KUWAIT 24DEC08
Christmas Eve in Kuwait. I’ve finally found some time to sit down and write my third entry here. Over the past few days we’ve been awake practically around the clock; we finished a daylong range on 21DEC and then proceeded to spend the whole night installing reactive armor on the Bradley Fighting Vehicles. After two hours of sleep we went out for another day long range, and after that I was informed that I would be the Officer In Charge (OIC) of the range the following morning (a full eight hours in the future), so the rest of my night was spent scurrying around from one place to another finding us the vehicles, ammo, and range equipment we would need to conduct the training. We woke up early (another two hours) and started working on the Bradleys; they had been transported to us by ship, and apparently a few of them had developed some mechanical problems in transit. So we pushed through those issues in time to get to the range and we fired until range control told us to stop around nightfall. Busy days. The Commander, Executive Officer (XO), Company Intel Officer (COIST), and a few other key leaders from headquarters have pushed ahead to Mosul to prepare for the main body’s arrival. So now it’s just the lieutenants and our NCOs running the show. First order of business was to catch up on lost sleep.
Bradley Reactive Armor is quite a concept. We’ve added large (heavy) panels of C4 to the sides of all the vehicles, which at first sounds like a terrible idea. I was uncomfortable with the fact that I spend so much of my time in a little metal cocoon surrounded by ammunition even before we decided to further surround THAT with explosives. But the reactive armor is directional—and fortunately, directed away from us. The idea is that a rocket will encounter equal and opposing force from the contact detonation of the C4, and thus cancel all of its effects. A nice idea. Unfortunately, the rocket has to hit at the right angle, in the right armored spot, and we have to hope that the ensuing blast won’t inadvertently set fire to the neighboring panels of C4. It detonates by a combination of heat and pressure, so the fire alone won’t send it exploding in every direction, but it is quite flammable and could conceivably light us all up. We’d probably be quite safe (though warm) on the inside, but the result would be the Hell Bradley, a flaming ball of death careening through the streets of Mosul. Definitely a sight to behold. So, until the damned stuff ends up saving my life or one of my men’s lives, all I think of the reactive armor is that it is heavy, bulky, and overburdens the suspension.
This is a problem the German Army of World War Two would be able to converse about at length, so it’s nothing new. We design a vehicle for certain tasks, but as the missions and the threats change, we throw additional equipment on to negate the new risks. More armor, more weapons, more communications arrays, more everything. But the underlying chassis remains the same. So now the vehicle has to carry 40 tons when it was designed for 36, basically. This leads to mechanical problems and forces us to drive at less than peak efficiency. So far the problems are minimal, but the history of the Koenigstiger Panzer shows where this eventually leads. Or, more recently, the 1114 HMMV (the real Hummer, for those of you driving the oversized gas guzzlers at home). When we started upping the armor on those, throwing heavy armored doors and building up the turrets, we basically shot the suspension all to hell. This is one of the reasons we’re shifting to the newer 1151 model—and ultimately shifting from the HMMV model altogether. A good vehicle at its core, but with all the additional equipment, too prone to rollovers and mechanical flubs.
The men are in good spirits for Christmas. In the spirit of things, one of the men (SPC Ladies’ Man, as we’ll call him for reasons which should be obvious) has done me the great honor of asking me to preside over his reenlistment ceremony—but I have to dress up as Santa Clause. He’s still trying to get a suit by tomorrow. I’ll provide the update on how successful this was in the next entry. We’ve planned minimal training for tomorrow, so after a few hours of medical work, the men should be free to hit the Moral, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) tent and play some cards or pool. If they’re really brave they might even try to tackle the lines for the phones… provided they even work.
I may have spoken too soon about the progress of my team leaders. For a minute there I considered us to have the best leadership in the company, and for my hubris the company 1st Sergeant swapped one of my best riflemen for an aging specialist in 2nd Platoon, with instructions that he be given a team leader position. He is new, he is untrained in the job, and thus far he has been demonstrating no serious desire to change this. We put him in the squad with SGT Skizz in the hopes that he’ll be able to light a fire under him. Should his performance not improve within the next two weeks, we’ll be forced to fire him. Out of a cannon. Into the sun. So all eyes in my headquarters are on SPC Pappy. Maybe he’ll surprise us.
