I recently deleted my latest post because of a recent development in our brigade. Someone did something stupid and it ended up on the front page of the Washington Post. Though nothing was wrong with my last post in terms of OPSEC (operation security) I've decided to be able to keep my ass as safe as possible to no longer blog about anything we do here, even if it's as vague and non descript as I have in the past. Sorry for the inconveince, but I will only discuss the people in my platoon and the emotions that other things that are happening.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Four One's Devilish Ride To An Unexistent Glory; Or How Our Truck Got Stuck and We Missed Chow
This was just another normal day here in Iraq. We had an evening mission that was supposed to be a quick five hours, and there was nothing abnormal about the plan that we were to execute on this day. I ride in the second truck in our three truck convoy. Our trucks are big, they aren't humvees. They are semis trucks with armor, and machine guns.
Our first truck on this day, had our platoon "Maverick" Joey Pena driving it. A little about Joey before I move on. He's has a five o'clock shadow immediately after he shaves. He's addicted to coffee. He plays the guitar, and is not bad at it. He is probably on one of many anabolic steroids, and is very loud. Just kidding, well not about the loud part. He's very confident and might even rub off as cocky to most people.
As we approached a turn that our mission plan had laid out for us, Pena in his renegade truck four one, blew by the right hand turn and into the traffic circle just past the intersection. This is a large traffic circle with two bridges that run overpasses running over the top of it. Our truck was a little behind, and got to the beginning of the traffic circle and right hand turn that had been previously missed by our lead vehicle. We slowed as we thought we saw Ricky Bobbi coming around the traffic circle, careening at us. It was just four one though, doing an Earnhardt impression. The National Police checkpoint there, had stopped traffic for us, and four one pulled up behind a car that was blocking his path. Instead of patiently waiting the 4 seconds required for the car to move, a decision that would effect our mission, and our tummys not getting chow was made.
He popped the curb, and I could see the situation perfectly from where I was sitting. His front tire dug deep, and then popped up quickly. Then his rear tire found the hole the first had dug and did it's best job to get deeper. The vehicle stopped at a tilt, as the drivers side tires sat there with mud to the half way point of them. The passengers side still up on the curb.
It had been such a beautiful day too.
At first it didn't seem like a big deal. We've had vehicles stuck before. We quickly pulled to the back of the truck and hooked up our recovery straps to it and started pulling. No dice. We moved to the front of the vehicle and tried the winch cable. Despite knowing that the winch would not recover this 43,000 lbs vehicle we tried it anyways. Things were made only the worst when we strayed away from, as the south would say, "pullin' someone out 101," we attempted a running start when the gradual method did not work. Suffice to say, winch cable snapped.
We had not only not been successful, we had made the situation worse. We called for a recovery asset to come and pull us out at this point. With our 70,000 lbs vehicle and this recovery vehicle, we can surely pull it out. We attempted to pull it straight forward, straight back, left, right, up down, anyway and every way, and in the end we just ended up making it even worse. The truck now sat deeper in mud on the drivers side, with the passenger side wheels no longer in contact with the ground, and the axle of the vehicle buried in cement and teetering the vehicle. All that saved it from falling over at this point was the chain that was hooked to their vehicle and taught with ours.
This was still early on in the process. I took the pic through my night vision goggles.
Eventually another RG33 like the one I ride in, (70,000 lbs.) hooked up to the stuck MRAP (mine resistant ambush protected) truck and gave it a ride for its life. We missed chow and didn't get back till late. It sucked. Very little was wrong with the truck, and all that was really broken, other than our pride, was the cement of the sidewalk that had been gauged by the axle.
Our first truck on this day, had our platoon "Maverick" Joey Pena driving it. A little about Joey before I move on. He's has a five o'clock shadow immediately after he shaves. He's addicted to coffee. He plays the guitar, and is not bad at it. He is probably on one of many anabolic steroids, and is very loud. Just kidding, well not about the loud part. He's very confident and might even rub off as cocky to most people.
As we approached a turn that our mission plan had laid out for us, Pena in his renegade truck four one, blew by the right hand turn and into the traffic circle just past the intersection. This is a large traffic circle with two bridges that run overpasses running over the top of it. Our truck was a little behind, and got to the beginning of the traffic circle and right hand turn that had been previously missed by our lead vehicle. We slowed as we thought we saw Ricky Bobbi coming around the traffic circle, careening at us. It was just four one though, doing an Earnhardt impression. The National Police checkpoint there, had stopped traffic for us, and four one pulled up behind a car that was blocking his path. Instead of patiently waiting the 4 seconds required for the car to move, a decision that would effect our mission, and our tummys not getting chow was made.
He popped the curb, and I could see the situation perfectly from where I was sitting. His front tire dug deep, and then popped up quickly. Then his rear tire found the hole the first had dug and did it's best job to get deeper. The vehicle stopped at a tilt, as the drivers side tires sat there with mud to the half way point of them. The passengers side still up on the curb.
It had been such a beautiful day too.At first it didn't seem like a big deal. We've had vehicles stuck before. We quickly pulled to the back of the truck and hooked up our recovery straps to it and started pulling. No dice. We moved to the front of the vehicle and tried the winch cable. Despite knowing that the winch would not recover this 43,000 lbs vehicle we tried it anyways. Things were made only the worst when we strayed away from, as the south would say, "pullin' someone out 101," we attempted a running start when the gradual method did not work. Suffice to say, winch cable snapped.
We had not only not been successful, we had made the situation worse. We called for a recovery asset to come and pull us out at this point. With our 70,000 lbs vehicle and this recovery vehicle, we can surely pull it out. We attempted to pull it straight forward, straight back, left, right, up down, anyway and every way, and in the end we just ended up making it even worse. The truck now sat deeper in mud on the drivers side, with the passenger side wheels no longer in contact with the ground, and the axle of the vehicle buried in cement and teetering the vehicle. All that saved it from falling over at this point was the chain that was hooked to their vehicle and taught with ours.
This was still early on in the process. I took the pic through my night vision goggles.Eventually another RG33 like the one I ride in, (70,000 lbs.) hooked up to the stuck MRAP (mine resistant ambush protected) truck and gave it a ride for its life. We missed chow and didn't get back till late. It sucked. Very little was wrong with the truck, and all that was really broken, other than our pride, was the cement of the sidewalk that had been gauged by the axle.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Night I Went Top'O the Charts
It was early April, the 12th of 2008 if memory serves me correctly. Myself and a few buddies decided, though probably broke that a trip up to a local college town from post was in order. We got into town and booked a hotel. Conveniently for us the hotel we stayed at had a bus that could drop us off on the main strip of the city on the hill. For four boys of drinking age this was spectacular because of the only one way fee of a cab.We went to a bar that was a popular "preppy" hang out. The bar was on the penthouse level of a three story building, and had a patio that overlooked the beautiful strip of this college town. It was one of my first visits to this town and I didn't know it all that well. After a few drinks and starting to feel saucy, a song came on that was recognized by both myself and close friend Tommy. The urge was undeniable and irresistible. As the first notes were strung, the excitement and filled us both. The energy was contagious. At that time there was no real excitement at this bar, and there seemed to be the usual clicks of four or five people socializing. Tommy and I knew that continuing to sit there and do nothing would not only be a disservice to ourselves, but to the patio of people who were having a lack luster time.
