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.