So what? So here I am at the end of another year long deployment. So what; what does it mean, what is there to learn or take away?
I have no deep thoughts or introspection on what it all means. I can articulate what I know.
I know that we will not leave Iraq having to shoot our way out. Who would have imagined this two years ago? Certainly not three years ago. While the Iraqis might not have any parades in our honor as we leave most will realize that their lives are indeed better than they were under Saddam. They know this. We know it too. Anyone who says otherwise needs to shut up and go there and see for themselves.
Three years ago we all thought that Iraq was "lost" and that we'd have to fight our way to the southern border in order to leave. Death tolls were at their highest. But that isn't Iraq in 2009. Nor will it be Iraq in 2010. Our military will be able to walk out Iraq with a sense of gratitude from the Iraqis; both for what we have done for them and for leaving.The way ahead is going to be harder for them than under Saddam Hussein because the days of an "entitlement society" are quickly fading.
I know that the future of Iraq is far from clear. Iraq is far more vital to the region than most Westerners realize. Iraq is strategically, economically, culturally and religiously important to the Middle East and the world. There are many who have an interest in seeing Iraq go their way. Iraq will continue to be the center of a tug-of-war for all of the above reasons for generations to come.
I know that the hardest part of the deployment is on the family. Reconnecting, even in the strongest of relationships takes time and patience. We, as Soldiers, return home into a pattern established by the ones we leave behind. For a while we are intruders into the status quo. Establishing new patterns takes time.
I know that I am neither a great or terrible leader. Many times I tried to make the decisions for the team that were in the best interests of everyone. Other times I found myself having to yell at people for no other reason than they pressed my buttons in the right order. I also learned that leadership can be lonely. With very few peers around the FOB I had to choose relationships carefully. Although I would do anything for my Soldiers and defend them against abuse by "Big Army" I never got close enough to them to call any of them friends. I know that a majority of that was my doing.
Finally, we did our jobs. There are less heroes, but no one wants that distinction anyway. I cannot tell you that we worked hard because that simply wouldn't be true. None of my guys should feel that their time was wasted - although many could. There is a lot of down time in this "phase" of the war. The Iraqis are taking care of their own security and are reacting to critical incidents in their own way. As the army and police do the jobs that they have been training to do there is less of a role for us. In the next twelve months there will be a rapid off ramping of personnel and equipment from the country.
Iraq will cause confusion and consternation as they stubble into their future. Iraq - a deployment - leave an indelible mark on you. There are moments that are difficult to explain except to someone else who was there. I suppose, in closing, that this blog at least shared some of those moments.
That's all there is; no grandiose epiphany because I don't think one exisits . That's it. Thanks.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Welcome Home
(The following are my comments from the welcome home ceremony yesterday.)
Three weeks ago my wife was called for jury duty for this week. When she explained that I was coming home from a year in Iraq and needed to come and pick me up the woman said, “I don’t mean to sound cold hearted, but can’t someone else get him?”
Sixty five years ago we were a nation at war. The war was a part of the national consciousness and everyone made sacrifices. Hundreds of thousands of families hung blue stars in their windows. Industry altered its production to support the effort and no aspect of daily life went untouched from gas rationing to war bond drives.
Forty years ago the nation was again in a war that again elevated to the national consciousness, although at times the battle seemed to be among ourselves as some openly challenged the system and the government because the sacrifice of the draft in an unpopular war was a bitter pill to swallow.
Today, we are not a nation at war. There is no sacrifice made across the whole of society and the events in Iraq and Afghanistan barely register the national consciousness. Right now the greatest sacrifice the nation has to pay in the global war on terror is having to take off their shoes in the airport.
While we are not a nation at war, we are an army at war. The greatest strength of this army is that we have volunteered for our service, dedicated to the preservation of freedom at home and even the establishment of freedom in a place called Iraq. Without the nation behind us and with only volunteers, we go off to war. And indeed sacrifices have to be made. Most of these sacrifices are borne by our families and friends during our deployment.
Soldiers can endure most anything; heat, dust, bugs, and long days with little sleep. When they do sleep it’s on hard cots, or in seats on 15 hour bus rides. Most times a Soldier will gripe, for that is our nature, but they’ll also be thankful, knowing it could always be worse. It’s easy for a Soldier to make sacrifices and endure.
What Soldiers don’t realize and never expect are the sacrifices our families and friends make every day that we are away because, for us, there is no void in the deployment in Iraq where our loved ones used to be.
For our spouses and significant others; you went to bed every night feeling that divot where we used to lay. You acted as both sets of parents having to be both the disciplinarian and the sympathetic shoulder to cry on. You managed the household; the bills, the lawn, the dishes, the snow.
For our parents; rhere was no end to your worry when the phone rang unexpectedly late at night. You hung your blue star with pride and prayed that you’d never join that exclusive club who turned their stars from blue to gold.
For our children; you played your games with one less fan to cheer you on. You played in the band with one less set of hands for applause. You turned a year older without us there and hoping for a fifteen minute phone call and a good connection.
For our friends; you went out with the gang on Friday nights minus one; the one who could be counted on for a laugh or a ride home. You missed that one person who you could vent to about your latest soon-to-be ex.
Many of you had joyous moments that you spent alone, a child’s first smile, a great promotion at work, or a great report card. You also anguished without us being there during moments of tremendous sadness; intolerable loneliness, the passing of friends, the loss of a child.
You carried all of these burdens; many times with exquisite grace. You not only kept your selves afloat but also managed to keep our spirits up – 8,000 miles away – as well. There is no depth of our gratitude and we cannot begin to appreciate what you have accomplished in our absence. Without a doubt, of the two groups, you mission was harder.
When the nation’s attention finally does turn to the Soldiers standing in front of you they refer to us as “heroes” – a title befitting to each and every one of us. However, we stand before you today to say thank you. We are indebted to you. We could not have done our job without you. We applaud you.
(We're home. It's done. All of my Soldiers are on their way to their families. One more post to go.)
Three weeks ago my wife was called for jury duty for this week. When she explained that I was coming home from a year in Iraq and needed to come and pick me up the woman said, “I don’t mean to sound cold hearted, but can’t someone else get him?”
Sixty five years ago we were a nation at war. The war was a part of the national consciousness and everyone made sacrifices. Hundreds of thousands of families hung blue stars in their windows. Industry altered its production to support the effort and no aspect of daily life went untouched from gas rationing to war bond drives.
Forty years ago the nation was again in a war that again elevated to the national consciousness, although at times the battle seemed to be among ourselves as some openly challenged the system and the government because the sacrifice of the draft in an unpopular war was a bitter pill to swallow.
Today, we are not a nation at war. There is no sacrifice made across the whole of society and the events in Iraq and Afghanistan barely register the national consciousness. Right now the greatest sacrifice the nation has to pay in the global war on terror is having to take off their shoes in the airport.
While we are not a nation at war, we are an army at war. The greatest strength of this army is that we have volunteered for our service, dedicated to the preservation of freedom at home and even the establishment of freedom in a place called Iraq. Without the nation behind us and with only volunteers, we go off to war. And indeed sacrifices have to be made. Most of these sacrifices are borne by our families and friends during our deployment.
Soldiers can endure most anything; heat, dust, bugs, and long days with little sleep. When they do sleep it’s on hard cots, or in seats on 15 hour bus rides. Most times a Soldier will gripe, for that is our nature, but they’ll also be thankful, knowing it could always be worse. It’s easy for a Soldier to make sacrifices and endure.
What Soldiers don’t realize and never expect are the sacrifices our families and friends make every day that we are away because, for us, there is no void in the deployment in Iraq where our loved ones used to be.
For our spouses and significant others; you went to bed every night feeling that divot where we used to lay. You acted as both sets of parents having to be both the disciplinarian and the sympathetic shoulder to cry on. You managed the household; the bills, the lawn, the dishes, the snow.
For our parents; rhere was no end to your worry when the phone rang unexpectedly late at night. You hung your blue star with pride and prayed that you’d never join that exclusive club who turned their stars from blue to gold.
For our children; you played your games with one less fan to cheer you on. You played in the band with one less set of hands for applause. You turned a year older without us there and hoping for a fifteen minute phone call and a good connection.
For our friends; you went out with the gang on Friday nights minus one; the one who could be counted on for a laugh or a ride home. You missed that one person who you could vent to about your latest soon-to-be ex.
Many of you had joyous moments that you spent alone, a child’s first smile, a great promotion at work, or a great report card. You also anguished without us being there during moments of tremendous sadness; intolerable loneliness, the passing of friends, the loss of a child.
You carried all of these burdens; many times with exquisite grace. You not only kept your selves afloat but also managed to keep our spirits up – 8,000 miles away – as well. There is no depth of our gratitude and we cannot begin to appreciate what you have accomplished in our absence. Without a doubt, of the two groups, you mission was harder.
When the nation’s attention finally does turn to the Soldiers standing in front of you they refer to us as “heroes” – a title befitting to each and every one of us. However, we stand before you today to say thank you. We are indebted to you. We could not have done our job without you. We applaud you.
(We're home. It's done. All of my Soldiers are on their way to their families. One more post to go.)
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Bring On Da Funk and Other Musings On the Trip Home
We are back in the United States! First and foremost that is the big news.
The Odyssey
Our trip began in Iraq on Wednesday with a ninety minute convoy to the airport. We flew to Kuwait the next day. On Saturday we cleared our bags through US Customs, courtesy of the US Navy. Once a unit clears Customs it must wait in a "sterile" area without access to external comforts to include food and the PX until we depart. Our first plane broke down while we were waiting to get on it so we waited another day for another plane. That night was a long miserable night of sitting on a bus within eyesight of the plane only to drive the hour plus trip back to the base camp. We spent the day sitting on floors or chairs while the Kuwaitis turned the AC off and on in order to service the system.
On Sunday we finally got out to the second plane only to find out our flight was moved to the right (delayed) two more hours. Somewhere close to midnight on Sunday we boarded the DC-10 with just barely enough room to spread out with a space between people. The engines fired up - and stopped. Another delay. The engines started again and stayed lit. As soon as we were airborne I fell asleep for the first time in 20 hours.
We landed in Shannon, Ireland in the wee hours of Monday morning. Our hour layover was doubled as the mechanics tried to fix whatever was ailing this plane. However, the luck of the Irish was with us and we got airborne once again to the rising sun. Looking out the window at the green rolling hills of Ireland made me happy. We flew in the growing morning sun all day long and arrived in Atlanta, GA late Monday morning. It was then that we discovered that someone (not us) forgot to tell the military assistance people that we were coming. No follow on transportation was set up for us. Furthermore, there was only one person to process airline tickets for almost 100 people.
We came up with the best option for us; charter a bus from Atlanta to New Jersey. Yes, this was the best option. The bus was loaded and we were on the road by 1600. At 0645 we arrived in Ft Dix. We began work to DEMOB (demobilize/demobilization) at 0700.
Tonight will be the first time we've slept in beds, as opposed to floors, chairs, bus or plane seats, since Friday night.
Bring on Da Funk
The last time anyone got to shower in our odyssey was either late Friday night or oh-dark thirty on Saturday morning. The customs lock down area only had a set of sinks to wash up in. The the 120* heat began to take its toll. You couldn't help sweating just sitting still. By Sunday evening I knew that needed a new uniform but shrugged the idea off because I was sweaty, nasty dirty and putting clean clothes on a stinky body made no sense. That was Sunday. After the plane and bus rides, by Tuesday we were rancid. We tried to wash up in Atlanta. Imagine being a random traveler walking into the men's room to find a dozen soldiers all trying to wash their bodies in motion detector sinks.
You know it's bad when you can smell yourself and it's nauseating. You can feel the dirt in your clothes after they've been worn for as long as we wore ours. Times that by fifty other bodies.
We were given a half hour after we turned in body armor and weapons this morning and took a hot shower with lots of soap.
The Green, Green Grass of Home
What a world of difference being home from Iraq. Life is vibrant here. The green trees and grass; the blue skies with white puffed clouds; the cool air on your face - it adds up to a sensory overload, but one everyone notices. More that one rugged troop stood outside clearly soaking it in.
You would have to be there, in Iraq, or Kuwait, or Afghanistan - or any other arid, dusty, incredibly hot place for a long period of time to appreciate this feeling. Or maybe it's a phenomenon.
Welcome Home, Remember
We were met by our commander, my boss, with a big hug and hot coffee. People we haven't seen in a year were there to meet us. There was a moment of hugs and high fives as this particular Army family reunited.
Later in the morning we had another, semi-official welcome home where the installation commander gave us our unit's yellow banner that has flown with dozens of other yellow banners over the last year. I can just barely remember the ceremony we had hanging the banner in October 2008. The return of the yellow banner to us was symbolic of saying, "your job's complete, welcome home."
I found my cell phone and borrowed a charger. I haven't used my cell phone in a year and realized that I forgot what all the buttons do. Numbers. Send. That's enough for now.
I am trying to remember the other important things of being home. Things like; don't walk in the middle of street because traffic doesn't go 5 mph like on the FOB. Cold milk is awesome. Bugle calls on an active post means that you have to stop and render the proper military customs. Dunkin' Donuts coffee is a miracle. Calling my wife to say good night is so much easier without a seven hour time difference.
Jetlag is calling. My eyes are getting heavy. Good night from the East Coast.
The Odyssey
Our trip began in Iraq on Wednesday with a ninety minute convoy to the airport. We flew to Kuwait the next day. On Saturday we cleared our bags through US Customs, courtesy of the US Navy. Once a unit clears Customs it must wait in a "sterile" area without access to external comforts to include food and the PX until we depart. Our first plane broke down while we were waiting to get on it so we waited another day for another plane. That night was a long miserable night of sitting on a bus within eyesight of the plane only to drive the hour plus trip back to the base camp. We spent the day sitting on floors or chairs while the Kuwaitis turned the AC off and on in order to service the system.
On Sunday we finally got out to the second plane only to find out our flight was moved to the right (delayed) two more hours. Somewhere close to midnight on Sunday we boarded the DC-10 with just barely enough room to spread out with a space between people. The engines fired up - and stopped. Another delay. The engines started again and stayed lit. As soon as we were airborne I fell asleep for the first time in 20 hours.
