US...O...nevermind

It was billed as a star-studded USO entertainment tour for armed forces on the ground. For the first part of our tour we were stationed at the periphery of the war; a nasty little base known best for being the Southern point of the "Sunni Triangle", a.k.a. "Triangle of Death". No USO shows made it out to those nether-regions. After we moved to Baghdad, we were essentially too tired from a high mission tempo, or too busy to pay much attention to any of the shows that passed through. With this in mind, and with our schedule open, Bob and I decided that we would at last take advantage of the opportunity to put a good, ol' fashioned USO show under our belts at the end of our tour of duty. The show was to feature Robin Williams, Kid Rock, Lance Armstrong, and several others. We headed over to the Division field house where the meet-and-greet was to take place. We arrived a full hour and forty-five minutes early to ensure ourselves a seat, and there was already a substantial line. While we waited, the temperature dropped, and the line rapidly lengthened. We estimated that by the time they opened the doors, there were approximately 3,000 persons in line for a venue that was going to be limited to 600 persons.

Rumors started to move through the crowd even before we entered the building. Once inside, they were confirmed. High winds in Tikrit had grounded the helicopters, and the show was canceled. Instead, we were greeted to a ten minute "pep talk" by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Mullen, who reassured us that he received briefings on what was going on in Iraq. Really. He then proceeded to distribute commemorative coins, shake hands, and have his photo snapped with anybody who wished it. Bob and I received coins, but we were rushed through so rapidly, that we were unable to get photos with the Admiral.

While we were waiting in line, I scanned the crowd and it occurred to me that these USO concerts probably are not attended by the soldiers for whom they are largely intended. The soldiers doing the heavy-lifting in this war are the guys stationed away from the big bases. They're quartered out in the neighborhoods in converted office building, houses, or police stations. They make it back to base maybe one day out of the week. Instead, those attending these "moral-boosting" functions appeared to be largely the "fobbits"; those with desk jobs, Air Force personnel, and others who otherwise almost never make it outside the wire. A significant percentage of the crowd was also civilians; handsomely compensated KBR employees and contractors. We stood in line next to a group of these guys who loudly compared the quality of many of the USO shows and celebrities they'd had occasion to see over the past year.

It is now Christmas day. The dining facilities on base are packed with soldiers taking advantage of an extravagant Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Rather than deal with the huge lines, our detachment opted to ante up, and one of our interpreters arranged to bring in a positively massive authentic Iraqi feast from one of Baghdad's finer restaurants. The quantity and variety of delectables was mind-boggling. All manner of meats and vegetables, rice, soups, sauces, and breads, were followed by a selection of sweet desserts. It was enough, even for a short while, to relieve the ache of being so far from home and loved ones.

Merry Christmas from Baghdad.

Something wicked this way comes

Some new mechanical monsters are crawling through Baghdad's streets these days. They are MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicles. The medium sized US Army version began arriving a month or so ago, and units have gradually been getting trained up on them. Troop reaction has been mixed. My first reaction upon seeing them lined up outside our battalion headquarters was that these things are really going to irritate the Iraqis! The base vehicle is really tall. But when you add a turret, and all of the antennae required by the schmorgasboard of communications and anti-IED electronics, well... the gunner damn near performs the function of close air support! Here are some of the problems as I see it. First, most of Baghdad operates on power generated by local private, or neighborhood, generators rather than the cities power grid. This means that a large generator parked on a street corner will have hundreds of wires strung from it like a spider web feeding homes and businesses in the area. As the ability of the city to provide power ebbed, this chaotic overhead wiring began to blanket the city like a great, multi-colored cobweb. We routinely snag one or two of these low-hanging wires with our vehicle antennas when we drive through neighborhoods. They snap, and eventually somebody will have to come out and restring the wire. (We've also had guys electrocuted by these wires, and had equipment snagged that became dislodged from the vehicle and injured soldiers.) In most neighborhoods, the residents eventually began to accommodate the humvees by elevating the wiring beyond the reach of the antenna. However, now with the introduction of the MRAP, a huge percentage of the wire that feeds electricity to Baghdad's homes and business is now at risk once again. We recently did a patrol composed of one humvee (that would be us) and three MRAP's. We watched in awe as the vehicle in front of us took down strand after strand after strand of the wires strung over the streets. People on the sidewalks had to be particularly alert as cables snapped towards them like angry bullwhips. Not the most effective way to win hearts and minds!

Second, there is the psychological impact of having these monstrosities rolling through neighborhoods. There is no question that these are significantly more resistant to IED attack. However, one of the most effective components of the current counter-insurgency strategy is the integration with the communities we're tasked with protecting. This means, getting to know the people, developing relationships, and learning the proverbial pulse of the neighborhood. Rolling around in armored humvees makes achieving this level of intimacy difficult enough. (I personally would prefer greater emphasis on dismounted foot patrols.) But, moving from humvees to MRAP's, from a psychological point of view, only serves to distance us further from the population, and it comes at a time when the number if IED attacks against us appears to be nearing an all-time low.

Lastly, another drawback relating to the height of these beasts is the propensity of the crew to misjudge the distance to the ground when they dismount the vehicle. Burdened by armor, weapons and gear, we've seen numerous broken ankles and other injuries simply from getting in and out of the vehicles.

That said, not all units are using the MRAP's they've been issued. Some commanders are opting to just keep them on the property books and turn them over to the unit that replaces them when the time comes. It is also probably true that the vehicles are also being employed elsewhere, perhaps in more kinetically active areas or main supply routes, where the terrain and conditions give the characteristics of the MRAP a decided advantage over humvees. In my opinion, however, that just isn't the case in our area.

If it ain't rainin', we ain't trainin'

Yesterday the long awaited (and dreaded) rains came to Baghdad. An impressive lightning and thunderstorm pushed waves of rain and hail across the city turning the omnipresent powdered sugar-like dust into a sloppy, sticky, muddy mess. It remains to be seen if this storm is an aberration, of if it can be considered the official beginning of the rainy season. American and Iraqi officials throughout Baghdad have been pouring extra resources into neighborhoods to reduce the amount of trash on the streets. The fear is that the rains will wash the trash into the already dilapidated sewer systems and further aggravate an already critical problem of broken pipes and lakes of raw sewage.

Meanwhile, grassroots efforts are taking place to institutionalize the security gains of recent months, while at the same time work towards sectarian reconciliation in the absence of legislative action at the national level. Neighborhood volunteers, dubbed Critical Infrastructure Guards (GIG's), have been recruited in Sunni neighborhoods to receive rudimentary training, and work alongside the predominantly Shia Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police. They've begun jointly manning checkpoints, and participating in joint patrols of the neighborhoods. The Iraqi soldiers are supposed to assume the role of mentors to these new recruits, and provide them with additional on-the-job training. In return, the new volunteers bring to the table local knowledge of the neighborhoods from whence the come, as well as vastly improved relationships between the security forces and the residents of the communities, who are the friends and family of the new volunteers. As the CIG's gain experience, a certain percentage will be selected to attend the Iraqi Police Academy where they will undergo additional training, and shed their quasi-official status. Under the umbrella of increasingly detached American oversight, the hope is that the program will result in a much improved and professional Iraqi security apparatus.

