Imperial History of the Middle East

Many of you should find this Flash map interesting (thanks to http://www.mapsofwar.com/). The map progresses through the last 5000 years of history, overlaying sucessive empires that controlled portions or the whole of the Middle East. Enjoy.

Side note: the Persian Sassinid empire (circa 600AD) was the origin of the word "Anbar", meaning storehouse.

Sleeping in Hell

After five days in a row of having the power go out every afternoon around 1 pm, we finally seem to have consistent electricity again. Hopefully the juice stays on- it's hard to stay up on sleep for nighttime missions when the power continually goes out during the hottest part of the day (and during the time we have for sleeping). I talked with the lead KBR electrician who was sent to fix the problems as they arose each day- it seems there are a number of reasons for the difficulties. First, the electrical system is a hash of several different standards: US, British, and one or two Middle Eastern. ME triangular cable does not fit well into round receptacle American circuit breakers. Secondly, the generator is a different model than the in service in most areas. When the generator goes down, there are often no spare parts to fix it immediately. Lastly, the KBR electricians are short on correct tools. Apparently, KBR has enough money to pay their workers the exhorbent sums required to retain them in spite of the danger and poor conditions, but not enough to equip them properly. Normally, blatant, soulless capitalism doesn't concern me much- the open market usually produces a contractor who is capable of providing decent service. In a closed-bid world such as the one enjoyed by KBR in Iraq, where almost all non-combat support roles are contracted- from food service to laundry to electricity to latrine supply and maintenance, it is unlikely that KBR will lose a contract simply because it will not spend the money to keep a few soldiers in power for 5-6 hours every afternoon.

Not that I am bitter.

Viva la monopoly!

Q&A

I've been getting an ever-increasing number of emails with questions about a multitude of topics. I've also been getting more and more repeat questions. I plan on doing an occasional Q&A post, so send your questions to acutepolitics(at)gmail(dot)com. I'll try to publish the first segment in 4-5 days.

Militias

I have written previously about some of the major distinctions in the structure of the Iraqi Security Forces. Over the course of the last year, I have had the opportunity many times to see various Iraqi units in action. The Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police have greatly increased in number- there were few of either evident in Ramadi last October, and they are everywhere now. I like to see IAs and IPs; I like to see that Iraqis fighting for their own country. However, the guys I really like to see are the PSF and Neighborhood Watch fighters.

I have witnessed the appearance of local fighters in an area several times- an advent that is normally followed quickly by relative peace.

Tribal fighters man a checkpoint near the Euphrates

The first area in which I saw local fighters appear was along the Euphrates river near Falluja. The newly-formed Neighborhood Watch was controlled by the sheik I mentioned in "ISF Primer"- the one that was wounded fighting American troops in the 2004 battle for Falluja. It is mainly because of him that so many units began calling the neighborhood watch the "Good Bad Guys". There are many Iraqis like this sheik and his men, former insurgents who have grown to see Americans as allies and al-Qaeda and foreign fighters as the real threat to their future. The region controlled by the sheik is marked by fighters manning checkpoints- originally hasty affairs built from rusted engine parts and cinder brick, and upgraded to sand-filled plastic Jersey barriers as the local forces transitioned to PSF.

Children make their way to school

Now, the sheik commands a company of PSF fighters, as well as unincorporated Neighborhood Watch along his eastern border. He receives funds fom the Iraqi government to provide a stipend for his men and to help pay for equipment. As far as I am aware, there has been only one attack in his territory since the local citizens stood up- a double IED strike one night that was followed by the PSF going house to house looking for the bomber. The problems and friction that many feared have not developed, even during the transition from the Marine unit that initially held the area to their successors.

The second time I saw a local militia form, it happened almost overnight. The region was an agricultural area northeast of Ramadi- it was a bad area, one that we frequently patrolled and often found IEDs in. Blast holes lined the roads, and at some places nearly blocked the narrow, elevated lanes. Two companies of Marines had spent months trying to gain control of the area- mainly on foot, because the roads were continually seeded with IEDs. One day, the ever-elusive enemy launched mortars at us while we paused at a Combat Outpost. None of the rounds hit our patrol or the COP- however, at least one hit a school. We took four children and three adults to Camp Taqaddum, near Habbaniyah, for medical care. One more little girl died later at TQ, and more had been killed down in the village. In all, twelve children died.

The COP minutes before the transformational attack

The next time we patrolled the route, later that week, there were militia fighters standing alongside Marines all along the road. We never found another IED in the area. I recently spoke with a Chief Warrant Officer who had been serving at the COP during the transformation. He did not know it had been our platoon in the area that day, but he directly credited our aid and the PSYOPS followup as the events that sparked the transformation. The Marines had spent months laying the groundwork- interfacing with the villagers, offering aid, and sweeping for bad guys. The Iraqis weren't buying into it. In one day, that changed. I was told that the Army PSYOPS unit attached to the Marines put on "the show of a lifetime". They went out onto the roads proselytizing via loudspeaker: "The insurgents say they are here to help you, but they only kill your children. The Americans are the only ones you can trust to help." They opened the mike up to the villagers, and the response was overwhelming. People came from their houses to tell the insurgents "You killed my daughter. I will not sleep, I will not eat until I see you die!". Iraqis came up to tell about the strange men that had appeared, threatening to kill families if they were not provided with shelter. They led Marines to caches and IEDs. Perhaps most importantly, they began to work with the Marines to secure their villages. Now, the Marines are gone, save for a small contingent left on the main road to the south.

