Texas Music

Quick Update

2010-10-14T02:32:00.000+03:00

When last we visited, I was in Kuwait, waiting for a bird. Well, a long flight and many hours later, we made it back to FT Bliss. Demob was fairly frustrating but seemed like everyone just had the sense of let's get this over with. By the end of the week we were back at Camp Bullis and after a mercifully brief ceremony we were cut loose. My first stop was the Whataburger drive-thru. A #1 with no tomatoes and a Coke to drink, please. Oh yeah. Tastes like freedom.

The first few days home were a bit...I don't know. I had to go to Walmart my first night back and it was too bright, crowded, and loud. I did not want to be around people overly much. Everytime I ventured into town, I ran into cops who all asked the same thing: "When are you coming back?" I went to a barbecue at a buddy's house and had a few beers, splashed in the pool a bit. It was nice and I caught up on a lot of the department gossip.

I flew out to see Connie, spent a few (far too few) days with her, then flew to Vegas for a reunion with guys from my first Reserve unit, then back home where I started the VA process for some health issues I have been putting off too long. So far, things have been moving along pretty well. Some of the appointments are a little farther out than I would prefer, but I guess I can't complain too much.

What else...I caught up on the last season of Lost, which I still don't know what the hell happened. I just had a birthday, so I'm another year better. Connie got me all six season of Lost on DVD, so I can go back and puzzle everything out. Went to Austin and saw Drive By Trucker's at Stubb's, went to Luckenbach and saw Stephanie Urbina Jones, uh...that's about it, I guess.

I'm back visiting Connie for the rest of October, trying to work some quality time in around the demands of her job. So I'm hanging the 'Do Not Disturb' sign out on Texas Music, and I'll see ya when I see ya.

In Transit

2010-08-11T14:18:00.000+03:00

Well, we are in Kuwait. Camp Virginia, to be precise, a transient camp not unlike Camp Buehring, where we spent a few days before heading to Iraq last year. Back to tent living. It's not too bad. I have my inflatable sleeping pad for my bad back, which makes the cot tolerable. We are crammed in pretty close together, which brings with it certain frustrations. Alarms, for one thing. People set alarms on their iPhone things or alarm clocks or whatever at weird odd middle of the night hours, then sleep through the ringing/beeping/foghorn sounds, which prompts me or some other light sleeper to stumble over to their cot, kick it and hiss, "Turn off your fucking alarm, asshole."

Other than that it's a joy. Except not really. It is hot. I mean hot, hot. Iraq was hot, no doubt, but this is some sort of special heat. It's up in the 120s to 130s and does not cool down at night. It's like there is a fan blasting super heated air on you wherever you go. It's miserable and makes one not spend any more time then necessary out of doors.

Yesterday we, or the majority of us, spent four hours sitting through a Combat Lifesaver recertification sourse. Let me explain a bit. Back in the very early 90's, the Army started a program called Combat Lifesaver (CLS). It was designed to give front line soldiers the skills to keep battlefield casualties alive if the medic was otherwise busy. It focused on the basics, airway, breathing and controlling blood loss. It was a week or maybe even two weeks long, if I recall. The grand finale was you got to stick your buddy with an IV. It was set up to give one soldier per squad these extra skills, and was appropriately difficult for the subject matter.

Fast forward to today, and CLS has become pretty much mandatory for all soldiers, especially those deploying. I've been through it maybe five or six times. Like any training that the Army decides everyone will go through, CLS has become a watered down shadow of its former self. Now I think it is like three days long. Some of that is due to natural training evolution, for example, the IV requirement has been deemed unnecessary and dropped from the course. The recertification, that we went through yesterday, is four house of lecture (Death by Powerpoint) and practical excercise. I wouldn't call it a complete waste of time, but...we are headed out of the combat zone.

This place has the usual Army amenities. A PX, USO, MWR, Starbucks, Pizza Inn, McDonalds, like that. I'm sitting in the Starbucks right now, in fact, typing this out with two fingers. It's even hot in here. But it could always be worse. We could still be in Iraq. Although Graywarz and I agreed that having to do a year here would be much much worse than Iraq.

Speaking of that, our flight has been pushed back twice. We were originally scheduled to fly out tonight, but yesterday we were told it was pushed to the right 24 hours, and I just was told it was pushed right a further 12 hours, which I guess means we are now set to fly sometime Friday morning. Maybe. I have no clue when that gets us home. And of course that time is subject to change.

I just spent the last three hours, literally three freaking hours, uploading a mess of pictures from our time in Iraq. I painstakingly went through and edited out all name tapes, access badges and the like, then went through and arranged them in chronological and subject matter order, then loaded them. It took three hours because the connection here is slow. And after all that, inexplicably, they didn't load. So no pictures for you. Sorry.

So that's what's up with me. Standing by to stand by.

...and a wake up

2010-08-07T23:32:00.000+03:00

Hopefully, by the time you read this, I'll be on the way home. A few days in Kuwait, a few more at our demobilization platform, and dee-you-enn done.

I've got a ton of pictures I'd like to put up, so maybe when I get to Kuwait I can make that happen. In the meantime, enjoy this picture of me standing around like a tough guy.

Short

2010-07-30T16:28:00.000+03:00

Our time in Iraq is swiftly drawing to a close. People are packing up, mailing excess stuff home, getting ready to leave. We have already sent our advance party ahead. We have started our RIP, which stands for 'Relief in Place,' meaning training up our replacements. There is a palatable sense of relief. Almost over.

I'm looking back on this tour and it wasn't what I expected. Not that I really knew what to expect, but still. I came over expecting on some level for the security situation to be about what it was in 2007, 2008. Aside from hearing some explosions in the distance and probably maybe perhaps getting sniped at that one time, this has been a very safe, quiet and ultimately boring tour. I'm not complaining.

No, really, I'm not.

I would have liked to have earned my CIB, but I much more prefer bringing all my guys home safe and sound. Nobody got hurt, nobody got blown up, nobody died. Good enough.

Italia: Blooper Reel

2010-07-22T11:43:00.003+03:00

Crush crush crush.

Man's best friend.

(I'm not actually touching him.)

"Jack, stop trying to take my picture when I'm not looking."

"Jack, I think it's gonna be too dark."

"Pfft, it'll be fine."

"Jack, did you remember to zoom out?"

"Pfft, of course."

This little dude joined us on our picnic.

Italian Commies.

Italian Commie Hippie Pothead.

"Okay, a little more...little more..perfect!"

"Okay, you're almost...yes! Hold that!"

"Jack! Will you please..."

"I really think's this is gonna be too dark."

"Pfft, it's fine. Trust me."

Nice kitty #1.

I have clue what she was doing here.

Nice kitty #2.

Nice kitty #3.

Evil Devil Kitty.

Yeah, I'm a big overgrown infant.

"No, baby, of course I don't mind carrying your shopping bags."

"You remembered to zoom out this time, right, Jack?"

"Pfft, of course, what kind of idiot do you think I am?"

"Seriously, Jack, it's going to be too dark."

"Pfft, it's fine, I tell you."

I don't know why she puts up with me, but I'm so glad she does.

Italia: Venezia

2010-07-19T21:14:00.002+03:00

After a few relaxing days in the beautiful Cinque Terre, it was time to pack up and head for our final destination, Venice. But first, a quick stop in Milan.

A couple of hours on the train and we were there. Here's Connie checking out the main square in front of the

Duomo di Milano. Beautiful, no?

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele.

Inside the cathedral. A bit blurry. The red light in the dome above the aspe marks the spot where one of the nails from the crucifixion of Christ has been stored.

Milan is known for its shopping. We hit up the ritzy shopping district where I took this picture of a fancy car. That was all we got there, luckily for both of our bank accounts. Our time was up, and we hopped back on the train to continue on to Venice.

And here we are. Gondola man in action.

San Giorgio Maggiore Island.

Here is the Piazza San Marco. Venice has one of the most striking squares of all the ones we saw. The domes are St Mark's Basilica. To the far left is St. Mark's Clocktower. To the right is Doge's Palace.

In the Piazza with the much battered Rick Dees. I hope y'all are clicking these links, there's so much amazing history about this place. I'm just too lazy to write it all here.

St Mark's Clocktower, the back of my baby's head, and some doofus tourist guys. Nice 'stache, dude. The Piazza is prone to flooding, as you can see from the standing water from an earlier shower.

A close up of the two metal men who beat the clock. The first robots ever. One is old, and one is young to symbolize the passage of time.

Connie with St Mark's Campanile in the background. Originally built in 1514, it collapsed in 1902 and was rebuilt ten years later. Click the link for the lowdown on what was probably the first photoshopped picture ever passed off as the real deal.

The Piazetta San Marco. Atop the two columns are the patrons or Venice, the lion of St Mark called Marco, and St Teodoro of Amasea, known as Todaro. It's bad luck to walk between the two columns, because they used to execute prisoners there back in the day.

A closer shot of Marco.

Here we are cruising past some place semi-famous on the ferry on the Grand Canal.

A shot of a side canal from the ferry.

The view from our hotel room.

One of the twisty turny alleys in Venice. Get this: NO cars. It's either a boat or walking.

My sweetie and the Grand Canal at twilight.

Our last night, just after our gondola ride. Bittersweet.

Well, that's it. Hope y'all enjoyed. It was an amazing trip. The food, the sights, the adventure...so good. And over way too soon. It was the vacation of a lifetime, and I know we will be going back.

Italia: Cinque Terre

2010-07-16T22:41:00.002+03:00

So, after the hustle and bustle of Rome and Florence, and with all the side trips and what not, it was time to slow our roll. Destination? Cinque Terre. It means 'Five Lands.' It's five little villages built into the seaside cliffs overlooking the Med. They are all pretty close together, and are connected by walking trails and the train line, so hopping back and forth between the towns is a simple proposition. We stayed in Levanto, which isn't one one the Cinque Terre villages proper, but it is very close and scenic in its own right.

We took a late afternoon stroll down the Via Dell'Amore.

It means 'Love Walk,' and it's the trail between Riomaggiore to Manarola. The windows in the distance along the top is the trail, the ones below is where the train runs.

According to Rick Dees, they call it the Love Walk because when the trail was finally built connecting the two villages, teenagers would go back and forth, for the hugging and the kissing and the stuff teenagers do. There is a local tradition for lovers to clasp a lock along the trail.

The rocky shore below.

I dig the rock work. Less so the graffiti.

Locks from lovers.

Yeah, we did it, too. A second after this picture was taken, a little old Italian lady went by and shook her finger at me for standing on the rail. "Peligroso," she warned. Lady, that's my middle name.

Me and my sweetie.

A peek down onto the beach in Manarola.

Our dinner view.

Looking back at Manarola. We ate dinner at the outdoor restaurant to the left below the pink building. There's a naked chick in this picture.

More amazing views. These are between Manarola and Corniglia.

We had to cross this bridge. She took like a million years because she was so scared.

I made her carry my pack. Good job, Sherpa Girl!

We spent like three days in Cinque Terre, yet other than our hike, we didn't take many pictures. It was very relaxing. We hit the beach in Levanto, stayed up late at a sidewalk cafe, and generally just took it easy. Our last evening we dressed up just a bit and went for a nice dinner in (I think) Vernazza.

Goodbye, Cinque Terre. Next stop: Venice!

Italia: Firenze

2010-07-13T21:10:00.005+03:00

After a few delightful days in Rome, it was time to head to Tuscany. We hopped a trained and when we hopped off, we were in Florence. Slower paced and more relaxed than Rome, it is chock full of history. Click the link if you doubt me.

Florence is home to Michaelangelo's David, which of course we saw. However, we were not allowed to take photos. It was spectacular, though...truly an amazing piece of work. Here is the Uffizi, one of the most famous art galleries in the world. David is not in the Uffizi, he is in a little nondescript museum on a quiet side street that you would otherwise pass right by. However, if you look in the lower right corner of the courtyard above, you will see a replica of David.