We landed in Shannon, Ireland in the wee hours of Monday morning. Our hour layover was doubled as the mechanics tried to fix whatever was ailing this plane. However, the luck of the Irish was with us and we got airborne once again to the rising sun. Looking out the window at the green rolling hills of Ireland made me happy. We flew in the growing morning sun all day long and arrived in Atlanta, GA late Monday morning. It was then that we discovered that someone (not us) forgot to tell the military assistance people that we were coming. No follow on transportation was set up for us. Furthermore, there was only one person to process airline tickets for almost 100 people.
We came up with the best option for us; charter a bus from Atlanta to New Jersey. Yes, this was the best option. The bus was loaded and we were on the road by 1600. At 0645 we arrived in Ft Dix. We began work to DEMOB (demobilize/demobilization) at 0700.
Tonight will be the first time we've slept in beds, as opposed to floors, chairs, bus or plane seats, since Friday night.
Bring on Da Funk
The last time anyone got to shower in our odyssey was either late Friday night or oh-dark thirty on Saturday morning. The customs lock down area only had a set of sinks to wash up in. The the 120* heat began to take its toll. You couldn't help sweating just sitting still. By Sunday evening I knew that needed a new uniform but shrugged the idea off because I was sweaty, nasty dirty and putting clean clothes on a stinky body made no sense. That was Sunday. After the plane and bus rides, by Tuesday we were rancid. We tried to wash up in Atlanta. Imagine being a random traveler walking into the men's room to find a dozen soldiers all trying to wash their bodies in motion detector sinks.
You know it's bad when you can smell yourself and it's nauseating. You can feel the dirt in your clothes after they've been worn for as long as we wore ours. Times that by fifty other bodies.
We were given a half hour after we turned in body armor and weapons this morning and took a hot shower with lots of soap.
The Green, Green Grass of Home
What a world of difference being home from Iraq. Life is vibrant here. The green trees and grass; the blue skies with white puffed clouds; the cool air on your face - it adds up to a sensory overload, but one everyone notices. More that one rugged troop stood outside clearly soaking it in.
You would have to be there, in Iraq, or Kuwait, or Afghanistan - or any other arid, dusty, incredibly hot place for a long period of time to appreciate this feeling. Or maybe it's a phenomenon.
Welcome Home, Remember
We were met by our commander, my boss, with a big hug and hot coffee. People we haven't seen in a year were there to meet us. There was a moment of hugs and high fives as this particular Army family reunited.
Later in the morning we had another, semi-official welcome home where the installation commander gave us our unit's yellow banner that has flown with dozens of other yellow banners over the last year. I can just barely remember the ceremony we had hanging the banner in October 2008. The return of the yellow banner to us was symbolic of saying, "your job's complete, welcome home."
I found my cell phone and borrowed a charger. I haven't used my cell phone in a year and realized that I forgot what all the buttons do. Numbers. Send. That's enough for now.
I am trying to remember the other important things of being home. Things like; don't walk in the middle of street because traffic doesn't go 5 mph like on the FOB. Cold milk is awesome. Bugle calls on an active post means that you have to stop and render the proper military customs. Dunkin' Donuts coffee is a miracle. Calling my wife to say good night is so much easier without a seven hour time difference.
Jetlag is calling. My eyes are getting heavy. Good night from the East Coast.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Long Days
We left Iraq yesterday at 2016hrs local time. We are heading home.
These are the long days. The long days of waiting for our turn to fly to the United States. These are the days that test our patience and challenge us to fill our hours with whatever we can.
We left our base just after sunrise on Wednesday. I took a last look around the compound and made sure that I was the last one to get on the trucks that would take us to the airport. Most of the base hadn't woken yet and slipped out with no fanfare or notice whatsoever.
Looking at Iraq for the last time in a long time - maybe, probably, forever - I had no desire to absorb any more in and fell asleep in the seat. I was awoken to a machine gunner in the turret with an anger management issue because he was yelling at all of the traffic. Really? On the last day? I guess there are still some who didn't get the message that Iraqis are now in charge and can drive along side of us. Sigh.
We unloaded at BIAP and stacked all of the gear in one place upon learning that our flight wasn't for another thirty-six hours. I hate waiting but this was one reservation that I could not rush or "push to the left."
There isn't much to do when you have limited ability to do anything. I worked out. One hour there. I logged on in the internet cafe, another hour there. I took a nap for forty minutes and ate. And there was still a whole day to go!
Of course, we did leave. A cheer went up throughout the plane as the wheels left the runway. And we did arrive in Kuwait. We arrived for more waiting (where I am waiting now). I finally go the opportunity to call Lisa and let her know that I was okay. So far I have repeated everything I did in BIAP with the exception of finding a washer and dryer for my dirty clothes. And there is stil a whole day to go!
I discovered that some of my Soldiers could apply for a position of mattress tester or professional sleeper because given the opportunity they can rack out for hours. I am not so lucky and stare at the bottom of the bunk above me. I remind myself that these long days are just the required steps to get home and that the trick is to set the example.
Of course, all is well. I have been reunited with my brother in arms and there is a family reunion atmosphere in the air as people are connecting in person for the first time since October.
We still need to go through Customs and of course there is the twelve hour flight to the United States, but the fact is that we are on our way.
These are the long days. The long days of waiting for our turn to fly to the United States. These are the days that test our patience and challenge us to fill our hours with whatever we can.
We left our base just after sunrise on Wednesday. I took a last look around the compound and made sure that I was the last one to get on the trucks that would take us to the airport. Most of the base hadn't woken yet and slipped out with no fanfare or notice whatsoever.
Looking at Iraq for the last time in a long time - maybe, probably, forever - I had no desire to absorb any more in and fell asleep in the seat. I was awoken to a machine gunner in the turret with an anger management issue because he was yelling at all of the traffic. Really? On the last day? I guess there are still some who didn't get the message that Iraqis are now in charge and can drive along side of us. Sigh.
We unloaded at BIAP and stacked all of the gear in one place upon learning that our flight wasn't for another thirty-six hours. I hate waiting but this was one reservation that I could not rush or "push to the left."
There isn't much to do when you have limited ability to do anything. I worked out. One hour there. I logged on in the internet cafe, another hour there. I took a nap for forty minutes and ate. And there was still a whole day to go!
Of course, we did leave. A cheer went up throughout the plane as the wheels left the runway. And we did arrive in Kuwait. We arrived for more waiting (where I am waiting now). I finally go the opportunity to call Lisa and let her know that I was okay. So far I have repeated everything I did in BIAP with the exception of finding a washer and dryer for my dirty clothes. And there is stil a whole day to go!
I discovered that some of my Soldiers could apply for a position of mattress tester or professional sleeper because given the opportunity they can rack out for hours. I am not so lucky and stare at the bottom of the bunk above me. I remind myself that these long days are just the required steps to get home and that the trick is to set the example.
Of course, all is well. I have been reunited with my brother in arms and there is a family reunion atmosphere in the air as people are connecting in person for the first time since October.
We still need to go through Customs and of course there is the twelve hour flight to the United States, but the fact is that we are on our way.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Last Thoughts
The pictures are packed and mailed home. The room is empty of the television and DVD player; both sold to my replacement. My bags are packed. Tonight we held the official transfer of authority to our replacements. It’s time to go home.
I go home as I did in 2005; with hope that all of this isn’t for nothing. All of this: a year away from my family, a year away from our lives, the loss of over 4,300 servicemen and women, the death and destruction of Iraqi lives. All of that shouldn’t be for nothing.
I am both enamored and annoyed with Iraq. The people of this country want to succeed and for that I am excited for them. They want to have stability and security and the prosperity that comes from having the second largest oil reserves under the ground. They want peace within their borders and respect from their neighbors.
However, greed and anxiety that those in power won’t “get theirs” leaves a nation in the lurch as the powerful grab what they can with no eye on the future except their own. It is the shame of Iraq. Laws go unwritten. Corruption is still a daily part of doing business. Budgets are still not dispersed. All of this to the detriment of the people.
It’s frustrating that they can’t get out of their own way.
Iraq is certainly a lot farther along than it was four years ago which gives me a reason to believe in Iraq. Iraq is not dead, nor will it ever die, but its old Soviet style governmental structure needs to.
No one can predict the future. Last November a man ran an agenda of “hope and change”. I have hope for Iraq that is can change into something new and different from the last forty years. In forty years I’d like my children to come to Iraq and be welcomed as guests. I would like to think that they’d be welcomed when it was learned that their father was here and that his contribution meant something. Maybe they’ll visit the Babylon Ruins and stand where dad (or granddad) did and stand in front of the lion statue.
“This is the same place my dad stood back in 2009!”
“Aww, mom, can I get a soda now?”
I hope it's something like that.
I go home as I did in 2005; with hope that all of this isn’t for nothing. All of this: a year away from my family, a year away from our lives, the loss of over 4,300 servicemen and women, the death and destruction of Iraqi lives. All of that shouldn’t be for nothing.
I am both enamored and annoyed with Iraq. The people of this country want to succeed and for that I am excited for them. They want to have stability and security and the prosperity that comes from having the second largest oil reserves under the ground. They want peace within their borders and respect from their neighbors.
However, greed and anxiety that those in power won’t “get theirs” leaves a nation in the lurch as the powerful grab what they can with no eye on the future except their own. It is the shame of Iraq. Laws go unwritten. Corruption is still a daily part of doing business. Budgets are still not dispersed. All of this to the detriment of the people.
It’s frustrating that they can’t get out of their own way.
Iraq is certainly a lot farther along than it was four years ago which gives me a reason to believe in Iraq. Iraq is not dead, nor will it ever die, but its old Soviet style governmental structure needs to.
No one can predict the future. Last November a man ran an agenda of “hope and change”. I have hope for Iraq that is can change into something new and different from the last forty years. In forty years I’d like my children to come to Iraq and be welcomed as guests. I would like to think that they’d be welcomed when it was learned that their father was here and that his contribution meant something. Maybe they’ll visit the Babylon Ruins and stand where dad (or granddad) did and stand in front of the lion statue.
“This is the same place my dad stood back in 2009!”
“Aww, mom, can I get a soda now?”
I hope it's something like that.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
What Becomes of the Tokens to the Dead?
The war in Iraq is slowly coming to an end. In a year it’s projected that the last combat troops will leave Iraq and that a year after that, so too will go the advisory units to the GoI (Government of Iraq) and the Iraqi Army. In their wake we will leave behind the memories of 4331+ Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen who made the ultimate sacrifice. We will also leave behind thousands of plaques, portraits, and memorials in their honor.
What happens to those items?
What becomes of the sun bleached photos of Civil Affairs Soldiers who died four years ago conducting operations out of FOB Kalsu? There photos are arrayed on the wall outside our day room. Their stories are now lost to anyone on the FOB; 2005 was a long time ago and I can only guess in what context these men died. Since we are the last CA unit to occupy this compound who is the caretaker to these items? What happens to the photo memorial of one of the youngest West Point graduates (and a high profile death) when the base medical clinic closes its doors? How do you decide to throw it away? Isn’t there something sacred and reserved about each and every memorial?
I thought to take down what I could – all the portraits in our compound – and find the families of these Soldiers and send it to them. Is that right? Does a family want to receive another (painful) reminder to a terrible event that they have spent years trying to recover from? Then if not the family, does the military have an obligation to maintain or store these items?
Leaving it for the Iraqis is out of the question; I do not expect them to respect our dead in any manner. In fact I expect the opposite.
I think about the Vietnam Memorial and all of the items left there. They are cataloged, stored, and kept as if they were as hallowed as the names on the wall. I imagine we could to the same here; take it all down, give a ten digit military grid location where it was taken from, protect it, pack it and ship it home. Then what? Maybe one day we could display it on The Mall in D.C. in “our” own unique memorial.
We remember the uniformed men and women we never met and only see staring back at us in a still photo. Whatever the outcome, we remember the dead.
What happens to those items?
What becomes of the sun bleached photos of Civil Affairs Soldiers who died four years ago conducting operations out of FOB Kalsu? There photos are arrayed on the wall outside our day room. Their stories are now lost to anyone on the FOB; 2005 was a long time ago and I can only guess in what context these men died. Since we are the last CA unit to occupy this compound who is the caretaker to these items? What happens to the photo memorial of one of the youngest West Point graduates (and a high profile death) when the base medical clinic closes its doors? How do you decide to throw it away? Isn’t there something sacred and reserved about each and every memorial?I thought to take down what I could – all the portraits in our compound – and find the families of these Soldiers and send it to them. Is that right? Does a family want to receive another (painful) reminder to a terrible event that they have spent years trying to recover from? Then if not the family, does the military have an obligation to maintain or store these items?
Leaving it for the Iraqis is out of the question; I do not expect them to respect our dead in any manner. In fact I expect the opposite.
I think about the Vietnam Memorial and all of the items left there. They are cataloged, stored, and kept as if they were as hallowed as the names on the wall. I imagine we could to the same here; take it all down, give a ten digit military grid location where it was taken from, protect it, pack it and ship it home. Then what? Maybe one day we could display it on The Mall in D.C. in “our” own unique memorial.
We remember the uniformed men and women we never met and only see staring back at us in a still photo. Whatever the outcome, we remember the dead.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Unplugged
Unplugged; as in unplugged from the Matrix. I completed my last unofficial duty the other day by holding a conference on the regional governance and economic issues that confront the military and Department of State reconstruction teams. It was a great vehicle to bring the new guys into the current state of the issues in Iraq and hand off the reins to them for their tour. At the end I thanked my team and everyone for coming to the sound of applause.
And then there was nothing.
My relevance diminished along with my purpose and place on the team as someone else became the “belly button” to press for questions regarding civil military operations. Actually, my relevance is acting as the resource for my replacement to go to for questions. Everything else is fluff.
There are a few more formalities; sign over equipment, conduct a short transfer of authority ceremony, one or two final meetings (as an observer) but, for the most part, I am done. The big machine of the war/reconstruction/withdrawal of Iraq is continuing without me.
It’s an odd feeling made odder still by the fact that I still have over a week to go here. If I’m not needed then why stay around? Of course I know the answer is that I need to remain available for my replacement and, oh-by-the-way, our flight is a fixed date that can’t be moved.