A soldier gives 1st aid to an adult wounded in the mortar attack

Standing up to the insurgents is not without risk. There have been several times that our patrol has passed dusty little cemeteries nestled among the trees, clustered with mourners burying fallen brothers. The non-uniformed forces in Iraq such as PSF or NW are in danger from multiple sides- from insurgents who wish to kill them, and from trigger-happy Americans who may shoot them thinking they are the enemy. Both have happened on occasion, but the tribesmen continue to serve.

Mourners gather at the funeral for 7 fighters killed by insurgents

Insurgents still hold out in Zaidon , sandwiched between Falluja and the Euphrates. The bombs there have gotten bigger and more numerous, as well as appearing in previously calm areas and including VBIEDs. Recently, a stretch of several bad days saw multiple trucks from each route clearance patrol in the area strike IEDs. There is a possible light in the tunnel, though- several new classes of PSF have just graduated, and some of those men are serving now in Zaidon. IED activity has already been markedly reduced. If the past is any indication, the Iraqi effort will spread wider and encompass the entire area, helping American troops to bring calm to one of the last major centers of violence in al-Anbar province.

ISF Primer

In America, neighborhood watch means a sign with an all seeing eye bolted to a pole, and perhaps a slightly higher chance that the residents of the area will call the police over suspicious activity. In Iraq, neighborhood watch means men with AK-47s and medium machine guns manning hasty checkpoints built from cinder blocks and rubbish.


There are three general divisions of Iraqi Security Forces:

The highest level in the Iraqi Army- the soldiers of an IA brigade are drawn from a broad region, and they generally have the best training of Iraqi troops. Some IA divisions are considered to be quite competent- for example, I have heard good things about the 1st and 5th IA, both from American observers, and from Iraqi troops who have served in those units.

Below the level of the IA is the Iraqi Police- policemen are generally drawn from a city and the surrounding rural area. The quality of IPs varies widely by location: in al-Anbar province, most IPs are good men, trustworthy, and decently trained. In other areas, IPs have sometimes proven to be corrupt- or worse, more loyal to their tribal connections than to the government. IPs also have to deal with the dangers inherent in serving the Iraqi government near their hometowns- if they are recognized, their families could be in danger. One can watch the security situation in an area improve in the faces of the IPs-in Ramadi last year, most IPs (when they were present) wore face masks out of fear for their families. Now, they are usually uncovered.

The lowest level of ISF is the Provincial Security Forces. They come from an even smaller slice of countryside than do the IPs, and they attend a short academy that teaches basic skills before putting them into the field. PSF often serve directly alongside IPs, manning vehicle checkpoints and patrolling villages. They lend a direct knowledge of small communities that the IPs for the broader area may lack. Many PSF will prove themselves on the beat with the IPs, and will go on to the IP academies to become policemen themselves.

Below the scope of government security operations is the "Neighborhood Watch". These are volunteers from the local population, often managed by the local sheik and unpaid by the Iraqi government. The appearance of NW is often the portent of change in a historically violent area, because the formation of a local security force (as compared to outside intervention by Coalition Forces or ISF) represents a shift in the attitude of the local population. NW members are normally encouraged to join one branch or another of the ISF- after vetting, many of them eventually do become soldiers or policemen. American troops call them the "Good Bad Guys" or GBG- a title which reflects the checkered past of many fighters. One sheik, one of the first to stand up a militia in the Falluja area, now commands a company of PSF troops. His men began as a militia, became recognized as NW by the local Marine command, and many eventually went to the academy to become PSF. The sheik himself was wounded fighting Americans in the battle for Falluja- he has been working with us now for close to a year. His community near the river is beautiful, acts of violence are extremely rare, and we have never had problems with him or any of his men.

This sort of turnaround is the future of al-Anbar province- convincing former insurgents that America is here to give them help, not to take their land, their oil, their culture, or their religion. Many have come to realize that we will leave once our job is done, and have turned their attention to helping root out the stubborn and the terrorists- the ones who will never stop fighting.

/Rant Part 2

Look Down Fair Moon

Look down fair moon and bathe this scene,
Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly,
swollen, purple,
On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide,
Pour down your untainted nimbus sacred moon.

-Walt Whitman


Michael Yon provides pictures, video, grid coordinates and interviews to verify a mass grave, and the most definite news byte that the Associated Press will print is that mass graves "reportably" exist in Baqouba? That isn't even up to the level of the common complaint that the media fails to report good news. That's failing to report the bad news correctly. In response to an email wondering why the AP did not pick up Yon's excellently sourced story, the AP replied that no military press release had been issued, so they would not print the story. Excuse me? Your job is to seek out and find news- not wait for it to be handed to you by the military PAOs you claim to distrust. If the APs only source of news items is another news service, what reason is there for it to exist? It took days of intense and growing criticism by sources all over the internet for the AP to finally publish any of Michael Yon's journalism.

How about how talking heads still debate whether it was really al-Qaeda we fought in Baqouba, despite the public proclamation of al-Qaeda in Iraq that Baqouba would be their capital? Yon hits another nail on the head, by the way- AQI militants don't issue ID cards. We call an enemy fighter al-Qaeda not because we wish him to be so, but because he belongs to a group that has identified itself with al-Qaeda and that embraces al-Qaeda's cruel and barbaric tactics.

Whomever we fought before- feyahadeen, Sunni nationalists, Shia zealots- this war in Iraq is now against al-Qaeda and similar terrorists. Al-Qaeda capitalized on the opportunity to grow radical cancer within a disorganized and lawless state, and they have become our most dangerous enemy in skill, tactics and threat, if not actual numbers. Bill Roggio does an excellent roundup of the claims, myths, and facts about the strength and presence of al-Qaeda in Iraq. I suggest you check it out.

Blog the war, folks. It's the only way you'll learn anything.

