What Would You Like On Your Pizza?

I gave a soldier a ride to our FOB Green Bean coffee shop today, and on the way he told me about his soon-to-be-ex-wife, his two year old daughter, his plan to go to Afghanistan and then work for a security firm, and his plan to retire by age 28, at which point he plans to get custody of his daughter. I dropped him off at the coffee shop, and as I pulled away I noticed a Third Country National worker behind the Pizza Hut.

The worker was wearing a dark blue shirt with a red PH logo, and was sitting in the back step of the PH trailer. I saw him holding and looking at something long and white. As I drove past, I saw that it was a sock and that his left foot was bare. He put down the sock and began to devote some attention to his foot, picking between his toes. I wonder if he was the cook? "I'd like the small pepperoni pizza please, and add some toe jam."

Fresh food

The platoon ate mutton for lunch yesterday, and it had been on the hoof only about two hours before it was on our plates.

We left after breakfast to drive to the far southern edge of our area, to meet with a sheik to discuss various matters. He was supposed to be around his home for about three days, so we drove out to see him. Of course, we can’t say when we plan to get there; that would just make us a target.

We drove for about an hour on paved roads, then for another hour on dirt roads. The dirt roads followed the edge of fields, canal banks and in some places just seemed to meander across the landscape. We took the roundabout path in order to avoid driving on the main road and risking an IED attack.

Eventually we arrived at the village, and asked for the sheik. In a village of mud huts, his house was the nice one; air conditioning, electricity, modern kitchen, TV in an entertainment center in the living room, outdoor, but plumbed, bathroom.

Turns out the sheik was in town. One of the Iraqis called him, and after a short conversation told us that he sheik was on his way, and he’d be there in an hour. We stood around, like soldiers do, and pondered our next move. Wait and be out quite a bit longer than we planned, or head back. The Iraqis invited us to sit for spell, and one brought out a pitcher of cold water and one glass. We each took the glass, sipped or drank, depending on thirst, and replaced the glass. The Iraqi held the tray, refilled the glass as necessary, and handed the glass around until everyone had some water. They did this a couple more times later, but used a small stainless steel bowl instead of a glass.

The guy left, and came back with cups of strong sweet Chai. As we sat and chatted and sipped Chai, we saw two of young men walking up carrying a dead sheep. Apparently the sheik told his family to prepare lunch, so they killed the fatted calf, so to speak. They walked around the edge of the house, and pretty soon we heard a scraping sound. They were sharpening a knife on the edge of the concrete walkway.

One of the men cut off the sheep’s head, then poked a hold in its hind leg. He blew into the hole and inflated the sheep until all four legs stuck straight out. He then cut down the center, and commenced to skin the sheep. I’m not quite sure what inflating it did for him. He still had to separate the skin form the meat, using the knife to cut the fascia. As he was doing this, a few sheep walked by, just on the other side of the fence.

After he got the skin off, he hung the sheep and disemboweled it into a large pan. After the sheik’s wife took over and cooked up lunch, which took about two hours from baa to being served. The sheik arrived during this time and we talked with him a bit, drinking cold cola. They served the mutton boiled with onions, kind of a soup with meat in it, white rice, a bowl of fresh cucumbers and tomatoes chopped into jellybean sized pieces, like a salsa, and a dish of tomato slices that had been boiled and seasoned. It was delicious. None of the Iraqis ate, at least while we were there.

We finished up lunch with more sweet Chai. We departed soon after, and left some candy and school supplies, and a case of bottled water, then motored back the way we came. Mission accomplished.

Pizza and heart rates

I have a wide variety of duties, and a couple of nights ago my duty was dumpster diving. We had an allegation of wrongdoing, the evidence of which was supposed to show up in the trash. It didn’t, but I was otherwise surprised by what I saw.

In two words, pizza boxes. We have a Pizza Hut outlet – a converted CHU, essentially – on the FOB, and it apparently does a land office business. Every dumpster I peered into had multiple pizza boxes. Way more than I had expected. Four, five, six, ten, more. The dumpsters are emptied almost daily, or no less than every other day, so the pizza boxes were all recent.. Apparently lots of soldiers are skipping the chow hall.

