An imperfect world

In a perfect world, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. At this very moment, if we had not been extended, we would be convoying down to Kuwait in preparation for coming home. Our time would be spent cleaning vehicles and equipment. The unit replacing us would have been here for a few weeks already, and we would have shown them the ropes of this town. In a perfect world.

Instead, this comes to you on the two month mark of our move to Baqubah. Before we left Baghdad, we were promised one to two months up here, and we would be relieved. So we were extended on our extension. What is it with the military and outright lying? We’re grown ups. We can handle the truth.

For two months now we’ve been going full force. They have us, two companies of infantry, holding the most overtly violent city in Iraq. I don’t have the resources to find out, but there is something in the area of six brigades operating in Baghdad. It’s busting at the seams with soldiers. Whoever that guy is, the guy who sits in a big air conditioned room with a huge map on the table a la Dr. Strangelove, decided to send less than a battalion to a city that hasn’t had American forces walking around in almost a year. Baqubah has been held by a cavalry unit, which means they have no dismounts to clear houses or search for caches, just enough to man their Bradleys and Abrams. And even then, they were two companies strong as well. With that kind of manpower, Al Qaeda paraded through the streets at will. No, really. We captured a home video of a parade with about fifty Al Qaeda members holding their guns out the windows of cars riding down a street. Locals were cheering them on. Oh, those tired and poor, yearning for freedom.

The biggest mistake the government, the military and the American people made was deciding these insurgents were stupid farmers with rusty guns. For months, they have been sitting around a chalkboard doing the math on how big of a bomb it takes to completely destroy an Abrams tank, the biggest vehicle in our arsenal. Then they took the time to go out in the middle of the night, cut holes in the road with concrete saws, and drop several hundred pound bombs in the road. Next comes the concealment of the wire that can be hundreds of meters long, running up light poles up to rooftops connecting to batteries. There, a guy sits waiting and waiting until someone comes along. We have found several of these houses. They have chairs and beds on the roof, and a tea set for when they get thirsty. They’re waiting for an Abrams to roll by a bomb in the road that is practically invisible. But a Stryker rolls up instead. With enough explosives to destroy a fifty ton vehicle, what do you expect to happen when one weighing thirty tons less sits on it? Our sister company found out the other day.

You might have heard about the six soldiers and one Russian reporter that died when their Stryker hit one such bomb. They were on their way to investigate the actual site before it blew. They knew it was there. Beforehand, an Apache helicopter identified several men digging a hole in the road, putting something large in the hole, and running away. The pilot asked for clearance to shoot a Hellfire missile at them. It was the best catch a pilot can hope for: killing Al Qaeda and taking out a bomb at the same time. Once again however, our rules and tactics became a bigger enemy than any terrorist could. They were denied permission to fire repeatedly because of the possibility of collateral damage. In the sagacious words of Hurley from the TV show Lost, we looked in the face of the enemy and said ‘whatever man!’ So a dude on a rooftop watched through a little peephole in the brick wall, waiting for someone to come. They didn’t wait long. Our sister company, the only other one in the city, was sent to investigate the matter. They were ordered down a road that was barred from being driven on in the first place because it was so dangerous. I don’t think I have to go into details about what came next. A whole squad, save the driver, was no more. They didn’t die for Iraqi liberty or American freedom. They died for trial and error. They died because an officer somewhere didn’t want to fill out paperwork because some dude’s car might have been damaged in a missile strike. And if we were in a perfect world, they wouldn’t have died at all, because we wouldn’t be here in this city without an extension.

I talked about the biggest mistake we’ve made. The second was simplifying this conflict into an ‘us and them’ war. It’s really an us and them and them war. In Baghdad, we had our hands full with the 1920 Revolution Brigade, an extremist Sunni group competing with Al Qaeda for control in Iraq. They were the ones responsible for shooting down the Blackwater helicopter and likely the other military choppers that went down at the beginning of the year. Here, Al Qaeda has a presence so strong that 1920 cannot operate. They came to the Iraqi police and swore to stop fighting with coalition forces and to cooperate in finding Al Qaeda members operating in Diyala. One particular dude walked down the street with us, pointing out Al Qaeda members milling around. So now we’re in cahoots with dudes who shot anti-aircraft guns into our building, who executed at least one Blackwater pilot and killed the others. This isn’t an us and them war. It’s like the movie The Warriors, but I can’t dig it. If their plan to uproot Al Qaeda works, we’ll go back to fighting with 1920. At least at that point we won’t be civil war referees.

Recently, a general finally manned up and said we need reinforcements in Diyala. There simply aren’t enough guys to control it. Until now, it has been under Mussolini scrutiny. In Fascist Italy, it was said the trains always ran on time, even when they didn’t. Reports sent up here have said what a great job we’re doing and that our manpower was enough to overtake Baqubah. Those reports cost my friends their lives. The day Chevy died, there were Bradleys in front of him. They waited patiently for a Stryker to pass over triple stacked anti-tank mines to see what it would do to a Stryker. The most sophisticated Army in the history of the planet is getting torn up by fifty cents worth of wire and explosives made in a bathtub. We’re expected to intimidate a group of people who are begging to die as martyrs with laser guided bombs and low flying jets. If you shake a fist at a beehive, they’ll sting you regardless.

Yesterday while I watched over the same street where seven men lost their lives, a kid that lived in the house asked me, “Why you come Iraq?” I told him, because they told me to. I didn’t try to explain I was sent by a group of men who didn’t know what it was like to be stung. But we wouldn't go looking for the hive, in a perfect world.

AH

Man, I'm Hungry

"At least they told us now and not in June."


Those were my words when I found out about the extension policy that was implemented on April 12. Minutes before, I read about the death of Kurt Vonnegut at an internet terminal at the Frankfurt International Airport. He died on April 11. I'm glad to say I'm new to his writings, because after finishing three of his books, I still have a lot of his work to look forward to. Vonnegut has the reputation of being anti war, anti imperialism and against any absurdities committed in the name of America. I came to the conclusion that the administration waited patiently for Kurt Vonnegut to die before rolling out this Iraq wide extension. They didn't want to be embarassed by what he would have to say.


