Sometime in the last few days, my hit counter surpassed 100,000 visit to this blog. Like your dad in the family station wagon counting the odometer, I'm very excited to be at this historic number. I created the blog in April 2006 but I only added a counter in September of last year, days before I came home from Iraq. Blue Man was the first person to link to me before my quote and URL appeared in the LA Times and Associated Press stories, making him fan #1. My parents have always been the most supportive readers from the start, along with my wonderful girlfriend Lauren.
I'm often asked why I started the blog in the first place. If you go back to the very beginning, you'll see writing that's rough around the edges with heavy doses of sarcasm. I had neither point nor purpose back then, only hoping to showcase the maddening Army lifestyle and the mundane day to day tasks that we were handed. It was frank as it was anonymous, and only my roommate knew of its existence. We had used the term 'Army of Dude' to describe a new military: free of the cover your ass ideals that our superiors used. We didn't want to screw each other for the next promotion and we didn't want to play politics. We wanted to do our time together. We didn't want to stay in for thirty years and continue the vicious cycle in place where seniority meant more than reason and teamwork. We wore our hair long and our sideburns flared. We called each other dude, and we used that word as a reaction to happiness, sadness, surprise and apprehension.
The purpose of my blog quickly changed once I got to Iraq and realized what could be done with it. In one of my first combat stories written, I described an attack that left a couple of houses destroyed. I couldn't believe my eyes, but I'd quickly see more of the same in the following months in Baghdad, and later in Baqubah. Writing became a way for me to describe what we were seeing and doing to not only my family and friends, but those following the lives of everyone I was in Iraq with. Not everyone wanted to write about what was going on and instead passed my blog on to spare themselves from doing it. Through writing, pictures and video, I connected people to our shared experiences and inner reflections not seen on CNN or in the halls of the Senate. The internet, it seemed, was the only way for it to get out.
I hadn't signed my name on here until after our combat operations ceased and the cat was out of the proverbial bag. My blog had gotten around the family group back home and soon everyone was either reading it or knew about it. I was stupid and didn't tread any more carefully after that, and I continued to write like I had never been found out.
Discipline never came. I continued my stories and my thoughts about the war and how it was being handled. When my blog was quoted in a story that appeared in the Sept. 11 edition of the Stars and Stripes, my first sergeant called me over while we were refueling in Ireland, hours from being home. With a red face he said, "I heard your fricken web site was quoted in page two of the paper. I replied, "No, first sergeant. It was page six."
Here are some choice entries from my nearly two years of writing:
Stupid Shit of The Deployment Awards - This helped put me on the map. The nominees were written out beforehand and voted on by my platoon by which event was the stupidest moment of the whole deployment.
Congress - My reaction to going back to Iraq after R&R and realizing, hey, we have five months left instead of two.
A Very Special Edition of AoD - A photo story spanning three years.
Somnium - A story written in an alternate reality where we came home on time and I met my current girlfriend, Lauren. She's a self described daydreamer and lover of poetry. "A dream within a dream," a line from an Edgar Allen Poe poem, spirals around her arm in a jet black tattoo. The word Somnium is etched onto her ankle, sprouting wings in flight, carrying the Latin phrase meaning 'to daydream' high and away.
I've met incredible people (and drawn considerable criticism) because of my blog, and I'm more than satisfied at the results. It has helped me craft and hone my writing, and I hope to turn that into a career in the future. I've started to write a book, making it the 10,000th war memoir to be written within the last few years.
Thanks for keeping up with me, dear readers. It's been a blast. I hope you'll be with me at the 200,000 mark.
AH
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Photo Story...Next week?
I'm on a mini-vacation this weekend and will not be posting a new photo story. So stay tuned until next week for an all new, fun filled story of hilarity and thinly veiled philosophical ruminations. Also, I am drunk.
AH
In the meantime, mosey on over to Vet Voice to read my newest on Turkey's no-no. Also, be sure to check out the video below, from Vote Vets:
McCain. Because 10,000 years is only the beginning™
AH
Monday, February 18, 2008
Photo Story Monday - Be Right Back
"Dude, I gotta shit. Find me something to wipe with around here."
Matt was direct and to the point. He was shitting all right, in a corner room of a makeshift hospital deep in the heart of Chibernot, the more rural and wooded neighborhood of Baqubah. Bill, the unremitting carrier of toilet paper, was on the other side of the building. He'd have to use whatever I could find him as he squat in the corner over the dust covered floor.
Just a day earlier, we were making our way through the abandoned neighborhoods fulfilling our raison d’être: cache and insurgent locating. After turning up nil for the first few hours of sunlight, we entered a courtyard with two pick up trucks and a modest yard that fed into a grass field surrounding three sides of a house. Immediately after searching through the house, we found what we had been looking for: ammo magazines, bags full of huge anti aircraft rounds, bulletproof vests and bundles of wire, rigged with sensors that sent a charge when run over by the wheels of our Strykers. The wire that is hooked to the IED requires no manual operation to be set off, just the weight of one of our vehicles. They were called victim operated IEDs, and we found bundles of wire that made them possible.
By then we learned to burn mostly anything we found. There was a hole in the back already dug, and we threw the vests, wire and many documents found throughout the house into it. One of the many smokers lit a first aid bandage on fire and threw it on top of everything.
But then there was the house. And the trucks.
A good portion of the platoon was in the courtyard already, including my friend Bryan. He was a college graduate who enlisted a little after me, and we got along well due to our sense of humor and because we both called north Texas home. He was a machine gunner in weapons squad, but we got to talk during these lulls in activity when we're sitting around wondering what to do next.
Destroy the vehicles, we were ordered. Finally, something that made sense!
I slipped off my vest and helmet and began my search of some type of blunt object. In a back room I found a hammer and a small pole. I walked out to the first truck and made small work of the windows, mirrors and headlights, smashing glass and breaking bulbs. I popped the engine to find a tangled mess of wires and tubes. I slash, cut and broke everything that wasn't part of the engine and put a brick through the windshield. Bill came by with his knife and slashed the tires. We did all we could, but there was still the other truck.
It was being smashed to bits by others, but this one had room to be flipped. The other was parked right next to a tree, yet this truck was ripe for turning over.
Better call Macco
Men lined one side of the truck to give it the heave-ho onto its side, causing a real big headache for the insurgent who owned it.
God dammit, I had only two payments left!
You guys got it!
One thing Bryan and I had in common was that our names ended in -ton. We created the name Team Destructon for ourselves, forever pledging that together we would destroy any insurgent property (and have fun doing it). Lamps, bowls, tea sets, everything in that house that was capable of being smashed was shattered with the attention to detail and precision only we offered. Our goal was to be the least hospitable guests possible.
Two safes in the house drew our eyes and they were drug out into the yard, next to the only truck still on its tires. We didn't have any C4 with us, so we called another platoon in to rig up the doors to see what was inside. Along the way, they found stuff to put on top of it to see how far in the air they would go. A rock, a boombox, a curious pole and some leftover rounds were thrown on top.
And a partridge in a pear tree
More was added that I didn't see (or document), namely a wheelbarrow. We all moved to another courtyard to stay away from the big blast. Once the dust settled, the guys who rigged up the explosives took a peek into the insides of the safes. Not a damn thing.
We soon left and continued our patrol, going for about thirty minutes before the other platoon clearing on the right side of the street found something. It was a dungeon-esque torture chamber, filled with handcuffed civilians and a few bodies. When asked how long it was since they saw their captors, they replied, "just before you got here."
We held at the house across from the chamber and ransacked it. It was too close for its occupants not to know what was going on at their neighbor's house. A bulletproof vest was found, along with two AK-47s, ammo and a camera tripod (used to film IED attacks, giving them a more professional, cinematic feel). There were mats and blankets on the floor in the living room, and I peeled back a layer to find a full length sword and scabbard. It was all added to the pile I was arranging, along with a radio, two American grenades used for a MK-19 grenade launcher and a couple of bayonets.