Also saw a shelf, about eight brand new steno notebooks, DVD cases, and lots of stuff that soldiers are tossing out in preparation to leave. I guess they’re getting skinny, notwithstanding the pizza.

**

A friend of mine was showing off his fancy Polar heart monitor watch. The sensor straps to his chest when he works out, and talks to his watch for heart rate, lap times, and all sorts of stuff. He has a sensor in his shoe that tells his watch info about his stride.

He uploads his watch into his computer, and it makes charts and graphs, tells him what his fitness age is, and helps him plan his workout. He was showing me the graph of his heart rate from his 8 mile run the other day. Average mile time; 9 minutes, 32 second. The watch tracks temperature and altitude, and the graph showed the altitude of his run.

At several points, the graph showed his heart rate briefly dropping to near zero. I asked him if he has heart problems or something. He said no. He thinks the dip was when he ran near jammers, and his heart monitor couldn’t talk to his watch.

A Gross Post

It cooled off today, into the low 90s. Finally. So I went for a run this afternoon. Afterward, I took a shower. The shower I normally use was in use so I used the one next to it.

In my usual shower, the curtain has been raised way up, above my head, but a couple of days ago it had been lowered enough to easily see over. When I showered a couple of days ago, I had to duck below the curtain rod to get in and out of the shower. Exiting, I also had to step up over the lip of the drain pan. Ducking and stepping up simultaneously is just too much for me to do safely more than once, and I conked my head on the shower curtain, leaving a lump and a scrape. But I still stuck to that shower, mostly because I like the shower head.

Today, as I showered, the guy showering where I usually do was taking a nice long shower. At one point, he coughed and hacked up, well, you know, and then did it again a minute later. So, he was either holding it in his mouth, swallowing it, or spitting it in the shower. Jeez. After that, I heard him blow his nose. In the shower. I couldn’t see, but I’m pretty sure it was the deal where you put a finger on one nostril and blow out through the other. Either that or he used his washcloth. The shower was still running so I’m sure he wasn’t using a tissue.

Afterward, I regarded him with some disgust as he leaned forward to the mirror and popped a pimple. I think I might change showers.

The Beginning Of The End.

Although our departure date is a ways away, we have begun preparing for it. Logistics, it is said, doesn’t win wars but it can certainly lose them, and logistics takes planning. For now, we’re packing up equipment that we can do without for a while. “Getting skinny”, as it’s called. I’ll probably see the gear again in about 6 months.

Last week several sections gathered to pack and stow some of their gear. First, we decide what we can live without, and what we are required to take with us on the plane. The latter changes as guidance from higher is received. Originally we were supposed to take all our Organizational Clothing and Individual Equipment (OCIE) so we can turn it in at the de-mobilization station. That is pretty bulky stuff, and since we’re limited to two duffle bags and a backpack, it would prevent taking much of anything useful.

OCIE includes, for example, elbow and knee pads, pup tent halves with stakes and poles, an entrenching tool (foldable shovel), cold weather gear, and lots more crap that we just won’t need to de-mobe.

The new guidance allowed us to pre-pack and send OCIE home in a CONEX container, so I filled up two duffle bags of that stuff and a couple of folding chairs. I also sent a foot locker. It had books, posters, folding stools, rope, and just a bunch of stuff that I though I might need for this tour, most of which I didn’t.

Here’s the process. You pack your bags and footlocker so that you know what fits, and fill out a form (make 5 copies) listing everything in the bag or locker. The picture was taken at 0700, and shows a male soldier, still in his pajama bottoms, helping a female soldier (he's not alowed to enter her CHU). He is typing the form while she loads up her duffle bags.

After completing the form, load up the stuff into a truck, take it to a central area, unpack it and lay it out on cardboard. The MPs will then root through your stuff looking for contraband or other stuff you can’t ship. After they clear you, you repack, put everything into large boxes, marked and numbered, and then box is fork lifted into the CONEX container and the container is sealed, ready for shipment. Until it ships, it will just sit in the sun and bake. A copy of your packing list goes in each duffle bag, on the outside of the box, on the CONEX container, one to the First Sergeant, and one for you, total of five. Load lists are important. We lost a CONEX container for a while on the way over here. It was later found in Kuwait.