Happy Birthday!

A year ago today, I was mobilized on active duty orders in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

/Rant

I got up this morning and went to breakfast. I sat and ate eggs and half of a grapefruit, while the tv news helped Sen. Reid tell me I'm a failure. The surge is not working, the newest current strategy is not working, and the war is lost. I gathered via the internet today that he later stepped back from some of his harsher statements- I don't know for sure whether that is true or not. If so, it only adds to my disgust. I also learned that Congress approved a resolution forcing a troop withdrawal to begin within 120 days, down to a "minimal number" by April 2008. The resolution does not specify what Congress considers a "minimal number", which appears to leave the interpretation up to the President. Good job, Washington! Way to send a message! Is there perhaps a reason that your approval rating is lower than our beleaguered president? Those who are both opposed to the Iraq war and in a position to do something about it, our elected leaders, are too scared to act on their beliefs. That is an insult that cannot even be applied to our enemies- in fact, it applies to them least of all, for they are involved in a mortal struggle over their beliefs.

It is an individual decision to support or oppose the war- and once made, that decision is worthless unless backed up with action. It is impossible to make a worthwhile decision without becoming properly informed, and that is the source of another rant in and of itself:

Some news outlets report the facts- sometimes grudgingly, and sometimes with a negative opinion following, but they still manage to report facts. Some "news" sources neglect facts altogether, and attempt to sway opinion through some sort of delusional haunted-house fairy tale, filtering current events through the ugly memories of past failures.

Take the following as an example:

On June 17th, the Village Voice published a warning of the deteriorating situation in Falluja, decrying the mistreatment of aid workers by US forces, as well as the punishing curfew imposed on the city, and implying that we were bombing hospitals in Falluja. The article also predicted a repeat of the Nov. 2004 assault on the city.

Almost one month later, the assault has still failed to materialize. This seeming lapse in the warmaking decision process cannot be due to the lack of resistance in Falluja. After all, violence is up, hospitals are being bombed, and legitimate residents of the city are fleeing the city in fear. IEDs are being found in record numbers, and the torture houses are open for business again.
The preceding paragraph is of course sarcasm, albeit sarcasm that the Village Voice would likely prefer to believe. When I was a child, my father used to sarcastically tell me that "If the facts aren't on your side, speak louder and pound the table".

The Village Voice fails to mention the reason for the vehicle curfew in the city of Falluja- it was a decision made by the mayor of Falluja. Iraqi Security Forces maintain responsibility for the city of Falluja, and they have done a good enough job that the main threat in the city became strikes by VBIEDs brought in from outside the city. VBIEDs strike soft targets like tribal gatherings, traffic checkpoints packed with civilians- anywhere thorough vehicle checks are hard to perform. From Febuary through late May, when the vehicle ban began, Falluja was rocked multiple times by VBIEDs that killed civilians and police, and shredded the downtown area that Iraqis have worked hard to rebuild. The logical response was to ban intra-city vehicle traffic until a solution could be found.

Vehicle traffic inside the city persists at a much lower level- most civilian vehicles do not cross the city boundary, buses roam the city to serve the population, and heavy goods are moved by bongo truck (the unmistakable middle eastern version of the pick-up truck) or young boys selling handcart services. The city officials have taken the opportunity afforded by decreased traffic, and formed work crews to clean the streets- a job that badly needed done.

I do not sense the nasty undercurrent to the city that the Village Voice alleges is there. Lest anyone say that the people would restrain their opinion in the presence of men with guns, I would encourage you to ask an OIF or OEF veteran whether he or she could tell when the people didn't want you there. The people will glare, shoo their children inside, and move away as you pass. They won't wave, they won't answer to a simple "as salaam alaikum". What I see in Falluja is quite different. Today, for instance, I saw a thing I had never seen before in Iraq- a woman on a cell phone. The terrorists have taken to blowing up cell towers, because they fear the people having an instant connection to security forces more than they value the utility of a cell-phone detonated IED. Women hold their babies up to see us wave to them. Children play soccer in the streets and wave as we drive by. The markets have people, and relative to others I have seen, they are well stocked. I can't speak with authority on the subject of electricity because I have never spent a complete 24 hours in the city and watched the blackouts roll, but I'm sure that the new power plant under construction will help.

I could keep ranting, and I may, at a later time. I'll stop now, with a final message that all of you should already know: don't believe everything you hear.

Mission Pictures:

The three-day mission I mentioned in the last post was to clear a route into the area of interest, nestled within a loop of the Euphrates river near Amiriyah. Following us was a combined force of Army, Marine, and Iraqi Army troops, who would then seal off the area and fan out gathering intel, "making face" with the villagers, and searching for caches.

We staged out of a small Combat Outpost (COP) near Amiriyah. This COP was one of several constructed just a few months ago in a largely successful effort to secure the main route from Falluja to Amiriyah. Amiriyah had been the scene of much fighting between the local al-Qaeda and Iraqi Police; American patrols happened rarely, as the nearest major patrol bases were separated from the community by long stretches of dangerous roads. Now, the situation in Amiriyah and the nearby neighborhood of Feris is largely under control in the hands of the Iraqi security forces, and Coalition efforts have begun to focus on the surrounding villages.

Our mission for the first day was mainly spent clearing alternate routes out in the desert that the unit were were working for had used in the past and would use again in the future.

Investigating an IED

We finished our mission for the first day by midafternoon, and pulled into the COP for the night. The weather was hottest I had felt yet- when we got back to Camp Falluja, someone told me that the thermometer had hit 131 degrees in the shade.
Even collapsing on the roof provided little relief.