We stood and belted the first line of lyrics. "Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world..." We immediately got stares of discouragement and confusion. It didn't stop us. We continued on, grabbed the crowd by their balls and twisted them. It got their attention. The song broke and the guitar riff seemed to help convey the crowd that this was good thing. They seemed still yet unconvinced.
It only inspired Tommy and I to work harder. Our energy had to be contagious at this point. It was still early in the night, and if this failed, we would be shamed, or even worse have to pay our bar tab and leave. This is where I will tell you a little secret. If you want to win over a crowd, it's energy, energy, energy, fist pump. We lost all reality. The lights seemed to dim around us, and spot lights lit up our stage. We could see the lighters in the crowd, swaying back and forth. We had started to fist pump. It was as contagious as SARS. The entire patio started fist pumping. The faces of those who had once been against us, now in our favor, wanting to be part of the scene. Feet started tapping. Fists started pumping. Heads bobbing. Lips moving, like we had become some kind of voodoo masters, casting a spell on the audience. Every move we made, they were soon to follow. Tommy jumped on a table, I on a chair, singing at the top of our lungs.
We were rock stars, we had captured the moment. Even long after the song ended, eyes followed us around the bar. People bought us drinks. We had gone from outcasts to outcasters. You're no good, go away, out of my face.
We settled down and started talking to the group of people nearest to us. They were yankees like we, and were pretty open to conversation. They were down from Pennsylvania, or somewhere like that. They had a girl in their party that was sitting to my back across the table. I hadn't noticed her earlier, and perhaps she had not been there. I felt invincible and only needed a quick opener to start talking.
Across the table my friend Jason sat with his friend O'brien. There was an empty chair between he and her. I asked if she was using the chair, because Tommy and I were one short. She said no, and lifted the chair over the table to hand to me. It was one of the corniest things I could've said, but I was a rock star, invincible. "Wow, you must work out." Like I said, corny. But it cracked a smile, and I knew conversation would ensue.
I talked her ear off, and she talked mine off. I remember very little of our conversation, but I know that at the end of it, it left me feeling good, and desiring more. She and her group of friends were suddenly nearly out the door and I hadn't given or gotten her number. The abrupt leaving nearly through me off on closing. I stumbled over every word when I tried to offer her my number. She said no thank you, momentarily crushing me, but then as if she knew the detrimental gravity she could smother me down with, she raised my spirits. "I'll give you mine," she said. I wish I had had a pen and paper, because the next step I thought would be embarrassing. I had recently broken my phone and was using one from I believe the 70's. As I pulled it out and thought of the dorkiness of my situation, I combated it with a somewhat smooth save. I told her I would write her number down in my VCR... a poke at my phone. Sadly myself. It worked and she gave me her number. And it was real.
There is plenty that went on after that, that night, but the smile and beauty of this girl named Gina was the first thing I remembered the next morning. The game of meeting someone is a tough one. Well it was for me anyways. Jason will always give me crap about how he could have had her, and that he's a good friend for passing. Thanks Jason, off the record of course.
It's nearly been a year since that day in April, and she's no longer that girl with the pretty smile that probably works out. She is my girlfriend and my love. She's very special to me and I miss her dearly. I love you Gina.
"...don't stop, believing, hold on to that feeling..."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
America's Past Pasttime
I have grown playing and watching the greatest game ever to be played. Baseball. In recent years I have seen the purity of the game disgraced with players who only care about self glory and stats. The exact opposite of what baseball is supposed to be.
Alex Rodriguez, one of the greatest shortstops of all time, admitted to having taken steroids. Barry Bonds, Rafael Palmero, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, all steroid takers. For what? How many World Series rings did any of those guys win while juicing? This is the * period of baseball. The embarrassing period of baseball.
There used to be a time when baseball players were the classiest of the classy. Honorable stand up guys that played for the name on the front of their jerseys, not the back. And more importantly played for the flag on their shoulder over all else. I could name countless baseball players who quit playing in time of war to fight for their country. Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, so on and so forth. All great players who stopped their careers to fight for their country when they needed them most.
Baseball was only about one number in those days and years to follow. How many wins your team got. Did they win their division? The pennant? The World Series? Guys would gladly go up to bat and bunt the runner over. Hit a ground ball to the right side. The strategy of baseball was used to it's fullest. The beauty and purity of the game was loved by all who watched. The game wasn't about home runs. The game was exciting because a guy stretched a ball in the gap from a double to a triple. A squeeze play to tie the game. A stolen base.
I was recently reading an article about where the 1988 Dodgers were now. If you're not to familiar with that team, they were a team of saps. They had only two guys that the public would even recognize in today's baseball. And they probably wouldn't be superstars. Kirk Gibson, and Orel Hershiser. If you picked them and bet it all to win it all at the beginning of the season, you would've been a rich man. The odds were stacked against them. They had been crushed by the Mets during the regular year, and saw them in the NLCS. Not only did they overcome that obstacle, but they went on to face and even better team in the Oakland Athletics in the World Series, and beat them. While reading over where all of these guys were now, I couldn't help but notice their stat lines. Kirk Gibson who ended up winning the National League MVP that year, had the best stats by far, batting over .290 with 25 home runs and 90 and some odd number of RBI's. This years MVP winner, Albert Pujols, absolutely destroyed those numbers. He hit .357 with 37 home runs and 116 RBI's. The difference is staggering.
The Dodger team of 88' was considered a small ball team. In most recent memory the Angels of 2002 were much the same, with few to no superstars. The only thing that made these teams better than everyone else, was their will to win, and their ability to play as a team. They didn't rely on Manny Ramirez, or Barry Bonds, to blast one out of the park to be able to win a game. In 88' some of the players were talking about the most memorable moment that year. And you would think it would unanimously be when Gibson hit the game winning home run in game 1 of the World Series. But it wasn't. Most of the said it was all the abnormal ways they found a way to win. Whether is was a great defensive play by one of their outfielders that sealed the victory, or kept them in the lead. Or it was a pitcher pinch hitting in an extra innings game. Or Gibson scoring from second on a pass ball, or from second on a sac fly. It was hustle, sacrifice, defense, strategy, being able to out smart an opponent, and the ability to give up personal glory. The way the game should be played.
Even that home run that Gibson hit, to win the first game of the World Series, it wasn't just as plain cut and simple as a pitch and a hit. There was more involved than that. Dennis Eckersley, the A's closer had retired the first two batters in the ninth, and faced Dodgers hitter, Mike Davis who was pinch hitting. Eckersley had seen Davis in the American league and new that he could get a hold of one and tie up the game. He also thought that Gibson was not going to play, due to being injured and hobbled, and that Dave Anderson who only hit .249 during the year was the pinch hitter Tommy Lasorda, the Dodgers manager, put on deck. So instead of making a mistake to the powerful Mike Davis, Eckersley pitched cautiously and ended up walking Davis, to bring Anderson up.