And I can't imagine what that would be. But here is what he said about me and my friends in his column in the magazine In These Times:

By saying that our leaders are power-drunk chimpanzees, am I in danger of
wrecking the morale of our soldiers fighting and dying in the Middle East? Their morale, like so many bodies, is already shot to pieces. They are being treated, as I never was, like toys a rich kid got for Christmas.

He speaks, of course, of the hawkish writers that suggest speaking out against the administration, Bush and of the Iraq War was unpatriotic, and gasp! Would seriously undermine the morale of the military. Like a congregation of Tipper Gore clones they loudly bombasted, "Oh, would someone please think of the soldiers!" At the same time, those same people in the Senate, as well as Bush, reject a timetable for troop pullout, saying it would put us in serious danger and give the insurgents a plan for attack.


Now let that settle in. A pullout date would put us in serious danger and give the insurgents a plan for attack. What are we in now, relative safety, and the insurgency in its last throes? Last throes? Oh shit, where have I heard that before?


This of course comes back to the extension. Secretary Gates issued at least a three month extension to everyone in Iraq, on top of the twelve months they already have. Their plan was to have units home for a full year before deploying again, but some units were coming back to Iraq and Afghanistan in ten months. It wasn't adequate time they decided. And since the military is stretched, especially during the surge, some units would have to spend more time in Iraq than promised. A problem arose from this. They couldn't pick and choose which units to extend to relieve the pressure, so with an effortless gesture of a pen stroke, 160,000 troops are being held for fifteen months (except us, we're staying for sixteen months! Hooboy!). Secretary Gates also mentioned that every soldier spending more than a year deployed will get an extra $1000 per month, and a guarantee of twelve months home between deployments and you're fucking lucky to get that much.


If I've learned anything thus far, a guarantee from the Army and three dollars will get you a coffee at Starbucks.


Let me give you a little backround if I haven't already. I joined the Army out of half patriotism, half desperation in 2004. I was still angry about September 11 and I totally fucked up school. I barely made it out of there with a diploma, and I knew it was because I had no discipline or direction. I thought the Army would be a magic bullet for all of those problems. The war was going on for a year when I joined, and I thought it was just and right at the time. Flash forward to 2007, and please, let's be grownups now. There were no weapons of mass destruction found, reason one. Reason two, the connection between Saddam and Al-Qaeda, which is largely unfounded. So why did we attack Iraq in response to September 11? It was like getting stung by a bee in your house and responding by going outside and kicking over an anthill.


I promise you all, there's no method to the madness. I put my life on hold for another four months for nothing. Can you imagine? I know soldiers fighting in previous wars had it a lot tougher. Kurt Vonnegut had it tougher in World War II. But at the very least, they had a goal, a promise of a bright new world free of Nazism. Brave men literally fought for freedom, because if they didn't, the world was going to be in the hands of Germany and Japan. That was the light at the end of their tunnel. Do you know what the light at the end of the tunnel is for us?


Food.


Yeah, food. When we're on patrols and house clearing missions, what's keeping us going is not the promise of freedom and democracy in Iraq. It's the vision of hamburgers, fries and ice cream. I can live without a market based economy in the Middle East, but I can't live without a toasted ham sandwich. Several times we have raced back to the base to get to the dining hall as it closed. Something to eat is the high point of the day. Imagine the low points.


As Kurt Vonnegut suggested, our morale is shot to pieces. The few tattered remains left were eviscerated when they extended us four months. The most devious trick the media and the government has pulled in the last ten years is suggesting to the public that the soldiers believe in the mission and the war itself. In my unit that is definitely not the case. We just fight for food and friends, and the hope of getting home. I know a few people who still believe in the cause. I would know one more, but he died when I was on leave.


Remember that naive 19 year old kid I described earlier? The one unsure about his future that wound up in the Army? Those kinds of kids are the most succulent prey in the system. Kids that age and a little older are slammed with guilt trips to reenlist to stay in for several more years. In Iraq they are given $15,000 bonuses, tax free. That's a lot to a kid, very irresistable. At the same time, they are browbeaten by their superiors into reenlisting, saying it's for their own good. You'll fail on the outside. Stay where you're loved. What else are you going to do? All common phrases thrown around in the countless reenlistment briefs I've attended. But it's 2007, not 2004, and I'm not falling for it a second time.


Earlier editions of this blog have mentioned the date in which I seperate from the military, November 24, 2007.
That is merely symbolic now. After coming home, you must stay for three months so they determine you're not crazy and all that. Our return home date is October 15. So that means I'll be held against my will again, until January 2008 it seems.


So Lauren, my sweetheart, I won't get to go on summer walks and picnics with you. I hope Pike's Market is nice in the winter. Mom, I won't be there for your birthday. Yours either Dad. Can't forget Andrew's. And Albert's. Won't be making your wedding either, Albert. To the students of my high school, I won't get to thank you in person for the letters and packages you sent until November at least.


Readers, fear not! Despite the caustic undertone of this entry, I am glimmering with hope. The dining hall opens in ten minutes for breakfast, and they make some killer omelettes.

I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you
different. -Kurt Vonnegut

AH

Europe and Back Again

For the past several days I've been standing by in Baghdad, waiting for a flight back to Baqubah to continue that glorious mission there. I'm already harking back to the days of leave, where for fifteen days I was in a foreign place with no direction or clue.


We got off the train at our destination and just simply wandered around for a hotel, with our ever present and ever heavy bags with us. We landed at the Frankfort Airport, and the first thing we did was exchange a few hundred dollars into euros. The next thing was Eurail tickets. But that would be my first roadblock. Immediately my bank saw a suspicious transaction when I used my card to get cash. They suspended my card by the time it took me to find the Eurail desk and buy a ticket. Luckily, I brought $400 in cash and paid for it that way, then called my bank to straighten it out. Success! I was nearly stranded. I thanked the nice bank lady and Steve and I were off to Amsterdam, a few hours away.


