Pinball

Alright so how would someone like me get a name like ‘Pinball’. It goes like this. It was a bright sunny day in the beautiful state of California. I had just dropped the girlfriend off after a weekend camping in the mountains. We had ridden out Thursday night on my bike, a big sport touring Kawasaki designed for chewing up the miles of asphalt.
We packed a weekend’s worth of gear in the luggage saddle bags, and across the back. The camp site was about ten miles up a fire road in the Big Sur area. So on my heavy street bike, at night, with a passenger and all the extra crap I pack I rode up the mountain, sticking to the smoother parts and avoiding gravel. We picked a camp site, and strung a poncho off the side of the bike to the dismounted bags to make a tent. I brewed tea over heat tabs while building the camp fire.
A wonderful evening under a field of stars, all alone until our friends would show up the next day. It has been a glorious weekend, all the more so for reaching a new level of skill in riding on dirt roads. She had to be back at work on Monday, and I had errands to run. I dropped the bags at her place to pick up later. Close to 200 pounds lighter and thinner I was cruising home in Sunday traffic. In California the practice of lane sharing is perfectly legal, as long as it is done in a ‘reasonable and prudent manner’. As traffic slowed to a crawl or stop I would slide into the space between lanes and roll on.
Something I had done thousands of times. I turn on my hazards and my annoyingly bright headlight. It had been a weekend of great fun, great friends and relaxation. By the end of the week I would be on active duty for the spin up to deployment.
WHAM! Out of the corner of my eye comes a flash of red, and the bike is shoved to the left. I slam into an SUV, then bounce right into a mini van, Attempting to correct I loose some bits on the left as I bounce off another car, and back to the right. My foot hits the last car’s bumper, pulling off the rubber strip. My handle bars twist, the controlled breaking I had been doing becomes a jerk and the front breaks lock. The bike, and I hit the pavement.
My first ‘stack’ or crash. The first time I laid the bike down in around 60 thousand miles. Because an idiot from Arizona thought he would scare me. My foot is all streaks of pain and my shoulder doesn’t want to move like I tell it to. Thus the reason the idiot walked away, oh, he also never got closer to me than lunging range.
Bike totaled, foot thrashed, and there went my active duty tour for predeployment, and the schools that would go with it.
Later, much later, after the CHP had arrived, and the firemen. I had to call someone to get the bike. When in doubt call your mom. Well that is if your mom is as cool as my mom. But I couldn’t find my phone. I convince the cop to call my mom so she can call the cousin with the truck and trailer. The officer makes the call. Rather than handing me the phone, when he dials, he waits for an answer then says, “Mrs Newport this is officer so-and-so with the California Highway patrol.” I freak out.
The protocol for calling home after an incident requiring medical attention is well established. No matter what the hour it is the same.
“Hi mom, I’m OK. I’m at Dominican ER getting some stitches and they will give me a 25% discount if I give them a credit card number right now.”
“Hi Mom, I’m OK. My friend needs to use my car to drive someone home from the hospital mind if I crash on your couch?”
“Hi Dad, tell mom I am OK. The wheel came off the car on 17 and the tow company is on the way, can I use your AAA card to get it towed to the house?”
“Hi Mom, sorry to bother you at work, I’m OK. I seem to have run into the sink in the garage, and the frig. Everything is unplugged and disconnected.”
On the back of my helmet, is a sticker, it reads in indelible ink, “IF FOUND WITHOUT RIDER PLEASE CALL (MY CELL PHONE NUMBER) IF FOUND ON RIDER PLEASE CALL (MY PARENTS NUMBER)”
If the CHP were to find me in a ditch, or smeared down the road, the number he was calling is the number they would find.
So standing on the side of the Freeway I begin to yell at the phone,” MOM I AM OK!, JUST FINE.” The officer gives me a dirty look, then goes on to explain to her that I need to talk to her.
Taking the phone I return the dirty look, looking at the gold band on his finger I say, “How would you like your wife to get a call like that.” He appears mollified.
I end up waiting two hours for the trailer (Most insurance companies won’t tow bikes. Then go to the ER. It’s a motorcycle thing.

Rule number one in any motorcycle crash is that if it hit the ground, replace it. USAA is a marvelous company. In ten days I had the check to replace my helmet, gloves and jacket. The new jacket is a FirstGear Kilimanjaro. If the army listened to motorcycle companies all soldiers would be safer and warmer. The liner is fleece, and has a wind barrier in the sleeves. The fleece and my summer gloves are the only real civilian gear I brought with me.
There are a couple of lessons to be learned from this. Shit comes at you out of the blue, weather you are riding home, or doing yet another trip from one base to another. If you stay all wound up it only means you are tired when it happens. The second is that a little bit of high speed snivel gear is always useful. Last but most important, is that if you bounce off a car just once, people will call you Pinball.
And now there is one less mystery in the world.

