There Is Only One Thief In The Army...

Everyone else is just trying to get their stuff back. Or so the story goes. I've dealt with thievery in the army before, several times actually. I've always recovered my things, either through firmly stating my point of view, or wildly gesticulating and threatening strange and archaic methods of torture.

I suppose I should stop this blog to comment specifically to the Army readers out there. Often, I think, everyone suspects that this blog will be a light dose of the Army, a fairly anesthetized, orderly, friendly, and sometimes downright humorous look at life through camo colored glasses. This is no la vie en rose though, and tonight will perhaps set that more misanthropic perspective.

We have been quite busy with our MRE duties, and life within the company has experienced some recent shakeups as well. Today was no exception and after spending a very late night doing Army things (including the issuance of our J-List (chemical warfare uniforms)) I found myself awake bright and early for a convoy. Our mission? To recover our platoon toolkits from FOB Westbrook, meet up with IA (Iraqi Army, here played by US soldiers) Engineers, escort said IA Engineers to checkpoint Zulu, conduct reconnaissance of checkpoint Zulu, inform the IA Engineers on how best to move some structures from point A to point B, and then Charlie Mike (Continue Mission) back to our home away from home.

The mission was entirely successful, in fact, according the OCs (Observer Controllers - basically referees) they had never seen a more successful convoy or approach to convoy operations. They hit us with armed insurgents, UXOs (unexploded ordinance), IEDs, and a boggling map of our approved routes. We tackled and conquered each of these events with aplomb, and returned to our AO (Area of Operations) with a feeling of victory.

We arrived to some bustle of activity at the motorpool. Our convoy arrived. Another convoy was preparing to leave. We moved to our AAR (After Action Report) area a short distance from our trucks while the other convoy finished it's last minute PCCs and PCI (Pre-Combat Checks and Pre-Combat Inspections) and road out, and another group of soldiers forming another convoy fell in on the trucks we had just used. As we finished our AAR we fell back in on our trucks to remove our last items of equipment, sign over gear (gunner's restraint harnesses and pintle mount), and then go back to the barracks. There, my feeling of sunburned calm shattered.

I had lent my Garmin Foretrex 401(r) to my squad leader, the TC for my vehicle prior to the mission. I fixed the GPS unit to our radio mount, and we used it throughout the mission to call in 10-digit grid coordinates to our battalion for our reports. It worked flawlessly, and I've used it many times since coming out here. The Foretrex was a Christmas gift to me from my parents prior to the start of the mobilization. They had asked what I wanted for a gift, and the only thing that I could think of that I needed, and didn't just want, was the Foretrex. I can be a bit sentimental a times, and so I programmed the Foretrex with the coordinates for both my family's home and my girlfriend's home prior to leaving, so that I could always turn it on, and see an arrow pointing towards home or my heart at any time, anywhere.

When we returned to our truck (an HMMWV 1151) it was missing. I say missing here, to indicate that I didn't first think that there was anything malicious by it's absence. I quickly asked my squad leader if he had it, and then the members of our truck, and then the members of the convoy. Everyone knew what I was talking about, but no one had touched it. At this point, I realized that it wasn't missing. It was stolen. I wanted to stop the next convoy from rolling out, but missing an SP time is a cardinal sin in the army. Perhaps a greater sin than stealing from the people who for the next year will be watching your backs and making sure you come home safe to your loved ones. I'm also just a Specialist. I haven't the authority to stop a convoy rolling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to rant. Already, I could feel my vision narrowing to a blood-red circle. My blood seethed in my veins, and my heart hammered, and my knuckles cracked as I imagined the tattoo I would soon beat on the culprit's flesh. I have made my mistakes in life, but I have never been a thief. I would never steal from a battle buddy, break the Army Values in such a way, damage the very Warrior Ethos that defines us.

That was 6 hours ago, and through years of Law Enforcement experience in Chicago and in various other places around the country, I know that the chances of recovering my GPS from the Blue Falcon that took it from me, a Blue Falcon from my very own company, are slim and none.

These are the people I am going to go to war with, and right now I have more of a grudge against them than I do any Iraqi or Afghani. Thieves in the army. I want to weep for disbelief, and as the minutes pass into hours and the gift my family gave me remains stolen, the storm within me grows. Where is the camaraderie that I thought existed here. A new mantra forms in my mind the longer I wait, a mantra from the comic superheroes I read about growing up who defended good, defended the weak, defended the defenseless:

Come on God, answer me. For years now I've asked you, "Why are the innocent dead and the guilty alive? Where is Justice? Where is Punishment?" Or have you already answered? Have you already said, "Here is Justice. Here is Punishment." Here. In me.