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.

Bring on the heat!

Second Squad, Jackals, have been working on the night shift for nearly two weeks and today is our first day back on the day shift, but I have a few minutes on break to update this, and rant just a little bit. It is really hot working days. REALLY HOT. And this isn't as bad as it's going to get! Drink water!

It has certainly been an interesting time away from the rest of the company, as this element of 3rd herd has been. Interesting good in many ways, interesting bad in a few. First the good of being not quite a full strength platoon far away from the rest of the flock: There is far greater freedom to get the job done without the tedium of just being another duck in the gaggle. Too often there are communication issues that effect everyone's morale back in the gaggle. Here, our Platoon Leader sees each of us every day, as does our Platoon Sergeant, and our Warrant Officer so information flows much better both up and down the chain and if there is some confusion about something it can be remedied pretty quickly. The other good things are the ability to get up, work on the project, finish the days work (anywhere from 10-15 hours generally), talk with family and friends online, sleep, and do it all over again. Most of us on the night crew only have one real meal a day (by choice, kind of) and snack through the rest of the day - we've all lost weight, but I think in good ways as our teamwork, safety, and speed have all grown. Being separated and learning to rely on each other as a nuclear (squad level) family, and extended (platoon element) family have really helped our cohesiveness. We'll come back stronger and more focused on success than we were before we left on this mission.

The bad is mostly that we get left out of things. Fun things. The members of our platoon who stayed at our home station in Iraq have had some days off and had time to have a barbecue! I would love to have a burger or brat cooked on a grill! They also get their mail. It'll be far too long for those of us here since last we received a letter or a package and I'll say it; it's because of poor communication at a higher level. We've had members of the company come and visit us, and members of the battalion above us, too, but no one has thought to bring everyone's mail with them. Even sailors in the middle of the ocean get their mail. I digress.

We've felt a little cut-off from whatever it is that goes on back at our home station - what the other platoons are up to, what the company is up to, what the battalion is up to. That may just be the nature of the beast as far as lower enlisted go, but we're all a bit more used to knowing what is going on so far as the bigger picture is concerned. Communication here specifically is still very good.

Next, and I'm certain that I'm just upsetting the world, or at least my own portion of it, with all of this, but according to Ar670-1 Chapter 28-17, pg. 246 and Appendix F, pg. 336:

28-17. Shoulder sleeve insignia-former wartime service (SSI-FWTS)
a. General. Authorization to wear a shoulder sleeve insignia indicating former wartime service applies only to soldiers who are assigned to U.S. Army units that meet all the following criteria. Soldiers who were prior members of other Services that participated in operations that would otherwise meet the criteria below are not authorized to wear the SSI-FWTS. Wear is reserved for individuals who were members of U.S. Army units during the operations.

(1) The Secretary of the Army or higher must declare as a hostile environment the theater or area of operation to which the unit is assigned, or Congress must pass a Declaration of War.

(2) The units must have actively participated in, or supported ground combat operations against hostile forces in which they were exposed to the threat of enemy action or fire, either directly or indirectly.

(3) The military operation normally must have lasted for a period of thirty (30) days or longer. An exception may be made when U.S. Army forces are engaged with a hostile force for a shorter period of time, when they meet all other criteria, and a recommendation from the general or flag officer in command is forwarded to the Chief of Staff, Army.

So as you can see just from the army publication, we've earned our SSI-FWTS, we've been in theater over 30 days. Those of you checking facebook have certainly noticed that in our pictures we all still look like cherries (new guys), and it's pretty disappointing that we're here, we've served the time, and we've yet to be awarded them. There certainly exists some confusion about which patch we're supposed to be wearing on the right shoulder, but rather than launch into the 4 patches that I believe we will be authorized (5 if you're members of one of the platoons that had a man with stars on his hat sign off on it) I'll let people who make more money than I do explain it.

I don't mean this to be a gripe session (and no, I'm not done yet) but as good as things are where we are, as far as creature comforts go (our TV, our DVD player, our refrigerator, more than two uniforms and a week of underwear) we don't really have much out here. The cellular service isn't very good, and the internet is expensive (no real surprise there) and the free net that we've found in the MWR is only fast if there are less than five people using it, or less than two if Avalos is using it. Is it really that much to ask that our mail be forwarded to us, or that our SSI-FWTS (combat patches) be awarded to us? There might not be other people voicing it so loudly as I am, but it is on everyone's mind, and a lot of the soldiers have already secured the patches that we understand we should be able to wear just waiting for that day that someone says, "oh, yeah, you can wear those."