Evening shade on the roof of a COP

We had some small visitors drop by, wishing to share our shade and perhaps a few nuggets from the MRE crackers that some of the soldiers were snacking on.

Little friends

After a restless night spent in the heat, we were up at 0400 to prep and lead out on the next mission- the actual operation on the river. Soldiers racked weapons into their places atop the trucks; others stocked water and MREs in anticipation of a long day. No one really knew what kind of environment we were moving into: the villages and farmland could be quiet and peaceful, or they could be alive with fighters and minefields of IEDs. Both scenarios have played themselves out in other nearby villages, and no one had spent enough time in this particular area to predict the outcome. Our only resource was to be prepared for the worst case.

A gunner preps his battle bag

The first half of the second day was largely uneventful. The troops following us in had little to report- some men who tried to dodge to cordon, an extra AK-47 in a house. We found nothing in the roads.

A infantryman of 3/6 Marines patrols alongside a "Gator"

Later on, one of our vehicles ran over a sharp piece of metal, flattening a tire. Towards the end of the tire change, two more vehicles starting taking single rifle rounds from a building off in a grove of palms in the distance. Some of our Marine security contingent tried to chase the shooter down in their Gator, but they were ultimately unsuccessful.

A "Gator" chases down a sniper

We moved on out of the area, after notifying the force commander of the small arms fire, and proceeded down the route. Just down the road, an alert Gator crewmember noticed some things that seemed out of place at a small shop by the roadside- possibly connecting the men there to the recent gunfire. We stopped to talk to the owner to ask him a few questions and look through his car. He seemed happy to allow the search, and tried to tell us, in a mixture of broken English and Arabic, where we should look for the shooter. We thanked him for his time and help, passed the information up, and moved on.

Sniper hunting

With Day 2 over, we went back to the COP for another long night in the stifling air. I went to sleep listening to feral dogs growling around the camp's burning trash pit and watching their moving shadows dance with the flames. Day 3 began early, again, and beautifully. We were treated to a postcard-perfect sunrise as we moved through Amiriyah towards our area of operation.The sun rises over a peaceful Euphrates, near Amiriyah

One last bit of excitement remained- one that underlines the difficulties we face in Iraq. The picture below is of a bridge construction site, spanning the Euphrates between the Zaidon region and Amiriyah/Feris. Look carefully at the photo.

A bridge in progress from Zaidon to the Amiriyah region

The three trucks closest to the river are VBIEDs that are under construction. Southern Zaidon receives little attention from American patrols- as with Amiriyah just a few months ago, the roads leading in are long and dangerous. A local villager on the Amiriyah side of the river pointed these trucks out to a Marine patrol. If it weren't for the relations we have built on this side of the river in recent months, the first sign we would have likely had of these VBIEDs would have been their detonation, probably in the midst of a crowd of innocent civilians.

It will be Zaidon's turn soon enough, though- and for now, Amiriyah is looking good.

Surprise!

I got back to Ramadi on the 28th of June, and spent two days doing a whole lot of nothing while waiting for my platoon to come back from Falluja. I planned to spend day three turning in extra unused gear at noon, and then doing more nothing. I woke up to the phone ringing. The other soldier in the building, left behind on guard duty, answered the call:

Alpha Company, 3rd platoon, this is SPC W.
Yeah, he's here.
Ok, I'll tell him.

I dimly reckoned that I was late for my appointment with supply, and started to roll out of bed, stopping to look at my watch on the way. It read 0936. Uh-oh. My buddy came in: "You need to go down now and turn in your gear." I said "I thought I was doing that at noon?" "Oh yeah, and you're going to Falluja today. They destroyed a truck".

My tasks for the day now included going over to another company's Tactical Operation Center (TOC), drawing the RG-31 that they were lending us while ours was in the shop for repairs, and then driving it to Falluja with the team sent to transport the damaged truck back to Ramadi. I got the paperwork for the new truck from the TOC and headed down to the motor pool to sign for the vehicle. The maintenance teams for the different companies normally reserve vehicles just for such occasions as this- in the states, we'd call them lemons. Here, we have a less kind name for them, one that reflects our heightened chance of injury while operating them. My hope that the truck I was signing for would not prove to be one of those proved false. Before I could sign for the truck, I had to help get it running. The batteries were completely dead and needed replaced, and the navigational system was also toast. The air conditioning functioned poorly, and the radio mount was built out of wood- a solution liable to become a hail of screws, splinters, and flying radios in the event of an explosion.

I swapped out the batteries, signed for it, and drove it away. Later on, in Falluja, we swapped out bad electronic parts with working ones from the blown-up truck. We had a few problems with the loaner before we handed it back in, but nothing so major it couldn't be fixed by someone punching a window and screaming a little. I turned it back in with new batteries, some fresh oil, two new bullet holes, shrapnel damage to three windows and the left side, and all other issues unchanged. Fair trade in my book.

I spent the next hour and a half running around trying to track down a working gun mount. The RG-31 is of foreign construction, and the ring mount on the turret requires a different style of pintle than the US standard. As trucks get blown up and mounts are destroyed, we're left with few options besides finding adapters to use with other mounts, or performing redneck hack&slash welding that maintenance really doesn't appreciate. I never did find a mount- fortunately, the convoy to Falluja already had enough gun trucks that we weren't required to mount a gun for the trip. Once we got to Falluja, we found a working mount in the platoon gear stockpile. All the time I had that morning was taken up by the lemon.

We left the gate at 1400, and returned at 1410. The backup tractor for the tractor-trailer recovery team broke down before we made it completely out of the gate. We had to stand by the trucks for another two hours while the tractor was recovered into the FOB and replaced. At 1730 we finally pulled into Camp Falluja, where I learned that the lineup time for our next mission was at 0130. It would be a three-day operation.