The above three shots are of the outside of the main cathedral in Florence, called 'il Duomo', for Dome. It's made with pink and white marble and is a stunner. Pictures don't really do it justice.

My sweetie.

Here is a couple shots of the Arno River and a famous bridge over it filled with shops, taken from inside the Uffizi.

We took a couple of side trips. The first one was to Pisa. to visit the famous leaning tower.

Apart from the tower, Pisa was a bit of a bore. We risked the wrath of the Italian fuzz to get this typical tourist shot and then skedaddled.

Our second day trip in Tuscany was to Sienna. I dug this place. Narrow winding streets and ancient buildings. It's got a gorgeous square described as the finest in all Italy that we shall see in a bit, plus it's where Crayola got the color Burnt Sienna.

In this square you see Romulus and Remus, the mythical twin founders of Rome. What, you don't see them? Look up on that pedestal, under the wolf. See? They're babies. Why are they babies under a momma wolf? Click the link, I ain't no history teacher. Be warned, though...it's a dark tale.

Here is Connie, enduring another picture. She is standing in front of the famous square in Sienna. Click on that first link about Sienna and read about the crazy horse races they have there. We enjoyed a lazy lunch overlooking the square and then had some gelato.

Me on some steps in Sienna with the Rick Dees. It's not pink, it's coral.

Here we are on the steps of the Duoma in Sienna. I'm grabbing her hand like that because I am the boss of her. Join us sometime in the future as I blog about our next destination, Cinque Terre!

Italia: Roma

2010-07-11T21:12:00.008+03:00

First stop was Rome. I got lucky getting out of Kuwait on an overnight flight to Germany, had a couple of beers for breakfast, and flew into Rome about an hour before Connie landed. We cabbed it to our swank hotel, and along the way we saw some Italian Air Force Jets doing a low flyover, trailing green, white and red smoke. Pretty impressive, like everything in Rome. I didn't get a picture of that, but I did of lots of other stuff, so let's go!

Connie, sitting on the famed Spanish Steps on our first night in Rome. It was a little chilly, which was a welcome relief for me, even though I was a bit shivery at times. We carried empty water bottles with us throughout Rome, and filled them from the public spigots that are all over and date to back to the olden days. The water was clean, cold, and free.

We took a couple of moonlight strolls through the heart of Rome, visiting cobblestoned squares with fountains and sidewalk cafes.

Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, or, Fountain of the Four Rivers. It's a bit blurry, but the critter at the lower right is supposed to be an armadillo.

Trevi Fountain. Tradition holds that if you and your lover pitch coins in, you will someday return to Rome.

So we did.

Vatican City. No building is permitted to be built taller than St. Peter's Basilica, the dome in the background. The globe in the courtyard there is made of solid gold. The Vatican guards have to typically shoot one tourist a day for trying to chip off a piece.

Inside St. Peter's, looking up.

We trekked the 500 something steps to the top of the Basilica. Some parts were very, very tight and steep.

Inside St. Peter's, looking down.

Outside St. Peter's, looking down. Our reward for all our stair climbing was this view of St. Peter's square, and cool breeze from a summer downpour.

Looking out at Rome from St. Peter's.

The Colosseum.

And from the inside. The ruins in the center were actually under the floor of the arena, where the lions and tigers and bears would get ready to eat Russell Crowe. (Connie pointed out I misspelled his name by leaving off the "e" so I added it after I did the link thing.)

Some famous ruins I forget the name of near the Colosseum with some other cool and awesome stuff in the background.

A view of the skyline near the Colosseum. Much nicer than billboards, no?

Connie patiently letting me take another picture of her. In the background is the Colosseum and some other famous stuff. The book there is the Rick Dees guidebook, which never once steered us wrong. That thing was worth its weight in gold. I don't know how he finds time to do his Weekly Top 40 show and still kick out quality European guidebooks, but hey. Highly recommended.

Okay, that's the highlights for Rome. Oh, and I made stuff that up about the solid gold globe and tourists getting shot and all. Yeah, I'm a card. Next stop: Florence!

Poolside

2010-06-27T20:25:00.002+03:00

Today was a good day. My roommates, SGT G-beer and SFC Monty and I, along with SGT Graywarz, went to Freedom Rest. It is a recreation facility here at VBC. A pool, day rooms, a place to relax and kick back. You can stay the night if you are in pass status. We borrowed CPT Z's Trailblazer and drove over.

We slathered on the SP30 and sat by the pool, watching tattooed Joes play volleyball and grabass. The pool is just across the canal from General Odinaro's chopper pad, and we watched a couple of Blackhawks come in and land, and GEN O and assorted aides get out. He is tall and bald, hook nosed and hawk-eyed; and once you've seen him, you can't mistake him for anyone else.

We sat around and bullshitted for awhile. I swam a little, I read my Kindle and listened to my iPod and just took it easy for an afternoon.

When we were leaving, we saw two third country nationals (TCNs) raking moss out of the lake. The pool is right on the lake. They were doing the same thing when we arrived, dressed in blue coveralls, faces wrapped in scarves, yellow hard hats, balancing in a rickety boat, raking moss in a wet brown pile in the bottom of the boat. I don't know why they are doing this, but you see them all over, in the canals and lakes, raking up seaweed and moss. They were staring at all the soldiers, male and females who were laughing and splashing and playing in the cool blue water of the pool while they toiled away.

"I bet they hate Americans," I said.

"I was just thinking that," Said SFC Monty.

"Nobody put a gun to y'alls heads," I informed them, though they were too far away to hear.

Afterwards, we got something to eat at an Iraqi restaurant. Graywarz wanted to order one chicken dish, but the waiter informed him that this particular dish "was good for Iraqi, not for American." He opted for a different dish.

Later, we sat and talked, drinking tiny glasses of very hot, very sweet tea. We talked about the girls we love and the pros and cons of various dog breeds and I showed them the scar on the back of my left hand from Alex, and we quoted O Brother Where Art Thou and The Big Lebowski, and later we went to the Liberty PX. A good day, a nice low key day. I've got a strip of red skin down my right triceps where I missed it with the sunscreen.

Pink Slip

2010-06-21T22:18:00.002+03:00

Well, damn. Got called into the Sergeant Major's office this afternoon along with SGT Graywarz and we were both given the boot. Politely, of course. A combination of things: the Boss' full time PSO is here and has been for a couple of months, so they really don't need me. They have a couple of fillers from another unit who can do the driving, and our unit wants us back. We will be leaving Iraq in about six weeks or so, and I guess we are needed back to help with the preparations for pulling out.

Sergeant Major was very nice about it all. We have done a good job, sorry to see us go, thanks for the hard work, all of that.

Still, a bitter pill.

I was so pissed I actually threw my hat on the ground afterwards, which is a somewhat childish thing to do and failed to make me feel better.

So I guess it's back to our little camp, where I will probably be stringing concertina wire and filling sandbags, or some equally vital grunt work such as supervising the loading of conexes, or even worse, riding a desk in the TOC.

I know how lucky I am, believe me. Unlike the rest of my boys, I actually got to do real PSD work for a general officer. I was up and down Irish three and four times a week. I was all over the IZ (aka Green Zone); various and sundry places in the Red Zone; went on helicopter rides, went to cool places, saw cool shit...what I thought was gonna be a ten day gig turned into almost almost four months. So I shouldn't complain.

But still. Damn.

Damn!

Ah well. As my mom would have said, that's the way the cookie crumbles.

I'll try and get some Italy pics up a bit later this week. Happy Monday and Happy First Day of Summer, y'all.

Vacay

2010-06-09T22:37:00.004+03:00

Yeah, I haven't posted in awhile. Just been busy. We travel with the Boss typically four to six days a week. Every day sort of blends into the day before it, and I just haven't felt like posting the same old stuff, to be honest.

Right now I'm on my mid-tour leave in Italy with my totally amazing girlfriend. She said that sounded sarcastic but I mean it. She is spectacularly amazing. So far we have spent a few wonderful days in Rome and Florence, with side trips to Pisa and Sienna. Tonight we are in the Cinque Terre, a series of tiny old villages built along the western coast of Italy. The whole trip has been amazing so far, apart from some issues with my debit card and my podunk bank which seem to be worked out now.

That's a pic of me and my princess at the Vatican City museum. I'll post some more pictures later on, if I can be bothered to get back online. Right now I'm gonna spend some more quality time with my significant other. Ciao!

Overheard in the Army

2010-05-13T08:17:00.001+03:00

"Some of these Triple Canopy guys look more like triple cheeseburger guys."

Hands of Motivation

2010-04-30T21:44:00.001+03:00

Pom Poms

2010-04-28T21:27:00.001+03:00

Yesterday I was sitting in the chow hall with Lieutenant PK while he was telling me about his wife leaving him. LT PK used to be in my company, but sometime during our mobilization at FT Hood, he got transfered to a different company in our brigade. He was up at Taji for a few months, but since we closed that detention facility down, his company was brought down to VBC. I've run into him a couple of times here and there. He saw me in line and waved me over.

I'm not sure why LT PK and I hit it off. Back at Hood we ran a gunnery range together and got along pretty well. He has a sarcastic sense of humor that I can readily identify with. I am not sure how well liked he is among his peers and troops, and while I wouldn't call us fast friends, but we get along pretty well despite the age and rank difference.

I was chewing my Cornish game hen and LT PK was cussing Jody when I saw some heads turning and necks craning at the tables around us. LT PK pointed behind me. "Saint's cheerleaders."

I turned to look and there were three or four girls standing in the chow line. They were being escorted by a couple of officers. One wore tight jeans, another a black micro skirt that might make a good hankie. Lots of makeup, big hairdos, child sized tee shirts. They were drawing a lot of attention, needless to say.

I took a good look and turned back to my food.

"How'd you like to have that job, escorting them around?" LT PK asked.

"Eh," I shrugged.

"What? Not a fan?" He said, with raised eyebrows.

I'm standing in the lobby of the FT Hood guest house. It's probably 2004, 2005 and I'm up there for weekend drill. I'm wearing civilian clothes because I have the goatee because I'm working undercover at the Task Force. I'm standing in line behind a gaggle of fourteen or fifteen cheerleaders. Emblems on their baggage and clothing identify them as San Francisco 49er cheerleaders. None of the girls pay any attention to me. They gab or text on cell phones or chat with each other as they wait for rooms.

They are all heavily made up. Lot's of mascara, eyeshadow. Long nails, long hair, locked in placed with copious amounts of hairspray. They are wearing casual athletic attire, most of it pretty snug. Lots of shorts. I hate waiting in line but I don't mind it so much today.

An Army aviator walks in and joins the line. She is a captain, doesn't look thirty yet. The cheerleaders look at the female captain in her flight suit and combat boots and unpainted nails and while nothing is said there is an almost tangible sense of superiority when they look back to their cell phones or resume their conversations with their friends.

I look her over. She is petite but fit. Short blonde hair, big hazel eyes, no makeup that I can tell. Pretty. She wears a green flightsuit that doesn't do anything to hide her curves. She looks bad ass. Athletic and healthy and natural. I look at her and the cheerleaders and it's no contest. The cheerleaders, while aggressively sexy, reek of high maintenance and drama. The captain is strong and exudes confidence. She has something that goes beyond looks, that those cheerleaders, for all the attention heaped upon them can never hope to match.

I looked back at the cheerleaders in the chow line. They had their plastic plates on their trays and I looked at their butts and their boobs and their long legs. As they moved through the line and were served by the Malaysian workers, one of the girls turned to her friend in line and made a little "eww" face at the selection.

I turned back to Lieutenant PK. "Not my type, " I said.

Overheard in the Army

2010-04-22T16:23:00.001+03:00

" 'So I'm just going to put on this blindfold, and whatever winds up in my mouth, winds up in my mouth.' "

(What a Navy chaplain allegedly told a young Marine during a "counseling session." The chaplain was later court martialed and discharged. Allegedly.)

