Interlude

Unserviceable. This is the word that is given to pieces of military equipment after they've seen too much service.  It can be applied to helmets, vehicles, weapons, and even soldiers.

Right now, though, I am looking at my boots.  They wrap my feet securely, old friends and sometime enemies - they have been with me throughout my military career, through thick and thin, only rarely have I worn any other boot through my time in the army.

I can still remember the day that they were issued to me.  My group from the 88th Reception Battalion walked with jerky, frightened movements through the halls of reception, like cornered rats attempting to understand just what steps they'd taken to arrive in this confusing, scary maze; the realization slowly dawning on each of us that the steps to get here weren't as important as the fact that the only honorable exit was still months away at the earliest.

Plodding forward through the lines, our PT uniforms comfortably cool against bodies feverish from the multiple injections we'd received, we left the long hallway where motherly women had sized each of us up with sharp eyes and yelled loudly things like, "Medium - Regular!" and "Large - Long!" before throwing crisp, never unfolded stacks of uniforms at us.  There were protests, "But I need a large!" answered quickly, surly, with, "You'll lose weight, honey, everyone does."

Now we stood outside another door, careful not to block it, with our new sea-bags carefully pressed against the wall beside us.  Sea-bags.  I can't help but smile - the army insists on calling them duffle bags, but they will forever be sea-bags to me, having had my Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Michael Arp, beat the name into my 18 year old brain with his terrifying brand of instructional sarcasm shortly after some old shellback had given me the most painful, and closest haircut of my life, carefully tearing my earings out with fingers hard-calloused from years of putting knots in halyards on a ship captained, I strongly suspected, by John Paul Jones.  So sea-bags they will remain.

"Next ten recruits! Move!" came a voice from inside and we quickly moved through the door, counting off as we entered, to find outselves in yet another narrow hallway with some stairs leading up to a narrow platform with a bench on it.  "Put your duffle ("Sea-bag!" I shouted in my head) along the wall behind you, find a seat, take your shoes off,"explained one of the civilians standing in front of the bench.  Before we'd quite had time to take our shoes off a flurry of boots began flying towards us.  Using some system I've never quite understood the civilians were able to guess with nearly perfect accuracy our boot sizes, without, so it seemed, ever looking at our feet.

Ever the squeeky wheel, my boots didn't fit. One of the civilians came down the line, checking the fit, and when he got to me, he shook his head and asked, "What size boot do you think you wear?"  I told him that I usually bought size eleven shoes and boots.  A moment later we'd determined that those were a bad fit, too.  We tried ten and a half.  No go.  By now I was getting nervous - the idea is to get through everything as fast as humanly possible, and I was now wasting valuable hurry-up-and-wait time that I was certain would be made up later. (As it so happens, it took awhile for my make up appointment, and the meeting place was Kuwait, but I'm paying back the army in spades for the time I wasted during my boot fitting.)  He grabbed a ten and a half wide.  Close, but still not a good fit.  For the first time the civilian made eye contact with me, and before he could say anything, (which was probably going to be, "They're close enough - move!") I noticed, and commented, on a religious tattoo on his arm, as I have the same tattoo, but on my back.  He broke into a huge grin, and said, "Brother, I'm glad to meet you - let's find you a boot that fits." And that's the day that I met my very own pair of ten and a half wide boots, with an old-stock manufacturer's code now worn away, and a perfect fit.

We didn't like each other that much when we first met.  Righty enjoyed chewing on the back of my heel while I ran around reception, and Lefty had really stiff leather that made the front of the boot incredibly inflexible.  I looked at them several times over my remaining days in reception, wondering if the trick I'd used on my black leather boots would work on these desert tan rough-out boots.  Dunking them in scalding water and then hitting them with a brick.  Caution got the better of me, and I never tried it - I also couldn't find a brick.
One day while sitting in the reception hall my name was called out, along with a couple hundred others and told to remember that I was "Charlie Three Ten" because I'd be going to my basic training unit the next day.  My boots  were right there with me beneath that awning behind the reception hall when Drill Sergeants Dyon, Graff, and Dubose first looked over the line of soldiers I was standing in.  They sneered.  They jeered.  They snapped pictures of the soldiers who were clearly terrified.  My boots gripped the ground tightly, and if I had my doubts about what I'd gotten myself into, my boots were kind enough to carry me on to a bus marked "4th PLT."

Basic training is all about breaking in a civilian and turning them into a soldier.  The process takes anywhere from three weeks to the full ten before the civilian is erased, and the soldier remains.  Boots are made of weaker stuff, and I found that by the end of the first week any attitude that mine had given me was gone - these boots were well and truly broken.  My feet rejoiced, although Righty continued to work on giving me the callous from hell on my heel.  I still have that callous today.