An Early wake up

“Sergeant Pinball,” Mighty Mouse’s quiet voice does more to pull me from my slumber than if he had knocked on the wall, his usual prelude to entering my room, “get out side to the company area, and bring your weapon.”
There are few phrases that can bring an NCO out of a deep slumber faster than those. It can mean only one thing. Some one has screwed up bad. I glance at my clock it is 0830 or as near as my clock can tell me, fluctuating power does not lend to an accurate cheap clock. For most of the army 0830 is not an early wake up, but when your day often ends as the sun comes up, and all your work is done at night this is obscenely early. Some one has truly screwed the pooch.
I slap the on button to my coffee maker, and throw my legs out of my bed. “I’m on my way” I tell him and he Di Di Mau’s out of the room. I shove my feet into my boots as I listen to him poke his head into the next room. He was carrying his weapon and mine sleeps with me so it wasn’t my truck, unless Lifeguard screwed the pooch, not likely but not beyond the realm of possibility.
I had conducted a perfect three point face plant last night when we got back. Dropping my blouse on my folding chair, and sleeping in my pants. It had been misting, so I wanted a chance to get a head start on the M240 today rather than turn it in to the arms locker I had checked it out with CPL WT. Rust on a weapon is a bad thing. I briefly consider lugging the bitch with me but a brief consultation of the Army “Worst case scenario survivors book” tells me it is a bad idea. SGT Bulldog is prying himself off the top bunk opposite me, having received the same message. SGT Grandpa the third man in my room is not here, his guys were on mission when I went to sleep. I shuffle down the hall to Doc Feelgood’s room.
Doc is up and working at his computer, as the boss medic he works more normal hours.
“Doc, can you watch my ‘240 for me?” I ask, he nods and takes it from me, placing it under his chair.
Rule one for surviving a something like this is to not drawing attention to yourself. There is nothing wrong with holding onto your crew serve, as long as it is secured. Showing up with it would definitely attract attention.
I hurry out to the platoon area a step ahead of bull dog to see a milling crowd. This is a good sign, if we were in formation it would mean that collective punishment was in store. Again mentally consulting the survival guide I implement step two.
I fade to the back of the crowd, putting one layer of soldiers between me and any open space, but keeping as far from the center of mass as possible. This is a continuation of the “DON”T STAND OUT” rule. The leadership is very agitated, SSG lifeguard has his personal weapon, so it wasn’t us. I filter past him and say as quiet as possible “Doc has the 240 for me.” He nods and then heads for SSG Moto, and waits for a clear space to whisper the same in his ear.
Moto looks up and picks me out of the crowed in a second. Being a little shorter would be nice right now. He holds up his thumb with a question on his face. I return the thumb. He goes back to what he was doing. I then slide through the crowd to where CPL WT is smoking, and tell him the same. He gives me a condescending look and says “I know.” It is to be expected of an infantryman trapped with a bunch of tankers.
Step 3 says to first endure you and your buddies are covered, then look around. Moto doesn’t look like it is us, that would mean the other squad. Keeping near the rear of the rather circular gaggle I begin listening. SGT SAFRI is explaining why his driver is running out to the vehicles to get the M4 he locked inside of it last night. This might be it. A weapon left in a vehicle, that would be enough to get us all out here.
Step 4, gather intelligence. The leadership is wound up like pack starving dogs in a slaughter house. They are not going to talk. The enlisted men, trapped at the bottom gather information out of self defense. First I find Mighty Mouse.
“Remember how we found out what was going on when we were headquarters?” I ask
He nods. “Do it now.” He smiles and begins to wander around eves dropping. When there were headquarters trucks I had three guys assigned to me. SSG Caine hated that an E5 didn’t work for an E6 and would cut me out of the information loop. So I would send Mighty Mouse and Skeletor into the back of their formation to eves drop on what they told their guys. It worked, pretty well. They just got in the habit of telling me what the learned through rumor and eves dropping.
The cold was getting to me so I went to stand in the sunlight, and lit up a Nat Sherman MCD Shipped to me by an old friend.
Step 5 don’t look guilty, be relaxed. It took two puffs before the first guy talked to me. CPL IT wanders up and begins talking. Having never smoked himself, he made himself an honorary smoker by going to the smoke pits in training. He said then it was where he found out what was going on. So true.
It would seem that SGT SAFRI’s driver leaving his M4 was not the reason for this. It had been discovered just minutes ago, when we had been called out here. The issue had been an M240 found in the motor pool.
This was so very bad, so very, very bad. It wasn’t my squad, it was the other one. The offender was already in the commanders office. SSG Caine was pulled aside by SFC Big Daddy when he came out. The data fits. Now to keep from being an accidental casualty.
There is the to be expected item by item physical inventory of all weapon systems. We move to the weapons locker, I detour and retrieve my 240 from Doc, arriving just in time to slide it into the rack when WT opens the rack. Then more standing around.
Moto has gotten a coffee cup, so I fade away long enough to get a cup for myself and SGT Sasquatch. Within an hour it is SPC Thug who gives me the first news. SSG Caine is being relived, and Dozer fills in the blanks. This was the 400 pound anvil that broke the camels back. Caine had been screwing up since we got here. He will go to head quarters, and be replaced. Ultimately he did not confirm the weapons were secured when he submitted his sensitive items report. He had abused his joes and NCOs enough that no one would stick their neck out for him.
It wouldn’t have happened to a nicer man. A few weeks later I talked to an older and wiser head about the whole situation. He had trained more than a few soldiers in his career. His last words to me on the subject bear repeating.

“ One of the problems with a lot of leaders, small and large, is that they have not enjoyed and labored with possessing power. So they misuse it. It can be narcotic and so destructive, to themselves and others. That is why the study of power is so important.”
That should be written above the doors to every NCO school in the army.