Friction, however, is inevitable. Aside from the sectarian nature of the arrangement, there is the implicit threat to the status of the Iraqi soldiers who no doubt resent the presence of the volunteers. There is also the very real danger of al Qaeda infiltration of the ranks of new recruits. I had occasion to speak with one of the volunteers who was a Sunni, and a Major in the old army under Saddam. He acknowledged that it will take time to work through many of the problems, but he remained optimistic. He expressed great enthusiasm to be able to serve again in a productive capacity. He clasped my hand, looked me in the eye, and told me with some emotion that none of this would have been possible without the help of the Americans. I just smiled, and said, "Welcome back, sir." He squeezed my hand tighter, and beamed.

The professionalism of the Iraqi Army remains...uneven, and largely a direct reflection of the quality of their leadership. We routinely conduct inspections of Iraqi-manned checkpoints. In the course of one such inspection, an American soldier noticed a ballistic (bulletproof) vest sitting on a chair. When he picked it up, he noticed that it was much lighter than it should have been. To reduce the weight, the Iraqi soldier who owned the vest had replaced the interior ballistic armor plate with ...a book. Now, here is the kicker, and I am not making this up: The book was a medical text on heart trauma.

The power of one

This little story has been sitting on my computer now for several months, as I wasn't quite sure what to do with it. It was relayed to me - with some emotion - by a friend who was there. I've spent a good deal of time at the police station and hospital in question, and am very familiar with the area. However, the events occurred approximately a year before our tour began. I share it here only to shine a small light on the human drama and tragedy behind the all too prosaic crawl across the bottom of the television screen that passes for news.

Haidar was a stocky, rotund fellow. The kind of guy that is immediately likable; a jovial, warm man whose honesty and humor instantly created intimate friendships. He was also a popular police chief, who took his job as a civil servant of the people very seriously.

The police station is located immediately adjacent to the hospital, so the police were regularly checking security and socializing with the hospital staff. On this day, Haidar happened to be talking with staff near the entrance to the hospital's emergency room.

The American soldiers were at the police station when they heard shouting and a commotion coming from the hospital. One of their interpreters turned wide-eyed and said, "It's Haidar. There's a suicide bomber." At that moment, Haidar staggered into the street, towards a protective concrete barrier, clutching a struggling man in a ferocious bear-hug. Before anybody could react, an explosion ripped through the streets.

Haidar knew he was a dead man, but he sacrificed his life to save dozens of patients and staff in that hospital emergency room. He left behind a wife suffering from cancer, and two children. The American soldiers took up a collection amongst themselves in support of his family.

There happened to be a CNN reporter embedded with the American unit, who was a witness to the events. So, the heroics of this lovable, dedicated patriot who sacrificed himself so that others may live were relayed to a global audience as: "Suicide Bomber Kills One."

Mono y mono

Sometimes things happen in war that no amount of training can adequately prepare you for. We were infiltrated. I don't know when it happened. I don't know how long the enemy conducted surveillance before making his move. It is disturbing that he was able to get so close to me before he was identified. A fellow soldier stopped by my door to discuss an upcoming mission, and it was he who alerted me to the interloper in our midst. "Dude. You've got a mouse." So began an epic - and lethal - battle of wits; mono y mono.

I took an initial inventory of assets at my disposal with which I planned to dispatch my adversary. I immediately dismissed my M-4 rifle, and my M-9 Beretta pistol. Not only would their usage violate the principles of proportionality, but the disciplinary consequences resulting from discharging either weapon in my own room were compelling disincentives. Then my eyes fell upon a toy pellet gun confiscated from a Baghdad market (see the photograph from the October 6 posting on this blog). As the weapon in question is sufficiently powerful to put a hole in an empty Coke can, but silent enough to escape the notice of my chain of command, It appeared the ideal tool.

I perched on my bed with the plastic rifle aimed at a Cheese Nip cracker near the baseboard across the room, and I waited. ..and waited. An electronic bong sound emanated from my laptop computer indicating in incoming email. I turned to identify the sender, and in that brief split-second, the Cheese Nip vanished. Out of frustration I began pulling gear from beneath the bunks, shaking out bags, dragging wall lockers into the middle of the room. I listened intently for the tell-tale sounds of miniature incisors masticating baked crispy snacks. Finally, my piqued ears detect movement from beneath or within Bob's wall locker. I very carefully arranged boxes of soup cans and energy drinks to create a "fatal funnel" through which my foe would have to traverse in order to procure yet another strategically placed Cheese Nip. Again, I wait.

Nothing.

By this time, it was after 1 AM. My sleep deprived brain had reached a point where I was quite simply unable to focus. Even if I did get the creature in my sights, I had no confidence in my ability to hold steady my weapon. I decided on a tactical retreat. Morning would mean a trip to the PX, and an escalation of force: Mouse traps! I shut off the lights and crawled into bed. Alas, my nemesis had other plans.

Just as I was drifting to sleep, I sensed something moving through my hair. The mouse was on my head!! I leapt to my feet, frantically sweeping my scalp with my hands. The mouse jumped to my bed, scurried to the end, bounded to the floor, and disappeared into the rucksacks and duffels piled in the middle of the floor. Sleep was now out of the question. I got to work.

I constructed an elaborate trap using two Cheese Nips, a daub of peanut butter, a piece of string, a Priority Mail box, a can of chili, and a cleaning rod from a gun cleaning kit. It was brilliant! The crackers and peanut butter were attached to the string which was tied around one end of the cleaning rod, which propped up the box. The chili added weight to the box. If the mouse tugged the string, it would dislodge the rod, and bring down the box upon him. For good measure, I loaded the pellet gun and tucked it next to me as I climbed back into bed. Again, I waited.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I was answering an email. Such a subtle movement, and oh so silent. There he was...tugging on the cracker attached to the string. But he wasn't strong enough to dislodge the cleaning rod! I slowly raised my rifle, brought the preoccupied rodent into my sights, and gently squeezed the trigger. A plastic Thwack! immediately preceded an aspirated mouse-sized squeak as the creature took a direct hit to his side, flipped over and began kicking wildly at the air. It was a miraculous shot! One in a million! I was exhalant! But before I could cross the room to administer the coup de grace, the animal righted himself and beat a hasty retreat from the battlefield. I couldn't believe it! What was this creature made of that it could withstand such an assault that could puncture a soda can!

There was little more that I could do. He was to make neither another appearance, nor a sound for the rest of the night. The next morning I journeyed to the PX and purchased mouse traps. I could only hope that I had not dealt a mortal blow, and that he did not seek refuge in some dark corner of my gear only to die there. It could be days before the smell confirmed that fate. I set the traps, and my team and I departed for several days outside the wire.

Upon my return, my victory was confirmed. He lay stiff beneath a sprung overturned trap, his dried blood splashed upon the baseboard.

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on."

- Ulysses S. Grant

Veterans Day

We've been busy. For quite some time, 14 hour work days have been the norm. Several days ago I think I about reached my limit, and I had to take myself out of the game for a day or so. It is a blessing to be in a position to exercise that option. Schedules are erratic, and we'll frequently go days at a time without returning to base. Fortunately, we've nothing particularly exciting to report. The thud of rockets landing on base has apparently ebbed somewhat, taking the edge off the cool autumn evenings. We do still have to be on our toes, however. About a week ago I was outside of a large hospital in an unfamiliar neighborhood talking with a couple of young women on their way to catch a bus. I was asking them about what they thought about the security situation in the neighborhood. Just as my interpreter finished relaying my question, and before they had an opportunity to respond, a huge explosion about a block away rocked everybody back on their heels. I just laughed and jerked my thumb in the direction of the explosion. "...well, except for that, what do you think of the security here?"

