Another Day, Another Dinar

Today marks yet another month of wasted time in the sands of Iraq. Another month of vigilance and close calls done. Anything accomplished or positive happening here? Well if you can count that facts that I've sadly gained twelve pounds and spent hundreds of dollars, tens of thousands dinars, on supplements and protein an accomplishment, check the box appropriately.
With the close of this month and the opening of a new to come, I have to duly note the positives to look forward too. The summer is nearly upon us here in Iraq, which means a dry, 120-130 billion degrees outside. Water conservation will be at a premium, meaning less showers. In fact we have already begun that phase of the plan, with showers only being open three hours in the morning, and three hours at night, which so happen to be within the times that we are out on patrol. The PX here is closing soon, along with the chow hall. Everything here is coming full circle.
Six years ago I had two cousins come in the original OIF, they had no chow halls, no internet, no PX, no gym, or any of the amenities or luxuries that the everyday soldier has now. I'm about to understand their pain. I find myself start to complain about things like that, and despite the adage, if an Infantryman's not complaining, he's not happy, it could be worse.
Our Company did get one of the two platoons we had tasked out back, so that spike in patrols that we had is back to declining. For now. The 'New Misfits' of AT4 are now all getting CIB's for the attack that took place on our platoon earlier this month. The other platoons are getting CIB's for hearing gun fire a couple of blocks over. So much for having to earn awards nowadays. My Doo Wop band, Stark Naked and the Car Thieves, would be disbanding if we had ever formed to begin with. And Ryan the Nose Kellogg, gave me an interesting fact about his last name. Apparently his ancestors used to be butchers and their last name was Killhog. Later changed to Killhoch. And finally made it's way to Kellogg. Think about that next time you're snap crackling and popping at the breakfast table.

Army's new slogan: Don't shoot anyone, you might kill them.

Cheer, and Boo, and Raise a Hullabaloo

Fresh cut grass, hops and barley, ketchup and relish, mustard and onions. Echoes of crack and smack. Ambient noise of thousands talking, singing, chanting, yelling. The excitement in the pit of your stomach, keeps you uneasy and nervous. Deep down, you feel like a kid again. You walk to the end of the cement where the edge meets the stairs, and the view is definitive. You're overwhelmed. The green, tan and blue all vibrant and crisp. Brace yourself, it's Opening Day.

The crowds shift by as if no single person exists, but only globs of young boys on dads shoulders, old men with headphones on and programs in hand. Your attention returns to the beautiful sights and sounds of specs bending over and scooping up balls rolling towards them. One takes off fast from the foul line towards center field, and then as if someone, no one, calls to him to stop and turn around He complies.

It's all smiles today. Clean slate for all who are involved. Expectations un-tattered, still true and hopeful. The hustle and bustle of a man with carrying a satchel full of peanuts, counting money in one hand, and tossing a bag in another, seems near poetic. Your buddies walk up and hand you a beer. It's a good time for friends and family, you make your way to your seats. You slowly move down the steps, trying to take it all in. You reach your seat, hard and plastic, but comfortable and caressing.

It's the first game of the season. One game in a season is so insignificant, and at the same time one game in a season, very significant. This one is the start of it all. There are old timers to your left and right and young kids to your front and back, both sitting on the edge of their seats, watching so intently you wouldn't know that there was anything else in the world. A view of the past and future, despite age, one in the same. It's the best day of the year. Early April, springtime. A time of new beginnings, promise, growth, and most importantly Baseball.

The stadium is in pristine untouched condition. The grass, each blade cut and bent perfectly to give the look of a nature synchronized dance. The clay of the infield, watered and sunned perfectly, so that every step releases the smell of the dampness that infiltrates your nose. The mound some kind of perfect sculpture in the center of it all.