On that note, I don’t think I’ve introduced the cast of characters in my little headquarters yet. We’ve got an ensemble that would make Shakespeare green with envy. At the head is my Platoon Sergeant, my partner in crime and mentor. We’ll call him SSG Lark here, as his real name is another songbird and he prefers being Airborne. He came from Fort Benning where he was a black hat in Airborne School (one of the trainers). Funnily enough, we’d actually briefly met before he came to my platoon. He was one of the instructors in my Airborne School company. His wife worked with a good friend and fellow lieutenant’s wife back in Georgia. The old timers always tell me how small the Army world really is, but I hadn’t expected to start running into old faces so soon. Anyway, SSG Lark is 30 and has a dozen years of Army experience. He’s generally quiet and reserved, but is quick to anger and righteous indignation. This is good for discipline in the platoon, as it is neither my job nor my personality to drive people by screaming. He’s happy to do all of that for me. He has been blessed with very high expectations, and maybe cursed with the fact that he does not always react well to the inevitable let down when these expectations are not met, but all in all he has been an outstanding addition to Blue Platoon. He is also OCD, which is another excellent trait in a Platoon Sergeant but not so desirable in a roommate. Well, at least he’ll be able to escape the aura of “filth” that surrounds me when we get our own rooms in Iraq. I’ve never seen so many ulcers formed because my shoes were not perfectly aligned—or maybe my weapon strayed a few inches into his territory when I set it down—or perhaps my rucksack is lilting slightly to the left. He organizes and trains with the same attention that he cuts his sausage patties in the morning; namely, with great focus and meticulous planning. This has provided the platoon with the stability and order it so sorely needed before.
My vehicular expert and leader is SSG Regulator. I’ve chosen this name not only because of his clear desire to keep things clean and orderly but also because of his seemingly limitless memory of Army Regulations. This guy uses regs as a weapon. Doesn’t think it’s a good idea? Well, he can find a reg that tells you not to do it. And given the prolific nature of Army publishing, there’s one for just about everything. My God, we even tell you how far you need to have port-a-johns away from the tents. And he knows exactly what that distance is, in every form of measurement ever devised by man. This can sometimes result in great tedium, but generally this means that there is no better man in the platoon—and possibly the whole company—to keep your vehicles in order. I can always trust that they’ll be ready to roll out with SSG Regulator. I haven’t had the opportunity to roll out of the wire with him yet, so I don’t know how he handles in the field, but inside the base he is the very definition of “By the Book.”
My first dismount squad leader is SSG Chase—actually his first name, which he would prefer you used when addressing him. Smooth, laid back, easy humor… not your first image of a thundering infantry squad leader, but he gets the job done. He has high expectations of his men, if not always of himself, and his meteoric rise through the ranks is a testament to his ability to get the job done. It won’t always be pretty. In fact, I don’t think it has ever been pretty. But it gets done. Otherwise, and with the exception of his close friends, he keeps himself quiet and reserved. He works just fine with me because he’s open to new ideas and is amenable to getting things done in whatever way works. This, needless to say, causes a slight amount of friction with SSG Regulator.
My second dismount squad leader is SSG Crunchberry. I’m not sure what the story really is behind this name, but from time to time he insists on being referred to as Petty Officer ----, of the HMS Crunchberry. Eccentric? Definitely. He also used to be my platoon sergeant before SSG Lark arrived. He is certainly capable, and eight days out of ten is an invaluable asset to the platoon. The other two days he’s generally inebriated and hostile. This has obviously improved since we got to Kuwait and the well dried up, as it were. But there were definitely a few touchy days of withdrawal we all had to contend with. He much prefers leading a squad to managing a platoon, as it spares him from the politics and administrative ulcers at my level. And he is very good at getting the men trained. When he gets it in his mind to teach the men a new skill, they WILL learn it. It’s just a lot less painful if they do. His life ambition is to leave the Army after this tour and open a cantina on a beach somewhere in Mexico; barring this, he will take his savings and tour the world as a high-class hobo, befriending bums along the way while he writes the memoirs of his travels; or, he’ll stay in Iraq after the reconstruction since it provides him the opportunity to pursue a career in midget farming. That’s right, midgets. As in “little people.” He wants to raise them. Strange? I prefer the term “delightfully eccentric.”
