of the sergeants at the unit we were visiting volunteered to show us through the ruins of King Nebuchadnezzar’s (King N) imperial court, and was pretty knowledgeable. Some of the original exterior walls are still standing, along with the original foundations. Hussein had new walls built on the foundations in an attempt to restore the old courtyards to their former glory, and was apparently planning on installing himself as a modern day Nebuchadnezzar there. Regrettably, he failed to get a construction permit approved by the U.S., so the project was cancelled. In typical fashion, he doubtless did more damage than good by trying to erect new walls on the old foundations, although I guess it gives you an idea of what it must have looked like before the decline. The great boulevard leading into one of the gates was torn up and transported, along with the gate, to a museum in Berlin. The name of it escapes me now, but if you ever get a chance to visit it, I highly recommend it. It’s in the part of Berlin that used to be occupied by the Russians, and is truly worth seeing - and this from someone who’s not all that into museums.

They’ve reconstructed the area where King N had his throne and held court, and even thoughtfully provided a folding chair so you can have a cheesy tourist photo taken sitting where old’ King N used to issue his decrees. It embarrasses me to confess that I did.

The celebrated “Lion of Babylon” statute is located several hundred yards north of the courtyards, and protected by nothing more than a yellow rope. There’s evidence of some archeological activity in the area, so hopefully someone is looking after it.

All in all, an interesting and thoughtful experience to walk the ground where so much of early civilization flourished and faded.

Trying to hitch a ride on an American chopper from a Polish garrison is tricky business. First, they don’t really have a flight ops center there, although the Poles did have some sort of activity that resembled it. Wojo, for all his Polish pride, doesn’t speak enough Polish to get the idea across that we need a ride, but we finally located a phone number for an American unit that assures us that they seldom get flights through there, but there might be one next week.

Like all lost children in trouble, we called our parents. I take back some of the ugly things I’ve said about Battalion – they were able to locate a flight for us leaving the next day at 1330. I had a better seat this time, and got a better view of the countryside as we flew over it. Nothing dramatically different from the flight out, other than I had the opportunity to verify first-hand that goats and cows DO NOT like the sound of two Blackhawks roaring over them at tree-top level. Some of those cows are probably still hiding in the palm trees!

Sorry to be so lengthy with this post, but it was an interesting trip. Oh, a final postscript: Camp Babylon is in the process of being evacuated, and the tenants dispersed to other bases. Babylon is a very important national archeological site, and the Iraqi’s want everyone out yesterday. By the end of December it should be back entirely in Iraqi hands. If the security situation ever improves enough, you should go there and get a cheesy tourist photo made of yourself sitting on King N’s throne.

WAR STORY

2004-11-14T06:07:00.000-08:00

I’ve been over here for almost six weeks now, so I’m sure some of you are wondering, “Well, Blimpie stories are all well and good, but when do we get a REAL war story?” Actually, I was rather hoping not to have one to tell, but I guess this one time I’ll do requests.

Not mind you, that it’s my war story. I think there’s something in my contract about that sort of thing. But the 545th MP Bn has a platoon that’s assigned to escort CID whenever we have to go outside the wire for a crime scene, interviews, or just to get to another camp. They have really big guns and armored vehicles, which makes them wonderful traveling companions in this part of the world. We just kinda scrunch in between them and try to look dangerous when we go out. But I digress. This is their war story.

This past Wednesday, 10 Nov 04, about 10:00 a.m. they were headed to downtown Baghdad when they rounded a bend and came across a supply convoy that was in the process of getting bushwhacked by some resident Muslims a little unclear on the concept of peace and love for your fellow man during Ramadan. May Allah forgive them. The rear end of the supply convoy had been hit with RPG (rocket propelled grenade) fire which disabled one of the 18 wheelers and blocked two more, plus the rear gun truck. The forward half of the convoy followed a pre-planned drill and kept on moving out of the kill zone.

By the time the MP’s blundered in to the rescue, the convoy guards had just about expended all their 249 (light machine gun) ammo, were short of rifle ammo, and didn’t have any heavy weapons. Well, that’s not quite right, but I want to save the best for last. Let’s say that vehicle X was better armed than average. They were taking fire from about 40 – 50 hajis on the right side, but had a concrete barrier wall to their left which protected them from direct fire, although the friendly neighborhood holy warriors on the other side of that barrier were trying to lob RPG rounds in on them, but without much success, as you might imagine.

The MP’s quickly dumped off all the 249 ammo they could spare and left that for the convoy to distribute, while they pitched in to help with their .50 cal machine guns and one (1) M203 grenade launcher – well supplied with a total of five, count’em FIVE, grenades. Their company commander just didn’t see any reason they should be carrying more than that. Obviously, he’s not familiar with combat math. The first thing you do in a gunfight is get an adrenalin dump, and drop something, usually ammo or something incidental like that, so now you’re down one. And figure a couple of rounds to get the range and windage figured, so now you’ve got maybe two you can actually do something with. You gotta wonder if he was trying to get a bullet on his next evaluation: “This officer consistently used fewer grenades in combat than his peers, thereby saving the Army valuable resources….”

I spent so much time on the 203 because it turns out to be somewhat critical in the fight. The hajis knew their only hope of inflicting any significant damage to the convoy was if they could get in close enough, and stay alive long enough, to get off a couple of good shots with an RPG. They had a group of folks that had taken a position in a 3d floor room of a concrete building, and were putting down some pretty heavy covering fire for an RPG team that was trying to get behind a berm about 200 yds away from the convoy.

Remember vehicle X? Well, it was a tank. Complete with 120 mm cannon and the usual accessories. The MP Sgt (SGT JANNATTI) sizes up the situation and reaches a sound tactical conclusion: Tank shoots building, kills bad guys. Tank shoots berm, kills bad guys. We win and let’s go home for dinner. So he hot-foots it over to the tank, and suggests his brilliant, but oh, so naïve plan, to the tank commander. The tank commander promptly gives him a good dressing down for even thinking of such a foolish notion. They are under strict orders not to fire the main gun without permission from Brigade, the Pope, and two Sunni clerics for fear of collateral damage. Remember when war used to be hell? Apparently it’s becoming more civilized.