This brings me to the things soldiers do when their company doesn't have a motto: unofficial mottoes happen. Soldiers are taught from day 1 of basic training to adapt and overcome, and the members of 3rd Platoon did. Other companies that we've trained alongside have been, "Fight to Win," or "Sapper's Forward," or "Out Front!" I've suggested some mottoes in the past (Gloire et Victoire - Glory and Victory(other troops have suggested "Strength and Honor")) and things like that, but they were nixed by our former commander. In the absence of something tangible, (unofficially) we've become 485th Engineers: Destroyers of Hope. I'll let you work out the meaning, but there are plenty of people who will end up with 'Destroyers of Hope' tattoos on their leave, and it's amusing to see D.O.H. show up on facebook walls. It's actually become a phrase that we all bond over, and I think that actually makes it a really positive thing :-)

The last gripe is that the horizontal company who came out here seems to think that 'Vertical' (that's us) also means horizontal. I don't grade surfaces, I don't dig holes for people who half-ass their jobs, and I wish that they'd step things up so that we can get to our project already, and then maybe we can back to where we came from, rejoin the gaggle, and read our mail. I think that there may be some SSI-FWTS patches in mine.

Chicago weather...in Iraq.

I woke up this afternoon – I work night shift now, so the afternoon is my morning, no slackers here! – and when I walked outside I was immediately struck by the feeling that I wasn’t in Iraq, but rather I was in some strange place in Chicago. It’s humid here today, and overcast, and it feels like a perfect day for a motorcycle ride down Lakeshore Drive, stopping at North Ave. beach, and eating some cold chicken while drinking a beer and letting the waves lap at my feet.

It’s odd how just the scent of the weather can instantly transport you thousands of miles to the West, back to home, to the people and experiences that you love, and miss. Sometimes what I think about is what my favorite things were to do, but most often now I think about how I’d like to spend the summer with my girlfriend. Motorcycle rides are great, but without someone to share them with, they can be lonely. Cold chicken and beer by the lake? Fun, but without that someone to eat with, and play in the surf…again, just a little lonely. Have you ever run around in Lake Michigan with your jeans rolled up and all your gadgetry stuffed in a sock in your motorcycle boot (or shoe) and then sprawled lazily on the beach talking about everything and nothing at all waiting for your jeans to dry? These are all much better things to do with your one and only.

I’ve heard nothing but bad things about Iraqi summers – that by noon the tools are so hot that you can cook on them – that the air which already is dry enough to make my nose bleed will only get more dry as the heat rises, so today is a really nice respite before the summer truly hits us! Today, regardless of whatever our mission is (probably building more walls in the dfac) I know that my mind will be on the beach, with my bike, a picnic and my girlfriend all thanks to this Chicago weather in Iraq.

On the road...

It has been some time since I’ve had the leisure to sit down and put my thoughts on electronic paper; and sadly that seems to be a recurring theme with this blog. I suppose that originally I’d thought that it would be an easy enough thing to do a few times a week, but I was sorely mistaken, never anticipating the length of the days here, or the rapidity with which our schedules fill. So I will make my best attempt to do better, to update this more frequently, and to let my words flow, and paint pictures rather than just inform.

I, with my brothers in arms, have completed five combat patrols now, which is apparently what our convoys are technically classified as. My primary mission on these is rear security for the convoy as a gunner, though I’ve proven adept as a TC on one of the patrols as well.

Today we began a new mission. We were told that we would engage in a patrol to another Combat Operating Base where we would then complete three different construction missions and we were all exhausted before we began.

Our mission preparation day was a confusing jumble of orders and playing catch up, which quickly raises the tempers of the squad leaders, which in turn raises the ire of the squad members. What could be a relatively stress-free enterprise turns into a titanic effort to just maintain focus. So often in the Army, we hurry up and wait – but with a mission along routes we have never travelled to a place we’ve never been looming inexorably over us – only hours away – there is no time, and no patience for hurry up and wait. Everything should run like a well oiled machine gun – every piece a part of the whole, and the whole a perfect example of grace, form, and function – but instead we move from place to place like the Bedouins of the desert as we search for just where exactly the meeting that was supposed to be at 1230 in one location is really taking place while the mission essentials we all crave to complete remain unfinished, and the hours grow short.