Those four make up my little inner circle. Obviously my first point of contact is SSG Lark, who’ll accomplish whatever I need done with little fuss and careful planning. He’s also there to whisper into my ear whenever I need to get more involved, get less involved, completely disinvolve myself, or totally take over something. This is necessary for me. Most of my officer training was conducted and overseen by NCOs, so I tend to focus too much on what NCOs focus on. Officers need to have eyes only for the bigger picture. SSG Lark does not appreciate it when I poke my nose into the inner workings of the platoon, and we’re still trying to work out some kind of code so he can covertly inform me that I’ve encroached on his territory. Nevertheless, I spend a decent amount of time with SSGs Regulator, Chase, and Crunchberry; first so that I can get firsthand reports about the men, second so that I can directly express my expectations or plans, and third because otherwise my world would be very, very small. I’m not really suppose to interact with the men at an individual level, since my NCOs—and the Army, really—want to maintain some kind of buffer between the links in the chain of command. As my dad would say, shaking his head about his same observations in the Navy in Vietnam, there is “no playing with the enlisted men.” So, to keep myself from going crazy, I have my little circle. And sometimes my brother lieutenants, but more often than not they’re all embroiled in their own platoon problems.
And that, in brief, is the higher leadership of Blue Platoon. We’re all gathered around the tent cleaning our equipment and dreaming of sugarplums right now. For the first time in my life I won’t be celebrating Christmas with my family. Additionally, because of the No Fly Zone and our anti-aircraft platforms, Santa won’t be landing here tonight. So I celebrated by buying myself a new map pouch and a large Spiced Chai Latte (that’s right… this is not your granddaddy’s war). Around midnight I’ll push out to the phones and try to call my wife and family. For now, though, I’d better sign out. SSG Crunchberry is brandishing a shotgun and yelling eccentricities (less delightful when the man is armed, I’ve observed). So, Merry Christmas to all of you. May your celebrations be full of cheer, may your loved ones be close beside you, and if you have a chance spare a prayer of good fortune for the boys in Blue.
24 December 2008
Training in Kuwait
KUWAIT 20DEC08
Red saw his first camel yesterday. We’re still trying to find where he dropped his jaw. There are actual, literal HERDS of camels here. All over the place. I guess I should have figured, but I had convinced myself that this sort of thing was just romanticized beyond reality. They don’t actually have swarms of camels on everything, right? Wrong. They totally do. We were all out on the firing range zeroing our weapons in a place where roaming Bedouins are an actual safety concern (we have to keep reminding them not to ride around or set up camp in the middle of our firing lanes), and sure enough, we soon found ourselves completely surrounded, enveloped, and cut off by a fortunately benign forest of curious humps. There was a flurry of activity followed by communal browbeating and self-flagellation as we realized that none of us had brought a camera. That would have been an awesome Christmas card to send home. Oh, well.
The training goes well, given the short notice we’re working with. We’ve had a few frustrating experiences where we get everybody up and into their gear, trudge over to a range or simulator, and find that nobody actually allocated us ammo or sim time. My initial response is to demand the heads of the morons responsible, but after a little time I remind myself that those guys in headquarters are currently buried in bureaucracy and paperwork trying to sort out where all of our equipment is, where it’s going, how it’s getting there and when, and why the Brits, Aussies, Pakistanis, Kuwaitis, and Iraqis here have trouble understanding our plans or instructions. The yelling my company makes about our training resources is probably a miniscule drone in the background of the S3 shop, and what frustrates us beyond belief is most likely just a minor annoyance to them—if they register it at all. Still, the infantry pride in me occasionally fights to take over the more rational and understanding aspect of my personality and remind these people that, if our base is overrun because my men were never allocated the appropriate training or even ammunition, the fault lies with them. Fighters should have priority in a war. And in that vein, where are the other ten men I need to bring my platoon up to full strength?
But I could fill a book with complaints. It wouldn’t do anything to fix the problems. This is not an ideal world (I doubt the Army would even be necessary if it were), so I’ve been learning to accept “complications” with grace. In the meantime, between disappointments, we’ve been training the men in MOUT (Military Operations in Urban Terrain) procedures, giving classes on the rules of engagement and proper escalation of force, conducting medical training, and going for night movements with our Night Vision Goggles (NVGs, or NODs, as the Army has at least a dozen different names and acronyms for everything). One man (we’ll call him Demure, a play on his name and a generally accurate description of his gentility and shyness) did suffer a minor back injury during one of these events. He’s been out of training for a couple of days, but with any luck, he’ll be back with us shortly. Just proof to my old suspicion that the best training is the most dangerous. We were conducting a NODs movement—running with the goggles on, which reduces depth perception as the cost of providing vision—over a series of dirt berms. This teaches you confidence in your equipment while forcing you to adjust your gait, as that discolored piece of green (it’s all green in one way or the other in those things) is not just a change in soil but a big rock (so step lively). I myself enjoyed an epic face-plant at one point, going head first and completely without dignity into a nice soft piece of earth, but my embarrassment was tempered by the fact that everyone was dropping like cement bags everywhere. PVT Demure did not suffer as well on his fall (or, in that case, did he suffer better? Talk amongst yourselves). We’re awaiting X-ray results, but at least he’s back up on his feet and moving well. My real admiration goes out to the guys who completed the movement with the old PVS-7 series goggles. I use a 14 series set, which goes over one eye and leaves the other free—albeit in the dark—for depth perception and sudden flashes of exterior light. The 7s are a bizarre Cyclopean contraption that cover both eyes but leave only one green monocle on the other side. This completely destroys any hope at seeing in depth. I used to comment, during my training with them, that I could clearly see every tree I hit on the trail.
