Back again

Well we all go home sometime, and my time in the sun has come and gone. Back in the world, and thinking about where to go from here. First a word of explanation, why did I become all mute and stuff? The answer is simple, first it is anonymity and the second was personal.

The army in all its infinite wisdom has a pathological fear of the uncontrolled word. Partially this is a reasoned and logical belief that one’s plans should be “As dark and impenetrable as night” This makes sense in a military and kinetic world personally I believe that in a world where we must practice non-kinetic warfare the ‘Death to Blogging!’ approach of the Department of Defense makes poor sense. The second reason is that the Big Army wants to control the message, to be able to shape a what people think and believe about the military, war and all things national policy.

I would object to this except all special interests try to do the same. Across the spectrum people with agendas like to control the message. For the reasons below I felt the world could do without mine for a while.

You see, I could have gone along and entertained the folks back home without fear of specific discovery except that two things happened. The first was a ill advised pissing match with SSG Moto. Not that I was wrong, more that I should not got into a fight I could not win. Moto knew of this blog and if he waned me to lose a stripe or two could have gone to higher and had me crucified. So I shut up. “You could have claimed it was not you.” Someone might say. I really couldn’t because higher got a nice writing sample from me.

These guys in New York have this news paper. Personally I like it because it Thomas Friedman is an editor there. Then this really hot girl told me that if I was a real man I would submit a piece of writing to this paper. So I did. On June 7th I got paid for my first published writing, and because I had to sign my name to it, I had to get it approved. More on that later.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/magazine/07lives-t.html

Shortly after that I also started a pretty intense electronic conversation with the girl mentioned above. There is only so much time to write in a day, and I think the time spent chatting with her, was worth it. At least she has not smothered me in my sleep sense I got back.

These are all excuses, and I apologize to anyone who worried that I had become a statistic instead of a story.

The real question is where do I go from here? Believe it or not there are still some stories from the kitty litter box that need to be told if for no other reason then I will fell better with them in print. That will come later. As time and an exhaustive search of my hard drive allows. If my loyal readers (both of you plus my mom) are interested I will take a lint from Tolkien and chronicle what comes next. Specifically I am focused on taking my savings an riding the Americas. A wild idea generated over more than a few bottles of wine has now become a reality. I know I have said this before but this time I mean it. Watch this space. Besides if you thought I was a wig nut in body armor on an MRAP just wait to see the tom foolery I can get into with a motorcycle and no adult supervision.

--Pinball

Watch this space

Last time I looked I had a grand total of 5 followers. Well for my legion (closer to a fire team but never mind that) More to come. Just need to get settled in the US before a much more exciting trip.

Bullet Point Pt 2

Without chow, we head to the local restaurant. When I say ‘local restaurant’ I mean an ARMY approved, establishment, inside the wire, run by Turks. They serve a mixture of US and local, or rather Turkish fare. It turns out that we had all sorts of passengers on the way up. In addition to the battalion safety officer we had one of the two brigade ‘Fraud, Waste and Abuse’ investigators. The last one we had was a major, this one was a captain.
Sitting at the tables, all 20 some odd of us, I end up near her. She sits next to Doc Pusher. They look like sisters. The conversation floats around, and my dream trip comes up. Turns out the captain likes backpacking. We chat, then she says it…
“You don’t seem like you belong in the guard.” It is one hell of an insult. It isn’t the words, but it’s like some people, even in the army, think smart people shouldn’t enlist.
It wasn’t the words, it was the tone. Well, I am right where I should be. We finished dinner and I paid for Mighty Mouse and IT. A Sam Topps Memorial purchase. Then it was over to billeting.
We were told to go and ‘hang out’. The route status would keep changing. Then wanted to change this from staying over night to turning around and heading home. I tried to get a nap in the billets, listening to my music. At 0100 someone walked in and said.
“SP 0140, no bullshit”
We grab our stuff, meet the trucks and head out. Just in time. As we are getting ready I realize the temperature is dropping, it is beginning to rain, and I forgot my snivel gear. I dig around into the truck and find a fleece vest belonging to SGT Big Nasty. I pop over to his truck and ask to borrow it. The blank look on his face gives me the answer I could never give the captain. Here, on the line, it is inconceivable that Nasty wouldn’t loan me his jacket, or that I wouldn’t drag the last ten bucks out of my wallet for Linebacker. She will never understand.
As we leave the gate, air is not flying, it is raining, and I am wrapped in a scarf and a borrowed jacket. The road is dangerous, hadji knows when we are not flying.
The sun is fully up before we make the main gate at COB Allahlone. I am pissed. I take a nap.
When I wake up I wander over to battalion to get some answers. The reason I respect CAPT Bean Counter is that he shoots strait. So I ask, why do we not just stay the night instead of rolling with no air support, in crappy weather where I can barely see the road.
There is no reason to push through the night… except…
Every military career is dominated by the annual Officer (or Non-Commisioned Officer) Evaluation Report. In order to get an excellent rating you need a quantifiable bullet point in the comments section. On time mission completion can be expressed as a percentage, thus is quantifiable. Excellence bullet points mean you are more likely to get promoted.
Thus the reason I can’t make this life a career. I can’t imagine putting soldiers lives at risk, for a bullet point.

Bullet Point Pt 1

A sand storm doesn’t have the awe inspiring force of a thunder storm, or the drenching violence of a desert gully washer. It starts with a strong breeze. Then the horizon goes a little blurry. Sometimes there is a wall of dust that darkens the sky making the sun fade to a pale shadow of the moon. Once the dust arrives the wind drops a little, sometimes it will become calm. You walk around in a world of orange, noon cane bee too dark to take photos without a flash.
What is impressive about sand storms, is the penetration of dust. It gets every where. Through doors and windows, carried on the bodies of soldiers, or blown in. A flour fine layer of dust begins to settle on everything. A computer left for a few hours can look like it was just pulled from grandma’s attic. Soldiers look a little more tan, and windscreens a look fuzzy.
The army doesn’t like to fly it’s expensive whirly birds in sand storms, something about chewing up engines. Given a choice they prefer to let the birds sit under tarps during a sand storm, rather than flying around until the turbine chokes with dust and stops working. So the mission is cancelled. This doesn’t worry me.
There is nothing so critical about my job here that I want to risk a pilot, or his aircrew’s life. There is always tomorrow. The mission pace is such that we really don’t have to push through. If the visibility is low, we still have to prep the trucks, and get ready to go. Then wait for six hours to see if the storm clears.
The storm was forecasted to last for three days. SSG Moto gathers us up, and breaks the news. There is a forecasted break at 1500 the next day we will be leaving during that break. It takes four hours to get to the next stop, the clearing should last that long. Then we stay the night, and come back during a break the next day. It is a sane and reasonable plan.
1445 finds us leaving the gate, 43 civilian trucks, and 7 gun truck escorts. Today I am in the lead truck, the mine roller/ polish mine detector. We used to use a 5-ton truck for this role. It survived two blasts and kept rolling, well the second blast meant it had to get towed back home. Now we have an MRAP, with a mine roller. (Think big wheels pushed out in front of the truck to set off any IEDs.)
I should say that our weathermen have the historical accuracy of a Magic 8 Ball, A broken Magic 8 Ball. Oh, and two days ago an IED took out one of our armored trucks, killing the Truck Commander, making the Driver a quad amputee, and putting the gunner in intensive care. These guys weren’t from my unit, hell they were active duty engineers, and were due rotate home in a month. The next day, our other squad found anti-tank mines on the same road.
Little stress anyone? We roll north. This is the first time I have been looking forward and not seeing the south end of a north bound truck. My sister has a great line about doing this job. “Keep your head about, ride easy in the saddle, and keep your eye on where the horizon meets the sky.”
Where the horizon meets the sky is a little dark. There are massive thunder heads blowing in from Iran. Why does all the crappy stuff come from Iran? In front of the thunder heads will be a bit of dust. SPC Sancho drives, and SGT Bulldog sits in the TC seat. As I see the dark brush strokes of rain falling from the clouds, I get a sinking feeling. You see I took my rain gear out of my bag months ago.
I dig out the Brigade Quartermaster expensive knock off of an Arab headress out of bag, and wrap up. Then the sand storm hits. Change is painful, at least that is what the shrink says. From clear air, into a forty knot head wind, at 30 miles an hour, means facing forward into a 70mph sand blaster. Then the fun really starts.
We only spend a few minutes in the dust, it briefly blots out the rest of the convoy until we slow enough to make out their lights 100 meters behind us. Then the rain hits.
It is that beautiful desert phenomenon, brown rain. I mean literally the rain is brown, it makes mud on the windows and goggles, then when you wipe them off, they are muddy again in a few minutes. The mine rollers kick up a bow wave every few minutes. Chunks of mud fly up and fight the windshield wipers for dominance. Mostly the mud wins.
A jack knifed Iraqi truck blocks our road for fifteen minutes until about a dozen locals PUSH the truck with a busted front axel, back onto the road. Then through the rest of the storm. Lighting begins to arc, sometimes across my entire field of view. Sometimes it hits the ground, sometimes just up in the sky. Here I am soaking wet, on top of a metal vehicle, on a flat plain, in the middle of a thunderstorm.
We push through to the next post. Wet and tired. Chow closes 2 minutes before we get there.