Great. So now I have 6 hours to eat my first meal of the day, finish fixing a truck, supplement my previous night's 4 hours of sleep, and pack for three days. This is why they call Iraq "The Suck".

Next up: mission pictures (as soon as the Blogger.com web photo transfer starts working)

Leave Pics

The Iraqi internets finally worked well enough to upload some pictures from leave. Those few that made the hazardous journey across the treacherous wasteland between Iraq and wherever the Blogger.com server is are presented here for your viewing pleasure (along with typically rambling commentary).

An Air Force EOD tech vainly tries to sleep beneath the morning sun

As I've mentioned previously, the process of going on leave is long, torturous, and seems mainly designed so intentionally, in order to increase the appreciation of troops for good ol' America. The picture above was taken just after leaving Shannon, Ireland. The sunrise was streaming straight into the windows- somehow, it seems a bit brighter at 35000 feet, with no clouds to scatter the rays.

My family picked me up from the airport, and we drove to my parent's house in Oregon. Once there, I indulged myself in the favorite pastimes of many a soldier: first food, then beer, then sleep.

First things first: I gotta cook!

This is a recipe that I found in my new baby: The Wine Lover's Guide to Cooking with Wine. It's a Greek dish- sauteed tomatoes, onions, fresh herbs, garlic, and Greek wine, layered with shrimp and topped with feta. It tasted almost as awesome as the layout of cheese samples, toast, basil pesto and roasted red pepper macadamia nut pesto that my mom and I laid out to complete the meal. I'll let this topic go now... I'm hungry again, and the Ramadi chow hall isn't going to do anything to help me on that score.

The whole family together

My nomadic sisters managed to make it back home while I was in town- one from Florida, and the other from most places between there and Oregon. This family picture is take #371. The only thing keeping me smiling is the dinner of grilled halibut and more of that red pepper/macadamia pesto that we just finished. There I go again...

Foothills above Anchorage, AK

After a few days back home with the family (and a dinner I made for Mel, my sister, and my friend Ariel- a meeting that I cannot get a picture of onto Blogger), I headed up to Alaska for the wedding of one of my college roommates and another friend.

A college roommate bites the dust

The wedding was probably the best one I've ever been to, and it was done in true Alaskan style. We drove south towards Seward for two hours, turned off, hiked for four miles, had a twenty-minute ceremony, and headed out. I think the reception that we had that night took longer than the entire shindig, including the hike. Another interesting thing about the wedding was the sheer number of guns present. There were some sixty people in attendance, ranging from toddlers to grandparents- a solid third to a half of those there had guns. One of my friends remarked that he wasn't quite used to seeing that many guns around. However, I am.

The bachelor party + the best man's HK SOCOM

Speaking of guns, the bachelor party was quite a bit of fun.

No, I'm not an alcoholic. We just forgot the glasses.

That's a CAO in my left hand, and Jonny Walker Black Label in my right. Those of you who know about such things may rest assured that I was well taken care of while I was on leave.


The last day before I left Boise was the annual Boise Beer Festival. I couldn't pass that opportunity up, so I dragged my dad and two friends kicking and screaming downtown. We made it through around half of the 20+ stands before nine months of Iraq started to catch up to me, and after a break in the Boise Basque district for roast lamb, we went back to finish the job.

Karaoke in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport

Some specialist from the 2nd Infantry scored a guitar off of the crowd gathered at the airport to see us off. We had a bit of karaoke and music-making while we waited.

Lindsay, Ben, Me, Kati

Badger 6 will no doubt use this photo as supporting evidence to back up his thesis regarding my motivations for blogging. In my defense, I mentioned nothing about a blog to either of these lovely USO ladies (a fact for which I find myself in a bit of hot water now). Lindsay and Kati introduced Ben and me to an excellent BBQ stand in D/FW- if you happen to be there, stop by Cousin's BBQ and tell them a soldier told you to go there.

Welcome back to the desert

It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose- landing in the Middle East, that is. This is Kuwait City International as we taxied to the download area. It's dusty, around 115-120 degrees, and generally not as nice as Idaho, Oregon, and Alaska. Now, of course, I'm back in Iraq, where we have all of that and bullets, too. I have the pictures to tell of that story uploaded to photobucket- now I just need to find some time tomorrow, and you can read and see my excuses for not blogging too much recently.

Tokens of Home

There's a small charm that hangs around my neck. Many soldiers carry some small token or good luck charm- Saint Christopher medallions, coins, crosses, sometimes even hand blown glass hearts. Mine is a stylized fishhook carved and polished out of bone. The Maori call it Hei-Matau; they believe it will bring strength, peace and good health. My sister bought mine for me while in New Zealand this winter, and I've worn it ever since. The Maori say that with time, part of the essence of the bone and of the wearer will swap places, and the necklace will become a small part of one's self. Mine has certainly changed in the six months I've worn it- one side has become even more highly polished from the constant rubbing of my cotton shirt, and the other shows dark streaks along the pores of the bone and hints of color from months of sweat and dust.

I've changed, too. One of my friends told me I wouldn't begin to realize how different I had become until I saw other soldiers going on leave who had spent their tours in Kuwait or other less violence-prone areas, and that I would not realize it fully until I got home.

A part of the difference is a profoundly deeper appreciation for peace. One of the first days I was home, I lay on a strip of grass while I waited outside the store my sister was shopping in. I breathed in the clean air and closed my eyes to better hear the wind whispering through the trees. I opened my eyes again and watched the people strolling by, caught up in their own concerns and ignoring the quiet beauty that surrounded them. I jerked upright when a garbage truck dropped a dumpster- the harsh thump of metal sounded enough like a VBIED to jerk me back to Iraq.