The Villa

2010-04-13T21:56:00.000+03:00

The new guys have arrived. The Boss's aide-de-camp, a captain, and PSO, a SSG C, have been doing the left-seat/right-seat deal the past week. Aide Man has already pretty much been replaced by the new aide, and for the moment at least, I am staying on, splitting the PSO duties with SSG C. How much longer until I am back filling sandbags, or, even worse, riding a desk in the TOC is anyone's guess.

The other night we took the Boss to a meeting at the Villa. We walked him through the outdoor patio with its marble columns, past the Level 7 Lounge that I am not allowed enter, and then past the sparkling swimming pool to his meeting room. "What a way to fight a war," Aide Man said, and I couldn't agree more.

The Villa his home to secret OGA types. OGA means 'Other Government Agency' which might mean CIA. Or so they say. I certainly don't know, and probably couldn't say even if I did. Which I don't. All I know is, there were a bunch of overly buff dudes walking around in tight tee shirts and cargo pants with pistols on their hips, plus a couple of Laura Croft looking chicks who were also rocking tight tee shirts, cargo pants and pistols.

I remembered to bring my assault pack this time, and as we were sitting in the chow hall feasting on steaks, we were also eyeing the shelves of snack goodies we had strategically seated ourselves near. The new aide and Aide Man were scoping out the assorted boxes of candy bars, chips, cereals, and so on that were put out for us.

"Oooh, they have Frosted Mini Wheats!" the Aide Man exclaimed. A passing Air Force colonel heard his childlike enthusiasm, and stopped in his tracks.

"You know," he said, "I wouldn't have believed a Marine could get that excited over a breakfast cereal if I hadn't heard it myself."

"Ooorah, sir," Aide Man said, with a sheepish grin. In his defense, Frosted Mini Wheats are quite yummy. But still. I couldn't let that pass without comment.

"Sir, you just got busted on by the Air Force."

"Well, for what it's worth, both my grandfathers were Army, my father was Army, two uncles were Marines, and my brother is Army," the colonel told us. He went on to tell us that his grandfather had met his grandmother at a hospital after he was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, and we spent a couple of moments talking about the hardships endured by those servicemen who went before us. Someone made a joke about how good we had it, eating steak and all, and how those soldiers from past wars were probably spinning in their graves.

There's some grunt in Afghanistan right now sleeping on the rocky ground on top of some barren hill. He stinks because he hasn't showered in ten days and he has eaten nothing but MREs for the past two months. He hasn't had his boots off in three days. He finally got a Christmas card from his mom two weeks ago.

I have a warm bunk to sleep in each night, three hot meals a day in a chow hall, gyms, internet, bootleg DVDs, hot showers every day, an armored Suburban to roll around in...they even have ice cream in the chow halls. I have an air conditioned room, small though it may be. I might not be thrilled with walking as far as I do to the latrine, or the constant noise from the huge generators outside, or the power outages and constant dirt everywhere, but the reality is, I have it pretty good and I know it.

Especially compared to that kid on that Afghanistan mountain.

After we ate, and I filled my assault pack with pogey bait, We waited for the Boss. SSG C and the new aide, CPT M, sat at a patio table and chatted. Aide Man flirted with one of the Laura Crofts. I lounged by the pool, laying back and looking at the stars reflected in the water.

What a way to fight a war.

Sniper Alley Flag

2010-04-11T20:22:00.000+03:00

Easter Morning

2010-04-04T20:43:00.003+03:00

We roll into the IZ, past the Iraqi Army checkpoint. Three or four Iraqi soldiers stand near the guard shack, AKs one handed by the pistol grips, a tank parked across the street. T-72, I think it is. I remember when they gave us playing cards in AIT with Soviet tanks and aircraft and armored vehicles on the backs. The BMP. The Hind. The Backfire.

Down the long dusty road that fronts the Embassy. Suburbans and assorted cars here and there. I hear Velcro sounds from the backseat. "Eltee," I say into the mic at my lips.

"Yeah," Aide Man answers from behind the driver of the Humvee.

"Is that the Boss, getting out of his gear?"

"Uh, roger."

"Okay, he knows we're not getting out here, right?"

"Don't worry, we won't let him jump out."

"Roger that," I say, and we are slowing as we near the pickup point. As we roll to a stop, I peel off the headphones and mic, turn back to the Boss. I tell him that we are picking up passengers and then going on to the MOJ. He nods, and we stop and I jump out.

I see a man in a dress shirt and suit pants coming out way. He hold his suit coat, body armor, and helmet. I recognize him from a trip we did the other night. We meet by the first Humvee, and I confirm he is my pickup. The other gentleman, an embassy staffer, is already at the Ministry of Justice, our final destination. he gets in, and I mount back up and off we go.

A few minutes later, we pull up to a small parking area and disembark. We are still in the IZ. To one side is a busy stretch of road, to the other, T Walls, and on the other side, some Iraqi government areas, guarded by both IA and US Army.

The terp gets out of the last vehicle and the embassy man gets out of the first. They both take off their body armor and helmets and put on their suit coats. I leave my M4 in the front floorboard, and take the MP5 out of my assault pack, sling it across my chest. The Boss, me, Aide Man, LT Hal, newly promoted to First Lieutenant, and SSG M all walk through the Green Door. None of us take off our gear.

The Green Door leads to a wooded area, and on the other side, a series of walkways that head off to the Ministry of Justice, or MOJ. There is a big clock tower above it. A few nights ago, Aide Man and I were at the Embassy. I noted with surprise that the clock hands and numbers were red at night. I read online that the clock tower was used by Iraqi snipers during the invasion, after which we shot it up, but it's been restored now. I've been looking forward to getting a closer look at it.

We walk past some US and Iraqi soldiers. The US troops are from my battalion. LT Hal is leading the way Boss and the gentleman from the embassy are deep in conversation. One of the IA, wearing a desert cammo tee shirt and pants, walks quickly up from behind. He is holding a handheld radio he asks us to stop. There is some quick conversation between him and our terp, and I what the terp says next makes my heart sink. "This isn't the MOJ."

Shit! I took the Boss to the wrong place? That's a cardinal sin in the PSD business. I got this location from our Ops Master Sergeant. I confirmed it with LT Hal. None of that matters. I am responsible for getting the Boss to the correct location safely, no matter what. I did not do that. This is bad.

The embassy man and the terp and the Boss and the Iraqi soldier are all talking. The MOJ used to be here. It's been moved. We are in the wrong place. We were operating off of old information. I have fucked up. I look at Aide Man. He is stone faced behind his dark eyepro. His mouth is set in a tight pissed off line. This is so bad.

The man from the embassy gets on the phone to his colleague that went ahead. They talk about where we are and where we are not, and where we should be. We get a ten digit grid that I out in my notebook. We head back to the gun trucks. I'm hoping we can punch that grid in our GPS and get to where we need to be. The embassy man said the MOJ, the real MOJ, the new one, isn't far.

We get back in the trucks. LT Hal and SSG M work on getting the grid punched in. LT Hal is working a map. This is taking an eternity. "This...is...great," Aide Man says softly into the mic. I do not, however, think he means it.

After a few minutes, the Boss is standing outside, looking at the map with LT Hal. Aide Man, SSG M, me, and the embassy man are also standing in the parking lot. The embassy man is on the phone. We are trying to work out where we need to be and how we need to get there. I check my watch. 1123.

I hear an explosion in the distance. A couple of minutes later, another. Then, a third, closer, louder. It sounds a bit like a dump truck dumping a load of concrete and steel, but only lasts a second. Nobody reacts. This is Baghdad. Stuff exploding in the background sort of goes with the territory.

Matter of fact, the night at the embassy when I noticed the red hands and numbers of the clock tower, we heard an explosion and then a quick rattle of gunfire. I didn't find out what is was. Mortar, rocket, IED...who knows. It was in the distance. An explosion in the distance might as well be a hundred miles away.

After another half minute, we seem to know where we need to go. Then the gentleman from the embassy, still talking with his colleague on the phone, tells us that the meeting we were trying to reach has been cancelled due to a bombing.

We load back up, and go to head back to the NEC to drop off the embassy man. As we gain speed, the Boss raps me on the shoulder from behind. I turn my head, and he says, "Look there, that's the bombing." I look out the window and see a large black mushroom cloud filling the sky in the near distance. Call it just under half a mile.

We drop the embassy man off where we picked him up, and run back down Irish. As we near our ECP, entry control point, we are diverted to another one due to a threat of a VBIED, or car bomb. We make it back in without any problems, and drop the Boss off at the office. I apologize to him for not getting him where he needed to be. He doesn't say much. He isn't happy, but thankfully he isn't a screamer.

A little later, I am checking my emails. Several security and intelligence reports about the trio of bombing in the city. The locations of the explosions are shown on a map. I check the grid, check the map, check my notebook. Yeah. We would have been in the neighborhood, in the general area.

So...yeah.

K-Max and Rusafa

2010-03-27T20:04:00.000+03:00

Big part of the Boss's job involves the prisons and detention facilities in Iraq. Most, almost all either have been or are being turned over to the Iraqi government, like we did in Taji last week. The U.S. is working it's way out of the detainee business, but it's not an overnight process.

We spent a couple of days earlier this week visiting two Iraqi prisons. They both predate the invasion, so I can only imagine the horrific things that have gone on there.I don't like jails or prisons. Depressing places.

The first one we went to is called K-Max. It's a maximum security facility in the northern Baghdad suburb called Khadimiya. It's a prison for death penalty convicts and prisoners with life sentences. In fact, it's where they executed Saddam a few years back, and more recently, Chemical Ali and other former regime guys. The second is in a suburb called al Rasufa. It's a prison for both convicted and pretrial detainees.

We toured the both facilities, including the gallows at K-Max. Both are dirty, greasy places. Crowded, poorly lighted, poorly constructed, like most Iraqi places. Just nasty, filthy places, although I have no doubt that they are much better now than when it was under Ba'athist rule. Still, there's no mistaking them for anything other than third world prisons.

Prisoners are kept in cell blocks with a couple of dozen or so inmates to each cell. They had bunk beds, and were packed in pretty tight. Most of the cell blocks had a TV mounted on the wall. Lots of cigarette smoke in the air, along with all the other unlovely odors of a prison. There were isolation cells, and little caged exercise yards. At K-Max we saw a wing where older inmates are housed. We had seen some of them outside earlier, old men tending little gardens. Their wing, in marked contrast to the rest of the cell blocks, was pretty clean and orderly. The Boss even commented on how clean it smelled.

Rusafa was pretty bad, even compared to K-Max. Filthy, trash everywhere. A lot of the population are housed in tents, which U.S. forces built as temporary holding facilities. Temporary six years ago. The prisoners are crammed in these tents, which have cages or cells running along the outer walls and the tent fabric over it. It was bad. It's hard to feel sorry for these guys, but those were pretty rotten living conditions. However, they were well fed, had cigarettes, and a TV in each tent, and nobody was being tortured, so that right there is a big step up from the Saddam days.

Security concerns were pretty high for me. There were lots of people at both prisons who were just...walking around. In the administrative areas, there were a lot of men and a few women in civilian clothes. It was tough to tell who was staff, who was some sort of official, who belonged and who didn't. Guys would walk into offices where the Boss and other people were to have a look around. I had some line MPs acting as a sort of PSD, but it was still not a controlled area, and I never really felt comfortable as far as the Boss's safety was concerned anywhere we went.

Inside the prisoner areas proper, there was less of an issue of miscellaneous rubberneckers, but the concern there was some of the inmates acting out, making an attack, throwing something (a urine-feces cocktail, anyone?) or otherwise endangering the Boss. We attracted a lot of attention, and inmates would gather at the bars of their cells to see what all the fuss was about. Nothing happened of any note, thankfully.