The team takes the field and the anticipation is overwhelming. The opposing batter steps into the batters box. The sweet ballet the pitcher performs ends with a violent explosion of motion and blur of a white object moving straight and true towards home plate. SMACK! "STIIIRIKE ONE," the umpire yells as he performs his own routine with a twist and point of his arm, fluently enough as not to disturb the dust that still floats from the catchers mitt. Baseball season is upon us.

By the forth inning I've stuffed 2 or 3 Dodger dogs down my gullet, washed them down with beer, and am on to shelling peanuts and dropping them to my feet. The entire experience is like no other game will be that year. The stats up on the jumbo-tron are only of today's events. It's the only game that their season stats will be their game stats. CRACK! I almost wasn't watching, but the hush and gasp that the entire stadium took gave me warning. Everyone holds their breath. There's no air, and the pin dropping is heard. My body starts to move before I tell it too. It lingers between sitting and standing, and my eyes pick up the ball, but then back to the fielder giving chase, and back to the ball. I leap from my seat in sheer jubilee and out of control. The intensity of the silence finally fails and the roar of excitement consumes this sanctuary. It's the only time in your life you'll high five a complete stranger. Martin just hit one out of the park, and chaos ensues. It takes him awhile to get around the bases, and even longer for the crowd to settle. Even after the next batter strikes out and the inning ends, the disbelief of witnessing such an unbelievably believable event still grips the crowd.

There's a buzz that continues through the crowd. The guy next to you in line for beer stands proud and in a world of triumph. The kid tossing up a baseball and catching it, he feels it too. The end of the game nears, and the excitement is still prevalent. The blue makes a bad call on a close play. Yes he was safe, but not to our hearts. He'll probably think twice about it, with the constant heckling he's getting now from the hostile crowd. The bottom of the ninth comes and it's a close game. Anxiety and fear have now drawn over the crowd. The crowd is at its peak level of loudness. No remorse for this ex town hero, a traitor by all accounts. The tying run is on second and there are two outs. The crowd is uneasy and stirring. The guy next to me launches his beer at another fan wearing the opponents jersey. The two and two pitch is called strike three, game over. In that instant no one seems to know that they were just in a putrid mood. Joy is brought on by roaring, clapping, whistling, and high fiving. Celebratory fireworks crack off and life can't be any better.

The ride home is spent listening to how they did it, how they won the game. You reach home still exuberant. You won, your team won, what a great day for a ball game.

"It's a beautiful day for a home run, but even a triples okay"

The Grind Continues

I've always been told that March is, "in like a lion, out like a lamb." Or vice versa, "in like a lamb, out like a lion." That must be a western hemisphere thing.
On March 6th, we got blown up. March 24th 2nd Platoon got blown up in nearly the same exact spot. A vehicleborne IED blew up. A dog handler ended his own life. And my girlfriend celebrated her 24th Birthday. Happy Birthday Gina.



We are not exactly to the end of the month yet, but having seen how the tempo has picked up this last week, and how it looks to be increasing in the next few weeks, I'm not entirely sure when I'll have time to write another blog.

Baseball season is nearly approaching, which happens to be my favorite time of year. The weather here is still very nice, surprisingly. Every once in awhile I find myself thinking that the weather feels like a beautiful Saturday morning in my hometown of Sylmar. The sun is warm on the skin, but not blaring hot. It's bright, and the sky is blue. You don't have to squint, but sunglasses are a nice option. It feels like baseball season here. It feels like opening day up at SIBL.

Other than nice weather, early mornings and late nights, I am doing well. I still will find myself finding time for the gym, and with four months effort put in I've gained 12 pounds. April 6th will be the end of four months here, and the start of five. It also nearly be a month till I come home. A much needed vacation from this place.

3 days left in the month. Opening Day is tomorrow, and Slumdog Millionaire was a good movie.

"If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now."

