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.