My boots were there with me low-crawling through the tire pits.  My boots gripped warrior tower firmly as I ran up a wall to grab a rope and then climb to the top.  My boots dangled beneath me as a group of four of us jumped, climbed, pushed, and pulled each other to the top of a tower with platforms growing progressively larger the higher you went (meaning you had to lean back further into open space to jump and grab the next platform up.)  Every road march, my boots walked with me.  At Nick at Night my boots crawled their way through the puddles blooming all around in the torrential downpour; the toes of the boots dug deeply into the ground as I pushed myself slowly forward on my back beneath strands of barbed wire, tracers flying above me, and controlled explosions going off all around.  My boots, muddy, waterlogged things that hissed and gurgled water when I walked back to the bus that night after a 4th platoon victory in completing the obstacles first looked forward to the rewarded day off the next day as much as I did.

On our first ruck march when we were told quickly to go to ground and establish a perimeter my boots remained on the relatively dry shoulder of the road while the rest of me lay in choking weeds and briars.  The toes of my boot touched the toes of the boot of the female soldier laying prone next to me, crying, and nudged her for me when I silently handed her two advil and a pilferred cough drop and a smile that I hope said, "You'll be fine, we'll get through this together." When I pretended to be a Drill Sergeant on the last ruck march before graduation, yelling at soldiers to watch their intervals and close up gaps - yep, these boots were silently yelling at all the other boots, too.  When I sat with my back against my wall locker, reading my Dear John letter, my boots, half untied were still on my feet.  I kept her picture in my wall locker until the end of basic, the letter taped behind it.  Marching to the auditorium, voices loud, intervals good, every step planted firmly at the same time as every other soldier...left, right, left, right...these boots were with me when I walked across the stage and spied my family waiting in the audience, seeing for the first time their son the soldier.  They rejoiced when I took them to a professional shoe-shine guy at the St. Louis airport, and he made them look brand new.

They've been with me to my advanced training in Gulfport, Mississippi.  They went with me to the streets of New Orleans when my battle buddy's family said that they didn't care that Nola was well outside our allowed travel distance for Thanksgiving.  They travelled with me back to Fort Leonard Wood while I endured Battle Focus Training.  One weekend a month they sat silently, looking more and more worn, as the soldiers of the 485th watched another power point presentation.  In California, at my first Annual Training / Extended Combat Training they held up well, climbing to the top of that hill over and over again to hope for cellular reception, or watch the wild fires burn around us, and the ash blot out the sun.

At NTC they really began showing their age.  The soles were worn down, and they could no longer pass the pencil test.  Eyelets too worn began cutting through my boot laces at an unacceptable rate. Punishment no doubt for having to carry the extra weight of my new duties as a machine gunner in addition to the already heavy load of a team leader.  At RTC the first sign of a hole showed up on Left.  The triple-stitch seams on both the boots began to look like they were going to pop.

At our second mobilization center, down by Juarez, Righty formed a tear above the heel.
Boots on the ground in Iraq, the outside seams on Lefty and Righty gave up the ghost.  Over the months there, the hole on Lefty up by the pinky toe grew into a strange form of air conditioning - helped along by the corrosive agents in concrete.

Now I sit and look at my boots and can remember all of the good, and all of the bad, that they've been with me through.  So many adventures. My brother bought me new ones for my birthday three months ago, but I haven't received them yet.  I know I'll eventually end up wearing them when they get here...but these boots - my first boots - leaving them behind fills me with sadness.  But the army says they're worn out.  The soles are no good.  They have holes in them.  They're unserviceable.

Three months...what on earth has been going on here....

It's been awhile since I've been able to update this, and it pains me to realize just how many of my blogs have begun with sentences similar to this one.  The 1st of June was the last entry, and much has happened since then - I've been home to the States and even managed to be back here for awhile now.  Ah, June...it seems you were just a moment ago...

In June we found ourselves in Basra still - a detachment of a platoon, working hard to build some structures for some of the guys that inspired the movie "The Hurt Locker." The work was long, hot, arduous even.  There were  soldiers on site from generally, well, 24 hours a day.  There may have been a few hours that we let the tools cool down, took a break, stared up at the sky and wondered what sorts of strange things would fall from it that day - dust, rain, sand, or more sinister divine winds.