Another Slumbering Night in The Halls of Fourth Platoon

Recently our mission schedule has resumed back to it's normal two patrols a day. This morning was an easy mission, but tiring and a waste of time really for us. We spent close to twelve hours doing absolutely nothing at Camp Liberty in the Green Zone. I've talked about what life is like in the Green Zone before. Little America. America in the Middle East. Disneyland.
Despite it being Muhammed's birthday today, you know Jesus II, we still had to go on this awesome mission instead of being out to stop religious extremists setting in IED's in our sector. The twelve hours of sitting around, looking at fat poor excuses for Army personnel walk around with muskets and fucked up head gear, is kind of tiring. You have to deal with a PX that is as fully stocked at Wal Mart, and the Burger King line getting in the way of the entrance to the Harley Davidson dealership. Not our daily norm.
You would think that that would be a great place to be. A false since of American living. But then again, NO. All of us couldn't wait to get back to our little FOB, away from it all. To our silent domain, with no water for showers, internet that goes in an out and we pay way to much for, and the stacks of newspapers that sit downstairs ready for us to hand out in the morning. In basic we used to yell, "Trained to kill, kill we will." Where were newspapers in that equation?
The lights are off in the rooms across the hall, and outside my door. You can see the glowing lights of headlamps reading pages of alternate realities. Or the light from a computer screen showing you just enough of a smiling face bordered by the white lines of ear buds retaining that persons own personal dimension. Talking to girlfriends. Checking the tournament, or blogging.
Someone snores. Another coughs. Wake up is only hours away. We're almost four months done with this thing. With rumors flying about early homecoming, and mid tour leave just around the corner, I feel good. No longer on the verge of frenzy. No longer at the mercy of my nerves. No longer, well you feel in the blank.
The halls of Fourth Platoon are quite tonight. Everyone sleeping tight, or listening to Floyd. Pretending they are Tom Cruise, or Brad Pitt. Watching porn, or coughing up a lung. The bullshit that is bullshit, finally we've grown a tolerance to it. It's no longer pressing and draining. In the words of my old squad leader, "it is what it is."

Fuckin' Catalina Wine Mixer

Yellow Dust, Nose Bleeds, Sleeping with a Stripper Light On, and the Zombie Apocalypse

Yesterday we were supposed to go out at night on our second mission of the day. It was the standard patrolling we have done since we took over this area of operation in late December of last year. Right before we started to get ready we were told that the mission was on standby due to the storm of 'yellow dust' which approached forcing air assets not to be able to fly. We waited around for two more hours before we finally got spun up for a operation 'meals on wheels' and 'paper delivery boy.' This is where we take food to the JSS for the Scout Platoon to have dinner, and then drive around to the different checkpoints and drop of the freshest editions of Baghdad Now newspapers. Of course this never happened because right as we were about to go out, we had a new mission passed down to us. To drive into the 'green zone' to the army hospital there, and drop off a soldier who injured himself playing basketball.

Now, with one prior mission into the green zone, I knew that this meant it was going to be cake. The one thing that the army hospital there has more than anything else, is females. It's amazing how when all of us have been confined to spending every waking second with each other, and not be in face to face contact with women how much power women end up having over us. As we unloaded the casualty, there were many females around. One of the guys had one ask him how he was doing, and she might as well have been from Mars, because not only did he stumble over every word that came out of his mouth, he then immediately came over to the group of us. He couldn't erase the smile from his face, and was more excited than many small children are when you take them to Disneyland.

We then unfortunately had to leave from the hospital and come back to our base. After we arrived back, I was sitting with my 'trainee' RTO rookie Adam Bowman. Above Adam's bed there is the "Dirty Downtown James The Mole Brown" element. His feet were airing out. I caught a whiff a little too close, and turned to B-Man, and asked if that was Brown's feet. As soon as he told me yes, I felt it. Something small, something warm, something liquid moving down the inside of my nose. I put my hand up just in time to catch the blood that was now flowing freely from my nose. The smell of his feet is so awful that it made my nose start to bleed. It was rumored that his roommate last deployment would wake up from a dead sleep when Brown would take his boots off.
Rumor no more.