Staying unplugged won’t last forever; soon we’ll all be back on US soil and I will plug back in to the Matrix to get all of my folks through demobilization and home to people who love them.
Until then, I’m okay.
And then there was nothing.
My relevance diminished along with my purpose and place on the team as someone else became the “belly button” to press for questions regarding civil military operations. Actually, my relevance is acting as the resource for my replacement to go to for questions. Everything else is fluff.
There are a few more formalities; sign over equipment, conduct a short transfer of authority ceremony, one or two final meetings (as an observer) but, for the most part, I am done. The big machine of the war/reconstruction/withdrawal of Iraq is continuing without me.
It’s an odd feeling made odder still by the fact that I still have over a week to go here. If I’m not needed then why stay around? Of course I know the answer is that I need to remain available for my replacement and, oh-by-the-way, our flight is a fixed date that can’t be moved.
Staying unplugged won’t last forever; soon we’ll all be back on US soil and I will plug back in to the Matrix to get all of my folks through demobilization and home to people who love them.
Until then, I’m okay.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Rock Star
Lisa,
I cannot begin to imagine what the last twelve months were like with me away. This year has tested you beyond what you ever expected. I never realized, and never will, the weight that you had to carry nor the sacrifices you made for this family when I left last August.
Being the soldier in this relationship is easy. I pack up and go off and leave everything behind with the expectation that it will be there when I return. That’s a lot to expect from your partner. I get to bury myself in work, my Soldiers, and the day to day routine of living on a FOB while you are left with running the house and doing the work of both of us. There is no void here where you used to be. I can sleep in a bed, or on a cot, on the floor without having to roll over and miss you in our bed. I share meals without you and I have food prepared for me when for so long it was me doing the cooking for us. An entire year of not having to mow, shovel, or take out the garbage – but all of those things got done anyway.
You have been both parents to TJ – all boy – playing with boys toys and dealing with “the terrible twos”. That’s dozens of times watching “Cars”, hundreds of diapers, and a few, “wait ‘til your daddy gets home!” statements. My home coming was supposed to be different, wasn’t it? We should have our daughter, and you and the kids would have welcomed me at the airport. I’d spend the next few weeks at home trying to get her to recognize me, maybe even get a first smile. My brief time home in February wasn’t enough to mend that hurt.
I cannot imagine the worry you went through. Even though Iraq is much safer than 2005 it is still a dangerous place and every CNN announcement of more US forces wounded or killed must have made you tense up just a bit. The role of the military spouse is always underestimated.
I can spend a long time trying to understand the stress, pain, and long days alone that you went through but I’d fail. Thank you for being my wife and the center of the universe when I needed it. Words elude me except to say; I love you.
Cue the music; take the spotlight, all the applause is for you. You are a Rock Star.
I cannot begin to imagine what the last twelve months were like with me away. This year has tested you beyond what you ever expected. I never realized, and never will, the weight that you had to carry nor the sacrifices you made for this family when I left last August.
Being the soldier in this relationship is easy. I pack up and go off and leave everything behind with the expectation that it will be there when I return. That’s a lot to expect from your partner. I get to bury myself in work, my Soldiers, and the day to day routine of living on a FOB while you are left with running the house and doing the work of both of us. There is no void here where you used to be. I can sleep in a bed, or on a cot, on the floor without having to roll over and miss you in our bed. I share meals without you and I have food prepared for me when for so long it was me doing the cooking for us. An entire year of not having to mow, shovel, or take out the garbage – but all of those things got done anyway.
You have been both parents to TJ – all boy – playing with boys toys and dealing with “the terrible twos”. That’s dozens of times watching “Cars”, hundreds of diapers, and a few, “wait ‘til your daddy gets home!” statements. My home coming was supposed to be different, wasn’t it? We should have our daughter, and you and the kids would have welcomed me at the airport. I’d spend the next few weeks at home trying to get her to recognize me, maybe even get a first smile. My brief time home in February wasn’t enough to mend that hurt.
I cannot imagine the worry you went through. Even though Iraq is much safer than 2005 it is still a dangerous place and every CNN announcement of more US forces wounded or killed must have made you tense up just a bit. The role of the military spouse is always underestimated.
I can spend a long time trying to understand the stress, pain, and long days alone that you went through but I’d fail. Thank you for being my wife and the center of the universe when I needed it. Words elude me except to say; I love you.
Cue the music; take the spotlight, all the applause is for you. You are a Rock Star.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Welcome to the End
I stood in front of the filled room and said, “There are two great moments in a deployment. The day you arrive and the day you leave. Everyone in this room has that in common.” And with that we welcomed our replacements.
It’s the end of the deployment for my Soldiers. It’s also the end of the war for our replacements. Although I have no idea how many more Civil Affairs units they are going to send and for how long after 2011, I know that it’s common knowledge that most combat forces will be out of Iraq by this time next year. Don’t get wrapped up in the semantics of what a “combat force” is or isn’t. The bottom line is that the draw down will happen on my replacements watch.
I don’t envy them. Most of them have never deployed before. It’s like showing up at the party after all the good stuff has happened and you end up helping the host clean up. Not that combat is fun by any stretch of the imagination, but it does pass the time and makes for good bullshit at the local VFW (“So there I was, knee deep in hand grenade pins, with nothing but a bayonet between me and two dozen bad guys.”) Our replacements will learn an important lesson of, “expectation management.”
It’s good that all of this is coming to a close. The Iraqis prove time and time again that they want to be in charge and don’t want our help. They need intellectual, strategic, and monetary support, but they certainly don’t want that of the cost of MRAPs driving through their towns emasculating their military, police, and protection forces with our arrogance and, tempered as it is of late, attitude of being able to go wherever we want, whenever we want to. Let the State Department take over (instead of partner with the military) and assist (instead of take charge from the Iraqis) in rebuilding Iraq. I still care about this country. After two tours here I want them to succeed and I still feel an odd internal pull to want to stay and see what happens next. But that feeling is becoming more and more fleeting.
This is the end. I find myself disengaging more and more from work despite the big project I have this coming week. I am thinking of home and actually being there for longer than two weeks and getting to know my son and show pride in my daughter. I drift off to green trees and baby blue skies without dust and think about holding my wife again. I feel the energy being sucked out of me after a year away and I think about my own bed...
Welcome to the end.
It’s the end of the deployment for my Soldiers. It’s also the end of the war for our replacements. Although I have no idea how many more Civil Affairs units they are going to send and for how long after 2011, I know that it’s common knowledge that most combat forces will be out of Iraq by this time next year. Don’t get wrapped up in the semantics of what a “combat force” is or isn’t. The bottom line is that the draw down will happen on my replacements watch.
I don’t envy them. Most of them have never deployed before. It’s like showing up at the party after all the good stuff has happened and you end up helping the host clean up. Not that combat is fun by any stretch of the imagination, but it does pass the time and makes for good bullshit at the local VFW (“So there I was, knee deep in hand grenade pins, with nothing but a bayonet between me and two dozen bad guys.”) Our replacements will learn an important lesson of, “expectation management.”
It’s good that all of this is coming to a close. The Iraqis prove time and time again that they want to be in charge and don’t want our help. They need intellectual, strategic, and monetary support, but they certainly don’t want that of the cost of MRAPs driving through their towns emasculating their military, police, and protection forces with our arrogance and, tempered as it is of late, attitude of being able to go wherever we want, whenever we want to. Let the State Department take over (instead of partner with the military) and assist (instead of take charge from the Iraqis) in rebuilding Iraq. I still care about this country. After two tours here I want them to succeed and I still feel an odd internal pull to want to stay and see what happens next. But that feeling is becoming more and more fleeting.
This is the end. I find myself disengaging more and more from work despite the big project I have this coming week. I am thinking of home and actually being there for longer than two weeks and getting to know my son and show pride in my daughter. I drift off to green trees and baby blue skies without dust and think about holding my wife again. I feel the energy being sucked out of me after a year away and I think about my own bed...
Welcome to the end.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Happy Birthday Samantha!
Samantha,
Wow, twelve years old! Where did that time go to? I still remember a time when you were a cute three year old jumping on the Cornell big red track mat with a big gap where your tooth got knocked out. I remember the trip to Disney World where you asked to stay in the Magic Kingdom until it closed only to give up and plead to go back to the room early. I remember the first time I touched you and your tiny hand grabbed my pinkie. The strength I felt that day, twelve years ago, is still in you today.
You are off at camp in North Carolina making everyone who loves you so proud of you. You made the Rifle Team and then went down the road and beat the boys - on their own turf! I wonder if you remember the first time I took you shooting when you were seven. You handled that .22 with ease and shot bullseyes the first time. I have taught many Soldiers and Cadets to shoot - you were the fastest learner.
You also made the Sailing Team which made Lisa very, very proud and a little envious. That is an achievement no one else can claim in your family. Bravo! I hope your sailing skills will help me learn to sail. You can teach me and I hope to be a good student. I know Lisa will be anxious to show you off to her friends!
You are growing so fast amid a world where you are presurred every day to assume more maturity than the world ought to give you. And I realize I am sounding old when I say it, but twelve year olds don't need to know how to Twitter, Facebook, or omg txt msg lol bff. In my heart I wish there was a way for you to stay younger and enjoy the last of your childhood, as fleeting as it is, before adolesence and young adulthood intrude.
However, I see the woman you are becoming. Its always been there; independant, smart (and sassy), artistic, musical, a bit of the drama queen, and a kind hearted champion for the underdog. You will achieve things your mother and I never had and maybe never imagined for you. I need to remind you that you are not alone on this journey. You have been, and always will be, surrounded by parents, a brother, uncles, aunts, and cousins who love you very much. There is no end, and no measurable depth for our love for you.
Enjoy you day! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I will be home soon.
Love,
Daddy
Wow, twelve years old! Where did that time go to? I still remember a time when you were a cute three year old jumping on the Cornell big red track mat with a big gap where your tooth got knocked out. I remember the trip to Disney World where you asked to stay in the Magic Kingdom until it closed only to give up and plead to go back to the room early. I remember the first time I touched you and your tiny hand grabbed my pinkie. The strength I felt that day, twelve years ago, is still in you today.
You are off at camp in North Carolina making everyone who loves you so proud of you. You made the Rifle Team and then went down the road and beat the boys - on their own turf! I wonder if you remember the first time I took you shooting when you were seven. You handled that .22 with ease and shot bullseyes the first time. I have taught many Soldiers and Cadets to shoot - you were the fastest learner.
You also made the Sailing Team which made Lisa very, very proud and a little envious. That is an achievement no one else can claim in your family. Bravo! I hope your sailing skills will help me learn to sail. You can teach me and I hope to be a good student. I know Lisa will be anxious to show you off to her friends!
You are growing so fast amid a world where you are presurred every day to assume more maturity than the world ought to give you. And I realize I am sounding old when I say it, but twelve year olds don't need to know how to Twitter, Facebook, or omg txt msg lol bff. In my heart I wish there was a way for you to stay younger and enjoy the last of your childhood, as fleeting as it is, before adolesence and young adulthood intrude.
However, I see the woman you are becoming. Its always been there; independant, smart (and sassy), artistic, musical, a bit of the drama queen, and a kind hearted champion for the underdog. You will achieve things your mother and I never had and maybe never imagined for you. I need to remind you that you are not alone on this journey. You have been, and always will be, surrounded by parents, a brother, uncles, aunts, and cousins who love you very much. There is no end, and no measurable depth for our love for you.
Enjoy you day! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I will be home soon.
Love,
Daddy
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Click, Click, Boom
Two tours, over 600 days in Iraq, and finally fired my rifle for the first time today. (Of course it was on the rifle range)
C’mon, you think I got out from behind a desk and was in c-C-COMBAT?!
I went to the range to qualify with my rifle. It’s an annual requirement, and one I want to get ahead of before I take my team home. If you remember way back to September of last year I discovered to my mild surprise that I needed glasses for distances. I wore them for a while here but just found it easier to sit near the front of the room than remember to bring them everywhere. Oh, vanity! I did, however, remember to bring them to the range.
My Army issue sunglasses allow for optical inserts so I can see without squinting into the sun. But they’re awkward and dust can get between the two sets of lenses. At least I could see the target clearer!
C’mon, you think I got out from behind a desk and was in c-C-COMBAT?!
I went to the range to qualify with my rifle. It’s an annual requirement, and one I want to get ahead of before I take my team home. If you remember way back to September of last year I discovered to my mild surprise that I needed glasses for distances. I wore them for a while here but just found it easier to sit near the front of the room than remember to bring them everywhere. Oh, vanity! I did, however, remember to bring them to the range.
My Army issue sunglasses allow for optical inserts so I can see without squinting into the sun. But they’re awkward and dust can get between the two sets of lenses. At least I could see the target clearer!
Iraq, Ft Dix, Ft Drum - every range looks the same!
I fired and qualified even though the glasses gave me trouble focusing on the front sight post of the M-4. I ran into trouble in the kneeling position when I brought the weapon sight close to my nose. The instability of the kneeling position set me off balance just enough where the rear sight tagged the bridge of my glasses leaving a red abrasion.
(Note: Never, EVER, try to get your significant other’s sympathy over a boo-boo with an email that’s titled, I Think I’ve Been Wounded!)
So while I am no longer too dangerous with a rifle, I dare any of these kids to outdo me in making PowerPoint slides! HA!
We also brought along an AK-47 for fun.
“This is the AK-47 assault rifle, the preferred weapon of your enemy; and it makes a distinctive sound when fired at you, so remember it.” - Gunny Highway.
I had never fired an AK before. What it lacks in style and accuracy it makes up for in sturdiness and stopping power. I learned why we attribute the term “spray and pray” to the weapon and the men who carry it. On full auto you have to muscle it to keep it in front of you and not let it push you backwards as your rounds drift high and right; it's like a small jackhammer in your hands.
And if you can't shoot great at least you can look great shooting.
Speaking of movies and things that go Click, Click, Boom; I did, as promised, sit down with the chaplain to watch The Godfather. I even printed off a cheat sheet of the characters so that he’d know who was who. Have you ever shared what you think is a universally cool thing – like, say, The Godfather – with another person and watch it have NO effect whatsoever?