A Six Day Tour: Day 12

A final run back home. They guys are out shopping. I volunteer to hang back and watch the weapons as some guys go to the gym or hit the shower. This is an opportunity to get my vehicle in order. After Tooth did his key breaking trick, and I was forced to take a quick look inside the ASV, I knew it needed it. Now I am not the neatest of people. I have been known to annoy more than one person with my ‘cluttered’ habits. SSG Lifeguard keeps a hand broom and dust pan in his truck (that is going just a little far).
The back of this truck was just beyond imagining. First there were PX bags. Those plastic bags that you get at the store, then use as trashcan liners? There were dozens of them, and they were everywhere. Empty bags? An opportunity. But these are not empty. They are filled with every imaginable kind of junk food. Bags of Whoppers, Mike and Ikes, candy bars, sodas, and energy drinks. It looked like a sugar junkies dream.
I will just take this empty ammo can and fill it with all the junk food. Bad Idea, the ammo can, correction ammo crate, designed to hold two hundred rounds of .50 cal, is full. Instant Gatorade, and muscle milk, supplements and bits of MRE’s than have been rat fucked (Ripped open to get a single piece out). It is packed like someone has been stomping on it.
I look around, and find a dumpster. A little muscle work and I push it within throwing range of the ASV. Right now, people who have shared a car, house, or part of my life are going to be laughing. I go into a cleaning frenzy, probably the first one of my life. Gatorade and MRE bits… Into the dumpster. Junk food… if it is opened, also gets tossed. It is like digging through a teenagers bedroom. There are LAYERS! Empty ammo cans are piled on top of full ones. In theory you want the bullets up top… where you can get at them.
Empty cans are piled by the truck, full ones stacked on the floor. If Lifeguard could only see me now. Mighty mouse would go into shock, he complains I have to much stuff on the truck as it is. Once all the loose crap is out I look at the floor. You should remember that the ASV (M1117 Armored Security Vehicle) has the interior space of a VW Bug, the old ones. There are candy rappers and empty soda cans, someone spilled a giant ziplock bag of jellybeans.
Two hours of cleaning later, it looks like soldiers might once operated this vehicle. Four days of getting into and out of the truck through the commanders hatch has taught me a valuable lesson. Kind of a growing experience.
The next step is organizing. I have a nifty new toy to make it easy. The Bungee net, that marvel of modern technology. It holds stuff in place, straps things to ceilings, walls or what ever. I had a couple of these shipped out. All the gear gets bungeed to the back wall, ammo is stacked. It looks like Spiderman had a seizure back there, but all the spaces we need to work in are clear.
About this time the first wave of guys gets back from shopping. It would seem that there is an active Hadji Mart here. Hookah pipes, and glassware in boxes. Big nasty and Dozer have gone a little crazy before remembering that they are in 5-ton trucks. Great for space, but not the smoothest of rides, about a 6.5 on the Richter scale. The MRAPS are a little better, like a 27ft sail boat going through white caps.
So as we roll back home I have the compulsive purchases of an entire squad, bungeed to the floor and walls of my cargo compartment. It was designed to be an ‘escape hatch’.
Rolling back through the gate at home, 13 days on the road (it is after midnight) the HET commander comes up on our radios. “MOTO, thanks for escort, it has been a great trip.” Hawaiian Punch comes up and says the same. A chorus of Hooahs from the gun trunks are returned. Soon we will be back to escorting people who don’t speak our language, or make twice what a Staff Sergeant does. That is tomorrow, after a round of ritual grab ass at the fuel yard, we go unload and conduct face plants in our racks.

Interlude: The War Story

It may surprise you, but I am not the best of in person story teller. I can type for days, but my delivery is just a little off. Standing behind the circle of lower enlisted the last night of the OPMOVE I watched SPQR show off his mastery of the War Story.
It is a simple game, always start with something small and easy. A kinda funny thing. The story should be either self deprecating or bizarre. If it is about how cool you were, then it is called boasting, an automatic disqualification. Then you play ‘one up’ following the theme of the last story you tell one that is stranger, dumber or more bizarre.
The story should follow the general lines of what really happened, but some…. Dramatic license is allowed. But I digress SPQR is talking.
“She was like totally digging on me, grinding one the dance floor. I’m doing my normal impersonation of an epileptic and she is like all over me. Now I don’t get much action… come on… with a grill like this amnd my fuckin’ alien shaped dome? We get all close and hot, and she kisses me. And I am all like wow… then she speaks… and I shit you not IT WAS A DUDE!!!!! I kissed a DUDE! But not all a dude, like going through the surgery, the top half was girl, but the bottom was still… well hanging there….”
The laughter is rolling as he goes into how fucked up his love life is. One of the HET drivers goes on abut finding out her boyfriend was bi… the hard way… coming home early from work. I wander off before SPQR lays down the War Story smack with his story about the buddy, a candle and a woman of negotiable virtue.
At the other end of the court yard is the War Stories about previous tours. Here is where we laugh about the back end of trucks disintegrating, or friendly fire, or helicopters that can’t tell the difference between a Toyota and a 5-ton truck.
It is the last night we will be hanging out with this group. This is how you bond. Like tribes have for as long as man has had the power of language. You gather around a fire and send out your story tellers. You learn where the other guys come from, who they are. It is also the only way to vent sometimes. One of the HET guys tells one about getting hit by an IED, and falling down in the back of his hummer. Then dragging his ass back into the turret. Wondering why the world seemed to be shaking until he realized he was dragging himself up by the triggers on his .50 cal machine gun. That gets a good one.
It is getting light in the sky by the time the last guy heads to his room. I take a wander to stare at the lightening horizon. My throat aches from the cigarettes, but I light one anyways. All the hardship, the pain… Every fucked up thing that happens to us, makes us tighter, as a squad, as soldiers, as members of the military.
Back home they don’t even know, this place is so removed from that. As soldiers leave the army over the next dozen years, and re enter civilian life, will they change our society? I know we will all miss this family of convenience. Vets from previous wars, those I knew when I enlisted, did it. Built families around their friends, they found hobbies that provided opportunities for night like tonight. Fraternal orders, SCA, Boy scouts, the American Legion or the VFW, all meet this need, when we miss it later. 2 million soldiers have rotated through Iraq… how much of an effect is that going to have on our country?
I ponder until the cigarette is finished, then turn my back on the sun and go crawl into my sleeping bag.

A Six Day Tour Day 10-11

Heading back out from home base we roll up a familiar road. Passing one of our regular stops we keep rolling. We are now in VBIED alley. The hot spot of Iraq. A new road, where craters force us to weave from one lane to another. Everyone is on edge. At a halt for the HETs to change a tire, I am sitting in the back of the convoy. Angry has been moved up to a front truck, Playboy has replaced him. We sit, blacked out and watch for cars. Sure enough, headlights. Playboy hits him with his spot light, he keeps coming. He keeps flashing until the lights are 300m away.
“Pin flare him.” I say, standing up in my hatch and looking over his shoulder.
Playboy drops the pin flare cartridge into the turret, the vehicle keeps closing. I am reaching down for my M4 as he announces he has put a new cartridge in.
The burning chunk of phosphorus flies through the air to disentigrate next to the truck 200m away. The driver figures there are better ways to make a living and turns around. The better for both of us.
Another two hours and two more stops bring us to the new FOB. FOB Round Top. This is the war I remember, no reflective belts, armored vehicles all over the place, and a sense of purpose. They still take mortar rounds here, and someone tries to hit the gate about once a month. Heading to the fuel point we get lost. Once we unfuck ourselves we have to find billeting. And so it begins again.
Our mini convoy goes up one street and down another. I spot what looks like traffic cameras. I wonder what idiot put those in, until I look at the buildings they are in front of. Criminal Investigation Division, CID, the closest to jack booted Gestapo you can get in the western world. If was CID out in the wild west like this I would fear my fellow soldiers also. (I have good reason to hate CID, all my run-ins with them have made the Salem witch trials look like fine examples of Jurisprudence)
We drive around the block twice before seeing a sign for billeting. Then have to find the billets. There are no real signs on post. For security reasons making things hard to find means the bad guys, if they get in might not find the giant DFAC building or the PX their favorite targets.
We sleep that night in an old Iragi barracks, think concrete bunker, with out the luxuries. Next day we decide to go shopping. I go all scout, looking for signs of shopping. The distinctive white plastic bags. Any time I see a soldier carrying one I head in the direction he came from. In less then twenty minutes we are parked at a mini mall. Local shops galore. Not AAFES sponsored. AAFES brings in Turks and others to sell ‘local’ products to soldiers, and keeps 22% of the sale price. This leads to high prices for poor goods.
We have found a true Hadji mall. Low prices, cash only and all the odd goods you could ask for. We go a little while. I like this place. The term ‘tactical vehicle’ here refers to Strykers and Tanks, not our armored monstrosities. So we can park in regular parking lots, as long as we back in. The atmosphere is relaxed and professional.
Soon enough we will have to leave, but I enjoy the day, drinking local soda, and stretched out on top of my vehicle reading a book.

That night we head south, one more stop and one more day. FOB DUSTBOWL is an old stomping ground and only two hours down the road. That night finds us in decent billeting next to the HETs. It is the first time the two units have slept next to each other. Down in Fobbitville it was only a few of them in a tent filled with us. But here the two units mingle in the shared court yard.
Stories are swapped, faces matched with radio call signs and smack is talked. SPQR gets his story telling roll on. The kid can tell a story most of them are embarrassing ones about him. Even hearing them for the tenth time I find myself laughing. It is our last night together. The social scene lasts well into the morning.

