Tanker Bob

It was supposed to be a pretty low key day. In the morning a bunch of us suited up, and drove outside the gates to a neighboring Iraqi Army compound to get in a little target practice. It turns out that the most noteworthy event dropped into our laps accidentally as I was pulled into a hallway conversation at the battalion TOC (Tactical Operations Center).

I thought it would be an awesome Hoo-AH! opportunity for Bob. I thought it would be fun. Well, I was right on the first count, but way wrong on the second. Command dangled an mission in front of me and I eagerly snapped it up. We'd been working with infantry since entering the country, and now here was mission that was all heavy armor. So, in the dead of night a patrol of M1A2 Abrams tanks clanked through the gates and into the streets of Baghdad with Bob wedged into one of the gunners' seats. I thought it was only going to be a patrol for a couple of hours. It turned into eight tortuous hours of nearly unbearable heat in claustrophobic confines. By the time Bob dragged himself back to our room at about 6:30 AM, he was thoroughly drained. It turns out that tanks are much smaller on the inside than you might think, and Bob is a big fellow. It also turns out that tanks are not air conditioned, so the heat generated by all their systems as well as their turbine engines can be murderous - especially in the Iraqi summer. At the end of the day, however, Bob did get a figuratively very cool tank mission through the streets of Baghdad under his belt. An ancillary benefit to the mission was that the patrol found a very large IED that easily would have increased the casualty figures of which the press is so fond had it detonated according to the terrorists' intent.

Keeping Up With The Joneses

Bob and I had just returned from dinner. The sun was setting, but the temperature had to still be hovering in the 105 degree range. I had showered before dinner and donned a fresh uniform, but it was already soaked through with sweat. As we approached a neighboring trailer, I thought these folks have the right idea! ...and the sun-bleached pink flamingo lawn ornament was a nice touch. Have NO idea where they got that! As I took this picture, I heard machine gun fire in the distance. Somewhere in a distant Baghdad neighborhood a fierce gun battle was taking place. The sight before me and the sounds wafting over the 12 foot concrete "T" walls was quite a contrast, but contrast is one commodity that there is plenty of in Iraq.

It was a rough day yesterday for our supported battalion. They're newly deployed, and have only been here a few weeks. That is pretty early in a tour to lose four members of your military family to an IED. On top of my agenda tomorrow morning is to find out when and where the memorial service will be.

I had my first taste of the streets of Baghdad several days ago with a patrol in another team's area. It was extremely eerie and quiet due to a vehicle curfew that went into effect after the mosque bombing in Samara up north. Some of the areas we drove through looked like they had been lifted from a quiet Tuscon, Arizona suburb ...and then dragged behind a pickup on a dusty country road. One area looked like a lunar landscape; a sea of broken concrete from horizon to horizon interrupted only by cockeyed power poles and a few newly built houses. I was unable to determine if the area had once been a neighborhood and then been flattened, or if it was just an open, undeveloped field where people just dropped their cement debris.

Tanks For The Memories

UPDATE: As I'm certainly not in the habit of making two blog entries in one day, I opted to include this piece as an update to an already posted entry. It is likely that events of some signifance are unfolding. I would like to direct your attention to this exceptionally well written piece posted today by a writer in Iraq.

Ok. Carry on.

Integration is proceeding slowly, but smoothly, with our new supported battalion. On top of all the other changes that we're enduring, we are now supporting armor. That means tanks; lots and lots of M1 Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. Aside from the Hoo-AH!! aspects - which are undeniable - we really don't know how that will affect our job. In any event, we're getting to know the names and faces at headquarters, and they all seem quite pleased to have us around and are anxious to see what we can bring to the fight.

Our new home is one of several contiguous bases that form a massive mega-base around BIAP (Baghdad International Airport). There is nothing homey or cozy about this place. It is dusty, brown, dusty, huge, dusty, crowded, dusty, impersonal, and dusty. The hike to the nearest dining facility takes 15 to 20 minutes, and requires some very strategic timing to avoid a line. Where we live apparently used to be a private hunting preserve for Saddam Hussein. There are several man made lakes and canals that are positively loaded with fish (mostly carp) and turtles. It is not unusual to see soldiers fishing in these lakes. Nearby - and technically on another base - are a couple of Saddam's presidential palaces. We haven't had an opportunity to play tourist yet, but will do so soon.

The base is crawling with Fobbits of various utility. Most are critically essential to the functioning of the military, and are immensely appreciated by those of us whose primary mission is "outside the wire". However, as division HQ is collocated here, our base is infested with Sergeants Major whose sole function appears to be enforcing Army regulations with regard to sock color, pants leg blousing, and sleeve-rolling.

It is getting hotter. Today I actually had trouble writing a note because the sweat from my brow was streaming onto the paper and smearing the ink. Maybe if Saddam hadn't dug out these lakes it wouldn't be so humid. Iraq; what a stupid place to put a country.

Controlled IED Detonation

Some time back, Bob was on a mission with Civil Affairs when they found themselves sandwiched between two IED's. Through the side mirror of the humvee, he captured this bit of video of EOD initiating a controlled detonation of one of the IED's. Sorry we're so late getting it up on the blog!