"And look who's coming up," is the famous words of then and now broadcaster of the Dodgers Vin Scully. Kirk Gibson walked up the stairs and out to the on deck circle instead of Anderson. He covered his bat in pine tar and pressed his helmet tighter to his head as he hobbled towards home plate. It was an ugly at bat by all accounts. Eckersley, one of the dominant pitchers and closers of all time nearly got Gibson out on a small roller down the first base line that just went foul. The count got to three balls and two strikes, where the Dodgers scouting report on Eckersley said that the righthander would throw a back door slider to a left handed power hitter. It was a back door slider and Gibson cranked it out of the park. He hobbled around the bases pumping his fist. It was a truly magical moment in baseball. One of it's purest moments.
The steroid era is not all that has destroyed the game. It's a big part. But when you have players holding out to play for 25 million a year, when they could be going to a team that has a chance to win a World Series, you have to wonder why he plays the game? I could get into the semantics of why anyone would play a sport purely for money. Why the league minimum is a couple hundred thousand. Why isn't there a league maximum?
Baseball is the greatest game. The strategy is intricate, more than any other sport. There is no battle lines. You can't line up toe to toe and try and take off the other guys head. Or allow the ball to go into your best players hand every time. You have to rely on the strongest and weakest of your team to get it done. A lot of factors are trying to ruin the game. I hope baseball can overcome the obstacles that have been thrown in its way. At the center of the game there is more depth and strategy then we are allowed to see because of the dark clouds that have been cast over the game. Keep faith, baseball will return to it's former glory. When out smarting an opponent wins games more than out muscling them. There will again be role players in the game. Those who are willing to win no matter the pay, or no matter their numbers. Those who are only driven by love for the game, and the undeniable will to win.
"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."
Alex Rodriguez, one of the greatest shortstops of all time, admitted to having taken steroids. Barry Bonds, Rafael Palmero, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, all steroid takers. For what? How many World Series rings did any of those guys win while juicing? This is the * period of baseball. The embarrassing period of baseball.
There used to be a time when baseball players were the classiest of the classy. Honorable stand up guys that played for the name on the front of their jerseys, not the back. And more importantly played for the flag on their shoulder over all else. I could name countless baseball players who quit playing in time of war to fight for their country. Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, so on and so forth. All great players who stopped their careers to fight for their country when they needed them most.
Baseball was only about one number in those days and years to follow. How many wins your team got. Did they win their division? The pennant? The World Series? Guys would gladly go up to bat and bunt the runner over. Hit a ground ball to the right side. The strategy of baseball was used to it's fullest. The beauty and purity of the game was loved by all who watched. The game wasn't about home runs. The game was exciting because a guy stretched a ball in the gap from a double to a triple. A squeeze play to tie the game. A stolen base.
I was recently reading an article about where the 1988 Dodgers were now. If you're not to familiar with that team, they were a team of saps. They had only two guys that the public would even recognize in today's baseball. And they probably wouldn't be superstars. Kirk Gibson, and Orel Hershiser. If you picked them and bet it all to win it all at the beginning of the season, you would've been a rich man. The odds were stacked against them. They had been crushed by the Mets during the regular year, and saw them in the NLCS. Not only did they overcome that obstacle, but they went on to face and even better team in the Oakland Athletics in the World Series, and beat them. While reading over where all of these guys were now, I couldn't help but notice their stat lines. Kirk Gibson who ended up winning the National League MVP that year, had the best stats by far, batting over .290 with 25 home runs and 90 and some odd number of RBI's. This years MVP winner, Albert Pujols, absolutely destroyed those numbers. He hit .357 with 37 home runs and 116 RBI's. The difference is staggering.
The Dodger team of 88' was considered a small ball team. In most recent memory the Angels of 2002 were much the same, with few to no superstars. The only thing that made these teams better than everyone else, was their will to win, and their ability to play as a team. They didn't rely on Manny Ramirez, or Barry Bonds, to blast one out of the park to be able to win a game. In 88' some of the players were talking about the most memorable moment that year. And you would think it would unanimously be when Gibson hit the game winning home run in game 1 of the World Series. But it wasn't. Most of the said it was all the abnormal ways they found a way to win. Whether is was a great defensive play by one of their outfielders that sealed the victory, or kept them in the lead. Or it was a pitcher pinch hitting in an extra innings game. Or Gibson scoring from second on a pass ball, or from second on a sac fly. It was hustle, sacrifice, defense, strategy, being able to out smart an opponent, and the ability to give up personal glory. The way the game should be played.
Even that home run that Gibson hit, to win the first game of the World Series, it wasn't just as plain cut and simple as a pitch and a hit. There was more involved than that. Dennis Eckersley, the A's closer had retired the first two batters in the ninth, and faced Dodgers hitter, Mike Davis who was pinch hitting. Eckersley had seen Davis in the American league and new that he could get a hold of one and tie up the game. He also thought that Gibson was not going to play, due to being injured and hobbled, and that Dave Anderson who only hit .249 during the year was the pinch hitter Tommy Lasorda, the Dodgers manager, put on deck. So instead of making a mistake to the powerful Mike Davis, Eckersley pitched cautiously and ended up walking Davis, to bring Anderson up.
"And look who's coming up," is the famous words of then and now broadcaster of the Dodgers Vin Scully. Kirk Gibson walked up the stairs and out to the on deck circle instead of Anderson. He covered his bat in pine tar and pressed his helmet tighter to his head as he hobbled towards home plate. It was an ugly at bat by all accounts. Eckersley, one of the dominant pitchers and closers of all time nearly got Gibson out on a small roller down the first base line that just went foul. The count got to three balls and two strikes, where the Dodgers scouting report on Eckersley said that the righthander would throw a back door slider to a left handed power hitter. It was a back door slider and Gibson cranked it out of the park. He hobbled around the bases pumping his fist. It was a truly magical moment in baseball. One of it's purest moments.
The steroid era is not all that has destroyed the game. It's a big part. But when you have players holding out to play for 25 million a year, when they could be going to a team that has a chance to win a World Series, you have to wonder why he plays the game? I could get into the semantics of why anyone would play a sport purely for money. Why the league minimum is a couple hundred thousand. Why isn't there a league maximum?
Baseball is the greatest game. The strategy is intricate, more than any other sport. There is no battle lines. You can't line up toe to toe and try and take off the other guys head. Or allow the ball to go into your best players hand every time. You have to rely on the strongest and weakest of your team to get it done. A lot of factors are trying to ruin the game. I hope baseball can overcome the obstacles that have been thrown in its way. At the center of the game there is more depth and strategy then we are allowed to see because of the dark clouds that have been cast over the game. Keep faith, baseball will return to it's former glory. When out smarting an opponent wins games more than out muscling them. There will again be role players in the game. Those who are willing to win no matter the pay, or no matter their numbers. Those who are only driven by love for the game, and the undeniable will to win.