A six day tour, Day 7-9

I am pulled out of a fit full sleep by the creaking of a tent pole. A four inch tent pole fifteen feet over my head. The tent sounds like the mother of all dust storms has settled into the base. Flaping and creaking it makes sleep impossible. SO I crawl out of my bag and begin to pack my stuff up, a few minutes later I am fully awake and packed.
SPQR and Wookie woke up about the same time, and Moto is not far behind. We grab our stuff and hump it out to what we think will be gale force winds. Outside is a light breeze and sunny skies. I hate this place.
The gear loaded we decide to do some therapeutic shopping after chow. The PX is HUGE, like Wall Mart big. There is an attached Iraqi Bazaar mostly staffed by Kuwaitis and Turks. But you can’t take bags from the PX to the Bazaar, or vice versa. I stomp back to the ASV with my purchases and try to attack the lock again. Slayers are in their wrecker and loan me more tools.
The giant Army lock laughs at the hammer and cold chisel. The hack saw just seems to polish it. I polite inquire about master keys. Master keys are an army device, about three feet long with long handles. They look like giant wire snips. Civilians call them bolt cutters. Seeing as the army runs on the ability to lock things up, master keys are carefully controlled items. Only the platoon sergeant has them, in his truck, a few miles away.
I am about to loose hope when SPQR shows up from the PX.
“Hey Sergeant?” He asks, although I consider him a friend his military courtesy won’t allow him to simply use a last name. “I saw some bolt cutters at the Bazaar.”
I consider my bank account (single and low bills at home), my frustration level (I am glad my ammo is in the truck), and I tell him to lead on.
Thirty dollars later I am whistling a jaunty song with a pair of bright red brand new master keys over my shoulder, as I walk from the PX to the parking lot. I am sure every supply sergeant and MP took my picture. There is nothing more frightening, than a guy in dusty grimy uniform, obviously not a local, with a pair of Master Keys.
The lock snaps with ease. Mission accomplished. Now fuss no muss. I store the tool on Lifeguard’s truck. Now I have the ability to open any lock… once.
While I was focused on reliving my frustration, the sky has gone from blue to brown, and we may be socked in here. Wookie, SPQR and Tooth have disappeared. They return as Moto takes off to find out if we can sneak out even in the bad weather.
The three enlisted men look smug. Then point out the flag pole. In front of the Tent city was an empty flag pole, now it flies a Jolly Rodger. The thing is, it could stay there for weeks, before someone decided to find out it wasn’t authorized.
Moto and the trans guys have bullied the gate into letting us roll. So it is with a light heart that we mount up and roll for the gate.
I have seen Baghdad, and it wasn’t even worth the T-shirt. Never have so many occupied so much space for so little effect. I am sure there are soldiers there, but all I saw was bureaucrats who wore the same outfit. I need to go back to my little corner of the country.
The trip up is quick, picking up some trucks at FOB Junkyard and bag to FOB SHIRE. Our billeting was never even turned in. HET guys who didn’t need to go on this trip kept them open for us. I fee good enough to call the folks, and check my email.
The next day would find us socked in from the same sand storm. We get a free day to bounce around the post, sleep in and just relax. The day after the weather clears and we head back to Allahlone. The day after will be more new territory for us.

A Six Day Tour: Day 5-6

FRAGO, Semper Gumby, or whatever you want to call it, back at COB Allahlone for the night and the mission changes. Moto gathers us up and breaks the news that we will have another two days of move going north after the southern leg. There is much rejoicing. So we mount up and strap on to head back south to the FOB Shire, a giant base that has two things to redeem it. First there are Air Force transient quarters, meaning real beds, and AC. The trip isn’t really faster, but we have done this run so many times that time seems to fly. We roll in, drop the HETs off and get rooms. A twenty man room can seem the height of luxury, when you are far from home.
The next morning, Moto has another FRAGO, rather than zipping down to FOB Junkyard, just a little down the road we are going to the big city, and to the mother of all FOBs the place where the term Fobbit was invented for. A place so big, one name wasn’t enough. There are only two problems with this. First, we have never been there before, and second we don’t have any maps that stretch that far.
When last the company sent a unit this way they had a week of prep and were all ‘picked men’. This utter bullshit was the result of officers getting overly involved in a single high profile mission. We would do this with our stock crew and zero prep. What could go wrong? They guys took a little extra care with their vehicles and weapons and as night fell we rolled out again. Dropping off some trucks at a FOB along the way we entered Baghdad.
The hi-way signs are in English and Arabic. One of the HET drivers, going by the call sign ‘Hawaiian Punch’ came over to our radio net, and we snuggled him in behind the forward gun trucks so he could give direction. You can tell you are closer to the capital by a very different military presence. Strykers sit at the check points, over watching the Iraqis and cars give us a little more breathing room.
Saying I saw Baghdad is like saying I have seen Sacramento, roll through a giant city at freeway speeds at night is not seeing a place. It is like going to Fishermen’s Warf and ordering the Fish and Chips. But we would get a real taste of the big FOB.
Unlike most US bases there are many entrances, and you have to pick the right one. We picked the wrong one at first, then had to crawl down a Baghdad street another mile or so to find the right one.
Now comes the fun. Where do we sleep? It is midnight when we are clear fo the gate, now we are lost in a brown metropolis of rehabilitated Iraqi buildings and prefabricated army ones. We drive for miles, literally miles from the gate, trying to find a billeting office. We drive in our convoy of habit through the night. Past bill board sized unit crests painted and lighted on towers. So much for OPSEC here. After an hour we stop an MP to ask directions. He doesn’t know. If a small town cop didn’t know where all the hotels in his town were I would fire him. This guy is a small town cop, with pretensions of grandeur. Never take a man seriously who thinks he is armed when carrying a 9mm in a combat zone.
Back the way we came to find the Mayor’s cell, past the PX complex. Not simply a building it is a complaex of warehouse sized buildings. Past both the DFACs. There are acres upon acres of MRAPs lined up in neat rows.
At the Mayor’s Cell they tell us we need to go to the OTHER Mayor’s cell. At that Mayor’s cell they give us a tent assignment in a tent city a half mile away. It is now past two thirty. We find the parking lot, and Moto heads in to find the tent.
PFC Tooth picks this time to inform me that he broke the key off in the lock of the ASV’s back door. While Moto looks for a place for us to sleep, I try to break the lock. First I try a tire iron, the army lock laughs at my efforts. I sneer back and get the Tanker Bar. A tool so simple they gave it a cool name. Sixty inches of steel with a round pointy end and a square wedged end. Made of cold hard steel. If I could ever find a guy who could swing it, it would make the ultimate crowd control device.
I try to pop the lock with this massive amount of leverage. The hasp bends to a forty-five degree angle. I use the bar to straighten the hasp, and look for another solution. As I prowl through the tool kits of the other trucks looking for a likely tool Moto returns. There in no room at the Inn, our tent is filled with someone else. My sleeping bag, shaving kit and change of clothes are locked in an armored vehicle, and there is no room to sleep in. I find the perfect tool. While the squad looks on I attack the rear of my truck with a 5 lb hammer. All I succeed in doing is punting some new dents in the armor. But it feels good.
Tooth had told me earlier that the inside door to the storage space was blocked. I toss the tools at him and crawl inside. Cursing, swearing and throwing cans of .50cal ammo about I un block the door in less than a minute. He didn’t even try.
Moto has made a command decision when I emerge from the ASV. We will squat, find an empty tent and occupy it. Fuck the Mayor’s cell. Tromping through the tent city we get a stroke of luck. Slayer recovery has staked a claim on a thirty man tent. There is room at the Inn. We pile in and stake our claim.
Out of habit I look around for Lifeguard, he is missing. I ask his crew, (we have been separated for this mission) Lifeguard has locked himself in his MRAP and passed out hours ago. The time 0400 as I slither into my sleeping bag. Lifeguard had been asleep for almost an hour and half. Smart guy there.

A Six Day Tour: Day 3-4

Leaving COB Allahlone and off into the hinterlands of Iraq. FOB Stinky, known for the distinctive odor that reminds me of that time the septic tank backed up. To get there we will have to go through a major population center. The favorite past time there is to practice the NBA attack. In other words, from the top of the building with a hand grenade, through the turret, nothing but net! Seeing as the national past time of most arab countries is football (Americans call it soccer), followed closely by rock throwing. I have seen kids occasionally leave a football dirt lot to throw rocks at us, so it may be a dead heat.
On second thought the real national pastime here is begging things off American patrols… but I will get to that later.
As the sun goes down we are rolling out the gate in our brand new smokeless MRAP. “Scotty Doesn’t Know” by Lustra is on the head sets and we are ready to rock and roll. As we hit the suburbs, I lock and load my M4. The M240 is always loaded, but I usually don’t load the rifle. The remote chance of it going off and a bullet bouncing around my turret is higher then that I will need it anywhere but a city.
The bolt does not slide easily forward. I have cleaned the guts so often that it has no lubrication. I reach down into the turret and pull out a spray bottle of CLP. A quick squirt and everything works fine. Of course if I had checked this before leaving the wire, I wouldn’t have one more head ache.
Tall buildings and people on both sides of the street are going to give men neck strain. Every car at an intersection is muzzled as we pass through the city center, and still the HETs get rocks thrown at them. There are no issues until we are rolling out the other side. The IPs have shut down the road for a suspected IED.
US units would cordon off the area, call higher and have highly trained professionals come out and dispose of it. Iraqis are a little more direct. They get behind their trucks and then shoot at it until, either it blows up or is in enough pieces that one of them feels comfortable walking up and kicking it. Iraqi Police marksmanship being slightly better than the Arab world as a whole, this only take three or four magazines.
It only takes twenty minutes to clear things their way, instead of three hours our way. And we are off and into the desert. This is the second most boring road we have traveled yet. So I amuse myself by watching Slayer throw chem lights around in the cab, and try not to sing along to my music. Some people should only sing in the shower. I shouldn’t be allowed to do that.
The problem is that as a white boy with no rhythm I love to sing and dance. Sometimes it results in a doctor being called and someone putting a wallet in my mouth so I don’t bite my tongue. Normally I sing and dance on my bike. Yes you can dance on a motorcycle at speed, it looks stupid but who cares? Gunning is similar, but the mike means they can hear me, and Doc Philly has to watch my feet move to the music. I think I have solidified his PTSD claim.
FOB Stinky has bunk beds and hardened tents. Not bad. There is also the best alterations shop, and the largest chow hall I have ever seen. We all go shopping, when we wake up, then hang out at the trucks. When the convoy is ready we will roll. Inevitably there is a game of rock kicking, which consists of kicking a rock at anyone walking by.
Moto tells us that there was a successful NBA attack 700m form the gate that day. So no singing and dancing until we are a few miles down the road.
Return is reverse of arrival. Back through the city and onto the hi-way. Halfway through the city one of the HETs blows a tire. They limp it out of town. Parked on the side of the road, occupying more than a mile and a half of space the Slayer mechanics go to work on it. This is not like changing a car tire. It involves air tools and three vehicles, including the one being worked on. There are tales passed around the battalion of three hour tire changes. SGT Nasty and his truck pull up to lend a hand.
Someone is a NASCAR fan and it isn’t SGT Nasty, who got his citizenship just before we left to come here. Slayer is trying to get on a pit crew, and we are rolling in 20 minutes. Another leg done, and another good nights sleep.