We were toured around by the wardens of each prison, a State department guy, and some U.S. trainers. I didn't get their whole title, but basically these guys are former cops and prison workers, and are under contract for the Department of Justice, training and assisting the Iraqis. There were also assorted staff, associate and junior wardens, terps, and the dozen or so strap hangers we brought with us, so we had a pretty big tail. One of the terps was a MIG pilot in the Iraqi Air Force.

There are a lot of issues in dealing with these facilities, obviously. Some of, or more accurately, most of these issues, seem to arise from trying to treat the insurgents, terrorists, enemy combatants, pick a name, like criminals as opposed to war prisoners. At the al Rusafa prison, some of the prisoners there have been awaiting trial for up to seven years. A lot of these are guys either we or the Iraqis captured during the course of the war, and the paperwork either has been lost or never existed. With no real idea about the circumstances of their capture, no witnesses or evidence, it would seem like the only recourse would be to release them. However, no one is too eager to do that. These guys weren't picked up for jaywalking, so potentially very dangerous people could be back out there making mischief if released, and no one is too eager to accept responsibility for making that call. The Boss summed it up pretty well when he said, "Looks like we have left these guys a soup sandwich."

At one point, I was standing outside an office. Everybody else had gone inside to have a sit down meeting. One of the Justice Department guys walked past me and said, "That lady behind you? History."

I looked behind me, into a glass fronted office where I saw an attractive Iraqi lady at a desk, talking with a guy seated before her. She wore a headscarf and business clothes, and was maybe a little older than me. I wondered what she had done. Did he mean history, like she was getting fired, or what?

The Justice guy continued: "You're looking at the first female associate warden in Iraq. History. And, not only is she the first woman to have that job, she's twice as sharp as her boss." I had earlier noted to someone that the warden looked liked an oily scumbag used car dealer. The guy went on to say that he hoped someday she would be running the prison.

The Boss met with as many people as he could. He spoke with a doctor at K-Max, a judge at Rusafa, the wardens, assorted officials, hearing everyone's complaints and problems. Some of them had legitimate issues, some seemed to have their hand out for money. There are a lot of issues to be dealt with. Some of them are pretty complex. Some are as simple as conducting a police call and picking up all the damn trash. Some will take our continued assistance. Most of them it will be up to the Iraqis to solve themselves. Are they up to it? I reckon time will tell.

Garden Party

2010-03-22T18:31:00.004+03:00

I'm standing under the portico, by the cannon, with the rest of the security guys. We all have little curlicue ear pieces coming out of our collars and tucked into an ear. Official Cool-Guy Secret Service style. I'm the only one wearing a uniform. Three of them are wearing dark suits and ties, one wears the typical 5.11 tactical pants and vest over his light dress shirt. His vest is bulky and heavy on him, and I wonder what he is carrying under there. Some sort of subgun, I'm sure. I'm the smallest security guy there. Oldest, too. I have pulled my ACU top down to cover my pistol. I'm not authorized to do this, but nobody else is openly carrying, and well, it just seems more polite somehow. The band plays and a KBR waiter offers me a tall skinny can of Coke.

We were greeted at the gate by a British general in dress uniform. He has a bright green beret and red lapels on his tropical khaki uniform. In his hand he clutches a dark carved walking stick. He could have stepped out of a WWI movie. The Boss and he exchanged handshakes and hearty backslaps. "BGs are over there," a suited guy with a clipboard said, pointing. His hair is sort of long, feathered and gray at the temples. He looks very preppy, very country club. His tone was polite enough, but did I pick up a little hint of riff raff over there? The English are so good at the subtle slight. It took me a second to realize he meant "bodyguards" when he said BGs. We, the U.S. Army, tend to call guys like me PSOs, Personal Security Officers or Protective Services Officers, take your pick. The Boss and his aide, a Marine First Lieutenant, headed over to the party on the grass with the British general. I went up the walk to stand with the other BGs, out of the way.

The grass is green and freshly cut. A little breeze is blowing, and it's not too hot. The air smells clean and nice. Trees shade the people mingling on the grass, drinks in hand. Waiters in white shirts and black bow ties circulate with silver trays, bearing hors d' oeuvres. A U.S. Army band is set up across the lawn. One of the soldiers is singing, but I can't see which one. They don't sound bad. They are doing 'Tunnel of Love' by the Boss. There's a bar with a bar man, and more waiters hustle back and forth, taking away empty glasses, bringing back clean sparkling ones. General Order Number One does not apply at the British Embassy.

The cannon, a plaque mounted on the carriage informs me, was cast at a British foundry in 1848. The plaque lists the cannon's vital statistics; caliber, weight, range and so on. There is a cannon ball there, too, about as big as a good sized grapefruit. I wonder how much it weighs but do not try and lift it. I wonder how many battles this cannon has been in, how many times it has roared and belched fire and hot metal at onrushing masses of enemy troops, how many campaigns and victories and defeats, fighting for the Empire in Mesopotamia. So much history. The band goes into 'Layla.' I do not like Clapton.

One of the BGs come over to me and says hello. His name is Blake, and he is with the Australian embassy. He is polite and friendly. He calls me 'mate.' "What unit are you with, mate?" We tell each other how long we have been in Iraq. After that, we don't have anything much to say to each other, and he wanders back over with the other BGs. I wish I was more social. It would have been nice to chat with that guy, find out a little about him, what he does, pass the time. I'm too shy, which is often mistaken for aloofness. I can't talk to people very well and I don't make friends easily. Usually it doesn't bother me, but as I watch the other BGs chat and laugh, I wish I knew how to walk over, introduce myself and hang out.

The band works its way through 'Hotel California.' I smile inwardly. I remember when this song was the devil, the devil! and now the U.S. Army is playing it at a posh embassy party. Surreal.

I see the Lieutenant, who the Boss keeps calling "Aideman", or, maybe "Aide Man" chatting with a female British officer. The Boss chats with some suits. There's maybe fifty, sixty people on the little lawn. Mostly people in nice suits and ties, the ladies in summer type dresses. They are pretty well outnumbered by the males. There's one big guy wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and a wide brimmed safari type hat. Across his big belly is a loud and colorful tie, alive with reds and blues and yellows. A couple of helicopters fly by. The band is playing 'Learning to Fly' by Pink Floyd. Occasionally I slip around a big carved column and take a sip of my Coke, which I've set out of sight. The KBR waiters offer me some of the little treats on trays. I don't recognize what anything is, some sort of spread on crackers with garnishes and stuff. After I decline three or four times, they stop offering. The other BGs take a little snack here and there. I stand off by myself and watch people.

It is amazing to me that I should be here, in this place, at this moment. I come from No Place Special, Texas. I did not finish high school. I am neither very smart nor very educated. What small talents I have don't seem to be particularly useful in my life. There is no reason why I should not be living in a single wide trailer with a bad drinking habit. Yet here I stand, in the British Embassy in Baghdad, Two thousand and ten, ten! watching diplomats and generals and assorted political fancy people drink and mingle and visit. Hired help, yes, but I'm here.

One time Connie and I went to Key West.Our first night there we ate dinner overlooking the water. The food was great, the service even better. I drank a beer out of one of those aluminum bottles. It was so cold and delicious. We sat on the patio, enjoying the cool of the evening and we held hands. I had driven a boat of a Cadillac to Key West with a beautiful, amazing woman I was (and am) crazy in love with. We had just finished a fine meal and pretty soon we would be going up to our nice room and have some private fun. It was a special spectacular moment and I wanted it to last forever.

There have been many moments like that with her. I wanted to pinch myself, and that's how I feel now, standing in a war zone at a fancy party. The two experiences don't compare, not even close, but the wonder of the experience, the disbelief, the feeling that I have no business being this lucky is the same.

If I believed in luck...

And is luck even the right word? Am I lucky to be in Iraq? Maybe that's not how I mean it. It's the...un-ordinariness of it. I mean, say what you will, this is not an ordinary situation. How did I come to be here? How is it I am not sitting dully in front of a TV someplace, vacant eyes and slack jawed, instead of living this amazing wonderful crazy life?

Aide Man gives me the high sign. I get on the radio and tell SSG M we will be coming out in a couple of minutes. He acknowledges in my little ear piece. I walk up the sidewalk a bit. The other security guys nod as I leave. "Cheers, mate," says Blake. I nod back and wait on the Boss. The band plays 'Careless Whisper' by George Micheal. They played a lot of songs by English guys, I can only suppose in honor of our hosts. The British general escorts the Boss up the sidewalk. The two generals walk me, and I fall in behind with LT Aide Man. We walk out the gate, past Mister Country Club, towards the main entrance, which is guarded by bad ass former Gurkha's with their bad ass Kukri knives.

"You get her number?" I ask the Lieutenant, and he smiles and shows me a business card.

Beats filling sandbags, I think to myself as we get back in the trucks and head for Route Irish.

Iraq From Above

2010-03-18T21:57:00.001+03:00

Hitting the Ground Running

2010-03-15T22:15:00.001+03:00

I've been outside the wire six times in the last four days. That really isn't a big deal, except for the fact that prior to Friday, I had only been outside the wire twice in three months.

Friday morning I was picked up by SSG Rod, a big New Yorker stationed in Hawaii. His six man PSD has been protecting the outgoing major general (two star) for the past year, and he and his guys were a wealth of information. The last four days have been a blur of introductions, briefings, and missions. It's been like trying to drink from a fire hose, but I feel like I've been set up for success.

I'm living in a CHU now, which stands for Containerized Housing Unit. Not too bad, a little small, but I have to walk about a million miles to the latrine. Also, there's an enormous generator right outside the T-wall, so it sounds like a damn eighteen wheeler is running just outside the window. Other than that, hey, it's Iraq.

So, the new job. Obviously, there's a lot I can't talk about as far as security goes, but this is gonna be a fun job. Busy as hell, but fun. I wish it would be longer, but I'm guessing this will just be for a few weeks, maybe a month, until the General's personal PSO get's in-country. Then I will take him around and get him acquainted with what he needs to know, and I'll be back at my old camp.

In the meantime, I am the man. My main job is to provide personal security to the Boss. This mainly entails setting up travel whenever he needs to go outside the wire, be it by ground convoy or air. Our ground transportation is provided by a platoon from my battalion, which is great, because I know those guys. The platoon leader, LT Hal, is not only a good buddy of mine, but we both work for the same police department and were on the SWAT team together. His guys are super squared away and we should work together well. The platoon refers to themselves as PSD, which they are, in one sense, and are not, in another. Mainly, they are armed transportation.

There's a ton or coordination that goes into every trip. Planning and preparation start days in advance. Multiple emails, spread sheets, rosters, trip tickets, air movement requests, mission support forms, on and on. A recon if we are taking the Boss to an unfamiliar location. A convoy standing by in case the air is a no-go. Contingency plans and alternate routes and points of contact.

Friday afternoon we took a did a recon to the IZ, aka the Green Zone, to scout out a location we were taking the Boss to the next night. Then, that evening, we took the Boss back to the IZ for a meeting. This was at a pretty plush place. There was a beautiful swimming pool and outdoor patio area, marble columns, stone work, landscaping, the works.

After we got the Boss settled, the entire PSD, including LT Hal's guys, the General's aide and SGT Graywarz, the General's driver and former member of my PSD, all ate a very nice dinner. There were several other PSD's there, as well. Sushi, shrimp, and lobster were a big hit, but I had a salad and pork chops.

SGT Graywarz told me top make sure I brought an assault pack to this place, because there were goodies to be had. "They force it on you," he said, "Bring a bag with lots of room." I failed to heed this sage advice, and so, when I saw the shelves stacked high with candy bars, jerky, mixed nuts, chips and other snack foods of every description, I felt sad and empty inside, thinking I would have to leave empty handed. The I realized that SGT Graywarz had plenty of room in his assault pack, so I acted like a looter at a Katrina Walmart and loaded up.