"In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened."
My New Room
We've gotten a couple of fresh faces to our platoon this week, and lost one in a trade to another platoon. Thus creating a void in the SAW room that was and still is Watkins' and Kellogg's, and now mine. The room is about the size of an entry hall to your house. The tiles on the walls are old, chipped, and falling down. One side of the wall is patched up with cinder blocks and cement. Maybe where a window was, or perhaps where a mortar hit. The ceiling is high, and the false one that used to be exists no longer.
Thanks to a patch job of trash bags, and duct tape, the exposed air conditioner duct and vents are a little less exposed. The three man room that we share allows us all to have one corner, where we try our best to stay out of each others ways, and not breath in the asbestos that lurks in the walls of this once Saddam torture holding cell. Our door is made of wood, and only closes because of the water bottle that hangs from a string that is intricately ran through a series of holes and around a couple of nails. It does not block off much sound from the room next door.
We've attempted to make the room a little more comfortable by hanging up calendars, posters, and college football banners of overrated schools that shall not be mentioned, but initials are, University of Florida Gators, in Jacksonville, Florida. When we first arrived here, the room appeared to have been a set from the movie SAW. We've done our best to make it better, but I've woken up thinking a clown on a tricycle just rode by, asking me if I wanted to play a game.
From Left to Right: Kellogg, Watkins, Me
The normal business of the room tends to be of an old couple marriage. Watkins, who lays across the room from me, a whopping 3 feet, loves to take naps. Kellogg who sleeps above me is a myspace junkie, and the biggest clean freak I've met to this point in my life. I just realized that I'm glad I didn't say he slept on top of me, as that was the original way I was going to word that sentence.
I don't think I could live with myself, if I didn't mirror this image so you can't read that flag properly
We all three are the "senior" junior enlisted guys in the platoon. We all ride in the same truck together. We all go to the gym together. To chow together. And even shower...at the same time. About the only thing we don't do together is hold hands and walk down the beach, though probably because there are no beaches around. We were all good friends when we left Bragg, and so far have continued to be good friends. The three of us have one major thing in common, and that's that we like to just hang out. Working and living with someone is one of the hardest things I've done in my life. I've done it before, and now I'm working and living at the same time 24/7 and couldn't be more pleased and honored being tortured then with these two.
"we few, we happy few, we band of brothers..."
Thanks to a patch job of trash bags, and duct tape, the exposed air conditioner duct and vents are a little less exposed. The three man room that we share allows us all to have one corner, where we try our best to stay out of each others ways, and not breath in the asbestos that lurks in the walls of this once Saddam torture holding cell. Our door is made of wood, and only closes because of the water bottle that hangs from a string that is intricately ran through a series of holes and around a couple of nails. It does not block off much sound from the room next door.
We've attempted to make the room a little more comfortable by hanging up calendars, posters, and college football banners of overrated schools that shall not be mentioned, but initials are, University of Florida Gators, in Jacksonville, Florida. When we first arrived here, the room appeared to have been a set from the movie SAW. We've done our best to make it better, but I've woken up thinking a clown on a tricycle just rode by, asking me if I wanted to play a game.
From Left to Right: Kellogg, Watkins, MeThe normal business of the room tends to be of an old couple marriage. Watkins, who lays across the room from me, a whopping 3 feet, loves to take naps. Kellogg who sleeps above me is a myspace junkie, and the biggest clean freak I've met to this point in my life. I just realized that I'm glad I didn't say he slept on top of me, as that was the original way I was going to word that sentence.
I don't think I could live with myself, if I didn't mirror this image so you can't read that flag properlyWe all three are the "senior" junior enlisted guys in the platoon. We all ride in the same truck together. We all go to the gym together. To chow together. And even shower...at the same time. About the only thing we don't do together is hold hands and walk down the beach, though probably because there are no beaches around. We were all good friends when we left Bragg, and so far have continued to be good friends. The three of us have one major thing in common, and that's that we like to just hang out. Working and living with someone is one of the hardest things I've done in my life. I've done it before, and now I'm working and living at the same time 24/7 and couldn't be more pleased and honored being tortured then with these two.
"we few, we happy few, we band of brothers..."
Thanks
I received one piece of mail. It was from my Grandma and Grandpa. They are living with my parents at the moment, because a fire in November took theirs and many others houses and possessions. With all the hectic stuff going on in their lives, it was nice to get a letter from my Grandma. It makes the heart a little warmer.
There is nothing that boosts morale more here, than getting a letter from loved ones. Getting a comment on a facebook or myspace picture. Getting special emails from girlfriends. Or getting a care package with things from the heart.
I have a very good support chain back home despite the last few months of their lives being busy and abnormal. My brother started the LA Police Academy and is busy with that. My parents have been helping my grandparents out after there house was destroyed, and trying to figure out a way for them to stay on the property. My sister is on the home stretch of finishing her four year degree, and is plenty busy with studies. My girlfriend has been very supportive and helps me to smile everyday. All of my friends have been writing me emails and leaving messages on facebook to let me know that they are proud of me, and what they are doing.
The feeling I get when I think about the sacrifice of time they give me is an unmatched one of happiness. I'm not sure I thank them enough when I talk to them. I'm already 2 and a half months into this deployment, and it's been along the easy side thanks to all of the support that I have received from home. I appreciate you all, and am very thankful for all that you do, including putting up with the reading of this blog. Thank You. -Jeff
There is nothing that boosts morale more here, than getting a letter from loved ones. Getting a comment on a facebook or myspace picture. Getting special emails from girlfriends. Or getting a care package with things from the heart.
I have a very good support chain back home despite the last few months of their lives being busy and abnormal. My brother started the LA Police Academy and is busy with that. My parents have been helping my grandparents out after there house was destroyed, and trying to figure out a way for them to stay on the property. My sister is on the home stretch of finishing her four year degree, and is plenty busy with studies. My girlfriend has been very supportive and helps me to smile everyday. All of my friends have been writing me emails and leaving messages on facebook to let me know that they are proud of me, and what they are doing.
The feeling I get when I think about the sacrifice of time they give me is an unmatched one of happiness. I'm not sure I thank them enough when I talk to them. I'm already 2 and a half months into this deployment, and it's been along the easy side thanks to all of the support that I have received from home. I appreciate you all, and am very thankful for all that you do, including putting up with the reading of this blog. Thank You. -Jeff
Friday, February 13, 2009
Lost In Translation
No matter how I try and describe to you the absurdity of the situation here, I won't be able to do it. If I try and explain how things are here for myself, and platoon mates, unless you've been here, away from home, family, friends, loved ones, you will not understand. This post, though public, is not for you. It's for me. To help myself understand why the translation from here to there is lost.
I have to look at my watch. It's February 13th, friday. It seems everyday is a Friday the 13th around here. Actually it doesn't seem like there are any separation in the days. From the first day I got here to now just feels like one long day. There's no weekend to look forward too. No fast food joint tuesday special to spoil my appetite on. Mail comes every three days, which is about the only thing to look forward to.