A big something has changed in my room. Because of the most feared detective in all the land is in our room, Ryan 'The Nose' Kellogg, we've taken counter measures against the worst terrorists in Iraq. Mosquitoes. In the corner of the room, now sits a mosquito zapper.
It doesn't work.

But it does send off a great amount of light. It looks like the inside of a Thailand whore house in here when the lights turn off. Well what Ryan, the Nose, would think a whore house in Thailand would look like.



Jason and I told him the first night it was in our room, that we would take turns flipping him over as he slept so that he didn't get burned. The purple fluorescent bulbs give off a light that's somewhere in between a tanning bed and black light. It's sad that I'm about to tell you this, but to me, to us, it's funny. Ryan, The Nose, was changing in the corner, and Jason killed the lights, except for the zappers, and I started hitting Ryan, The Nose, with half a second beams from my little flashlight, while creating a techno beat with my mouth. Totally gay, but Jason definitely said 'No Gay' right before we did that.
Voids the gay entirely.

Lastly, this entire week has encompassed our truck convincing our company commander, while he rides along and in passing, that the Zombie Apocalypse is coming. We even convinced him that Steve Jobs and cyberdine have a lot to do with it. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Got to love good ol' Delta Six. XTREME!!!!!!

I also finished Palahniuk's Snuff. Not my favorite novel of his, but it was pretty entertaining none the less.

Four Six Romeo (Actual) signing out.

The House on The Hill

It still lingers in my memory. The house at the top on Garrick Street. I recall so many Christmas', family memories and dinner at that house. It once belonged to my grandparents. Elbert and Barbara Wright.

It was corner house with a sweeping driveway, and front yard. I remember my sister slipping on the wet grass while we were playing baseball. Scars that are light but still existent after she gets the right amount of sun. Hours spent setting up Halloween decorations. The front door was under an overhang, which a rock planter on the left, and a metal swinging rocking chair on the right. The glass of the front door was yellow, and looked like the bottom of coke bottles. The entry hall was less than lavish. An old black stove and a ficus plant with a golf ball at the bottom of it were about all there was.

From the entry you had a choice of three directions to go. Left and directly into the living room. Up the stairs, or down the hall way. The living room had some of the ugliest carpet known to man. It was a large room though. With a chair, couch and love seat. Plenty of room for everyone. There was a fire place and I can see the Christmas tree in the window lit up in the window. The ceiling was covered in popcorn and more gold sparkle than the night sky has stars.

Down the hall you had the den to the left, where I played countless hours of Where In The World is Carmen San Diego. The bathroom right next to it, and finally to the right, you had the kitchen and dining room. We used to sit around that dinner table long as a family. Tell jokes, laugh and smile. The bar was where I would spend the last hours I was able to stay awake on my mom or dad's lap. That bar would be lined with cherry 7up on new years eve for all of us kids.

The backyard always seemed well manicured. The view at night was magnificent. Fourth of July's as we illegal set off fireworks in the back yard, you could see all the lights of the valley. The fireworks in downtown. We would run upstairs and out on the balcony and light sparklers. I reminisce about that house every time I think about home. It was a perfect house. From living in it when I was real young, to biking up Roxford past the hospital, up all the hills to visit Grandma and Grandpa as a teenager.

Someday, that house will be mine.

The New 'Misfits'

Just some of the Boys

"It's hard to be hard." That's what tends to be our motto here in AT4. With more and more missions and less time to ourselves, we only can find a smile in joking about one another or people in our chain of command. The CO impression done by all from top to bottom in the platoon, is as a whole, perfect. A lot of guys throughout of the platoon have grown in the short time that we've been here. The true heart and soul of our platoon is gone. Sgt. Maier is no longer in the platoon, and so we now are going down some kind of new path, to find a new leader to help us through this deployment.