And then there are days when war just is no fun at all, like when you unexpectedly find yourself trying to console a father whose teenage son was accidentally killed only 48 hours earlier in a raid against a bomb making neighbor. You find yourself in a house still reeling from shock and grief. There's a bullet hole in the wall at eye-level across from an open window, and hair and tissue still stuck to the high ceiling well beyond the reach of the women who had scrubbed away every other physical trace of the tragedy. As we listened intently to the father's narrative of what occurred only hours earlier, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. I wrapped my arm around the man's shoulders. My touch seemed to open the floodgates. He bowed his head, and I could feel his body quake with silent sobs. Beneath all the armor, ammunition and weapons, I felt utterly helpless.

It is Veterans Day. I know that back home there are the traditional parades, pancake breakfasts, documentaries on TV, and probably reams of newspaper columns dedicated those in uniform. However, I'm equally certain that not enough attention is being paid to the families of those soldiers without whose unwavering support none of us would be able to serve. The families of soldiers frequently bear a greater burden than the soldiers themselves. They must deal with the uncertainty into which their loved ones have been thrust. They must endure the absence and the unknown. In an unpopular war, they must deal with the barbs and arrows flung by ignorant ingrates unable to differentiate between the war and the warrior. On this Veterans Day, I want to say thank you to my family. Thank you for the sacrifices you have made that have allowed me to do what I am doing now. I appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine.

Things are not always what they seem

We had just finished a meeting with some hospital administrators. As I climbed into the vehicle, my driver and gunner informed me that there had just been an explosion somewhere to the East and several gunshots. With no more information than that, our patrol left the hospital and headed off to a scheduled meeting with a representative from the Ministry of Trade. As we approached our destination, we were frantically waved down by a security guard at a girls' middle school. We could hear the gunfire nearby as we rolled to a stop. The guard ran over to my vehicle and excitedly tried to explain what was going on. I had to force him to stop, as I had to retrieve my interpreter who had already leapt from the truck and started running towards the shots. "The school is on fire, and they're shooting at us!" Okay. Got it. The platoon sergeant, myself, and another soldier quickly moved through the gates of the school, and started working our way around the building to where the shots were coming from. Around a corner we could see a good sized grass fire scorching the ground between the school and the perimeter wall. The shots were coming from the other side of the wall. Suddenly, an explosion rattled the school windows and sent debris raining down on us. As we took defensive positions, it became apparent that nobody was actually shooting at us, but that the grass fire was cooking-off some munitions that had been dropped or placed outside the walls of the school. We then realized that the scorched earth we were crouched in was littered with small, discarded propane tanks. We immediately instructed the school faculty to move all of the children to the opposite side of the school, and away from the windows facing the fire. We continued to scout the perimeter of the school, and then moved inside to make sure everybody was okay.

What followed was pandemonium. As soon as we moved into the school, all of the girls who had been herded to the central hallways panicked. The screaming and chaos drowned out any internal communications. Two girls fainted. We quickly beat a retreat while the staff attempted to restore order. Several of the instructors approached us very apologetically, saying that we were frightening the students (duh), and to please be patient. In retrospect, it is perfectly understandable that the kids would panic. After all, you've got fire, smoke, gunshots, explosions, a frantic lone security guard who is convinced the school is under attack, and then a bunch of heavily armed American soldiers start stomping through the building.

Parents started showing up at the school and demanding to know what we were doing to their kids. An ambulance rolled up to tend to the children who had fainted. A brief, but surreal, meeting with the school administrators ensued wherein we explained that nobody was firing at the school. One of the staff found it difficult to believe that we actually did not have equipment in our trucks to put out fires. Several persons voiced opinions as to where the closest fire station was. Finally, somebody produced a cell phone and actually called the fire department.

The pieces of the puzzle started to come together. Several days earlier, an American platoon was patrolling the neighborhood conducting some routine operations. Some local militia bad guys beat a hasty retreat, and dumped their stocks of grenades and ammunition in the heavy brush next to the school. We don't know what started the fire, but as it spread to the munitions, bullets and grenades started cooking off making it appear that a full-blown shoot out was taking place.

Remount, and Charlie Mike (Continue Mission).

A cautious peek around the corner

It is a fact that how the locals react to the presence of an American patrol varies from neighborhood to neighborhood. I've written in several previous posts about the warmth of the reception in some of the Sunni neighborhoods in our area where the friendliness and hospitality are truly genuine. However, we also have Shia neighborhoods that remain under the oppressive thumb of Sadrist militias. Driving through these neighborhoods is a singularly eerie experience. Occasionally a child will wave, but in most cases the faces that pass by the armored glass of the humvee are wary; blank and emotionless. We recently had the opportunity to do a foot patrol through one of these neighborhoods. There is an inevitably warmer reception in face-to-face encounters. The glaring silence from a group of men sitting outside a cafe is dispelled briefly when I place my hand on my heart, nod, and say, "Salaam a'alaykum". The gesture is mirrored by every man in the group. "A'laykum Salaam!" It isn't much, but in many cases it is the most anybody will dare to commit to in their interaction with Americans because the militia is watching. Notices are plastered everywhere warning the people against, not just helping us, but even being friendly. The message is clear: We know who you are, we know where you live, God is on our side, and we will not distinguish between man, woman or child. Do not embrace the infidel. The militia also has a bloody track record to support their threats, and they infect the local Iraqi security forces.

It is after dark, and the foot patrol moves from the well lit busy market streets to the back alleys that are cloaked in shadow. Night vision goggles come into play, and awareness of one's surroundings intensifies. We scan rooftops for snipers and RPG's. Every darkened window is a potential sniper nest. Every derelict car is a potential bomb. We're patrolling with the Iraqi Army, and the increased security in numbers is offset by internal questions about the competence, skill, and loyalty of the Iraqi soldiers watching our backs.

There is no ambush. There is no attack. Once again, at the end of the day, we all return to base safely. The intimidation under which the people in these neighborhoods live cannot be sustained. People are becoming fed up with it, and our presence is giving them someplace to turn. Behind the glassy-eyed stares that follow us on every patrol are courageous individuals determined to wrest their community from the oppression of the mafia-like militias. There is a distinct sense that terror is ebbing, and the terrorist are now the one's watching their backs.

As we return from another patrol on another day, we chance upon a disturbing scene. Iraqi soldiers are frantically loading a limp woman into a military vehicle for transport to a local hospital. Her blood-smeared car is smashed against a concrete pylon. She'd been shot in the face only moments earlier by somebody in another car. It is a grim reminder of the challenges yet remaining to the courage and perseverance of the Iraqi people.

كل سنة و انت طيب

I understand that one's 40th birthday is supposed to be some kind of milestone. Perhaps it is. I'm suffering from some sort of lingering head cold, so I'm certainly feeling older today. It occurs to me that this is the third year in a row I've passed my birthday rather anonymously among soldiers and far from my family.

Here's hoping that 41 will be different.

Won't you be my neighbor

UPDATE: This should curtail some of the racket around base for a little while.