The polished sheen of my necklace is there- one friend told me that he'd never seen me act more confident. I felt it before he mentioned it- I own the ground I walk on, and you'll have to go through me if you want to take it. I've made it through nine months in what was once called the "triangle of death"; that area of Iraq that last year saw nearly thirty percent of those serving within it earn the Purple Heart. I've learned, as I think most combat soldiers do, to truly "not sweat the small stuff". If a situation doesn't threaten death or injury, I can't trouble myself to care too much about it. The only things that bother me are the moments in which my reflexes work faster than my brain, and for a moment I'm "back there". It didn't happen to me often over my two weeks at home, but when it did, it reminded me of what I think of as my "dirty side". I don't say dirty as in bad, but as in colored by Iraq.

By the time I left home again, I'd stopped jerking the wheel when I saw pieces of junk on or near the road, but I was still cautiously approaching manhole covers and overpasses. The dumpster falling bothered me. The car backfiring startled me for a moment. The neighborhood kid dropping a string of firecrackers out in the alley definitely startled me (Boy, am I glad I'm not home for the 4th of July!). All those incidents were quickly over, though.

The only one that truly bothered me was while I was on a trip up to Alaska. One of my roommates from college was getting married, and I happened to make it home over the wedding. The bachelor party was standard Alaska fare: shooting guns (Don't worry- the drinking waited until afterwards!). We took a long drive out around the coast from Anchorage. The improved road ended at a small dirt airstrip. My friend took his little Toyota Camry up to about 40mph and pulled the e-brake, spinning us in a complete circle. Things started going downhill from there. We drove along a rutted, potholed road through trees and undergrowth that looked like places I'd been along the river, and turned to cross a small culvert onto another road. Some enterprising Alaskan had blown up a car on the narrow crossing- the rusted hulk of it and another vehicle lay bullet-riddled on the other side of the blackened hole in the dirt. A little further on, the road disappeared into a giant hole. Another bullet-scarred car sat in the water-filled bottom. We backed up and took another side road and parked. I got out and smelled rotting meat- the smell of death. One of my friends gagged, and I remarked to him that all we needed was the smell of burning trash to re-create Iraq. That was the cue for someone nearby to start firing single high-caliber rounds. Of all the things on the trip so far, that was the one I was actually expecting- it startled me less than it did them. Another friend said he hoped we didn't get hit- I said not to worry, because the rounds weren't coming our way. He said that sounded like the voice of experience. I just nodded. It made me feel better to pick up a gun.

People will think I'm crazy for saying this, but I'm glad to be back in the desert. Things aren't quite black and white, but there are fewer shades of grey. The danger is real again, not imagined like some monster in the night or a djinn conjured out of the air.

Life is real.

Home Again

The first stop we made after leaving the middle east was Shannon, Ireland. We landed early in the morning- the sky was dimly lit with the coming dawn, but morning was still an hour or more off. Before we left the plane, the Lieutenant Colonel who commanded the flight back made sure we understood that we were all still on duty status and therefore were not to "buy, consume, procure, or obtain" any alcohol. Apparently, he's been in the Army long enough to know he needs to cover his bases thoroughly. Might I say, though, that to be in Ireland while unable to purchase any of Ireland's finest exports is a torture only the military would inflict? As I mentioned previously, the process of going on leave is nothing more than a series of indignations designed to help you appreciate getting home more.

Ireland has strict smoking laws, as well as stiff penalties for disobeying them. Smoking outside of the designated areas will earn you a 2000 euro (about $2800) fine. I assume that this is a recent law- the restrooms had ashtrays built into the stalls and the sink area. Now, you follow the signs down a long hallway leading away from the main terminal. You turn the corner and walk down a flight of stairs, followed by another short hallway and another flight of stairs. All the while, you pass signs on the wall warning not to light up until you reach the designated area somewhere deeper into the cave in front. At the end of yet another hallway, the doors open into what might be best described as a outdoor pen. The green fence surrounding the area is around twelve feet high, and the top slants in. The picnic table completely covered with empty beer bottles and glasses gives some hint as to a possible reason for the fence. As it turns out, this isolated zoo cage is the only place you can go to get outside while staying in the airport, so the patio fills with soldiers breathing the cold, misty air.

After another long stretch in the plane, we landed in Dallas. The people in Dallas are great- my first glimpse of America included a fire truck spraying an arc of water over the plane to welcome us home. Inside, the terminal was almost bare, but there was a still a small crowd that went to the airport at 6am to greet us. A quick run through immigrations and customs put us back in the world- a place where we are much less soldiers, and much more kids trying to make our cell phones work.

The rest of the trip home was uneventful. My group flew standby, trying to get home just a few hours quicker. Everywhere we went, we had a few people come up and thank us. In my experience, most of those that did had a relative or friend in the military. Most people payed no more attention to us than to anyone anyone else. No one was rude.

I'll talk soon about being home, about driving, about talking, and about feeling naked.

I'm Leeeaving, On a C-17...

I'm in Kuwait now, headed home on leave. Travel is a complicated process in Iraq, marked at each stage by some complicated torture designed to remind soldiers that, while they may be going home, they still have no right to expect to be happy or revel in the appearance of comfort.

It starts with a helicopter flight. In order to board the helicopter, you must first endure as few as four hours and as much as two nights sitting on the flight line, breathing dirt and hoping the next flight will be yours. It isn't yours, of course, so you go on shaking the dirt from your hair and ears after each flight leaves, and trying to nap in the thirty minutes of calm before the next flight arrives. Thanks to one of the readers of this blog, I had a fine cigar while I waited- a CAO Maduro that, besides being an excellent cigar, allowed me to ignore one round of dirt showers. My group was lucky- we got out the first night, after only five hours of waiting.