Afterwards, SSG Rod and I waited by the pool for the Boss to come out of his meeting. I would have loved to kick back on a deck chair, puff a nice cigar and sip a cold beer while looking at the stars. Instead, SSG Rod and I talked tactics, routes, and protection protocols.

Saturday evening was another trip to the IZ, where the Boss met with an Iraqi government official. I was kinda surprised to see this minister was a female. SSG Rod and I waited outside the office, with some Iraqi PSD guys. They had no English and I have no Arabic. In fact, I speak more Swahili than I do Arabic, so we all just stood there not speaking until the meeting was over. Then it was back down Route Irish to VBC, and straight to another place where the Boss needed an escort. That took a few more hours, so it was a very late night.

Sunday was another two-fer. We went back to the IZ so I could get an embassy badge, which took forever and was preceded by an overly long and overly boring briefing on crap I didn't need or care to know. Then, that evening went back to the Embassy for another meeting. SSG Rod, the aides and I sat in the lobby and people watched. It was very odd to me, seeing so many civilians, considering the environment. Men in business suits and women in dresses and heels, and of course, there were a ton of feds from the FBI and State walking around in the ubiquitous 5.11s and polos. The Embassy is a beautiful building in a nice complex and I suppose the people who work there have a very good life, compared to the military. It sort of reminded me of a college campus. SSG Rod seemed to know about half the people who worked there, from civilian terps to other generals.

Today was a busy day. We flew to Taji for a ceremony, turning the prison there over to the Iraqis. It was a nice flight up and back. I haven't flew in a helicopter since probably 1992. The entire trip was a lot of work to coordinate, but it went really well. We had a ton of people flying up there, two two-star generals, five or six full bird colonels, a couple lieutenant colonels, majors and captains, three command sergeants major, two sergeants major, a first sergeant, and assorted underlings and minions, which would include me, I suppose. It required two separate flights of two helicopters each, and logistically is was a pain in the ass and could have been a recipe for disaster, but luckily, I had SSG Rod and his right hand man, SGT H to walk me through it, so it all went off without a hitch. I took lots of pictures from the air, and I will post them as soon as I can make my camera obey me and upload them to the computer.

I hate cramming so much stuff into one post. I know I'm forgetting a ton of stuff I meant to write about, leaving things out and skipping details, but it's late, I'm tired, and I want to talk with my sweetie pie before I hit the sack, so here you go.

Oh, one thing:

During the ceremony today, I stood there watching the crowd while the speakers made speeches. There were a lot of U.S. military there, Iraqi officials, media, although none that I recognized as U.S. It was a good ceremony, and pretty good speeches. If you clicked on those links, you read how this is the second of three major detention facilities we are turning over to the GOI (Government of Iraq.) We are building the facilities, training the staff, and then handing them the reins. Like SSG Rod and his guys did for me, we are equipping the Iraqis with the tools they need to be successful.

If you read the CBS story, the first link, you also saw how they started off reporting the transfer of the prison, finished up talking about a bombing and election strife. Which would be somewhat in keeping with my expectation of the majority of media coverage about Iraq: never end on a positive note.

But when I was listening to the Minister of Justice, Dara Noureddin, give his speech, standing there all serious business with my M9, M4, and Official Cool-GuySecret Service ear-piece, I was struck the hopefulness of his words. I expected to hear some things, of course; thank you and this marks a turning point for Iraq. All true, but pretty standard fare. One thing he said stuck with me, though. He urged the new owners of that prison, the warden, the guards, the staff, all the people we have trained and mentored, to keep the place up. To keep it clean. To immediately repair anything needing fixing. To take pride in it and take care of it.

In contrast with his other words, it wasn't especially flowery or fancy. It was just practical and down to earth, and the message was clear.

From here on out, it's up to them.

As it should be, as it should be.

Meet the New Boss

2010-03-12T08:15:00.000+03:00

"Hey, just a warno, you're gonna be going over to be PSO for the incoming two-star, until his own guy gets here."

Translation: I've got a temporary gig guarding a Major General for a couple of weeks. We sent one of my E-5s, SGT Graywarz, over to be this general's driver last month, so I'll be seeing him again. I'll probably be moving across post for the duration. I'll find out more today when I start my right seat-left seat with the outgoing PSO.

Okay. Gotta pack.

Night Run

2010-03-08T22:14:00.000+03:00

We start off from the gate, just a quick warm up, moving the joints, trying to ease some stiffness out of my old bones, then a short run over to the big tower, high stepping through the ruts. The mud dries hard like baked clay and there are deep grooves and holes from the trucks. We jog through the palm grove, then hit the tower; ten, twelve flights up. Feet clanging on metal. "Hit every step," Stroud says, and we do.

Quads burning at the top, we turn, tapping our way down, careful in the dark, then at the bottom, back up again, pushing harder the second time, legs heavy and thighs burning, until at the top we are barely running anymore, just one foot in front of the other, step by step, and we reach the last landing and lean over, breathing hard.

Then back through the grove to the road, and off we go, a loose pack. Rock wants to sprint the light poles, and I say show me how. Off he goes into the dark, charging, unstoppable. If you told him to attack a tank with a tent peg he would bring you the treads as a war trophy.

James and I run together, Stroud and Will somewhere behind us, Rock somewhere ahead. No traffic, almost cool, nice night for it. Footfalls on the rutted crumbling pavement slap slap slapping and breathing sounds, my love hate, the pain and effort, the endorphins and accomplishment.

How many years now. Of running like this, roadwork, getting in the mileage. 1986. Harmony Church, so fucking cold even in those dark blue sweats, those long runs, Charlie 4-2, hating it with my shaved head, screaming drill sergeants, wanting to run into the woods and hide and run away, run away. Months pass and jump school, all those feet slapping so loud in formation, like a living thing, part of something more then yourself. Could run forever like that. Sweating even early in the day, the Black Hats yelling, calling cadence, fall out and you're finished.

Now it's me and Rock, James is back behind us, Rock and I side by side, through the dark. I'm keeping a fast pace. Fast for me. I know I can't hold it, won't be able to keep it coming back, but it feels good, stretching it out, legs pumping. More.

Gunfire to our right, other side of the wall. It's 5.56, seven or eight rounds fast popping. Rock flinches and swerves. "Test fire pit," I say, someone is going out, testing those weapons. We run on.

James is with us again, and we turn around, sweating despite the coolness of the night, a little breeze so good on the face, breathing still okay, starting back. We pass Will and Stroud after a moment, materializing out of the darkness. We pass without speaking, just heavy breathing and a little head nod.

James and Rock and me, James moving a little ahead. Harder now, breathing heavier, but still good. Rock wants to know the distance, and I twist and turn my wrist, trying to see the readout of the Garmin in the yellow streetlamp. "One. Point. Five. Six." I try not to gasp. Maybe a mile to go, mile and a quarter.

Rock gone now, just behind but invisible in the dark, might as well be a mile, James and I side by side. He is a former Marine, fast, maybe the second fastest in the former PSD, third or forth fastest in the company. He moves like a machine. He is speeding up and now my legs are heavy, I feel myself slowing down. Bit by bit. Rock passes me, joins James, they speed away, and now it's just me.

It's just me. Running in the dark. It hurts. It feels good.

To my left is the wall and outside it, Iraq. I run and run, willing my legs to go faster. Heavy and slow and man it was so easy twenty something years ago. Helicopters passing overhead, a pair, no lights, just over the wall, outside the wire, low and loud. Rotors beat the air. I look for them, see them, ghostly, light shapes against the ink. Loud clattering ghosts.

Pushing more. Almost there, got to be. Sweat on my lips, stinging my eyes. Feet sound hollow as they beat the ground. Slow, slow old man. I push and my legs are made of wood.

I see them just ahead, slow jogging in circles, waiting on me, Stroud, Will. Maybe 300 meters to the gate, waiting at the curve in the road. I ease to a stop, stop the GPS on my wrist, hands on my hips, behind my head, turning my face trying to catch the breeze. Not jogging, let the kids do that, I'm done, man, walking in circles, slow deep steady breaths. Cool down.

Rock and James banter, James talking about his fast run time on the last PT test, making a point to mention he was sick. "What was your time, Rock," I say, and Rock says that I wouldn't let him run it, remember. Resentment just there underneath. I had forgotten. He rolled his ankle ten days before the PT test and I told him he couldn't run even though he swore he was fine. He would run with a sucking chest wound. You can't stop Rock.

"You were on profile, Rock. Why are you making me the bad guy?"

"The world needs a villain, Staff Sergeant." Wisdom from the Rock.

They go back for Will and Stroud. I walk in circles, waiting. Where is the breeze?

They come out of the dark, see them before I hear them, sprinting the light poles. Four abreast, sprinting, arms and legs pumping. They are young and strong. They look like warriors. They look like champions.

They sprint past me. I turn the Garmin back on, run to catch up. Smiling.

Yeah. Good run.

The Wire, and Going Outside It

2010-03-02T19:56:00.008+03:00

About a month ago I went outside the wire with the Boss, my battalion commander. If you check out Victory Base Camp on Google Earth, you'll see that to the East is Baghdad, and to the West is farm land. Our unit is responsible for some of that farm land, as it butts up against the wall that separates VBC from Iraq proper. We send out patrols to check the wall, meet and greet with locals and Iraqi Army, and generally have a look around. The Boss wanted to go out and take a look for himself.

Before we got here, when I was training my boys back at McGregor Range, we expected to be rolling out with the Boss as a full PSD, our own gun trucks, an independent element, all that. It's what I wanted, but it was not to be. The war is winding down, and as such, the BC's role isn't one that takes him outside the wire often. When he does go out, he jumps in with one of the line companies and one of us PSD guys tags along. It's not ideal, in fact it fucking sucks from my point of view because it puts me and my boys out of a job, but what can you do.

Outside the wire used to be a whole other animal than what it is these days. It's still not like going into Wisconsin, but it ain't 2007, either. I was reminded of this while siting in on the operations order and patrol brief before we went out.

"Okay, this is where the cache of RPG's were found, what was it, sergeant? Twenty four warheads?"

"Remember, we need to be looking for the white Mercedes from the tower shooting last week."

"Okay, and down here, just outside our AO, they set off two IEDs last week, one was a crush wire, and the second was command detonated."

I noticed a slight dog and pony aspect to the fact that in addition to the platoon leader (PL) going out, the company commander (CO) was also tagging along. Bet that wouldn't happen if Big 6 wasn't going. Nonetheless, I had a very warm and fuzzy feeling based on what I had heard. Everybody knew their job and knew the plan.

Our interpreter showed up. I have seen him before, when the BC and I went to a place on the other side of Baghdad. He was working for one of our other rifle companies then. He is a short, white haired older man, stooped and slow moving. He was wearing ACUs and a helmet that looked too big for him. He looked too old and frail for all the walking we would be doing, and the PL and CO trade incredulous looks. After he left the briefing room, the jokes and comments started.

"Are you fucking kidding me? He's gonna break a hip. I ain't carrying him."

"Hey, you need to make some room for his Hoveround in your Humvee."

"And a case of Ensure."

"Hey, Eltee, how'd you get clearance for your grandad to come over here?"

"Yeah, somebody go tell the arms room we need a musket for that guy."

I've been on the receiving end of the musket jokes before, myself. I just smile and say I'm not old, just older.

We went over the route, the dismount points, actions on contacts, the usual. It was a very detailed patrol brief and op order, in fact, it was probably the most thorough one I have ever been a party to, and I had to wonder how much of that extra effort was for the BC's benefit. If it was, they wasted their time, because he didn't show up until an hour to SP time.

We geared up, checked comms, loaded up, and rolled out. We went out an heavily guarded Entry Control Point (ECP) and headed down a couple of dirt roads to our dismount point. The land is green and heavily vegetated, canals running here and there around the fields. Houses sit in clusters in the distance. It's not a barren desert, not at all.