Plan B. The building they’re taking the concentrated fire from is about two hundred yards away, pretty near the middle range of a M203. Sgt JANNATTI fires one round which hits to the right of the window about 3 feet, then fires a follow-on round which went through the window and had a tranquilizing effect on the loyal opposition. In the meantime, the RPG crew had reached the berm, so he began trying to take them out with the grenade launcher as well. His first shot went long, but the second one dropped behind the berm and shut down the RPG crew.

In the meantime, the tank has discovered that apparently this particular band of freedom fighters hasn’t heard about the rules of engagement for their big gun, and that if they point the cannon at an occupied building everyone tends to run out. This works well, because the .50 cals and light machine guns can solve that equation.

What’s left of the local Neighborhood Watch decides that they’ve done enough work for the glory of Allah for one day, and make a dash for a mini-van with a trailer behind it. Please note for future reference in case you ever need to know this: mini-vans are not bullet-proof. Not even a little. About 90 minutes after the ambush was initiated, the QRF (Quick Reaction Force) arrive on the scene and provide security while they get the convoy towed out of the way and release the MP’s. Incredibly, no U.S. personnel were killed, although the convoy did have some wounded who will recover just fine.

Good job, guys! Just don’t try to sucker me into any of that two-way range stuff on the next convoy. CID’s not in the business of shooting people…we just investigate ‘em to death.

TALKING ABOUT FRIENDS

2004-11-09T01:25:00.000-08:00

OK, it’s about time I got around to writing something serious, so here goes. I’ll start small, and work up to the meaning of life later.

Much later.

I’m talking about friends and family here. I have been amazed, and humbled, at the outpouring of support that I have received from all of my family and friends. There have been too many acts of kindness and generosity to list them all here, but let me hit some of the highlights: a come-home safe yellow ribbon with my name on it displayed on a car; a care package from friends with a better selection of goodies than I could have thought of myself; a care package from an old army buddy with morale items and things you can’t find here; a shooting buddy sending some pistol magazine pouches to hang off my vest (how did I ever forget that?!); the farewell dinner and gift; and countless e-mails and reminders that I am thought of in prayers daily. And the unwavering support and love of my wife, who has endured more from this deployment than I. Being an intelligent woman (despite her choice of a mate) she probably realized that marrying me wasn’t going to be easy, but I don’t think she knew she was signing up for this. In addition to taking on all the jobs we used to split, she now has to deal with the uncertainty of my situation. It’s far easier to know what the risks actually are, than to imagine them for a loved one thousands of miles away. Or my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, who have done their best to keep me supplied with books despite the best efforts of the Post Office bureaucracy to block them. And all the friends who have added their name to the list of contacts if the War Bride needs help with the car, or the plumbing…or just anything they can do to help.

Doubtless I’ll bring home many memories from Iraq. But this one I will cherish and hold above all others: the knowledge that I was in the thoughts and prayers of so many wonderful people. I have been well and truly blessed, and I’ll be a better man for trying to deserve the friends and family I have.

Just wanted you to know how much your support means to me. God Bless you all.

A DRIVE IN THE COUNTRY

2004-11-07T06:11:00.000-08:00

Funny how it’s the innocent-sounding questions are the ones that get you. You know, things like, “Honey, what’s this charge for a 900 number on our credit card?” So there I was, minding my own business in a military sort of way when Bogalusa Boy (hereinafter referred to as the evil perpetrator, or EP) casually says, “Hey, Chief, you busy?” I know, I know, I should have suspected an ambush, but hey, I’m new here. And naïve. As misfortune would have it, I had just pushed the pile of cases to be reviewed off my desk and put them over by the shredder for further consideration, so I allowed as how I wasn’t all that busy. “Good!”, says the Evil Perpetrator. “There’s nobody else around and you can convoy out with me to Camp Bombalot for a quick interview of this guy that pissed hot on a drug test. We’re out an' back 3 hrs, max. No sweat.”

Visions of roadside bombs and hordes of the Faithful swarming our Hummer danced before my eyes. Still, when the time comes, a man just has to stand up and show what he's really made of.

“Gee, EP, I’d love to, but I don't think I can make it. I just remembered this important meeting with the mess hall decoration committee.”

“That’s OK. I know the Mess Sgt over there. I'll call him and let him know you'll have to make the next meeting. Grab your gear and I’ll meet you at the HumV.”

My hero, Flashman, would have thought of a way out, but I just sort of sat there with that ol’ Infidel-in-the-headlights look. Well, nothing for it but to load up my vest with extra magazines (more metal to stop unwanted visitors) and try to look like I know what I’m doing. And let me tell you this, you ain’t lived until you try to climb into the rear seat of a HumV with all that stuff on, plus trying to figure out the proper etiquette for stacking your rifle. It didn’t’ take me long to discover that there is nothing, absolutely bloomin’ NOTHING, that don’t cut, scratch, smash or pinch on a HumV. We ain’t left the parking’ lot yet, and I figure I’ve already earned at least one Kerry Purple Heart.

We charged our weapons up inside the HumV, which is one of the up-armored versions with essentially a steel box enclosing the passenger compartment, and bullet (small bullets, that is) resistant glass. There are times when I hate having such an active imagination, like what happens if some danged fool has an accidental discharge inside a steel box? Think about it, son. The bullet can’t get out, so it’s going to be all frustrated and just rattle around inside the box until it finds something soft to stop in. OK, got it. Next time we do this drill outside the vehicle.

I am immensely relieved to see that we’re sandwiched between two MP HumV’s, each with a .50 cal in the turret and a M249 SAW (light machinegun) for a backup. In front of them is a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, with a little more armor and a 25mm automatic cannon. Given the sort of firepower around us, I’m inclined to think the casual Mujadeen might want to look for a better way to earn his promotion to paradise. As soon as we hit the road outside the gate, the Bradley gunner slews the turret around and locks the barrel right over our vehicle. Better than a cup of coffee to wake you up, trust me. The MP’s have obviously done this sort of thing before, and we’re barreling down the freeway winning hearts and minds by forcing Iraqi’s out of our way and over to the outside lane. Actually, most of the drivers were pretty cooperative and moved out of the way without much trouble. Obviously, they sincerely appreciate our presence and want to be helpful.

That, and you only needto have your windshield shot out once to get the hint.