We made fun where we could, but mostly rejoiced in the little things.  Little things like our element had been dropped many miles from the rest of our entire chain of command and had, within a few days, acquired two humvees for our use, nearly unlimited Class 1 (gatorade, fatty cakes, soda), unlimited ice, contacts on post with contractors and other military capable of scrounging materials and supplies that we would need, as well as acquiring free wifi courtesy of the Iraqi IT guys.  We had become a self contained, self-sufficient, force unto ourselves.  And since we're lean, mean, building/fighting machines - we didn't even throw our shoulders out patting ourselves on the back.  As you've all been made well aware of in the past, mail was the one thing that we couldn't miracle to ourselves whenever we wanted - it became the only thing we relied on the company for with some few exceptions regarding building materials.

We worked our butts off to complete our projects on time, and along the way I was able to finally sit down and learn a thing or two about electricals, the strange things that are found everywhere, but when filtered into their concentrated form at the electrical distillery can power things like lights, laptops, and AC.  I might still have a few things to learn about them, but I can do the basic required things now, run wire, read a schematic and not be completely lost, wire up ballasts, switches, outlets, breaker boxes, and I even played around on the generator connection for awhile.  It made for longer hours on some days, but I came here to learn, and I'm happy that I'll come away from this deployment with a better, more well-rounded understanding of the Corps of Engineers.

I actually learned a lot while I was out there, and others learned a lot about me as well.  Some things that were learned:
When exhausted I suffer from vertigo.
I can lead soldiers unfamiliar with a power tool and/or concept of construction to successfully (and safely!) use the tool and complete their assigned tasks.
I can design and build my own things from scratch in an appropriate length of time.
the M249 SAW is a dust MAGNET.  Never have I witnessed a weapon get so dirty so fast with so little use.
My command (and mastery) of the English language, both for proper grammar and vocabulary suffers for every minute that I am around the Army.
I really miss working an Explosives Detection K-9.
I can make a really cool sniper screen for an RG-33+ MRAP.

Once we'd completed the project we waited with bated breath for the thank you that the Nighthawks had put together for the Destroyers of Hope.  We'd heard rumors of a BBQ, and a ceremony where we'd heard we might be awarded their unit patch because they were that thrilled with our work!  The day arrived, and the BBQ had to be moved to another day, but the awards ceremony went on almost as planned.  All of their brass was there, and we were profusely thanked for our work, and praised for the rapidity things were constructed as well as the attention to detail and high standards that we set for ourselves (and achieved) while maintaining the break-neck pace.  Each of us received a Certificate of Achievement and a challenge coin from the Nighthawks but sadly when it came time to receive the unit patch - quite an honor - we were told that our Company leadership had disapproved the idea, and refused to sign off on it.  Still, knowing that everywhere the Destroyers of Hope went the different units wanted us to wear their patch during this deployment is high praise and speaks well of us.

We looked forward to a few days of rest before heading back to rejoin the main body of our company, and to the rescheduled BBQ!  Sadly we were informed that a decision had come down from Company level to hurry us home now that our task was completely, and we were unable to make the BBQ.  Instead, we prepared for the final patrol home - as it would turn out - our final patrol in Iraq.

On the way to Basra my sun-shade had decided it no longer wanted to be attached to my turret, and had blown away, so it fell to me to to create a replacement.  I borrowed some 550 cord, and found some camo netting that the Brits had abandoned when they left our little base some time before.  After securing some zip-ties, I was ready to get to building!  Once I was finished, I felt like I had a tree house.  I was giddy as a kid who had just finished his first tree fort.  Unlike that little child from my past though, my tree fort had a 7.62 machine gun in it :-D happy days!



I think that I broke everything down pretty well in the video - night vision, sniper screen/canopy, machine gun, good times!  And I was loaded for bear...nearly 600 rounds linked for the M240b, and then a pork chop in my itty bitty SAW in reserve, and then another 1000 rounds boxed for the two down below.  The convoy home was uneventful, though I did discover that Night Vision goggled for prolonged periods of time really gives you a headache.

Life back at our main base was trying.  I've already written to the Pope to see about having most of 3rd Platoon sainted for putting up with the sheer, unadulterated stupidity that ruled the day down by the shipping conexes.  Inventory, as I've discovered, is my least favorite task in the Army.  I've talked with enough people in enough units to realize that although inventory is dreaded everywhere, many other platoons, and companies, have streamlined the process.  Marking boxes in ways so as to know if they've been opened since the last inventory, thus ensuring that only the security bands/padlocks need to be checked to know everything is there, rather than dumping out the entire box.  Establishing clear labeling systems to ensure that people know which box is theirs.  Creating positive control over ownership of items, as well as keeping current inventory sheets on-hand so that if it looks like something is missing, you can check.  I digress.  But know this gentle reader - 3rd Platoon has grown weary of inventory, and doing it over, and over, and over, and over again as new information is put out, procedures are discovered to be wrong, paperwork is discovered to be outdated, box ownership is disputed.  Inventory is truly an invention of a diabolical being, and for some people, may be proof enough for the existence of the Devil.