We've been spending a lot of time lately away from base, and out at the JSS's (Joint Security Stations). These are smaller company-level combat outposts that are situated in the middle of Baghdad neighborhoods. Some are manned by both Iraqi and American soldiers, some are purely American enterprises. The plan is to eventually turn all of these outposts over to Iraqi control over the course of the next year. There is certainly a downside to staying at the JSS's. For my part, I miss Internet connectivity the most. We sleep on cots or in beds that aren't ours. The food is mediocre. They're more crowded and dirtier than our quarters on base. There are no showers. On the upside, being away from the flagpole means that uniform standards are lower. You can actually walk around in a t-shirt and flip-flops without incurring the wrath of some irritable Command Sergeant Major. There is also a stronger sense of camaraderie and shared sacrifice with the guys out there that is much more elusive on the big mega-bases. Also, as of late, it actually feels somewhat safer out in the neighborhoods. Our base has come under increased rocket and/or mortar attack lately, which has resulted in a couple of deaths and dozens wounded. The thud of mortar rounds has become an almost nightly nuisance. I use the word nuisance because, really, that is all it is. In spite of the recent casualties, the impact of these attacks is mostly psychological, and strategically insignificant. They do little more than harass.

As conditions improve in Baghdad, the danger of complacency becomes increasingly relevant. On some of our recent patrols in Sunni neighborhoods, we have received the warmest, friendliest receptions of our tour. It is too easy to push the dangers of war to the back of your mind when you're sitting on lawn chairs in a well tended garden with children playing on the swing while you're being served fresh homemade lemonade and chatting about electrical problems and the price of propane. A brief anecdote illustrates the reverse side of this coin. At one house, as we pounded on the large metal gates to gain entry to the property, an old woman in a neighboring house panicked, "Oh no! It is the National Guard!" - meaning the Iraqi Army. Another woman said, "No, no. It is the Americans!" The old woman replied with obvious relief, "The Americans? Oh! Well, show them in! Offer them something to eat!" The Iraqi security forces are improving, but they still have along way to go before they truly earn the trust of the people. This is particularly true of the Sunni neighborhoods which chafe under the presence of dominantly Shia Iraqi Army and Police. The Sunni are still suffering the consequences of their refusal to participate in the political process and security force recruiting drives back in '03 and '04; a decision that most Sunni leaders now view as a grievous mistake on their part.

IED

As I write this, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. Hours ago we were supposed to have embarked on a mission deep into a militia controlled Shia slum. However, our security element has been delayed by a serious accident in another part of the city. It is almost midnight, and we wait to find out if we will have any mission at all. If the mission is a go, we will likely be driving under blackout conditions using night vision goggles. We will be maneuvering through narrow debris-strewn streets packed with crowds of Ramadan holiday revelers. There is no doubt that concealed in the masses will be hostile militia. With the help of average Iraqis increasingly willing to step forward with information, we've been depleting their numbers. Their hostility towards us will be piqued.

In numerous conversations, I've always been able to distinguish our team by saying that for as long as we've been in country, and as many missions that we've run, not once have we been on a patrol or in a convoy that has been struck by an IED. As of a couple of days ago, I can no longer make that claim.

Moments after we passed through a shady Iraqi Army checkpoint in the Eastern Mansour district of Baghdad, the shockwave pounded our vehicle as the earth erupted next to a humvee two vehicles in front of us. The view was immediately obscured by a brown and black maelstrom of dirt, asphalt and cement curbing. The adrenalin-fueled voices that fill my radio headset display remarkable competence and control. As the dust settles, it becomes clear that the targeted vehicle is still rolling. Push through! Push through! Get out of the kill zone! Are there any casualties?

We move as fast as the mortally wounded truck can roll, and manage to limp a safe distance away. We establish a security cordon, and assess the situation. The targeted humvee is gushing fluids and has two blown front tires. Its crew is a little shaken, but thankfully unhurt.

I would love to post more than this right now, and expound on the context in which this incident occured, but quite frankly I am just to flippin' exhausted...

UPDATE: Continuing an earlier post, today a patrol rolled back to base after having confiscated three truckloads of very realistic looking Chinese made toy guns from a local vendor.

In related news...

Another American Import?

Today, October 1, we saw something that we haven't seen in Baghdad since our arrival four months ago.

 

Clouds!

Toys Made in China...for the Iraqi market

It is the kind of thing that can happen anywhere, and when it does happen the consequences can be tragic. When it happens in a volatile neighborhood in Baghdad, however, tragic consequences may actually be the objective of the enemy. My heart skipped a beat when a young boy of about eight or nine years pushed his way through the other boys clamoring for my attention. He pointed to the 9mm Beretta strapped to my thigh, then patted a bulge at his waist beneath his shirt. As he started to move away, he casually pulled up his short to reveal a pistol grip protruding from his belt. I grabbed him, and yanked the weapon away. It was a toy. I started scolding him loudly, then realized that my interpreter was off with some other soldiers talking to a group of shopkeepers.

The gaggle of kids, maybe a dozen in all, followed me to retrieve my interpreter. The disarmed gunman rushed to the protection of a group of older male relatives, and refused leave their side when I beckoned him over as I continued my lecture. The adults appeared amused when I pulled my pistol and held it next to the toy. "Do you see this?" I asked through my interpreter. "They look almost the same, don't they? Are you trying to get killed?! Do you think a soldier can tell the difference from a distance?!" Some of the older kids seemed to get it. The adults just continued grinning stupidly. I pulled out a couple of dollars and gave them to the kid. I told him that this time I'm buying the toy from him. Next time we'll simply take them. When we got back to base, a soldier from the same patrol tossed me another plastic gun confiscated on the same mission. "Here's another for your collection."

Later that day I learned that it wasn't so long ago that some kids were playing with toy guns and pointed them at an American patrol from behind a brick wall. That time the results were tragic. A Bradley fighting vehicle spun its main gun around and neutralized the "threat". These are not accidents. These are the results of a sinister strategy on the part of some insurgents who have been known to flood neighborhoods with toy guns with the intent of producing exactly this kind of result.

Fortunately, this time nobody got hurt. Another good day in Baghdad.

Rhinitis

Op tempo remains high, so we've been keeping pretty busy. Centaur75 has a new team member, so our manpower strength has spiked a whopping 50% in the past week. Now that we have a full crew, we're far more self-sufficient and flexible when it comes to being able to take advantage of opportunities to go outside the wire, which is what we've essentially been doing non-stop for a while now.

Sometimes our interactions with the local nationals can border of the surreal. A recent mission took us to a local hospital in a dominantly Sunni neighborhood. We had a helluva time finding it, as the GPS coordinates that filtered through the byzantine military bureaucracy had us wandering aimlessly through residential neighborhoods, and backtracking at makeshift roadblocks composed of concrete, rusted engine blocks and palm logs. The frustration at not being able to find the place was eased by the reception we received from neighborhood children who flocked to the curbs and actually cheered us as we drove by; some snapping smartly to attention, stomping their right foot, and whipping out that ridiculous palm-outward military salute that the Iraqis borrowed from the British ages ago.

We finally found the hospital, and positioned our vehicles in a defensive perimeter. Our audience with the hospital director, and our tour of the facilities found us in the somewhat awkward position of clanking through and amongst the hospital beds in full battle-rattle, all the while noisily smacking weapons into walls, bed frames and chairs. The patients all stared at us wide-eyed as if we'd descended from another planet. Navigating the narrow stairwell through three stories under all the weight of armor, weapons and magazines was exhausting in itself.

As we were wrapping up the mission, and collapsing our security perimeter, we were approached by two middle aged women in an agitated state. Their animated gestures and tone drew several other soldiers to where my interpreter and I were standing. Now, it is not at all unusual for locals to approach American patrols with information on bad guys, or complaints about infrastructure, etc. It is common and expected. So... what did these two woman believe was so important that only the might of the U.S. Army was up to the challenge? What was so pressing that they had to wave us down so that we could stand there in the triple-digit heat, encased in armor, with sweat pouring down our brows?