We found a cheap hotel, dropped our bags and started exploring. Armed with a free but terrible tourist map, we walked around the old town, wandering along canals that cut through the city. When night came we were vain in our efforts to find the famous Red Light District, but decided the next night would be ours. We awoke early, or at least I did. Our receipt proclaimed a free breakfast included in the price, so I made my way downstairs, daydreaming of eggs, bacon and donuts the size of sewer lids. To my absolute horror, I discovered the ingredients of a European breakfast: a piece of bread, a slide of cheese, jelly, butter, orange juice and coffee or tea (your choice!). Realizing my Grand Slam breakfast will never be realized, I finished the snack and climbed into what was to become the most spacious shower on the continent. Out the door, we walked in the direction of Anne Frank's house. And we found it, along with a huge group of school kids on a field trip. After an hour we made it in, and in a few words, it was bigger than I thought. It was a nice tour though. From Anne Frank's house to the Pancake House, where we discovered a new kind of pancake. Very thin, very cooked, very good. And more tea! Next was the Van Gogh Museum, which featured not only his works but those of his contemporaries. I can't appreciate paintings on the scale of some people, but it was pleasant to walk through. Next to the museum was a large, large park where kids wondered around holding hands, playing soccer and kicking back. We decided to sit down on a rolling green hill. I quickly decided that Amsterdam was the most liberal, relaxed, don't-give-a-shit place I've ever been. It made Seattle look like a 1920s Southern Baptist potluck. It was definitely refreshing. We stayed there a good hour until we decided to head back. We detoured to find the Holland Casino, since me and Steve are gamblers in our own right. We decided it was worth a shot to hustle some Europeans in some blackjack. This was our first of many problems we encountered due a lack of passport. They wouldn't let us in without one. There wasn't a way to get one in Iraq, and we were told our military IDs would be good enough everywhere. But alas, that wasn't the case.


Nighttime fell! We were tipped off on the location of the Red Light District and headed that way. A few blocks from our hotel, it became so obvious: red lights, literally, throwing a crimson glow on several city blocks. Approaching, we saw several prostitutes in the windows like they were designer handbags. Some surprisingly good looking, some vaguely mannish. As you walk by, they'll tap the glass to get your attention. If you ignore some, they will slam it hard in defiance. Looking down the street, you can see several customers walking into the rooms behind the glass, which simply contain a bed, chair and sink. Not very romantic. On the strip, we stopped in a locally famous bar called The Bulldog, where I had my first beer as a twenty one year old. It was a Heineken on tap. We bounced around the district for a little more, heading back to the hotel late. We decided to leave for Paris the next day. Goodbye Holland, you were good to us!


Immediately, Paris was not agreeable. We found out on our way that some trains required reservations to ride on them, on top of the cost we already paid on the ticket. So we were hit with a twenty one euro penalty for not reserving a seat. No matter, onto The City of Lights.


We got off the train in the late afternoon, with a terribly complex map. It took us awhile to get the hang of this place. We started to find hotels on our walk away from the station, but they were all too expensive. Farther still, there were no hotels left. My dad told me that the only thing a Parisian hated more than an American talking to them in English was an American trying to talk to them in French. Quickly, I found that out. Hoping locals would be just as helpful as the Dutch, I asked a lady passing by if she knew of a close hotel. I said "madam, pardon, si vou plait" but she stared straight ahead as if I were a ghost. Or worse, and American tourist! We decided to press on for another half hour. Soon, I found out what it was like to be John Cusack. Out of nowhere it started to pour rain. So far you suck, France! I walked into a police station, pleading with them to point me in the direction of a hotel, any hotel. Around the corner we were led to a place. 95 euro a night? We'll take it! By the way, the euro is stronger than the U.S. dollar. Argh.


We slept off our frustration, and in the morning, saw it was still raining. We went down to breakfast, and my lowered expectations found a not-so-bad meal. We checked back into the room, and they asked us if we had breakfast. Well, of course we did. And shockingly that was extra. Eight euro extra to be exact. Ugh. It continued to rain and rain into the afternoon. We almost decided to blow France off completely and go to Belgium, but some time after three, the rain cleared up. Looks like France got another shot. We walked briskly toward Notre Dame in the light drizzle and decided it was wise to get a jacket. We stopped in a store and I bought a nice black one for a good price. We got to Notre Dame and saw the outside but neglected the tour. On to the Pantheon, which we did tour. Slowly we made our way to the Eiffel Tower but stopped at a skyscraper about a mile from it.


They allowed tourists to go to the top of the building, which offered a very nice panoramic view of the city. It was getting dark, so we walked toward the Eiffel Tower, wondering how different the city would look at night. Of course, there was a huge mob of a line that took an hour or two. Finally, we began to go up. There's really no way to describe it. It's high. And it was dark. I really wanted to find where Hitler stood when he took that famous picture in front of the tower. Around midnight, we began our long walk back to the hotel. We decided two days of Paris was enough. We chanced upon the Lourve, which was really close to the hotel. Oh well, we missed you, Mona Lisa.


Caen was our next stop, a nice city in Normandy. I was a WWII history buff in my past life, and Caen was a famous city that saw huge battles. The mood in Normandy was great compared to Paris. Another rumor come true. We spent a few days there, walking around the Chateau Decal. We enjoyed the city long enough for me to find out how to make it to the Normandy beaches, some miles away. We booked a tour guide to meet us the next day. They'd take us from the Caen Memorial Museum straight there for a five hour tour for seventy euro! A steal really.