Bright Lights, Big City

Moving day has arrived. The powers that be have decided to move some pieces around on the chess board, so we've been uprooted from our cozy little home in the Triangle of Death, and we're on our way to the big city. A brand new team arrived at our FOB to replace us. They still had that 'new car' smell. This is the first tour of duty for three of the four guys on the new team, and they'd only been on the ground for about three weeks, so it was a little strange for us to play the role of grizzled war veterans. We brought them up to speed as fast as we could, and gave them the grand tour with all the proper introductions. If you believe in omens, then this new team is in for quite a ride. As we were preparing to leave, the FOB came under mortar or rocket attack for the first time in about seven months. There were only two rounds, and they landed just outside the walls, but the experience was quite foreign to our little base. Additionally, a soldier nearly shot himself in the foot while we were on our very last mission. It was the first 'negligent discharge' we've witnessed since being in theater.

The first leg of our journey was pretty tense. Traveling at night through the countryside every dirt mound or cinderblock on the side of the road is a suspected IED. Traveling through towns and villages, every shadow in a window or flashlight in an alley puts you on edge. Suddenly the lights of an entire village go out. It is a signal. Or, they all suddenly go on. It is a signal. Or the blue and red light rack on top of an Iraqi Police car cuts through the darkness about a mile ahead. It is also a signal. The bad guys always know when we're coming. A broken down car on the side of the road may be a VBIED (Vehicle Bourne Improvised Explosive Device), and it is given a wide berth. None of this is alien to us, but the natives have been restless lately and I had the gut feeling that if something was going to happen, then this will probably be the night it does. It doesn't, however, and we complete our first leg without incident. There was a moment of humor when somebody from the lead vehicle in our convoy gets on the radio and tells us about a little hedgehog near the shoulder of the road. When the convoy commander's excited voice replies requesting distance, direction and positive identification by the vehicle gunner, it is obvious that something got garbled in transmission.

We greet the following day with question about the next scheduled convoy to Baghdad. The timetables have been scrambled because a VBIED the night before hit a US checkpoint, demolishing a bridge along our primary route, and killing three American soldiers. We're finally underway well after sundown. Our convoy is one of many that create a nearly constant stream of headlights along one of Iraq's busiest highways. There is no civilian traffic due to curfews, but we're all impressed with the sheer numbers of military vehicles. The trip to Baghdad takes about three hours. I nearly fall asleep at the wheel at least once. There's no remedy for it. Can't pull over and switch drivers, nap, or grab a cup of coffee. Just have to push on.

A stop at Camp Liberty, Baghdad brings reunions with guys we've not seen since we first put boots on the ground, but it doesn't last long. We've received some disturbing news. Team Centaur is to be split up. Nobody we talk to can explain the rationale behind this decision. I have been appointed as team leader for a new team tasked with supporting a battalion responsible for a sizeable piece of the city. As of this posting, my team consists of Bob. We wave goodbye from the side of the road as the rest of our detachment remounts their humvees and begins the last leg of their journey to their posh new home in the center of the city.

A new chapter begins. We've moved from a largely rural area to the middle of the big city. It is a whole new dynamic; a new team, a new detachment, a new supported unit.

Troops In Contact!

"Troops in contact!" The crack of a sniper rifle triggers a dozen different stories from a dozen different perspectives. Simultaneously I hear the impact and see a bright flash as the bullet slams into the armored shielding protecting the gunner in the vehicle directly in front of us not 15 meters away. The gunner spins his turret around and begins firing. The air in front of my vehicle ripples with the thunder of machine gun fire, as spent brass rains down on the asphalt. "Where is it coming from?!" Adrenalin surges through the bodies of every soldier.

"He's right there!! That building right there!!" This is not much help over the radio.

"Hey, just calm the f--k down! I need distance and direction."

"My three o'clock!! Three o'clock!!" The radio crackles with voices reflecting a dazzling array of emotion.

 

Moments before the street was packed with cars, busses, trucks, pedestrians and donkey carts. Children were clustered around our vehicle joking with the soldiers and begging for more of the soccer balls that we'd been tossing out. In the blink of an eye the streets are clear, as if the world were startled awake and the bustle of daily life was nothing but a dream.

 

Then it is over.

 

Nobody is hurt. All that remains are smoking brass, a wicked scorch mark where the sniper's bullet splattered across the armor plate, and a vacant house newly redecorated in a charming contemporary Swiss cheese motif. By the time we'd regrouped to maneuver, it is believed that the sniper - if he survived our guns - rapidly displaced and fled the area. The gunner who was the sniper's primary target fumbles for his lighter and tries to smoke a cigarette to calm his nerves. A driver borrowed from battalion HQ realizes that he'd been using the wrong call sign on the radio the whole time, contributing to the confusion. I hear Bob, our gunner, mumble to our machine gun, "Dammit. Now I've got to clean this thing." Duane grins as he complains that he didn't get to launch any of his grenades. There is an exhilaration that follows, and good natured ribbing.

 

It is short lived. About twenty minutes later we learn that soldiers just a couple of miles away also encountered a sniper. They were not so lucky.

 

The flags are flying at half-mast yet again.