A Six Day Tour: Day 3

Leaving COB Allahlone and off into the hinterlands of Iraq. FOB Stinky, known for the distinctive odor that reminds me of that time the septic tank backed up. To get there we will have to go through a major population center. The favorite past time there is to practice the NBA attack. In other words, from the top of the building with a hand grenade, through the turret, nothing but net! Seeing as the national past time of most arab countries is football (Americans call it soccer), followed closely by rock throwing. I have seen kids occasionally leave a football dirt lot to throw rocks at us, so it may be a dead heat.
On second thought the real national pastime here is begging things off American patrols… but I will get to that later.
As the sun goes down we are rolling out the gate in our brand new smokeless MRAP. “Scotty Doesn’t Know” by Lustra is on the head sets and we are ready to rock and roll. As we hit the suburbs, I lock and load my M4. The M240 is always loaded, but I usually don’t load the rifle. The remote chance of it going off and a bullet bouncing around my turret is higher then that I will need it anywhere but a city.
The bolt does not slide easily forward. I have cleaned the guts so often that it has no lubrication. I reach down into the turret and pull out a spray bottle of CLP. A quick squirt and everything works fine. Of course if I had checked this before leaving the wire, I wouldn’t have one more head ache.
Tall buildings and people on both sides of the street are going to give men neck strain. Every car at an intersection is muzzled as we pass through the city center, and still the HETs get rocks thrown at them. There are no issues until we are rolling out the other side. The IPs have shut down the road for a suspected IED.
US units would cordon off the area, call higher and have highly trained professionals come out and dispose of it. Iraqis are a little more direct. They get behind their trucks and then shoot at it until, either it blows up or is in enough pieces that one of them feels comfortable walking up and kicking it. Iraqi Police marksmanship being slightly better than the Arab world as a whole, this only take three or four magazines.
It only takes twenty minutes to clear things their way, instead of three hours our way. And we are off and into the desert. This is the second most boring road we have traveled yet. So I amuse myself by watching Slayer throw chem lights around in the cab, and try not to sing along to my music. Some people should only sing in the shower. I shouldn’t be allowed to do that.
The problem is that as a white boy with no rhythm I love to sing and dance. Sometimes it results in a doctor being called and someone putting a wallet in my mouth so I don’t bite my tongue. Normally I sing and dance on my bike. Yes you can dance on a motorcycle at speed, it looks stupid but who cares? Gunning is similar, but the mike means they can hear me, and Doc Philly has to watch my feet move to the music. I think I have solidified his PTSD claim.
FOB Stinky has bunk beds and hardened tents. Not bad. There is also the best alterations shop, and the largest chow hall I have ever seen. We all go shopping, when we wake up, then hang out at the trucks. When the convoy is ready we will roll. Inevitably there is a game of rock kicking, which consists of kicking a rock at anyone walking by.
Moto tells us that there was a successful NBA attack 700m form the gate that day. So no singing and dancing until we are a few miles down the road.
Return is reverse of arrival. Back through the city and onto the hi-way. Halfway through the city one of the HETs blows a tire. They limp it out of town. Parked on the side of the road, occupying more than a mile and a half of space the Slayer mechanics go to work on it. This is not like changing a car tire. It involves air tools and three vehicles, including the one being worked on. There are tales passed around the battalion of three hour tire changes. SGT Nasty and his truck pull up to lend a hand.
Someone is a NASCAR fan and it isn’t SGT Nasty, who got his citizenship just before we left to come here. Slayer is trying to get on a pit crew, and we are rolling in 20 minutes. Another leg done, and another good nights sleep.

A Six Day Tour: Day 2

A Six Day Tour: Day 2

FOB Junkyard, is a hole, without the redeeming qualities of cool local shops. On the smaller FOBs there are little local shops that have cheap and cool stuff. Six days and three more bases to shop at. The Movement Control Team (MCT) wants us to wait until 2300 to leave. Moto and the HET commander decide to try and sneak out early. As Lifeguard and I get to the gate. (Might Mouse was back at the fob so he could compete in some hoorah thing, and learn how to use a new weapon system.) Our guest driver Ms. SPC is doing well when the HETs call Moto and ask if we know that we are smoking. I look back and see a cloud of smoke.
This is our first trip in an this MRAP, but I am certain that giant clouds of white smoke are not normal. Not like campfire clouds, or a guy smoking a cigar smoke. You could signal Geronimo’s boy that the cavalry is coming with this cloud. I can’t even see the truck behind us. It is lucky for us that the Slayer recovery truck is right behind us. The hop out and run up to lend a hand. Lifeguard gets out takes a look at the smoke and begins to swear as he pops the hood. The radio is alive with suggestions of what to check. Is there water in the oil, did we put MOGAS in a JP8 vehicle? The mechanics come up as Life guard pops the hood.
This is not the way to sneak out the gate. Almost thirty giant trucks, stacked up behind an escort truck that is doing its best imitation of a smoke generator. Our only hope is that the gate guards can’t see the unit markings. I watch as Lifeguard pulls the dipstick and looks at the color of the oil. Then he offers the business end to the Slayer Mechanics. I watch in amazement as the first one, looks at it with his flash light. Then he touches it and rubs it between his fingers and smells it. Finally he sticks his tongue out and tastes it. Like a vintner checking the vintage.
He makes a face then offers it to his partner in crime, who also tastes it. Lifeguard, who is the opposite of Hick, whatever that is, looks shocked. I have seen my brother in law do this. Now I know these two hill billy mechanics at least enjoy their work.
Slayer one and Slayer two have us fire up the truck to the accompanying cloud of smoke. Then run around and put their hands in it to check for moisture. The step back and yell at me to have the driver rev the engine. When she does a series of perfect smoke rings fly out of the exhaust pipe. They have me do it again, and more rings fly out. They watch the rings and have me do it again.
“Are you just doing that to see the rings?” I yell down from my perch, half in jest.
They look sheepish and nodd. One is about 5’6” and Two is over six feet. One yells back “She should be good, there isn’t anything in the oil! Probably a blown injector!” With that they are back into their truck where I will watch them throw chem lights at each other and occasionally reenact Wayne’s World’s head banging scene.
We leave a trail of smoke from the middle to the end of the convoy all the way home. Back at COB Allahlone we roll through the gate as slow as possible, smoking out the guards.
When Moto finally lays eyes on the truck he says, “Holy shit, I thought it was like a little smoke not that!”
Day two ends back where we started prepping our second truck, and moving all of our crap to the new truck. Four more days to go. I think I like these guys.