A few of the new imports, and one being the trade for Sgt. Maier have finally started to become part of the family that is AT4, the new 'Misfits.' We will never be the greatness that was of the old 'Misfits.' Well not the same kind of greatness anyways. We don't have a, Brian Reed, Don Lans, Tim Olivo, or Bravill. Toland, Nelson, Maier, and Dirty Bob, all are gone. Now we see only names that still remain to be Purvis, and Brown. The new names in the platoon to assume the rolls, Ingham, Briggs, Jewell, Killman, Pena, Howard. All the rest of the Joe's here, well despite two, have been together for almost a year.

This morning when we woke up we still thought that we were going to be doing a mission with our battalion Sergeant Major. Fortunately it was cancelled. Our newest NCO, who is hated by the Sergeant Major, because he just came from recruiting, was doing our equipment checks for the patrol, was unawares that the mission had been cancelled. Since we haven't broken in any of our 'new' guys to AT4, all of us decided that we would purposely be missing things, like knee pads, magazines, nods mounts, name tapes, and equipment that we are supposed to have. Especially when the Sergeant Major rolls with us.

As he came down the line to check us for all of the equipment, he was getting continually frustrated with all of us being ate up. The entire platoon was in on it, and our LT was asking him why some guys were f'd up and where are stuff was. After about twenty minutes of him running around with his head cut off, we finally couldn't hold in the laughter, and all started laughing, especially as SSgt. Killman called at ease, and our newest Staff Sergeant, Jewell, went to parade rest faster than you can say Herbert. Of course he strutted around getting the frustration all out, but in the end he was able to laugh it off. During our mission later on the LT pissed on his seat. Not that that has anything to do with the rest of the story, but it's a nice side note.

Sleep tight America, the new 'Misfits' ride!

Iraq, As Lovely as The Weather

The current weather in Eastern Baghdad, is a light rain, with a little thunder and lightning. Winds at gusts up to 50 mph, and sand. And a little more sand. Walking outside almost seems like you're on a movie set of Terminator or something. The lights blair through what you would think is fog. It's not, just sand. Watching Jason gear up to go the chow hall was a very hilarious site. He got his neck gaiter out to cover his mouth and nose. Then he grabbed my goggles, and through them on, making him appear to be some kind of bmx biker. He showed his ID at the entrance to the chow hall to the Ugandans on guard there. "You are good sir." Idiots, you can't even see his face. On the other hand I'm breathing in dust even inside, while having Otis Spunkmeyer Wild Blueberry muffins next to me. It's not apple pie Jim.

Today marked the switching of men throughout the platoon into different positions. A way to get everyone a little experience at different jobs. Yesterday I started to train up my replacement to be the new 46 Romeo, the best worst job in the platoon. He should be ready in a month or so, hopefully. The day was also filled with a long nap right after our mission. I have now been trying for the last three hours to come up with different ways to say "you're on dope street guy." A Ryan Kellogg made famous saying. So far the best I've been able to come up with is, "you're on nose candy boulevard."

I'm currently staring at what was once a window, and sliding glass door out to a balcony. Now it's just bricks covering a hole. I guess I really never thought about how nice windows are. How nice it is to see outside. It could be daylight for all I know. Some morning when I wake up having to urinate terribly bad, I'm surprised to run out and it be daylight, or still night. It's a lot of fun racing down the stairs to the bottom floor, to open the door to an array of sunlight.
It's amazing how time flies, while it goes so slow. And who is doing fantasy baseball? I've never done fantasy baseball, but that would be a good way to take up more of my time. I did fantasy football once, it was a failed operation, I tried to draft Gandalf, but apparently you play with real players. I didn't know Daunte Culpepper was a level 8 Paladin.

Oh, almost forgot, on my last blog post, I talked about it being my birthday and the absurdity of the situation and that long rant I went on. Well then that afternoon, while on the way to deliver humanitarian aid to the Mahdi Army, (cause apparently you kill us, we give you blankets and food), our truck, my truck, got hit with an IED. Everyone was alright, and the truck took minimal damage, but it was still really loud. Oh and Brian, check your messages on facebook, I'll give you the back story. You were smart to get out when you did, you saw it coming.
Also there's only one original misfit left, Purvis. Maier went to headquarters, and well Brown is still here, but seeing how he was a Sgt. Ramirez import, we'll not count him.