Insurgent starter kit
The sword had dried blood on it, giving it an orange tint from the handle to the tip from where it was wiped away. I thought it was a unique souvenir and stuck it into the bag I was using to carry a fold out stretcher (a Skedco for all you military folks). Another fan of cameras quickly grabbed the tripod to use for his own equipment. He still has it, and I still have my sword in my room today.
The tortured Iraqis were being treated and cared for, and it was going to be awhile until the situation was resolved. My platoon sergeant said we'd be there for a couple hours, so we all took off our vests and crammed into one of the rooms. I left my vest and helmet in the shade outside. Others watched the gate and talked lazily about this and that. Most of us fell asleep for those two hours until we got the word to move on.
By then the sun had shifted and my vest and helmet were sitting under the blazing heat for some time, absorbing all the warmth an Iraqi summer sun has to offer. Grabbing it to put on, I almost burned myself on the metal hook bolted onto my helmet that was used for night vision goggles. Well, this is going to get interesting. I slung one of the AKs on my back and pressed on.
In a few steps I was pouring sweat like I just finished a marathon. The heat from the vest and helmet had nowhere to go except into my skin. At every house, I took everything off and doused them with water. I wasn't about to be carried out of there. After an hour, the heat went back to its usual intolerable level, but I was out of water for the rest of the afternoon.
Toward the end of the next day, Matt really had a case of the shits. We had just found an insurgent hospital after a tip from a local, and he wasn't interested in finding buried weapons, just simple bowel relief. Since Bill wasn't around, I went to go look for anything appropriate to wipe with. When times were tough and we had to go in the corner of an abandoned house, we'd use curtains, clothes, anything. But this building was a few rooms with dirt floors and bloody towels. The cleanest thing I could find was an abdominal wrap tinged with crusty blood. Not good enough for Matt (so stubborn with his selection of wipes). In between my mission to find rolls of Charmin, I was collecting the medical supplies and weapons we found so we could document everything before we destroyed all of it.
Matt was still in the corner, waiting. I chanced upon Bill and got his TP to deliver to Matt, held hostage by his own pants. If he had waited, he would have known we were on our way back to the base soon, with plenty of sinks, toilets and yes, rolls upon rolls of toilet paper.
AH
Matt was direct and to the point. He was shitting all right, in a corner room of a makeshift hospital deep in the heart of Chibernot, the more rural and wooded neighborhood of Baqubah. Bill, the unremitting carrier of toilet paper, was on the other side of the building. He'd have to use whatever I could find him as he squat in the corner over the dust covered floor.
Just a day earlier, we were making our way through the abandoned neighborhoods fulfilling our raison d’être: cache and insurgent locating. After turning up nil for the first few hours of sunlight, we entered a courtyard with two pick up trucks and a modest yard that fed into a grass field surrounding three sides of a house. Immediately after searching through the house, we found what we had been looking for: ammo magazines, bags full of huge anti aircraft rounds, bulletproof vests and bundles of wire, rigged with sensors that sent a charge when run over by the wheels of our Strykers. The wire that is hooked to the IED requires no manual operation to be set off, just the weight of one of our vehicles. They were called victim operated IEDs, and we found bundles of wire that made them possible.
By then we learned to burn mostly anything we found. There was a hole in the back already dug, and we threw the vests, wire and many documents found throughout the house into it. One of the many smokers lit a first aid bandage on fire and threw it on top of everything.
But then there was the house. And the trucks.
A good portion of the platoon was in the courtyard already, including my friend Bryan. He was a college graduate who enlisted a little after me, and we got along well due to our sense of humor and because we both called north Texas home. He was a machine gunner in weapons squad, but we got to talk during these lulls in activity when we're sitting around wondering what to do next.
Destroy the vehicles, we were ordered. Finally, something that made sense!
I slipped off my vest and helmet and began my search of some type of blunt object. In a back room I found a hammer and a small pole. I walked out to the first truck and made small work of the windows, mirrors and headlights, smashing glass and breaking bulbs. I popped the engine to find a tangled mess of wires and tubes. I slash, cut and broke everything that wasn't part of the engine and put a brick through the windshield. Bill came by with his knife and slashed the tires. We did all we could, but there was still the other truck.
It was being smashed to bits by others, but this one had room to be flipped. The other was parked right next to a tree, yet this truck was ripe for turning over.
Better call Macco
Men lined one side of the truck to give it the heave-ho onto its side, causing a real big headache for the insurgent who owned it.
God dammit, I had only two payments left!
You guys got it!
One thing Bryan and I had in common was that our names ended in -ton. We created the name Team Destructon for ourselves, forever pledging that together we would destroy any insurgent property (and have fun doing it). Lamps, bowls, tea sets, everything in that house that was capable of being smashed was shattered with the attention to detail and precision only we offered. Our goal was to be the least hospitable guests possible.
Two safes in the house drew our eyes and they were drug out into the yard, next to the only truck still on its tires. We didn't have any C4 with us, so we called another platoon in to rig up the doors to see what was inside. Along the way, they found stuff to put on top of it to see how far in the air they would go. A rock, a boombox, a curious pole and some leftover rounds were thrown on top.
And a partridge in a pear tree
More was added that I didn't see (or document), namely a wheelbarrow. We all moved to another courtyard to stay away from the big blast. Once the dust settled, the guys who rigged up the explosives took a peek into the insides of the safes. Not a damn thing.
We soon left and continued our patrol, going for about thirty minutes before the other platoon clearing on the right side of the street found something. It was a dungeon-esque torture chamber, filled with handcuffed civilians and a few bodies. When asked how long it was since they saw their captors, they replied, "just before you got here."
We held at the house across from the chamber and ransacked it. It was too close for its occupants not to know what was going on at their neighbor's house. A bulletproof vest was found, along with two AK-47s, ammo and a camera tripod (used to film IED attacks, giving them a more professional, cinematic feel). There were mats and blankets on the floor in the living room, and I peeled back a layer to find a full length sword and scabbard. It was all added to the pile I was arranging, along with a radio, two American grenades used for a MK-19 grenade launcher and a couple of bayonets.
Insurgent starter kit
The sword had dried blood on it, giving it an orange tint from the handle to the tip from where it was wiped away. I thought it was a unique souvenir and stuck it into the bag I was using to carry a fold out stretcher (a Skedco for all you military folks). Another fan of cameras quickly grabbed the tripod to use for his own equipment. He still has it, and I still have my sword in my room today.
The tortured Iraqis were being treated and cared for, and it was going to be awhile until the situation was resolved. My platoon sergeant said we'd be there for a couple hours, so we all took off our vests and crammed into one of the rooms. I left my vest and helmet in the shade outside. Others watched the gate and talked lazily about this and that. Most of us fell asleep for those two hours until we got the word to move on.
By then the sun had shifted and my vest and helmet were sitting under the blazing heat for some time, absorbing all the warmth an Iraqi summer sun has to offer. Grabbing it to put on, I almost burned myself on the metal hook bolted onto my helmet that was used for night vision goggles. Well, this is going to get interesting. I slung one of the AKs on my back and pressed on.
In a few steps I was pouring sweat like I just finished a marathon. The heat from the vest and helmet had nowhere to go except into my skin. At every house, I took everything off and doused them with water. I wasn't about to be carried out of there. After an hour, the heat went back to its usual intolerable level, but I was out of water for the rest of the afternoon.
Toward the end of the next day, Matt really had a case of the shits. We had just found an insurgent hospital after a tip from a local, and he wasn't interested in finding buried weapons, just simple bowel relief. Since Bill wasn't around, I went to go look for anything appropriate to wipe with. When times were tough and we had to go in the corner of an abandoned house, we'd use curtains, clothes, anything. But this building was a few rooms with dirt floors and bloody towels. The cleanest thing I could find was an abdominal wrap tinged with crusty blood. Not good enough for Matt (so stubborn with his selection of wipes). In between my mission to find rolls of Charmin, I was collecting the medical supplies and weapons we found so we could document everything before we destroyed all of it.