Arrived at Camp Bombalot without incident, other than antagonizing every driver on the road. Rounded up our urinalysis lottery winner, who made the fatal mistake of thinking he could sell a line of BS to the EP. We found a few grams of hash inside his wallet, which led to a search of his room, which led to recovering a quarter pound of hash, and a strong lead on the Iraqi national he got it from, who just happens to be an Army employee. (Keep in mind I’m blurring some of the details to keep from giving away too much of the case until it’s all done). Along about now I’m thinking the EP may have misled me about a quick return to my trusty sandbagged trailer. Anyway, we’ve got the scent, and there’s no stopping us now. A quick consultation with the friendly neighborhood SJA (Staff Judge Advocate – Army lawyer) assures us that an Iraqi national living in an Army barracks has no reasonable expectation of privacy, and feel free to toss his room if we’d like.

We’d like.

We took along our MP escorts to help with the search as a way of thanking them for the convoy; they were ecstatic at the chance of doing something that actually smelled a little like police work. I was at the day room advising the 1SG that we might be kicking down one of his doors when I heard the joyous sound of splintering wood down the hallway, and hooked ‘em down to join the party. The Bad Guy had a half pound block of hash in his pocket, which one of the MP’s found. I haven’t seen a grin that big in a while. Took me back to the good ol’ days of doper busting in Germany.

Just as an aside, I was kind of surprised at how uninformed the Commanders and Senior NCO’s were about hash. They all looked at it like it was a piece of moon rock or something. When I was doing this sort of thing decades before and on another continent, the Commanders were almost as familiar with it as I was.

The ride home was pretty much a repeat of the trip out, except this time it was dark and I couldn’t see all the places that I was sure someone had planted a bomb behind, and we were surrounded by streams of cars without any lights. Apparently, headlights after dark in Iraq are optional. One thing sticks in my mind, though – as were passing this one car, a little girl, about six, looked up at us and started smiling and waving like kids do everywhere. That’ll disarm you. Temporarily, at least.

We got held up at one intersection, which always gets your nerves up a little, and for a minute I thought the lead MP vehicle had fired a tracer at a car, but turned out he had just thrown a green cyalume stick at a car that wasn’t stopping quick enough to suit him. Boy, that MP had a good arm!

TAPS FOR BLIMPIE

2004-11-04T01:17:00.000-08:00

The rainy season has begun on an appropriate note. I just learned yesterday that the blimp I've been watching for the last week or so is an impostor. Yes, that's right. Not Blimpie at all. Battalion finally declassified a formerly NATO-Green Secret document that the blimp (our Blimpie) over Blackjack has been official declared MIA, and that a new one has been launched over Route Irish (a main supply route south of us). I knew there was something that didn't look right about the blimp. Just something about the way it just sorta hung there, instead of the frisky movements of Blimpe dodging tracers.

I know I should have put this together sooner, but then I've never been noted for my mental quickness. Rainy season. Sand, lots of. What does that give you? Mud, of course. We got three days in a row of steady, slow rain, and this place magically transformed into a mud volleyball field. By the way, did I mention we have our own volleyball field? Seems like a logical thing to do with that much sand. But I digress. Anyway, some of the roads are hub deep in mud, with the result that our HMMWV (Hummer) suddenly became more popular as the Suburbans started sinking into the mud. The windshields quickly became coated in mud, and naturally, we don't have any windshield wiper fluid, and water hoses exist only hypothetically. This morning I waited outside and corraled the portapotty washer as he came by and convinced him to hose off the windshield for us. Being armed is an asset at times.

Several units from here have shipped out for Falluja to help the Marines if/when the word comes down to assualt that hole for...what, the 3d time? I sure hope the politicians will stay the heck out of it and let those poor guys finish the job this time. It's crazy to give back ground and have to spend blood to buy it back.

For what it's worth, the soldiers here are overwhelming in their support for President Bush. Out of the 14 guys in my little detachment, only one would admit to voting for Kerry.

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

2004-10-31T04:33:00.000-08:00

Naturally, there’s more to do here in your free time than just kill flies, satisfying as that may be.

Last night was exceptionally pleasant; the temperature around midnight was about 75, with a light breeze out of the west, and a hint of moisture in the air, even an occasional sprinkle. There’s not much in the way of lights on the camp, so a full moon shining behind a thin layer of clouds put a dim, silvery coat on the scene that made you forget how dusty and plain it looked in the day, and you rejoiced at being alive, here, in this place, and at this time.

If you’re going to get philosophical, ya gotta do it right, so about midnight I dragged out a chair and set it on top of a picnic bench in front of our office, fired up a bad cigar (DO NOT tell my wife about this, by the way) and popped the top on a cool one – Dr. Pepper, that is. Sigh. Life is good. Now the only drawback to this position is that it does tend to raise you above the blast barriers, but sometimes you just gotta live dangerously.

Looking out past the warm glow of the cigar, I could see the orange-colored glow of lights near Baghdad International Air Port (BIAP), and the reflected moonlight made even something as mundane as a 5 gallon gasoline can leaning against the picnic table look exotic. Over to the south, you could make out the silhouettes of palm trees against the light from BIAP, and for once there was almost a stillness on the roads. I guess everyone was off trick-or-treating, maybe. Dressed up as soldiers most likely. The sound of prayers being broadcast from the mosques drifted across the camp from behind me, and overhead Blimpie floated in it’s rightful place. Occasionally you could see a flash reflected off the clouds in the distance, and if you tried really hard you could imagine it was heat lightning. It was one of those moments where you’re surrounded by unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells, and realize that somehow you’ve grown a little and will mark this moment in the memories of your life….

GASOLINE CAN?! What danged fool put that by the picnic table?! Well, I’m halfway through the cigar by now, so if it hasn’t gone off yet, it’s probably not going to. Just gotta remember to flick the ashes the right way.

So anyway, I’m not contributing much to the national good, but at least I’m a small part of something larger, and it feels right to be doing my little part. I’m proud of the guys I’m with, and proud of my country. We do sometimes blunder, but our hearts are generally in the right place. To quote one of our great Western (infidel, by the way) philosophers: “God Bless Us, everyone!”