The hardest thing is the lack of convenience. It's even harder to convey to those who's lives have been involved with my own, and now have abruptly changed. It's 937 am. That means it's 137 am east coast, and 1037pm west coast time. To call anyone at home generally means, that I sacrifice sleep, or food.
Our missions run for 10-12 hours a day. Which to anyone just seems like a long day at work. But to us it means that we have to prep for the mission starting two hours prior to the start of our mission, and have an hour stand down and recovery of equipment an hour after. That leaves between 6-8 hours for us to eat, sleep, and have personal time. We haven't had a lot of time off, and we've missed more meals than I even want to think about. The entire time our days melt into one, time flies back home. People continue with their daily grind. They get on the internet and phone and talk to family, friends, loved ones. They grab a bite at the 24 hour Mickey D's on the corner. Life goes on. Anything in their life only changes gradually, and therefore goes unnoticed.
They only fret or worry about getting gas, groceries, work, or if there show is getting recorded on their Tivo. Those too me only seem like luxury thoughts now. Worrying about IED's, snipers, car bombs, sleep, and food, can't me dismayed to anyone who hasn't had to worry about them before, but it's what I worry about, on top of you. I wouldn't even wish I could make you, or even if I did, you wouldn't understand, it's impossible. I understand it's impossible. Tensions, frustrations, and stress are always running high here, to the point where you hope someone has the balls to come around the corner with an RPG or AK, just so that you have someone to take out those frustrations on. It's a weird mentality to have, for me to even self comprehend. Why would I want someone to try and hurt or kill me or a buddy? It boggles my mind when I think about it, but in the end I feel it's, sadly, a natural emotion to have. It's my job is a poor excuse for reasoning, but the only I have.
War's not romantic as it once was. In World War II you had a beautiful image of the Allies fighting the evil Axis powers. The boys got letters from their girlfriends and wives who waited 4 or 5 years to see them. You never heard of dear john letters then. Now it's every other day you see one come in. Everyone in my platoon has an experience with a woman who left them, either during basic, or while at JRTC, or in Korea. You listen to there stories, our generation wasn't built for absence. We weren't considered a generation that would do anything. The Xbox generation they thought. No one would join the Army and protect their country. But here we are, all volunteers. Triple volunteers, in joining the Army, joining the Airborne, and joining when war was inevitable in our career path. Our greatest generation is surviving on social security, with wives of 60 years of marriage. And while we fight a war that's not backed by our nation, and under constant scrutiny from the world and every major news network, talking on the internet, or phone every other day to loved ones isn't enough for some. My generation want things to be instantaneous.
I've come to the realization that as American youth, we have been far too spoiled. We expect everything for nothing, and don't want to put in hard work, dedication or any personal sacrifice to make what we want possible. Despite how hard things have been here, I only wish they were harder. I wish I couldn't be posting this online. Or calling you on the phone everyday. It would be hard sure, but maybe it would help me realize to an even greater extent that I can't take life for granted. That I can't waste my life sitting in front of a TV because it takes me out of reality. I want the feelings of hurt, loneliness and being without. At least then I will have a better appreciation of the good things in life, the feelings of love and comfort won't fall short in their value as they do now. If it's an easy road and I learn nothing about myself or life, why take it? This one year is worth the missing. Worth being without loved ones. Worth working at. Even if everything is different when I get home, then I guess that's just another hurdle that I will have to put my legs over. One at a time.
I have to look at my watch. It's February 13th, friday. It seems everyday is a Friday the 13th around here. Actually it doesn't seem like there are any separation in the days. From the first day I got here to now just feels like one long day. There's no weekend to look forward too. No fast food joint tuesday special to spoil my appetite on. Mail comes every three days, which is about the only thing to look forward to.
The hardest thing is the lack of convenience. It's even harder to convey to those who's lives have been involved with my own, and now have abruptly changed. It's 937 am. That means it's 137 am east coast, and 1037pm west coast time. To call anyone at home generally means, that I sacrifice sleep, or food.
Our missions run for 10-12 hours a day. Which to anyone just seems like a long day at work. But to us it means that we have to prep for the mission starting two hours prior to the start of our mission, and have an hour stand down and recovery of equipment an hour after. That leaves between 6-8 hours for us to eat, sleep, and have personal time. We haven't had a lot of time off, and we've missed more meals than I even want to think about. The entire time our days melt into one, time flies back home. People continue with their daily grind. They get on the internet and phone and talk to family, friends, loved ones. They grab a bite at the 24 hour Mickey D's on the corner. Life goes on. Anything in their life only changes gradually, and therefore goes unnoticed.
They only fret or worry about getting gas, groceries, work, or if there show is getting recorded on their Tivo. Those too me only seem like luxury thoughts now. Worrying about IED's, snipers, car bombs, sleep, and food, can't me dismayed to anyone who hasn't had to worry about them before, but it's what I worry about, on top of you. I wouldn't even wish I could make you, or even if I did, you wouldn't understand, it's impossible. I understand it's impossible. Tensions, frustrations, and stress are always running high here, to the point where you hope someone has the balls to come around the corner with an RPG or AK, just so that you have someone to take out those frustrations on. It's a weird mentality to have, for me to even self comprehend. Why would I want someone to try and hurt or kill me or a buddy? It boggles my mind when I think about it, but in the end I feel it's, sadly, a natural emotion to have. It's my job is a poor excuse for reasoning, but the only I have.
War's not romantic as it once was. In World War II you had a beautiful image of the Allies fighting the evil Axis powers. The boys got letters from their girlfriends and wives who waited 4 or 5 years to see them. You never heard of dear john letters then. Now it's every other day you see one come in. Everyone in my platoon has an experience with a woman who left them, either during basic, or while at JRTC, or in Korea. You listen to there stories, our generation wasn't built for absence. We weren't considered a generation that would do anything. The Xbox generation they thought. No one would join the Army and protect their country. But here we are, all volunteers. Triple volunteers, in joining the Army, joining the Airborne, and joining when war was inevitable in our career path. Our greatest generation is surviving on social security, with wives of 60 years of marriage. And while we fight a war that's not backed by our nation, and under constant scrutiny from the world and every major news network, talking on the internet, or phone every other day to loved ones isn't enough for some. My generation want things to be instantaneous.