Matt was still in the corner, waiting. I chanced upon Bill and got his TP to deliver to Matt, held hostage by his own pants. If he had waited, he would have known we were on our way back to the base soon, with plenty of sinks, toilets and yes, rolls upon rolls of toilet paper.
AH
Monday, February 11, 2008
Photo Story Monday - City on Fire
We all agreed, it was about time to get some sort of routine going. Like the good ol' days.
In Mosul we had a schedule of patrol times and surveillance missions two weeks into the future, and our operations were like clockwork. We'd do a two hour patrol that possibly went over thirty minutes, and we came back. Hell, we even put Lost and Prison Break on pause, did a patrol and came back to finish the episode. Easy as pie.
Our move to Baghdad shook it up a bit, but we still had long stretches where we'd be on the base relaxing with not much to worry about until the next big mission. We occasionally were on recall status in case a high value target was found, but we were far from Baghdad (half an hour at least). We only got called once: British SAS killed one insurgent and a captured a few others in the outskirts of Taji. We were called to pick them up in the middle of the night and of course, to carry the body back. I provided security for the four guys carrying it and could see their struggle; the corpse was well into the 200 pound bracket.
The move to Baqubah destroyed any semblance of functionality and preparedness. In the first 46 days of operations, my platoon had five days with no missions scheduled. And those were intermittent, spread out and not for the purpose of rest, but to fix vehicles, restock on ammunition and plan the mission coming up early in the morning.
We held this tempo through March into June, when reinforcements arrived. By then we controlled an outpost in the city. It was just a big house converted into a patrol base. The family was paid to leave and move in with relatives. It was there where we finally resumed a normal schedule, or as normal as possible. We didn't have patrols or hits scheduled out to the next week, but we knew when they'd be happening on that particular day.
In July we started a series of humanitarian missions for the displaced citizens of Baqubah. A few months prior it was a ghost town with many abandoned houses. Now the people were coming back, and they were hungry. The mission would be 'food drops,' which involved trucking in bags of rice and flour to give away to the locals. We'd simply go down there to make sure everything went well.
Rice and flour? We were told this was a stop on the Led Zeppelin reunion tour!
There was only shade provided by the large shipping containers that held the food, so me and Dozer squat in the dust and watched the Iraqi Army check IDs and hand over bags. Once in awhile the crowd would get too close and one of the IA dudes would shoot a burst into the air with an AK-47, which was just a wee bit excessive. It happened so many times over the course of two hours that we didn't flinch anymore when shots rang out every few minutes.
A few of these food drops would happen in the next several weeks. They would change locations so that no one could plant a bomb to kill the hundreds of people that showed up for the charity of the United States and Iraqi government. My team and a couple of our snipers were tasked to move to an abandoned school to overwatch the the long lines to be sure there was no weapons or foul play afoot. We took our vests and helmets off as two guys watched the crowd. Everyone else was fooling around with the supplies found in the eerily empty classrooms. A stack of frisbees were quickly thrown out the windows to the kids below, and we found a much needed cache: piles and piles of chalk.
We drew pictures and wrote messages on the walls for the kids to come back to. Shane went above and beyond and started a masterpiece with no discernible pattern, creating a beautiful outburst of color and imagination.
In those days we rarely created, and after that mission it was back to the grind.
We received information about various bad guys in the outlying neighborhood of Tahrir, where we were living in the outpost for days at a time. The sources said they had since fled their houses but left their cars. We'd walk there, search for anything of relevance and completely destroy their vehicles with incendiary grenades. These were the more entertaining moments, of smashing windshields and headlights with the crowbar-like prying tool we always carried. Then came the grenades, burning each car to a frame.
Were they even cars belonging to bad guys? Hell, we weren't completely sure.
It was time to go. We were in a routine after all. The Strykers would be meeting us at an intersection a few blocks away to avoid driving any more than they had to, avoiding IEDs buried deep underground. The first few guys to climb aboard tossed colored smoke next to the vehicles, creating a swirling pattern in the wind reminiscent of Shane's drawing on the school wall.
It was the start of month thirteen of the deployment, and we were headed back for a much needed rest. The home stretch was ahead, and we had to keep alert to keep alive. We'd break routine in the next few weeks by re-clearing Old Baqubah, the most dangerous neighborhood of the city, and set up a new outpost. But we didn't know it yet. It was almost getting easy again, like the good ol' days.
AH
In Mosul we had a schedule of patrol times and surveillance missions two weeks into the future, and our operations were like clockwork. We'd do a two hour patrol that possibly went over thirty minutes, and we came back. Hell, we even put Lost and Prison Break on pause, did a patrol and came back to finish the episode. Easy as pie.
Our move to Baghdad shook it up a bit, but we still had long stretches where we'd be on the base relaxing with not much to worry about until the next big mission. We occasionally were on recall status in case a high value target was found, but we were far from Baghdad (half an hour at least). We only got called once: British SAS killed one insurgent and a captured a few others in the outskirts of Taji. We were called to pick them up in the middle of the night and of course, to carry the body back. I provided security for the four guys carrying it and could see their struggle; the corpse was well into the 200 pound bracket.
The move to Baqubah destroyed any semblance of functionality and preparedness. In the first 46 days of operations, my platoon had five days with no missions scheduled. And those were intermittent, spread out and not for the purpose of rest, but to fix vehicles, restock on ammunition and plan the mission coming up early in the morning.
We held this tempo through March into June, when reinforcements arrived. By then we controlled an outpost in the city. It was just a big house converted into a patrol base. The family was paid to leave and move in with relatives. It was there where we finally resumed a normal schedule, or as normal as possible. We didn't have patrols or hits scheduled out to the next week, but we knew when they'd be happening on that particular day.
In July we started a series of humanitarian missions for the displaced citizens of Baqubah. A few months prior it was a ghost town with many abandoned houses. Now the people were coming back, and they were hungry. The mission would be 'food drops,' which involved trucking in bags of rice and flour to give away to the locals. We'd simply go down there to make sure everything went well.
Rice and flour? We were told this was a stop on the Led Zeppelin reunion tour!
There was only shade provided by the large shipping containers that held the food, so me and Dozer squat in the dust and watched the Iraqi Army check IDs and hand over bags. Once in awhile the crowd would get too close and one of the IA dudes would shoot a burst into the air with an AK-47, which was just a wee bit excessive. It happened so many times over the course of two hours that we didn't flinch anymore when shots rang out every few minutes.
A few of these food drops would happen in the next several weeks. They would change locations so that no one could plant a bomb to kill the hundreds of people that showed up for the charity of the United States and Iraqi government. My team and a couple of our snipers were tasked to move to an abandoned school to overwatch the the long lines to be sure there was no weapons or foul play afoot. We took our vests and helmets off as two guys watched the crowd. Everyone else was fooling around with the supplies found in the eerily empty classrooms. A stack of frisbees were quickly thrown out the windows to the kids below, and we found a much needed cache: piles and piles of chalk.
We drew pictures and wrote messages on the walls for the kids to come back to. Shane went above and beyond and started a masterpiece with no discernible pattern, creating a beautiful outburst of color and imagination.
In those days we rarely created, and after that mission it was back to the grind.
We received information about various bad guys in the outlying neighborhood of Tahrir, where we were living in the outpost for days at a time. The sources said they had since fled their houses but left their cars. We'd walk there, search for anything of relevance and completely destroy their vehicles with incendiary grenades. These were the more entertaining moments, of smashing windshields and headlights with the crowbar-like prying tool we always carried. Then came the grenades, burning each car to a frame.
Were they even cars belonging to bad guys? Hell, we weren't completely sure.
It was time to go. We were in a routine after all. The Strykers would be meeting us at an intersection a few blocks away to avoid driving any more than they had to, avoiding IEDs buried deep underground. The first few guys to climb aboard tossed colored smoke next to the vehicles, creating a swirling pattern in the wind reminiscent of Shane's drawing on the school wall.