Check out Gran Turino, Eastwood is a BAOM (bad ass old man)

Happy Birthday To Me!

Today marks the end to my second year of service to the United States Army. It also marks the start of my third year. 36 months and a wake up left, and I'm out of this place. That's roughly 1096 days, which is 26,304 hours, or 1,578,240 minutes, or 94,694,400 seconds. But I'm not counting.

This morning we had to get up extra early because of something we did yesterday, or was it the day before? Or even ten days ago. I would not talk about it, but it's so fucking stupid that even if they bust my balls about it, I would like them to explain the absurdity of the situation. We had to go recover the mother board of a television remote that we saw yesterday. What? Even if something like that was going to be used as a detonator of some kind of IED, what's the range on that? 25 feet? How many times have you changed your channel from 300 feet away?

Our platoon, the 'New Misfits' are cursed. Despite being all of these orphans from different places, and not being able to get along till recently, we have come together as a platoon despite all that, and though we aren't reacting to sniper fire, or kicking in houses and shooting bad guys, we have done a really good job. We've actually done an excellent job with what's in hand. We complain and guys have started to get complacent, but when you train for a job, and then you go to work, and your job is not anything like what you've trained for, how are you supposed to be content and happy about that? We were asked if we handled the 'evidence' properly. Do I look like I'm a CSI tech? Yea, I picked it up and brought it back to you, to do what? Win the war? Find the WMD's? Well sleep tight tonight America, the 82nd is on point.

Part of our curse, is doing everything right, or everything the same way everyone else does it, and getting our balls busted, or chopped off for it. We got a 'speeding ticket' for driving to fast out of the ECP. Not only am I 100% positive that we were not speeding, the person who said we were, said that our "4 trucks" were going way to fast, and we might have hit a child. For one, we only roll with 3 vehicles. For two we drive like a blind man who's walking on ice skates. And for three, I don't know too many kids that play around in front of military installations and in front of heavy machine guns.

So as punishment, we get to endanger our lives more. This happened earlier here. We get in trouble, so we spend more time in sector, with less sleep, making us more complacent. We are going to do the Baghdad marathon. Walk around our entire AO. No trucks to help support if we get attacked, and no vehicles to Casevac us if we are hurt. And further more, walk so far away from the base that my communications won't be able to talk to anyone. That's about as smart an idea I've heard. This place is definitely not what I signed up for. I didn't know that the Army could be so stupid. Things used to be different. They used to be better here. I can only imagine how hard the next three years are going to be. Things are declining, getting worse. It used to be something to be Airborne. It used to be 'high speed.' Now it's just $150 extra a month, and a bunch of bullshit. No one has any clue here anymore, the organization of this place, well I've seen better from preschool students.

It's a great day to be in the 82nd! Driven by false motivation and assholes that have no clue. Maybe they can spend millions like they did at JRTC, so that our .50 cal will have 4 rounds, but the TOC has nice flat screens, and banners that say stay off the bench. I'm off the bench, when are you gonna come out and play? What a fucking joke my life has become. Sad that the joke tends to mess with my life and the lives around me.



"And many more..."

The Magical Mystery Extravagance Tour of the Galaxy to Disneyland, Iraq

I woke up this morning like I used to when I was younger. That is when I had something to do, like play golf with my dad and brother and had an early morning tee time, or maybe a special trip somewhere. I found myself tired, and had a nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach. Our mission this morning, go to America.

Its about as close as you can get to America anyways. The 'Green Zone,' downtown Baghdad, Disneyland. Every time we roll outside the gate we worry about EFP's and getting shot at. But this morning was different. As soon as we were no less than a mile away from our base, the standard of life seemed to sky rocket more and more. It still looked like a ghetto in America, but for here, not a bad place. The streets were clear of raw sewage, and nearly all trash.