I suppose the whole superimposed baptism/retribution scene was a little more than he was expecting. Sigh. So I am going to redeem myself with him by watching Casablanca. He’s never seen THAT movie either?! Ugh.
And in return I am going to his service on Sunday. It’s not personal, it’s just business.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
This One Goes Home. This One Goes to 5000.
August 1, 2009, we depart Iraq sometime this month. Insha Allah. The first day of August came like any other day lately. I found myself up before I needed to be, but rested enough not to fall back asleep. I poked my head out the front door of my CHU. The mornings are cool lately. Two days after a big dust storm and the really bad heat hasn’t crept back in from the southwest; at least not yet. I get my shower, dress, and go to breakfast. For the past two months I rode to breakfast with a guy I worked with. Since he went home last week, I find it more pleasurable to walk the quarter mile to chow.
Breakfast is joined by the usual suspects; the Chaplain, the Information Operations officer, the Fire Effects warrant officer, and some of my guys. Good coffee, eggs or French toast (with strawberries), and more coffee. We try not to talk about work like it’s an unofficial rule of the club – we break it often. With an unannounced acknowledgement we all leave together for the 0800 Battle Update Brief where we’ll officially start the day.
On my way I stop by my office to start up my computers; one for unclassified information and the web, and the other for classified to secret information. There, on the desk, is my calendar underneath some other papers. And I realize as I turn the page, this is the last month I am spending in Iraq.
Bam. A tingle of elation. Lisa, Sam, TJ. Wow.
I have enjoyed writing for the fifteen months. Even though there were longer periods without entries it was only because the war is getting boring – and that is such a good thing. This blog has had over 4,500 visits. I would like to shoot for 5000 because I am vain like that.
In the home stretch tell your friends and send them the link. Because there is a lot happening now I will try to post more often. For example, tomorrow night I am sitting the chaplain down to watch The Godfather for the first time.
I will write right up the day I walk in the front door.
Breakfast is joined by the usual suspects; the Chaplain, the Information Operations officer, the Fire Effects warrant officer, and some of my guys. Good coffee, eggs or French toast (with strawberries), and more coffee. We try not to talk about work like it’s an unofficial rule of the club – we break it often. With an unannounced acknowledgement we all leave together for the 0800 Battle Update Brief where we’ll officially start the day.
On my way I stop by my office to start up my computers; one for unclassified information and the web, and the other for classified to secret information. There, on the desk, is my calendar underneath some other papers. And I realize as I turn the page, this is the last month I am spending in Iraq.
Bam. A tingle of elation. Lisa, Sam, TJ. Wow.
I have enjoyed writing for the fifteen months. Even though there were longer periods without entries it was only because the war is getting boring – and that is such a good thing. This blog has had over 4,500 visits. I would like to shoot for 5000 because I am vain like that.
In the home stretch tell your friends and send them the link. Because there is a lot happening now I will try to post more often. For example, tomorrow night I am sitting the chaplain down to watch The Godfather for the first time.
I will write right up the day I walk in the front door.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Good News and Small Victories
Our replacements are in Kuwait! I have waited almost eleven months to be on the other end of that message; our replacements are in Kuwait. I have one of my guys down there to help them, train them, and escort them north to Iraq sometime soon. It is a relief. They are the relief. It’s almost time to go home.
I count the small victories over the past year. None more so than the four Soldiers I just sent home early so that they can start college on time. It was the cause that I got wrapped up in and fought to make happen. It wasn’t my idea to take credit for, but once the issue was brought to me it was clear that it made no sense to keep these Soldiers around during the time that they should be enrolled in classes. If we had been here another month I would have probably turned them down but this was just a matter of a few days. The Army wouldn’t miss them, but college would. For one Soldier it was his senior year of school and missing the fall semester requirements for the spring semester classes meant another year lost to gaining his degree.
Of course the first responses were, “No.” No justification, just, “No.” The Army is a big bureaucracy and NO is usually the first line of defense. However, asking the right person, the right way, at the right time led to the paperwork getting approved. It only took three months.
Aside from all of my Soldiers coming home safely; having never been shot at or blown up or hurt, this is a win for the little guys. In each of them there is promise; one will be a great NCO, the other will go to do good things as a teacher, one may even decide to be an officer through ROTC. My hope is that they remember back to this moment until they are in a time and place when they can help someone else. Pay it forward.
Their departure and the arrival of the new unit signifies the beginning of the end of the tour. We are preparing all of our continuity books and writing our after action reports for the tour. Work has indeed gotten busier, but busier in a good way.
I count the small victories over the past year. None more so than the four Soldiers I just sent home early so that they can start college on time. It was the cause that I got wrapped up in and fought to make happen. It wasn’t my idea to take credit for, but once the issue was brought to me it was clear that it made no sense to keep these Soldiers around during the time that they should be enrolled in classes. If we had been here another month I would have probably turned them down but this was just a matter of a few days. The Army wouldn’t miss them, but college would. For one Soldier it was his senior year of school and missing the fall semester requirements for the spring semester classes meant another year lost to gaining his degree.
Of course the first responses were, “No.” No justification, just, “No.” The Army is a big bureaucracy and NO is usually the first line of defense. However, asking the right person, the right way, at the right time led to the paperwork getting approved. It only took three months.
Aside from all of my Soldiers coming home safely; having never been shot at or blown up or hurt, this is a win for the little guys. In each of them there is promise; one will be a great NCO, the other will go to do good things as a teacher, one may even decide to be an officer through ROTC. My hope is that they remember back to this moment until they are in a time and place when they can help someone else. Pay it forward.
Their departure and the arrival of the new unit signifies the beginning of the end of the tour. We are preparing all of our continuity books and writing our after action reports for the tour. Work has indeed gotten busier, but busier in a good way.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Soundtrack
In my free time I go to the gym, because, honestly, there isn’t much else to do. I lift weights with my First Sergeant just before lunch. We go in uniform and take off the cap, gun, and ACU top shirt to work out in our t-shirts, pants, and trousers – just like 75% of the other troops in the gym. Like anything that you stick with over time, it gets easier. It gets easier because I am getting stronger. But I have never been much of a “body builder.” I have always been a runner.
When I’m lucky I get in a good cardio workout at least three to four times per week. I bring the iPod that Lisa gave me, grab water from the fridge and head to a treadmill. Although I am an outdoor runner and loathe running in place, the weather and road conditions really prohibit running outside. Over the months I have found the set of music that as I get ready, pipes through my ear buds and carries me through the next 40 minutes.
I warm up and stretch out to Queen’s, Fat Bottom Girls, for no particular reason. For a longer stretch I add Metallica’s, I Disappear, before mounting the machine. I don’t particularly believe the pace the machine says I am running but it’s all I have to report on.
I start off at a 7.5mph pace to The Red Hot Chili Pepper’s, Dani California. I never got too into the group, but I loved this video. That gets the blood going for the first half mile. I turn up the pace to 8.5mph for AC/DC’s, Highway to Hell, and then right into, Thunderstruck. By now I am sweating. When The Doors, LA Woman, starts the tempo brings me to an 8.7mph pace that lets me keep in time with the beat. By now I am at least two thirds done with my run. I dial up to 9.1mph and instantly feel more sweat run down my forehead, off my eyelashes, into my ears. Depending on how I am feeling I finish with a little GnR, Welcome to the Jungle, and briefly imagine Lisa on Guitar Hero, or back to Metallica with either, Whisky in a Jar, or, Fuel.
My run's over and it’s time for the rowing machine. I added rowing about two months ago to include upper body movement to the cardio work out. By now my t-shirt is wet and I am slick with perspiration. I row to more AC/DC – Shoot to Thrill and Have a Drink on Me. The Back in Black album is one of my top ten, must-have-in-my collection. I have been able to cover 2 kilometers in the time it take to play both songs; a little under ten minutes. I am getting fast enough that I’ll add another song and another kilometer this week.
Now it gets tough. Now I am soaked through my shirt. If I were any other gym people might stare by now. Here I am just another person with a tough workout to get through and I am about three quarters done. I go to the decline sit-up bench set at a forty-five degree angle. I take a twelve pound medicine ball and hold onto it as Van Halen’s, Panama, starts. I take the ball and hold it over my head and sit back until I am lying on the bench and the ball touches the ground. Then I sit up. Sometimes I throw the ball in the air, catch it, and do a sit up. Sometimes I turn from side to side holding the ball. Sometimes I just hold it into my chest and do sit ups. Whatever I do, I do it for the whole song without stopping. Panama is three minutes and thirty one seconds long.
I get off the bench and go to the mat. The Black Eyed Peas, Pump It, starts and I finish my abs with crunches, leg lifts, scissor kicks, bicycles, and the like for the entire song. But at least I am now near the finish line.
I go to the pull up bar and turn on Aerosmith’s, Honkin’ on Bobo album. The band put out this blues-cover- tribute-sounding album a few years ago and it can really get me going. As, Road Runner, starts and continues into, Shame, Shame, Shame, I complete a set of two pushups for one pull up for five to six sets. I am up to seven pull ups. Seven times five is thirty-five. Fourteen times five is seventy. Sweat pools below me now. Still on the Bobo album I finish the workout with, Baby Please Don’t Go, with four or five sets of weighted abs.
And that’s it. Maybe a little Neal Young, Keep On Rocking in the Free World, as I head back to the office as wet as if I’d showered with my clothes on. There are times I leave the gym nauseous. I finish my daily report and go shower before dinner.
Most times the music is white noise to take my attention away from the other sounds in the gym. I can tune out the white noise and think. Othertimes the music carries me and pushes me when I would rather slow down or hit the stop button. However, I doubt I can hear any of those songs again without thinking about the treadmill, or the decline bench, or the hours I spent getting in the best shape of my life.
When I’m lucky I get in a good cardio workout at least three to four times per week. I bring the iPod that Lisa gave me, grab water from the fridge and head to a treadmill. Although I am an outdoor runner and loathe running in place, the weather and road conditions really prohibit running outside. Over the months I have found the set of music that as I get ready, pipes through my ear buds and carries me through the next 40 minutes.
I warm up and stretch out to Queen’s, Fat Bottom Girls, for no particular reason. For a longer stretch I add Metallica’s, I Disappear, before mounting the machine. I don’t particularly believe the pace the machine says I am running but it’s all I have to report on.
I start off at a 7.5mph pace to The Red Hot Chili Pepper’s, Dani California. I never got too into the group, but I loved this video. That gets the blood going for the first half mile. I turn up the pace to 8.5mph for AC/DC’s, Highway to Hell, and then right into, Thunderstruck. By now I am sweating. When The Doors, LA Woman, starts the tempo brings me to an 8.7mph pace that lets me keep in time with the beat. By now I am at least two thirds done with my run. I dial up to 9.1mph and instantly feel more sweat run down my forehead, off my eyelashes, into my ears. Depending on how I am feeling I finish with a little GnR, Welcome to the Jungle, and briefly imagine Lisa on Guitar Hero, or back to Metallica with either, Whisky in a Jar, or, Fuel.
My run's over and it’s time for the rowing machine. I added rowing about two months ago to include upper body movement to the cardio work out. By now my t-shirt is wet and I am slick with perspiration. I row to more AC/DC – Shoot to Thrill and Have a Drink on Me. The Back in Black album is one of my top ten, must-have-in-my collection. I have been able to cover 2 kilometers in the time it take to play both songs; a little under ten minutes. I am getting fast enough that I’ll add another song and another kilometer this week.
Now it gets tough. Now I am soaked through my shirt. If I were any other gym people might stare by now. Here I am just another person with a tough workout to get through and I am about three quarters done. I go to the decline sit-up bench set at a forty-five degree angle. I take a twelve pound medicine ball and hold onto it as Van Halen’s, Panama, starts. I take the ball and hold it over my head and sit back until I am lying on the bench and the ball touches the ground. Then I sit up. Sometimes I throw the ball in the air, catch it, and do a sit up. Sometimes I turn from side to side holding the ball. Sometimes I just hold it into my chest and do sit ups. Whatever I do, I do it for the whole song without stopping. Panama is three minutes and thirty one seconds long.
I get off the bench and go to the mat. The Black Eyed Peas, Pump It, starts and I finish my abs with crunches, leg lifts, scissor kicks, bicycles, and the like for the entire song. But at least I am now near the finish line.
I go to the pull up bar and turn on Aerosmith’s, Honkin’ on Bobo album. The band put out this blues-cover- tribute-sounding album a few years ago and it can really get me going. As, Road Runner, starts and continues into, Shame, Shame, Shame, I complete a set of two pushups for one pull up for five to six sets. I am up to seven pull ups. Seven times five is thirty-five. Fourteen times five is seventy. Sweat pools below me now. Still on the Bobo album I finish the workout with, Baby Please Don’t Go, with four or five sets of weighted abs.
And that’s it. Maybe a little Neal Young, Keep On Rocking in the Free World, as I head back to the office as wet as if I’d showered with my clothes on. There are times I leave the gym nauseous. I finish my daily report and go shower before dinner.
Most times the music is white noise to take my attention away from the other sounds in the gym. I can tune out the white noise and think. Othertimes the music carries me and pushes me when I would rather slow down or hit the stop button. However, I doubt I can hear any of those songs again without thinking about the treadmill, or the decline bench, or the hours I spent getting in the best shape of my life.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
What’s Hot
Iraq in the summer time tests the will.
It has been a mild summer so far. There have only been a few days where the temperatures have risen over 130°. Most days it gets into the upper one-teens and when we actually notice the heat enough to comment on it, it’s a sign that the mercury is over 120°. So how hot is that?
At 120°, when the wind blows at a steady five miles per hour, it gives the impression of being in front of a constant hair dryer. I haven’t needed a hair dryer in about twenty years when I wore a Don Johnson mullet; you know, “business up front, party in the back.”
It’s so hot here that we have no cold water. Ever. Our water tanks sit outside so they can be filled each week. The water is warm even in the morning because the temperatures rarely go below 85°. The midday sun gets that water over 100° and then when we turn on the faucet or shower after the gym the initial burst is scalding. Have you ever brushed your teeth with hot water?