It was the start of month thirteen of the deployment, and we were headed back for a much needed rest. The home stretch was ahead, and we had to keep alert to keep alive. We'd break routine in the next few weeks by re-clearing Old Baqubah, the most dangerous neighborhood of the city, and set up a new outpost. But we didn't know it yet. It was almost getting easy again, like the good ol' days.
AH
Monday, February 04, 2008
Photo Story Monday - Wires, Skulls And Switches
It always comes back to those fucking palm groves.
A week in that thick, tangled, humid mess of trees, bushes and huts, and it was without a doubt the worst week of my life. We set up on a road along the Diyala River to conduct a huge search and clear of the groves. Nearly every man who could walk was taking part, and from my earlier account, you can tell it was becoming a custom to overload myself with superfluous equipment (though carrying both bolt cutters and a shotgun to use on the three total locks we found was a wise move). In ten minutes my neck was already burning with all the weight on my back. After half a mile down the road, the whines of the Stryker engines were overcome with the ambiance of the wind blowing around the leaves and trash on the side of the road. We found our entrance point.
It took awhile for everyone to get lined up so we could move as one giant unit forward. I watched my team leader for every move and mimicked his actions. Every halt, every crouch we together. We were about fifteen feet into the tree line when a transmission came broken over the radio. "injured....explosion...targeting dismounted personnel." Son of a bitch, man. We all knew there would come a day when insurgents would set up Tamagotchi IEDs to explode right in our fucking faces, but we really didn't want it to be that day. Fifteen feet into our clearing mission that was several square miles over seven days, and we were paranoid to take a single step.
So, like, was it really sandy and deserty in Iraq?
Every few yards we walked, we stopped. And walked. And stopped. And walked. And stopped cold, because our interpreter spotted an RPG round hanging in a tree above our heads. While we silently wondered if it was a booby trap or just a stray rocket, the kind explosive ordnance disposal units came out to collect and blow it up.
And so we went onward! For about twenty more feet. I could go on like this, but we did a lot of stopping, laying on the ground and waiting for something the next six days.
Eventually we'd break out of the palms and start our patrols and the continuous pursuit of caches. Climbing the stairs to a roof, we found something for the first time: a wire connected to a battery, waiting for someone to set off the charge wired to a deep-buried IED down the street. A chair was knocked over and a chai tea set was near the door, waiting to be used. They had left in a hurry, and not too long ago.
Worst job ever for a jihadist with ADD
One look over the railing and it could be easily seen where the wires went: down a pole, over the road and across the field directly in front of the house. From the ground, it probably wouldn't have been noticed until it was too late. Luckily we found it while the city was deserted and no one was at the switch.
Being the perpetual junior guy on the squad, I always had to do the most unsavory and dangerous things when just one man was needed. I was told to run out to the field, grab the wire and run back. The idea was rooted in a cartoonish world but made sense at the time: with the force of me running, I'd yank the wire and disconnect it. Right? Right. Exposed for all the world to see, I sprinted toward the light pole where the wire started on the surface, grabbed it and ran back into the house with the battery on the roof. From there I could pull on the wire from the the safety of a cinderblock wall in front of half of my body.
After thirty yards of wire, I hit a snag. I pulled hard with the help of a couple dudes, and with a final tug the wire came loose, broken. We reeled in the rest and set it on the floor.
"Well, the fuck you waitin' for?" Bill asked.
"Umm."
He was implying there was more wire to grab out there. We figured it was held under a barrel sitting there nonchalantly. I sprinted back out there, slower than before and stopped well short of the barrel to look for the end. It was lodged under it in a clutter of a few rocks. Once again I ran back to the house to pull in the rest of the wire. In the future we'd get the idea to burn any wire we found, but for now, we would (read: I would) carry the 300-odd feet of wire in a backpack for the duration of the mission.
Can you spot the wire trail?
After all that commotion, it was time to check out the rest of the house. The backyard yielded a smörgåsbord of homemade explosives. Bags filled with white powder (no, Courtney Love, the other kind of white powder) littered the ground. It looked like a wild cat got into one of them, as we found a skeleton nearby. Somehow, it found its way onto my shoulder.
With the famous skull and the infamous shotgun Bill was allergic to
Nothing of note was in the rest of the house, except for a light switch with Arabic writing above it. Our interpreter was looking over documents found in the corner and I called him over to ask him what it said.
"Danger," he replied.
AH
A week in that thick, tangled, humid mess of trees, bushes and huts, and it was without a doubt the worst week of my life. We set up on a road along the Diyala River to conduct a huge search and clear of the groves. Nearly every man who could walk was taking part, and from my earlier account, you can tell it was becoming a custom to overload myself with superfluous equipment (though carrying both bolt cutters and a shotgun to use on the three total locks we found was a wise move). In ten minutes my neck was already burning with all the weight on my back. After half a mile down the road, the whines of the Stryker engines were overcome with the ambiance of the wind blowing around the leaves and trash on the side of the road. We found our entrance point.
It took awhile for everyone to get lined up so we could move as one giant unit forward. I watched my team leader for every move and mimicked his actions. Every halt, every crouch we together. We were about fifteen feet into the tree line when a transmission came broken over the radio. "injured....explosion...targeting dismounted personnel." Son of a bitch, man. We all knew there would come a day when insurgents would set up Tamagotchi IEDs to explode right in our fucking faces, but we really didn't want it to be that day. Fifteen feet into our clearing mission that was several square miles over seven days, and we were paranoid to take a single step.
So, like, was it really sandy and deserty in Iraq?
Every few yards we walked, we stopped. And walked. And stopped. And walked. And stopped cold, because our interpreter spotted an RPG round hanging in a tree above our heads. While we silently wondered if it was a booby trap or just a stray rocket, the kind explosive ordnance disposal units came out to collect and blow it up.
And so we went onward! For about twenty more feet. I could go on like this, but we did a lot of stopping, laying on the ground and waiting for something the next six days.
Eventually we'd break out of the palms and start our patrols and the continuous pursuit of caches. Climbing the stairs to a roof, we found something for the first time: a wire connected to a battery, waiting for someone to set off the charge wired to a deep-buried IED down the street. A chair was knocked over and a chai tea set was near the door, waiting to be used. They had left in a hurry, and not too long ago.
Worst job ever for a jihadist with ADD
One look over the railing and it could be easily seen where the wires went: down a pole, over the road and across the field directly in front of the house. From the ground, it probably wouldn't have been noticed until it was too late. Luckily we found it while the city was deserted and no one was at the switch.
Being the perpetual junior guy on the squad, I always had to do the most unsavory and dangerous things when just one man was needed. I was told to run out to the field, grab the wire and run back. The idea was rooted in a cartoonish world but made sense at the time: with the force of me running, I'd yank the wire and disconnect it. Right? Right. Exposed for all the world to see, I sprinted toward the light pole where the wire started on the surface, grabbed it and ran back into the house with the battery on the roof. From there I could pull on the wire from the the safety of a cinderblock wall in front of half of my body.
After thirty yards of wire, I hit a snag. I pulled hard with the help of a couple dudes, and with a final tug the wire came loose, broken. We reeled in the rest and set it on the floor.
"Well, the fuck you waitin' for?" Bill asked.
"Umm."
He was implying there was more wire to grab out there. We figured it was held under a barrel sitting there nonchalantly. I sprinted back out there, slower than before and stopped well short of the barrel to look for the end. It was lodged under it in a clutter of a few rocks. Once again I ran back to the house to pull in the rest of the wire. In the future we'd get the idea to burn any wire we found, but for now, we would (read: I would) carry the 300-odd feet of wire in a backpack for the duration of the mission.
Can you spot the wire trail?
After all that commotion, it was time to check out the rest of the house. The backyard yielded a smörgåsbord of homemade explosives. Bags filled with white powder (no, Courtney Love, the other kind of white powder) littered the ground. It looked like a wild cat got into one of them, as we found a skeleton nearby. Somehow, it found its way onto my shoulder.