For me, the MPs rejected some prescription meds (have to hand carry them, and they have to have your name on the container), some vitamins (once opened, who knows what’s in the bottle, so they can’t go), some batteries (they might leak), and the mosquito net issued to me here. I never used the net, but it is similar to camouflage netting and neither can go home. We don’t have to turn it back in, either, so the advice was to just throw it away. Oddly, the commercial mosquito net I brought with me was allowed to go home.

I saw TV’s, small refrigerators, a violin, books, CDs, DVDs, and a rich variety of miscellaneous personal stuff being loaded. Here in a while we’ll do it again, and pack up the offices and pretty much everything else. We’ll be living out of duffle bags for a couple of weeks at the end of our stay in Iraq, and for the few weeks it will take to finally get home. I’ll have mostly clothing and hygiene items, along with a small footlocker of office stuff; active files, laptop, whatever I need to do business during the de-mobe.

If you're married, one of the rules of travel is "Don't whistle while you pack." At least here we didn't have to hide our good spirits as we prepare to travel.

Awards

One of our commanders said “Awards are the most difficult thing we’re doing in theatre.” As we approach the end of our tour, the awards controversy is growing.

Awards are always subject to some tension. Deserving soldiers should be recognized, but if too many awards are handed out, it cheapens the awards. Drawing the line inevitably causes disagreement. Because enlisted soldiers get promotion points per award, getting a medal can determine whether you are elevated in rank. Some medals are not authorized in a combat zone; others are awarded only in a combat zone.

All soldiers serving in Iraq and supporting the Global War on Terrorism will receive at least two medals. One is an Iraqi (or Afghanistan) service ribbon, and the other is similar; you get it for showing up and participating. Other awards are given for either service or achievement. That is, you serve admirably for a period, or you have certain achievement that merits a medal.

A Bronze Star is a combat zone only medal. Under our division’s rules, these tend to be given to soldiers with large responsibilities, i.e., higher ranking soldiers. It is a higher medal than an Army Commendation Medal (ARCOM), which you can get in peacetime or at war. Either can be given with a “V device”, a tiny bronze “V” placed on the medal, for valor.

Rumors abound of other units freely handing out awards, particularly active duty units, but our division is very restrictive. Many soldiers believe that division is defensive and out to prove that National Guard divisions don’t just hand out meaningless awards. Because the Bronze Star is a pretty significant medal and not easily won, the next medal in line is the ARCOM. Well, ARCOMs are given out during peace time. Thus, a soldier who has distinguished him or her self in a war zone might only get the same medal as given back home on Annual Training. This is a controversy that will never go away.

Awards are also difficult because of the justification required. Leaders are trying to get their soldiers the Combat Action Badge, the Combat Infantryman Badge, or the Combat Medic Badge. Packets with dozens of pages of justification have been submitted, only to be rejected. There are issues about whether incoming rockets or mortars will qualify you for the badge, how close do you have to be to it, what if it’s a dud, and were you on duty at the time. For example, if I leave my office to go to lunch and a rocket lands near me, I probably won’t qualify. If I’m walking with a soldier who is going to the chow hall to pick up food and take it back to fellow soldiers, he will qualify. He is on duty, but I’m not.

And on and on. Purple Hearts are given for battlefield injuries. However, here, if the injury is not visible, it usually won’t earn a Purple Heart. Ruptured disk from being banged around inside a HMMWV when an IED explodes; nope. Brain damage from concussion, but no gash or blood; nope. Burst eardrum from proximity to explosion; nope. Cut from flying shrapnel that requires only first aid; nope.

Awards are a difficult issue, but greatly affect morale.

Bathroom Wars

An internecine war has broken out among soldiers on the FOB, and the battleground is the bathrooms.

We have “Cadillacs” for shower and bathroom facilities. That is, modular buildings plumbed and outfitted for one or the other of the functions. The buildings are set by a crane on cement blocks, and plumbed into the black and gray water systems. Buildings run in two lines through our CHU area, showers all in a row behind the restrooms, also all in a row. Each building has one door, and two windows on opposite walls. The windows can be opened part way. Fans next to the windows exhaust air 24/7.