Starting in the afternoon, we arrived at the partial gun batteries on the very east side of the coast. Huge artillery pieces were still left, somewhat intact. On the shore lay a few scattered strips of the harbor that was constructed early in the invasion, becoming the busiest port in the world in a matter of days! We moved down the beach to Omaha, the bloodiest of them all. I pocketed a rock left in the sand as a memento. We drove farther still to Point Du Hoc, where the Rangers scaled the cliffs to destroy guns there. It was almost too much for a history nerd like myself. The tour ended there. The nice guide offered to drop us off near our hotel. That was our last night in Caen, and in France. A bittersweet country.


We were at about our halfway point when we decided, shit, we might as well spend the rest of our time in Rome. In our hotel room in Caen, we planned for hours the schedule we'd take for the remainder of our trip. Our best bet was to head to Geneva for a night, then Milano, Italy and spend the night there, going to Rome the next day.



The Swiss were not as friendly as we hoped.



We had to get through customs to stay in Geneva, and we were stopped and questioned. They were unhappy about our lack of passports and told us we couldn't get into Switzerland without one. Sorry, go back to France (a place that started to look friendly by comparison!). We pleaded our case, telling them we were just passign through to Italy, and that we were on vacation from Iraq. Their hearts grew ten sizes that day, and they let us in. Here is what I learned about their country: they use Swiss Francs, not euros! Silly Swiss! And they sell beer at McDonalds! We left the next morning, and on the way I stopped by a post office to mail my first round of postcards.
As a thank you, they gave me a piece of complimentary Swiss cheese, which happens to be my favorite kind. Way to go, Switzerland. You're now better than France. But goodbye, onto Italy!

Like Paris, Milano was not a good city to start the longest part of our stay, Italy. It was a lot hotter there, and even harder than Paris at hotel locating. When we found one at a decent price, they politely asked for passports. We didn't have any, we explained. Oh no, that is not good enough, said the mean lady. I wanted to tell her my ID was good enough to get into her country, but she spoke little English. We decided it was a hostile city and had an idea: get an overnight train to Rome. It'd cost us, though. About as much as a decent hotel. But oh, better than staying in Mean Milano. It was four in the afternoon, and the overnight train left at 11pm. Oh, what to do? We went to the train station and found a bookstore with a slim English book section. If you think pickins are slim at an American airport, try an Italian train station. I bought a mystery thriller about the death of Edgar Allen Poe that kept me occupied until our train left. Eight hours and we'd be in Rome.


We learned our lesson and checked ahead for places to stay while in Milano, and found some places we couldn't before: hostels. We went to one upon arriving in Rome but it was full. But they pointed us in the direction of a laundromat that rented out dorm rooms. Enchanting. We got there and booked for five nights in a coed dorm. Free Indian food dinner every night, the ticket proclaimed! We passed up the kebab and tried authentic Italian pasta. Weirdly, it was difficult to find a real, sit down restaurant in Europe. It's all about tiny, hip cafes. Luckily we found a nice place with cheap prices. Quickly, our dorm filled up. There were three rooms with five or six beds apiece and they were nearly all taken. We had some Canadians, some locals, Dutch girls, a trio from Ecuador and an Irishman. We were joined by an American girl living in Spain and her German friend she met in Barcelona. They were kind enough to invite us on a trip to Vatican City the next day.


We woke up early to beat the crowd, taking a bus cross-city. We walked around St. Peter's Square and into the church, which housed plenty of art and statues of all the past popes. After a quick walkthrough, we decided to swing around to the Sistine Chapel. It was eight in the morning when I saw the biggest line of my life, one that spanned four blocks. It was so big we couldn't see the end because it took several turns around corners. Steve tried to find the beginning of it but came back without seeing it. I decided on the brave notion of seeing the start, so I timed myself to see how long it took. Nine minutes and thirty-six seconds later, I returned. The line was longer than we thought. It was four hours until we made it in. The chapel is actually at the end of the tour, with countless paintings, murals and statues before it. When we finally got to the famous room Michaelangelo painted, there is forced silence and rules against picture taking. Scoff! In the crowd, I found the scene of God reaching out to Adam, knelt down to where the guards couldn't see, and took a picture. I'm sure it was a common practice. I took a few more and shuffled out with Steve (we had lost our two new friends near the entrance, but found them outside). They were meeting some friends outside Vatican City, so we excused ourselves and headed back to the hostel and rested after a long day.


The next day started with the Pantheon, the original building the one in Paris was modeled after. It is said the builders of the Paris Pantheon never saw the real deal, they just had sketches. Impressive I thought. It was Easter, so a lot of things were closed. So we merely passed by a lot of momuments and made it back early. Even though it was called rest and relaxation, we hardly rested or relaxed on our whole trip. We rarely took a bus or subway, walked for miles, and spent all day out. So we took a day to chill out and sleep in. Our last day, we were to see the most famous of Roman attractions, the Colosseum and Roman Forum. Surely the highlight of any slightseeing for the whole trip. The Forum is where I snapped my last picture, the 378th of the trip. Back to the hostel, for a rest before our dreaded return to Frankfurt. Shortly after arriving, two Canadian girls showed up and proved to be the most friendly yet. They had planned to go out on a pub crawl that night. As we found out, a pub crawl is where you go to a bar as a group, drink a lot, then walk to another bar. Repeat as necessary. I've never been a big drinker but I decided to give it a shot. We started at nine at night and began a hazy walk back at three in the morning, staggering along as the most drunk I've ever been. It's probably understood that navigating at night with a map while drunk is difficult to do, but we managed to get back in one piece. Our train left at seven, so we had a few hours to rest. Beer soaked, we ventured to the train station with Frankfurt as our final destination.


It was a trip of highs and a trip of lows. A trip of firsts and lasts.

Sweet:

• The friendy, carefree, English speaking Dutch
• The Normandy coast
• European women
• Nearly hastle free train travel
• Hostels
• The entire city of Rome

Not Sweet:

• Asshole Parisians
• European women
• European breakfasts
• Pay toliets (everywhere)
• Hidden costs of ketchup and breakfasts
• Small showers
• Homeless people (everywhere)

I regret spending too little time in Holland, too much time in France, and no time in Germany. France was beautiful when the people weren't. Italy was my favorite, but not at first. And fuck, I spent a lot of money.