It’s so hot here that sometimes metal is too hot to touch. The other Sunday I was doing a crossword puzzle outside at 1030 hours. I put my pen down to get something, got sidetracked for a few minutes and when I came back the pen was cooking. If I am outside for too long my pistol grip gets hot.
It’s so hot here that if you breathe through your nose on a hot, hot day it burns the inside of your nostrils.
It’s so hot here that if you are outside for a few minutes you clothes get warm to the touch.
It’s so hot here that I can hand wash my gym shorts and shirt, hang them up outside in the sun, and be ready to wear them again in twenty minutes.
We combat the heat with water; clear, clean, cool water. There are liters of it in every building. I can go through three to four bottles a day. We also have air conditioning, without which we’d all be extremely miserable. My office, room, and truck are all air conditioned. The MRAPs are air conditioned. The gym, dining facility, and coffee shop are all temperature controlled for comfort.
It’s possible to survive in these conditions; just look at the Iraqis. Arabs have existed and lived in this place for thousands of years. They farm this land, channel water for thousands of miles via canals, and manage the heat as they have learned from their ancestors. And while I cannot fathom why they choose to live here, I suppose after one “lake effect” winter in Syracuse, NY they would wonder the same about us.
It has been a mild summer so far. There have only been a few days where the temperatures have risen over 130°. Most days it gets into the upper one-teens and when we actually notice the heat enough to comment on it, it’s a sign that the mercury is over 120°. So how hot is that?
At 120°, when the wind blows at a steady five miles per hour, it gives the impression of being in front of a constant hair dryer. I haven’t needed a hair dryer in about twenty years when I wore a Don Johnson mullet; you know, “business up front, party in the back.”
It’s so hot here that we have no cold water. Ever. Our water tanks sit outside so they can be filled each week. The water is warm even in the morning because the temperatures rarely go below 85°. The midday sun gets that water over 100° and then when we turn on the faucet or shower after the gym the initial burst is scalding. Have you ever brushed your teeth with hot water?
It’s so hot here that sometimes metal is too hot to touch. The other Sunday I was doing a crossword puzzle outside at 1030 hours. I put my pen down to get something, got sidetracked for a few minutes and when I came back the pen was cooking. If I am outside for too long my pistol grip gets hot.
It’s so hot here that if you breathe through your nose on a hot, hot day it burns the inside of your nostrils.
It’s so hot here that if you are outside for a few minutes you clothes get warm to the touch.
It’s so hot here that I can hand wash my gym shorts and shirt, hang them up outside in the sun, and be ready to wear them again in twenty minutes.
We combat the heat with water; clear, clean, cool water. There are liters of it in every building. I can go through three to four bottles a day. We also have air conditioning, without which we’d all be extremely miserable. My office, room, and truck are all air conditioned. The MRAPs are air conditioned. The gym, dining facility, and coffee shop are all temperature controlled for comfort.
It’s possible to survive in these conditions; just look at the Iraqis. Arabs have existed and lived in this place for thousands of years. They farm this land, channel water for thousands of miles via canals, and manage the heat as they have learned from their ancestors. And while I cannot fathom why they choose to live here, I suppose after one “lake effect” winter in Syracuse, NY they would wonder the same about us.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The Fourth of July and Other Good News
We hold these Truths to be self evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness –
This weekend we pursued happiness on the Fourth of July with a party to remember. A lot of effort went into the day’s festivities and I have to hand it to those who put it together – it wasn’t bad.
Our day started early with the July 4th 5k race. Half of my company got up with the sun and headed to the start line before the sun got to intense. Most of them just wanted the free t-shirt, but found out that they had to actually run first. The race had about 140 people come out and everyone seemed to have a good time. After the race I headed off to work because there was work to do. By 1500 (3:00pm) we were done with work and went back to the compound to change into civilian clothes. Yes, we were allowed to wear civilian clothes to the party.
The clothing was the biggest surprise of the day because day in and day out all we ever see of one another is ACUs or PTs (Army shorts and t-shirt). The freedom of expression in personal attire was interesting. There were Goths and punks, gangsters and cowboys, Hawaiian shirts and "wife beaters". And for the first time since they got here the women were allowed to let down their hair and wear make up – and did they ever. Let’s face it; guys look the same in uniform or civies. There’s not much you can do with the quarter inch hair. Women on the other hand just look different when they are not in uniform.
We all rolled out to the main brigade area, which we call “the quad” because it is surrounded by four long buildings in each direction, for a formation, a short speech and the start of the events. The quad had been transformed into volleyball courts, arm wrestling tables, RockBand contests, Near Beer Pong tables, barbeque pits, and the infamous Slip-n-Slide.
The slip-n-slide was put in late last month along with a thirty foot long, two and half foot deep wading pool. This is what they were making the day they cut the main power line to my building. The excavated dirt made up the ramp for the slide. The dirt was covered with a heavy tarp, then plastic sheeting, and then a coat of baby oil. Water was pumped through a 5,000 gallon water truck. It wasn’t pretty, but it was fun.
The party got rambunctious when water balloon and water guns were introduced into the fray. No one from the lowest Private to the Brigade Commander was immune to the random acts of water fight violence. Then, because all parties with a pool end this way, people were simply thrown in.
Of course the night ended with a bon fire and the obligatory fireworks which were handed out to the troops just like on New Year’s. And just like New Year’s it’s a wonder and a miracle that we didn’t burn any of the plywood buildings down.
In other good news we began to ship the first pieces of military gear back to the United States. It was loaded, labeled, lifted, and trucked to Baghdad where it will be inspected by U.S. Customs before being flown back to home.
Having less gear in my room is another reminder that “this” is coming to a close, that we will be home soon.
This weekend we pursued happiness on the Fourth of July with a party to remember. A lot of effort went into the day’s festivities and I have to hand it to those who put it together – it wasn’t bad.
Our day started early with the July 4th 5k race. Half of my company got up with the sun and headed to the start line before the sun got to intense. Most of them just wanted the free t-shirt, but found out that they had to actually run first. The race had about 140 people come out and everyone seemed to have a good time. After the race I headed off to work because there was work to do. By 1500 (3:00pm) we were done with work and went back to the compound to change into civilian clothes. Yes, we were allowed to wear civilian clothes to the party.
The clothing was the biggest surprise of the day because day in and day out all we ever see of one another is ACUs or PTs (Army shorts and t-shirt). The freedom of expression in personal attire was interesting. There were Goths and punks, gangsters and cowboys, Hawaiian shirts and "wife beaters". And for the first time since they got here the women were allowed to let down their hair and wear make up – and did they ever. Let’s face it; guys look the same in uniform or civies. There’s not much you can do with the quarter inch hair. Women on the other hand just look different when they are not in uniform.
We all rolled out to the main brigade area, which we call “the quad” because it is surrounded by four long buildings in each direction, for a formation, a short speech and the start of the events. The quad had been transformed into volleyball courts, arm wrestling tables, RockBand contests, Near Beer Pong tables, barbeque pits, and the infamous Slip-n-Slide.
The slip-n-slide was put in late last month along with a thirty foot long, two and half foot deep wading pool. This is what they were making the day they cut the main power line to my building. The excavated dirt made up the ramp for the slide. The dirt was covered with a heavy tarp, then plastic sheeting, and then a coat of baby oil. Water was pumped through a 5,000 gallon water truck. It wasn’t pretty, but it was fun.
The party got rambunctious when water balloon and water guns were introduced into the fray. No one from the lowest Private to the Brigade Commander was immune to the random acts of water fight violence. Then, because all parties with a pool end this way, people were simply thrown in.
Of course the night ended with a bon fire and the obligatory fireworks which were handed out to the troops just like on New Year’s. And just like New Year’s it’s a wonder and a miracle that we didn’t burn any of the plywood buildings down.
In other good news we began to ship the first pieces of military gear back to the United States. It was loaded, labeled, lifted, and trucked to Baghdad where it will be inspected by U.S. Customs before being flown back to home.
Having less gear in my room is another reminder that “this” is coming to a close, that we will be home soon.
I wrote in my daily report that we are reminded on the Fourth of July that the freedoms we enjoy come at the price of eternal vigilence. I didn't make that up, its a quote that's stuck in my head. I went on to write that like millions before us we take up an oath with the full knowledge that we will go into harm's way for a people who can seem less appreciative than we expect, in a country inhospitable with heat and dust, and where complacency can can kill. We hope that one day the people of Iraq can celebrate their own independence as we celebrate ours.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Michael Jackson is Still Dead
And American forces are still in Iraq. Surprised? The headlines, buried under the latest updates about the loss of the King of Pop, say that we have pulled out of Iraq. Well, not really. If that were the case I’d be sitting in my back yard drinking a cold beer instead of writing from eight thousand miles away.
As is often with the press, Western, Arabic, independent, or those owned by Rupert Murdock, the facts are often ignored in the message. It is true that on 30 June 2009, the coalition forces of the United States and, um, Texas, are leaving the cities. However, there are only twenty five major cities of Iraq across eighteen provinces (similar to states) that qualify for this distinction. For people like me, sitting on an old Iraqi radar station next to a corn field, there is no change to my “war” or my surroundings.
However, the celebrations are unfolding across the country. The Iraqis are parading in places like Karbala and Najaf where there haven’t been forces in over a year. In other words they are celebrating something they already enjoy. Or do they?
The other overlooked fact is that the resolution for us to move out of the cities is not binding. Not yet. The referendum that was supposed to go before the people this summer was postponed. In other words, we are honoring the intent of the Security Agreement even though it is not official yet.
This is good news for two reasons. First, it shows our intent and willingness to let the Iraqis control their own destiny. Second, it allows us to go in and support the Iraqis if they prove they can't.
It’s called “expectation management” and it means to prepare yourself and others for what the reality of the situation is going to be. For example; going to Disney World during Christmas week requires some expectation management – trust me on this one, I know from experience. We expect fairy tales come true, and Mickey Mouse, and FUN. The reality is that ten thousand other people are in line for the same thing. In Iraq some of the press is portraying this event as if we are never, ever going to be seen in a city again. Unfortunately for them, if you read the actual agreement, that’s not altogether true.
That means come the first few days of July everyone will be conducing “expectation mitigation” when the reality meets the expectation. The government of Iraq is already in front of the cameras explaining what will and won’t happen. Of course there are opportunists who will use this ambiguous situation to their own gain by blaming their own government for being weak when the first MRAP rolls through Mosul, or Basra.
In a few days we’ll celebrate our own independence. Independence earned many years ago with a clear victory in a place called Yorktown. Our enemy, in defeat, left our shores (only to become our greatest ally generations later). If only all of that were that easy here.
As is often with the press, Western, Arabic, independent, or those owned by Rupert Murdock, the facts are often ignored in the message. It is true that on 30 June 2009, the coalition forces of the United States and, um, Texas, are leaving the cities. However, there are only twenty five major cities of Iraq across eighteen provinces (similar to states) that qualify for this distinction. For people like me, sitting on an old Iraqi radar station next to a corn field, there is no change to my “war” or my surroundings.
However, the celebrations are unfolding across the country. The Iraqis are parading in places like Karbala and Najaf where there haven’t been forces in over a year. In other words they are celebrating something they already enjoy. Or do they?
The other overlooked fact is that the resolution for us to move out of the cities is not binding. Not yet. The referendum that was supposed to go before the people this summer was postponed. In other words, we are honoring the intent of the Security Agreement even though it is not official yet.
This is good news for two reasons. First, it shows our intent and willingness to let the Iraqis control their own destiny. Second, it allows us to go in and support the Iraqis if they prove they can't.
It’s called “expectation management” and it means to prepare yourself and others for what the reality of the situation is going to be. For example; going to Disney World during Christmas week requires some expectation management – trust me on this one, I know from experience. We expect fairy tales come true, and Mickey Mouse, and FUN. The reality is that ten thousand other people are in line for the same thing. In Iraq some of the press is portraying this event as if we are never, ever going to be seen in a city again. Unfortunately for them, if you read the actual agreement, that’s not altogether true.
That means come the first few days of July everyone will be conducing “expectation mitigation” when the reality meets the expectation. The government of Iraq is already in front of the cameras explaining what will and won’t happen. Of course there are opportunists who will use this ambiguous situation to their own gain by blaming their own government for being weak when the first MRAP rolls through Mosul, or Basra.
In a few days we’ll celebrate our own independence. Independence earned many years ago with a clear victory in a place called Yorktown. Our enemy, in defeat, left our shores (only to become our greatest ally generations later). If only all of that were that easy here.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Love Stories from the Front
First, let me say that I love my wife and I consider myself a very lucky man. Not a day goes by that I don’t count my blessings. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s face it; love can be strange. Of course, love is even stranger in Iraq. Here are two stories about finding love in Iraq.
Several weeks ago I was approached by someone in the chain of command I work for with a simple question that derailed me for the next few days. He asked, “Did you know your officer, Captain JP, is trying to get married to a local national woman; today; on the FOB?”
The look on my face gave it away that I had no idea what he was talking about. That look quickly changed to one that said I was about to go find out.
Captain JP had been seen for the last month or so talking to, and having dinner with a local national woman who works on the FOB as a translator. This wasn’t news to me and I didn’t have a problem with it. I was aware of it and made sure that I told him what was considered acceptable and unacceptable behavior in having a relationship with an Iraqi. My concern was from an operational security point of view. Because neither person was married a relationship, per se, wasn’t off limits but there were points with in General Order #1 that forbid physical relationships. Captain JP acknowledged all of this.
To find out that my officer had decided to get married – literally out of the blue – caught me by total surprise. To learn of it from outside the chain of command sent me fuming to go find him. But first, the details.
It turned out that at breakfast, JP asked one of his peers to attend the ceremony to be held later that afternoon. His friend strongly suggested that there may be some l-e-g-a-l issues surrounding a US Soldier marrying a local Muslim woman and that he had better check with the JAG. Once he went to the JAG office, my officer learned of the extreme legal hurdles in his way and demurred from his quest.
Then I got a hold of Captain JP and counseled him. He had the unmitigated gall to say out loud that he couldn’t understand what the whole fuss was about and why the Army might have a say in his “private affairs.” I recommended that the best course of action for him was to return after the deployment, apply for a visa for her, and bring her back to the United States. When I laid it all out for him I think it was a little clearer and the matter, for the time being, was dropped.