CAST OF CHARACTERS

2004-10-31T04:13:00.000-08:00

There seems to be some genetically-directed compulsion in soldiers to assign nick-names to their comrades. My happy band of brothers (and one sister) is no different. I give you, for instance, Ol’ Boy, our resident mechanic and master of miscellaneous deeds that require plausible deniability on my part. Or take Grumpy. I leave it to your fertile imagination as to how he earned that moniker; it wasn’t because of his fascination with Snow White. But at least he’s grumpy in a good way; his grumbling, while sincere, doesn’t keep him from doing a great job and pitching in to help out everyone else. And, of course, Wojo. Wojo’s real name is Wilczeski, or something close to that, so you can see how that name had to go before we inflicted serious damage to our tongues. Now Wojo’s complaining that even his parents call him that, and blaming us for it. Then there’s Bogaloosa Boy, the resident Cajun – a blonde, blue-eyed guy who’ll probably never look older than 25, and one of the best agents you’ll meet. Or Red. I know, you’re thinking red hair. Wrong. Red is short for red-headed stepchild, as he has an unfortunate knack for drawing fire from our beloved superiors when they hurl their thunderbolts from Mt. Olympus (also known as battalion headquarters). We’d have to have a Paw Paw in the group, of course, and our Detachment Commander self-selected for that name when he announced that he’d just become a grandfather.

Oh, and me? Well, I’m not sure, as the guys have been sorta vague about that. I’m sure it’s something flattering, like The Duke, or maybe GQ, you know, something like that.

I think you would enjoy our mess hall, entirely apart from the food, which is generally edible and identifiable, two qualities that I’m absolutely adamant about. No, what I find fascinating is the immense variety of people that you run across. Lots of soldiers (duh!), but you also find a mix of Marines and Airmen. It’s easy to tell the Marines from the soldiers – they’re the ones eating with their hands (sorry, all you Jarheads, I couldn’t resist!), and the Airmen are the ones with the paper napkins tucked under their chin. But past the basic types, it gets more interesting. There’s a fair amount of folks described euphemistically as OGA’s, (Other Governmental Agencies), who generally walk around in dark glasses, beards, and t-shirts with the very latest word in exotic weaponry, and spend a lot of time whispering among themselves. And a whole zoo of private contractors, from truck drivers to firemen. Assorted security services for the private contractors, including one group that I think is from South Africa, maybe? Always look like they just got their color-coordinated uniforms out of the cleaners, and generally make the rest of us look bad. They’re one of the better grade of mercs in my opinion, but there are other security services that make me a little nervous.

Occasionally we’ll host a Brit or Aussie at the mess hall, and we always smile a lot and wave to make them feel welcome. No one understands what the heck they’re saying. We also get some Iraqi police and soldiers as well. Pretty much everyone here carries their pistol in a shoulder holster, which means that you quite often find yourself looking down the barrel as they turn around, etc. I noticed something a little strange about the pistol the Iraqi officer had that was in front of me, and at first I thought maybe it was a training pistol or something, with a capped end. I’m always bashful about staring down the wrong end of pistols, but I couldn’t help myself – it looked like a mud-dauber had taken up residence in the barrel of his pistol; it was solid with dried mud. I hope someone gently points it out to him before he blows the gun up the next time he shoots it. Heck, I’m just curious where he found enough water in this country to make that much mud.

We just closed out a case this week where a soldier OD’d on 4 cans of the compressed gas that people use to blow dust out of their computers. Hey, things are boring here, but it ain’t that bad that sucking down butane starts to look appealing. There are actually quite a few interesting things to do here. I, for instance, have taken up small game hunting, using a flypaper strip. So far I’m up to 5 flies, 7 mosquitoes, and a species yet to be named. Heck, we may even start our own Boone and Crockett club for mosquitoes, and have a unit competition. My flies can beat up your flies, that sort of thing. Would probably do wonders for morale.

MY BLIMPIE'S BACK!

2004-10-24T05:49:00.000-07:00

Caloo, calay, oh frabjous day! The blimp is back! Risen (literally) from the dusty soil of Iraq, our surveillance blimp and AIF (Anti-Iraqi Forces) target was witnessed floating serenely at the southern perimeter of the camp last night. Perhaps it would be ungracious of me to point out that it is now situated well away from the helicopter pad, and I should hasten to add that, as near as I can personally determine, there is no truth to the rumor that an Apache pilot now has a blimp painted on the side of his chopper. And poor form if he, did, too – although it does sound just exactly like what you’d expect from a bunch of rotorheads.

Apparently I was not the only one excited about the return of the Prodigal Blimp. It’s return was celebrated with more than the usual excited display of tracer rounds, much to our satisfaction. We sure did miss the nightly show. One of my comrades pointed out that some of the tracers looked suspiciously like ours, which can lead to only two of only two possible conclusions: either our guards were so delighted at the return that they welcomed it back with full martial honors, or the RLO (Real Live Officer, as distinguished from the higher life form, the Warrant Officer) in charge of MWR (Morale, Welfare and Recreation) passed on some ammo to improve the quantity and quality of the fireworks.

Hopefully the blimp will be able to improve the quality of counter-battery fire from our camp. Arty (artillery) is supposed to have a super-nifty-keen radar that can track incoming fire and instantly supply the grid coordinates of the origin to your friendly neighborhood 105mm, but as near as I can tell the information generated lately has been along the lines of “well, it came from that way, approximately, and it’s a fair piece away”. Not exactly the confidence-inspiring sort of information that would persuade you to launch high explosives in the general vicinity of a crowded city, if you know what I mean.

The cooks finally got around to putting labels over the cuisine, which was a source of great comfort to me. I just today learned that all this time what I’ve been eating for breakfast with apple-cinnamon oatmeal, as opposed to plain old oatmeal. Those chunks were supposed to be there. And all this time I’ve been pushing them off to the side, instead of chowing down on Newton’s inspiration. I guess the cooks are touchy about having to label the fruits of their labor, but I’ve always found you could seldom tell the players in an army meal without a program.

Breaking with a decades old tradition, I attended church services this morning at the Division Chapel. It seems to be a constant in nature that churches all smell the same, doesn’t it? I could have been led into the chapel blindfolded and instantly told you that it was a church. Kind of reassuring. And there was something moving in the simple service as soldiers, with rifles slung over their chairs, lifted their voices in prayer and praise. For those of you who have had the misfortune of hearing me sing, let me rush to assure you that I just kind of hummed along. Trust me, the Lord understands!