At the Frankfurt airport, I found out everyone in Iraq was getting extended at least three months. I was glad the announcement came at the end of my trip and not the beginning. But I did feel a little regret. I felt that home could have been a better choice over Europe. I haven't been home, in Texas, since mid April of 2006. A year. With the extention, I won't see it for another six months at least. I think in the future, though, I will appreciate the fact I traveled Europe when I had the chance.


AH

A break

It's been a little over a week since I left the daily violence of Iraq. When deployed, you're allotted fifteen days in twelve months for rest and recooperation. I just happened to be one of the very last to leave, at the tail end of the deployment. I didn't go home like nearly everyone else since I figured it'd be too hard to leave my family and friends behind again to come right back to Iraq. Before we left in June 2006, I was ignorant of the emotions you carry around that place. Almost a year later, I know all too well.

So I opted to take a cross-continent trip all over Europe with my good friend Steve. With the exception of Kuwait and Iraq, I had never visited a foreign country, though I always ached to escape the confines of American borders. Thus far, I have traveled through The Netherlands, Belgium and France. I can't adequately describe what it feels like to stand on the beaches of Normandy, to see where many men died in a battle that mattered while the gears of war scarcely tremble in the region I was in just under a week ago.

I'm writing this from an internet cafe in Geneva, Switzerland. I don't plan on staying here past tonight, though. This is a major junction to Italy, where I had wanted to spend the most time on my trip. Tomorrow we're boarding a train to Milano, then the next day we're pressing on to Rome for four days. After that, I go back to Iraq, to join other nameless cogs, as the war machine keeps on turning.

AH

Like A Rolling Head

Can it be? Negative press on the Walter Reed scandal resulted in change? Yes! And it counts! I'm glad to see the top civilian in charge of budget and resource policies get shit canned. Hopefully his replacement will monitor the health care system a little more closely.

AH

Support Our Troops! Woo!

There's been a fire storm of controversy over the latest reports of the goings on at Walter Reed Medical Center. The Washington Post blasted the care at Walter Reed, reporting on bureaucratic red tape around medical compensation claims and the poor conditions in the barracks of the facility. Newsweek joined in, debuting a cover story in a few days, but you can read the fantastic writeup here. It tells of those caught in the middle of an archaic system that is too strained to handle the stream of Iraq and Afghanistan vets coming in. Lack of foresight in planning the War on Terror extended to poor planning on the caring of the wounded.

Walter Reed is the destination of the vast majority of wounded veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. It's a care facility where both physically and mentally injured soldiers come for treatment. Amputees get fitted for prosthetic limbs and claims are filed to draw a disability check. Those suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome can find help in support groups or with medication. In a perfect world, there is an efficient system set up to handle all of this. Since September 11, soldiers have been revered as heroes in the eyes of the public. But those who have left their limbs and their mind on the battlefield, it's just another fight to get the care they deserve. I've read several reports on injured soldiers denied compensation because of their past medical history. For example, someone who was in an IED blast that damaged their knee would not get any money because that person had an old knee injury during their high school football days. They couldn't prove the disability was a result of the blast. This goes to show that anyone in control of money in the military will find any way to save pennies here and there. Unless, of course, they're dealing with contractors, where perpetual war means perpetual profits.

After the shit hit the proverbial fan regarding Walter Reed, the staff went into a frenzy about the ordeal, claiming the reports coming out were factual but unfair. Um, did I miss something? How can something be true but not fair? That's why it's called the truth, not 'what we want you to know.' It's not rose colored or tucked away neatly like the problems were before the Washington Post exposé. Immediately they began renovating the offending rooms, removing mold, repairing holes in ceilings and fixing leaky pipes. "It's not the Ritz-Carlton at Pentagon City, I'll grant you that," Lt. Gen. Kiley, the Army surgeon general said of the conditions. I wonder how humble his accommodations are. Citizens pay for both with their tax dollars, yet the ones actually coming from combat zones without their god damn arms and legs are living in sub par quarters. The money is there, obviously. It's just not being well spent. At this very moment, I'm up late at night in a heated bay in Taji, Iraq with an internet line hooked right up next to my bed. Tomorrow I have the option of either going to a well stocked chow hall or to one of several fast food joints, like Subway or Taco Bell. Down the street, KBR employees are getting paid very little to do our laundry as Dick Cheney, former CEO of KBR's parent company Halliburton, gets paid a six figure severance per year. Round and round the tax money goes, where it stops, nobody knows. Especially not Walter Reed.

That's not even the best part. Those undergoing care at Walter Reed have now been ordered to keep quiet about problems arising there since the coverage began (the delicious irony is that The Airforce Times, a military-ran publication, broke that story). As you can see in the article, sweeping under the carpet as taken action as a first sergeant and twenty platoon sergeants were reassigned, with 120 new permanent soldiers expected to arrive mid March. That, unfortunately, will not solve the problems. A budget analysis and retooling is needed, along with granting VA hospitals like Walter Reed a bigger budget. In the Senate there will be those wondering where all that money is going to come from. Try by closing down every Pizza Hut and Cinnabon in Iraq. Then fine KBR every time they overcharge the government, which apparently is all the fucking time. There, budget problems solved. Now that I fixed the crisis, I just ask for a humble lieutenant general's quarters. Just don't put me close to Walter Reed so I don't smell the mold and decay.

AH

Questions Answered

Nearly eight months into a year long deployment, I still get asked the most basic questions by those back home in America. To people I know, I’m the closest link to this conflict besides the distilled image shown on network news shows. One of the most common is “what goes on day to day?” and the more recent, “what do you think of the troop surge?” Both are excellent questions, if a bit nebulous. So a nebulous answer is what you'll get!