Once the inventory was completed I discovered that my leave date had just about arrived - it was time to go home for a couple of weeks!  I packed up what I thought I'd need - travel light, it helps you get an earlier flight out of Atalanta back to Chicago - and began the exhausting trip home.  First a flight from our base down to Ali, then a two hour bus trip to AJ.  Some down time.  Then a two hour bus trip back to Ali.  Down time.  A two hour trip to Kuwait International.  Load up.  A few hours to Germany.  A few hours in Germany.  A bunch of hours from Germany to Atlanta!  And then the hurry up and wait of going through customs (which you go through while you're still overseas to hurry up the process at home) and then being told when to come back, that you should come back, that you really, actually, MUST come back when your two weeks is up!  Then the mad dash to the United terminal to try to get an earlier flight.  Then the sad discovery that all of the earlier flights are completely full, and that we're all just out of luck on that.  More waiting.  More waiting.  Finally a plane to Chicago!

Leave....leave is a story of it's own, with it's own triumphs and tribulations, and it will be a story for another day.

Ah the First Amendment....

Where does one begin when it has been so long since the last entry, and so much has happened?  There have been so many reasons - so many excuses - to keep from writing more on this blog.  The largest reason - at least up until a couple of weeks ago was the lack of a computer.

I suppose I'll begin there, it's as good a place to start this tale as any other.

One evening after another hard day of work, shortly before light's out (for many of us at that time light's out was around midnight) a group of us were told that we would be returning to our home COB to undergo a recertification as Combat Lifesavers the following morning.  For those of you unfamiliar with Combat Lifesavers, they come in a roll like normal lifesavers, but you can't buy them in a vending machine.  They're flavored to taste like grime, dirt, and blood.  Really.

Can't put one past you all, can I?  Combat Lifesavers - or CLS - are soldiers who have undergone training to act as on the ground medic support.  Generally there are a few CLS per squad, at least one per fire team, and they get the added bonus of carrying more gear.  Picture a bag that can be worn as a satchel, a fanny pack, or attached to your IOTV or IBA that is loaded with lifesaving goodies like chest-needle decompression kits, combat gauze, Israeli bandages, hyflin chest seals, NPAs (nasopharangeal airways), atropine (wooo!), band aids, EMT shears, etc.  If you're really interested to see what goes into one you can look (or buy) your own at North-American Rescue.  NAR is one of the finest producers of combat casualty care prodcuts in the world, and before the Army decided to get all high-speed and issue us the good stuff I spent a small fortune buying all of my own from them.

Those of us going hurriedly packed up what gear we felt we'd need.  Simple stuff really - one assault pack full of toiletry items, a book, pogie-bait.  One IOTV with all the essentials - combat load of ammunition (hooray for being an Automatic Rifleman!) combat gloves, ear-pro and eye-pro, balaclava, ranger rag, or kuffiyah depending on preference, ACH, and the every popular ACS (Army Combat Shirt.)  From then it was an early morning trip to the PAX (personnel) terminal to see if we could get Space A transit to where we were going.  For those of you unfamiliar with Space A it is a genius program if you have a lot of time on your hands.  Space A is a program that the military has anywhere that the military is.  Essentially if you want to go somewhere you ask when the next flight out to that location is, and if they are fully loaded or not.  If this answer is "Yes, we have a bird or a duckaduck going to that place, and no, it isn't fully loaded" your name gets added to a list.  Come the time of the flight if it still isn't fully loaded, they let you hop on, cram yourself in between equipment, and go where you need to.  Back home this service costs between $10-$100 depending on where in the world you want to go.  A flight to Europe for $100?  Brilliant!  But what if the flight is fully loaded?  Then you wait.  I'm stamping my foot against the floor right now - this informaion is important - you will see it again!