MY APOLOGIES

2004-10-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid I put out some bad information before I actually got on the ground here and learned a little about the geography. I told many of you that my camp was in the Green Zone. A minor mistake of about 10 miles, and perfectly understandable given my lousy grades in geography. But since the Green Zone has been getting bombed with some regularity of late, I'm afraid some of my friends and family may be worried about my safety (thank you VERY MUCH, by the way!) when I've actually been a good distance from the bombings. Camp Liberty (formerly Camp Victory North) is actually about 10 miles west of the Green Zone, and has been thankfully pretty quiet since I got here.

By the way, sure sign that we're here for the long haul. I was driving over to Bn this morning and noticed that they've actually put up street signs like you'd see in the U.S. on the dirt roads. Reflective lettering and everything.

Haven't seen much in the way of jets until this morning, when I noticed that there was a steady flow of F-15's over the area. Faluja is only about 40 miles away from us, so I figure they were probably pounding that.

The ultimate cruel world joke at dinner tonight - T-bone steaks! With plastic knives. Fortunately, most of the people here are weighted down with more fancy blades than your average Sicilian bandit, so I don't know that that many people were inconvenienced. By the way, if you don't have one, I recommend you rush right out and get a Gerber LST folder in case you ever have to eat in a mess hall. Makes quick work of a steak. Glad I washed it before I came over.

SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN

2004-10-17T02:13:00.000-07:00

17 Oct 04 (Sunday) - Got to hump my duffel bags again, but this time it was worth the hump. Got reassigned (at least temporarily) to a trailer that's a little larger and is what's called a "wet" trailer - i.e., it has a shower (of sorts) and a toilet. Given how frequently we have to move, though, I'm not throwing my wide-mouth gatorade bottle away just yet (you guys who have to get up at night probably can imagine what I'm talking about).

I regret to inform you that we have lost one of our major sources of entertainment. There WAS a rather fair-sized blimp carrying a lot of expensive surveillance equipment that floated over the east end of the base, and it was a regular tracer magnet for Hajis unclear on the concept of maximum range. So in the evenings you could sit out in front of the office with a nice, cold drink and maybe a seegar or such and enjoy the light show. All of a sudden the show was cancelled, and we learned that some rotor head (chopper pilot) managed to clip the cable with his rotors and the blimp fled off into the wild, as they are wont to do when unleashed. Don't know if they've found the danged thing yet, but I wish they'd bring it back. I miss the show.

Kinda hard to make the transition from the rigid, regulation-worshipping environment of stateside to investigations in a hostile fire zone. I was greatly relieved to see there was some common sense in recognizing that things might have to be a little different. Oh, we still have a higher HQ to bug us, but as a general rule we don't go outside the wire unless it's something pretty major - like discovering an American body, or something like that. Which happened this morning, although the ID isn't conclusive yet. Response time to crime scenes is measured in days, since you have to arrange a convoy to travel to the forward bases, and have at least X number of vehicles in the convoy (pardon the X - don't know if that is something I should publish or not).

It was recently decided that we wouldn't have to investigate hostile fire deaths anymore, unless there were actual suspects in custody...and as a general rule, infantry units have proven pretty inept at capturing live suspects. Imagine that. That helped the ol' case load. Starting to get a handle on some of the other cases that we have - quite a few involve the theft of mail-ordered laptops from the army post office. I hope there's a special place in hell for folks who steal soldiers' mail. Anyway, we scarfed up a GI in one case, and a civilian contractor in another case who was trying to mail back two stolen laptops. Theoretically the local Staff Judge Advocate (SJA) could arrange prosecution of the civilian under some recent extended territorial jurisdiction legislation, but they've never done that before and see no reason to start now. We'll try to contact some postal inspector in the states and see if he can point us to an office that might accept the case from us. More cases of child pornography than I would have expected, although I guess that's to be expected, since I can't imagine anyone wanting to view that stuff. We pick up most of them when some GI, who obviously got a mental waiver to enlist, tries to view and download the stuff on a public gov't computer at one of the morale internet sights. Generally get a confession from these guys - it's like they just can't imagine that there was anything wrong with what they did.

Installed a red dot optical sight (EOTECH, for you gun guys) on my M4 and needed to sight it in, which caused quite a stir in the Army channels. You want to sight in your rifle? And you need bullets? Sorry, we don't got no stinkin' bullets. Nice to know the Army still maintains some of it's peacetime orientation.

OK, plan B. The local ATF outpost took pity on me and provided a target range and ammo, and the Air Force showed up while I was there with several thousand rounds of .223 that they had to burn up. In the interest of Interservice cooperation, I gritted my teeth and did my share to dispose of the excess.

Which brings me to the subject of my detachment's contribution to the war effort. To date, we have inflicted one KIA on enemy forces. A mujadeen rat penetrated the perimiter and was promptly engaged with an M2 (Trap, rodent, 1 ea). A search of the body for papers revealed nothing of intelligence value, and he was interred with appropriate ceremony. Rumour has it that one of his compatriots is attempting to complete the mission, and we remain on high alert.

Stay tuned for more gritty, true-life war stories.

05 OCT, FNG

2004-10-09T23:57:00.000-07:00

If you were ever in the military, you probably know what "FNG" means; if you weren't, ask the nearest vet. Hint: it's a brief description of my status in the pecking-order.

It was reassuring to see several Agents at the office that I knew or had worked with at Fort Hood. The Det Commander, CW3 Clanton, was there, along with SA DUGGER and SA ALLEN. Probably best not to be publicizing the size of the detachment, or exact disposition, but it's a small group. The office is a white, wooden structure, thougthfully finished out on the inside with raw plywood. Something along the lines of a very sturdy tent. But, like all cop-shops everywhere, there's a coffee pot. It's pretty much one big open structure, with a big bookcase separating the east half, which is a combination lounge (TV)/and Det Sgt office. Agents on the west side may be writing up a case, while agents on the east side are watching AFN (Armed Forces Network) or playing...Pacman?!

My temporary quarters consist of my very own room (about 10 x 12), or 1/3 of a trailer. Showers are located in a shower trailer about 40 yards away, which service the trailer trash neighborhood I'm in. At this point, any place to put down those *#@! duffel bags and crash looks like the Presidential suite at the Hilton.

Drew ammo for my rifle and pistol, and didn't even have to sign for it. Ah, an army at war is a wonderful thing. Got a couple of stripper clips of tracers to load in the bottom of the magazine. That way, when you're shooting and see a tracer, it's a subtle clue that you should seriously consider looking for another magazine to put in. Running the magazine dry in the middle of a social exchange is considered very boorish and unsportsmanlike.