And while the idea of getting married may have ended for my officer the situation was far from over for me because I work with a group of world class ball busters and this was a perfect diversion from their work and the issues within their own ranks. They pounced.
I had two choices, take a beating at the expense of the others, or go along with it at the expense of Captain JP. I found a middle ground. I expressed my embarrassment as a commander and made certain that I would contact my chain of command, advise them, and officially counsel my Soldier. I also took part in creating an elaborate story that was eventually told to the big boss.
The only fact the story that followed was that Captain JP had inquired on how to get married that same day. The part about the woman being the niece of one of the most influential sheiks in the region; we made that part up. The part about Captain JP promising a huge multi-million dollar project to the sheik as a dowry; we made that up too. The part about want to have extra ammo for “celebratory fire”; we made up. The part about Captain JP getting married because he HAD to; we made up. By the time we got done spinning the story no one knew what the truth was which helped to diffuse the situation entirely.
The original title of this entry was going to be, “The Bride Wore Body Armor," becuase there was only one story. Then the love bug bit someone else.
I thought the story of Captain JP was a love story gone wrong until I learned another story that left even more of a mark. A young Soldier (not mine) shot himself clean through the calf while trying to impress a female Soldier. Why did he have a loaded weapon? He was guarding local nationals working on the FOB! Imagine that; trying to impress a woman in front of the Iraqis and you shoot yourself through the leg. Imagine those Iraqi workers going home at the end of the day, “honey, those Americans are crazy! Today one of them tried to show a woman how tough he was by shooting himself through the leg!” Years from now, what kind of story the Soldier will tell his kids about that scar he got in the “Great War on Terror”?
To quote the great Bugs Bunny, “Love; ain’t it grand?”
Several weeks ago I was approached by someone in the chain of command I work for with a simple question that derailed me for the next few days. He asked, “Did you know your officer, Captain JP, is trying to get married to a local national woman; today; on the FOB?”
The look on my face gave it away that I had no idea what he was talking about. That look quickly changed to one that said I was about to go find out.
Captain JP had been seen for the last month or so talking to, and having dinner with a local national woman who works on the FOB as a translator. This wasn’t news to me and I didn’t have a problem with it. I was aware of it and made sure that I told him what was considered acceptable and unacceptable behavior in having a relationship with an Iraqi. My concern was from an operational security point of view. Because neither person was married a relationship, per se, wasn’t off limits but there were points with in General Order #1 that forbid physical relationships. Captain JP acknowledged all of this.
To find out that my officer had decided to get married – literally out of the blue – caught me by total surprise. To learn of it from outside the chain of command sent me fuming to go find him. But first, the details.
It turned out that at breakfast, JP asked one of his peers to attend the ceremony to be held later that afternoon. His friend strongly suggested that there may be some l-e-g-a-l issues surrounding a US Soldier marrying a local Muslim woman and that he had better check with the JAG. Once he went to the JAG office, my officer learned of the extreme legal hurdles in his way and demurred from his quest.
Then I got a hold of Captain JP and counseled him. He had the unmitigated gall to say out loud that he couldn’t understand what the whole fuss was about and why the Army might have a say in his “private affairs.” I recommended that the best course of action for him was to return after the deployment, apply for a visa for her, and bring her back to the United States. When I laid it all out for him I think it was a little clearer and the matter, for the time being, was dropped.
And while the idea of getting married may have ended for my officer the situation was far from over for me because I work with a group of world class ball busters and this was a perfect diversion from their work and the issues within their own ranks. They pounced.
I had two choices, take a beating at the expense of the others, or go along with it at the expense of Captain JP. I found a middle ground. I expressed my embarrassment as a commander and made certain that I would contact my chain of command, advise them, and officially counsel my Soldier. I also took part in creating an elaborate story that was eventually told to the big boss.
The only fact the story that followed was that Captain JP had inquired on how to get married that same day. The part about the woman being the niece of one of the most influential sheiks in the region; we made that part up. The part about Captain JP promising a huge multi-million dollar project to the sheik as a dowry; we made that up too. The part about want to have extra ammo for “celebratory fire”; we made up. The part about Captain JP getting married because he HAD to; we made up. By the time we got done spinning the story no one knew what the truth was which helped to diffuse the situation entirely.
The original title of this entry was going to be, “The Bride Wore Body Armor," becuase there was only one story. Then the love bug bit someone else.
I thought the story of Captain JP was a love story gone wrong until I learned another story that left even more of a mark. A young Soldier (not mine) shot himself clean through the calf while trying to impress a female Soldier. Why did he have a loaded weapon? He was guarding local nationals working on the FOB! Imagine that; trying to impress a woman in front of the Iraqis and you shoot yourself through the leg. Imagine those Iraqi workers going home at the end of the day, “honey, those Americans are crazy! Today one of them tried to show a woman how tough he was by shooting himself through the leg!” Years from now, what kind of story the Soldier will tell his kids about that scar he got in the “Great War on Terror”?
To quote the great Bugs Bunny, “Love; ain’t it grand?”
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Father's Day 2009
Happy Father's Day!
I miss my kids. At times I am so tired of Iraq. Tired of the mission. Tired of dust and the heat and the routine. Tired of being lonely for my family. I look at my countdown clock and wish it faster.
In closing I offer another unaltered picture of "red air" taken the other day outside of my door. I wrote on Facebook that "I went to bed on Earth and woke up on Mars." Indeed.
I have two great kids; Samantha and TJ. Being away from them on Father's Day is just another reminder that the sacrifices Soldiers pay is not merely paid out by Soldiers alone. There is a cost levied on the children, spouses, and loved ones too.
My Father's Day started almost like any other Sunday; first I opened my presents that Lisa and the kids sent. Cards, a picture frame with a photo of TJ and I hamming it up, and a "Life is Good" t-shirt. Then is was off to an early breakfast, off to the office, read through emails which included a really sweet email from my daughter, when the power suddenly went out. The power went out because someone dug up the powerline putting in the swimming pool; which is a story for another time. Since all of my war fighting is done with a computer I was out of action.
With no power I went back to the compound - where there was electricity - and conducted "tanning operations". In other words I sat in the sun and worked on a tan until its intensity drove me inside. I got my hair cut, grabbed some lunch and confirmed that the power would be out until dinner. Great.
We wound up watching the Lord of Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, for the three plus hours it takes to watch it. And still there was time left in the day. It's moments like those, when you are not busy that you miss home the most. On Father's Day only makes it worse. I headed to the gym to burn up some daylight and get some miles in on the treadmill.
I miss my kids. At times I am so tired of Iraq. Tired of the mission. Tired of dust and the heat and the routine. Tired of being lonely for my family. I look at my countdown clock and wish it faster.
In closing I offer another unaltered picture of "red air" taken the other day outside of my door. I wrote on Facebook that "I went to bed on Earth and woke up on Mars." Indeed.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Army Birthday
Today is the 234th birthday of the United States Army.
The parade showed the creativity of the Soldiers - although gladiators were a common theme. However, it was the flatbed truck with "The Village People" singing on it that won the commander's cup.
As usual, the dining hall did a phenomenal job of decorating and putting on tons of decent food and I put away my share of lobster tails and shrimp.
The day ended by being able to see Samantha, Lisa, and TJ from my computer with the help of Skype. Another day down. A good day all in all. Happy birthday to the one thing that I have been a part of for all my adult life.
We took an unofficial day off by not going into the office for more than three hours during which time we mostly caught up on emails. We also attended a parade put on by the brigade. Another sign the war is coming to an end is when you have time to have a parade, make floats for the parade, bring water guns, throw water balloons, and generally avoid work.
The parade showed the creativity of the Soldiers - although gladiators were a common theme. However, it was the flatbed truck with "The Village People" singing on it that won the commander's cup.
As usual, the dining hall did a phenomenal job of decorating and putting on tons of decent food and I put away my share of lobster tails and shrimp.
The day ended by being able to see Samantha, Lisa, and TJ from my computer with the help of Skype. Another day down. A good day all in all. Happy birthday to the one thing that I have been a part of for all my adult life.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Ikea, Junk Food, and a Flag for TJ
We are in the long haul to the finish line. Most of my Soldiers have been home on Leave and the last of them are coming back soon. Our replacements will leave the US in less than sixty days. In the mean time we still work in the day to day comings and goings of being deployed.
Last week I noticed that there were cups, real, dark blue ceramic cups, in the dining hall. Since I arrived here I have had to drink my coffee out of a Styrofoam cup in the morning, so getting a cup of coffee in a real mug is a great touch of “home”. The cups are located next to the coffee machine and are stacked upside down from the dishwasher. One day I noticed the bottom of the cup read “Ikea” the high end Swedish furniture and house wares store that my wife would drive four hours to go to. Cups from Ikea; bringing a touch of class to the war.
The other day someone brought the contents of their care package to the office. Sitting on the common table where our coffee maker is were assorted lollipops, chocolate, and a tube of Pringles®; sour cream and onion Pringles®. I had two or three because I like them and it had been a while since I had eaten real junk food – the kind with zero nutritional value but one hundred and ten percent taste. The transfat hit my taste buds and I knew in an instant that the tube was a goner. Fat tastes good. I ate at least half – in an hour – before I made one of my Soldiers get rid of them. With all of the food available in the dining hall all of the time it is easy to stop counting calories and enjoy food, glorious food! Since I arrived here in October I have been careful about what I eat allowing myself to let loose only once in a while. The Pringles® reminded me how easy it is to just gorge.
Last weekend was my son’s second birthday. TJ is an energetic boy who loves his trucks and trains. He loved to play cars with me when I was home. He misses me although I am a weird apparition to him showing up for a few weeks at a time or talking through the computer. In fact if you asked him where I was he’d probably point to the computer screen. Trying to find the right toy for him for his birthday was a challenge for me. Lisa and I could agree on a present from both of us, but I wanted to have something for my children that would be a unique present to represent their birthday while I was deployed. Iraqi toys come from China just like they do in the US and souvenirs from Babylon wouldn’t mean that much in years to come. In the end the answer was simple, really. I flew a US flag in our compound in Babil on my son’s birthday. It will be folded, cased, and given to him to have forever.
The days are getting longer and hotter; a sure sign the end of the deployment is coming. I keep posting until I get home.
Last week I noticed that there were cups, real, dark blue ceramic cups, in the dining hall. Since I arrived here I have had to drink my coffee out of a Styrofoam cup in the morning, so getting a cup of coffee in a real mug is a great touch of “home”. The cups are located next to the coffee machine and are stacked upside down from the dishwasher. One day I noticed the bottom of the cup read “Ikea” the high end Swedish furniture and house wares store that my wife would drive four hours to go to. Cups from Ikea; bringing a touch of class to the war.
The other day someone brought the contents of their care package to the office. Sitting on the common table where our coffee maker is were assorted lollipops, chocolate, and a tube of Pringles®; sour cream and onion Pringles®. I had two or three because I like them and it had been a while since I had eaten real junk food – the kind with zero nutritional value but one hundred and ten percent taste. The transfat hit my taste buds and I knew in an instant that the tube was a goner. Fat tastes good. I ate at least half – in an hour – before I made one of my Soldiers get rid of them. With all of the food available in the dining hall all of the time it is easy to stop counting calories and enjoy food, glorious food! Since I arrived here in October I have been careful about what I eat allowing myself to let loose only once in a while. The Pringles® reminded me how easy it is to just gorge.
Last weekend was my son’s second birthday. TJ is an energetic boy who loves his trucks and trains. He loved to play cars with me when I was home. He misses me although I am a weird apparition to him showing up for a few weeks at a time or talking through the computer. In fact if you asked him where I was he’d probably point to the computer screen. Trying to find the right toy for him for his birthday was a challenge for me. Lisa and I could agree on a present from both of us, but I wanted to have something for my children that would be a unique present to represent their birthday while I was deployed. Iraqi toys come from China just like they do in the US and souvenirs from Babylon wouldn’t mean that much in years to come. In the end the answer was simple, really. I flew a US flag in our compound in Babil on my son’s birthday. It will be folded, cased, and given to him to have forever.
The days are getting longer and hotter; a sure sign the end of the deployment is coming. I keep posting until I get home.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Around the World in 80 Days
Today we crossed that intangible line in space and time that marks eighty days to go until we are released from our mission. Intangible is a good word to use because I won’t be leaving Iraq in eighty days, I certainly won’t be done with work eighty days, and I most definitely won’t be home in eighty days. However, eighty days is less than three months, a little over eleven weeks, and that suits me fine.
Everyone is talking about going home in part because we have to and because we finally can. We have to talk about going home because the process to plan and coordinate the movement of people, equipment, and other logistical moves takes months to arrange. Units enter into a complex system that plugs into a long calendar with various important trigger points along the way. Packing gear in huge containers. Clearing customs. Transferring equipment. Flying to Kuwait. Flying home. All of these things and more need to synchronized, and for any one piece not happen at the right time the entire system breaks down. My crew is paying very close attention to those trigger points! In addition to this there are administrative, personnel, operational, and other logistical requirements for us to redeploy. It will be a long summer in the office sitting behind a desk.
And we are talking about home because we can. I think it’s unofficially okay to talk about going home once you fall within the ninety day window; anytime before ninety days and you’re just pining away and homesick. And – the more days that get crossed off of the calendar, the more enthusiasm you can say, “I’ve got X number of days left.”
With all of this going on we have also hit an upswing in work. The operational part of Civil Affairs has gotten busier in the last few weeks. What had been a long dry period of work and creativity has turned a corner in the last few days and I have found a project or two that can really occupy my non-administrative time over the next few weeks. I am excited and looking forward to these projects turning my remaining weeks in Iraq as busy as the first few weeks when I arrived here in October.
My countdown clock reads 80 days, 2 hrs, 18 min, 49 sec until I can really look forward to going to the other side of the world.