These buildings are okay, as far as they go. The restrooms tend to get dirty, and the showers tend to run out of hot water, but all in all, adequate. The worst part, I think, is doing the shower shuffle, i.e., walking from the CHU to the shower, carrying your little ditty bag and towel. For me, that’s about the length of a football field. Well, actually, the worst part is the dirt bags who never learned how to clean up after themselves and leave evidence of their passing in the sink and on the floor.

People being people, they have their preferences. If the windows are closed, the fans pull in air from the sewer because the sinks and urinals don’t have P traps to stop the inflow of sewer gas. So if the windows are closed, the rooms stink. If the windows are open, it lets in hot air and overpowers the air-conditioning. So I’ll walk in a bathroom with the windows shut and open them to get in some air. Later I’ll return and someone will have shut them, preferring cool sewer gas over warm oxygen. And back and forth.

Likewise, the showers. We have flimsy plastic shower curtains, with smiling fish or happy whales or pastel geometric designs. Being flimsy, and soldiers being pretty ham-fisted, the curtains don’t last too long and are frequently replaced. As you shower, the air is warmed by the shower water and rises, sucking in the lightweight shower curtain and plastering the moldy fabric against your leg, which is nasty.

Apparently two schools of thought about how to avoid this prevail. One, lower the curtain rod so far that the curtain laps onto the ground. The other, raise it so that plenty of air can flow under it and avoid sucking in the curtain. In the shower I prefer, the curtain rod goes up and down as much as a window shade. I used to be a low-rod ground-lap man, but lately it doesn’t seem to matter if my ankles show.

On Patrol

I went on a presence patrol into Kirkuk. After a little stutter-step getting going, we got off, though a bit late. That’s okay as we try to vary our routine anyway, so being late works toward that end. It was bad news for our interpreter, though. He just got married, in June, and his bride was expecting him by a set time. Well, our late start caused him to miss his deadline, and pretty soon his cell phone started ringing. Contrition and explanation looks the same in any language, it seems.

We stopped at a police precinct for a brief visit. We sat down with the head policemen, not in the city but in the precinct. He had a clean office, painted blue on the lower half, and light blue on the upper, with a small window in the corner. His desk was clear except for inbox, pencils, and office utensils, and had recently been wiped off. He had a desk and return, his chair, a tiny refrigerator, two sofas and two love seats, all matching, and a TV on a stand.

Within a couple of minutes a policeman wearing a blue shirt and new black body armor came in with a tray and several little glasses of dark Chai. About two inches tall, the bottom half inch was all sugar. I stirred it with tiny spoon and drank most of it. If you drink it all, you get a refill, so it’s important to leave a bit. I was a bit leery about the water source, but took the risk. After a few minutes of chatting, and listening to our interpreter make excuses, we left to drive around the streets, accompanied by some Iraqi Police (IP).

We stopped and talked to a shopkeeper who was sitting in a little windowless stall, about 8 by 15. The front was painted pink, and inside colored lights (Christmas lights) helped the feminine presentation. I saw deodorants, shampoos, hair coloring, lipsticks, eye liners, pretty much most of what you’d see in a normal grocery store, with a couple of exceptions.

He had a variety of products, but no variety among products. That is, he had several different scents of deodorant, for example, but only one brand. The products were not lined up by type, but more by symmetry. I saw a row of various round containers, deodorants, lipsticks, eyeliners, etc, all lined up in a symmetrical pattern. Lipsticks were all over the shop, as they made nice colorful counterpoints to larger items. His biggest seller; shampoo. He had a few articles of clothing, including to my surprise, a negligee. And what looked like a moo-moo.

We took off after a few minutes and continued the patrol. Saw several mosques, some sheep, some goats, lots of trash, and some absolutely beautiful children dressed in bright cothing. After a while the IP had to return to their station for another mission.

Looking for progress? The soldiers I was with told me they have seen a great deal of progress in the IP since we arrived several months ago. They are getting better equipped; the body armor was brand new, which might explain why the guy delivering the tea was wearing it. The IP set up good security when stopped, and generally looked pretty good. Coming along nicely.

Honoring a fallen soldier

We held a ceremony today for a fallen soldier. He was 29 years old. Most of our large company was able to attend, along with a couple of generals, all the battalion commanders and their sergeants major, and even some Air Force representatives.