A 6 Day Tour: Day 1

A 6 Day Tour: Day 1

OPMOVE, that simple word brings joy to the heart of any convoy escort team. Six days of peace and quiet on the road. Once you kick off it is just the convoy commander (SSG Moto) and his team. Higher is far and away, at the end of the Blue force tracker, sort of a combat email system. No stupid details, no formations, just you and the job. Of course you have to work with an army trans unit. We have been hit and miss with the Heavy Equipment Transport (HET) companies. Some have been good, some not so good. The guys who had a rear ender that stranded the convoy on the side of the road for twelve hours were some real winners.
Even with that the squad is eager to get on the move. Most important is that each trip is a RON (Remain Over Night) not a turn and burn, you drive a hundred miles or so and then go to sleep in whatever transient quarters are available. Think of it as a guided tour, but with machine guns and the occasional IED.
We wake up on day one and start the load out. Every thing packed, an extra can or two of ammo is snuck out of the ammo locker here and there, then off to the intel brief to meet our charges.
When you walk into a room with another unit in it you can immediately tell what that unit thinks of itself. Most of Moto’s squad walk into the S2 building like we own it, because, well, we do. Who ever else is in there reports to our boss. We are the gun slingers, the escorts. We don’t wear reflective belts, body armor or any crazy COB requirements once we leave the barracks. We are on the way to the office, outside the wire where at least you know what to expect from Hadji. The HET drivers are in body armor with reflective belts on. Their battalion policy. There is a low roar of banter when we walk in. Insults and inside jokes are flung back and forth. The think they are pretty good. Works for me. We sit down for the latest list of bad news. Increased attacks here so be careful, no attacks here, so we are due one soon, and this area hasn’t changed in a while so expect them to try some thing different. Then we get to all the new and interesting way they have come up with to blow us up. A few new twists, no big deal.
After the brief comes the Chaplain. I would call myself an agnostic, if I took it that seriously, or a pagan when they are shooting at me if I thought it would help. Our chaplain is a former marine, he brings a certain earthiness to the prayer. We get their chaplain, who had to have been a youth minister in another life. If I want to be preached at I will go to church, and I don’t. He doesn’t give a prayer, he gives sermon, then the longest prayer we have had yet. Whatever.
Then we are up and out to the trucks, a group shotguning of Rip Its, and then up into the trucks. My body armor weighs about 40 pounds, then there is the balaclava, and fleece hat to give some padding under the helmet. Gunners lay out armor, and adjust their nest. The trucks are ready and we roll, leaving COB Allahlone in the dust, and all the frustrations with it.
Rolling out, behind our truck is one of the two wreckers. Ten ton trucks with all the things you need to fix, drag or carry a broken truck down the road. I put my ear phone in and am about to press play when I hear music. Is that? It couldn’t be? It is! The wrecker crew is playing Slayer of their PA. I turn around, flip the horns at them and head bang my way out the gate, until my driver hit’s a bump and I almost fall down and break my ass. Time to get to work.
Leg one is a trip to FOB Junkyard, a little further down the road from our usual stop. Housing is a tent with cots, no biggie. We get there before 2am and that means time for a little reading and bullshiting. The HETs are professional and fun. I could get to like this. We added on additional medic. Doc Pusher sitting in Moto’s truck is backed up by an outsider, Doc Philly. A second tour guy who is more than grateful to be away from the BS of his unit.
Doc Philly fits right in, halfway through the trip I hand him music and he DJs us through the rest of the trip. FOB Junkyard has only one thing to endear it to us, a giant grave yard of Iraqi Armor. Having trained my entire professional life to do to these tanks what some other lucky bastard got to do, the entire squad stops for pictures on our way to the chow hall.
That night we head back home before the next leg.

Nationalism

A fish does not see the water and we do not see the air. It is so part of our environment, so fundamental that we don’t notice it. Like gravity, or the stock market and the effect of the price of a barrel of oil. It is accepted that these are part of our western lives. The rest of the world does not necessarily see it that way.
I was a literally a child at my fathers knee, trying understand what he was teaching in his high school history class. Like any child I was trying to understand the world I lived in, but the concepts were beyond my reach. Why was a revolution in France over a hundred years ago more important than a revolution in the US? We were the super power not them, how could the cheese eating surrender monkeys be mor important. At the time with his infinite patience, he replied simply “Nationalism”.
I am sure that there was an attempt to further explain that I never quite understood. Two decades later, I came to understand. It took stepping out into the water to see how air effected me. I had to go to Iraq in order to understand one of the building blocks of the world I grew up in. Maybe if I had traveled to the third world at a younger age I would have seen it earlier.
In my world the state, the nation was a given, an accepted thing like gravity. Even those who opposed the state wanted to change it, to run it themselves. There are a limited number of exceptions to this, but they are generally considered wing nuts. If I had had the personal experience to process one of my favorite authors I would have understood it. Ralph Peters was trying to explain to the US military in the 1990s that most of the third world does not take nationalism for granted.
Here the tribe, the clan, the religion is takes is the given. A person may want to take the tribe out of the state, but would never consider taking themselves from the tribe. I hope there are brave sociologists and social anthropologists who have a deeper understanding of this and are talking to our leadership.
A few weeks ago I was standing at an Iraqi controlled gate near COB Allalone. It is basically a US Army supplied Pick-n-Pull. A truck leaving did not want to stop. The driver gunned the engine, and the guard got out of the way. The response of my self and the PFC with me was predictable. It was demonstrated in no uncertain terms that to attempt to continue would result in the drivers death. A search of the vehicle revealed that they were trying to steal parts from the yard. This is unimportant.
What is important is that I felt perfectly justified in enforcing the laws of this state and my own: “You do not run check points” The trial and punishment is immediate. The Iraqi guard thanked me for not shooting the man who tried to run him down.
“It would be very bad.” The guard said.
I agreed with him, I would prefer not to shoot someone over stolen truck parts. Then it hit me when I was talking to the man who controlled the lot. It would result in tribal problems, clan problems. The rules of the tribes are more valuable, more important than the rules of the state.
The Iraqi Army paints their flag on everything, they are more compulsive about it than marines with the Eagle Globe and Anchor. This very well may be a deliberate attempt at fostering nationalism in the army. Like putting Napoleon’s eagles at the front of his regiments. Building an identification with the state through a symbol. Is there really that deep of strategy going on here?
The difference between nationalism and a cult of personality is that the image of a person is replaced with the image of a symbol of an idea. It can’t be that simple. Maybe I am over thinking the whole thing, and need to stop listening to philosophy audio books while on patrol and go back to Kim Harrison.

Women

No matter how many women have entered the military it remains a male dominated organization. Why? Too much to go into at this time. Living in this all male sausage fest can be a disorientating. Our medic is female, and the only female in the squad. Watching guys in this environment can be amusing, if you have a sick and twisted sense of humor. We are starved for the female of the species. There is at least two attractive females at the combat stress unit on post. It makes Doc Feelgood’s job easier to get guys to go over there.
You see changes in the soldiers TV and movie watching habits also. We still buy and watch the action flick with big stuff blowing up and a high round count and mortality rate. Then there are movies where a hot actress spends most of the time running around in tight or revealing clothing. (This is how I ended up with five seasons of Alias) But there are also an increase in ‘Chick flicks’.
I find this last trend to be the most interesting as it would seem that it is most prevalent in the younger troops. Is there a need for the softer side of life, maybe a desire to look into a world that is beyond our reach? I really don’t know. I do find that after a long chat with any of my female friends I end up thinking about them long into the next day.
I ended a long term relationship before this trip because I didn’t want the distraction. I have been through the heart aches and pains being married and deployed. This time I walked away clean. Still I find myself enjoying the long conversations with female friends about their relationships and trials. It is a world that is so alien to me as to seem almost like fiction.
The events are no different than they were back home, but I have no frame of reference. My world is so removed from dating, and all things social involving the opposite sex. Maybe it is different in some of the support units that can run up to half female. That, I have heard, brings its own issues.
Like any good grant writer I can only say that this line of thought deserves more investigation. Now if you will excuse me I need to reconsider ordering 7 seasons of Buffy.

A note to the reader

Half of my reason for writing this blog is for my own personal record. This place does funny things to my head. I want an accurate image of where I was and what I was thinking. Therefore I write and post without editing. Going back over the posts, I realize that this leads to more than a few typos. Deal with it. I am however considering going back and maybe tidying some things up.
I think all the readers for not commenting on these not so minor errors. Most of the other reasons have to do with keeping friends and family up to date on how I am doing, as I am really horrible about writing letters. The last bit is probably a desperate cry for attention… but who knows?
For those of you who are not here, but have loved ones here, let me say a few things about letters. Letters are the best way of telling someone that you care. There is something incredibly special about having someone take a piece of their day, put it in an envelope, and sending it to you. There are a few letters that I have that stay in my bag, so I can take them out and read them over and over again. E-mail, VOIP, and chat programs just are not the same.
I was asked by a friend back home about what to write. I thought about it, and finally like many of my best answers, I told them what my dad did. Start with what you did today, then what was going through your mind when you started writing, and finish with your short term plans. A little slice of home. I have heard of this in other words from other sources, but he said it best, and does it the best.
Better than boxes of candies, or care packages, a little piece of home goes a very long way. This by no means should imply that I do not love home baked cookies or hand and foot warmers arriving here. But if someone you care for is over seas, go old school, put pen to paper and drop them a line. If they don’t write back you can gently remind them that they don’t even have to buy stamps.

Why are we here?