First, ‘day to day’ is a little difficult to define. In Mosul, we spent every day on presence patrols, meaning we drove around for a set time just to show we could. We’d get the occasional raid on a target or set up in someone’s house overnight, watching high traffic streets for enemy movement. Then, there was a clear picture on what happened from week to week. Our brigade was the only one operating there so we had a well defined mission. Suppress enemies moving in from the north and guiding the Iraqi Army to self reliance and competence. Life, for the most part, was good. Going out for two hours once or twice in an afternoon was our day to day. Then Baghdad flared up.

For every unit in Iraq, there is a designated AO, or area of operations that each brigade is assigned to. Being the sole brigade in Mosul, we divided the city equally into three parts, each sector going to each battalion. In Baghdad, there are several brigades who call Baghdad their AO. Everyone has a piece except us. We are the official errand boys for the flashpoint of insurgent activity in the war. Each unit has a specific goal and mission like we did in Mosul. Some have the task of raiding several targets at once. Others have big clearing missions, where troops go house to house searching for hidden caches and inciting enemy reactions. Each of these units rely on up-armored Humvees or tanks to accomplish this. We are the only Stryker brigade in Iraq. Following the invasion, the Strykers have shown their worthiness in this country for being the best equipped to handle urban combat. Their thick armor can take bomb blasts that would destroy a Humvee. They tote around either a .50 cal machine gun or an automatic grenade launcher while having four men standing up with relative protection scanning rooftops for gunmen or a fellow wielding an RPG. Their interior can hold a squad of infantry, which takes two or three Humvees to carry. And don’t underestimate the psychological factor of seeing a huge vehicle drop a ramp, pour out a squad with relatively little noise. To illustrate this point, we had a choke hold on Mosul. We owned that town. Attacks were few and far in between (I never shot my rifle in defense in the five months we were there, despite being outside the wire nearly every day of our tenure). Now, the Humvee unit that took over is losing control of the city. Clearly the Stryker is key when holding ground. Since we arrived in Baghdad, we have been attached to this unit and that unit, assisting in their specific missions. So potentially, one week will be dedicated to raiding potential insurgent houses, and the next week will be spent patrolling violent neighborhoods trying to locate the ever elusive cache sites. Flash forward to the announcement of the new Baghdad Security Plan, which in summary aims to reduce sectarian violence by permanently positioning coalition forces in the middle of neighborhoods, giving the Iraqis peace of mind knowing there is a 24 hour presence. At least in theory. When the 82^nd Airborne was the first unit to arrive as part of the surge, they were set up in a COP (Combat Overwatch Post) in northern Baghdad, a former shopping mall turned fortress. Our job was to ensure the wall was built while informing the local population about the new post going up. We conducted patrols out of there for four days, the last evening getting into a firefight with what was later deemed as a handful of gunmen. The entire building returned fire, setting several houses ablaze.

The 82^nd agreed that an area they were assigned to would take three months to completely search and clear, and decided it would take our unit five days. So they dumped the entire thing on our lap. And what do you know, we did it in about that time frame they established. Under a week. Now, they’re patrolling that area on their own. So for now, the surge is working as it’s supposed to. Until more units arrive in their Humvees to request our presence in their areas, and we’re pulled in every direction without any clear mission for us to follow. Which has been clear since December, as some of my esteemed colleagues pointed out in a controversial article then. How can you be confident in the mission when it’s someone else’s?

AH

Saved, But Not Saved

Early on a Tuesday morning last week, we began the day before the sun came up. The mission was simple: park vehicles on the on-ramp to a Baghdad highway and randomly block in traffic to conduct searches. We’d stop dozens of vehicles at a time and paw through the whole thing while others frisked the occupants for guns, detonators, fake IDs, anything rousing suspicion. We did this for a few hours until another platoon came to relieve us around lunchtime, and we would fall back to a base to rest for a few hours. We rushed to the chow hall, hoping to get back to the vehicles for some shut eye. Others walked to the free internet to kill some time. On my way back, our driver came running up to us saying “We have to go, we have to go now.” We cursed the thousands of possibilities why we had to return an hour early and walked in that direction. On our way back we ran into our sergeant major, who urged us to hurry up, saying a Blackwater helicopter crashed (Blackwater is a security firm for State Department officials in Iraq. They also train foreign military). At that point we rushed to the vehicles and headed in the direction of the crash site, having a very general idea where it was.


Our Strykers went blazing through neighborhoods hot on the trail. After a few minutes, ominous words came across the radio. “We just passed a bunch of bodies on the side of the road. They looked Caucasian.” We hit a U turn and doubled back to the bodies when several men started running away, some covered in blood. Since the rules of engagement are counterintuitive as I’ve pointed out in an earlier entry, we couldn’t shoot because they did not pose a threat to us. They made their way through alleys and side roads, escaping our grasp. Our vehicle, being in the lead for the effort, dropped ramp nearest the bodies. We set up near a corner, and I turned to see a white man, stripped of almost all his clothes laying face down, blood pooled all around him. No sign of the downed helicopter. We went further into the neighborhood to capture anyone making an exit. A few steps to the alley, we encounter three more American bodies in a group. I don’t have much time to notice their faces but I catch a glimpse of glassy eyes and tattooed arms. A trail of blood leads through the alley but abruptly ends. A shotgun blast erupts as my team leader shoots a lock off a door. We enter and clear the building, finding no signs of activity. I notice an expended AK47 round near some drops of blood outside the door. We continue through the alley, picking up no signs. We round a corner and see the ground totally swamped with blood. Divots, holes and ruts are all filled to the top. It all leads to one closed door halfway down the alley. A kick to the door opens to a surreal image: a helicopter, almost severed in half, crashed into a roof of a house. It sits on the second story ledge, so we begin clearing all the rooms in the building. I tear down sheets used as doors leading to dark, empty rooms probably occupied until a helicopter came roaring in. We used a broken wall to climb up to the crash, sending bricks falling down to the ground. Inside of the helicopter tells the whole story. Expended rounds from American and insurgent weapons. They tried to fight their way out after the crash. It was assumed they died in the crash according to early reports in the news, but there were obvious signs of struggle. In a few minutes, waves of Blackwater members stormed the area to get ahold of any sensitive documents and equipment. Our medic began to put the bodies in bags for their men to carry back. Security was set up for this, and after awhile, people in the neighborhood began coming out to investigate. We waved them back into their houses and apartments.