The allergy medicine they got from the pharmacy wasn't working.

I am not making this up. I was ready to draw my 9mm Beretta semi-automatic and tell them that it was the only thing we carried that was guaranteed to clear sinus passages. I didn't, of course. We were polite, told them we just couldn't help them with that, gave them some ice water, and sent them on their way.

This is just an example of what can constitute a priority on one Baghdad street. A five minute drive from this location is a neighborhood that may be witnessing a spike in sectarian violence. A clash between rival militias, in which U.S. forces were not involved, left bodies burning in the streets and families fleeing their homes.

Shift gears and drive on.

Speaking truth to power

Today a relatively small group of us had an opportunity to meet with a visiting congressional delegation from back home: Senators Olympia Snowe (R-ME), Ben Nelson (D-NE), Max Baucas (D-MT) and our own homeboy Ken Salazar (D-CO). The meeting was held in a conference room near division HQ here on Camp Liberty, and was billed as an opportunity for the Senators to hear the points of view and concerns of the soldiers. there were four tables in the room, and seven soldiers from each state had the opportunity to have lunch and chat with their elected representative. Well... not exactly. Nebraska and Montana had empty seats. Colorado had too many people, so a Major was booted from the guest list, and our own Liz (who flew down from the IZ specifically for this event) was relegated to sitting with the Montana folks, which I think she found more than a little irritating.

Sen. Salazar was about as courteous and amiable as can be, and appeared to be genuinely interested in our perspectives and concerns. At the end, he was the last one to leave the room only after telling the escorting entourage to cool their heels so that he could hear more of what we had to say. Even then, however, time was short and far too much was left unsaid.

I found it a little disconcerting, after all the introductions were made, that the first thing he did was to remind us how unpopular the war was back home, and started quoting polls and percentages. An image flashed through my mind of trying to conduct a war like an American Idol talent contest. "If you support the Surge, call 1-800-(etc.) and press #4. If you support immediate withdrawal, press #5. I'm sorry, Gen. Patraeus, but you will not be joining us on stage next week!" ...what a way to run a war! We were then treated to a brief campaign spiel about all his votes in favor of benefits for military members and veterans. Yippee. Then we had our turn.

A Major from Division HQ spoke eloquently about the strategic importance of the region, the dangers or Iran, and the necessity to do "whatever it takes" to achieve a positive outcome. Senator Salazar leaned into the table. "What if it takes 5 years?" The Major looked him in the eye and repeated, "Whatever it takes."

I elaborated on the question of Iran, and that I felt that discussing the withdrawal of US forces as an end unto itself risks a long-term catastrophe in the region. I told him that, based on my experience, the American public underestimates the "corrosive" nature of Iranian influence. A Lt. Colonel across the table commented that he thought my use of the term "corrosive" was absolutely correct. We all agreed on the strategic need to secure the borders of Iraq; primarily the Iranian, but the Syrian as well.

The meeting wrapped up, and the Senators were swept off to waiting Black Hawks. Later in the evening was a USO sponsored appearance by the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. As I didn't think they would be quite as receptive to my geopolitical criticisms, I decided not to attend. I got a haircut instead.

CNN

CNN made an appearance in our AO this week. The fact is that their presence forced the gradual postponement of our mission. We ended up spending most of the day geared up, ready to go, waiting for the word, until the afternoon when we were finally informed that due to the logistical resources required by the presence of the journalists, our mission was postponed for two days. Nice. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

By the time we got out there, however, the piece had aired. These guys even got front page billing on CNN's website. One of the interpreters managed to capture a poor quality version of the segment, so we got to see these guys watch themselves on CNN for the first time.

My own opinion is that the video and the online article are pretty superficial puff pieces. The headline of the online article is "Soldiers wish politicians would embed with them". The reason given by a soldier interviewed in the article is so that politicians would have a better appreciations for the trials and stresses of life in the combat zone. This strikes me as largely irrelevant to the formulation of a policy, as well as somewhat disingenuous since there are a good many politicians with military and combat experience on both sides of the political divide. I would like to see politicians embed with troops for entirely different reasons. I would like them to sit and observe Neighborhood and District Advisory Councils (NAC's and DAC's) that are the new grassroots arena of civic activism in Baghdad. The squabbling and belly-aching are energetic, but nobody is shooting each other, and projects like infrastructure repair, job fairs, relief distribution, small business seminars, and medical clinics are being addressed. I would like to have the politicians go on patrols down wide boulevards that have been gutted and abandoned for months, and see the businesses that are starting to reopen. (The first time we drove through this area I thought to myself, "Man. This place looks like a war zone!" Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot.) I'd like to take them through the neighborhood we visited that was a vast, tranquil mixed population of Sunni and Shia, each with their own mosque within a block of each other, and neither guarded. The community had banded together to petition the Americans to help create a wall to keep the sectarian violence that infected neighboring communities from spilling over into their area.

To demonstrate the fragility of the progress we are witnessing, I would also take them to see the areas dominated by the Shia militias, to talk to the people first hand and see the fear in their eyes as they talk in whispers about how their Sunni friends and neighbors were driven off or executed. And to Sunni areas where al Qaeda influence is ebbing, but Sunni squatters forced from Shia neighborhoods cannot get food rations from the government, and are now facing the prospect of refugees returning to claim their homes leaving them on the streets without a roof over their heads; just the type of vulnerable population that provides al Qaeda types with plenty of raw recruits.

These are the images and stories that should provide the context that informs and elevates debate over policy. It seems to me that with all its resources, CNN squandered an opportunity in my neighborhood to inform that debate by telling a much more compelling story unfolding just blocks away.

September 11

The dust kicked up again yesterday. All morning and into the early afternoon the weather was clear. It was still hot, but the sky was a clear blue. By mid afternoon the light breeze crossed some arbitrary threshold to become wind, and the powdered sugar-like sand took flight. By 4 PM the sun could be distinguished only by being a lighter shade of brown. A short walk to the latrine caked your teeth with grit and sandblasted your eyes. The filters on the air conditioners are an insufficient barrier to such fine particles, so dust inflamed my sinuses and settled into my lungs. I developed a cough that I simply couldn't wash away with the omnipresent bottled water.

The temperature is starting to be tolerable in the mornings. It still climbs above 100 during the day, but the cooler mornings are spawning clusters of soldiers who are weaning themselves from the air conditioned comfort of the gyms and exercising outdoors. Nonetheless, it is unfortunate that the A/C in our truck couldn't wait a couple of more months before giving up the ghost. It never really worked too great; only sufficient to just take the edge off the heat in the vehicle. However, without it the interior of the truck becomes quite intolerable. Hopefully, we won't have to run too many more missions before we get the darn thing repaired.

Last night I was fortunate enough to be able to listen to Gen. Petraeus and Ambassador Crocker testify before congress thanks to streaming audio from C-SPAN's website. I find it very reassuring that such a highly respected military authority will finally have an opportunity to personally look our political leadership in the eye and absorb the polished posturing demagoguery that congress is so adept at producing. After all, I cannot think of a better way for the General to get a clearer picture of the conditions in Iraq than by getting lectured to in a hearing room on Capitol Hill. That said, from what transferred from headphones to head before I drifted off to sleep, the General's description of conditions in Iraq essentially conforms to my own personal observations.