Everyone is talking about going home in part because we have to and because we finally can. We have to talk about going home because the process to plan and coordinate the movement of people, equipment, and other logistical moves takes months to arrange. Units enter into a complex system that plugs into a long calendar with various important trigger points along the way. Packing gear in huge containers. Clearing customs. Transferring equipment. Flying to Kuwait. Flying home. All of these things and more need to synchronized, and for any one piece not happen at the right time the entire system breaks down. My crew is paying very close attention to those trigger points! In addition to this there are administrative, personnel, operational, and other logistical requirements for us to redeploy. It will be a long summer in the office sitting behind a desk.
And we are talking about home because we can. I think it’s unofficially okay to talk about going home once you fall within the ninety day window; anytime before ninety days and you’re just pining away and homesick. And – the more days that get crossed off of the calendar, the more enthusiasm you can say, “I’ve got X number of days left.”
With all of this going on we have also hit an upswing in work. The operational part of Civil Affairs has gotten busier in the last few weeks. What had been a long dry period of work and creativity has turned a corner in the last few days and I have found a project or two that can really occupy my non-administrative time over the next few weeks. I am excited and looking forward to these projects turning my remaining weeks in Iraq as busy as the first few weeks when I arrived here in October.
My countdown clock reads 80 days, 2 hrs, 18 min, 49 sec until I can really look forward to going to the other side of the world.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorial Day 2009
To those without sacrifice we say, "Remember."
To the families of the fallen we say, "Thank you."
To our fallen we say, "We miss you."
To the families of the fallen we say, "Thank you."
To our fallen we say, "We miss you."
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Leave, Part 3: The Heat Is On
Almost immediately upon getting on the plane returning from Leave I was homesick. I missed my family, my dog, my home and fell into a mild funk. Getting back through Atlanta to Kuwait to BIAP to Kalsu was not going to be a treat.
The weather had changed here while I was home. It was now easily over 100° in the dust bowl of Kuwait. Bad weather set in wreaking havoc on all out going flights to Iraq. Bad weather in the Middle East means either dust or sand storms. I experienced both within twenty-four hours. While I am familiar with the “red air” syndrome of a dust storm, I had never sat through a sand storm before. The sand moves at the speed of the wind, which in this case, seemed to be fifteen to twenty miles per hour. If you’ve ever seen blowing snow, a sand storm has the same visual effect as it passes over pavement. The sound however, reminds you of a driving, pelting rain against a pane of glass. It can be intimidating.
Fortunately I was in the safety of a bus and did not have to go out in the storm. Within thirty hours of landing in Kuwait I was on another C-130 en route to BIAP. Trying to get a ride – anywhere – at 0330 in the morning out of Baghdad is impossible. I had been up for almost a day and was seven hours ahead of my body clock. When you are that tired you don’t care about where you are or who sees you. I sat in a chair, made myself as comfortable as possible and nodded off for three hours of broken sleep. My mood deepened.
I discovered that a convoy was heading to my base at 1130 so I spent most of the morning sitting in the shade reading. At about 1015 the sun was high enough in the sky to eliminate my shade altogether and the heat really beat down. In Baghdad there was no dust to block the sun and the temperature was around 105°. When it gets that hot your clothes absorb the heat radiates inward and your body feels like it is wrapped in a giant hot blanket. When it gets to 120° and higher it’s suffocating.
The ride back to Kalsu was uneventful. I looked out the window at the landscape going by. The heat had already drained all of the color out of the ground. I have never seen a place look so inhospitable.
And then it hit me. All of the travel, the homesickness, the heat, the jetlag, the Army – all of it all at once; I hate this fucking place.
When I got back to my room and back I reset my countdown clock that Lisa gave me. I entered the date that we’re supposed to leave Iraq. It read, 99 days. And suddenly the gloom began to lift. A new urgency crept into my brain – it’s time to prepare to go home! Upon entering my office and opening my email there were urgent requests to start the redeployment process.
And now the heat is on to start the checklists to go home. There are awards and evaluations that need to be written. There are movement plans to write. Packing needs to be done. There is coordination with the home unit. There is enough to keep me busy for the next three months. Three months seems like a long time when you arrive but it goes by very fast at the end.
Right now, Iraq isn't so bad. It's hot only from my air conditioned room to my air conditioned office, or the air conditioned gym or chow hall. The end is in sight for my team as we get out the countdown calendars and mark them off.
The weather had changed here while I was home. It was now easily over 100° in the dust bowl of Kuwait. Bad weather set in wreaking havoc on all out going flights to Iraq. Bad weather in the Middle East means either dust or sand storms. I experienced both within twenty-four hours. While I am familiar with the “red air” syndrome of a dust storm, I had never sat through a sand storm before. The sand moves at the speed of the wind, which in this case, seemed to be fifteen to twenty miles per hour. If you’ve ever seen blowing snow, a sand storm has the same visual effect as it passes over pavement. The sound however, reminds you of a driving, pelting rain against a pane of glass. It can be intimidating.
Fortunately I was in the safety of a bus and did not have to go out in the storm. Within thirty hours of landing in Kuwait I was on another C-130 en route to BIAP. Trying to get a ride – anywhere – at 0330 in the morning out of Baghdad is impossible. I had been up for almost a day and was seven hours ahead of my body clock. When you are that tired you don’t care about where you are or who sees you. I sat in a chair, made myself as comfortable as possible and nodded off for three hours of broken sleep. My mood deepened.
I discovered that a convoy was heading to my base at 1130 so I spent most of the morning sitting in the shade reading. At about 1015 the sun was high enough in the sky to eliminate my shade altogether and the heat really beat down. In Baghdad there was no dust to block the sun and the temperature was around 105°. When it gets that hot your clothes absorb the heat radiates inward and your body feels like it is wrapped in a giant hot blanket. When it gets to 120° and higher it’s suffocating.
The ride back to Kalsu was uneventful. I looked out the window at the landscape going by. The heat had already drained all of the color out of the ground. I have never seen a place look so inhospitable.
And then it hit me. All of the travel, the homesickness, the heat, the jetlag, the Army – all of it all at once; I hate this fucking place.
When I got back to my room and back I reset my countdown clock that Lisa gave me. I entered the date that we’re supposed to leave Iraq. It read, 99 days. And suddenly the gloom began to lift. A new urgency crept into my brain – it’s time to prepare to go home! Upon entering my office and opening my email there were urgent requests to start the redeployment process.
And now the heat is on to start the checklists to go home. There are awards and evaluations that need to be written. There are movement plans to write. Packing needs to be done. There is coordination with the home unit. There is enough to keep me busy for the next three months. Three months seems like a long time when you arrive but it goes by very fast at the end.
Right now, Iraq isn't so bad. It's hot only from my air conditioned room to my air conditioned office, or the air conditioned gym or chow hall. The end is in sight for my team as we get out the countdown calendars and mark them off.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Leave, Part 2; Twenty-one Days
Don’t let the title fool you. I was only home for 15 ½ days. However, I did enough in that time to fill up three weeks of great memories with my family. Think about that; most of us spend our time with our family and friends and lose the truly memorable moments of life among the daily tedium of work, chores, and routine. My Leave was full of those memorable moments.
Seeing TJ for the first time since February, I picked him up from day care. He was outside running around, saw me, stopped dead in his tracks, yelled, “Dadda”, and started to jump around in excitement. The joy in his face was priceless.
I saw Samantha at her school where I had been invited to speak (in uniform) to her sixth grade class. She paraded me around as if I was royalty – which is exactly how I felt. And then I returned the favor by getting her classmates to applaud her for being a wonderful daughter.
I arrived home just in time for spring. Everything was turning green and was beginning to bloom. I enjoyed the first mowing of the lawn for the season. I say enjoyed, because it is my favorite chore of my household duties. For some reason, the smell of gasoline and cut grass reminds me of my father.
By Saturday, my family was all packed and on a plane to Florida for our cruise. I sat next to TJ and read books and played with toys as learned how to work the window shade; up, down, up, down, up. That night I went to dinner alone with Samantha who caught me up on her friends, school, and the drama-drama-drama that is her pre-teen life.
On Sunday we were on the Disney Wonder for four days and nights of perfect fun. I could gush, but it’s sufficed to say that the cruise was truly in the Disney fashion, everything was top notch. The kids were great, the shows spectacular, the snorkeling awesome, and boat was beautiful.
Seeing TJ for the first time since February, I picked him up from day care. He was outside running around, saw me, stopped dead in his tracks, yelled, “Dadda”, and started to jump around in excitement. The joy in his face was priceless.
I saw Samantha at her school where I had been invited to speak (in uniform) to her sixth grade class. She paraded me around as if I was royalty – which is exactly how I felt. And then I returned the favor by getting her classmates to applaud her for being a wonderful daughter.
I arrived home just in time for spring. Everything was turning green and was beginning to bloom. I enjoyed the first mowing of the lawn for the season. I say enjoyed, because it is my favorite chore of my household duties. For some reason, the smell of gasoline and cut grass reminds me of my father.
By Saturday, my family was all packed and on a plane to Florida for our cruise. I sat next to TJ and read books and played with toys as learned how to work the window shade; up, down, up, down, up. That night I went to dinner alone with Samantha who caught me up on her friends, school, and the drama-drama-drama that is her pre-teen life.
On Sunday we were on the Disney Wonder for four days and nights of perfect fun. I could gush, but it’s sufficed to say that the cruise was truly in the Disney fashion, everything was top notch. The kids were great, the shows spectacular, the snorkeling awesome, and boat was beautiful.
We returned home in time for me to take Sam to her concert where she played clarinet for the 7th and 8th grade band. Although her head and her heart were still on the cruise, she played great and I got to attend at least one of her concert this school year as I was totally blown away by the band’s performance.
Lisa and I planted a rose bush in honor of our daughter, Rebecca, who was supposed to have been delivered to term during these two weeks and ran in the Mother’s Day 5k race. Rebecca, and all that could have and should have been, was never far from our minds.
Lisa and I planted a rose bush in honor of our daughter, Rebecca, who was supposed to have been delivered to term during these two weeks and ran in the Mother’s Day 5k race. Rebecca, and all that could have and should have been, was never far from our minds.
For bonus points, I finished Lisa’s Honey-do list she had waiting for me.
I even spent half a day with the company commander of the unit that is going to replace us in August. Making that contact, in person, was oh so instrumental to getting me to think about the end of this tour!
I boarded a plane for Atlanta on a Wednesday morning. On the ride to the airport, Lisa and remarked all of the things we did and how blessed we are to be able to do them. Lisa and TJ walked me to the gate and in a hurried state, said our good-byes.
I believe life is made of little moments. For example, I don’t remember all of Samantha’s birth, but I recall the moment when she first gripped my pinky with her tiny little hand as clearly as if it were yesterday. I don’t remember all of the details of my first date with Lisa, but I recall the story of her father and the deer outside of her window. I don’t remember all of the day my mother died, but I remember what I whispered in her ear just before she left us. Metaphorically speaking, all of these moments make a sort of patchwork quilt, as it were, where lots of different pieces of fabric make a whole new thing.
I even spent half a day with the company commander of the unit that is going to replace us in August. Making that contact, in person, was oh so instrumental to getting me to think about the end of this tour!
I boarded a plane for Atlanta on a Wednesday morning. On the ride to the airport, Lisa and remarked all of the things we did and how blessed we are to be able to do them. Lisa and TJ walked me to the gate and in a hurried state, said our good-byes.
I believe life is made of little moments. For example, I don’t remember all of Samantha’s birth, but I recall the moment when she first gripped my pinky with her tiny little hand as clearly as if it were yesterday. I don’t remember all of the details of my first date with Lisa, but I recall the story of her father and the deer outside of her window. I don’t remember all of the day my mother died, but I remember what I whispered in her ear just before she left us. Metaphorically speaking, all of these moments make a sort of patchwork quilt, as it were, where lots of different pieces of fabric make a whole new thing.
My Leave was full of these moments with my family. They can't always be captured on video or digital camera. Not even writing about them here can articulate all of the details and feelings associated with them.
I suppose that when you are so far away from the people whom you love for so long it makes you appreciate them even more. I treasured every second I was home.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Leave, Part 1: Two Homecomings
I am back from Leave and catching up on events from the last three weeks.
On April 25th I began the trip home for my scheduled Leave (read vacation) from Iraq. The day began with an hour plus long convoy from my base to Baghdad International Airport, or BIAP. BIAP sits in the heart of Victory Base, a sprawling complex that’s larger than a small city. I was manifested on a flight that would be leaving 15 hours after my arrival. To pass the time I read all of A Thousand Splendid Suns from cover to cover and thinking about reuniting with Lisa, Sam and TJ.
Meanwhile, sometime during the same day, to the north of Baghdad, a young sergeant was shot by a sniper near the city of Kirkuk. And while the medics and doctors tried to save him, he died here in Iraq. His body was prepared to go home to his family.
Somewhere during the day I sent Lisa emails updating her of my progress, or lack thereof, and expressed my excitement to be coming home. There was a lot to look forward to.
Somewhere in Texas, the young sergeant’s family received two men in uniform at the door. Their message was that he too was coming home. There was no excitement and nothing to look foward to.
The military can make anything last interminably longer than it should and in the early, early hours of Sunday, I (and about sixty others) began the process of boarding the C-130 that would bring us to Kuwait to go home. We boarded the plane and were told that our mission was being diverted to Kirkuk.
At 0330 in the morning, the young sergeant’s flagged draped coffin met us at the Kirkuk airfield. Our plane shut down, and we exited the aircraft to join a full color guard, twenty-one gun salute, several hundred fellow Soldiers to pay respects as the coffin was loaded. Standing there in the dark and quiet I found myself selfishly thinking of my reunion with my family, and less of the dead Soldiers reunion with his. And while I appreciate ceremony, this one felt a little surreal as sixty of us all had plans to be enjoying ourselves within the next 48 hours and yet we were flying with a very real and tangible reminder of the war for part of the way.
We flew to Kuwait City International Airport where another ceremony was held. This time the sergeant’s body was taken off of the C-130 for transport to another plane that would take it to Dover, Delaware. We all re-boarded our plane for the Kuwait airbase that processes people to go on Leave. Later on Sunday night our flight flew from Kuwait to Germany and then on to Atlanta where we all split up to our homes east of the Mississippi.
Somewhere on Monday, the Soldier’s family met a color guard at an airport near where he’d be buried with full honors. Their long grieving processes had only begun.