The next stop on the trip home is one of the large logistical bases scattered around Iraq. After no less than a day, and hopefully no more than four, you fly south to Kuwait. In the meantime, you will deal with obscenely early briefings in which the military equivalent of a kindergarten teacher repeats simple instructions over and over until all the sleep-deprived knuckleheads in the group remember their last names and flight times. While waiting for the next briefing to start, you are free to wander the post. I chose to do so, forfeiting sleep in the process. I proceed to get lost and get on the wrong bus (a post with buses is new to me). It worked out in the end, though- the new bus route took me by the shore of one of the large lakes in central Iraq, as well as the stripped down and graffitied remnants of Saddam's air force. I got back to the transient tent at 1400- my next 'hit time" on the trip home was 0600 in the morning, and I intended to spend the interim sleeping. I laid down on my mattress, still in the plastic wrapper and devoid of any bedspread, just in time for the lights to flicker and die and the AC to whine to a stop. Great. With the power out and the heat climbing, I had little choice but to tack a few more hours onto my day. I'd been awake for almost thirty hours at that point- not the longest I've ever been awake in Iraq, but the first time I'd been awake that long by my own choice. I won't lie- it was kind of nice to abuse my body because I wanted to. Fatigue makes the world a little sharper somehow. Your reactions slow, but the sky seems more blue, and the sounds more clear. Unfortunately, the wind also feels hotter.

0600 meant more standing around, and more retarded people who, after years in the military filling out every form imaginable with their social security number, are still unable to remember the last four digits of the same. From 0700 to 1030, I nap, and finish off the first book I've read in weeks: Robert Heinlein's classic Stranger In A Strange Land. The title seems appropriate for my situation- first as an American in the Middle East, and now as a combat soldier trapped in a world of paperwork and briefings. At 1045, we got the first pleasant surprise of the trip. Our ride to Kuwait is an Air Force C-17- much larger and nicer than the noisy, cramped sweat box of a C-130 of the sort in which we entered Iraq.

So now I'm in Kuwait. I've survived three briefings so far, as well as a minor foul-up getting into a tent (apparently, the computer classified some of us as "other" under gender, and was thus unable to decide which tent we should go to. The billeting agent informs me first that no, I can't pick my gender now, and second, that question is hardly original and thus not funny). I think it's pretty funny that computers get gender-confused. I have another briefing, a customs search (not just for weapons/ammo/explosives- I hear they have a problem with people smuggling porn out of country. Remember those knuckle-dragging idiots I talked about?), and I should be headed out back to the states for a couple of weeks.

Back in [Blueish-Greenish-Grey]

Well, I'm back to Blogger (.com) once again. When I last wrote here, we were on the eve of a projected five-day mission. We began with a false start, spent the night at a small outpost on the west side of Falluja, and returned to base to try again the next night.

We ended up spending only three days out of Camp Falluja, and we managed to spend one night in the large logistical base at TQ (Camp Taqqaddum), which lies between Ramadi and Falluja on the shore of a large lake. All in all, the mission wasn't too bad. Even the Iraqi house we stayed in was better than last time. We did have to deal with two broken-down humvees in our Marine security element (part of the reason we went to TQ), and on the trip back into Camp Falluja we blew a tire on the BUFFALO. That day marked the second time we have had to recover the BUFFALO back to home- neither have been due to enemy fire. The last time we recovered the beast was just after we started working in Falluja- EOD had set up a controlled detonation of an IED, and assured the BUFFALO crew that they were far enough away to be clear of the blast. Long story short, they weren't, and we had to tow it back and replace three tires before heading back out to restart the mission. Ironically, the one time the BUFFALO was seriously damaged by an IED, we managed to clank all the way home before the shrapnel rattling in the cylinders destroyed the engine.

This time, though, it was just a blown seal on the tire (albeit in downtown Falluja). We hooked up and dragged her home, where we thoroughly cussed the BUFFALO crewmember who had directly preceded the event by noting that "everything seemed to be going too smoothly".
The week since we got back has been a whirlwind of missions, mission changes, and all the other wonderful things that go with being the "go-to" guys for anyone who wants to roll down a road in Iraq.

3 In 2?!

Two days, three blog posts.

Too bad I can't keep this up.

I'll be off doing Army stuff for a while, and you won't be seeing any postings here for several days, at least. Hopefully, I'll come back soon with stories and pictures, so keep checking.


In other news:

I recently celebrated my 23rd birthday on a hot and lazy afternoon back in Ramadi. Thanks to all of you who somehow managed to figure out when it was to send me something. The cards and well-wishes were great.

Acute Politics will have three posts appearing in Doonesbury's print edition of The Sandbox. The book will release in September, and will feature blogs from Afghanistan, Iraq, and the Home Front, just like the website does. There will also be a picture on the back cover that should look very familiar to readers of this blog. Badgers Forward readers will be pleased to hear that Badger 6 will have entries in the book as well.

The ads *cue evil music* have sparked more than a few comments, and several emails for and against in my inbox. Perhaps it would help soothe some injured idealism if I reveal that I receive no monetary compensation for the presence of the ads- they exist solely to support PJM's relationship with this blog. If at some point in the future I do receive payment, it will go to a military charity. All that isn't to say that I think there's something wrong with profiting off of creative works in one of the few ways the internet allows- it's just that that is not the case this time.

Promotion Party!