With the famous skull and the infamous shotgun Bill was allergic to
Nothing of note was in the rest of the house, except for a light switch with Arabic writing above it. Our interpreter was looking over documents found in the corner and I called him over to ask him what it said.
"Danger," he replied.
AH
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Courageous Courier
I must admit, I've become a little obsessed over the issue of the presently shitty G.I. Bill and the efforts of two Senators that aim to give it an overhaul fitting to the service our military has performed the past seven years. I wrote about the topic yesterday for Vet Voice before I chanced upon another piece. With a hat-tip to Blackfive, who linked to the Army Times.
The money quote:
The Bush administration has remained wary of the bill, because of its $5.4 billion cost and concerns that significant improvements in veterans’ education benefits might encourage people to get out of the military to go to college, which in turn could hurt military readiness.
So the ridiculously out of control spending of the war in Iraq aside, Bush is all of a sudden fiscally sagacious when it comes to $5.4 billion clams. You might recognize that as the amount spent in Iraq over a period of nineteen days. So if this is the best argument they have to reject a new G.I. Bill, I have a little spending advice of my own: stop paying Blackwater and other mercs a cool half million to go gun crazy in Baghdad, and leave Iraq three weeks ahead of schedule, whenever that happens (unless McCain is elected, then we'll be bomb-bomb-bombing our way into a recession as soldiers prepare for their deca-deployments).
The second half of that quote is so finely crafted by the non-serving administration that my head is still spinning twelve hours after I read it. It should be taken like a fine brandy, swirled around the brain, every syllable savored for its underlying neglect for our veterans - not only is the administration aware of how woefully inadequate the current G.I. Bill is, they aim to keep it that way. Exactly what veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan deserve for their multiple deployments and dedication to this country is being held hostage. They must be living in a world where half a trillion dollars spent in a needless war, creating more insurgents, sending back hundreds of thousands of veterans, some of them disabled for life, and telling them to fuck off when they get back from war is building military readiness.
Go to Iraq for a year. No, make that fifteen months. Shut the fuck up. Take this Humvee with plastic doors and do your patrols while KBR counts their money. Risk your life on behalf of an ungrateful nation, and when you want to finally get out and make something of yourself, too fucking bad. By the way, care to reenlist?
The military, government et. al do not have our backs. That is nothing new. But even civilians are lining up to take credence out of a reformed G.I. Bill. From the acclaimed Findlay Courier:
For many, but not for all. We need to face the fact that not all of our military veterans are college material. Just last week an analysis of Army enlistee education levels was released by the National Priorities Project, revealing that those with a high school diploma dropped to just under 71 percent in 2007. The increasing unpopularity of the Iraq War has made it an extreme challenge for recruiters to get enough quality young people to sign on. The original goal, established when the draft was replaced with an all-volunteer military, was to have no more than 10 percent of recruits lacking a high school diploma. But current desperation has eroded that plan. The report also indicated that at least 70 percent of Army recruits in FY 2007 were not high school graduates.
I imagine the guy who wrote this had his feet kicked up on his desk, tapping his loafers and imagined all the po' folks who stopped gang banging, dropped out of high school and joined the Army. I would surmise that I know a lot more people in the military than this anonymous editorial scribe, and there are a considerable amount of them already drawing their paltry G.I. Bill money two months after separating from the Army. Yes, shadowy figure of Findlay, Ohio. We want to use the G.I. Bill. A friend of mine is going to the firefighting academy so that he may continue to serve his community. Will he be able to pay for it all with the current bill? I don't know. The editorial doesn't offer any ideas besides vaguely asserting that not everyone deserves a full G.I. Bill and enlightens us that "If a new GI Bill is written, it should be one that realistically benefits all deserving troops, not just those who are suited to college." Thanks for the insight! And who deems someone "deserving" anyhow? No one is certain if they belong in school until they get there. Rising from the depression and World War II, there was a whole generation of folks who weren't properly educated but needed a new start. The G.I. Bill of 1944 educated fourteen Nobel Prize winners and two dozen Pulitzer Prize winners, including authors Joseph Heller, Norman Mailer, and Frank McCourt. Giving everyone a shot is not as risky and expensive as this editorial alludes to. Not even a little bit.
Hey, Findlay, Ohio. Do you like the acting style of Gene Hackman, the music of Johnny Cash and the poetry of James Wright? They all used a full G.I. Bill not afforded to the hapless goons of today's military. Another generation of young volunteers waiting to become tomorrow's lawyers, doctors and firemen are being stifled by this inane reasoning.
Support The Troops, indeed.
AH
The money quote:
The Bush administration has remained wary of the bill, because of its $5.4 billion cost and concerns that significant improvements in veterans’ education benefits might encourage people to get out of the military to go to college, which in turn could hurt military readiness.
So the ridiculously out of control spending of the war in Iraq aside, Bush is all of a sudden fiscally sagacious when it comes to $5.4 billion clams. You might recognize that as the amount spent in Iraq over a period of nineteen days. So if this is the best argument they have to reject a new G.I. Bill, I have a little spending advice of my own: stop paying Blackwater and other mercs a cool half million to go gun crazy in Baghdad, and leave Iraq three weeks ahead of schedule, whenever that happens (unless McCain is elected, then we'll be bomb-bomb-bombing our way into a recession as soldiers prepare for their deca-deployments).
The second half of that quote is so finely crafted by the non-serving administration that my head is still spinning twelve hours after I read it. It should be taken like a fine brandy, swirled around the brain, every syllable savored for its underlying neglect for our veterans - not only is the administration aware of how woefully inadequate the current G.I. Bill is, they aim to keep it that way. Exactly what veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan deserve for their multiple deployments and dedication to this country is being held hostage. They must be living in a world where half a trillion dollars spent in a needless war, creating more insurgents, sending back hundreds of thousands of veterans, some of them disabled for life, and telling them to fuck off when they get back from war is building military readiness.
Go to Iraq for a year. No, make that fifteen months. Shut the fuck up. Take this Humvee with plastic doors and do your patrols while KBR counts their money. Risk your life on behalf of an ungrateful nation, and when you want to finally get out and make something of yourself, too fucking bad. By the way, care to reenlist?
The military, government et. al do not have our backs. That is nothing new. But even civilians are lining up to take credence out of a reformed G.I. Bill. From the acclaimed Findlay Courier:
For many, but not for all. We need to face the fact that not all of our military veterans are college material. Just last week an analysis of Army enlistee education levels was released by the National Priorities Project, revealing that those with a high school diploma dropped to just under 71 percent in 2007. The increasing unpopularity of the Iraq War has made it an extreme challenge for recruiters to get enough quality young people to sign on. The original goal, established when the draft was replaced with an all-volunteer military, was to have no more than 10 percent of recruits lacking a high school diploma. But current desperation has eroded that plan. The report also indicated that at least 70 percent of Army recruits in FY 2007 were not high school graduates.
I imagine the guy who wrote this had his feet kicked up on his desk, tapping his loafers and imagined all the po' folks who stopped gang banging, dropped out of high school and joined the Army. I would surmise that I know a lot more people in the military than this anonymous editorial scribe, and there are a considerable amount of them already drawing their paltry G.I. Bill money two months after separating from the Army. Yes, shadowy figure of Findlay, Ohio. We want to use the G.I. Bill. A friend of mine is going to the firefighting academy so that he may continue to serve his community. Will he be able to pay for it all with the current bill? I don't know. The editorial doesn't offer any ideas besides vaguely asserting that not everyone deserves a full G.I. Bill and enlightens us that "If a new GI Bill is written, it should be one that realistically benefits all deserving troops, not just those who are suited to college." Thanks for the insight! And who deems someone "deserving" anyhow? No one is certain if they belong in school until they get there. Rising from the depression and World War II, there was a whole generation of folks who weren't properly educated but needed a new start. The G.I. Bill of 1944 educated fourteen Nobel Prize winners and two dozen Pulitzer Prize winners, including authors Joseph Heller, Norman Mailer, and Frank McCourt. Giving everyone a shot is not as risky and expensive as this editorial alludes to. Not even a little bit.