The night

We have driven the sun from the sky and roll on through the night. The trucks are far enough from any city to have left the glow of city lights far below the horizon. A stream of white lights on the empty black desert, the moon is down and only the stars and our lights show for as far as the eye can see. I am listening to Kim Harrison’s first Hollows book on tape as I alternate sitting down in the turret and standing up like my Panzer Commander genes urge me to. Our heater didn’t work when we first drew this truck, the problem is simple, the heater core had been removed or fallen out. The mechanics say it is on back order, like everything else.
The Transmission and thin dog house between the driver and TC keep Life guard and the guest driver for this mission warm. My upper torso is sniveled up, with long underwear, and my First Gear fleece, what motorcycle gear companies could teach the army about staying warm would fill volumes.
“HEY THREE, THIS IS ONE, WE NEED A SHORT HALT TO ADJUST THE HEAD LIGHTS.” The radio crackles. Sasquatch and his minions looking up in the front are asking for a piss break.
“RODGER ONE, BREAK, ALL RED ELEMENTS SHORT HALT.” SSG Moto replies.
The slinky of trucks three or four clicks long begins to compress as each vehicle pulls up to 50 meters from the one in front of it, and turns off it’s lights. In a minute or two we are in complete darkness. The night here is not the enshrouding cloak of Fantasia. It is an emptiness, a lack, there is no moisture in the air, even in the winter. While SSG Lifeguard dismounts and waters the tires I scan the horizon through the pale green of Night vision. Left and right sides clear I take a few seconds to look up.
Millions of dots of light spread from horizon to horizon. First there is Orion, then I begin try to pick out others, Ursa Major and Minor, are all I know. Back to work I scan around. Tonight we are an all green convoy. Army Heavy Equipment Transports fill the gaps between out relatively small escort vehicles.
Truck drivers hold the 88M Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) and are generally not considered the military elite. I know that we have a lot of stupid rules, but their chain of command has been smoking the crack pipe every day. They have to wear body armor to the pre-mission brief, and reflective belts while on the road. The two guys behind me are looking their tiny windows, scanning the horizon. What absolute moron orders his soldiers to wear a reflective belt in the field? I have an urge to find him and take him out with us to pull security in the empty clack knowing that he glows in the dark.
The night is cold, the weather report said in the low 30s or high 20s. It jabs at my body like a knife seeking any chink in the layers of cloth. I stare off at the stars for another few seconds before picking up my scan. It is not the perfect quiet of a desert night, the deep rumble of diesel engines provides a background noise. You never turn off your truck on the road if you can control it. With the state of our trucks it may not turn back on, or you may blow a fuse to the radio. Besides it keeps the crew warm. Back when I was a lot more junior I spent many a night cuddled up to the heat of the transmission in a hummer.
“TRUCK 3 THIS IS SASQUATCH, WE ARE REDCON 1 AND DEFCON 1”
“RODGER, ALL RED ELEMENTS CHARLIE MIKE.”
I can see the lights of the forward security element come on, then on down the road. The lights come to life, I turn off my NVGs and restart the MP3 player. A soft feminine voice is telling me a story. A woman reading to me as I roll down this blank country side. Just like my legs are warm in the truck and my torso freezes in the breeze, my mind is living in two worlds.

The Mission Pt 2: The Prep

The Mission Pt 2: The Prep

A cavalryman lived on his horse, this is where the line ‘First the horse, then the saddle then the rider’ came from. To watch a movie you would think that we spend most of our time on mission or training how to engage the enemy with direct fire. We spend most of our time getting dirty checking the vehicles. Tom Clancy has made a lot of money writing about the exiting 1% of the time. Reality is that soldiers are engaged in a constant battle against time, elements and wear and tear on vehicles. Sometimes we win.
The morning of a mission I try to sleep in, and stay up late the night before. If you roll at night the mission always stretches into the early morning, and sometimes past dawn. So I roll out of bed and hit the showers around 1030 or 11. Then go to breakfast. The only time I eat actual breakfast is when I am still up from the night before, and that is disturbingly often. Then I get into the Combat Vehicle Crewman coveralls. This has lots of zippered pockets that are both large and easy to get to. It is the exact opposite of what a fobbit likes in a uniform. It is shapeless, comfortable, practical and looks like crap.
At breakfast We eat big, shoveling calories in out mouths with reckless abandon, as we know we will miss dinner and maybe midnight chow also. Then we cram those big Beautiful Pockets with energy drink, V8 and Gatorade and waddle out the door, trying to look inconspicuous. We are supposed to get that stuff issued for missions, but it always seems to be low when we get there.
Out to the motor pool where we mount weapons, and check the trucks. Mechanics go up and down the line checking our work and fixing anything that can be in the short time allowed. Everything must be loaded, checked, tied down and arranged here. Our first couple of times we took way to long to complete this part of prep, now we are hanging out, smoking and joking for ten minutes before we have to leave to test fire the machine guns.
Out the gate to a giant test fire pit and every crew served weapon pops 10-20 rounds into the pit. The only way to make sure your weapons work with machineguns is to actually throw some lead down range. Sometimes one of the trucks will throw a stuffed animal in there as target practice.
Test fire complete we roll over for the intel brief. We have a good intel officer, he lays out all the things happening on and near our route. It takes a lot of work for him to put it together for a mere 20-30 minutes of presentation. Since we are almost early to this brief we conduct our ritual. The RipIt shot gunning. If we have a new person with us SSG Moto conducts a five minute block of instruction. First you hold the can on its side with the pop opening down. The ever present knife is used to cut a hole near the bottom the bigger the better. Then as a group we put out mouths over the cut holes, stand the cans up and pop the tops. This results in a large amount of high sugar, high caffeine content carbonated beverage being poured down your throat.
It is a great way to start the night. So far we have been at work for 4 or more hours and not left the wire. After the Intel brief the chaplain who is at every mission departure gives a little prayer for those who want it, and we go out to pick up our charges for the night. The foreign national truck drivers would make a teamster cry. They are corrupt, difficult to control and drive trucks sometimes literally held together with duct tape and bailing wire. The are also determined to make each mission and will repair, tow or jury rig any truck in the convoy that breaks down. The absolute most versatile of convoys.
We inspect the trucks going with us, then roll out the gate, our vehicles taking up places in front of, with in and in back of the convoy. It is five hours since we first showed up at the motor pool and the night is just beginning.