After an invocation and the national anthem, the soldier’s company commander spoke, followed by the soldier’s supervisor and his roommate. All the speakers knew the soldier, and spoke movingly of his dedication, love of service, how their lives were enriched by knowing him, and of how much he will be missed.

They held a roll call for the soldier. The company First Sergeant called roll of the soldier’s section by rank and last name, and each soldier responded “Here, First Sergeant.” When the First Sergeant came to the fallen soldier’s name, of course there was no answer. The 1SGT called his name again, adding his first name to his rank and last name. After a moment of silence, the 1SGT called his name a third time, using the soldier’s full name, first, middle and last. After a brief silence, someone answered “The soldier is out of ranks First Sergeant.” From outside we then heard a 21 gun salute, three rounds of seven rifles, followed by taps.

In closing, all the soldiers, starting with the generals, moved into the aisle fronted by a helmet on a rifle, with boots at the bottom. In threes and fours, all the soldiers approached the memorial and delivered a slow salute, then executed a right face and marched out.

The soldier had been a Marine for several years, and the program handout proudly featured the Marine Corps Motto, and the Eagle, Globe and Anchor of which Marines are so rightly proud. The soldier had volunteered to serve with our unit. Semper Fidelis.

Don’t Eat Yellow Snow

And watch what you’re drinking. We get Gatorade and Crystal Light packets to mix with water, as well as instant tea, and Kool Aid. Most soldiers just figure out the proper amount to pour into a half liter or one and a half liter bottle and mix the beverage in the bottle. You’ll see soldiers drinking red, green, orange, purple, yellow or brown liquid form the water bottles.

Of course, soldiers also use the bottles to spit in when they chew tobacco. And, the one and a half liter bottles are popular to use as, uh, chamber pots. If it was good enough for the founding fathers, one soldier said to me, it’s good enough for him.

Rather than get dressed and walk to the restroom, some soldiers choose to refill the large water bottles instead. Making Budweiser, some people would say. This is not limited to the male soldiers, though I’m sure it’s more prevalent among them. I heard the story of a KBR A/C repairman who went into a female CHU. Two female soldiers lived there, one of whom had some refilled bottles. The repairman knocked one over, and unfortunately the lid wasn’t on tight. It fell to the other roommate to clean up that hazardous waste spill, and she subsequently requested a new roommate.

I’ve been in CHUs with several large bottles of yellow liquid stacked on a shelf, or against the wall, or just lying around. For a while, the soldiers threw the bottles in the dumpster. The garbage men objected, so the soldiers had to either disguise the bottles before throwing them in the dumpster, or empty them in the restroom.

Just for the record, I don’t subscribe to the “if it’s good enough for the founding fathers” theory; no refilled bottles in my room.

Strategic Privates

Strategic Privates exist, every unit has them, and they can determine an entire course of events.

Strategic Privates are soldiers whose acts or words influence policy, command philosophy, or standard operating procedure far beyond their rank or position. They are not always privates, but they typically are lower ranking soldiers. If CNN comes around, they seem to easily find the strategic private who will do or say something stupid or off command message.

In New Orleans, CNN won a lawsuit (I think it was dismissed) for the right to take photos of corpses and to access stricken areas of the city. After prevailing on this against the administration, CNN was later told by a Strategic Private that the military has its own rules and the military would not allow CNN the access it desired. An LTC later clarified and CNN was allowed its access. The LTC said something like “There are lots of ‘Joes’ out there and this one didn’t get the message.” No doubt that at least for a short time command devoted its scarce and precious time to clearing up the confusion sown by that Strategic Private.

Lindy England at Abu Ghraib is a good example of a Strategic Private, assuming that she was acting on her own and not according to direction. The soldier who asked Donald Rumsfeld about armor for HMMWVs was another Strategic Private. Richard Reid, that mope who tried to explode his shoes on the airplane, could be considered a Strategic Private. Remember Mathias Rust? The 19 year old German flew his Cessna into Red Square, thereby allowing Gorbachev an excuse to purge hardliners who were blamed for the security breach, and setting the stage for the end of the Soviet Union; the ultimate Strategic Private. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Athena_Rust

Watch for them. They’re out there. You’ve probably got one in your unit or your business. Despite your best efforts, the Strategic Private will find his or her way to the front, or to the reporters, and will take control of events away from the leaders.