I've come to the realization that as American youth, we have been far too spoiled. We expect everything for nothing, and don't want to put in hard work, dedication or any personal sacrifice to make what we want possible. Despite how hard things have been here, I only wish they were harder. I wish I couldn't be posting this online. Or calling you on the phone everyday. It would be hard sure, but maybe it would help me realize to an even greater extent that I can't take life for granted. That I can't waste my life sitting in front of a TV because it takes me out of reality. I want the feelings of hurt, loneliness and being without. At least then I will have a better appreciation of the good things in life, the feelings of love and comfort won't fall short in their value as they do now. If it's an easy road and I learn nothing about myself or life, why take it? This one year is worth the missing. Worth being without loved ones. Worth working at. Even if everything is different when I get home, then I guess that's just another hurdle that I will have to put my legs over. One at a time.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Platoon Boyz
If you were to video our platoon 24 hours a day, you would have the hottest reality show on tv. We function well for not being functional. Our LT went to Michigan. Enough said. Our Platoon Sgt, is hilarious and seems to only listen to Guns N' Roses. Our section leader, who grew up near me in Granada Hills, is not only named Kolt Killman, but also seems to have all twenty fingers and toes wrapped around some kind of knowledge or information about anything and everything. The Purvinator, one of our squad leaders is the hard core Ranger with a soft spot for kittens, candles, and Nelson. Our other squad leader is the heart of the platoon, who loves to spray paint things in small rooms that happen to have their door closed. Enough about our leadership.
Sgt. Maier
KelloggThe meat and soul of the platoon is in what's commonly referred to as the Joe's. That's those of us who are under the rank of Sergeant and do all of the work in the platoon. First and foremost you have Kellogg, who we commonly refer to as, "Two Scoops," or "Lil' Grumpy." Ryan, (his real name) spent a year in Korea, which always seems to have some bearing on any subject matter. He's somewhat of a germaphobe, and you can find him dousing his hands in hand sanitizer. He's from the small town of Alameda up in the San Francisco Bay area of Cali. He's a great guy to have around despite his constant cynicism, which helped dawn his name, "Lil' Grumpy."
Michael Kerber is our lead driver. This is his second tour to Iraq, and despite his best efforts at the gym, he still appears to be a Calvin Klein model. The female ones. We refer to him as a Lizard, and our favorite thing to poke fun at him about is the fact that anything and everything digestible has an effect on him that is supernatural. He's a good guy to have around because his attitude is generally positive.
Kerber
Danny Gibbens is one of my favorite guys to have in the platoon. He used to be a very quite guy, but now it's sometimes hard to get him to shut up. He has some hilarious awkward stories. He's very smart and takes a lot in. He doesn't drink alcohol and reads the bible. He's a Nebraska Corn Huskers fan from Colorado. We often tell stories about his letter writing, "Dear Daisy," it always starts out and has the tone of how things here compare to life on the farm. Of course Daisy doesn't actually exist, and Danny only dabbled in farming. I also put him through a wall about 6 months ago, but I guess that can happen when you live and work together. No hard feelings Gibby.
Danny Boy
The final person I'll blog about today in the platoon, is James, "downtown," "dirty," "mind freak," Brown. I could go on for hours about this guy. He is the biggest character in the platoon, so I'll try and keep this short, because I'm sure I'll have plenty more to write about him. Brown is from Georgia. "Bout an hour," from where the filmed Deliverance. He has a ginormous mole that catches a lot of attention when you look at him. He's one of the dirtiest people I have ever met. Rumor has it that last deployment he was on, 15 months, he didn't shower once. He has thin hair with a receding hairline. He has more hair on his body than he does on his head. And he has a lot of hair still on his head, so you catch the drift. He seems to be attracted to pregnant women, and peaches. His facial expressions will have you rolling and grabbing your sides because they are so strange. He's the platoon dirt bag, and we love him for it. The funniest thing he has ever done, happened on my birthday. We were in the staging area ready to go on mission. He had the gunner harness on. The gunner harness has a loop that clips the gunner into the truck so that if the truck were to flip, the gunner won't be tossed from the vehicle. As Brown walked down the ramp of stairs, the loop got stuck in one of the top stairs, and not only halted his progress, but through him off balance, and he fell off of the side of the ramp. The loop caught and held, and Brown ended up suspended 4 inches off the ground like he was Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. He "levitated," there for nearly a minute, while everyone in the platoon couldn't help but laugh hysterically. We eventually helped him out of the situation, and he was unharmed. Our platoon sgt. started referring to him as "mind freak." It was one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed, and I'm sure in the next ten months I'll be able to recount other situations that Brown will find himself in, like that one.
James BrownThat's all of the platoon for now.
The Stokest Time To Be Had
If you're not sure what I'm referring to from the title, then I'm sure your mind is racing to whatever it is that you love to do. Whatever gets you stoked. It could be watching ESPN's top ten, or eating a favorite dish, or even reading, you square. Of course after all, it's hip to be square. You would have to be cool to read my blog. The "time to be had" which is greatest to me is a day at the beach.
I have always gone to the beach ever since I was a little kid. My mom would pack me and my brother, sister, cousins, and friends up in our Dodge Van, and we would make our way out to the beach it seemed like everyday during the summer. The excitement of building sand castles and running from crashing waves, along with the agony of washing sand out of crevasses on your body you were not sure even existed always seemed like a joy to me. As my childhood progressed, my activities at the beach grew and diversified.
Between 8th and 9th grade, my best friend Eric invited me to go up to Ventura with him, stay at his aunt Gale's house, and go to a week long surf camp. The idea at the time seemed like it would just be another fun week of childhood. I was not expecting that it would've been one of the best and most memorable weeks of my youth.
The week started off with a private lesson from the middle aged surf hippie, JP. He took about five of us out and got us standing in only a few tries. He was one of the instructors of the camp, which ended up having close to 50 students in it. Alf and JP ran the camp, which included not only surfing, but tons of beach games and fun.
I was hooked from then on. Every opportunity Eric and I got, we would beg and plead with our parents to take us to the beach. That summer alone I was at the beach 3-5 days a week. We didn't have a surf board, but body surfing became the new sport for him and I. The years to follow, we finally got drivers license's and cars, and dropped the parents from the routine, but not entirely. A few years in a row we camped with my family at Sycamore Canyon State Park, which is a beach a little north of Zuma State Beach and south of Point Hueneme on the California coast.
As the teenage mischief years set in, Eric and I found ourselves making weekend trips up to Gail's, drinking booze and chasing girls around illegal bond fires on the Ventura coast. There were many nights that we would see the fluorescence's of dead plankton washing up on shore.
The last real beach trip I was involved in was when my dad and brother came out to Myrtle Beach to play some golf. My girlfriend came along, and we of course had to go to the beach. It made me realize what I like to do at the beach now. Of course I still like to go splash around in the water, or play catch with the football, or frisbee. But I really like sitting with the one's I love and drinking an ice cold brew.
I love the beach. Everything about it. From trying to find a parking spot on the PCH. Or playing tackle football with your baseball team. Trying to hit on women with a buddy. Sitting on rock cliff above crashing waves and watching the sunset. The night time when the moon's light only gives away the white wash of the wave and nothing else. Tricking Bloom into sitting into a giant hole that you covered up with a towel. Or hitting up the Malibu line with Ash Cash and getting walloped by sets to close together. I miss all of that, and hopefully when I'm finally done playing army, I can live as a beach bum for a time, not shave or cut my hair, and eat food only from Duke's or Corrales. Hang loose bro. Nah hung over bro.