Bits fall off

There is an attitude I developed in riding motorcycles, ‘bits fall off’. The important thing is how you handle things falling off. I have had visors, bit of fairing, spare helmets, and even my luggage fall off on the road. Any piece of equipment subjected to long use over the road will have things break. The military takes this to an extreme. Only one of our vehicles was designed to for the role that we are using it for. The others are over weight, over age and over used, much like some of the crew members.
To compensate we take extra measures to catch problems before they start. At least an hour before each mission is spent inspecting the vehicles and our mechanics work every day to keep up with the stuff we break. Still thing stop working. Then there are things that are entirely operator error. In my case it was my big fat ass.
Rolling down our standard road, the wind chill dropping the temperature well below freezing I am huddled down in my turret behind the armored glass. Occasionally I pop up like a giant prairie dog to do a quick complete scan. I left my warmest gloves at home because I was in a bit of a hurry. My mistake that I pay for with cold hands and fingers. We had two additional passengers for this trip. I will call them Mechanic and Medic, mostly because that is what they were.
Some early excitement had us on edge a little so I was scanning back and forth using my little joy stick. Someone pops a parachute flare off in the distance. I swing the turret over to get a better view. Now my seat hangs inside the hull of the hummer. It is essentially two straps with a piece of padded wood. This was nit designed to be used on this vehicle. I spin to look over the back deck, and pop my head up. Then reach down to unfuck the cord leading to my headset.
I report the Distance, Direction and Description of what I see to SSG Lifeguard. He tries to report it up to SSG Moto. No luck, radio is not working. I try to send the report up directly, no luck. Mechanic tries, again no luck. Mighty Mouse tries, and again no luck. We now commence trouble shooting the radio, which is mounted between the front seats. Life guard and mechanic check the boxes our head set hook into. Then the setting on them. Then they go to the radio, checking to make sure its setting are right. Everything fine so far. Life guard begins to hammer away at his battle text messenger while mechanic looks for his flash light.
The vehicle has not stopped or slowed down, Might Mouse continues to roll like nothing is happening. I look down, the only problem could be is the connection between the radio and the antenna. The radio sends the signal to an amplifier and the amp sends it to the antenna mount. I look back to ensure both antennas are still there. Yep still there.
What we need to do is take the antenna wire and plug it directly to the radio. The wire is not long enough to reach the radio because it is tied up so we have less loose wire to get tangled up in. After a brief conversation we come up with a plan.
I will remind my gentle reader that all this was done on bumpy Iraqi roads, at night. I stand up on the seat, wedging myself against my hatch and my gun, while pointing over the right front side. Mechanic slides out of the seat behind the driver and all the way up to the radio. With one hand Lifeguard and I hold flash lights. Mechanic has to crawl up over the radio mount with a Gerber multi tool and snap the zip tie holding the extra wire. Then he has to pull it down and plug it into the front of the radio. Life guard then has to adjust the radio to work in the new configuration. Think of it as installing a stereo system, in the dark during a small earth quake.
Then mechanic slides back and belts in, and Lifeguard checks the radio. It works. Like I said bits fall off, the secret is not to get excited, trouble shoot the problem and fix it and Charlie Mike or Continue Mission. That three of us have been fighting military radios for years, gave us a bit of an edge.
Now I have to get the new antenna cables, and install them, because our Battalion commo hasn’t figured out how to make the time to do their own job.
The reason for the failure, my fat ass hit the connector as I swiveled to look over the back deck.
Especially in the military…. Bits Fall Off.

The Mega base

If there is one thing Iraq is not short of it is space. Vast spaces of land that the locals are more than happy to lease to us at reasonable rates. Add to that a now deceased dictator with a penchant for building airbases in the middle of nowhere and you get the super base. Located on former Iraqi Air Force bases, they don’t lack for space. You can get lost on these places. I have gotten lost on these places.
We roll on to the base and drop off our charges, fuel up and dump the body armor. Now to find food. Riding through this place I can tell we need to watch our steps. I understand, wearing a reflective belt to jog, work out. These guys are having to wear reflective belts at night, in ACUs. It is not like there is a lack of lights, you can see the glow of the base from well below the horizon, hours before you reach the gate.
The worst of it is the rules. There are rules posted everywhere, no earphones anywhere. Reflective belts required after dark. These places have police forces and people who spend their time enforcing the rules. There are even civilian contractor traffic cops with radar guns.
This I made worse by the huge number of Non-Tactical Vehicles. This is mil speak for civilian, stateside cars, that are prohibited from leaving base. The only reason for these vehicles to be here, imported at government expense, so that senior personnel don’t have to walk. The circular irony here is that I have never had a close call with a tactical vehicle. It is hard to miss the dozen plus tons of steel rolling down on top of you. I got bumped by a pickup truck backing up coming out of finance once. Then there is the PX parking lot and squealing tires. More dangerous than out on the road.
So we take off the head rags and balaclavas, and swagger into chow, sans reflective belts. The chow is good, but we don’t idle long. Back to the trucks then to transient housing.
The billets for transients here is better than my room. More room and all the heaters/AC work. I don’t even think about going shopping, shit, shower and shave, then pass out. It isn’t until the next morning when some strange NCO wakes me up that I realize that something is wrong. SGT Linebacker, and his crew are in the barracks, so it Mighty Mouse, but for some reason SSG Lifeguard is not here. I inform the strange NCO that I am not on his mission and begin to wake up.
Thirty minutes later SSG Lifeguard shows up. It would appear that there was a minor miscommunication. There are Transient Barracks numbers 1-20something, and then there are Cheeseboxes number 1-20something. Linebacker, and I had not known this. SO we simply wandered into some other unit’s barracks, and passed out. That other unit didn’t know who we were, but also simply passed out.
As we begin to roll out and head home I spot the ultimate indicator of the Super Base, a street cleaner, like a mud zamboni cleaning the streets. Is this really what we need here?
Away from the Super Base, away from the thousand and one rules and NTVs trying to kill me. Simply the road.