Saddam's Swords

We saw many famous or infamous things on our way their. We saw the famous Saddam swords as well as the amphitheatre that looked like a woman's compact mirror. We arrived at the big Camp here after being delayed by morning rush hour.



First order of business was to hit up the PX for some much needed stuff that is impossible to get at our normal FOB. We then had the choice of eating at the regular chow hall, or Burger King, Cinnabon, Popeye's, or Taco Bell. Of course I had to get my Taco Bell on. And so I did. It was delicious, and yet disgusting. I scarfed it down, and followed it with a cinnabon classic cinnamon roll, that despite the 730 calories and 24 g of fat and a whopping 114 g of carbs, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I went into the Bazaar where Haji sells us entirely useless crap that we buy. I tried to barter down a hookah from $120 to$20, but the guy was adamant he could only drop it to $115. I eventually got him down to $112 after about ten minutes of haggling and playing the I don't even want it anymore kind of game. I decided not to purchase it, and instead spend that money on books on how to negotiate.

Amphitheatre

After that I walked back to the trucks and hung out while we waited on our headquarters guys to return from their mission on the base. The entire reason we were really there. We climbed on top of the trucks and attempted to get the best farmer tans we could. It was a really nice day, and looking around at this base you would think you could be in southern California somewhere. Maybe Lake Elsinore. Desert like, but tons of Eucalyptus trees all around. There was a cool breeze and the sun shown very brightly, as if you were almost sitting at the beach. Ryan and I talked about doing stuff at the beach and how frighteningly scary the weather was to a normal beach day in Cali.

Soon we had waited so long that it was time to go back and get some more food. The chow hall had closed and so I was forced to go eat some more fast food. I picked Burger King, despite the fact I think I still was craving Taco Bell. My friend Adam and I took our BK back to the trucks and ate and soon there after the headquarters guy had shown back up, nearly empty handed from their mission on base. We got in the truck, and I decided that my poor nutrition during the day prompted a protein shake supplement. I had to pound about 20 oz of water to be able to have the right amount of water for my shake. I crudely put my shake together with the help of Lenny our terp, and drank about half and way too fast. We started moving in the stuffy back of the 'Bus' or 'Wagon' and I immediately started feeling nauseous.

The culmination of the days events, with maybe being a little dehydrated from sitting in the sun, and the processed foods I had gorged down like a child at the fair, with the introduction to to much water fast, and a warm protein shake, and movement, I knew that regurgitation was not only necessary but about to happen. I warned the guys in the truck and grabbed at a plastic bag and quickly dumped the contents. I brought it up to my mouth just in time. Pretty gross happening followed, and nearly started a Chunk from the Goonies, movie theatre type story. Sampson and Kellogg nearly lost their lunch. We made a short halt, while Lenny secured another plastic bag in which I placed the first one in and then we made a tactical disposal of the contents, and the bags. My gift to Iraq.

Platoon Boyz II

Our platoon continues to be one of orphans. People moved from different companies or platoons because they are a 'problem child.' We somehow all seem to get along fairly well though. We got another NCO (he looks like Jack Black), in the platoon making them almost rival us Joe's in number. I still think we could take them.

Huey Dewey, and Louey are three of the boys that have been in the platoon for a long time. Those aren't their real names or even nicknames, but because they spend so much time together almost joined at the hip it fits to call them that.



First you have Brad Duffy, or Fluffy Duffy as he was known in high school. He recently got married before we deployed, and is from Chi town Illinois. He's the leader of the three. Before the military he was a paramedic in the fire department. Duffy is often times considered the platoon 'Golden Boy.' He is also a big complainer within the platoon. It's fun to tell him something, watch him freak out, and then tell him you're just messin' with him.