The sun is coming up over the Eastern Horizon, the stench of sulfur from the oil refineries fills my nose. The wind is still icy cold, even behind my gun shield but the morning sunlight holds the false promise of warmth. Even false hope is still hope. The country is waking up. Local cars pull into the north bound lane to make it an undivided two way road for as long as our trucks occupy the south bound lane.
In the states this would cause dozens of accidents. Instead I have yet to see one. Traveling three or four wide on a two lane road, the somehow manage to sort it out. All sorts of things filter in through my eyes, get sorted into little boxes, and stored there. Types of cars, number of occupants, drivers attitude, all get sorted and stored. My brain is busy else where. One big question has been looming since shortly before dawn.
Why are we here? Leaned back behind a loaded automatic weapon, in an occupied country, I have to ask it. The arguments of WMDs, don’t really wash with me. The petroleum argument is also a little hollow. There are supply and demand issues that don’t match up with that theory. Even the conspiracy theories don’t really wash. I have to find something that fits. Am I simply a modern storm trooper for imperialism? Possibly I am crusader for truth justice and the American Way? This doesn’t wash. The simple answer the one I give to friends, when they ask why I went to Iraq, while true only scratches the surface. “I went to Iraq, because if I didn’t they would arrest me.”
If pushed I would explain that the military should not make political decisions, and we go when and where ordered because that is what the Constitution says. More than one friend has listened to that response and gone on to other subjects, they know a canned answer when they hear it. That one smells of spam.
The truck is silent, as I play with the ideas. I go back to being in college, and the deeper question of why the US has a military. The simple answer is that we have guns because they have guns. That doesn’t give me much hope for our future. There should be a higher purpose, a long term goal, in this giant destructive machine.
I think that a world where we have access to peaceful redress of grievances is a good goal. There is one problem. The use of force is easy, it is cathartic and it presents the hope of getting exactly what you want. Diplomacy is slow messy and you never get everything you want. The solution, remove the ability to succeed by using force.
W.T. Sherman expressed this view in his attack into the secessionist states. It was his stated intent to be so violent, so destructive as to make the thought of redress through force to be unthinkable. He was partially successful. We should use force to block that avenue of for people to groups or states to get what they want. But if this is the only tenant of this philosophy, it results in becoming the bigger bully. So there has to be a balance.
If you block one method of redress, you have to open another. If force is not available to the other side you have to be willing to negotiate from a position of strength and pretend as if you are not. I guess Iraq may be an example. We have proven that we are not going to be shot, mortared or blown out of the country. This means we have to go when we are voted out. We have to lose to their elected government, and show that that process can work.
There is a third part. One I think we forget, and will forget as soon as Iraq is behind us. The root causes of most conflict are economic. The root causes for much of the domestic violence in the US are economic. The solution to reducing the number of people willing to plant bombs to kill US troops was to provide jobs. It has worked. This is a lesson we might apply to our own people back home. Sun Tzu was right, the ultimate excellence in warfare is to win without having to fight.
The blimp above COB Allahlone is visible, we are on the home stretch, and I can smell the barn. I reach into my pocket and press play on my Zune. “Scotty Doesn’t Know” starts up in my ear phone. It obliterates the deep thoughts for a while, anymore and my head will start to hurt.

Passengers Pt 3

Rolling South, the temperatures is below freezing, and with wind chill I figure it is in the single digits. I swap out my gloves every twenty minutes or so, but the my fingers still go numb and I have to beat them back to feeling. The full moon makes NVGs useless, and I spend most of my time with my eye pressed up against the thermal sight.
The world as seen as warm and cold. The radio is silent, just the calls as we pass checkpoints. Lifeguard is pounding away at the BFT, and Mighty Mouse zones out to his own music. The miles click away.
“TWO STOP.” The radio jumpstarts my adrenaline.
The lead truck has seen something, and hopefully the second truck stopped before they ran over it. We stop and wait will they check it out.
Time ticks away, five minutes turns into ten, ten into thirty. They confirm it and we call up for the disposal guys. Sitting on the road. I scan, and scan. I memorize the terrain. Time ticks on.
An hour passes then two, we still wait. A car rolls by 500m out in the desert, it stops and drops someone off. We watch the car and the person left behind.
Moto asses the situation and calls the BC. We have the extra trucks, could he take the 4 truck out and see who this guy is? Moto repositions the other trucks and we move out to link up.
“TRUCK 4 THIS IS DOME 6, WE WILL MOVE OUT ON THIS ACCESS ROAD TO THE DISMOUNT. I WILL LEAD, AND DRAW HIS FIRE, YOU STAY 50 METERS BACK AND SUPRESS HIM IF HE FIRES.”
This is what the man has spent twenty years in the army to do. Granted it is a two truck element, not over sixty armored vehicles. I am a impressed he has made the right leadership decision, will take the big risk.
Lifeguard acknowledges and off we go. Mighty Mouse has really grown as a driver since we got here. He takes the embankment just right, then puts himself 50 meters back and a little to the right of the lead truck. The road 500m out runs along a railroad embankment. The BC pops over it, and Mighty Mouse stops us just as I can get a line of sight over it. I can’t depress onto the target. He rolls forward just enough.
The thermal does not show uniform or faces, but the targets body language says it all, just a rent-a-cop, Iraqi style. We search the area for the fun of it and roll back. A little bit of activity to kill time.
After a three and a half hour wait the disposal guys show up. The poke and prod the suspicious object. They run it over with their robot. It is a rock. No bad on our lead element. This is the nature of the beast.
The road clear we roll south, with the sun over the Horizon, and traffic going both ways in the other lane. A twenty four hour mission. As we roll in the passengers thank us for the ride and extend kudos. CSM Snarf wants to see Moto in his office the next day.
He had nothing but bad to say. As a very senior NCO said to me about his comments and criticism, consider the source.
All told I would rather not have passengers.

passengers pt 2

It is midnight 30, and we have been at work since 11am. The CSM wants to get home and so we are rushing through all the things it takes for us to ‘Turn and Burn’. First we refuel, then drop our passengers and finally go and get a to go plate from the DFAC. I select finger food, things that don’t require forks or spoons. Mini-pizzas and jalapeño poppers are not the greatest food for a long night of work but the calories will burn.
The trucks are turned around and ready to roll in 45 minutes, amazing how things move faster when the big boss is watching. SSG Moto has two big challenges for the ride home. The first is that he has to do everything exactly according to the battalion rules, the man who signed off on them is watching. That is easy, we normally follow almost all of the rules. The second issue is harder. By the rules he is the Convoy Commander, the absolute authority on all things that happen on the mission. For this mission he has four people who are his bosses, bosses, bosses boss.
Moto takes an interesting tack to this issue, he makes two Lieutenant Colonels and one of the Sergeants Major into just additional vehicle commander. There is no question, no conversation about his choice, he simply does it. Our own BC takes it well, actually seems to enjoy himself. An armor officer commands a tank long after his peers in other branches have been consigned to offices and command posts.
CSM Snarf will ride in the 2 truck with SGT Linebacker. A pity for him. After the ritual pre-mission re-brief the BC steps up and tells us what happened on his way up when another squad rolled over an anti-tank mine. The information is useful. Not to be up staged CSM Snarf steps up.
“Do you all know what Positive ID is?” He asks.
I am standing near the back, a cigarette hanging from my lips and a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. The crews from the other Battalion Commander and Command Sergeant Major are to my left and right. They are from a support battalion. The LT standing next to me looks like he should be playing professional football, the model image of a soldier. I am sure that he is mostly useless, as no one can look that way and be able to perform. It takes me half a second to decide to take the hit.
“You know the fucker is trying to kill you before you make him a meat bag.”
CSM Snarf knows me by the sound of my voice. And is a little startled at my eloquent turn of a phrase. The LT takes an half step to the sided, as I take another pull on the smoke.
“I want you gunners to make absolutely sure you have Positive Identification before you pull the trigger. Nothing could be worse than you pulling the trigger on the wrong thing. Make absolutely sure you have PID before you fire.” Snarf says.
This is such incredible bull shit. The words may sound like a good reiteration of ROE, but what the PFC or SPC hears is “Don’t pull the trigger. Don’t pull the trigger. If you pull the trigger and are wrong I will stake you out in front of the bus then ensure it backs over you after it runs you over.”
Moto waits a second, to see if he is done then repeats the order of march and tells us to get on the trucks.
Walking away I am walking with PFC Airborne, just back from leave. I look at him and say, “Better to be tried by 12 than carried by 6.” He looks at me and offers up a fist for a fist bump, before we split off to our trucks. I look back to see the BC walking behind us. He barely nods and heads to his truck. I climb up the hood of my truck and slip into the turret. I pull on the wool cap, balaclava, gloves, and snuck them all into position. I turn on the tunes playing in my left ear, and then settle head set and helmet over my head. I lock and load rolling out of the gate. Weapons on amber my sweet ass.
It would be a long ride home.

Passengers Pt 1

It is midnight 30, and we have been at work since 11am. The CSM wants to get home and so we are rushing through all the things it takes for us to ‘Turn and Burn’. First we refuel, then drop our passengers and finally go and get a to go plate from the DFAC. I select finger food, things that don’t require forks or spoons. Mini-pizzas and jalapeño poppers are not the greatest food for a long night of work but the calories will burn.
The trucks are turned around and ready to roll in 45 minutes, amazing how things move faster when the big boss is watching. SSG Moto has two big challenges for the ride home. The first is that he has to do everything exactly according to the battalion rules, the man who signed off on them is watching. That is easy, we normally follow almost all of the rules. The second issue is harder. By the rules he is the Convoy Commander, the absolute authority on all things that happen on the mission. For this mission he has four people who are his bosses, bosses, bosses boss.
Moto takes an interesting tack to this issue, he makes two Lieutenant Colonels and one of the Sergeants Major into just additional vehicle commander. There is no question, no conversation about his choice, he simply does it. Our own BC takes it well, actually seems to enjoy himself. An armor officer commands a tank long after his peers in other branches have been consigned to offices and command posts.
CSM Snarf will ride in the 2 truck with SGT Linebacker. A pity for him. After the ritual pre-mission re-brief the BC steps up and tells us what happened on his way up when another squad rolled over an anti-tank mine. The information is useful. Not to be up staged CSM Snarf steps up.
“Do you all know what Positive ID is?” He asks.
I am standing near the back, a cigarette hanging from my lips and a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. The crews from the other Battalion Commander and Command Sergeant Major are to my left and right. They are from a support battalion. The LT standing next to me looks like he should be playing professional football, the model image of a soldier. I am sure that he is mostly useless, as no one can look that way and be able to perform. It takes me half a second to decide to take the hit.
“You know the fucker is trying to kill you before you make him a meat bag.”
CSM Snarf knows me by the sound of my voice. And is a little startled at my eloquent turn of a phrase. The LT takes an half step to the sided, as I take another pull on the smoke.
“I want you gunners to make absolutely sure you have Positive Identification before you pull the trigger. Nothing could be worse than you pulling the trigger on the wrong thing. Make absolutely sure you have PID before you fire.” Snarf says.
This is such incredible bull shit. The words may sound like a good reiteration of ROE, but what the PFC or SPC hears is “Don’t pull the trigger. Don’t pull the trigger. If you pull the trigger and are wrong I will stake you out in front of the bus then ensure it backs over you after it runs you over.”
Moto waits a second, to see if he is done then repeats the order of march and tells us to get on the trucks.
Walking away I am walking with PFC Airborne, just back from leave. I look at him and say, “Better to be tried by 12 than carried by 6.” He looks at me and offers up a fist for a fist bump, before we split off to our trucks. I look back to see the BC walking behind us. He barely nods and heads to his truck. I climb up the hood of my truck and slip into the turret. I pull on the wool cap, balaclava, gloves, and snuck them all into position. I turn on the tunes playing in my left ear, and then settle head set and helmet over my head. I lock and load rolling out of the gate. Weapons on amber my sweet ass.
It would be a long ride home.