The road more taken

Rolling down another dark hi-way, the wind in my face. The intel brief said the temperature would be around 40. The gunners bundle up, the crews inside bring a jacket. SSG Lifeguard has complained about the heat down inside the truck before. Until the summer gets here he gets no sympathy. With Might Mouse on his four day pass we have a guest driver still, Sgt Zohan. All three of us deployed together last time. The energy level is so high you might be able to power an LED with it. This is the more dangerous route.
We get occasional small arms fire and once a week or so something blows up. Stay alert, stay alive. We scan and chat, I switch between NVGs, and the naked eye and occasionally gripe about wanting a thermal viewer. I might as well wish for a tank while I am at it, and I do. I miss my tank.
A bright flash up ahead reflects off the low thin clouds.
“You see that?” Lifeguard asks.
“Yep, looks like someone got hit, you want to ask the magic box what happened?” I ask, flipping down my NVGs and continuing the scan.
“Working on it.” He replies and begins tapping on the screen, trying to get some information from the satellite system. There is some mumbled derogatory comments from the TC seat as I scan the near and far distance. More lights fill this landscape. The NVGs reveal more but cause eye fatigue, you can only use them so long before you get a headache from focusing at different distances with each eye.
“Zohan, did you see some red stuff with the flash, kinda like tracers?” I ask.
“Yep, but nothing in the air.”
Tracers bounce, I don’t know if ball (lead) rounds bouce, but the burning marker rounds usually bounce into the stratosphere if they hit before burning out.
I keep scanning. Nothing out here but us chickens.
Life Guard gets the info. One of our sister company’s convoys was passed by a smaller faster unit, and they found the IED, no casualties.
We wait for a unit to clear the scene then move on south. Our ride along for this trip, SFC Big Daddy, pokes at SSG Moto to see if he is doing his job. Moto is always doing his job.
At the other end, as we sit and eat a midnight meal Moto, Lifeguard Zohan and I are sitting together. Normally the four of us don’t, I usually eat with the enlisted types, and the SSGs are gathered up by senior NCOs and officers. Zohan manages to switch up where he eats regularly. We get to talking. Earlier today we ran across another soldier who worked with us on the last tour. We look around and realize there are only six of us left who went with this company last time. Out of over seventy troops who went with the company last time only six are left. Seven if you include Doc Mom.
In only a few years, guys transferred, or got out, or just dropped off the face of the earth. It gave me a pause. I look at Moto, and say, “Next time you better be a platoon sergeant.” He just smiles and the conversation moves on.
My father used to teach a class to officer candidates about fear. The most important factor in controlling fear is knowledge. Knowing what to expect, or who is to your flanks, and what they are doing mitigates fear, or at least its effects.
One of the reasons they call us the Prozac squad up at battalion. Of course it might also be the easy leadership of our Squad Leader, but he might hear about it and I wouldn’t want his head to swell.

The mission Pt 1 OPORDER

The army is a giant corporation, it there are giant sections of it that do nothing but try to find new ways of doing things. Sometimes this works, most of the time it doesn’t. For instance there has never really been an improvement on the rules for Rodgers Rangers, however every Sergeant Major and Battalion Commander thinks they have found the new version to last a life time. The OPORDER or Operations Order works, as long as it is used as it is intended. SSG Moto does a great OPORDER.
Some time before a mission the entire squad gathers in a shipping container that has been converted into a briefing room. Maps under glass cover the tables and more are posted on the wall. A giant flat screen TV will show the required power point presentation to all of us. We sit at the two picnic table sized tables, the last people in have to stand in the back. First he covers generic squad business.
This is not just a opportunity for the squad leader to babble at us. We there is a lot of banter also. Myself or someone else who has recently got a package from home comes in and tosses things down the table, cookies, candies, and other stuff. It is a combination of sharing and self defense, I have to keep my weight down somehow.
After the little stuff he launches into the mission. What is going on around us, where we are going, who we are taking with us. All the details are handled here. We write down the important stuff, like time lines and changes. He does an oral quiz to make sure we were listening then briefs us what has happened in the echelons beyond reason.
This is always exciting, and makes us appreciate the fact that Moto is not a brown nosing lick spittle like some guys who have advanced as fast as he has. There was a desire for a minute by minute time line of mission prep, that included how long it took to walk to the motor pool. Then there is the additional requirements for us to complete in our copious spare time. During this the squad bonds, there is some cross talk, back talk and jokes.
The problem is that Moto is the leader of the basic maneuver element. All the work is done by squads. Platoon, company and battalion have become management. The army told them they would be maneuvering units, working outside the wire, involved in the day to day, minute to minute operations of a combat element. Instead, they see individual squads go out, sometimes for days at a time without them. They have been betrayed by their expectations. Most of our management hasn’t been here before, while junior leadership has one or more tours already under their belts. It is the way things work.
You can learn a lot from an OPORDER about how a unit is working, watch how early people show up, how they pay attention and how long they hang out after the brief.
I hang out afterward and chat with the squad, watching another unit load up their trucks. All indicators say that we have our shit wired tight, we just have to keep the bosses dick beaters out of our pudding.