At the PAX terminal we were lucky enough to get a flight within 8 hours, hopped on a bus that took us to the landing pad, and then began to stand around idly, baking on the tarmac and thinking, "Gosh, when those guys at the PAX terminal said "bring water with you" they weren't joking."  Eventually we saw the helicopters come flying in, fast and low, before landing.  It was at this point in time that a slew of Nissan trucks arrived carrying with them Captains, Majors, and light Colonels all too happy to bump people waiting all day off of their flights.  Rank hath it's privileges.  We very nearly got bumped off too, but luckily our Chief was with us, and the 100 miles a month he likes to run in the desert heat has turned him from a scary man when we first met him into a downright terrifying persona when someone he outranks says that he might not get what he wants.  We kept our spots on the flight.  For me it was my first time on a military helicopter - a CH-47 Chinook.  I was very excited!  I was also dripping with sweat and just wanted to get the flight over with.  I was lucky enough to get a seat right near the ramp beneath the rear rotor and was pleasantly surprised at how much room I seemed to have.  After all, the bird was fully booked - no elbow room but I could stretch my legs.
At this point int he story I realized another benefit to having an 'O' before the number of your pay grade.  You can pretty much bring what you want with you places, or have other people bring things for you.  A group of soldiers drove a truck up to the back of the Chinook and began to struggle beneath the weight of a large number of very heavy boxes - all maked USPS ATTN to a certain LT that wasn't even on the flight.  It was his mail.  Apparently he likes to lift weights, and had a professional gym boxed and shipped to him.  The entire gym.  Walls and everything.  There may have been a swimming pool in one of these boxes.  My elbow room disappeared before this, but now my leg room decided to go the way of the dodo as well.  Ah...you see that there?  That's the Suck.  Embrace it.  Love it. It loves you.

The flight crew did their thing as the rotors began to wind.  People are always writing that the rotors 'wind' up, but really the sound is more of a high pitched howl - like a Banshee announcing that it's time for another pair of smiling Irish eyes to shut eternally.  At this point I was aurally reminded that I'm Irish.  Rats.  So the rotors began to wail (much better adjective!) and the coptor began to do it's side job as filling checker for the Army Dentists.  Lucky for me I have no cavities, as there would have been nerves-a-dangling in my mouth had I!  As the copter lifts off the crew does it's best to scare you by shining lights into all of the little dark corners that grease and oil go into and disconcertingly drip out of while in flight.  One would shine a light - another would look at where the light was shining - both would shrug as if to say "Oh, well", and then move on to the next dark spot.  Once we were already well on our way in the air and they'd decided that the machine was in fact safe to fly one of the crew members inched his way to the very edge of the ramp, set up a seat on the ramp deck, and buckled in behind a machine gun for the trip.

The country is surprisingly serene from above, the rivers are bright blue bands curving across the desert plains, and the sand itself moves in shimmering waves, rising and falling with the wind like a parody of the tides.  Herds of camels move below, and bedouins standing like silent sentinels don't even look up, so used to the helicopters they've become.  The heat is incredible, and the furnace like blasts of air that enter through the open ramp actually help cool us down.  As my initial excitement dwindles, and the uncomfortability of the flight settles in, I do what I do when I realize that I have little or no bearing on the outcome of a journey, and that the more I think about my tingling limbs cut off from blood from the armor and the gym set resting on my legs the less comfortable I will be; I sleep.  I woke up as we touched down, but this was no gentle kiss.  The suspension on these things must be incredible!  We hauled balls off the chopper and then proceeded to hump the mile or so back to our CHUs.

It was good to be 'home.' I hadn't seen any of my creature comforts (TV, refridgerator, DVD collection) in a really long time.  The room was full of sand, a testament to the sand storms that periodically roll through, and I spent my first bit of free time taking the carpets outside and shaking them, then sweeping the floor and putting more water in the fridge.  Our class wouldn't be for a couple of days yet.

It was at this point that I realized a very sad thing.  My CHU there has a dedicated ethernet cable which provides somewhat high speed internet (128kb/s for $90 a month) and I was ecstatic that I'd have good internet to finally be able to see my girlfriend and family on skype.  Ah dreams, so easily made, and so easily shattered.  My laptop did not, alas, survive the helicopter trip.  With great haste I grabbed my Eagle Cash Card (the new military way of paying for anything and everything), my SAW, a high visibility PT belt, and some eye-pro to protect against the rising sand storm - then I went to the PX to buy a new laptop.
The PX at that particular COB is pretty vast, it has a section for books, for cards, for bedding, for geardo stuff, electronics, movies, music, groceries - you can even by a bicycle!  I went into the electronics section, found an AAFES employee and proud as the peacock on my arm I declared, "I am here to buy a new laptop, today.  Right now."  His eyes lit up and he proceeded to explain to me that they had netbooks in stock, but actual laptops - real computers - could only be special ordered and would take three weeks to a month to arrive.  Dejected, and more than a little angry, I went back to the CHU, a stuffed crust pepperoni lovers pizza and a Code Red Mountain Dew my consolation purchase.