After dismounting, a small group of us walked down the road and then along the edge of a field. It was hot and sunny, but still a bit muddy from recent rains. The gun trucks moved off to an overwatch position as the BC, the PL and the rest of us made our way along a canal. We negotiated a deep and mud slick ditch. The terp moved slowly, wobbled a bit, but managed to keep his feet. The PL made a "Can you believe this shit?" face. I listened to the PL and the gun trucks talk through my earpiece, watched my step, watched the buildings, the treeline.

Our patrol route parallels the wall, and we can hear the Iraqi Special Forces shooting on the other side. They have a weapons range on their compound, and are shooting into the berm on the other side of the double wall. The PL is perhaps a little nervous with the BC along, and plays tour guide, quietly pointing out this and that.

We walk a little bit more. We do a little security halt and the BC, CO and PL talk about the wall. I move opposite them, along the border of a field. There's some houses, buildings and trees off to my left front along another dirt road, little more than a raised path, really. Another road runs across my front.

Crackziiinnnggg past my head and I flinch and crouch, not sure whether to hit the deck or what. I look over my shoulder back at the command group who all look blandly back at me, and the PL says, "That was from inside," hooking a thumb back at the wall.

"Oh, yeah, I know," I say, and try to hide my embarrassment with a chuckle, but at the same time I'm thinking, "Bullshit, that was from out here."

Still, nobody else is hitting the dirt, and the PL says, "Hey, happens to everybody," so I think, yeah, okay, maybe it was a ricochet, which is just what the BC is talking about, and the PL says one probably hit a rock or something from inside.

Half a minute later, crackziiinnnggg, but this time I don't flinch. Won't make me look stupid twice. "Okay, I know that was from out here," I tell myself, but I continue to stand, determined not to look foolish again.

"Uh, Victor Element, this is Dismount 6," I hear the PL radio to the vehicles. "Yeah, we just took some fire over here, why don't you bring the trucks back over this way."

I look around, and I'm the only guy still standing. The command group has taken a knee, the SAW gunner is proned out behind his M249. I take a knee too, and listen to the BC and the CO and the PL debate whether the rounds that zipped over our heads came from inside the compound or outside it.

"I think we would have heard impacts in the wall behind us," the BC says, and that kinda makes sense, unless they were just shooting high. The wall isn't that tall from this side, so. Plus it depends on the angle. They could be more to the side than front, and in that case, the rounds wouldn't really hit the wall behind us.

"Maybe, sir, unless they were just a little high, or went past us," the PL says. Fucking exactly, I think. He is a SWAT cop from a large department and looks like Vic Mackey.

"I wonder if the guys in the towers might be shooting," the BC says, thinking out loud, maybe a Ugandan got trigger happy, saw us out there and forgot or somehow didn't get the word we would be patrolling today. Pretty tough to mistake us for anything other than GI's, though.

"Staff Sergeant, what's your assessment?" the BC asks me, and without speaking I motion towards the tree line to my left front, where it seemed like they came from.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," someone says, so I feel validated for my flinching-crouching moment earlier. See?

We scan the buildings and tree line, looking for our sniper, anything, but we don't see anything. In the far distance, some people walk casually. There is more quiet debate as to whether or not we were shot at. The gun trucks are headed back in our direction, coming back along the road beside the buildings to our left front.

Popopop three round burst off in the direction of the trucks, and somebody goes, "That from inside?"

At the same time: "This is Victor 2, we just had somebody shoot at us right over here. Local populace reacted to the shots and is running, not our shooter though. Anybody see anything?" and then the guys in the truck talk about where they think the fire came from.

The PL talks with the trucks via radio, and yes, they are sure that it came from right where they are, somebody fired off a quick three round burst. It didn't sound muffled like the fire from inside the compound behind us.

The trucks move up and stop to our left, and I move the BC inside a vehicle while we assess. Nobody got eyes on anyone shooting, or even saw a muzzle flash. We decide to push on, so we continue our dismount with the vehicles paralleling us in the distance to provide overwatch.

Nothing else happens. We walk and look around, squish through the mud. The terp says he is fine, no problem, and he seems to be keeping up okay. We work our way down some more dirt paths and turn a corner, following the VBC wall. After a bit, we meet with the gun trucks and mount back up.

We roll down a series of dirt lanes, bordered by brush, trees, ditches, canals. Small green fields are being tended by farmers. I see more women than men bending and cutting whatever is growing. Children run up from dirt yards and wave, flash the peace sign, shout for us to give them something free. We wave back and keep driving.

Houses are here and there, built in clusters. Cinder block or tan bricks, mostly, some little more than mud huts, some with walls and metal gates and new looking sedans sitting outside. I see skinny dogs and dirty kids and boys on bicycles. Fathers stand with waving children. It's good to be outside and see people living their lives, even if it is through a few inches of bullet resistant glass.

The lead vehicle advises us of people walking on or standing near the roadway, and everyone acknowledges as we pass checkpoints and phase lines. I picture where we would be on a map, remembering our route from the power point presentation. My warm and fuzzy grows. These guys are squared away.

After a bit, we stop at an Iraqi Army checkpoint. When we arrive, there is one jundi on duty, lounging lazily against a Jersey barrier. By the time we leave twenty minutes later, three of his comrades have hurried to join him from a nearby barracks, pulling on armor and web gear. As we roll out, they have assumed their posts, very serious and earnest, looking quite smart as they busily stand around.

We drive through a small village area, and men stand in doorways as we drive by, smoking, their faces impassive or dismissive. No one is openly hostile, but nobody is high fiving, either. It's a little different vibe from the waving farm families just a couple of miles back.

"Hey, sir, we just saw that car we were looking for."

"Where'd you see it, Victor 3?"

"It's back by the tan building to the left, with the red gate."

"Okay, when we come back through here, get some pictures. Have your camera guy get the plate, and see if he can't get some face shots on those guys to the left mean mugging us."

"Victor 3, good copy."

We go up to our turn around point, laboriously turn around in a muddy field, then come back through the village. The men stand and stare sullenly. My waves are ignored. We take pictures and keep going.

After awhile we stop near a farm. We cross a muddy ditch and make our way towards the three or four houses and outbuildings. Some children poke their heads out from around a building. They smile and wave excitedly. The houses are cinder block with large open windows. One is unfinished and empty inside. A young woman looks out a window and is startled as we walk by. She wears a head scarf and smiles and waves shyly. "What is your name?" she calls out in careful English to my BC.

"My name is Scott," he says, and she waves and smiles again.

I stand around for a bit while the BC visits with the farmer. He owns a lot of the land in the area, and is a wealthy man. There are three or four barefoot little girls who chase each other and play in the dirt yard, showing off, and some boys wave to the soldiers and whisper to each other. A cow and two calves are tethered near the houses, and they shy and buck as we walk near.

The BC and the farmer talk about a small cowpen that is built against the wall. It's a mud brick affair, low and dark, looks like one good shove and it would fall over. It's not good that it's up against the wall, though, which is the purpose of our visit.

Our terp goes back and forth, interpreting; the pen should come down, we can't let is stay up. The farmer supports us, but he needs the cow pen. He was promised a bridge over the muddy ditch by the previous unit. We have no way of knowing if this is true.

It's getting late, cooling off. Clothes wave in the wind on a clothes line. An older woman brings a big armload of grasses to the cattle. A younger woman watches us from a doorway across the yard. The atmosphere is relaxed and peaceful.

It's time to go, and as we walk back towards were the gun trucks wait, the children run around the houses to wave goodbye to us. A dog comes around a corner and stands in my way, barking furiously, giving way as I continue to walk towards it. The BC points out the three new vehicles in the yard, and says farming must be good here.

We cross the ditch, the terp moving gingerly but again not falling. We mount back up and continue on, making our way by dirt roads around canals and fields. The light is going. The sunlight flickers through the trees as we head to an ECP, where we clear our weapons and roll back inside the wire.

Ferris Wheel

2010-02-22T21:27:00.002+03:00

We are up in the air. I can smell popcorn and cotton candy and her hair. The wind blows and it's in my face, black and silky and i want to run my fingers through it.

We sway gently back and forth. I see lights and hear music. The crowd below, cops and families and hoodlums and couples like us. She is warm against me. She still has a few bits of confetti in her hair from the cascarone. She flinched and stared at me when I hit her with the egg, laughed like a child, delighted, when she saw it was filled with confetti. "Oh, buy me one!" she said, and I did. She pulled my cap off and smashed it over my head and we laughed.

"Let's take a picture," and we lean together, smiling, her hair blowing. I push the button and we examine ourselves.

"Yeah. That's a good one."

Let's All Go To The Lobby!

2010-02-15T22:20:00.004+03:00

Some of the movies for sale at our little PX:

Reservoir Doggish, no? It even has Harvey Keitel.

I like Tim Daly, but not enough to watch this.

WTF?

Hedgehog

2010-02-07T19:04:00.005+03:00

A few weeks back I accompanied my battalion commander to visit one of the platoons that was tasked with securing a particular place. Without getting too much into the weeds on this, our infantry battalion is made up of several companies, most of which are stationed on Victory Base Camp. They have missions which sometimes take them to other areas in and around Baghdad, and from time to time the Boss or his Command Sergeant Major will make a trip out to visit the troops.

The ride through the city was uneventful. We were riding along with one of the line companies, and for all practical purposes I was just along for the ride. If things went south, then I would be responsible for taking care of the Boss. Absent any drama, however, I was just a passenger.

There was traffic, and plenty of it, and the days when U.S. convoys could barrel down the highways, forcing Iraqi vehicles out of our way and onto the shoulders of the road are over. They still mostly made way for us, though. We saw plenty of Iraqi security forces out and about, as well. Iraqi Police and Iraqi Army were everywhere, patrolling, manning checkpoints, being visible.

Anyway, we got to where we were going with no problems, and after awhile, the Boss and the young platoon leader, a First Lieutenant, began walking around to check the security posts and talk with the men.

My BC is a good guy. He is serious about our purpose here, expects results from those around him, but isn't a screamer. He is somewhat soft spoken, listens more than he speaks, and while I wouldn't call him "laid back," I have only seen him show the slightest of irritation on one or two occasions. He is religious but not in your face with it, and expresses a genuine concern for the well being of his soldiers that I admire greatly.

He is also somewhat naive about certain pop culture references. One time I saw him, wearing a quizzical look, examining a cartoon somebody had posted above their desk. It was a picture like a wet floor sign, only it...oh hell. It was this:

I could tell he didn't get the reference, so I tried, rather lamely, to explain the scene where Leonidas kicks the Persian emissary into the pit, while screaming "This is SPARTAAAAAAA!"

But I digress.

Before we deployed, the BC said a couple of times that he wanted us to use this time in Iraq to our benefit. We said we should set goals that we wished to accomplish, and make sure we don't waste our time here. He said we should have three types of goals: personal/spiritual,
professional, and physical. Later, we were told we should write these goals down on a 3x5 card, and carry it with us. We were also told that this would be an inspectable item.

A word about inspectable items. Look, I get it. I agree with not wasting this year here. And writing down goals is a way to solidify what you want to get done. It takes it from the abstract to the real. But, to be honest, I have enough inspectable items to carry around. In fact, I just had a conversation about that very thing with SGT Graywarz.

There are things we need to have on our person at all times here; ID cards, dog tags, a pen and notepad, weapon, ammo. But for whatever reason, an over abundance of caution, risk aversion, I don't know...we have also been told to carry and have ready for inspection at any given time a whole raft of non mission essential paperwork and items.