The night was hot yesterday. The sun had set an hour or two previously, and yet the thermometer on the back porch still read 105 degrees. Two helicopters flew low overhead, tilting at the sliver of moon rising above our barracks. The rotor wash from the choppers turned the porch into a hellish wind tunnel. On the other side of the dirt-filled wall of HESCO barriers, the Marines were lining up for another mission out into Ramadi. Blue chemlights described glowing arcs through the night as Marines taped the markers to radio antennas and released them skyward, and the night thumped to the tune of Guns 'N Roses on some Marine’s stereo.

Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them any more
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feels like I'm knockin' on heavens door

On our side of the HESCOs, the party was in full swing. We were on our second day back in Ramadi. Our platoon leader had just earned his promotion to 1st Lieutenant, and we were celebrating as hard as you can in Iraq. The humidors full of cigars were out, and melting ice leaked across the deck from open cases of non-alcoholic beer. Wood scraps sent twisting flames aloft from our fire pit set into the patio built of metal airlift pallets. Many members of the platoon made use of our most obscene amenity- an 8x6’ pool built by our predecessors out of a water tank that was hit by shrapnel during a rocket attack. We spent the afternoon cleaning the accumulation of dust and sand out of the bottom, and sent someone running after the water truck in anticipation of the evening.

Now the porch and patio dance with flames that cut through the swirling cigar smoke- the smoke that moves and throbs in time with the bass from the portable speakers. Members of other platoons in the company drift in to congratulate the LT, while our soldiers split off into groups and talk. In the back there's the shatter of glass and a brief curse- no worries, there's plenty more near-beer on ice. Ramadi's partying, and it's jumping for us.

Gator

We said goodbye to Gator recently, after over four months of working together. Gator is the nickname Marines affectionately give their Amphibious Assault Vehicles- the 23-ton tracks that accompanied us on so many missions through Iraq. Our Gators were the men of Co. B, 2nd Amphibious Assault Battalion. Gator was the first Marine unit that most of us had ever worked with directly, and I doubt we'll soon see one better.

A Gator platoon sounds off before leaving Falluja

Over the course of the months we spent together, we jointly completed over 60 route clearance missions without a casualty. As our security team, they chased our phantoms, like the cows that looked like men. Gator helped us evac wounded children after a school near us was hit by a mortar. We towed them out the time they slid off one of the steep raised roads we patrol. On other days, we spun up patrols to go help Gator Marines that had been blown up. While we were traveling to and from Ramadi, we depended more than once on Gator patrols when we ran into trouble.

The day before they left, the 1st Sergeant of Gator presented each of us with a certificate of appreciation and membership in Gator's team as honorary Marines. He also bestowed upon us the unit motto chalked on their vehicles- "YAT-YAS", or "You Ain't Tracks, You Ain't Shit". Our unit was converted to route clearance from a mechanized (tracked) combat engineer unit, so we well understand the tough love of mech troops for their tracks.

The brotherhood we shared with Gator was personified by two individuals: Specialist Yaw and Lance Corporal Yaw. SPC Chris Yaw is a member of my Army Reserve squad; LCPL Matthew Yaw is his younger brother and belongs to one of the active duty Marine platoons in Gator. Neither expected to see the other while serving in Iraq, but they ended up running multiple patrols together.

Yaw and Yaw

Both Yaws were gunners. Both have paid final respects to friends at small shrines in front of dusty congregations. For Chris, it was three friends and platoon mates; for Matt, it was his garrison roommate. Both have survived multiple IED hits, while their platoons found many more bombs before they exploded. They shared the dust, the mud, the flies, the stench, and the heat. They were the physical brothers, but someone once said that the bonds of combat form thicker ties than blood. I don't know that that statement is strictly true, but I do know we all remember Gator warmly.


Godspeed, Gators.

Oh, and YAT-YAS!

Pajamas Media

I'm sure you'll all notice the changes on the site. There's a big, hard to miss button over on the right, and some of those big ads. In the short term, becoming a PJM blog will mean some increased traffic, some more publishing opportunities for me, and unfortunately, some ads. I'm going to see what I can do to make the layout better. I'm unsatisfied with how the banners look right now. Here's hoping everything works out for the best!

Karma, Karma, Always Karma

We took another trip up into Karma tonight. We patrolled up through the town and cut east, out through the area in which coalition forces recently took a bite out of al-Qaeda's anti-aircraft capability. One bomb crater nearly blocked the road in one spot- another was visible a short distance off the road. We spent four or five hours heading out to our turnaround spot, with dark clouds menacing their showers over the entire trip. Rainstorms are refreshing, once in a while, but they also mean more work spent drying and cleaning ammunition and weapons.

The clouds finally broke as we were driving back out of Karma. Rain drummed fitfully on the roof- just enough to obscure the road, but never quite enough to need the wipers full time. Lightning shot blue fire across the sky. Somewhere to the south, a bolt of lightning hit the power grid, and the horizon light up with the turquoise strobes of exploding transformers. Distant lights began to wink out and disappear- the oncoming tide of blackness washed ever closer as transformers continued to light up the sky. The blue light was joined by the steadily flashing golden pink glow of a downed power line. As we continued to roll towards Camp Falluja, we passed the power line still sparking and glowing on top of a concertina fence. The air smelled sharply of ozone- it also smelt cleaner than it has in weeks.

The rain also lead to the first pang of homesickness that I've felt in a while. After we got back, I walked out under the netting that covers the entryway to my buddy's tent. The netting is a fine, sand colored mesh that block the sun. It also breaks up the rain into a fine mist, with larger droplets that break and fall occasionally from the net. I stood underneath the netting with my eyes closed, smelling the suddenly fresh air, and thinking of the rain in the forests on the coast that was so similar to what I felt tonight thousands of miles away.

Just a few more months now.