The class date arrived soon after, and though there was a lot of confusion about where it was, and where we were supposed to have met for it, we made it!  Our instructor was, and I'm sure still is, a riot.  He'd been awake for nearly a day and a half recertifying soldiers in CLS, and his lack of sleep and slaphappy attitude combined with his uncompromised knowledge of the subject made the class entertaining and informative.  Not to toot my own horn, but my CLS knowledge remains par-excellence as always. Call me recertified and I'd tell you that you're right, but I still prefer you use my name.

Torpor is not a word that I often get a chance to use, but it perfectly describes our life after the class for about a week.  We showed up at the PAX terminal to arrange for a flight out of there after the class, and the following morning - bright and VERY early, we were there.  We waited.  We waited some more.  We waited a little longer.  Then we were told to come back that night and try again.  That night, we were told to come back the next morning and try again.  The next morning, we were told to come back that night and try again.  Do you see the pattern here?

One day we very nearly did catch a flight out of there!  It was glorious!  Remember earlier when I was stamping my foot against the floor? I hope you were paying attention! The copter had landed, we were all standing there on the tarmac sweating profusely (we were all bringing back LOADS more gear than we arrived with - mostly extra clothing but I was also hauling my DVD library with me.)  Then the copter was grounded for weather.  We decided to wait it out and about 12 hours later it looked like we would indeed be leaving!

And we would have, too, if it weren't for the Colonel.  I'm not sure who he was to this day, other than to say he made a lot more money than I do, but he apparently wanted to get food from a DFAC on a different base.  As he's a Colonel he has the power to just take a flight, and politely tell everyone else that was supposed to be on it to bugger off.  A few days later we were finally able to arrange trans via an Air Force C-130.  It was a VERY quick flight, and it felt excellent to be back at our home away from home away from home.

Since then we've been busy - some soldiers have gone on leave, of which I am very envious.  We hear from them every few days, and it sounds good to be in CONUS.  The rest of us, well, we exist.  There's the normal joking around, and sometime seriousness.  There's the good (the PX has laptops!)and the bad (the internet is terrible).  Mail still arrives here about twice a month, the food here is good, most everyone is knocking their PT tests out of the park.  We're actually pretty happy most of the time.  The negatives mostly consist of censorship.  It's something that every soldier since the creation of a postal service and written language has had to deal with, but we're strongly encouraged not to do what soldiers do through any medium of communication.  Spill state secrets?  No.  Divulge classified information?  No. Gripe? Yes.  When I write that we're not being strongly encouraged to do things, and then say that State secrets and classified information aren't on the list - I don't mean to imply that they arne't on a list of things we can't do - they're at the top of the list of things not to do, and every soldier knows that, and doesn't put the lives of their comrades-in-arms in danger by doing so.  We're just being closely monitored to keep the griping to a minumum. Or Else.

That in itself is not a gripe on my part, for those in my chain reading this.  As you've probably noticed if you've been reading this blog over the last...three years is it? I generally take a very humorous approach to things in the Army.  There is laughter and enjoyment to be found everywhere!  Nor do I point out what went wrong and why (often) or offer my suggestions for improvement on the internet.  As I recently discovered, even when I offer my suggestions for improvement in what I thought were private onversations with authority figures in the unit, I can and will still be thrown under the bus.  So I'm done with that, too.  Now, going forward, I will follow THE LAW of the the Armed Forces:

Thou Shalt Be At The Right Place; At The Right Time; In the Right Uniform.

Do that, and pretty much the military can't touch you.  And if they do try to touch you - especiall in that stranger danger kind of way (BOHICA) there is always your EO, AG, or I can put you in touch with a Lieutenant with another company who has access to an entire gym, with swimming pool, so you can work out and get like Chuck Norris.  And no one messes with Chuck Norris.

Deals gone bad...

Is one of my favorite bands to listen to here.  Ska and Reggae served up Chicago-style, I mean, what's not to like?  Many the long day have they gotten me through with tracks like, "City, City" (about Chicago) and " Things are Going to Get Better (about...Iraq?).  Best of all is that not only do they make me happy, but they help make my battle buddies happy.  Case in point:

The other day we had another concrete pour ("Another!"  you exclaim.  "Yes, another.") and due to an increased threat to the COB from IDF we had all of our battle rattle out there with us, including three MRAPs providing overwatch.  As it so happens, my MRAP was very very very very far inside the wire (and essentially just sitting there looking good) so after about 10 hours of sitting behind my m240B I decided it was time...time for Deals Gone Bad...time to...skank!