I have always gone to the beach ever since I was a little kid. My mom would pack me and my brother, sister, cousins, and friends up in our Dodge Van, and we would make our way out to the beach it seemed like everyday during the summer. The excitement of building sand castles and running from crashing waves, along with the agony of washing sand out of crevasses on your body you were not sure even existed always seemed like a joy to me. As my childhood progressed, my activities at the beach grew and diversified.
Between 8th and 9th grade, my best friend Eric invited me to go up to Ventura with him, stay at his aunt Gale's house, and go to a week long surf camp. The idea at the time seemed like it would just be another fun week of childhood. I was not expecting that it would've been one of the best and most memorable weeks of my youth.
The week started off with a private lesson from the middle aged surf hippie, JP. He took about five of us out and got us standing in only a few tries. He was one of the instructors of the camp, which ended up having close to 50 students in it. Alf and JP ran the camp, which included not only surfing, but tons of beach games and fun.
I was hooked from then on. Every opportunity Eric and I got, we would beg and plead with our parents to take us to the beach. That summer alone I was at the beach 3-5 days a week. We didn't have a surf board, but body surfing became the new sport for him and I. The years to follow, we finally got drivers license's and cars, and dropped the parents from the routine, but not entirely. A few years in a row we camped with my family at Sycamore Canyon State Park, which is a beach a little north of Zuma State Beach and south of Point Hueneme on the California coast.
As the teenage mischief years set in, Eric and I found ourselves making weekend trips up to Gail's, drinking booze and chasing girls around illegal bond fires on the Ventura coast. There were many nights that we would see the fluorescence's of dead plankton washing up on shore.
The last real beach trip I was involved in was when my dad and brother came out to Myrtle Beach to play some golf. My girlfriend came along, and we of course had to go to the beach. It made me realize what I like to do at the beach now. Of course I still like to go splash around in the water, or play catch with the football, or frisbee. But I really like sitting with the one's I love and drinking an ice cold brew.
I love the beach. Everything about it. From trying to find a parking spot on the PCH. Or playing tackle football with your baseball team. Trying to hit on women with a buddy. Sitting on rock cliff above crashing waves and watching the sunset. The night time when the moon's light only gives away the white wash of the wave and nothing else. Tricking Bloom into sitting into a giant hole that you covered up with a towel. Or hitting up the Malibu line with Ash Cash and getting walloped by sets to close together. I miss all of that, and hopefully when I'm finally done playing army, I can live as a beach bum for a time, not shave or cut my hair, and eat food only from Duke's or Corrales. Hang loose bro. Nah hung over bro.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Being in The Shit
This story is not for the squeamish. I want you to hold your nose. Don't smell, this story will last as long as you can do that, and then maybe a little longer.
Last night we stopped our vehicles and dismounted to do a patrol through one of the local Mahalla's. No I'm not saying thanks in Hawaiian, that's mahalo. A mahalla is Arabic for subdivision. It's basically like a zip code. I get out of the back of the truck and the standard operating procedure is to move to a place with better cover and out of the middle of the road. I started to mosey my way over to the right side of the road, and noticed a puddle that was quite long, but not very wide.
I took a preparatory step and then a leap to clear the puddle, and mount the sidewalk. It being dark and all I wasn't sure how fresh the mud was that I leaped at, and couldn't be certain whether or not I would sink in or stay on top. It was neither. The mud ended up having a little more viscosity than I had predicted and my right landing foot started to slide. Not a big deal was what was going through my mind, because in the darkness to the left was solid ground, plain old sand colored dirt. My recovery step with the left was quite shocking. It confused me greatly, because as I planted the foot I felt a dash of cold fluid on my knee. As I tried to process that my leg was in fact in a puddle up to my knee, I couldn't help to stop the momentum of the right foot, now wanting to plant closer to my recovery foot and be out of the mud. As it caught the water two feet out in front of me, I realized that I was in for a bad night. I thought surely though it would just be some boots and pants wet. As my right foot entered the water I had come to the realization that this now would be the foot to balance me. I drove it down, not on purpose, with the weight of myself and the nearly 50 lbs of equipment that I bear. The water level rushed past my knee and I hit the panic button in my head.
My arms began to flail, and my left foot tried it's best to push me forward and over the obstacle in which I was being sucked into. It wasn't enough and I found myself waist and then chest and then neck deep in water. Somehow I had flailed, and in as gay a way as you could imagine, my arms and rifle and caught the far side of this pond, I had now fallen into. My feet had kicked for the bottom and not found any. I pulled myself up grudgingly and got out of the hole of Iraqi urine, and poop and water. I was about four inches from having been fully submerged in that hole, and probably, because of my equipment, drowned.
Despite being thankful that I didn't drop my weapon, or any of my sensitive items in the water, and didn't drown in the hole of stinking excrement, the fact that the rest of the night I was in these stinking wet clothes. The dismounted patrol lasted about another 4 hours. And I want you to imagine what I was going through at that time.
The Smell. Lock yourself in a porta-potty that hasn't been cleaned in a week.
The Cold. The temperature is around 60 degrees, and you're in wet clothes for roughly 4 hours.
The Pride. Hurt
It was the second time I've fallen into some kind of hole of shit. The one prior to this was a sewer hole that I fell through the makeshift man hole cover. Fortunately that time my left boot was the only casualty. The lesson I learned, try not to do it again is the best I can come up with. Let me know if you have any hints or suggestions on how to stay out of such holes.
Last night we stopped our vehicles and dismounted to do a patrol through one of the local Mahalla's. No I'm not saying thanks in Hawaiian, that's mahalo. A mahalla is Arabic for subdivision. It's basically like a zip code. I get out of the back of the truck and the standard operating procedure is to move to a place with better cover and out of the middle of the road. I started to mosey my way over to the right side of the road, and noticed a puddle that was quite long, but not very wide.
I took a preparatory step and then a leap to clear the puddle, and mount the sidewalk. It being dark and all I wasn't sure how fresh the mud was that I leaped at, and couldn't be certain whether or not I would sink in or stay on top. It was neither. The mud ended up having a little more viscosity than I had predicted and my right landing foot started to slide. Not a big deal was what was going through my mind, because in the darkness to the left was solid ground, plain old sand colored dirt. My recovery step with the left was quite shocking. It confused me greatly, because as I planted the foot I felt a dash of cold fluid on my knee. As I tried to process that my leg was in fact in a puddle up to my knee, I couldn't help to stop the momentum of the right foot, now wanting to plant closer to my recovery foot and be out of the mud. As it caught the water two feet out in front of me, I realized that I was in for a bad night. I thought surely though it would just be some boots and pants wet. As my right foot entered the water I had come to the realization that this now would be the foot to balance me. I drove it down, not on purpose, with the weight of myself and the nearly 50 lbs of equipment that I bear. The water level rushed past my knee and I hit the panic button in my head.
My arms began to flail, and my left foot tried it's best to push me forward and over the obstacle in which I was being sucked into. It wasn't enough and I found myself waist and then chest and then neck deep in water. Somehow I had flailed, and in as gay a way as you could imagine, my arms and rifle and caught the far side of this pond, I had now fallen into. My feet had kicked for the bottom and not found any. I pulled myself up grudgingly and got out of the hole of Iraqi urine, and poop and water. I was about four inches from having been fully submerged in that hole, and probably, because of my equipment, drowned.