Somehow, more or less, everything is completed. Understanding NCOs do what they can to help us prepare; brand new ammunition is issued, CLP is acquired, parts that maintenance insists they don’t have are found by scroungers returning with sparkling eyes and just audible whispers about dumpster diving gliding across their lips. The weapons are oiled, and the trucks stocked with what we need. Ammunition. Gatorade. Ice. Water. Brand new CLS kits put together by our new medic with supplies from North American Rescue. I mention the company name only because about a year ago I augmented my own CLS bag with all new supplies from NAR because I was of the firm opinion that the military would never issue their fantastic first aid supplies. It took a year, but I’ve been proven wrong and whatever smart mind it was that ordered the supplies, my hat is off to you. Where was I? Ah! Mission essentials! Beef jerky, which is always in high demand. Gummy candy. Banana-nut muffins brought from the DFAC. Gum. Home-made cookies (thanks mom!). And for Sgt. Mc, an entire cooler of Mountain Dew.

Some weeks ago we realized that members of 2nd Squad (Jackals!) had birthdays. I’m quite certain that their parents, relatives, and loved ones had known of these annual events for some time, but we sometimes lose track of the human element of being a soldier – especially in the Reserves where we ordinarily see each other once a month. Birthdays are things just not often talked about. SPC Ellerbrock was the first to have a birthday over here, followed by PFC Pulliam and then SPC Chalker. In the spirit of comradeship and more truthfully because we all genuinely care about each other, the rest of the squad will chip in and get a small gift for the birthday soldier. Sgt. Mc wrote down all of the rest of the birthdays on the inside of our CHU door as a quick reference…carefully neglecting his own.

Which brings me to the cooler full of Mountain Dew. Last night as we scrambled to assemble our packing lists, bemoaned the fact that we hadn’t had time during the day to do laundry, and generally accomplish last minute checks on our things, I saw Sgt Mc taking wrapped birthday gifts out of his footlocker (which had been packed and ready to go on mission.) I watched out of the corner of my eye while continuing to speak aloud my inventory, checking items off the packing list one by one. When he began to open one of the gifts it dawned on me – perhaps today was his birthday! I asked and found out that the 7th is actually Sgt Mc’s birthday, and that he’d kept it to himself intentionally. He received many wonderful gifts, and actually had the opportunity to relax for a moment with them before it was time to load the trucks. When he added his cooler of Mountain Dew I kept my mouth shut, returned to the CHU, and had a wonderful four hours of sleep before I had to climb up in my turret, the drivers behind their wheels, and the TCs behind their BFTs. We were all having trouble keeping our eyes open, and it was then that Sgt. Mc explained to me that his gift to himself was to drink as much Mountain Dew as he wanted for one day. As the convoy progressed, he had several, and when his birthday ended just a few hours ago, he confidently assured me that he had probably had 18 cans of the stuff today. Happy Birthday Sgt. Mc!

There is an unshakeable nervousness that exists for me on a convoy. My periphery is the vehicles 3-9 o’clock, and I feel very cut off from the rest of the convoy. They’re just trucks that, when I crane my neck, are little toy cars in my turret’s side view mirrors above legends that read, “Objects in mirror appear closer than they are.” My whole focus becomes the traffic behind us, the sides of the roads, and the reoccurring lone figures standing 300 meters out from the convoy. My headset keeps me informed of most of what is going on, and I can listen and joke with the crew of my truck as well as the other trucks.

Driving along our conversations most often return to music. What bands people like, favorite songs, and often jokes about Sgt. Mac’s(our platoon sergeant) taste compared to our own. It is a widely held belief that Yankee Doodle was first popular when Sgt. Mac enlisted in the army, and his vehemence about disliking Elvis (for me at least) confirms that belief. (Really, how can you dislike Elvis?!) As the discussion about music wanes, different members of the crew will hold up an iPod to the mouth piece of their headset, and for a minute the static of the radio and mechanical whine of the vehicle is drowned out by The Beach Boys, Shakira, Elvis, DJ Ötzi (burgerdance song for PV2 Santoyo), and anything else that we’re in the mood for. It helps our morale, keeps us awake, and can provide a strange soundtrack to this country.

There is nothing more surreal than listening to “Get Around” by the Beach Boys as your vehicle drives into choking black clouds of smoke and huge fires rage from the ground in oily gouts twenty feet high. It becomes a nightmarish Boschian landscape for a few miles, the ground streaked and scarred with oil pipelines, and bizarrely painted Mercedes semi-tractor trailers racing down the road into oncoming traffic, Arabic rap blaring from within them. We have definitely left our footprint here in Iraq.