Next you have Donovan Sampson, the youngest guy in our company. Last year he was still 17. His newest nickname is Tuna, but I like to think he looks like one of the Angry Beavers. He's the hippie of the group, and listens to the Dead as well as Bob Marley, and just about everything else. He's pretty good on the guitar. The funniest thing about Sampson is, is constant sarcasm. He is nearly a master in the art.



The last of the group is Kirk Nelson. Our very own Ogre, and self proclaimed Cornbread Mother F***er! He could have been born sometime in the early 20,000 b.c. His only skill set is smashing and running into things. He's about as big and dumb as the come. He is in reality really smart, just doesn't think things through all of the time. Yesterday he ran into a wrecked car at full speed to see if he could dent the rear quarter panel... case in point.



We also just recently got our newest boy in the Army back, Michael 'Half-Rat' Turner. He was the first to go on leave, and is already back with us. He's been the ache in my head every once in awhile. He's hilarious to watch though, because he is if a middle schooler continued to grow up, but didn't change his mentality about life. He does look a little like Tom Cruise (but like a half retarded Cruise) and he is successful with the ladies. The funniest thing he has done, was when he pointed out a 'middle aged' woman to us, as he saw her. We were looking everywhere out of the truck for this middle aged woman, and we had to ask him if he meant the woman that was in her early twenties. It was, and so we make fun of him for saying that, and now a middle aged woman is considered to be between the ages of 17-25. I really might sound like I have some angst towards him, but I don't have a problem with him, except for the fact he is a Padres fan.



We continue to entertain ourselves with the stupidest things, and constantly try and do impression of one another. We are continually becoming a bigger brotherhood everyday, and it's a pretty cool experience. Of course we are entering month four, when I hit month 8 and want to rip all of their heads off, I'll probably be writing differently.

War, What a Concept

I'm sure that everyone in my platoon is not some crazy psychopathic killer that enjoys killing, or the idea of being a killer. But all of us signed up in our military in a time of war, and knows whats expected of us in the most critical of times. We also thought that we would be doing more here, than pampered police work. We as a company lost a senior non commissioned officer in the first month we were here to a roadside bomb. I and many of my platoon lost a friend, and a mentor.

It was frustrating, and still upsetting when we think of the actions that we took in the immediate following of such a tragedy. We seemed to do nothing. The security agreement we signed has really taken any of the power out of our hands.

We went through that neighborhood a few days ago, and passed out blankets. Hey thanks for killing our buddy, here's a blanket. If we were Israel we would have leveled that neighborhood and then killed the family members of the people who were involved. But we are America and have to be so politically correct that we've taken all of the Waring our of War. There are so many rules and restrictions against anything and everything we do outside the wire here, that we are really at the mercy of our enemies. Cars and people pass freely between us, and could suicide bomb us at anytime. We get trained on how to deal with stopping people, and even when that training is executed appropriately and lethal force is used, we still get the proverbial shaft.

We are wasting money, time, resources, and life here in Iraq. When we find a guy that's a leader in the bad guy syndicate here, what do we do? Years ago we might have shot him on sight. Last year, we would've grabbed him up, and taken him back to the FOB or JSS for some "questioning." Now, we don't do anything. Oh he put in IED's? and killed other Iraqi's, and Americans? Well hopefully he's accepted Jesus as his savior and moved on. How did we become such a spineless country? Why do we care so much what others think about us? Why do we care about being so politically correct?

It's sad that I joined to do so much good for my country and fellow man, and I look at all the news from home, and we've wanted this war to fail since it started, proclaimed it's failure even. Well to you who fret about your coffee and organic vegetables, and yoga class, fuck you! Fret about only that, and not whether I kill someone because they want to kill me. I don't tell you, you can't grow armpit hair or not shower, so don't tell me I can't shoot someone in the face because they want to kill me or a buddy.

I think about when the next guy who dies for your freedoms, that hopefully you will use your freedoms more productively then to backlash against your own Nation.