This morning my interpreter reminded me that today is September 11. Six years ago on this day I was driving to work at Hewlett-Packard listening to the local morning A.M. radio talk show. The radio personalities were clearly flustered, and were actually telling people to leave their radio, and find a television because they were at a loss to describe what they were obviously watching in the studio. When I go to work, most of my colleagues were not aware that anything of any significance had occurred. Over the course of the morning, however, work slowly ground to a halt, and some televisions were brought in, some with makeshift aluminum foil antennae. A product demonstration room featuring a large 50" plasma TV filled with people as we all watched events unfold in the comfort of a mock-up high-end living room.

As a direct consequence of that day, I find myself in Baghdad this morning listening to a woman struggle to control her voice as tears streamed down her cheeks. She is Sunni, and her husband is sitting somewhere with a Shia bullet in him. She is afraid to take him to the hospital because the hospitals are monitored by the Shia militias. She is afraid to give us her name or any useful information. All we can do is give her the phone number of an international aid agency. Next to her stands one of her sons, about 12 years old. His face is expressionless. This is a scene that is all too familiar. While there is no question that conditions are improving, sectarian violence has created a massive internal refugee problem. In a culture that places high value on revenge and honor, this will be one of the most daunting problems that the Iraqi government will have to tackle if and when it gets its act together.

I've been all over the map on this posting, but I wanted to end on a humorous note. I took this photo while we were on a recent mission. The normal radio chatter was suddenly interrupted by an emphatic voice from the lead vehicle in the convoy. "Whoa! Those chicks are HOT!" There is no question that as they passed by the windows on the left side of the convoy, all of al Qaeda could have approached from our right, hammered bombs to the side of our trucks, and nobody would have noticed.

Same planet, different worlds

I was recently e-mailed this photo from home of local indigenous wildlife grazing in their natural habitat.

It immediately reminded me of a photo I recently took of a similar scene on the streets of a relatively well-off Baghdad neighborhood. Again, local indigenous wildlife grazing in their natural habitat.
I know, I know... The similarities are eerie.

Man, I can't wait to get home!

They're my rules, and I'll break them if I want to

In this little corner of cyberspace, I've tried to operate within self-imposed guidelines. Some of these guidelines are obvious. For reasons concerning operational security, I do not mention any specifics relating our job. I have not used any body's last names. I am intentionally vague or misleading when it comes to time. There are other operational references that I intentionally obscure, and frequently omit entirely. Admittedly, this can be quite frustrating. Often when I re-read posts, I'm left feeling dissatisfied and hollow because I am restrained from really digging into the substance and contexts of events.

I also have made an effort (for the most part) to steer clear of politics. Those who know me know my disposition already. I've resisted the temptation to turn this into a political forum or a sounding board for my own political point of view.

That being said, some may see this particular post as a diversion from the aforementioned policies. Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. I'm of the opinion that this is essentially a stylistic deviation that does not necessarily violate my self-imposed restriction on political arguments. In any event, it is my intent that this be a one-time-only circumstance, and one in which I am actively soliciting reasoned, thoughtfully constructed opinion from all who care to participate.

Now, the meat of the issue: Brian de Palma has a new film that is being showcased at the Venice Film Festival in Italy. The name of the film is "Redacted" and was inspired by actual events. I will not provide a synopsis here, but encourage you to search the Internet and read anything and everything you can find on it. Pay particular attention to Mr. de Palma's motivation for making the film, and the effect he intends it to have. Is there any substantial difference between what Mr. de Palma is doing with this film and what countless terrorist cells are attempting to accomplish with the lies and distortion on their websites? It seems to me that both are trying to get me killed. What are the substantial differences between Brian de Palma and Adam Gadahn?

Again, this is a good faith solicitation for your comments and opinions. My next post will be a return to the same old boring war stuff.

T-72

I just like this photo. Me on the hulk of an Iraqi T-72 tank. Camp Slayer, Baghdad.

Pop Smoke

In our AO (Area of Operations) there is a police station smack in the middle of a Sunni neighborhood that is a hotbed of AQI (al Qaeda in Iraq). It is common knowledge that Iraqi police are dominantly Shia, and extremely vulnerable to corruption and infiltration by various factions of the illegal Shia militias. At best, the police operating out of this station were ineffective. They were ill-equipped to actually do any patrolling, and essentially were too fearful of AQI to venture beyond the walls of the compound. At worst, some of the top supervisors were thought to be corrupt, even to the point of collaborating with AQI in attacks against coalition forces. This was a situation that could not be allowed to continue. So, with the consent of the Ministry of the Interior, we moved on the police station with the intent of replacing the local police with the relatively better trained and less corrupt National Police.

It was an operation that required some finesse. After all, it would not be difficult in such a situation to inadvertently create more enemies out of disenchanted or embarrassed former police. Special emphasis was placed on treating everybody with dignity and respect as we attempted to separate the wheat from the chaff during the course of the operation. At one point I found myself in the position of standing guard over a small group of recently-relieved Iraqi police. One of the former police indicated to me that he need to go back to his "office" to retrieve some personal items before the trucks moved everybody safely out of the neighborhood. I found another soldier to take my place, and I escorted the gentleman to his "office" which turned out to be an outbuilding on the compound that was actually the kitchen. The man rooted through the cupboards and refrigerator (thoughtfully offering me a very refreshing ice cold Sprite), and filled a large plastic sack with dozens of cartons of cigarettes. I honestly think that the kitchen was stocked with nothing more than cigarettes and my one can of Sprite!

Less than a mile away is another Sunni neighborhood virtually free of AQI. The Iraqi Army has a very good reputation in the neighborhood, and on our last patrol it was not uncommon for people to honk and wave at us as they drove past. Time will tell if we can replicate these conditions in the other area. For now, however, it is enough that an operation of such delicacy went off without a hitch. No shots were fired, no IED's went off, no mortars impacted, and nobody was hurt. So, no violence means another uneventful day that did not attract any headlines.

Dark Helmet

There have been a grand total of two times in my brief military career when I've been the victim of larceny committed by my brethren in uniform. When it occurs, it is I think a deeper psychological blow than common thievery as it occurs in the civilian world. After all, these are the people you must trust with your life. These are people with whom are are supposed to be sharing a common bond; forging intimate ties that have been lauded in literature and lore as being stronger than blood. These are bonds that are supposed to be buttressed by the vaunted Army Values that have been drilled into soldiers from the day we sign on the dotted line: Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, Personal Courage. It is, of course, true that these are aspirations rather than descriptors of a state of affairs within the military.

The first time was going through reception as a new recruit at Fort Jackson, SC. Even before we'd been issued combat boots, some bottom-feeding low life went through all the lockers in the bay and cleaned out all the cash. I was out $50. Welcome to the Army.

The second time was just a few days ago when my helmet was stolen from my locked humvee in the middle of the afternoon. Now, this strikes me as a particularly egregious offense. In a combat zone, you simply don't swipe another man's armor. You may ask yourself, well... if the humvee was locked, how did they get in? Here is the worst kept secret in the army: Humvee's are notoriously EASY to get into. They have to be for safety reasons. If a humvee is combat locked and there is a catastrophic event (IED), or a rollover, first responders must be able to get into the vehicle from the outside. So, bypasses are built into the design of the doors. Padlocks on the outside do nothing to counteract the bypasses. Furthermore, just about everybody has a heavy set of bolt cutters anyway. The point is, it is no great trick getting into a locked humvee.