Hey, Findlay, Ohio. Do you like the acting style of Gene Hackman, the music of Johnny Cash and the poetry of James Wright? They all used a full G.I. Bill not afforded to the hapless goons of today's military. Another generation of young volunteers waiting to become tomorrow's lawyers, doctors and firemen are being stifled by this inane reasoning.
Support The Troops, indeed.
AH
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
New Vet Voice Piece - Shame Of A Nation
A new piece is up at Vet Voice concerning a topic very close to my heart: education. As I move closer to fall, I'm going to join the educated masses utilizing a G.I. Bill that is everything but generous, falling far short of the benefits enjoyed by millions of veterans before me.
There exists a mantra so cliché, so endlessly hollow that it practically holds little meaning in 2008, as interest in the duel wars has waned considerably since the respective invasions many years ago. I speak, of course, about "Support The Troops." Countless people throughout the country slapped yellow ribbons on their car adorned with the slogan with scarcely a thought, abstaining themselves from the guilt of being the nation that sent their soldiers to one war of reason (Afghanistan) with numbers too few, and another war (Iraq) that no one can rationally explain. Hey, don't look at me, I support the troops.
There are organizations out there who have taken an active interest in the lives of soldiers, post service. The Fund For Veteran's Education is a non-profit that awards scholarships to war veterans that are currently enrolled in college or a technical school. One of the biggest misconceptions civilians have about the military is that education is completely paid for once you leave the service. The common phrase used is "free college," and that is a myth that The Fund For Veteran's Education wants to bust wide open.
To read more, vist Vet Voice.
Previous articles:
Overlooked Heroes Of The War On Terror
Releasing Anbar...Then What?
Diyala: The Forgotten Fight
AH
There exists a mantra so cliché, so endlessly hollow that it practically holds little meaning in 2008, as interest in the duel wars has waned considerably since the respective invasions many years ago. I speak, of course, about "Support The Troops." Countless people throughout the country slapped yellow ribbons on their car adorned with the slogan with scarcely a thought, abstaining themselves from the guilt of being the nation that sent their soldiers to one war of reason (Afghanistan) with numbers too few, and another war (Iraq) that no one can rationally explain. Hey, don't look at me, I support the troops.
There are organizations out there who have taken an active interest in the lives of soldiers, post service. The Fund For Veteran's Education is a non-profit that awards scholarships to war veterans that are currently enrolled in college or a technical school. One of the biggest misconceptions civilians have about the military is that education is completely paid for once you leave the service. The common phrase used is "free college," and that is a myth that The Fund For Veteran's Education wants to bust wide open.
To read more, vist Vet Voice.
Previous articles:
Overlooked Heroes Of The War On Terror
Releasing Anbar...Then What?
Diyala: The Forgotten Fight
AH
Monday, January 28, 2008
Photo Story Monday - The Reality Of War
Every Monday for a few months, I've been bringing you tales of battlefield excitement, from ducking machine gun fire to uncovering mass graves. While these stories are intense and need to be told, they really don't show for you the true realities one experiences in war: infinite, soul crushing boredom.
Behind every firefight, every raid, every huge clearing mission, lies hours and hours of downtime, plan changes, reconfiguration of plan changes, cancellations, earlier start times and later start times. After the intensity of knocking down gates and dragging away a boogeyman, we'd sit on couches - or in Strykers - for hours, waiting on 'the word,' the ubiquitous order from above, to pack up and head back. Exfiltration, a fine art it seemed, would take at least an hour if everything went perfectly.
If you've been a reader for awhile, you probably guessed that is never the case.
L-R: Dozer, Payday, Killa Kimes and The Dude With No Nickname
Gearing up for a move to our outpost in the Tahrir neighborhood of Baqubah. Notice only one man in a vest. If we were leaving at nine, we'd be out there at eight, and leave around 9:45 after getting radio problems taken care of. Most of us knew this all too well and waited for the last minute.
Payday and Matt in Mosul
A staple of mounted patrols at the beginning of our deployment: dropping down and having a nap. Standing all day in the hatch will get your head blown off, which is all the more reason to relax.
Hey kid, shouldn't you be at school?
Some moments were dull when action was happening only feet away. As members of my squad fired on an IED emplacer and a helicopter blew up his car with a missile, I was downstairs keeping an eye on the front door - and the kid who lived in the house. Along with Payday, we chuckled at the hijinks of Sylvester.
Ten seconds!.....I mean one minute. Sorry.
We spent untold hours waiting for explosive ordanance disposal teams to get to the IEDS we found. Not to take away from them, but there was a lot for them to do in Baqubah. This particular day, we waited so long that some guys took off their tops to get some relief from the heat.
From bottom to top: Bill, Cooter, and Brian Chevalier
The most common cure for boredom during a deployment: gambling! For hours we'd sit around, gathered around a cot and play Texas Hold 'Em. In Mosul we had our own poker table and played almost every night. Later on in the deployment we didn't play as much, but every gambler has fond memories of those times. My favorite: going all in with three-of-a-kind threes, only to lose my stack, and the game - to Dozer's three-of-a-kind fours.
These are among countless war stories we have but never get told. Like sitting on cots with sweat pouring down our faces, debating the war, evolution and if NASCAR really is a sport, or crowding around to see the newest Hollywood release on a bootleg DVD. Those are the moments soldiers revere the most; the stories you've never heard.
AH
Behind every firefight, every raid, every huge clearing mission, lies hours and hours of downtime, plan changes, reconfiguration of plan changes, cancellations, earlier start times and later start times. After the intensity of knocking down gates and dragging away a boogeyman, we'd sit on couches - or in Strykers - for hours, waiting on 'the word,' the ubiquitous order from above, to pack up and head back. Exfiltration, a fine art it seemed, would take at least an hour if everything went perfectly.
If you've been a reader for awhile, you probably guessed that is never the case.
L-R: Dozer, Payday, Killa Kimes and The Dude With No Nickname
Gearing up for a move to our outpost in the Tahrir neighborhood of Baqubah. Notice only one man in a vest. If we were leaving at nine, we'd be out there at eight, and leave around 9:45 after getting radio problems taken care of. Most of us knew this all too well and waited for the last minute.
Payday and Matt in Mosul
A staple of mounted patrols at the beginning of our deployment: dropping down and having a nap. Standing all day in the hatch will get your head blown off, which is all the more reason to relax.
Hey kid, shouldn't you be at school?
Some moments were dull when action was happening only feet away. As members of my squad fired on an IED emplacer and a helicopter blew up his car with a missile, I was downstairs keeping an eye on the front door - and the kid who lived in the house. Along with Payday, we chuckled at the hijinks of Sylvester.
Ten seconds!.....I mean one minute. Sorry.
We spent untold hours waiting for explosive ordanance disposal teams to get to the IEDS we found. Not to take away from them, but there was a lot for them to do in Baqubah. This particular day, we waited so long that some guys took off their tops to get some relief from the heat.
From bottom to top: Bill, Cooter, and Brian Chevalier
The most common cure for boredom during a deployment: gambling! For hours we'd sit around, gathered around a cot and play Texas Hold 'Em. In Mosul we had our own poker table and played almost every night. Later on in the deployment we didn't play as much, but every gambler has fond memories of those times. My favorite: going all in with three-of-a-kind threes, only to lose my stack, and the game - to Dozer's three-of-a-kind fours.
These are among countless war stories we have but never get told. Like sitting on cots with sweat pouring down our faces, debating the war, evolution and if NASCAR really is a sport, or crowding around to see the newest Hollywood release on a bootleg DVD. Those are the moments soldiers revere the most; the stories you've never heard.