Skanking, for those of you unfamiliar with ska-punk rockers, is a type of dance step somewhat comical to watch only one person do, by themselves, especially when the music that they're listening to is sooooo quiet that only they can hear it.  After skanking-out to Deals Gone Bad for awhile, it was time to listen to some electronic music (Scooter to the rescue!) and during one of his many fantastic songs (The Neverending Story) I decided that even though I'm not Italian, it was time to beat the beat.  Yes, there are pictures.  No, you may not see them.  And yes, the rumours are true, I was wearing a military Shemmagh (or kuffiyah for you purists about names) while I did my dance.

There are some lessons to be learned from this.  Metabolism boosting pills give you too much energy.  Lack of good sleep makes you slap-happy.  Lack of eating (no one here is hungry, because of the heat) combined with metabolism boosting pills gives you CRAZY energy!  Drink water!

What are my requests of you, the reader?  Send me some other albums by Deals Gone Bad.  I sadly only have "The Ramblers"  by them, and some of the songs from their other albums are stuck on repeat in my head, and the only way to get them out is to listen to them in their entirety.  Other than that, things here are okay - the occasional IDF, but generally good.  The full moon took place the other night, and it was beautiful!  I've also finished every movie and book I brought out here.  For those of you looking for a good book to read, I can't recommend The Club Dumas enough!  It only took me a day, it's about 400 pages, and it is a real page turner! Three Musketeers references!  Devil Worship! The femme fatale!  Old books! Europe! What can I say, it has everything.

The mail has also been getting through somewhat more quickly, which has all of us in higher spirits than before. Thank you postmaster general, thank you SPC Felda, and thank you SGT Evans.

The Postmaster General

You find yourself doing things that you'd never expect to in the Army.  I think that it's even in the commercials.  One thing that I didn't see myself ever doing though was calling the Postmaster General to lodge a complaint against my unit.

"Hold on!" you say.  "You did what? What about chain of command?"  Well, gentle readers, I'm stuck many miles away from my unit, and I'm sure you remember how mail was becoming a big issue for many of us here.  I'd been told by some of the soldiers back at our home base that the mail was piling up for me at the battalion mail room, and that I needed to pick it up.  Fat chance of that being as far from there as I am right now, but some of the soldiers here went through this same problem when we were at a different outpost some weeks ago.  It was rectified by a company mail clerk going to the battalion mail room, signing a little pink slip of paper saying that the soldier was currently on operations elsewhere, and the mail clerk would sign for, and deliver the package.

Fast forward to this morning when more mail was brought down to us.  I received a letter from my girlfriend with replacement pictures of her and I on New Years (the wind ripped my last picture of us out of my turret a few weeks ago) - which really made the day better.  When I asked where my boxes were, I was informed that the designated company mail clerk (as opposed to platoon level) had stated that he wasn't going to walk the 200 meters from his office to the battalion mail room to sign the pink piece of paper.  Wrong answer so far as I'm concerned, and after doing an informal survey of the other soldiers stuck here who are also waiting on packages that they KNOW are there (it doesn't take a month to receive mail, after all, usually just about seven days) - they agree that it's just plain wrong.  After doing some research online about mail delivery to soldiers, it turns out that it's criminal, too.

I spoke with my chain of command here about it, and it was dismissed as being not their problem.  That's a wrong answer on their part, and so I took it to the next higher authority I have access to - the Postmaster General.  It was a nice woman that I spoke with, and very helpful.  Really all they need is the APO number - and if any of you at home are concerned that your troops aren't receiving their mail, or have heard of similar problems, I encourage you to lodge your own complaints.  The number for the Postmaster is 1-800-275-8777 and our APO is APO/AE 09331.  They'll direct you to the military mail issues desk, which is another number, 1-800-810-6098.  They're all very helpful.


I've also been working on a ballad for the Destroyers of Hope.  It's set to the tune of "Haul Away Joe" which is an old sea chanty from way back when.  I haven't figured out how to do a verse about the mail yet, but the idea of the song is to sing about hopes that get destroyed in the military.  Not neccessarily all of them are personal experiences, but they're common themes in the army.  Here's the rough:

"Destroy our hopes!"
The lads cried out
"We find we have too many."
The officers, they did oblige
And gave us bullsh*t plenty.

Refrain:
We'll never break
One hundred days too many
We'll never stop
We'll always go.

When I was a little man
I dreamed I'd be a soldier
Then I became an army man
and discovered imperfection.