TMC

So I hurt myself. I should have it tattooed on my wrist “You are no longer 19!”. Some stupid pulled tendon thing in my hand, right index finger and thumb. That and my foot was acting up from walking on rocks out at that stupid tower detail. Doc Feel Good kept me moving on anti inflammatory meds until I can get to sick call. In the army you have to be sick during certain hours in order to go down to the Troop Medical Clinic (TMC). When I got the flu in Washington State years ago, I had to walk two miles, in the snow at 5am it get to sick call. It has Army logic to it.
I gimp my way a good klick down the road to the TMC, or at least where I vaguely remember seeing it once.
The TMC, is in a different world. There are FEMALES there. There are more women than men. I am checked in by two female soldiers, and then sent to the vitals room. The nice Specialist at the desk puts a BP cuff around my arm and ask me what the reason for my visit is.
“I think I aggravated my foot, and my hand has been hurting. I think I might have smacked it crawling around my truck.”
She writes down my complaint on some form.
“I wouldn’t have even come down here except it keeps me from doing my four favorite things.” My mouth is running its own life, and my brain reaches out to throttle it. This is the Big Army.
She looks at me with innocent brown eyes and asks, “And what are those?”
“Riding motorcycles, shooting guns and writing books.” I say praying she can not add. Damn that reflexive honesty.
“But that’s only three.” She says.
My heart rate bumps from 63 to 111, here goes my a stripe.
“Well I am single, in Iraq, and… well…. Not good at being a lefty.”
Her eyes go wide, for a second, she looks at the monitor and smiles.
“Crap,” I say, “There goes an EO complaint.”
“My fiancé says the same thing, He just got here”
“Same FOB?” I ask.
“No he is down at [REDACTED]”
“Shit we go there all the time, we could just stuff you in the back seat.”
Now she blushes. And quickly ushers me out of room.
The strange thing is I would smuggle her down to his FOB or vice versa in a heart beat. You gotta hook a soldier up when the time comes.
I decided to keep my mouth shut the rest of my time in the land populated by real live women. A good thing too, the doctor was cute, blond and a major. I can’t get hurt again, it will probably cost me a stripe.

Mortality

At home, in the states we live in such a safe and organized world. We rely on the law, the cops to keep us safe. There are rules and people follow them. What we don’t realize about the rest of the world, the world that most of our global population lives in, doesn’t have those safeguards. In this world might makes right.
It is a rare car on the road that does not carry an AK. Armed men, what the press calls militias protect villages. Inner city gangs started this way. The veneer of our world is not so thick. Into this world we came, the biggest and baddest gang the world has seen. Some people don’t adjust well.
In an armed world power is so fleeting. We are all just seconds, just ounces of pressure on a trigger from becoming a chunk of meat assuming ambient temperature. Usually that moment can come and go and we never know it.

It was a longer than usual mission to a new FOB. This route required us to push through one of the larger cities here. The run out was a little interesting, but mostly long and cold. Escorting a chunk of army Heavy Equipment Transports, (think flat bed trailers designed to drive a tank onto). On the way back this was a stroke of luck as one of our trucks finally had its generator give up the ghost. With a truck down SSG Moto reorganized to put my truck up in the number two slot.
The desert is cold at night, at least in the winter. We rolled back through that city, a dozen miles from COB Allahlone a little after midnight. One major intersection for us to block. Mighty Mouse was on leave in the beautiful garden nation of Qatar so one of the Lieutenants was filling in.
We pulled into the middle of the intersection, and stopped with my gun pointing over the right side into traffic. The convoy started to roll by behind us. The first few cars stopped, then a white BMW slid through the other cars and rolled towards us. A car all our armor would probably not help us if a car bomb blew up under my barrel. I shined my laser aiming dot at him, and he slowed but kept creeping forward.
How close is too close? When does he go from a guy cutting to the front of the line to a enemy intent on our death? I reached up and fired a pin flare at him. The permanent marker sized launcher is clumsy in my hands. I say “Pin flare” as I snap the trigger. Nothing.
The car keeps rolling, I re-cock and fire it again. A ball of burning phosphorus flies out and bounces off the pavement in of the car, bouncing off into the night. The car keeps rolling. I lean over the ‘240 the triangle aiming dot on the hood of the white BMW. It does not fit the suicide bomber profile, being new and all. I can’t see the occupants.
The ball of my index finger press the safety from SAFE to FIRE, my finger curls around the trigger. My left hand up on top of the stock, holding it tight into my shoulder. Below me CPL W.T. has dismounted, the sound of his armored door pings on the back of my consciousness.
The car stops. In the reflection of the street lamp, I can see two men in the front seat. I recognize the expression on their faces. It is the same one I see as I in my mirror when splitting lanes through rush hour traffic. Frustration at being late. We wait for the convoy to pass, looking at him over my gun sites.
SGT Bulldog bmps us out of the the blocking position, I keep the gun on him, watching SGT Nasty’s laser meet mine on the hood. We speed away into the night.
A little misunderstanding, and he came so close to being chewed into chunks of meat, and assuming the freezing ambient temperature.

War souvenirs

War souvenirs

Everyone wants a memento of their travels. Soldiers are no different. In the past troops brought home a wide variety of things from international travels. There are small and portable things like coins, and flatware for the family. The larger things like samurai swords, pistols and rifles are prizes above simple flags and currency. Then there are the grand daddy things, like tanks, statues, mummies and brides. My personal favorite was the BMW factory taken from Germany by the Soviets. Last time I got the local uniforms and currency, a pair of rugs and other stuff. Most of it sits in a foot locker in a storage unit.
I want a souvenir that has style, one that I can use. I have been looking for the perfect thing to buy to take home. The days of… ‘appropriating’ have past, no longer can you just kick in a door and take a piece of loot to hang on your mantel or in your museum’s Egyptian exhibit. So I have to buy it. This means it has to be worth the cash.
My solution came to me while sitting in purgatory. Watching guys come and go from the Iraqi gate. I want a motorcycle. They have the strangest knock off bikes here, Tonda brand comes to mind first, but there are others. Something in the 250cc to 400cc range, held together with duct tape and bailing wire. Something I can cram in a connex and ship home, or worst case take apart and mail home in pieces. If Radar can do it why can’t I?
I have decided I want a bike here. I may even get to ride it around post for a day or two before the MPs decide that it is against the rules. I talked to the interpreter, he says around 500 dollars. So now I am on a mission, I will pick up a bike and figure a way to get it home. Now I just have to figure out how to get it registered at home with an Arabic bill of sale.

Now that is a memento that is practical, useful and a whole conversation starter. Besides I can teach friend to ride on it. How cool is that?

The dawn of a new day

I once heard it said that the US will leave Iraq when hell freezes over. As I stepped out of my door on January 1st I almost slipped on the thin coat of ice. Well lets hear it for prophecy. The SOFA is in place and now the troops wonder how much has changed. The more I read the less I understand. Who can do what to whom and how many cookies you have to pay for it is a mystery to us. I am sure that as somewhere in the echelons above reason there is a JAG officer who understands what is going on in this country. I am also confident that he is about to rotate home without replacement.
I can see the security situation here is better. We haven’t taken effective fire yet, all our guys have all their bit and pieces. This is better than a year ago, and much better than two years ago. But the big question is still out there, can the Iraqis hold it together?
How do you tell the difference between nationalism and radical Islam? Will they let us leave gently or will every yahoo want to claim that they drove us out? So many questions. The answer came to me like the answers of all my big question, in the latrine. In the freezing cold, after using numb fingers to tuck and button my self back together, I turn and try to leave. Wearing 40 pounds body armor on a plastic floor I move slowly, as I re attach my rifle. The door opens and I try to exit.
When they clean the porta johns here they simply spray them with a disinfectant suck out the shit. This leaves a thin film of water that evaporates quickly, unless it is in the high twenties with a blowing wind. The floor is covered in a thin sheet of ice. I pry open the door and try to exit. My shoulder armor makes my thin frame too thick for the door. I am trapped, without traction in the door of an iced over shit house. If I was taking fire this would be bad, as it is it is just a little funny.
Like the US Army if given some time to take it slow, turn sidewise and get out I will get out of this shit house without incident. If they hurry me, I am likely just to run out the door, get caught and pull the whole thing down on top of me. Then I would be trapped in a confined space and forced to break things.
I would also be blue and stink like shit. I could make it more clear, but then I would end up in the same office as that JAG officer when he rotates home.