On Monday, I stepped off my plane in Syracuse to the arms of my wife. We wrapped up in each other and embraced. It felt so good to be home.
On April 25th I began the trip home for my scheduled Leave (read vacation) from Iraq. The day began with an hour plus long convoy from my base to Baghdad International Airport, or BIAP. BIAP sits in the heart of Victory Base, a sprawling complex that’s larger than a small city. I was manifested on a flight that would be leaving 15 hours after my arrival. To pass the time I read all of A Thousand Splendid Suns from cover to cover and thinking about reuniting with Lisa, Sam and TJ.
Meanwhile, sometime during the same day, to the north of Baghdad, a young sergeant was shot by a sniper near the city of Kirkuk. And while the medics and doctors tried to save him, he died here in Iraq. His body was prepared to go home to his family.
Somewhere during the day I sent Lisa emails updating her of my progress, or lack thereof, and expressed my excitement to be coming home. There was a lot to look forward to.
Somewhere in Texas, the young sergeant’s family received two men in uniform at the door. Their message was that he too was coming home. There was no excitement and nothing to look foward to.
The military can make anything last interminably longer than it should and in the early, early hours of Sunday, I (and about sixty others) began the process of boarding the C-130 that would bring us to Kuwait to go home. We boarded the plane and were told that our mission was being diverted to Kirkuk.
At 0330 in the morning, the young sergeant’s flagged draped coffin met us at the Kirkuk airfield. Our plane shut down, and we exited the aircraft to join a full color guard, twenty-one gun salute, several hundred fellow Soldiers to pay respects as the coffin was loaded. Standing there in the dark and quiet I found myself selfishly thinking of my reunion with my family, and less of the dead Soldiers reunion with his. And while I appreciate ceremony, this one felt a little surreal as sixty of us all had plans to be enjoying ourselves within the next 48 hours and yet we were flying with a very real and tangible reminder of the war for part of the way.
We flew to Kuwait City International Airport where another ceremony was held. This time the sergeant’s body was taken off of the C-130 for transport to another plane that would take it to Dover, Delaware. We all re-boarded our plane for the Kuwait airbase that processes people to go on Leave. Later on Sunday night our flight flew from Kuwait to Germany and then on to Atlanta where we all split up to our homes east of the Mississippi.
Somewhere on Monday, the Soldier’s family met a color guard at an airport near where he’d be buried with full honors. Their long grieving processes had only begun.
On Monday, I stepped off my plane in Syracuse to the arms of my wife. We wrapped up in each other and embraced. It felt so good to be home.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Stats
I am about to go home on Leave; my two week vacation from Iraq!
Rather than tell everyone how excited I am to get out of here, which should be obvious, I thought I'd post some statistics (some useless) that I've been keeping since I was mobilized.
Convoy Missions: 16
Air Missions: 26
Books Read: 15
Rocket Attacks: 6
That Hit: 0
Elections: 1
Former Students Met: 6
Meetings: Lost count
Historical Sites Visited: 1
Memorial Services: 3
USO Visits: 4
Times Shot At: 0
Care Packages Received: 14
From Strangers: 6
Blog Posts: 59
Soldiers Promoted: 7
I am looking forward to getting out of here in the next few days and start the long trip back to the United States. I am looking forward to quality time with my wife and children.
Until mid-May, take care.
Rather than tell everyone how excited I am to get out of here, which should be obvious, I thought I'd post some statistics (some useless) that I've been keeping since I was mobilized.
Convoy Missions: 16
Air Missions: 26
Books Read: 15
Rocket Attacks: 6
That Hit: 0
Elections: 1
Former Students Met: 6
Meetings: Lost count
Historical Sites Visited: 1
Memorial Services: 3
USO Visits: 4
Times Shot At: 0
Care Packages Received: 14
From Strangers: 6
Blog Posts: 59
Soldiers Promoted: 7
I am looking forward to getting out of here in the next few days and start the long trip back to the United States. I am looking forward to quality time with my wife and children.
Until mid-May, take care.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
You're Joking, Right?
"What is Arabic humor like?" I asked one of our interpreters. "Tell me some Iraqi jokes."
He looked at me with a frozen look of horror and promised that he'd have to "research" some jokes and get back to me. He came back a few weeks later with fifteen pages of jokes he looked up on line. He translated them into English from Arabic, so here, without any changes to spelling or punctuation are the best of the best. (Hold on tight)
A wealthy person decided to gift one of the politiicans a flashy car. The politician rejected the offer fearing that it might be considered a bribe. To make it looks OK, the wealthy offered the car for only $20. The politician agreed to take two cars instead of one!!!!
Two Iraqi people were walking down the road when one of them looked into a mirror and said, "Funny, I think I know this guy!"
The other one then looked into the mirror and said, "That's me you idiot!"
Once upon a time an american met with an iraqi and told him proudly our dogs are smarter than yours....
how is that?! the iraqi replied
sit....stand....go there....come here....
the american shouted ordering the dog and the dog followed the orders
nice demo - said the iraqi, but i think our dogs are smarter than this
imposible!! said the american with amazement
OK - said the iraqi, i'll show you how that is. so he took the american to a garage and asked the american: do you see these filthy dogs lying down under the truck?
yes - the american replied, what about them?
well....they are auto-mechanics....the iraqi replied!!!
Saddam's Mosque's Khateeb, "Sheikh Ali" dies and waits in line at the "Janna" Gates. Just ahead of him is a guy in casual wear. Malak (angel) addresses this guy, "Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to Heaven?"
The guy replies, "I'm kaka Ali, Mini Bus driver from Kefri, Iraq." Malak consults his list, smiles, and says to kaka Ali, "Enter into the Kingdom."
So Iraqi driver enters Heaven and the Sheikh Ali is next in line. He stands erect. Without being asked he proclaims, "I am Sheikh Ali Imam [priest] of Jama in Baghdad for the last 33 years.
Malak consults his list and says, "I am sorry, you are on a waiting list. You have to pass some tests before you get entry to the Kingdom of Heaven."
Sheikh says, "Just a minute. That man was a Mini Bus driver, and you issued him instant entry. But I have to go through more tests. How can this be? Please double check the names."
Malak says, "Up here, we go by results. While you preached, people slept; while he drove, people prayed."
Laughter is universal but humor gets lost in the translation. I hope you found something to laugh about.
He looked at me with a frozen look of horror and promised that he'd have to "research" some jokes and get back to me. He came back a few weeks later with fifteen pages of jokes he looked up on line. He translated them into English from Arabic, so here, without any changes to spelling or punctuation are the best of the best. (Hold on tight)
A wealthy person decided to gift one of the politiicans a flashy car. The politician rejected the offer fearing that it might be considered a bribe. To make it looks OK, the wealthy offered the car for only $20. The politician agreed to take two cars instead of one!!!!
Two Iraqi people were walking down the road when one of them looked into a mirror and said, "Funny, I think I know this guy!"
The other one then looked into the mirror and said, "That's me you idiot!"
Once upon a time an american met with an iraqi and told him proudly our dogs are smarter than yours....
how is that?! the iraqi replied
sit....stand....go there....come here....
the american shouted ordering the dog and the dog followed the orders
nice demo - said the iraqi, but i think our dogs are smarter than this
imposible!! said the american with amazement
OK - said the iraqi, i'll show you how that is. so he took the american to a garage and asked the american: do you see these filthy dogs lying down under the truck?
yes - the american replied, what about them?
well....they are auto-mechanics....the iraqi replied!!!
Saddam's Mosque's Khateeb, "Sheikh Ali" dies and waits in line at the "Janna" Gates. Just ahead of him is a guy in casual wear. Malak (angel) addresses this guy, "Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to Heaven?"
The guy replies, "I'm kaka Ali, Mini Bus driver from Kefri, Iraq." Malak consults his list, smiles, and says to kaka Ali, "Enter into the Kingdom."
So Iraqi driver enters Heaven and the Sheikh Ali is next in line. He stands erect. Without being asked he proclaims, "I am Sheikh Ali Imam [priest] of Jama in Baghdad for the last 33 years.
Malak consults his list and says, "I am sorry, you are on a waiting list. You have to pass some tests before you get entry to the Kingdom of Heaven."
Sheikh says, "Just a minute. That man was a Mini Bus driver, and you issued him instant entry. But I have to go through more tests. How can this be? Please double check the names."
Malak says, "Up here, we go by results. While you preached, people slept; while he drove, people prayed."
Laughter is universal but humor gets lost in the translation. I hope you found something to laugh about.
POTUS
The president of the United States visited Baghdad today.
SURPRISE!
No, I wasn't in Baghdad. No, I didn't get to see him. No, it made no difference to my days. No one told us until after it was over, but we appreciate our Commander-In-Chief stopping by for a visit.
Okay, everyone, back to work!
SURPRISE!
No, I wasn't in Baghdad. No, I didn't get to see him. No, it made no difference to my days. No one told us until after it was over, but we appreciate our Commander-In-Chief stopping by for a visit.
Okay, everyone, back to work!
The Gate of God
Last week I visited the ancient ruins of the city of Babylon. Here are my impressions.
The first thing that struck me is how hard it is to comprehend what ancient really is. Babylon can claim its most recent history in 232 B.C. when Alexander the Great died within her walls. Go back further and Babylon is mentioned in the Old Testament, along with her king, Nebuchadnezzar, around 600 BC. Go back another 1,100 years and Hammurabi wrote the first set of codified laws between 1772 and 1750 B.C. Within this history lies the Hanging Gardens of Babylon - lost to myth, speculation, and time. And the city is even older than that; built and razed and built again for five thousand years. Walking the ruins we were reminded that there are ruins under the ruins; ten to twelve feet under what we can see. 
The ground covering the ruins is vast. It’s secured from trespassers and the only visitors seem to be the Coalition Forces or State Department, or the various special visitors to the site. However, there is potential for tourism in the next ten years that most likely won’t be ignored. The ruins themselves are truly incredible, although it requires imagination to fully appreciate them.
What you see on the ground is the collaboration of new and old. It’s a bit of a letdown initially. Babylon ruins were rebuilt during Saddam’s regime. In the 1970’s major sections were either rebuilt on top of the existing walls, or recreated altogether, as in the in the case of the blue bricked Ishtar Gate. While the original gate sits in a museum in Berlin, its recreation reveals brick over plywood and twenty years of neglect. The Ishtar Gate acts as the main entrance to the ruins themselves.
The ruins are of the southern palace and do not include Nebuchadnezzar’s palace. It’s believed that Saddam Hussein’s palace sits on top the former king’s. In the southern palace five, vast open courtyards lead to a confusing maze of small alley ways and side rooms; possibly merchant and skilled trade shops that kept the city alive. The tan brick is the only color in the courtyards that once must have had pennants, awnings, flags, and tapestries of all sort of different colors.
The quiet stands in mocking contrast in a place that once held 200,000 to a speculated 1,000,000,000 people. The only sounds you hear of your own footsteps and the reverently hushed voices of other guests. You have to add your own soundtrack of food vendors, slave traders, royal processionals, and the daily sounds that filled this place.
We stopped at the “Babylon Lion” a twelve foot tall, six foot long stone carving of a lion standing over the supine form of a man; the power of the lion over man. Or maybe it’s some divine fertility symbol. The statue we are told was taken by the Nazis in World War II and returned by the Allies. It is the stop on the tour.
It was at the Babylon Lion where we promoted two of my Soldiers, MSG Cummings and CPT Weaver, leaving them with a story for their
grandchildren.
On the way out I lagged behind and lingered. I wanted to savor the moment and imagine the this place where history is recorded in its walls, where history passed through, and where it is made even today. A place for over, fought for, and still bearing witness.
The first thing that struck me is how hard it is to comprehend what ancient really is. Babylon can claim its most recent history in 232 B.C. when Alexander the Great died within her walls. Go back further and Babylon is mentioned in the Old Testament, along with her king, Nebuchadnezzar, around 600 BC. Go back another 1,100 years and Hammurabi wrote the first set of codified laws between 1772 and 1750 B.C. Within this history lies the Hanging Gardens of Babylon - lost to myth, speculation, and time. And the city is even older than that; built and razed and built again for five thousand years. Walking the ruins we were reminded that there are ruins under the ruins; ten to twelve feet under what we can see. 
The ground covering the ruins is vast. It’s secured from trespassers and the only visitors seem to be the Coalition Forces or State Department, or the various special visitors to the site. However, there is potential for tourism in the next ten years that most likely won’t be ignored. The ruins themselves are truly incredible, although it requires imagination to fully appreciate them.
What you see on the ground is the collaboration of new and old. It’s a bit of a letdown initially. Babylon ruins were rebuilt during Saddam’s regime. In the 1970’s major sections were either rebuilt on top of the existing walls, or recreated altogether, as in the in the case of the blue bricked Ishtar Gate. While the original gate sits in a museum in Berlin, its recreation reveals brick over plywood and twenty years of neglect. The Ishtar Gate acts as the main entrance to the ruins themselves.
The ruins are of the southern palace and do not include Nebuchadnezzar’s palace. It’s believed that Saddam Hussein’s palace sits on top the former king’s. In the southern palace five, vast open courtyards lead to a confusing maze of small alley ways and side rooms; possibly merchant and skilled trade shops that kept the city alive. The tan brick is the only color in the courtyards that once must have had pennants, awnings, flags, and tapestries of all sort of different colors.
The quiet stands in mocking contrast in a place that once held 200,000 to a speculated 1,000,000,000 people. The only sounds you hear of your own footsteps and the reverently hushed voices of other guests. You have to add your own soundtrack of food vendors, slave traders, royal processionals, and the daily sounds that filled this place.
We stopped at the “Babylon Lion” a twelve foot tall, six foot long stone carving of a lion standing over the supine form of a man; the power of the lion over man. Or maybe it’s some divine fertility symbol. The statue we are told was taken by the Nazis in World War II and returned by the Allies. It is the stop on the tour.It was at the Babylon Lion where we promoted two of my Soldiers, MSG Cummings and CPT Weaver, leaving them with a story for their
grandchildren. On the way out I lagged behind and lingered. I wanted to savor the moment and imagine the this place where history is recorded in its walls, where history passed through, and where it is made even today. A place for over, fought for, and still bearing witness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