Wed, 10 Oct - The world is looking a lot more hospitable after a little sleep. By the way, the mess halls here are great. It's all contracted out to some organization called Gulf Company Services, and you would immediately recognize the faces that serve the meals and maintain the mess hall - at home they run the convenience stores. Even got a guy with a little paper hat to open the door for you. Pretty much anything you could want to eat -salad bar, sandwich bar, main line, ice cream bar, short-order grill, etc. First time I've ever seen an actual dessert in an army mess hall. They even got the bread pudding right. One major, over-reaching deficiency, however: no Dr. Pepper.

I must find the base commander and point out this travesty to him before it becomes a black mark on his record.

Get a short tour of the area. Some of Sadam's palaces and main HQ are located a couple of miles south of here, and got to see them. He had man-made lakes put in around them. Must have been pretty nice in their prime. Most of them are undamaged, with the exception of one that shows some bomb damage. British troops are housed in that area, looks like, and we passed an Australian contingent on our way to our Bn HQ. I could tell because they had some shrimp on the barbie....

There are several different camps within the compound, which is surrounded by concrete/brick walls and concertina. My area used to be called Camp Victory North, but now we're Camp Liberty. Then there's Victory South, Camp Blackjack, Camp Slayer, etc., etc.

Incredible amount of traffic on the compound - a lot of construction equipment, plus the assorted convoys headed out/in, etc. Helps keep the dust stirred up. They have water trucks running around to sprinkle the dirt roads to keep the dust down, but as near as I can tell they just add to the dust generation. Contractors everywhere. Boy, we are spending some serious bucks here!

03 OCT: LEAVING ON A JET (AND TURBO-PROP) PLANE

2004-10-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

One of our last classes at Ft Bliss was one on improvised explosive devices (i.e. roadside bombs, etc). This was conducted, appropriately enough, in the base chapel. I thought it was very moving to see a display of various grenades, rockets, and explosives in front of the altar, and you gotta admit there's nothing like the thought of getting close to high explosives to motivate your interest in religion. Worked for me, anyway!

Friday we find out that if we come back for formation Saturday afternoon, they may have information on our flights. We do, and they do. We'll leave about 1100 Sunday for Biggs Army Air field. No breakfast, but they'll have a brunch for us at the airfield. (Translation: that way we only have to pay for one meal, instead of two).

Sunday morning comes on down, and we're off for our champagne brunch. But first, drug dogs sniff our carry on luggage (didn't find any, by the way), and we have to get scanned with a magnetic wand before we can come into the boarding area. Keep in mind that everyone is carrying their weapons onto the plane, right? And they want to scan us for what - scissors? The best part came as I was holding my M4 (an automatic carbine) in my outstretched right hand, and the inspector got a "hit" from the pistol stuck in my waistband. Never looked at the automatic weapon, but he got nervous over the pistol. Sigh.

The aircraft we were originally supposed to board broke down somewhere, so we got the replacement version, which had just enough range to get us to Indiannapolis, IN and onto a bigger aircraft. Hooked up with a stretch-version of the 1011 at Indiannapolis, and flew to Gander, Canada, where we were permitted to exit the aircraft and get over-charged by the local store. At least we stayed on the same aircraft, always a good thing. Next stop: Budapest.

The crew we picked up in Indiannapolis was really great. Everyone was very friendly and informal. The pilot announced that the cockpit doors would be open, and if anyone wanted to come up and watch the plane fly itself they were welcome to do so. A really nice touch was when we started the approach to Budapest the pilot called for the most junior service member on board to come up and ride in the jump seat as they landed. I guess my favorite moment on the trip was walking into the cockpit with a pistol stuck in my waistband and not getting jumped by an Air Marshal. Just to upset the FAA, I took a picture of my pistol on the cabinet in the lavoratory.

Unfortunately, we lost our crew at Budapest and picked up another one that was OK, but not quite as nice. Uppity danged captain closed the cockpit door - although by this point in the trip, there were very few people awake to take advantage of the situation, anyway. Made it in to Camp Doha, Kuwait, about 20 hours after we lifted off from Ft Bliss. Some of the less experienced soldiers thought we'd be bussed to a transient billet and given a few hours sleep. The rest of us were gulping coffee and splashing cold water on our faces to stay awake for the rest of the processing.

It was about 10 PM Kuwaiti time when we arrived, and we had to lug all our duffels off the bus and around a corner to what they called a transient billets, a rather grand name for a dirty hangar with a bunch of broken down cots that looked like they had been used to collect oil samples from a tank somewhere. At least it was a place to dump your duffels while you shuffled off to pick up even MORE equipment. By the time I finished, I had a total of five pairs of boots. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder if they expect me to walk to Baghdad. Some of the stuff was pretty high-speed, though, like the camelback systems and the Wylie sunglasses. Got to bed about 0300, and have to be up at 0500 to check the manifest and see if there are any flights out to Baghdad. Set my trusty throw-down alarm clock, which didn't wake me, but annoyed the hell out of my neighbor until he woke me up with explicit directions about shutting off the alarm.

Just my luck; there was a flight to Baghdad, and the formation for it is at 0630. In case you haven't noticed, the Army is really, really fond of formations. After some sort of roll-call ceremony, we get to hump our duffels onto Bus A, then we board Bus B. There's a hold-up while some officer comes on board and asks if any of us have magazines for our weapons. They finally scrounge a few mags, and issues ammo to a designated shooter in case we're attacked. I'm beginning to think Kuwait may not be as friendly a place as I once thought. Anyway, we finally get on our way to the airfield, and pass a herd of camels off to one side. Now that's more like it. Authentic local scenery. Kind of like Midland, TX, only with more sand and less grass and trees. When we make it to the airport we find out we've been bumped by some civilian secretaries or some such who have priority over us, and would we mind waiting in this comfy, hot tent for a few more hours. And if you're hungry, help yourself to an MRE from that stack over there. At least while we were there I was able to get a call through to the Kuwait Branch Office (BO) and asked them to alert Camp Victory that I was enroute.

About 1330 we humped the duffels again, this time to an Illinois National Guard C-130 Hercules. Last time I flew one of those was in 1974 from Germany to Greece - and they haven't gotten any more comfortable. I suspect the reason that aircraft is used for paratroopers is because flying in one would make jumping out of it look like a viable option.