The call came to load up after roughly 45 minutes to an hour after we went to the ground. Smoke was thrown to conceal our movement to the trucks. We were moving back to the scene where the bodies were left, presumably to be loaded on a vehicle by insurgents to later show decapitated heads on internet clips. As always, progress was thwarted.

A constant hum of machine gun fire erupted from the tall building across the street from our position. Not ordinary machine guns, but DShK guns, suitable for shooting down airplanes and demolishing vehicles and buildings with their 12.7mm rounds. Two platoons, 60+ men, took the building we first looked in. Machine guns were taken to the roof. Couches and desks were placed as stands to shoot from the high windows. The order to fire was given.

On the decibel level, gunshots must be close to a jet engine when in the confines of a building. The sound of rifle and machine gun fire filled the entire neighborhood, but on the bottom floor, it was the loudest thing I have ever heard. People in your face shouting can barely be understood. Since I’m a lowly specialist in a building full of higher ranking men, there was no window for me to return any fire. They were reserved for the heavier SAWs and team leaders. My team leader began to have malfunctions with his rifle but would not jump down so I could replace him. I watched as others fired for twenty minutes straight, even taking a video of the offending building getting pummeled by rounds. I was finally directed to shoot a grenade from the launcher underneath my gun, something I haven’t done yet. I relished at the opportunity to send a grenade into a window occupied by a machine gunner. I stepped outside on the corner of the building, loaded a grenade and flipped my sight up. I am seconds away from shooting when a cease fire is called. Everyone foolish enough to be outside the building comes back in. We begin the long process of loading up, but this time we make it. All in all, I didn’t fire one round.


It’s obvious from what you have read in earlier accounts that I believe we make no progress in this war, that this has been a constant waste of time and effort. For seven months that has been true. But on January 23, we have tangible progress. We could have never saved the Blackwater guys from being killed, but we saved their remains from being taken and were able to secure them for their families. Various reports construe that around eighteen insurgents were killed in the fight, along with some civilians caught in the crossfire. Some of our guys suffered cuts from falling bricks but no one was seriously hurt. But those who were there will carry the image of those four Americans in the streets forever.

AH

Stupidest Shit...Ever!

Since the inception of the Stupid Shit editions that find themselves scattered across this blog, I had planned on a Stupid Shit of The Year, listing all the candidates and having some sort of vote on what you, the most faithful of readers felt was the most inane and infuriating of all entries. Up to that point, they were all unexplainable rifts in common sense. All of it was maddening but we took it in stride as part of our job. It was so close to that moment, but before the end of the year, a single second stood tantamount to the stupidest shit I’ve ever witnessed.

On Christmas Day on the streets of Baghdad, we were greeted with student protests, hundreds marching throughout the city shouting anti American slogans as the mosque loudspeakers boomed with harsh rhetoric. Atop rooftops we could see them massing, and eventually we were called down to street level to deal with possible rioting. We met face to face with the protesters, both sides debating the consequences of dealing the first blow. I took a knee next to my compatriot and loaded a soft tipped grenade into my launcher to dissuade the more restless in the crowd; one tap to the chest and you’d be sent hurling into the mud. After a hasty Mexican standoff, we loaded up to head back to our base as the crowd cheered an apparent victory. Down the road, more were waiting for us with burning trash used as barricades to stop us in our tracks while rocks and chunks of concrete rained down on the hatches from rooftops. Grinches were definitely out in full force, but everyone made it back safe.

Wait, is this the line for PS3?

The stage was set for the next day, the day it came together for me. The day I finally understand how this conflict is being fought, in all the wrong ways most dangerous to those who are doing the fighting, protecting the very people at the top who are not. The day I was shot at for the first time in almost six months to the day I deployed, and the first time I ever shot back. Our mission was hazy and vague; sit outside the volatile section of Sadr City and wait for the enemy to come to us. We lazily scanned rooftops watching for machine gunners and snipers. I had just come from the stairwell where I was watching for anyone try to ambush us, but met only women and friendly kids. I was there but a few minutes when the horizon shook with a fierce sound of fire: clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. It was not the sound of our own. Five men including me pinpointed the fire coming from a rooftop in the Sadr City limits, and engaged. He soon disappeared, maybe dead, maybe not. We continued to lay down fire until I was told to stop. In between shots I attempted to mark the target with smoke grenades but both failed to perform. I intricately repeated through my head what happened for the next few minutes, coming up with all kinds of ‘what if’ scenarios. I’m sure it’s normal.

The rules of engagement were designed to protect the innocent and to prevent madmen from becoming murderers under the guise of defense. It states you must only fire at targets that are a direct threat to you. But, you can also shoot when you feel your life is threatened. In conventional war, this must have been simple to follow. You have two opposing sides, using conventional tactics with the wear of recognized uniforms. It wasn’t hard determining who was on your side and who wasn’t. There was honor and respect between foes. Flashes of history show us this. On Christmas Day in 1914, British and German troops ceased fighting for that day to trade cigarettes, coffee and stories. They played soccer in no man’s land, the ground where hundreds of thousands perished on both sides during futile advances. In Bastogne during WWII, again in the spirit of Christmas, German and American troops exchanged lines of Silent Night from their respective lines. They too continued one of the bloodiest battles of the war the next morning.

Welcome to twenty first century warfare.