My job

I love my job, I really do. I know that many milblogs talk about how the stupidity of the army, or complain about harsh living conditions, or the insanity of the army in general. I do these things also, mostly because soldiers complain and gossip. It is in the very nature of the soldier to do this. I am sure that Romans marching across Gaul had the same variety of bitches and moans as we do today. That is the subject for another blog. This is how much I love my job.
I don’t work inside the wire, this is not to say there is not work to do. I get my hands dirty going over the truck with a fine toothed comb. I have tasted CLP (Cleaning Lubricant, Preservative we clean our weapons with) while eating and scrubbing down my machine gun or rifle. My real job is outside the wire, away from all the garrison bull shit that comes with the army.
It is cold here, and will only get colder for the next few months. I hear they had snow last year. Before work I bundle up in fire resistant/fire retardant clothing, hood, gloves, and goggles. I climb up into my office, (you would call it a turret) and put on my helmet, body armor and intercom head phones. Before leaving I set both of my ammo boxes just so. Three hundred rounds linked to go in the gun, and another three hundred behind my right elbow.
Mighty Mouse takes care of the hull I take care of the turret, and over see him doing his job. We roll out and the real work begins. I scan the sides of the road for odd objects or new trash that could conceal any one of a number of explosive devices. I watch the trees, berms and houses for signs of muzzle flashes or people wanting to shoot me or mine.
There is a sense of purpose to it, a concentration of will. Every thing is important, every detail is critical. Even as we banter within the crew or over the radio with the other trucks I still scan. It is intense, it can be nerve wracking. There are times, like when a vehicle ahead or behind you takes small arms fire and you strain to spot the next shot. When the lead truck spots something suspicious and I strain to see out into the darkness for the first hint of an ambush my pulse quickens.
Don’t get me wrong, when this tour is over I will go back home as readily as the next. I will bridle under the gauze wrapped world that is the United States. I will try to escape it when ever I get a chance.
There is something about living in a world of risk. A place where you are responsible for your actions, and the safety nets are thin. I know why I feel so alive at work. I know it is dangerous, but some primal part of me just enjoys the thrill.
Then there are the guys, (actually one female is part of the squad). It is as good a group as I have ever seen. We trust each other with our lives every day we go to work. If a gunner slacks off he risks him self, his vehicle and the other trucks. Drivers battle top heavy rides, a wheel off the road could roll the vehicle over. TCs maintain contact with the rest of the vehicles. SSG Moto, has the hardest job. He has to wrangle all of us and talk to higher on two different communications systems.
It is difficult and stressful. The harder the job the greater the reward. Maybe that is the reason I love my job, it is hard, and thus rewarding.

The more things change

The more they stay the same. If a guy stays in the army long enough there are a few things he will run across, one of them Is Rudyard Kipling. Though he never served in uniform, he is proof that embedded reporters can feel see the essence of our world. Each time I read this, it gains new meanings, proof that poetry is a much about the reader as the poet or his subject.

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/ballad_of_boh_da_thone.html

Please take a minute, and read the words of a great bard. He will take you from the field to the fire, and just maybe shed a little light into our world.