Now I was presented with a problem. Officially reporting the theft (even though it was a theft) would have saddled me with the cost of a new helmet (in the neighborhood of $326.30) that would have been taken out of my paycheck. This was probably the motivation behind the theft of my helmet in the first place. Bob has a theory that some dough boy back in WWI lost his helmet, swiped his buddy's, and the chain has continued unbroken through the Army for the better part of a century. So, now the trick was to find a replacement without stealing one. I presented the problem to my capable NCOIC, and he went to work under the radar. In the meantime, I had to run missions with borrowed headgear. The first helmet I borrowed was an XL. I've got a big melon, but this thing made me look like a turtle (See photo. That is me on the far left).

Yesterday my problem was solved when my NCOIC strode into my room with an appropriately sized helmet in his hands. I'm back in business...and now I owe somebody a favor. Ah, Army life.

New Uniform Component

Today I entered the combat zone in a slightly different high-tech uniform. Just before I went on leave, we were issued the new Nomex combat shirt. Unfortunately, it sat on a shelf for three weeks and I wasn't able to officially put it to the test until today. The first impression right out of the bag is the overpowering chemical smell that immediately assaulted my sinuses and triggered a dull headache. Fortunately, an initial washing eliminated 95% of that problem. This shirt is designed to be worn under the IBA (Interceptor Body Armor), i.e. body armor. It takes the place of the tan t-shirt and the regular ACU shirt/blouse. This is a GOOD thing. The ACU shirt soaks up sweat, bunches up, gets very hot, and with all the Velcro badges, patches, name tapes, etc. can get pretty uncomfortable. The new combat shirt, is much lighter, has NO patches, badges, etc., etc., is very thin, and in MUCH more comfortable. Plus, it is supposedly fire retardant. (I hope I never have to put that one to the test.) The drawbacks are minor. It feels flimsy and is prone to ripping, especially when you're all sweaty and you try to pull it over your head by the back of the neck. Also, the mock-turtle collar - again, designed to protect the throat area from flame - is a bit uncomfortable and will take some getting used to. The most intriguing thing about these new shirts, however, is that we are one of the very few units on base to have been issued them. This made for some interesting rubbernecking and whispering on the part of other soldiers when we made our entrance to the main dining facility early this morning for breakfast.

Morning Run

I took a morning run yesterday around a large man-made lake here on post. It seems to have started cooling off a bit at night, so getting out there into the pre-dawn air is significantly more tolerable than before I left for R&R. By my measurement, it is about 3.15 miles around this lake, and there are typically quite a lot of soldiers out there in the morning running the circuit.

On this run I happened upon a confluence of events that created an image that was truly something to behold. The sun, massive and orange, crested the horizon as I ran the Western shore of the lake. Its reflection shimmered the length of the still water, and formed a stunning backdrop to the vivid pink flowers that grow clustered on stalks among the shoreline reeds. As the distinctive report of 50 cal. machine gun fire echoed in the distance, two Black Hawk helicopters emerged directly out of the rising sun and slowly thundered their way to a helipad to my rear. It was a moment no Hollywood cinematographer could replicate. Next time I promise to bring a camera.

As an aside, I would like to draw your attention to this wonderful tribute by one of my favorites, Peggy Noonan. I include this because I have have the great fortune to see first-hand the types of actions and behaviors she writes about, and can testify that no matter what the future holds for Iraq, there will be countless Iraqis who will treasure memories of their encounters with American soldiers.

Back To The Front

There are some interesting psychological side effects to taking R&R leave and traveling back and forth from Baghdad, Iraq to Anytown, USA. The most readily apparent is the predictable "time warp" sensation one experiences being away from home for any significant length of time. As indicated earlier, you very easily slip into old familiar routines, and you can quickly forget the you've been gone for six months. Then, while driving through town, you're jarred back to reality when you notice a building that wasn't there 'yesterday', or you glance at the marquis of the local multiplex theater and realize that NONE of the titles look even remotely familiar. The most unsettling sensations, however, can come from just from everyday interactions and conversations with family and friends. You find that you are somehow out of sync; that the gears of everyday life are stripped and no longer mesh. This slipping sensations comes from the loss of a common chronological frame of reference. After all, life has gone on pretty much business-as-usual for everybody else, and you are somehow expecting to step back into the world as if nothing has changed. You're a caveman just thawed from a block of ice, oblivious to the passing of history.

"What are your plans for the next two weeks?" This is a common question concerning R&R from Iraq. On the surface it is pretty simple. Given the restrictions imposed on young soldiers deployed to Iraq, most popular responses (depending on who is asking the question) inevitably involve some explicit reference to alcohol and/or sex. Duh. There is another dimension to the question however, that I found unsettling. Once I was home and the boots and uniform had been replaced with tennis shoes and jeans, that simple question acquired the psychological punch (I would imagine) of being told by your doctor that you have two weeks to live. So, how are you going to spend those two weeks? Okay, so the answer doesn't really change that much, but it acquires an intensely vivid urgency. This can be distracting, and if not properly recognized and controlled can adversely affect relationships, and ironically can make it very difficult to Rest & Relax.

Anyhow, playtime is now over and it is time to return to work. I'm back in Baghdad. The journey back to the sandbox was not nearly as bad as the trip home. For some unfathomable reason the army seems to make it so much easier getting to Iraq than leaving it. Hmmm. The flight back had a stopover in Budapest, Hungary as opposed to Shannon, Ireland. How exciting, as I have never been to Budapest. We never got off the plane. We sat on the tarmac for an hour an a half while they changed crews and refueled, and from the windows we watched Hungarian bunny rabbits scurry to and fro in the fields adjacent to the runways.

I popped awake and started this little blog entry at 3 AM, so I think it will take a little time to shake off the jet lag.

HOME!! ...well, for a little while.

I'm on R&R! What an absolutely horrific journey to get from Baghdad to the U.S.! First, my designated leave dates got screwed up, so I only learned at the last minute that my R&R was four days later than I was originally told. Then the flight from BIAP (Baghdad International Airport) to Kuwait was delayed for 24 hours...twice. Our decision to make our way back to base each time and sleep in our own beds in air conditioned rooms instead of waiting around in the sweltering 120 degree heat was roundly criticized by our company. So be it. We'll agree to disagree on the wisdom of that particular line of reasoning. Once we got properly manifested on the flight to Kuwait, it was still a 5 hour wait in the heat, but we certainly weren't going to complain. The flight to Kuwait was probably the worst I've ever been on. The C-17 was packed the the gills, and was essentially an oven with wings. I am honestly surprised that nobody on that plane passed out from the heat. Kuwait was tolerable, but it was still better than 24 hours full of paperwork, briefings, etc. before we boarded buses for the 1 1/2 hour trip to Kuwait Airport. Once there, it was a packed charter to Shannon, Ireland ("No alcohol while in uniform!!!"), then finally the long stretch to Dallas. Arriving on American soil was...well...simply awesome. Firetrucks meet the planes full of soldiers on the runway, and offer a tribute of arcs of water over the planes. Our walk from the gate to customs is through a terminal full of applauding crowds welcoming home all the soldiers. I'm a sentimentalist, so it was a very humbling experience. I know that they do this for flights coming back from the war zone every day, but it still feels fresh and very welcoming.

Then I was stuck in Dallas for a good ten hours until I could get a flight back home. Thank you United Airlines for overbooking EVERY damn flight, and not allowing ANY standby on the planes. Really appreciate that. Still, the people in Dallas were awesome. Very friendly, and curious about our experiences and impressions. Shook a lot of hands.

When I finally got home, my family was waiting for me at the gate; a huge professional sign all made up in my honor. When I walked off the plane the whole crowd at the gate (United Airlines customers waiting for delayed flights and no doubt pretty grumpy about it) erupted in applause. I couldn't help but choke up.