Refrain

I left behind my darling bride
In life there was no better
Then one day to my surprise
She sent to me a letter.

Refrain

"Dear John," she wrote, "I loved you so

and that's all i think that I'll put up here so far - it's a work in progress, obviously.

Other than that, we're running as close to on schedule with our projects as we can (our work depends on another unit, which are moving at decent pace, and doing a good job when they aren't rushed) and we're all discovering that we didn't bring enough clean uniforms with us when we came out here.  We all thought we'd be going back to our homebase in a few days, but we've had out work here extended.  More later, as I'm typing on a borrowed computer because a fraternity took over our MWR.

The smallest enemy...

My laptop screen is one of their favorite places to congregate – it’s warm electric glow draws them, and here they dance, and move around, and make me think that I’ve misspelled words when in fact it is just a gossamer wing distorting the letters.  The laptop power supply delights them for the warmth it puts out, and the bag of what passes for salt & vinegar potato chips in this country has become a new sort of colony for flies – a ready made cavern stocked with food for whole generations of fly families!  I’ve often wondered if there may not be some way to attach little cleaning brushes to the legs of flies; you see, they are fascinated with my M249 which collects dust and dirt and like a deranged magnet.

My food, however, remains the ultimate temptation for these disease-ridden beasties.  The older flies are content to simply light upon it for a moment, take what they want, and fly off quickly.  I can only hope that the mashed potatoes here have the same effect on them as they do on me.  The young flies though, the daredevils, the red barons of the fly air force, they will zoom in – droning closer at what must be nearly mach 5, their deadly buzz filling the air as they swoop down onto my fork, sampling my meal even as my teeth snap shut; they escape from my maw like the Millennium Falcon escaping from the exogorth after the Battle of Hoth.  Some of them will fly into my hair to harass me, and still others actually feel that my eyes make the best perches…truly an irritating creature.

I have made a hobby of slaying these foul things whenever I am in a position to do so. My fly-kata is an ancient martial form which most closely resembles the crazy gesticulations of a drunk ,streetcorner doomsday prophet.  My patrol cap is my most trusted weapon in my one man fight against this horde, and though I have yet to rival the Brave Little Tailor of Grimm’s fame, someday I, too, will slay seven with one blow. Though let it be known, I have no compulsions to slay giants, trick unicorns, or capture boars – and I already have my princess.

Good News!

Today we woke up bright and early to prepare for tonight's concrete pour.  While we were preparing the tools we'd need for another successful pour we received a message saying that some of our company leadership were coming out here...and bringing mail!

We were all dismissed for lunch but chose to wait for the convoy to arrive so that we could see if any of received anything.  We didn't have long to wait before a line of MRAPs arrived along with a tractor pulling a trailer with a skreeter (sp?) for our concrete.  On the back of the trailer was a large container, which we were told had all of our mail.  Some of the troops had as many as four packages waiting for them, and then there was a large bag of letters and post cards, as well!

I was very happy to receive two packages, two post cards, and one letter.  The first package was from my girlfriend who very thoughtfully sent me some detergent to wash my uniforms in.  It's odd that detergent isn't one of the things that you can buy at most of the AAFES PXs that we've encountered during our stay in this country. She also sent me some correspondence, which I've already read and re-read.  The other package was from a retired Marine Captain which contains some really useful information for our stay over here, and I'm very excited to go through it all - thank you, Davis!  My friend Melissa sent me two postcards with scenes from Florida on them - it's hard to imagine so much green vegetation and water in any one place after being here for a few months.  I also received a letter from a family friend offering well-wishes and prayers, and it was wonderful to receive it - my thanks to all of the Roeder family back home; just seeing the name on the return address before opening it brought back all sorts of fond memories of service projects with Bubba, and days spent at youth group with Maggie and Eileen.

I've heard through little birds that our CO has been working days on end often without sleep  making sure that all of us are taken care of, and that the SSI-FWTS patches are a priority.  It probably isn't something that he hears enough of, but thank you for doing your best to take care of us all, Sir.  When you showed me the tattoo on your bicep of your rank as an NCO before going mustang and said that it was a reminder to never forget where you were before going green to gold, that meant a lot to me, and we're lucky to have an officer of your caliber.

It was a huge morale boost to receive mail after weeks without, and though we're all a bit skeptical of pouring concrete on ground that isn't yet totally dry tonight, we're all in much higher hopes than we were.

On separate note on this blog, I've now enabled comments from people who don't have google or Open ID accounts - I figure this is a much better way to hear from more of you.  More later, as always.