American soldiers are breaking their backs to be the good guys in this war, to represent our leaders and the public we serve. We’re trying to remove the shame of Abu Ghraib and soldiers who raped and murdered Iraqi girls. When clearing blocks, we cut locks and if necessary, kick doors off hinges to search for weapon caches. If the people are home, we give them a number to call so they can collect money for their damaged property. In WWII, troops cleared houses by throwing in grenades without checking to see if a family is huddled in the corner. A terrible thing could happen, but it’s a war after all. We now have paintball guns and non-lethal shotgun rounds. Do you think the enemy carries the same? Who is this really helping?

I told you all of that to tell you what else happened on the roof that day. Minutes after the firefight, all of us noticed a black sedan making the same rounds through alleys and side streets. Always stopping in the same spot, always backing up at the exact same distance. The driver along with a passenger in the front seat and back seat were concealing most of the frame behind a building, leaving only the right passenger door facing us. Insurgents have been known to use sniper rifles inside cars so they can make quick getaways in traffic. It’s something we all know and watch for. This car was using textbook actions in a moving sniper platform. Immediately my team leader called up to my squad leader, who too became suspicious. We all wanted to take a shot, at least in the trunk of the car to scare the driver off, who was more than 300 meters away. Instinct was prevailing. We kept our sights on the car, which disappeared only to come back to the same spot and repeat his routine. It’s been 20 minutes. The call to take the shot went higher up the chain, the story getting more distorted and twisted the more ways it was interpreted to a higher ranking officer, all who weren’t there with us. It came back down the chain: don’t take the shot. It became a political decision; what if we were wrong? That's a lot of paperwork. We all cursed whoever kicked it back. I thought out loud about shooting and defending my actions later. I was told not to again. We watched the car leave, only to round the corner one more time and stop. He backs up, once again exposing his rear right window in a perfect line of sight to our rooftop. Once again the request to open fire was denied.

The window comes down.

Children in the alleyway scatter in all directions.

A flash of light fills the open window.

PSSSSSHEW.

When bullets fly near you, they pop as they make sonic boomlets. Closer still, they make hissing noises like a rattlesnake slithering past you faster than the speed of sound. In a split second, you realize you’re not dead. Your second thought is, “where did it go?” I looked over to my team leader five feet to my right, shouting obscenities and holding his ear. I thought he had been shot. Quickly I realize the bullet came so close to his head that it damaged his hearing for a moment. My ears were ringing as well. As for the sniper, he got away. The time from the shot to when the car moved into the alley was less than a second. Kill or no kill, the sniper made it back to his family that night. He used against us our most honorable and foolhardy trait: our adherence to the rules. And we, the most powerful force the earth has known, have been effectively neutered.

So dreadful the thought of civilian casualties that rules of engagement get more constricting by the day. Americans and the rest of the world are unwavered at the sight of our boys coming home in body bags, but Iraqi deaths are too much to handle. They call for tougher rules, for more discipline. They want us to accomplish our mission but can’t stomach the fact it could result in civilian deaths. Now chew on this: what if we shot at that car, and it turned out to be nothing? What if it ricocheted and killed a little girl? Would we still be right? The answer is yes. It’s unsettling to think in such cold terms, but you, the American public that cover your SUVs in yellow ribbons with the most shameful definition of support that has ever been conceived, burden those in the military with all the responsibility and guilt of a war that couldn’t exist without the Senate you elected. You thank us for protecting your freedom, then with infinite ignorance, look the other way while the death toll mounts, largely because of limits imposed by the government, all the way down the chain of command to the individual on the rooftop. It’s perpetuated by the vocal citizens who demand we keep civilian casualties down at all costs, and that reverberates through the halls of Washington. It trickles down to the senior officers who have careers to protect, where accountability comes back on them. The ones who make the call not to shoot at the alleged sniper in a car somewhere on a cold street in Baghdad.

Before I left for the Army, my father told me an old adage I should have kept dear: “I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six.” It needs no explanation. Those who were on the rooftop agreed that the next time we get that gut feeling, we’re acting on it. Even if the world says it’s a crime. I’ll leave this with another quote, from famed journalist Dan Rather:

In a constitutional republic such as ours, you simply cannot sustain warfare without the people at large understanding why we fight, how we fight, and have a sense of accountability to the very top.

The next time, I’m shooting. I might be judged by twelve, but it beats the alternative.

AH

Glorious Shit of The Week

On the night of August 4, 2004 I hugged my family, said goodbye and left them behind at a hotel in Dallas. Sleep came surprisingly early that night, and I awoke at 4 AM to a breakfast of eggs and bacon that a homeless man would think twice about eating. I was surrounded by about a hundred other nervous people, all strangers to each other but with one thing in common: they were all joining the military that day. Recruits for the Army, Navy, Marines and Coast Guard, active and reserve, we all piled onto buses bound for MEPS, the last step in processing before you board a plane to the location of your initial training. Hours later I was on my way to Atlanta, where I boarded another bus headed to Ft. Benning.


When you sign a contract for the Army, you do it by year. I joined for three years, but you can go for four, five or six. But that time doesn’t start when you begin training. It begins when you’ve completed it. My training was 16 weeks long beginning on August 5, so day one of my contract started when I graduated on November 24, two years ago today.


I don’t know when I started to count the days I had left, but it began in the low 1000s. In the 500s I put a running count on my MSN Messenger title, and if you talked to me on there (Candice), then you celebrated each passing day. You can even find a number here and there on this fine rag. Today, that number has reached 365.


I was never big on the thanks part of Thanksgiving. Before August 5, 2004 it seemed turkey, happy families and warm houses were simply how life went. I didn’t know how to be thankful for the things I had. Now for the first time, I’m thankful for something: the future. In one year (or 8760 hours and counting!), I’ll be in control of my own life for the first time in my 21 year history. I won’t be government property. I won’t be in a country where people rub their hands together in anticipation of killing another American. I won’t be in a place where speaking your mind is taboo, where suggesting alternative ideas to superiors is met with vehement reprise. One year from today, I won’t be in Iraq, I won’t be at Ft. Lewis, I’ll be exactly where I want to be, and all the good and bad things that go with it. And that is what I’m thankful for.


AH