It is almost scary how quickly and easily I shed the skin of a soldier and stepped back into the role of a civilian. I feel as if I'm stepped through a six month time warp. Iraq very suddenly seems so far away. I drive around town, go to stores and restaurants as if I'd never been away. Still, there is a distance that is difficult to describe. There is a triviality to everyday life. I sometimes feel like I am seeing the world through eyes that are not my own.

Enemies Unseen

Somebody brought to my attention this recent article in TIME magazine. I mention it because, even though the January 20, 2007 attack it centers on occurred before our arrival in country, we came to develop an intimate relationship with the events of that day. We also met and/or got to know many of the individuals mentioned in the article. It hits close to home.

Urban Myths

Had an interesting discussion over dinner with an Iraqi who works with us. In the course of the conversation, he listed several popular misconceptions and myths among Iraqis about American soldiers. Maybe this serves to illuminate the chasm that separates our people, and complicates finding a solution to the Iraqi problem.

• American soldiers dip their bullets in poison.
• We use 'smart' bullets. No matter where a person is hit, the bullet will automatically travel to a critical organ, e.g. a shot in the arm will travel up the arm and move towards the heart.
• Soldiers wear high-tech sunglasses that allow them to see through clothing.
• Knee pads (frequently worn down around the ankles for comfort when not on mission) are actually mine/IED detection devices.
• America already knows where all the terrorists are because of satellite tracking, but we don't attack them for unknown, but probably nefarious reasons.
• We have devices on our humvees that can detect bombs and weapons in cars from a great distance.

A couple of days ago on a mission, a group of children posed for several minutes while I took 'pictures' of them...with my mp3 player. I imagine that I could have easily launched a whole new cycle of rumors with this group if I had a mind to.

Roller Coaster

Have you ever been to an amusement park with a signature thrill ride? It is usually some sort of roller coaster, and its image and logo are emblazoned on black t-shirts and souvenir bumper stickers. Ever been in line to get on one of those things for the first time? Remember how your stomach felt?

I was thinking of this the other day as we waited to roll outside the wire. We were going to an area I was entirely unfamiliar with having never been there before. An hour before, the convoy commander himself had approached me to try to find out how to get to our destination. On top of that, our element was only traveling with three humvees; significantly less firepower and armor than we'd become accustomed to. So, when the headset radios started crackling with reports of IED strikes and discoveries of unexploded IEDs in our area, I began to experience that familiar pre-roller coaster tension in the gut. Here we go. Fasten your seat belts. Keep all hands and feet inside the car. Enjoy the ride.

Once again, fortune smiled upon us. A few wrong turns were made, and we needed some help from HQ, but we did eventually reach our destination unscathed, performed our mission successfully, and returned to base.

The Iraqi PM, al Maliki, has been making press lately by bristling at reports emanating from the U.S. that his government is not making enough progress in meeting benchmarks, and increasing pressure in Congress for a withdrawal of U.S. troops. His puffed up retort that U.S. troops can leave 'any time they want' is being greeting with bemused smiles by many soldiers here. Everybody knows this is political posturing, and not an accurate reflection of the current state of readiness of Iraqi forces. I believe we're making a lot of progress across both fronts; pushing back the insurgency, as well as training and equipping the Iraqi Security Forces. However, my own sense is that we're nowhere near a tipping point that would allow the ISF to be self-sustaining.

I keep forgetting to throw in this little tidbit from several weeks ago. As we roll through the streets of just about any town in Iraq, it is very common to see kids run out to greet us, holding both hands up as if holding a soccer ball above their heads. This is, of course, the universal sign for, "Mista, Mista! Give football!" In a previous post, I believe I alluded to the fact that soccer balls are just as popular, if not more so, among Iraqi police and soldiers. However, the Iraqi security forces are generally a little more subtle when it comes to begging for soccer balls. So, one day when we rolled through an Iraqi Army checkpoint, I was a little surprised to see one of the soldiers manning the checkpoint standing next to the road childishly holding both hands above his head begging for a soccer ball. I about choked on my camelback when his partner smacked him on the back of the head and gave him an incredulous look that said, "What in the hell are you doing?!"

Locher Cartoon

I Got Shot!

I had my second anthrax shot a couple of days ago. No big deal. It didn't hurt at all...until the next day. The injection site swelled up into a golf ball sized knot, and it felt like somebody slugged me with brass knuckles. It is still swollen today, but doesn't hurt quite as much. When we mobilized for deployment, the vaccine was optional. (It is actually a series of six shots, followed by annual boosters.) The military had decided that the relatively high risks of side effects coupled with the decreased risk of exposure to the spore in the battle space no longer justified making the shot mandatory. For reasons unknown, there has apparently been a policy change. Now everybody gets 'em. At least it isn't as bad as the smallpox vaccine. Yow...that one was no fun at all!

This morning the weather seemed to have cooled a bit. Indeed, as we strolled by the company HQ, the thermometer indicated it was only 100 degrees. The stiff breeze and the high humidity, however, meant that it is still pretty darned uncomfortable to be outside.

Wish there was more I could talk about. It has been pretty quiet lately...well, except for last night when something nearby made a big boom and rattled our cage pretty good. Not a big deal. You kinda get used to it.

Happy Birthday!

She's 231 years young. The Great Experiment continues. The principles that forged a nation nearly 2 1/2 centuries ago were unique in their time; never having been applied on such a grand scale. Today they are enshrined in the charters of most of the nations of the earth, even if imperfectly applied. Happy Birthday. I know they're just trying to exhibit a little patriotic holiday flair, but there is something a little disconcerting about the contractor responsible for operating the dining facilities forcing their glum little Pakistani workers to wear little red, white and blue paper Uncle Sam hats.

It has been relatively quiet for the past several days. We had started to become accustomed to the thud of mortars and the boom of outgoing artillery throughout the day, but lately it has been calm. What little of Baghdad we have had the opportunity to see is quite a bit different than where we had been previously posted. Parts of the city would feel very familiar to anybody living near a big city in the U.S. Wide elevated highways with sweeping on and off ramps slice through the city allowing rapid access to just about any part. Large green signs above the roadways announce in English and Arabic the way to the airport, city center, Balad, Abu Ghraib, etc. Yes, most of the guardrails have been removed to foil IED emplacers. Yes, all that remains of several overpasses is jagged concrete rubble and a web of iron bars thanks to car bombs (VBIED's). Yes, concertina wire obstructs all the pedestrian overpasses. Yes, great chunks of roadway have been blown away by IED's. Yet it is all so very familiar. We've all seen Hollywood create sets like this on back lots for post-apocalyptic films.

"The Day After" sensation was most palpable at one of the Joint Security Stations (JSS) in our area. These are the mini-FOB's that are operated by U.S. and Iraqi Army units, and are central features of the Surge strategy. This particular JSS is in a shopping mall. It has all the features of a large, modern urban galleria. Several stories tall, with a central courtyard and fountain, escalators, etc. It would not be out of place in Denver, Colorado. The difference is that all the stores are empty, there's concertina wire running the length of the escalators, sandbagged fighting positions throughout, bullet holes in the windows, no power (or air conditioning!), dust covers everything, and stray dogs roam freely within. Here soldiers make their home. The first time we walked in, I felt like I had walked into a weird parallel universe.

I'm sorry that it has been a while between posts. I'll try to throw something up here on a more regular basis...even if there is nothing particularly noteworthy going on. Enjoy the holiday everybody.