Despite being thankful that I didn't drop my weapon, or any of my sensitive items in the water, and didn't drown in the hole of stinking excrement, the fact that the rest of the night I was in these stinking wet clothes. The dismounted patrol lasted about another 4 hours. And I want you to imagine what I was going through at that time.
The Smell. Lock yourself in a porta-potty that hasn't been cleaned in a week.
The Cold. The temperature is around 60 degrees, and you're in wet clothes for roughly 4 hours.
The Pride. Hurt
It was the second time I've fallen into some kind of hole of shit. The one prior to this was a sewer hole that I fell through the makeshift man hole cover. Fortunately that time my left boot was the only casualty. The lesson I learned, try not to do it again is the best I can come up with. Let me know if you have any hints or suggestions on how to stay out of such holes.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Jarbbled Sub Space Transmission
I haven't written a post on this blog in a little while, because I have been unsure on what to write about. My mind has been tied up on some things that have absolutely boggled my mind. I've also been fighting and cold and the beginnings of a new patrol schedule that has us going out more hours.
So this is probably going to be a short one. We have a couple of guys in the platoon here who are not the sharpest crayons on the tree is you catch my drift. One in particular the other day my buddy Jason and I convinced that here in Beladiyat, there is a Cracker Barrel.
It was about 7 or 8 in the morning and we were at an Iraqi Police Station, waiting on our LT who was in a meeting with one of there Colonels. Whitehead, the victim in this story was telling us how he was excited about getting back in time to catch the tail end of breakfast chow.
Jason interjected and said that he would've been excited to stop by the Cracker Barrel they had built in our sector. Here's much how the convo went after the idea was introduced. And mind you Whitehead is from Tennessee, and a real life Biff.
Whitehead: "There's a Cracker Barrel here."
Jason: "Yea."
W: "Really, and it's ran by the Iraqis?"
J: "Yea man, its up off of route Silver."
W: "Have we ever been by it?"
J: "Sure plenty of times man, it's off of Silver and I think, well it's like North Silver and something. Hey Wright, what's that Cracker Barrel off of?"
and without missing a beat...
Me: "It's off of Silver and Arrows"
W: "That's crazy, I didn't think they'd have a Cracker Barrel."
Me: "Yea man, I think in 1/66's AO they have a Wal Mart."
W: "Really? That's cool man."
It was too easy of a joke to play on him, and despite that being a week ago, he still believes that what we were saying was true. Jason is the guy in the platoon that loves to mess with people. He is probably my best accomplice and hardest challenge to play a joke on.
He's one of my best friends in the platoon. A little about him. He's 26. Born in PA, lived there and in Jacksonville, FL. Of course is a Gators fan. He has a four year degree, but not from UF strangely enough. He has so far gotten the most and biggest care packages. His laugh will make you laugh. He's a good guy to get a beer with, and he'll eat sushi with you anytime. He's never had a nickname stick, but he's really good at giving them out. He's the gunner in the same truck I'm in. He covers my ass everytime I get out of the truck.
I'm going to start writing about one guy in the platoon in the next few blogs, so when I write about things that happen, you all can have some insight. Today was about Jason Watkins. That pic is of him and I.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Everyday Life in Baghdad... For the Most Part
My day usually starts out at four in the morning. Not too bad if last nights mission didn't get extended till midnight. It takes us about 15 minutes to get ready, down to the trucks, and to the staging area, which leaves us ample amount of time to fix any problems with the radios or trucks. Actually gives us way too much time.
We generally run what they call vigilant guard twice a day. Once in the morning, and once in the evening. We get back in for the tail end of breakfast chow, and normally don't miss it. However, our illustrious commander, his name shall remain anonymous, but as a codename we'll use Cpt. Chaos, generally likes to make things hard on us, by giving us frago's, and or extending our mission. We often times make fun of him, as every enlisted man does of his superiors. After we eat breakfast, we make sure we get our priorities of work done. Meaning, we take care of government equipment, and then ourselves. Like cleaning a weapon, or fixing radios. Then we are generally released to ourselves for the afternoon. In this time, my routine, though disturbed every other day, has gone as such; go to the gym for an hour or two. Take a shower, do personal hygiene, go to lunch chow, and then back to my barracks for a two hour nap before prep time for our night mission starts.
When we get back from our night mission, dinner chow has already closed, but fortunately they have a sandwich bar where a nice Indian man (the dot kind), fixes us plates up with a selection subway wouldn't approve of. We eat chow and watch AFN for any kind of significant news that has gone on in the world. Then it's too bed and sleep, only to start over 5 hours later.
Other things that we do during the days are; go to the barber shop, the px, the phones/Internet, Green Beans Coffee House, and the Haji shop, where you can buy tons of pirated dvds. I bought the Seinfeld series for $20 there.
So other than the long hours of going out, this place could be a lot worse. It's not as hard a living as the boys in the initial invasion had, or even the guys in my unit that were here in 07 had. Mail and care packages are still highly prized and touted. We all appreciate the support from home, and I thank you all personally for thinking, and praying for me. Thanks.
Feel free to post comments and ask me any questions about things you want to know. I will do my best to answer them.
We generally run what they call vigilant guard twice a day. Once in the morning, and once in the evening. We get back in for the tail end of breakfast chow, and normally don't miss it. However, our illustrious commander, his name shall remain anonymous, but as a codename we'll use Cpt. Chaos, generally likes to make things hard on us, by giving us frago's, and or extending our mission. We often times make fun of him, as every enlisted man does of his superiors. After we eat breakfast, we make sure we get our priorities of work done. Meaning, we take care of government equipment, and then ourselves. Like cleaning a weapon, or fixing radios. Then we are generally released to ourselves for the afternoon. In this time, my routine, though disturbed every other day, has gone as such; go to the gym for an hour or two. Take a shower, do personal hygiene, go to lunch chow, and then back to my barracks for a two hour nap before prep time for our night mission starts.
When we get back from our night mission, dinner chow has already closed, but fortunately they have a sandwich bar where a nice Indian man (the dot kind), fixes us plates up with a selection subway wouldn't approve of. We eat chow and watch AFN for any kind of significant news that has gone on in the world. Then it's too bed and sleep, only to start over 5 hours later.
Other things that we do during the days are; go to the barber shop, the px, the phones/Internet, Green Beans Coffee House, and the Haji shop, where you can buy tons of pirated dvds. I bought the Seinfeld series for $20 there.
So other than the long hours of going out, this place could be a lot worse. It's not as hard a living as the boys in the initial invasion had, or even the guys in my unit that were here in 07 had. Mail and care packages are still highly prized and touted. We all appreciate the support from home, and I thank you all personally for thinking, and praying for me. Thanks.
Feel free to post comments and ask me any questions about things you want to know. I will do my best to answer them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)