Reinforcing my suspicion that Kuwait may not be our staunchest ally, I notice the crew members coming back to the hold and looking out the windows for any signs of missiles. I feel much better after they sit down. Speaking of sitting down, have you ever been on a C130? The seats consist of cargo webbing stretched between two aluminum bars, and the most confusing seat belts I've ever encountered. Obviously an Air Force creation of some sort. As we approach Baghdad, the pilot pretty much turns the plane on it's side and dives for the airfield, which I hope deeply offended some Iraqi anti-aircraft crew. Great landing, though, I didn't even notice when we touched down, which might be attributable to the fact that I was busy barfing into my helmet.

Guess what we did after we landed? Humped our duffels over to an unloading point! Fortunately, SFC Harris Renguul (Lord love him!) was there from the office to pick me up, so I humped my duffels into the back of the duty Suburban and made the 20 minute drive to Camp Victory North.

I GOTTA GET OUTTA THIS PLACE!

2004-10-06T04:18:00.000-07:00

OK, I promised to mention something about my hearing last entry, so here it is. There I was, final stage of the 1st day of processing, and I foolishly told the truth to the Dr. when he asked if I had a profile (for civilian readers, that's a documentation of some health issue). I told him I had a 3 for hearing, and that when I processed through Ft Hood they told me that was no problem. After some explaining that the audiologist at Hood thought I was good to go, and that the only problem was a high frequency hearing loss (cricket? What cricket?), I nearly had him convinced to sign off on my form. But, NO, he has to go check with CPT BUREAUCRAT, who was the original model for the pointy-haired boss in the Dilbert Cartoon. CPT B insists that they can't approve my departure until he sees the results of a Medical Review Board (MRB)...and, oh, by the way, you have 4 days to get that done, or we bump you off the flight AND start processing you for relief from active duty and send you home.

You're right, I was tempted. But then I got to thinking about the guy who was waiting on me to replace him so he could go home, and that if I didn't go they'd just grab some other poor guy with 3 days' notice, and my conscience started bothering me. Long story short, I finally located my medical records at Human Resources in St. Louis, and convinced them to help me get a quick MRB. Set up a video teleconference for 1330 Friday, which was cutting it close since I had to have the results NLT 1600 Friday. Which was almost exactly the time they faxed me the results, and I was able to whack CPT B across his pointy little head with the approval.

If not my finest hour, it had to be one of the better ones. Beating a bureaucrat at his own game is such a great feeling...until I realized that I had just guaranteed myself a trip to a combat zone. One of them good news - bad news deals, I guess.

FUBAR

2004-09-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

So here's the deal: rather than scare the dickens out of people at the airport by lugging around my M16 and pistol, it was decided that it would be better to have my weapons sent to the local office at Ft Bliss. I arrive, pick up the goodies, and sign them into the arms room at the transient center.

That was the plan. This is what happened.

On 3 Sep, I talk to the supply room and tell them to be sure and mail my weapons to the Ft Bliss office. Oh, yeah, and don't forget to send 3 magazines for my pistol, since we use a different pistol from the standard army issue. No problem. They're all over it.

On 22 Sep, I call to make sure the weapons have been sent. Well, no, actually, we had a problem, but we're working on it. Your check is in the mail. They'll go out tomorrow, Thursday.

On 25 Sep, I report to Ft Bliss. Call the friendly neighborhood office, which hasn't heard nothing about no stinkin' guns. On Monday, the 27th, I call back to Ft Hood and learn they finally got around to sending the weapons out FRIDAY the 24th. I have to have them by the 29th to qualify. But I have faith. I'm not worried.

On 28 Sep, I call the Bliss office, and they still haven't received any weapons. This is not a good sign. Finally, about 5 in the evening, I call and they have received a mysterious package from Ft. Hood. Do I want to come over?

So we unwrap the package, and it's looking good. Nice Pelikan hard-sided case, two VERY high security locks.

Locks. You see where this is heading, right? No *@!@#! keys.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut the hasp on a really good, expensive high-security lock?

OK, I've got Pandora's box open now, and sure enough, there's the trusty M4 Carbine, broken down to fit the box, and my pistol. Just pitched in on top of it, and rattled a bit for good measure before they sealed it up. They did throw in a dab of foam rubber, just to show they could have packed it right if they had wanted to.

But I'm happy, because there's the pistol I need to qualify with tomorrow, and there are... no, wait.... Where are the magazines?! They didn't send no stinkin' magazines? It's going to take a while to get through the course tomorrow, handloading one round at a time into the pistol.

And did I tell you about the hearing profile? Stay tuned.

DOWNTOWN FORT BLISS

2004-09-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today started the first leg of the journey to Baghdad, even if it got off to something less than an auspicious start. As I was wheeling the crane over to my duffel bag to lift it into the trunk, I noticed the right rear tire of my car was nearly flat. Fortunately, it had enough air in it to make it around the corner to a gas station where emergency resuscitation was performed and the War Bride and I were off to DFW Airport.

But first, did I mention the duffel bags (2) and my non-footlocker were heavy? Like leaving prints in dry concrete? One of the duffel bags absolutely could not have held one more t-shirt. I think the 2nd bag might have been good for maybe a pair of gloves, but that was it. And the non-footlocker was perilously close to catastrophic failure. And if you're wondering about the term non-footlocker, it's because the replacement center told me they wouldn't accept footlockers for travel. So, you see, what I have is actually a hard-sided, rectangular-shaped piece of non-footlocker commercial luggage. A real footlocker would be wood, and painted green. Hey, my nfl (non-footlocker) is black, and plastic. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The nfl was doing pretty good until the last minute, when I decided to take the Bushnell holographic sight off of my rifle and pitch it in for possible use on the M4. Actually, the sight wasn't the problem - I pitched it in my carry-on backpack, but the special screwdriver and bits I had to use to get it off went into the nfl -and I darned near didn't get it shut again. Sigh. The Army doesn't make it easy to get into a combat zone.

Anyway, caught the trusty AA flight out of DFW to El Paso, noticing a few other soldier-types on the aircraft; none in uniform, but the haircut and PX clothes are dead (scratch that, use "for sure") giveaways. 'Course, that doesn't apply to me. I don't have hair to get a bad GI haircut with anyway. And get this - all of them were younger than me. Go figure.