A cowboy moment

I lean back in my chair, staring out over the desert at another glorious sunset. Taking another drink of warm coffee from my thermos I scan the panorama in front of me. The endless desert, in the back ground, a single dirt road and a gate. For the first time in the last 12 hours I am alone in the tower. My guys a slogging the 500m as the troop walks are just leaving the protection of the wire.
It is a quiet cowboy moment, the strains of Chris Ledoux come from the Zune in my shoulder pocket. A wire runs up under the body armor, under the gaiter and up into a wool watch cap covering my ears. It is the last time I will sit in this little tower, and for some reason moments like this bring out the cowboy in me. More than a million men have rotated through this place since 2003, and all of them have had moments like this, but this little chunk is mine.
A blood red sky hold the setting sun, softening the harsh clay flat earth stretching to a blurred horizon. The guys are outside the wire and approaching the Iraqi manned gate, I pick up the binoculars and scan the area. Everybody looks relaxed, the same as the last six days. I rest one hand on the but of my rifle, the magazine well on my thigh and the barrel pointing down between my legs.
Half my brain directs my eyes scanning the far distance, then the gate, then the road. The other half looks back into the past. How many sunsets spent looking for an enemy that isn’t there. Quiet twilights, catching a moment of peace in a cruel world.
My soldiers are talking to the locals, catching a prohibited smoke. I scan the future. Another day closer to the big dream to the magic trip. Next to that trip this is a country club. Another drink of coffee finishes it up and I pour the next one from a green Stanley Aladdin Thermos, not hot, but warm enough.
A week ago the three of us came out to this detail as three soldiers from three different platoons, now we work smoothly as a team. For all the Active Duty bullshit all the stupid rules, we have grown to know each other quite well and that alone would be worth the duty.
The gate is closed and locked, my guys are walking back, and I trade the coffee cup for the binos. The Iraqis head back to town, the scene is deserted. Nothing but a departing car, I give it a few extra seconds of attention then trade up for the coffee.
The troops are back inside the wire, and I drain the cup, putting it back on the thermos. And begin to clean up the tower. The day is done, time to pack it in and go back to camp. It is getting dark and I need to turn everything in. Next week it is back to the road.

Paying taxes Pt 2

Day five we get our first briefing, including the uniform and no fun stuff orders. I ask for an SOP. They will ‘get one to me’. At least there is a vehicle antenna there for me to mount on the outside of the tower with zip ties.
We go about out business until around noon when the E-7 in charge comes down and hands me the SOP. After his departure I take a close look at it. It is over a year old and gets worse from there. We are to inspect every truck, patrol the Iraqi controlled area, and report all persons within 500m of our tower. With three guys in a tower. I pull out my pen and begin to make corrections. If it is physically impossible I line it out, poorly written I rewrite it to make it Barney simple. It takes ten minutes.
The SOP is a relic document, it refers to appendixes that are not attached the Rules of Engagement are from OIF 5 and it has been lightly edited and handed off between units for years. I have seen these before. It means lazy staff work on the part people who’s job it is to write these things. The trouble is that if I don’t do the impossible they can fry me for it.
I give the document back to the E-7 who happens to share the same last name with a cowardly deserter from OIF 1 who gained some little fame. I can see the confusion and anger in his face when a lowly sergeant hands his document back to him.
“How much longer are you out here?” He asks.
“Two more days.” I reply
“Good. I will get you a revised SOP when you go off shift.”
I smile and walk away. Well he told me to be a pain in the ass.
I get the new SOP as we go off shift and 20 minutes later an in front of Sergeant Major Poppa. Not standing at parade rest, but sitting on his desk as he reads the new SOP. Item Number 5 is my favorite, “Don’t allowed no one to park in road next to barriers.”
Does this mean I do allow everyone? Maybe I allow some people? Poppa takes his copy and tells me he will take it to the Sergeants Major meeting in the morning.
Day six I show up and receive a real SOP, from the SSG who works the early shift. He tells me that their SOP is under review by the commander, but this is the draft. It is clear and well written. I read it carefully and thank him, then hand it to SGT G3. On day two the Evil Mighty Mouse was replaced by PFC Stack, and the two of them head out to our ride. The SSG pulls me aside.
“Stop pissing people off.” He tells me.
I look at him, asses his posture and decide he deserves a little bit of the truth. He seems like a smart hard worker caught in a unit of fools.
“I am not doing this to piss people off. Normally our guys come out here, and things are fucked up, but they are only here for a week, so they suck it up and come back to the battalion and bitch. I am stop-loss’d when I get home I am done with the army. But I am too much of an NCO to let this pass. Things aren’t working out here, and you aren’t going to get the same three troops to stay out here. It has to be set up so that each group comes out, and everything is set up for them to do the job right. It wasn’t when I got here, but I will be damned if I am going to leave it broken.”
He gives me a strange look and shakes my hand as I leave. That day we get three pop inspections, that discover nothing wrong. They give us the cable so that we can call the command post. When chow shows up they even call and tell us.
Day 7 all the senior NCOs that I had issues with are in some form of training. I would later find that their Sergeant Major was more than a little embarrassed at their behavior.
My First Sergeant and Poppa tell me that night that I did a good job. Exactly what they wanted.
Back with my squad, and getting ready for the next trip out over the road I can’t help but think. These are the full time professional army, and they were phoning it in. Simple easy things were not done, basic soldier care was ignored. Easy holes in security were not plugged. I have sympathy to the enlisted soldiers stuck out there. That the NCO corps could let down their troops like that, is a shame. I hope I hear a loud ‘POP!’ tonight as they pull their head out of their ass.
I like it outside the wire, at least you know what expect, Hadji doesn’t like you, and every other guy out there has your back.

Paying taxes.

“What the fuck did I do? I have been a good kid, why the fuck?” I yelled at SFC Big Daddy.
By this time I had completely lost my military bearing. It started twenty minutes ago when I was informed that I would have to go on ‘Rock Detail’ the post extracts taxes like a feudal lord in the form of the labor of serfs. A week spent watching the Iraqi business that hauls away our large waste. Piles of scrap metal, broken appliances and other debris is sorted and removed from the post to enhance the local economy. This is also where the gravel that covers our base is hauled in. From the giant rock piles comes the detail’s name. Normally this duty comes with a negative counseling statement.
Big Daddy is laughing at me, SSG Moto is laughing behind him. The back of my mind tells me I am being unprofessional, I am not listening.
“Somebody has to of fucked up enough to warrant this. Now I am going to spend a week explaining to everyone that I haven’t done anything wrong.” I go on, so not amused by their laughter. I have done everything in my power to find some other guy to take the duty. This will be four troops down for my squad, it screws Moto.
“SGT Pinball, when you get out there, if they give you any problems give them my card.” Says the voice of doom from behind me. The First Sergeant pulls me over to talk to me about this detail. My fate is sealed, a week in purgatory.
I submit to my fate. The last thing the First Sergeant says to me is truly ominous.
“SGT Pinball, when you get out there I want you to be the biggest pain in the ass you can.” I give him a skeptical look and he smiles, “The active duty has been treating our guys badly and so when the Sergeant Major and I were looking for an NCO to be a pain in the ass yours was the first one that came up.”
Is this a compliment or an insult? I think about it, and in a moment of deep honesty I accept that when I want to be I can be a real pain in the ass, and generally don’t play well with the Big Army. I sulk back to my room and get ready for duty. I have to get up at 5am, normally go to sleep around 3am, this is not going to be fun.

At 0500 I slap my snooze control and roll back over, two more snoozes and I am fumbling in dark to put my gear on. SGT G3 and PFC Evil Mighty Mouse (Mighty Mouse’s evil twin) meet me at out ASV to drive out. It is cold, like high ‘20s cold. Then there is the wind. My mood does not want to improve. At the ECP CP (Entry Control Point Command Post) they tell me that they don’t have a computer for the briefing, and the radio is not available. Down by the tower they hand me Binos, and keys and point to the tower. A shipping container sized box 31 steps up in to the air.
The job is easy, unlock the Iraqi manned gate, then sit there and count the trucks coming in. We drop our helmets, sit in the lifeguard chairs and commence to bull shit. If they don’t want to tell us what to do, I will run this like the last check point I manned. In the middle of the desert, miles from the nearest US troops. At 1430 I wander down to inquire about lunch, that they were supposed to provide. It arrived at 1130 and no one told us. Maybe the 1SG was right, they are treating our troops like shit.
I had asked about radios a few times earlier, and the SSG in charge said it wouldn’t be held against me because they didn’t provide one.
The next day they give me a man pack radio that can reach about 200meters from inside the guard tower. The third day a sand storm picks up and we can’t talk to anyone. My professionalism is insulted. Why have an observation post when you can’t tell anyone what you observe. What if something happens when we climb down and unlock the gate 300m from the tower as the bullet flies and 500m as the grunt walks?
On the fourth day a SSG comes up and tells us to put our helmets on, there is no music, no reading and we have to wear protective goggles, gloves and helmets at all times. The big army officially pissed me off in the person of this diminutive female SSG. Game on.
I explain, that the radio doesn’t work, and how we need to fix it. Then explain that we received no briefing, there is no SOP, or standing orders on the post. She explains that one of my soldiers left a magazine in the latrine and I need to conduct a physical inventory of my troops.
I see the metal magazine, like every other magazine issued by the US Army.
“It isn’t one of ours.” I say, she looks disbelieving, “I have a saw gunner who doesn’t have any mags, and I only use P-mags.” I heft my rifle showing the plastic magazine, that doesn’t bend, pop rivets or let the follower jam. “The other M4 guy hasn’t been to your latrine.”
She insists on a physical inventory, that I conduct. Sure enough it isn’t one of ours. As she leaves I resolve that I will enjoy following the 1SG’s orders.