Holy cow

A soldier from Pocatello, Idaho told me that he’s looking forward to going home to assistant coach his youngest son’s baseball team. He said that his oldest son is going to Cooperstown.

We got to talking about livestock, somehow, and he shook his head at the sorry state of beef cattle here in Iraq. “I haven’t seen any beef cattle” he said, exaggerating, meaning that he hasn’t seen any up to his standards. “I saw some wondering around Sulaymaniyah, eating garbage out of garbage cans. They wouldn’t know grain fed beef if they tasted one” he said, warming to the subject. “Just like the chow hall’s motto. ‘I never saw a piece of meat I didn’t overcook.’ They can have this frickin’ country”.

I guess he’s ready to come home.

Car Wars Victory

I wrote a few days ago about some Iraqis who were trying to lay claim to my NTV, but before I coughed it up we required verified proof of ownership. Well, the Iraqis produced their ownership documents which were shipped off to Baghdad. Baghdad determined that the documents were forgeries. Yes! I get to keep the NTV, at least for now. Ha ha! Take that, you bastards!

So there you go. An Iraqi success story. The Iraqi government has a functioning bureaucracy that is capable of determining vehicle ownership. Alert the media!

Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye

Yet another group of Air Force has rotated through our FOB. The group here when we arrived last December was around for a month or so, then rotated out, replaced by a new group. That group was here for four months, then they left and another new group came in. That group just left, and now the fourth group of Air Force service members has arrived. Four Air Force units, and we’re still here. (Oddly, the unit name never changes. I don’t get that)

One of the obvious questions is, can the AF be effective in such a short time? What about the learning curve? It seems that they are plenty effective, perhaps because what they do here is very similar to what they do before they come here. There have been some glitches, such as when some new airmen shot up a car full of Iraqi civilians, but all in all the AF pulls off the short rotations pretty well. In our area, much of the AF mission is on the FOB, infrastructure support and the like, so it is not new to them.

The last AF rotation was from a base located in our home state, and some of our soldiers live not far from the base. One of the soldiers told me “One of these days when we get back, I’m going to be in [his favorite bar] and I’m going to hear some of these AF guys talk about their four month Iraq rotation. I’m going to be sh*thouse drunk, and it’s not going to sit very well with me, and I might say something I regret.”

I don’t begrudge the AF their short rotations; it’s good work if you can get it. I do think that if the Army can learn entirely new missions, then so can the other services. As reported in the MSM (I’m not giving anything away), soldiers are doing primarily infantry and MP missions here, regardless of their type of unit. So, for example, if tankers can learn to do knock and searches, I would think that airmen and sailors could. I don’t see why some of the other services can’t bear more of the burden of this war. This might even free up National Guard for flood and fire duty.

Good Help Is Hard To Find

Walking along the gravel road near our CHUs, I saw the cleaning crew spread out and working in various bathrooms and showers. The crew is composed of locals, supervised by a civilian, and overwatched by soldiers, which the soldiers call TCN (Third Country National) duty. I walked by the civilian, who was saying to the soldier “Look at ‘em. Diggin' for gold. None of ‘em got a damn thing.”

Looking up the road I saw a young Iraqi standing by a dumpster. He had the garbage can from a bathroom, to be emptied into the dumpster. But, before he dumped in the garbage, he sorted through the dumpster. He extracted a sack of potato chips and peered into it. Apparently empty, he threw it back and continued with his work.

**

Two soldiers carrying bulging green cloth laundry bags caught a ride with me the other day. Noticing the bags, and proudly demonstrating my command of the obvious, I said “Headed for the laundromat I see.” “Yes sir.”

They had chosen to do their laundry themselves, and spend about three hours doing it, rather than turn in the laundry to the KBR laundry. I asked them why, since they could turn in the laundry just a short distance from where they live, and it would save them hours of time.

“We work TCN duty” one of them said, as if that explained it all. “Oh, okay,” I said, “What does that have to do with it?”

“Well sir, we watch the locals who work in the KBR laundry, and it’s bad. Real bad. You don’t want to get your laundry done there. I saw one guy wipe his face with a clean shirt.”

Communist?

I guess in some minds, the cold war isn't over.

