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.