AH
Monday, January 21, 2008
Photo Story Monday - Running Into Problems
Trudging. Walking. Strolling. No other thing was more common for our tour than the good ol' fashioned patrol. In Mosul we did it from our armored Strykers to show the world we could keep it under control without setting foot on the ground. We'd only get out if something happened (a sniper taking shots, IED, etc). In Baghdad it changed because the mission changed. We were constantly on the ground to clear houses and snoop out caches.
When we got to Baqubah and once found fifty IEDs on a stretch of road less than a mile long, we figured it might be a good idea to walk even more often.
Missions became longer and started earlier so we could walk in from miles away. It was the tail end of May and we had begun to feel the summer heat creeping in from a mild winter. Everyone had a distinct memory of the Mosul summer, and we were preparing for another one further south.
In the darkness of May 18 we began to clear and search scattered houses and lots. Without electricity and the sun to help, we covered the walls, ditches and trunks of cars with the beams of our flashlights. You could see us coming from a mile away.
We chanced upon a big hulk of machinery in an otherwise empty house. With a single flashlight on it, it was difficult to take in exactly what it was. Several dudes gathered around with beams dancing around it. We quickly recognized the importance of our find. It was a Dishka anti-aircraft gun, the same type used by the insurgent-turned concerned local citizen group 1920 Revolution Brigade to shoot at us from a rise in Baghdad after downing a Blackwater helicopter. It was bad news to see it in those parts, even if it was a little unkempt and rusty. We sat on the floor waiting for a decision to be made about what to do with it. We left without it being resolved, and another platoon came in to take care of it. I'm not sure what the fate of the disheveled weapon was...
Soon it was daylight and we had already been clearing for hours. Crossing a small stream, we walked into a huge field with isolated houses a hundred feet or more apart. The first stretch of open area was the worst. It looked to be more than a quarter of a mile away until we reached cover and concealment from enemy fire. In between, it was tilled, flat land with not even long grass to hide ourselves. A suicide run.
I was nearly at the end of my platoon in the long chain of men cutting across the field. The three line squads would hold two houses while our machine gun teams came up behind us. To our distant left was a road running parallel with our movement, clustered with houses stretching endlessly out of view, reaching an area where we'd find a mass grave in a little more than a week. I was alert and my eyes open, but not in the direction of the road. I was watching for huge dirt clots that would bring a man tumbling down if he wasn't careful. I was about fifty yards from the guy in front of me, and he was nearing the gate to our house.
Suddenly, shots rang out. Being a common noise to hear, no one changed their speed and kept walking along. Then some more crackled. Shit, they were close. We began to pick up a light jog. Crack-crack-crack. Fuck! As one of the last guys, I sprinted all the way into the gate. I ran cross country when I was younger and learned long ago how to control my breathing. Running was never a problem for me, and I was glad as hell to be able to use that when my own two legs meant the safety of a concrete wall or a bullet to the brain. I slid into the courtyard, where everyone was panting and trying to figure out what the hell. It was determined the shooting was coming from the other side of the road. The insurgents weren't original, but they were smart.
My squad leader quickly closed the gate as firing from our side started over the wall. No one knew exactly where the machine guns were, but we were determined to show them we'd fire back anyway. We were trying to buy time for our weapons squad as they labored with their own machine guns across the field. Our forward observer was trying to figure out coordinates to the road when a heavy amount of firing was coming from across the road. Loud cracking noises that tell you the bullets were close, closer than usual. This guy wasn't bad. Then we heard voices.
"Open the fucking gate!"
The gate! It was locked and our guys were naked out there. The closest guy grabbed the switch to the gate and swung it open as the squad scrambled into safety. Bryan was last and still running for his life when the firing became even more intense. Pieces of concrete were flying off the edge of the wall right above his head as he came flying in, his head hunched down low screaming "fuck fuck fuck!"
At this point, we were kind of screwed.
We put a machine gun down in between the gate's doors to provide some sort of response. Some guys hauled a dresser from inside the house to stand on to shoot over the wall. There was no cover on the roof. Guns were firing at all the rooftops in hopes of drawing out the machine gunner. He soon quieted down.
Bill quickly earned the nickname Snack Master from me. No matter where we were, he'd always have candy, Pop Tarts or a soda handy. This was the part of war no movie will ever show: sitting around after the action, waiting for someone to tell us the next step. In these moments, Bill would kick back and enjoy a Sugar Daddy or two.
How he carried so many Jolly Ranchers, we'll never know
After a near death experience, it's always good to have a laugh. I suggested that we hold a helmet up on a stick to see if they were still paying attention. It didn't draw any fire, much to our dismay.
After communicating our difficult situation, we were told to get out of there. There no was no back door, so we could either jump over the wall or go through the gate and make a break for the next house, where another platoon was at. With urgency in our step, we filtered out and made our way to the back of the house for another suicide run.
Bill, always up front, poked his head out to scan the area. In response a volley of rounds passed by his head close enough to damage his ear and kick up dirt right next to him. He fell back screaming a line of obscenities, and we all thought, well, Bill's dead.
Bill was convinced he was in a movie, so he was one for theatrics. When he got up and we all realized he wasn't dead, he stuck his M-4 around the corner and began shooting wildly. Unshaken, the persistent machine gunner kept up his fire. The next house was about a hundred yards from us. So we tried the way we came. The guy at the other end of the house peeked and also got an earful of rounds. It was another machine gunner. We were trapped.
100 yards to death
We called in to ask for helicopter support so they could make quick work of the dueling machine guns that kept our whole platoon at bay. The request was rejected: helicopters would scare them off, and we wanted to get them dead or alive. We were to turn the corner and charge toward the road, which was several hundred yards away. I thought of the final scene from Gallipoli, where the dude charges across no man's land only to get gunned down after a few steps. Christ. I turned to look at the other building one of our squads took, which couldn't pinpoint the fire but was receiving it from somewhere else. The squad leader was standing in the window when I saw dust and concrete falling from just above him.
"They're firing at you!" I yelled. He held his hand up to his ear, the universal sight of "what?"
"They're fucking firing at you!" I screamed as loud as I could, pointing above him. He poked his head out, looked up, and quickly hid himself behind the wall.
Cooler heads prevailed on the decision to charge and we decided to go back the way we came and flank around to the neighborhood from the left. The first run was the most dangerous, so a few smoke grenades were tossed to hide our movement. Like mad we ran to the next house, going as fast as we could under our equipment. We sprinted through hues of yellow and green to reach momentary safety. I looked back to see action star Bill, running with one hand on his rifle shooting through the smoke. He tripped up and came crashing down onto his face, in between the houses. Fuck, now he's really dead this time. He got up and finished the stretch.
We had a few stretches to go before being out of sight. Once we all gathered up, we'd start another run. In between breaths, Josh shouted in a southern accent, "These colors don't run!"
Exhausted under the May sun, we were almost at a walking pace by the time we reached a defilade from the guns half a mile away. Swinging into the neighborhood, we found one machine gun position. They abandoned the gun and fled. That day, he would make it home.
For the rest of the day we'd walk the neighborhoods looking for any more trouble, but with a more serious step. Those shots could start at any time and end you just as quick. And you wouldn't die bravely on a French battlefield or on the Rhine. You'd pass away spent, covered in sweat among the dirt and the trash of a forgotten Iraqi street, wondering where all the glory from war went.
AH
When we got to Baqubah and once found fifty IEDs on a stretch of road less than a mile long, we figured it might be a good idea to walk even more often.
Missions became longer and started earlier so we could walk in from miles away. It was the tail end of May and we had begun to feel the summer heat creeping in from a mild winter. Everyone had a distinct memory of the Mosul summer, and we were preparing for another one further south.
In the darkness of May 18 we began to clear and search scattered houses and lots. Without electricity and the sun to help, we covered the walls, ditches and trunks of cars with the beams of our flashlights. You could see us coming from a mile away.
