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.