Inspectable Items I Have to Carry With Me:

1. My orders. Three pages, 8 1/2 x 11.
2. Battalion Weapons Booklet. 20 pages, about 6x8.
3. Reflective Belt. Don't get me started.
4. 9 Line medevac card.
5. Military driver's license.
6. General Order #1. Six pages, 8 1/2 x 11.
7. USFI Uniform regs. Six or seven pages, 8 1/2 x 11.
8. Rules of Engagement/Use of Force card.
9. Goals on 3x5 card.

But I digress. Again.

As the BC and the PL made their way from post to post, with me tagging along, the Boss began asking guys for their goal cards. Somebody must have spread the word that he was going to be checking, because everybody seemed to have them. They were about what you would expect: take college courses, learn a foreign language, stuff like that.

At one position, the BC and PL went up in a tower while I stayed below. I sat in the stairwell while they went up to speak to the two soldiers up there on guard. I couldn't hear everything that was being said, but I heard the BC asking how the guys were doing, any problems, like that. After some small talk, the BC asked, "Do you guys have your goal cards?"

"Roger that, sir," I heard the two Joes says, then Velcro sounds as they ripped their pockets open and produced their 3x5 cards for the Colonel.

"Let's see. Hmmm. Good, good. These are good goals. Online courses are a good way to get your college education started. Good. Now let's see what you've got," the BC said, as he checked the second soldier's card.

Silence, then:

"Who's Ron Jeremy?"

Overheard in the Army

2010-02-01T21:40:00.002+03:00

James: Hey, guess who is on the cover of the new Glamour?

Will: How should I know?

James: Katy Perry.* And I'm gonna buy that fucker, too.

Will: Why? You gonna write her a love letter?

James: Well, she won't answer my emails...

Will: What are you sending her for Valentine's Day?

James: Oh, probably some nude photos of me and some rose petals.

Will: I hope your camera has a good zoom lens.

* I didn't know who she was.

Recap

2010-01-30T21:07:00.001+03:00

So. The last what...twenty days? A whole lotta nothing, really. Let me bring you up to speed.

My totally amazing and super cool girlfriend, Connie, bought and sent me a Magic Jack. I just plugged it into my computer and free calls to any phone, land line or cell. Pretty cool. So in addition to email, now I have Yahoo IM, which it's been so long since I logged into Yahoo chat I don't remember, Google IM, Skype, and now Magic Jack. Pretty sweet, especially when I consider that when I was in Saudi for Desert Shield, a call home cost something like $50.00 for fifteen minutes. I think I called home maybe three times in nine months, if that. Skype is good, and I like the video feature, but it is computer to computer. Magic Jack is computer to phone, and it works great. Unless it's after dark here, in which case the server gets busy and connectivity is spotty. Still, it's a world away from 1991.

We had our combat patch ceremony. We all stood in a formation and the Battalion Commander made a little speech and then the company commander, CPT Z, went around slapping T Patches on everybody. Some of my boys said they didn't feel right, wearing a combat patch without having, you know, seen any combat, and I said they didn't have to wear it. Then I pointed out that it was for serving in a combat zone, not necessarily for actually being in combat. They are here, I said, and I know that if they were called upon to go suit up and kick in doors, they would do it without hesitation, and the fact that the war has progressed to a point where they don't have to do that is a good thing, and not a refection on them. If it means you never have to get shot at, that's great, and you can go home and wear your combat patch and never have to duck your head to any man, because you were ready to do your part, I said. Still, they are warriors, combat soldiers, infantrymen, and on some level, they all want to go out there and shoot something.

My PSD section has been gutted. Since we do not have a full time PSD mission, we have been tasked out to some of the sections. We will run PSD missions as the need arises, which is maybe once or twice a week or so. A couple of guys went to Badging, making access badges for our little camp. Three more went to Engineering, which is basically a cooler name for maintenance. One is loaned out doing some admin stuff for a few weeks. Another is doing PAO stuff, working on the newsletter and such. The rest are here and there, doing grunt work. I now belong to Force Protection, meaning I do stuff relating to counter terrorism and base security. It's not as cool as that might sound. For example, I spent the day stringing concertina wire. It sucks. Not fun.

Last week we had a battalion weapons competition. I was the NCOIC of the event. In a nutshell, we had teams from every company in the battalion come here and compete against each other in clearing, disassembling, reassembling, and conducting a function check of five weapons systems: The M9 pistol, M4 carbine, M249 machine gun, M240 machine gun, and the big dog, the timeless M2 .50 caliber BMG, also affectionately known as the Ma Deuce. The event went well. Of course, it was a total canine and equine extravaganza, but that's too be expected. My company did not win. To be expected, as we only had a few infantrymen competing, all of them from my PSD. The rest were clerks and jerks, desk jockies and assorted support pukes. I say that with affection and respect, of course. I expected one the three line companies to win, but no, the winning company was Echo company. The transportation company. They kicked everyone's ass, and I don't think they put up anyone other than truck drivers and mechanics. A bunch of hardcore infantry types got served by some wrench spinners.

Hmm, what else? Oh, the day they finally hanged Chemical Ali, and good riddance to that piece of shit, I saw three huge plumes of smoke rising over the Baghdad skyline off in the distance. I later learned they were three major car bombings out across the river from the Green Zone.

The day before the weapons competition, me and Stroud and the S3 Sergeant Major were driving over near Liberty and we saw a procession of many, many very new, very shiny black Suburbans rolling by in the opposite direction, escorted by a plethora of MP's in assorted tactical and non-tactical vehicles. We are used to seeing the odd two or three Suburban motorcade, but this was ten, twelve, fifteen. I was struck not just by who many vehicles there were, but by how clean they were. You don't see many clean vehicles around here. I read later that VP Biden was here, so there you go.

Some of my boys grilled hamburgers and hot dogs tonight, so that was good. I had a fake pineapple flavored beer, which just tasted like a pineapple flavored soft drink. Disappointing.

So that's about it.

The Ugandans

2010-01-10T21:56:00.008+03:00

Last week, my PSD was tasked with training up some of the Ugandan security guards that work on a couple of the local FOBs. They work in the towers and entry control points (ECPs), as well as guard the entrances to places like the chow halls and PX's. The idea is to free up U.S. forces to do warfighting stuff, so we employ what we call TCNs, or third country nationals to do those things.

I don't know the details, but the security company that was here when we arrived were replaced a couple of weeks later by the company we trained, which is called SOC. Somebody thought the SOC guys could use a little extra training, which is where me and my boys came in.

The SOC guys are mostly former Ugandan military. Most of them speak very proper English. Many are very well spoken and speak with a slight British accent. As a whole, they were very eager and motivated, and seemed thrilled to be taught by American soldiers. Most called me "Mistah Jack," with a crisp English "Sah!" thrown in for good measure.

The SOC guards make about $500 a month, which is typical for TCN security guards these days. They work 12 hour shifts, which average out to about 14-15 hours between weapon and equipment draw, guard mount, and transport to and from their posts. They work seven days a week, no days off.

They were very well disciplined and from what I saw, your average U.S. infantry company could take a lesson from them in Drill & Ceremony...although they do that funny little British kick-hop when they do facing movements.

They were very friendly and outgoing almost without exception. Most of them had Western first names. Many had a Biblical ring: James, Peter, Israel, Moses were pretty popular. I met two guys named Edison, although they both insisted it was pronounced "Edson."

The Ugandans aren't used to the cool Iraqi winter weather. They wore jackets, sweaters, and knit caps even in the daytime, and insisted it was "too cold" even when it hit the 60's. They are gonna love it here come July.

When being addressed by a superior, the Ugandan military teaches their soldiers to come to strict attention, and to raise up on their toes if speaking with someone of very high rank or position. The SOC guards were very polite and respectful to all of my guys.

The classes were pretty basic. Some of the stuff we covered was radio procedures and spot reports;

care and feeding of the PKM machine gun;

likewise the venerable AK47;

as well as use of force and rules of engagement. One thing we quickly noticed was that most of the Ugandans don't really shoulder a weapon. They tend to sort of chicken wing it, tucking it under their arm and pointing it in the general direction of their target, like this fellow.

With a little work, we were able to get most of them to shoulder and aim properly. I wonder if we have upset the balance of power in eastern Africa by teaching these guys how to use sights?

After a few days, we finished up, and had a little ceremony to award them their training certificates.

Here we are doing the grip-and-grin. The Ugandans do a funky little handshake. It goes from regular handshake to cool brother-man handshake straight out of 1979, and back to the regular. As as sign of respect, they generally will grasp their right elbow with their left hand as they shake, although none of the disrespectful bastards you see here are doing it.

And here is a highly trained, justifiably proud young man with his high speed training certificate. Now all he has to do is write his name in and frame it up on his I-love-me wall.

U Gan Do It!

Knowing

2010-01-03T19:17:00.002+03:00

It's half the battle. Now you know.

New Year's Eve 2009

2009-12-31T12:51:00.001+03:00

So I'm sitting here...oh, incoming. Lovely.

Okay, it's about three hours later. I had literally just taken one sip of my Coors Fake Beer and started typing when Big Voice announced incoming. The fake beer isn't anything to write home about, by the way. It tastes like a very weak light beer at first sip, but there's something missing...besides the alcohol, that is.

I was fixing to write a post about the other night, when I had occasion to listen to two Army chaplains have very lengthy and quite in depth discussion about Star Trek, all of the spin-offs, each of the movies, many of the characters, and Gene Roddenberry and his humanist views and the role his agnosticism played in the series and movies. They then delved into a comparably in depth discussion about the Star Wars franchise, the morality of each of the main characters, and how the Jedi compared to Buddhist monks.

It was a hilarious conversation to listen to, and I fear I lack the ability to convey just how geeky and surreal the entire experience was. I was going to try, though, until Johnny Jihad decided to help us celebrate New Year's Eve by throwing some ordinance our way.

So instead I threw on my IOTV (body armor) and helmet, got a headcount of my boys, and waited for the all clear. Then we trotted over to the Area Defense Operations Center(ADOC) and got accountability of everyone. Then we got flashlights and did a sector search of the entire camp, making sure there wasn't any UXO sticking out of the ground anywhere. This took awhile.

I was escorting a couple of civilian reporters and an Army Public Affairs journalist around while all this was going on. Mainly that consisted of me standing around while they followed the soldiers around, taking pictures of them scanning the ground and peering under vehicles with flashlights. By one barracks was the remnants of an abandoned party, grilled hamburgers growing cold on paper plates, near beer getting warm on picnic tables. Kinda sad, really.

Finally we checked the entire camp and we were allowed to stand down. We were informed that at least seven mortar rounds were fired, and at least two of them struck one of the adjoining camps, destroying some vehicles and wounding two soldiers. How badly I don't know.

So that's my New Year's Eve. I'm back in the room and in ten minutes, it'll be 2010. I'm polishing off another Coors Fake Beer and about to call it a night. I wish I had a real beer. I'm tired and my back hurts. I miss my girlfriend. It would be nice to be on a crowded dance floor with her somewhere, doing the countdown. Kissing.

Well. Maybe next year.

Happy Merry Chrisemas

2009-12-25T14:36:00.004+03:00

Well, it's Christmas. I took my boys out for a short run this morning. Everybody took the day off, but not PSD. On our walk out to the running track, I butchered 'Fairytale of New York' for them. None of them had heard it before. On the march back, we sang Christmas carols. 'Jingle Bells'. 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'. The first verse of 'Frosty the Snowman', because nobody could remember the words to the rest.

Back in July, my company commander told some guys that I'm a Scientologist. I've played along. About half the company believes it, with the other half suspecting I'm pulling their legs. Sometimes somebody will ask me about Tom Cruise or L. Ron Hubbard, trying to push my buttons. I always play it very serious. This morning, one of my boys decided to go there.

"Sergeant, are we out here doing PT on Christmas because not all of us believe in Jesus?"

"Drop, you. Do pushups."

"One, Staff Sergeant. Two, Staff Sergeant. Three, Staff Sergeant..."

I formed the rest of the platoon into the Extended Rectangular Formation.