Arrived at El Paso about 1700, and was met at the reception area by an intern from the Ft Bliss office. Interesting fellow - migrated hear from Poland when he was 20, joined the Army at 30, and is trying to get into the CID program now. Very conscientious, totally dedicated. The country needs more like him. From the airport to the Conus (Continental U.S.) Replacement Center (CRC) was only about 5 minutes, where I reported to the CQ (charge of quarters for the non-military types out there), and humbly requested a place to stay. A couple of signatures later I took custody of one each, blanket, pillow and sheet set, with directions to follow the blue arrows to the 2nd floor and lay claim to the first available bunk. Securing my bags wouldn't be a problem, he assured, since there were lockers.

Yeah, well. True, there were lockers, but they were communal lockers, and you couldn't put a lock on them without locking out the rest of the 200 residents of the open bay, designed in 1950 for a maximum occupancy of 75. All of the botom bunks were taken, since they had the premium of having space to stow your duffel bags under. I looked a little further and finally found a few smaller bays reserved for Lt Col's and above, but I didn't qualify for membership and the valets shooed me away.

Command decision time. Get me away to the billeting office! Fortunately, a few people failed to show up for their reservations, and I was able to get a room at the post inn. OK, so I gotta pay a little for it, but at least my stuff will be safe and I won't have to step over bodies on my way to the bathroom. Life is good. Now all I gotta do is lay out something appropriate (think I'll wear the desert camo uniform tomorrow...) and manage to find my way back to CRC at 0800 tomorrow and follow the yellow lines to the briefing area.

Unpack & Re-pack

2004-09-21T09:30:00.000-07:00

The War Bride and I just returned from two week's leave in Italy (and many thanks to the entire Livorno Branch Office for meeting us at the airport in Pisa). The Tower really does lean, by the way, althought at first I attributed that to too many complimentary drinks and jet lag. This trip had originally been scheduled for June 03, but got cancelled when I got called up in April. We rented a diesel mini-van (don't laugh - thing ran like a scalded ape and got 33mpg...) to haul all our junk and anticipated purchases, and set off to challenge Italian drivers on their own turf. Bad plan. After trying to navigate to our hotel in Florence, we finally admitted defeat, called a taxi, and followed him to the hotel. Parking is non-existent, and street signs are rare enough to be posted in Guiness' Book of World Records. Having said all that, I'll have to admit the Italian drivers were nowhere near as bad as I had expected, although Jo and I would sometimes take a coke and sit at the intersections at night and watch the red light runners if thing were slow.

Oh, if you're interested in the mini-van, it was an Opel Zafira. Order one at your nearest Zafira dealer. Boy, Europe has to have the highest ratio of ugly cars to population of anyplace on the planet, but I guess they're functional. Scooters were everywhere, and given gas @ $6.00 a gallon and parking places measured in inches, probably a danged good idea.

We were blundering through the back roads our last few days there and stopped for lunch in a little village called Ascenio when we noticed a couple of ladies putting up wedding pictures of various couples on the buildings downtown, and then we noticed a bunch of wedding dresses displayed in front of the local church. After a few inquiries and much consulting of the resident Italian/English dictionary, we learned that every year the village celebrates the couples who were married there. Somehow, I don't think there would be enough survivors to do that in an American town, but maybe I'm just pessimistic.

Well, good to be back, and now I've got to start putting together my kit for Iraq. Just checked in with Ft Bliss and they haven't received my weapons yet, which is about right, I suppose. Sure would hate to leave home without'em!

02 Sep 2004 - Leaving Ft Hood

2004-09-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

Seventeen months after arriving at Ft Hood, it's time to stuff the car past it's maximum rated carrying capacity and head back home, at least for a little while. Kind of like the last day of high school - looking around at places that I'm not likely to come back to for a while, and saying good-bye to friends who will be off on their own adventures before I return. Hard to believe anyone could ever be melancholy about leaving Ft Hood...but then, when you're leaving it for Iraq, I guess that makes a little more sense. I have had the privilege of working here with a tremendous group of professional investigators, guys and gals who have put in 70 hr weeks so long it's become routine, and still find the energy to get out of bed at 0330 when a partner calls and needs a hand. I've seen the civilian and the military world of investigations, and I can confidently say that the Army CID has to be about the best of the lot. In terms of thoroughness (sometimes downright mindless, but thorough nonetheless), timeliness, and use of forensic resources, I don't think anyone else comes close.

I should leave more often. The office threw the traditional going-away luncheon for me...at where else?...the Rod and Gun Club. Got a beautiful plaque in the shape of Texas. And the day before that the Commander presented me with an Army Commendation Medal. You should understand that the Army generally will give you something like that at the end of a tour, but I appreciated it very much, anyway. And, more importantly, the Operations Officer (one of the few real, live CW5's in the Army), and the Commander both gave me their personal award coins, and those mean something. The Ops Officer, Mr. ADAMS, has been a good mentor and friend...but heck, if I start down that road I'll be naming the entire office.

Attended a retirement dinner for CW3 Rob McNally, who has just returned from the Box. It was hosted at the Irish Dragoon Pub, and one of the things I remember best was that they had a setting at a table with a black sash across it, and a book with the names of the fallen soldiers from Ft Hood. A gracious gesture, I thought.

2004-09-05T20:19:00.000-07:00

29 Aug 04

2004-08-29T18:56:00.000-07:00

My War Bride came down this weekend and helped me clean out the apartment and haul back two of the duffel bags that I'll be taking to Iraq, along with misc junk that accumulates when you stay in one place too long. We took a break long enough to track down a German restaurant in Walburg, (called appropriately enough "Walburg Restaurant") which is roughly 3 miles east of nowhere - but the food was really great, and they have a wonderful biergarten out back with a live band. I recommend it if you're in the Austin area. Take I35 South to the FM 972 exit (just N of Georgetown), and go east for about 3 mile so until you hit Walburg. The restaurant is on the left (N) side of the road, and is just past the town post office.

First Blog

2004-08-27T07:17:00.000-07:00

Hello to my friends and family reading these entries. I hope this turns out to be a good way of keeping you current on what is happening while I'm deployed to beautiful downtown Baghdad.

By the way, the name "Chief Desert Fox" was bestowed upon me by my Detachment Sgt. Long story, going back to a protective service class we attended together.