A dark desert hiway

Another day, another mission, different destination. As the last hints of a brilliant desert sunset fade to black. Once we get away from the base and all the bright lights, it is just us, and the civilian style trucks we are escorting. A river of red lights stretches out in front of me, and another one of white behind.
I turn my turret to block the glow from in front and behind and look off into the infinite blackness. Dim lights from a house float in the distance, with no horizon to judge by I can not tell how far. A half moon is climbing the sky, faintly red from dust in the air. Only the ocean on an overcast night is as dark and featureless as this. There is something I can do about that.
I reach up and pull the night vision goggle down over my right eye. A green world overlays itself onto the inky blackness. The house shows other lights, dim ones, probably inside, behind curtained windows. Closer there are buildings without any light. I scan to the limits of the equipment, bright light washes out any details. Stretching my neck I look up to reveal thousands of stars, more then visible with the naked eye.
I turn the turret to the left side of the vehicle, feeling the vibration of gears under my hand. A few more distant lights, and at the corner of my sector the field of glowing gems of a city. Low over the horizon Orion climbs into the sky, tonight he will hunt the moon. I complete a scan and traverse again.
With the dramatic vistas of this land it is no surprise that the Arab mind so often moves to poetry. The Koran is laid out in verse, come to think of it so is parts of the bible, if read in the original. I never have been good with other languages, other than English so I will just trust the chaplain on this one.
The temperature is dropping, the intel guys said it would drop to forty degrees. If I add in wind chill I am easily below freezing. SSG Lifeguard and SGT Zohan ask me to get them drinks from the cooler strapped to the back of the turret. It takes a little doing but I dig in for a Gatorade and a Monster respectively. My Nomex gloves get a little damp. The wind makes then extremely cold.
After I hand down the drinks I hand Life guard the gloves. He will put them on the fire wall that sits on top of the transmission. He hands up the other set, warm from the engine heat. Our heater has been broken since we showed up and the new one id on order. We think the new one will arrive around April or May, about the time the AC breaks.
Warm gloves are a thing of beauty. Keep them out of the wind until I have to traverse again. The radio is very quiet tonight, not as much banter. It is on nights like this, during a long ride up a piece of super slab that I have found my mind wandering. At times I have taken these opportunities to ‘take my soul out and examine it’. Figure out where I am in life and where I am going. Doing it at 85 or 90 mph is good for the soul, but not the best idea for the body.
A spot of introspection is an even worse idea here. My soul is fine, I will leave it to fight its own battles for a while. I lean down to light a cigarette, ( I mean I think about lighting a cigarette as there is no smoking allowed on military vehicles) and catch Lifeguard in the glow of his computer screen tapping away at the touch screen. I know how to wire that particular piece of equipment in, but have never used it up here. All my tools are much more basic.
With this I decide to check the belt of ammunition, the free movement of the gun and location of my pen flare launcher. They tend to vibrate out of whack. Always, always, always keeping up the scan.
We get to the other end and dump one convoy. Chow is closed until much later. We scarf down parts of MREs and grab another convoy heading home. Turn and burn, my favorite type of mission.
On the way south things are much the same, except that Orion has chased the moon out of the sky. We make it home, fuel the trucks down load gear and do our after checks. We finish just in time to hang out in front of the chow hall for fifteen minutes before the breakfast opens. My second breakfast since getting here, but my first sit down meal since lunch yesterday. By 0630 we are all in our racks, refilling our overdrawn sleep accounts.
Tomorrow is another mission.

odor

The sense of smell is different from the other senses. At least that is according to a barely remembered psychology class in my long ago days at junior college. The sense of smell is not processed by the analytical part of the brain but goes directly to the emotional reaction center. Flashbacks are more often caused by smells than sounds and sights, I learned that at the VA. This being the case I am seriously screwed. I live in a building with over a hundred men. They burn plastic every day here and have open gray water percolation ponds. Most of the latrines are porta johns, and maintained by spraying water inside. I will not even talk about the smells you get outside our little piece of home here at COB Allahlone.
The bad smells one can accept. Wandering through the junior enlisted section of the barracks can make a guy thankful his smokes local cigarettes that kill the olfactory organs. The bouquet of aromas from young men is… distinctive.
Then there is the other issue, the showers are a short walk away, this means that not everyone showers every day. It also means you have to transport your shower supplies to and from the shower trailer. Have you ever tried to keep your soap in one of those soap containers? They leak all over your tooth brush, and never quite dry out. It is one of those little annoying things that can drive man to distraction, like having a piece of meat stuck in your teeth and no dental floss.
There is a solution, shower gel. It comes in resealable bottles, fits nicely in the shower bag, along with flip flops an change of clothes, shaving kit and towel. It is also manufactured by the smartest marketers on earth. These people have based an entire product line on the concept that girls like it when boys don’t smell like sweaty socks. Imagine the simplicity of this! It is beautiful, and AXE and all their competitors make a fortune off selling what is essentially perfume for men. I am all for not stinking like a gym. But there are limits. The guys use ‘body spray’ like air freshener. What this means is that your nose can be assaulted by the smell of a sweat soaked uniform that has been worn for three days one second, and male perfume the next.
It is enough to drive the poor organ into fits. There is a silver lining to this. The chances of me ever having to experience the simultaneous odors of sweat, mildew, axe, and four different car or room air fresheners out side of a military barracks or a high school locker room is minimal. I have come to accept it in the military, and the only way I would go into a high school locker room is at gunpoint. So I hope the issue to be moot.
As for that wonderful shock to the senses of a port-a-john? I was a bachelor for way to long for that to effect me.

In the Groove

Things have been going well, the squad is getting in the grove. It feels good. When a unit syncs up and starts clicking you can feel it. There is a feeling in the air. Our first few trips were a little clunky. Every thing that could go wrong did go wrong. Nothing anyone could be blamed for, but just pesky bad luck. This resulted in long trips, over 24 hours long from weapons draw to weapons turn in. We hit our stride.

