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.
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