After washing my hands before entering the chow hall, I struggled with the paper towel dispenser. Large non-perforated rolls of single ply tissue, about 8 inches wide, hang on pipes by the sinks. Soldiers tear off a length of tissue to dry their hands. The tissue is about the same consistency as toilet paper, and little pieces tend to tear off and stick to your hand after you dry them.

I was trying to start a new roll, which involves peeling off the big sticker, then trying to start the roll. Like toilet paper, the first few sheets are glued down, and it’s confusing which way the roll will roll, until you get a few layers off. Of course, as you peel off the layers, they rip down the middle.

As I peeled off strip after strip, the crusty old sergeant waiting behind me said “Boy, that’s a communist thing, isn’t it?” I said “My hands have air dried while I’ve been fighting it.” The female solder behind the sergeant said “It’s just being difficult, like everything else in this country.”

You want the truth?

Americans seek “the truth” about what is happening in Iraq. I’ve have many people tell me that they would like to “really” know what is going over here. Americans have a huge stake in this war, in blood and money, and they want to know whether the endeavor is worth the cost.

The main stream media (MSM) is not trusted to accurately report. MSM focuses too much on the bad news and destruction, it is said, and by failing to report the good new the MSM presents a skewed picture of what is happening here. Conservatives recently sent a “Truth Tour” to Iraq because they think the good news isn’t getting out.

What is the truth about this war? I’m reminded about the story of the five blind men and the elephant. Each feels part of the elephant, the tail, the ear, leg, truck or side, and each describes the elephant in those terms. It is like a snake, or flat and thin, or like a tree truck. Each is correct, for the small part of the elephant they’re trying to describe, but none has the full picture.

Likewise, the reporting here tends to be about small events, and seldom does a citizen have enough freedom of movement to get around and be able to report the big picture. Military leaders do have a much better view of the big picture, but won’t talk about it for fear of encouraging the Anti-Iraqi Forces or of irritating higher or political leadership.

The most comprehensive reporting I’ve seen is in the Stars and Stripes, Middle East Edition. The paper edition daily carries many pages of stories about this war, and more importantly, its reporters are out there with the troops. Our unit has been visited many times by S&S reporters, and the resulting stories seem accurate and balanced. The stories printed also seem balanced; not overly sunny and mindlessly supportive of the war, but not unfairly critical. It also has the most personal interest stories I’ve seen.

Of course, that may be because it is the only paper I see regularly. But I get to see CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, ABC, and many internet news sources. We do also get hometown newspapers, and of all those, the S&S paper version has the most complete picture. Also, it carries letters to the editor that really let you know what is on the soldiers’ minds. And they’re often funny, as when a Marine complained about fat soldiers, of course drawing a counterattack. Another fascinating string erupted when a soldier complained about praying in the chow hall and suggested that prayer ought to be saved for church. Letters are available online. www.stripes.com

If you want some good news stories, check out The Snakebite at http://www.idarng.com/snakebite.asp. This is a unit newsletter, one of many like it, and while it definitely supports the command message and is pretty upbeat, it also reports reconstruction stories that you don’t see in the MSM, as well as soldier personal interest items.

If you want to know what’s “really” going on in Iraq, you’ll have to work at it and assemble it yourself from many sources.

Mudville Gazette

I noticed that the Mudville Gazette has linked to a few of my posts lately. Thank you, and welcome to all Mudville Gazette readers. I hope you enjoy my blog.

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Gently Rapping At My Chamber Door

Over the past few months, I’ve heard knocking on my CHU door. Usually it was three quick Rap Rap Raps, sometimes four or five, but always kind of soft and evenly spaced.

Typically I’d hear this in the early morning, and most of the time I was still in bed. The rapping woke me up a few times, and other times I was lying there partially awake and trying to crawl out of the pit of sleep. I usually wondered if I had really heard it. I’d lie there and wait for another knock, but it would never come. Once in a while I’d roll over, crane my neck around my locker, and look for a shadow in the bright sunlight shining under my door, but I never saw anyone. One of life’s little mysteries.

One morning I got up early and stepped outside my CHU, headed for work, and I heard three quick Rap Rap Raps. As I looked around I heard it again, and then it dawned on me; I was hearing machine guns being test fired. Mystery solved.