We chanced upon a big hulk of machinery in an otherwise empty house. With a single flashlight on it, it was difficult to take in exactly what it was. Several dudes gathered around with beams dancing around it. We quickly recognized the importance of our find. It was a Dishka anti-aircraft gun, the same type used by the insurgent-turned concerned local citizen group 1920 Revolution Brigade to shoot at us from a rise in Baghdad after downing a Blackwater helicopter. It was bad news to see it in those parts, even if it was a little unkempt and rusty. We sat on the floor waiting for a decision to be made about what to do with it. We left without it being resolved, and another platoon came in to take care of it. I'm not sure what the fate of the disheveled weapon was...
Soon it was daylight and we had already been clearing for hours. Crossing a small stream, we walked into a huge field with isolated houses a hundred feet or more apart. The first stretch of open area was the worst. It looked to be more than a quarter of a mile away until we reached cover and concealment from enemy fire. In between, it was tilled, flat land with not even long grass to hide ourselves. A suicide run.
I was nearly at the end of my platoon in the long chain of men cutting across the field. The three line squads would hold two houses while our machine gun teams came up behind us. To our distant left was a road running parallel with our movement, clustered with houses stretching endlessly out of view, reaching an area where we'd find a mass grave in a little more than a week. I was alert and my eyes open, but not in the direction of the road. I was watching for huge dirt clots that would bring a man tumbling down if he wasn't careful. I was about fifty yards from the guy in front of me, and he was nearing the gate to our house.
Suddenly, shots rang out. Being a common noise to hear, no one changed their speed and kept walking along. Then some more crackled. Shit, they were close. We began to pick up a light jog. Crack-crack-crack. Fuck! As one of the last guys, I sprinted all the way into the gate. I ran cross country when I was younger and learned long ago how to control my breathing. Running was never a problem for me, and I was glad as hell to be able to use that when my own two legs meant the safety of a concrete wall or a bullet to the brain. I slid into the courtyard, where everyone was panting and trying to figure out what the hell. It was determined the shooting was coming from the other side of the road. The insurgents weren't original, but they were smart.
My squad leader quickly closed the gate as firing from our side started over the wall. No one knew exactly where the machine guns were, but we were determined to show them we'd fire back anyway. We were trying to buy time for our weapons squad as they labored with their own machine guns across the field. Our forward observer was trying to figure out coordinates to the road when a heavy amount of firing was coming from across the road. Loud cracking noises that tell you the bullets were close, closer than usual. This guy wasn't bad. Then we heard voices.
"Open the fucking gate!"
The gate! It was locked and our guys were naked out there. The closest guy grabbed the switch to the gate and swung it open as the squad scrambled into safety. Bryan was last and still running for his life when the firing became even more intense. Pieces of concrete were flying off the edge of the wall right above his head as he came flying in, his head hunched down low screaming "fuck fuck fuck!"
At this point, we were kind of screwed.
We put a machine gun down in between the gate's doors to provide some sort of response. Some guys hauled a dresser from inside the house to stand on to shoot over the wall. There was no cover on the roof. Guns were firing at all the rooftops in hopes of drawing out the machine gunner. He soon quieted down.
Bill quickly earned the nickname Snack Master from me. No matter where we were, he'd always have candy, Pop Tarts or a soda handy. This was the part of war no movie will ever show: sitting around after the action, waiting for someone to tell us the next step. In these moments, Bill would kick back and enjoy a Sugar Daddy or two.
How he carried so many Jolly Ranchers, we'll never know
After a near death experience, it's always good to have a laugh. I suggested that we hold a helmet up on a stick to see if they were still paying attention. It didn't draw any fire, much to our dismay.
After communicating our difficult situation, we were told to get out of there. There no was no back door, so we could either jump over the wall or go through the gate and make a break for the next house, where another platoon was at. With urgency in our step, we filtered out and made our way to the back of the house for another suicide run.
Bill, always up front, poked his head out to scan the area. In response a volley of rounds passed by his head close enough to damage his ear and kick up dirt right next to him. He fell back screaming a line of obscenities, and we all thought, well, Bill's dead.
Bill was convinced he was in a movie, so he was one for theatrics. When he got up and we all realized he wasn't dead, he stuck his M-4 around the corner and began shooting wildly. Unshaken, the persistent machine gunner kept up his fire. The next house was about a hundred yards from us. So we tried the way we came. The guy at the other end of the house peeked and also got an earful of rounds. It was another machine gunner. We were trapped.
100 yards to death
We called in to ask for helicopter support so they could make quick work of the dueling machine guns that kept our whole platoon at bay. The request was rejected: helicopters would scare them off, and we wanted to get them dead or alive. We were to turn the corner and charge toward the road, which was several hundred yards away. I thought of the final scene from Gallipoli, where the dude charges across no man's land only to get gunned down after a few steps. Christ. I turned to look at the other building one of our squads took, which couldn't pinpoint the fire but was receiving it from somewhere else. The squad leader was standing in the window when I saw dust and concrete falling from just above him.
"They're firing at you!" I yelled. He held his hand up to his ear, the universal sight of "what?"
"They're fucking firing at you!" I screamed as loud as I could, pointing above him. He poked his head out, looked up, and quickly hid himself behind the wall.
Cooler heads prevailed on the decision to charge and we decided to go back the way we came and flank around to the neighborhood from the left. The first run was the most dangerous, so a few smoke grenades were tossed to hide our movement. Like mad we ran to the next house, going as fast as we could under our equipment. We sprinted through hues of yellow and green to reach momentary safety. I looked back to see action star Bill, running with one hand on his rifle shooting through the smoke. He tripped up and came crashing down onto his face, in between the houses. Fuck, now he's really dead this time. He got up and finished the stretch.
We had a few stretches to go before being out of sight. Once we all gathered up, we'd start another run. In between breaths, Josh shouted in a southern accent, "These colors don't run!"
Exhausted under the May sun, we were almost at a walking pace by the time we reached a defilade from the guns half a mile away. Swinging into the neighborhood, we found one machine gun position. They abandoned the gun and fled. That day, he would make it home.
For the rest of the day we'd walk the neighborhoods looking for any more trouble, but with a more serious step. Those shots could start at any time and end you just as quick. And you wouldn't die bravely on a French battlefield or on the Rhine. You'd pass away spent, covered in sweat among the dirt and the trash of a forgotten Iraqi street, wondering where all the glory from war went.
AH
Monday, January 14, 2008
A New Gig
In lieu of a Photo Story Monday, I'll use this time to announce that I've started to write at Vet Voice, VoteVet.org's premier blogging site for veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. Joining me will be author and blogger Brandon Friedman, LT Nixon and Richard Smith. You can read our bios here.
An excerpt from my first post:
May 6th began for us like so many days before it, in the pre-dawn shadows of Baqubah. I had just returned from leave and was not too anxious to start patrolling again, with ten months of combat behind me and five left to push through. We searched houses, courtyards, roofs, trash piles and warm bodies throughout the morning. Our squad was designated to take a roof to overwatch other squads maneuvering. On the way to the trucks to grab cases of water, we heard the first reports of Alpha Company having hit an IED way down on Trash Alley, the road so dangerous we were usually barred from driving on it at all. We heard at least one man was dead and they were trying to get to any survivors.
To read more, visit Vet Voice. Don't forget to check out the front page for other great columns and diaries.
AH
An excerpt from my first post:
May 6th began for us like so many days before it, in the pre-dawn shadows of Baqubah. I had just returned from leave and was not too anxious to start patrolling again, with ten months of combat behind me and five left to push through. We searched houses, courtyards, roofs, trash piles and warm bodies throughout the morning. Our squad was designated to take a roof to overwatch other squads maneuvering. On the way to the trucks to grab cases of water, we heard the first reports of Alpha Company having hit an IED way down on Trash Alley, the road so dangerous we were usually barred from driving on it at all. We heard at least one man was dead and they were trying to get to any survivors.
To read more, visit Vet Voice. Don't forget to check out the front page for other great columns and diaries.
AH
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