"Extend to the left, march! Arms downward, move! Left, face! Extend to the left, march! Arms downward, move! Right, face! From front to rear, count off! Even numbers to the left, uncover!"

I bent down to where my young smart ass was dutifully pushing. "Twenty three, Staff Sergeant. Twenty four, Staff Sergeant.."

"Listen up, you. You mock my belief system again, and you will be a very unhappy young man. You got that?"

"Roger, Staff Sergeant."

"Recover and fall back in."

Anything to pass the time.

It's just another day here, pretty much. We had a White Elephant gift exchange for the company. I donated some bootleg Hajji movies. The Men Who Stare at Goats. Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans. The Maiden Heist. Armored. The quality isn't that great on some of them, some guy with a video camera in the theater. Others are DVD quality. Roll of the dice. $3.00 a pop, or four for ten bucks.

We've been here twelve days now. We are on the Victory Base Complex, near BIAP. My company is on a very small FOB within another FOB. I can't say too much about it, although it's all over the internet if you know where to look.

We have everything we need here, and life isn't too bad. We are living in the only hardstand barracks in theater, three to a room, but indoor plumbing so, hey. Chow hall is a very short walk, and the food is typically decent Army chow. We have an AAFES trailer here, and a decent gym and MWR.

I am the battalion commander's PSO, Personal Security Officer. His tactical bodyguard, in other words. I'm in charge of a ten man Protective Services Detail. Our job is to provide the BC, the Boss, with close-in protection whenever he goes outside the wire.

I've got a good bunch of boys. They're young and motivated and hardly a knucklehead in the bunch. They do keep me entertained, though. Funny little bastards. I've got a buck sergeant and a corporal to help me keep them straight. They are good boys.

We haven't run any missions yet. I don't know when we will. Or if we will. That pleases my girlfriend. It doesn't look like the Boss will be going outside the wire much, if at all. The war is winding down. The days of door kicking and meet and greets with tribal leaders and sheiks are pretty much down for. Sort of leaves me without much of a job. The vultures are circling, other section leaders licking their chops, wanting to strip my PSD of manpower to backfill their own sections. Free labor. Spare bodies.

We keep busy. We PT every day, run battle drills, work on formations, arrivals, departures. The BC knows we need to learn the area, get outside the wire, get a feel for things. I think he feels bad, knowing how much work I have put into building this PSD, and realizing we might never be used as we had envisioned.

He has me hitting up the other line companies who are going outside the wire. Trying to get my boys seats on some of their missions, strap hang so we can learn the routes and all. Maybe in a few days. Maybe tomorrow.

Today, everybody is lazing around, grazing on care package candy and cookies. I got one that had original crayon art by Hannah, a second grader from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, wishing me a Happy Merry Chrisemas. Included was more candy than I will eat in a year, some hygiene items, a Danny Thomas CD, and an ancient copy of Harold and Maude. We had an OPSEC briefing earlier from a guy in a blue polo shirt with an M9 on his hip and a tribal tat down his left forearm. Now, some of my boys are grilling burgers and shooting the breeze. The chow hall, like all chow halls today, should have a pretty decent Christmas spread.

Other than that, it's just another day.

On to Iraq

2009-12-13T19:16:00.005+03:00

Well, we are leaving for Iraq in about eleven hours. Nobody is sad to go. It's one step closer to getting home, really. Plus we get out of these tents and into some proper barracks.

Tito Ortiz, the MMA fighter, was here today. Some of the guys went and got their picture taken with him, got an autograph. I didn't bother, the line outside the USO was a little long. All the same, it's nice that he took the time out of his schedule to come visit the troops.

A few days ago, we escorted a bus load of soldiers out to a range. Most of the area we were in is filled with UXO, which means unexploded ordinance. That's Army speak for bombs and munitions that haven't gone off.

Along the way, we passed a Kuwaiti artillery unit doing some live firing, and some camel herders with their camels. Guess they aren't afraid of the UXO. They should be, because I hear a few of those guys get killed every year wandering around out there.

Overheard in the Army

2009-12-10T19:02:00.001+03:00

"I already speak a second language, Rock. It's called success."

Buehring

2009-12-08T10:55:00.002+03:00

We are at Camp Buehring, Kuwait. It's not very nice here. It's been pretty clammy and cold and damp. Plus I'm coming down with something. Sinuses are stopped up. Throats tight and hot. Head hurts.

It's muddy here. Sand gets everywhere. We are crammed into big tents, sleeping on cots. No space, no privacy. It's loud and dirty. Lots of people are getting the crud, coughing, sneezing.

The amenities are nice, though. There's a couple of decent chow halls. A big PX. Lot's of MWR stuff. Taco Bell. Pizza Inn. I'm sitting in a Starbucks, even. So could be worse.

We have had some mandatory training and some mandatory briefings. These are the same mandatory training and mandatory briefings we have already had once or twice before. I guess those first couple of times didn't count.

I have been sending my guys down to the airfield, a couple of hours away, to meet incoming flights. Some of these were PSD missions with the Battalion Commander, but mostly they were just Force Protection missions, to let them learn the roads and get some missions under their belts. I did one night before last with three of my guys. Took most of the night. Other than taking a long time and a few close calls with Kuwaiti drivers, it was uneventful.

Now all my guys are here. We had two come late. One came on a cargo flight, escorting gear, and another came late because he had a baby born a few days before Thanksgiving, and we got him some paternity leave. Everybody is on the ground now, and we are just finishing up what we have to do before we move into Iraq.

Enroute

2009-12-03T04:25:00.005+03:00

We leave tonight for Kuwait. We have a couple of fueling stops along the way. I don't know how long the flight will be...long, is all. Maybe I can sleep.

My unit mobilized in September for our train up. We did a few weeks at FT Hood, then flew out to McGregor Range, north of FT Bliss. We have been training the last couple of months. We're about as ready as we are gonna get. We will be in Kuwait for two or three weeks, then on to Iraq.

I took a walk around McGregor yesterday afternoon. It snowed overnight, and everything looked about halfway pretty. It was gone today and everything was muddy. McGregor Range is a mobilization point for units enroute to Iraq and Afghanistan. There are many large concrete barricades/boxes around McGregor that are similar to the T Barriers in Iraq. Some units passing through have painted their unit symbols on them. I took a few pictures of them on my walk. I'll post some of them in a few days, when I get an internet connection. Here is the one my unit did.

Okay. Time to go.

Alex

2009-11-26T10:46:00.006+03:00

I lost Alex a year ago today. I worked the day shift, which meant up before dawn. I woke up to the alarm on my cell phone, got out of bed, and put Alex out. I don't remember every detail. I wish I did. I can picture him sprawled on his grimy doggy bed by the front door. He was probably snoring. I hope I squatted down and stroked him called his name and gently woke him, but it's just as likely that I nudged him with a bare foot until he stirred, then ushered him out the back door while I got ready for work.

Work was work. I don't remember it being a busy day. Holidays can go either way. Some folks dropped off a dozen or so plates of turkey and dressing for us, so I didn't eat at Whataburger for a change. My K9 officer's wife also brought in some turkey, stuffing, gravy, the works. I probably ate twice, and took another plate home with me. Paper plate covered in plastic wrap, I drove carefully so as not to slide it off the seat and into the floorboards. I probably was on the cell phone with my girlfriend on the way home, but like so much of that day, I am really just making a guess based on what I usually did.

Alex was lounging by the tractor shed when I drove up the dirt road. He heard me coming and ran to meet me, chased my truck up to the cabin, was dancing when I climbed out. I guess I petted him and maybe played with him a little on the way to the door. I don't know.

I let him in and stripped off my pistol belt. Uniform shirt and body armor got draped over the back of a chair. I planted myself on the couch to eat my plate. I was in my socks and threw my old blue fleece on over my teeshirt because it was chilly in there. I don't remember what was on TV, I think I Tivo'd the Cowboys game. Alex plopped down by the couch and gave me the beggar eyes while I ate. I gave him a bit of turkey, then told him no when he begged for more.

I finished eating and gave him the plate to lick. That makes me think I had it on a real plate, so I guess I moved it from the paper plate to a real plate and maybe heated it up in the microwave. Probably. Anyway, I let him lick the plate clean, and he noisily lapped up the gravy and bits of stuffing and whatever else there was left over while I put my feet up and watched whatever I was watching.

I heard him throw up maybe half an hour later. This wasn't a big deal, really. Dogs throw up sometimes. When I heard him retch, I got up and saw him sitting on the floor, looking sadly up at me. He didn't get sick inside often, but when he did, he always had the good manners to be embarrassed. I got up to put him out so he could finish puking outside.

He didn't get up to go outside when I told him to, so I grabbed his collar to get him to move. He didn't budge. He scrabbled a paw a little but couldn't get up. Something was wrong. His eyes didn't look right. He looked sluggish and dazed. He had slobber by his mouth and could barely lift his head.

I talked to him, trying to see what was wrong, trying to get a reaction, something. I knew it was bad. He sort of responded to my voice, but couldn't get up or really move at all. I got his water dish, but he couldn't drink. I picked him up to take him out to the truck, but realized no vet was open. I found the vet's number, and left a voice message. Alex was panting heavily. I knew I was losing him.

I just held his head in my lap and stroked him and talked to him until he was gone. It wasn't long.

The next morning I dug a deep hole in the rocky ground under a little stand of oaks. I wrapped Alex in a soft serape. I sat and talked with him before laying him to rest. I buried him on a hillside in a pasture behind my cabin. He is there now, under the oak trees.

Turkey bones. My landlord put some turkey bones out by the tractor barn for the two cats out there. Alex chewed them up and I guess they cut him up inside and that's what killed him.

For weeks, even months afterwards, I would catch him out of the corner of my eye, laying on the floor. I'd turn my head and of course he wasn't there. I'd stagger out of bed in the morning and go to let him out before I would remember. The phone would ring and it was so strange to not hear him whine like he always did, which always annoyed the hell out of me. I missed it, missed not having him underfoot. Even missed his stupid hair shedding all over the place. The carpet is still full of his fur, a year later, no matter how many times I vacuum.

I got Alex when he was eight weeks old, a little furry ball. He didn't want to step from the carpet onto the vinyl flooring of my apartment's kitchen. His first snowfall a few weeks later, he huddled under me until finally cautiously walking around, lifting his paws high in his dainty way. He was almost ridiculously easy to housebreak and train.

Alex could look a little intimidating, but he was pretty good with people. It was his nature to be somewhat aloof around strangers, but he was never aggressive. He warmed to the people in my life. I was the only person he ever bit. Other dogs sometimes bullied him, and he was too passive to do much other than try and avoid them. He had good manners and was a little gentleman.

He was a cat chaser when young but he always had a puzzled look when cats responded to his friendly advances with slashing claws. Squirrels loved taunting him, chattering at him from the safety of the trunk as he barked in frustration below. He had some small misadventures with an armadillo and a skunk once. He once dashed into a herd of buffalo, squaring off with a big old bull, barking and snapping as the buffalo snorted and pawed the ground and made short charges that Alex easily dodged.

He didn't like the water much, but as he got older, he lost his fear of it and would often plop down in a creek to cool off on our hikes. He hated being left behind and all I had to do to get him to go into a happy frenzy was jingle the truck keys. When he was a puppy, he would lay in my lap as I drove, and when he got too big to do that, he still would sometimes lay his head on my leg and doze as I drove.

I miss coming home from work and him dancing circles around me. The way he would leap to his feet and scour the premises for the offending cat whenever I would say, "Get the kitty!" He actually got along very well with cats in his later years, but he was always on the hunt when he heard that little phrase.

I miss him chomping on his chew toys, chasing the deer and rabbits, playing hide and seek with me, giving me high fives, enduring baths and the bad haircuts I gave him, putting up with my singing, being my hiking buddy. I miss my friend.

He was a good boy.