Early up and out to the truck. The constant light rains makes re-wiring the commo a little interesting. Not to speak ill of the last unit, but who wires a data cable under the hood of a hummer? Data cables do not respond well to being repeatedly beaten by the vibrating hood.
Mighty Mouse and I spend the morning running wires and connecting power lines. Only one blown fuse and two minor shocks later the magic box works again. Then it is time to grab our gear and throw it on the truck. The rest of the squad begins to trickle out in twos and threes. No orders are needed, each crew draws weapons and goes to the motor pool.
The mechanics are waiting, weapons are mounted, and any problems that come up are fixed. The weather has cleared up, leaving us with clear skies and a sticky mud that makes you taller by clinging to the bottom of your boots in layers an inch thick.
Vehicles are prepped and we roll to meet the convoy. Gunners disdain to use the doors on most vehicles, climbing up the back or over the hood to ensconce themselves in the turret. As we wait they sit on the roof, feet on the hood to joke, smoke and drink their pre mission energy drink. For however long we are on the road the gunner is the only man who will have an unrestricted 360 degree view. He is also the most exposed, sitting up on top of the truck. No armor is perfect, and the certain knowledge that anyone shooting at us will be responded to in kind is a whole additional layer of protection.
We sit through the brief, the last few hours, days and months on the route we will take. It is mercifully short this time. The chaplain comes in and gives us a few words. PFC Wookie and I exchange glances over bowed heads as the two non-Christians. Whatever gets the boys through. Leaving the brief I reach up and slap my tattoo hard, enough to sting. My own form of prayer.
Then we head to the class 1 connex where all the Gatorade, snacks and most importantly Rip Its are stored and collect the critical consumables. There is a shortage of energy drinks, and much grumbeling about that. The rest of the company has been a bit too efficient in their pillaging of the supplies. Out on the trucks we cross level. Those with extra toss drinks and snacks between crews. Body armor is donned in the ominous sound of attaching Velcro. You put on armor to go out of the wire. Soon we will be rolling.
SSG Moto comes up on the net, “ALL RED ELEMENTS THIS IS RED TRUCK THREE REPORT REDCON STATUS.”
The replies are come quickly.
“TRUCK ONE, RED CON ONE DEFCON ONE AND READY.”
“TRUCK TWO, RED CON ONE.”
“TRUCK FOUR, RED CON ONE.”
“TRUCK FIVE, RED CON ONE.”
“TANK SIX, RED CON ONE”, Sgt Dragon has not quite recovered from loosing his panzer, and still in a bit of denial.
“TRUCK SEVEN, RIP IT!” SGT Bulldog is a recent convert to the alertness through energy drink school of thought.

The lead trucks pull out then the convoy starts moving, gun trucks intermixing at assigned intervals. The first and last trucks call in at the entry control point, and we are out on the road.
This is freedom. SSG Moto is the absolute boss of the unit. No one higher to stress him out, and we just do our job. We roll through little towns with the occasional groups of small children standing by the side of the road. I keep a bag of Jolly Ranchers next to the gun. Every once in a while I throw a couple to the kids. Every soldier has a story of these road side beggars warning of bombs in the road up ahead. Sometimes you toss a bottle of water, or Gatorade. These towns are run down ramshackle arrangements. They look more like single rows of storage lockers than stores. Piles of tires and garbage are every where.
It is still better than it was. Gasoline sellers operate all over the place, and there is fresh fruit displayed during the day. At night they are like a ghost town. It used to always be like a ghost town. Ask any soldier running these roads if things are better now.
It is a short trip, to a little base just outside a town that used to be synonymous with EFP, now is simply has less comforts than the mega bases where I live.
We drop the convoy and park in the waiting area for them to do their business. The crews dismount, gunners climbing out of the turret and laying their body armor on the roof. Friendly insults and banter fill the air as we wander to where SSG Moto is waiting, sitting on the hood of his truck with his cap on back wards.
I pull out my latest acquisition from Amzaon.com, a dogs chew toy in the form of a 21” long rubber chicken. From my pocket comes a roll of 550 cord, that magical string that, along with duct tape keeps the army rolling. Some experience with knot tying creates a noose, that is placed over the chickens neck. Choking it. When pulled it emits a little squeak.
Much fun as squad members come by to choke my chicken.
Relaxed bullshitting, as the sun goes down, a crescent moon with Venus between its horns sits low on the horizon, in a dimming orange and red sky.

Food and shopping complete we are back on the road, it is full dark now. At first I think my night vision goggles are messing up. Then I realize it is a mist. A heavy ground fog is closing on the convoy. The convoy is wrapped in a thick blanket, obscuring all but the vehicles on either side. We slow to a crawl, creeping along the road. Our banks of bright lights create a white bubble in front of each truck. I switch vision systems between the naked eye, a white tac light and IR spot light with night vision. I can only see about fifteen meters into the gloom to either side. Sometimes not even that.
We strain to see the flash of gunfire or the incoming ball of green or red light from a tracer round. Typically only one in four bullets fired is a tracer. Each glowing light indicates four invisible brother reaching out for you. I drink Rip Its and triple shot coffees to stay alert. My eyes burn from the strain of focusing on the NVG over one eye and using the Mark I eyeball with the other.
The convoy creeps on.
If the enemy is active in this soup, they could walk along the convoy from truck to truck and we would never know until we were at touching range. The lead truck crawls forward. Eyes straining for any hint of an IED. Dectection range is zero. Only GPS can tell us we haven’t missed the turn to the base. Iraqi Police, Iraqi Army and Sons of Iraq checkpoints spring out of the mist with no warning. A few men huddled around a fire for warmth mark each one. A year or two ago they would have gone home, now they stay at their posts.
The GPS guides us to the turn off. The first truck drops chem. In a half full water bottle to make it distinctive from the twenty other markers on the road I add another one just for good measure, arcing it through the night to make sure I get the next trucks attention.
Into the wire we come, still crawling so as not to startle or run over the gate gaurds. One truck stops to count the trucks coming in. On the way to the fuel point we get the word. Everyone made it.
Once inside the wire, radio chatter picks up, people crack jokes, or hurl friendly insults. Truck seven answering each call with the cry of “Rip It!” He only went through four or five on this one.
We drop our gear, pull maintenance (even in pea soup you take care of the horse then the saddle then the rider) and head back to the barracks.
Just another day at the office.