Until 0200 a couple of nights ago. I was sound asleep, and dreaming. In my dream I was trying to print something in color (I guess I dream in color). The first page came out all crinkled and smeared. After adjustments, the next two pages came out sideways, and then I heard three sharp knocks, which woke me up. My first thought; weapons test firing. After a few moments I realized that the test firing had never awakened me up from a deep sleep, and that the knocks had been pretty loud and I thought it might actually be a visitor.

Of course, a 2 AM visitor never brings good news, so I rolled out of bed and opened the door wondering what evil had befallen me. The last time something like this happened, I was told my Uncle Eldon had been killed in a car wreck. But, it was my sergeant, doing her part to count noses. There had been a report of a missing soldier, so the units did a head count to account for everyone. I went back to sleep until I heard the machine guns later in the morning.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the FOB

I was in a convoy a few days ago heading to another FOB, and midway on our trip we saw a civilian car turned on its side, with several Iraqis and their cars and little pickups milling around. By the debris on the road and the charred weeds, it was clear that an IED had just exploded.

Seeing no other military on the scene, except a couple of Iraqi police, we stopped to check it out. All the Iraqis, including the police, took off immediately, leaving the scene to us.

I couldn’t tell what type of car it had been, other than color and that it was a fairly new sedan, because the IED rent it asunder. Tires stripped off the wheels, frame bent, glass blown out, large chunks and tiny pieces strung all over the highway. The blast flipped the car up on its side and torched the weeds on the other side of the road.

There were also remains of the driver, although he was pretty well rent asunder as well. I don’t feel too sorry for the guy though. After an investigation was complete, it turns out that there were two guys killed in the explosion. They had emplaced an IED up the road a little ways – which by the way exploded with a deep BANG and a tall column of dust and black smoke while we were there - and they had stopped to emplace another. Apparently the 2nd one went off while the passenger was putting it down next to the car, and it killed both of them.

I’m not sure how to characterize this event. Human Tragedy? Just Desserts? Natural Selection? I have to admit, I’m not charitably inclined toward the former.

Car Wars

This war has many battlefields.

When we first got here, everyone scrambled to get one of the few NTVs (Non Tactical Vehicles) available for soldiers to use. Without an NTV, the only way to get around is on foot (LPCs – leather personnel carriers), bicycle, or bus. Two of those involve physical exertion in the hot sun, so aren’t favored. The bus is OK, but time consuming. If I wanted to go to an hour meeting, I had to leave more than an hour early, then wait for a bus back, and it was usually a three hour endeavor to go to a one hour meeting. When I got my NTV it was a good day, and it has been nice to use in the since then.

My NTV has a checkered past. A starter went out, and we couldn’t get a replacement because the NTV was not covered by the lease contract. It is a rogue, probably confiscated from someone. We haven’t been paying for it.

The other day, four Iraqis showed up at my door, with a soldier escort, and in very broken English demanded the NTV. They wanted to drive it away, and I knew if they did I’d never see it again. I scrambled around and talked to our logistics folks, who said that we need to require some proof of ownership, Iraqi title documents. We will then send the documents to Baghdad to verify ownership and status. Some confiscated vehicles must be returned to the owner, others can stay on our use, depending on from whom they were confiscated.

Hopefully this process will go slowly and I can use the vehicle for the rest of the time I’m here. Otherwise, it’s back on the bus for me.

Mammy

I suppose soldiers and shovels have been partners for thousands of years. It's no different here.

While walking through the new tent city I saw five soldiers with shovels standing and just looking around. I went over to see what they were doing, and as we stood there a little front end loader, like a Bobcat, turned a corner and drove toward us. It got a few feet away, dumped a load of rocks, then spun around and headed back to the rock pile for a refill. The soldiers got busy with the shovels, spreading out the rocks to form a pathway between the tents so that when it rains, soldiers do not have to walk through mud.

When the loader dumped the rocks, it also unleashed a choking cloud of dust. One of the soldiers buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Another squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, a natural but pointless act since the dust swirled all around us. After it cleared a bit, I noticed that the soldiers were all thickly coated with grime, except their eyes and lips, making them look like brown faced Al Jolsons.

I continued on to lunch (spaghetti & meatballs), they continued to shovel rocks in the 110 degree heat.