So the men are, all in all, doing well. The proximity of our imminent departure to Mosul is forcing a sense of seriousness and urgency into men who were too lackadaisical before. Additionally, some changes in our junior leadership and their ensuing demonstration of their skills at leading (usually a dichotomous vacillation of instilling confidence or terror in their men) have contributed to an ambience of unpleasant reality. We’re going to war, and it’s sinking in. People who were marginal before are showing their use now. SGT Mountain, for instance (so named because he came to us from the 10th Mountain Division and was also, after suffering a serious leg injury in Afghanistan that stopped him from exercising, subsequently—and for our pseudonym, fortuitously—mountainous), has been stepping into his role with vigor. We expect good things from him. Over the past few weeks he’s also dropped a couple of stone in weight and is now approaching the standard. That kind of motivation is valuable. He was adept at leading by instilling confidence before; now he is demonstrating that he can also instill terror when necessary, thus completing the aforementioned prerequisites for team leadership. SGT Skizz (his choice of pseudonym, as it is actually on a nametape on his body armor) is a recent arrival from the headquarters platoon, and he is setting a new standard of excellence for team leadership in our platoon. I hesitate to give glowing reviews to anybody at this point, since we have so many things ahead of us, but as of now I’m impressed with his performance. I speculate that part of the recent improvement in our other team leaders can be attributed by a desire on their part not to be eclipsed by our new addition. Regardless of the causes, I’m pleased with the results.
What I am NOT pleased with is the communications equipment on Camp Buehring. The internet NEVER works, and the phones are constantly on the fritz. Coupled with these obstacles is the eight hour time difference between Hope and myself, and the added burden that most of the hours I can talk to her are spent in training or getting my four hours or so of sleep a night (might be the jet lag, here, but I’m actually not all that tired about it). Subsequently I’ve only managed to call her twice. I’ve wandered the camp on my free time, urgently seeking a way of calling her, and am frequently frustrated in my efforts. It may actually be driving me a bit crazy. Honey, I’ll at least be able to send you an e-mail when I get on and post this. I’ll try to call, but only certain computers here have partially reliable internet, and none of them allow me to Skype. Until then, I’m sorry. I’m trying. I love you. Additional apologies to my family, who I haven’t been able to contact yet. This update will include an e-mail for you, too.
The rest of my days are spent reviewing intel of our Area of Operations, or AO, a nebulous blob that seems to change a few times a day. War is an extension of politics (thank you, Clausewitz), so our plans are about as fluid as the political situation. Situations. Two countries, here. Both the USA and Iraq have something to say about the way the counterinsurgency is going, and both like to change things up. Anyway, I still don’t know exactly what neighborhoods we’ll be tasked to manage. So I’m reviewing the whole sector. And the sector is not pretty. Not by a long shot. The unit we’re replacing is averaging 10 significant actions (sigacts) a day. A SigAct can be anything from small arms fire to an IED, a weapons cache found, or Al Qaeda in Iraq (AQI) executing people in the streets in order to spread terror.
Most insurgencies are bolstered by support of the local populace. AQI is not. They have lost all political capital in Iraq through a continued campaign of terror and threats. These are Sunni foreign fighters coming from a country I cannot disclose here (not Turkey), and they finance themselves through kidnapping and extortion. They take most of your money, threaten your life, kill a family member or two, and then try to close the circle by offering a little of the money back every time you turn in someone who cooperated with Coalition Forces. These people are true, shameless, Mafia style scum. Actually, I’d like to apologize to the Mafia for the comparison. The Mafia never threatened to execute any woman going to Mosul University who does not adhere to strict Islamic dress. Even if the woman is Christian, of which Mosul has a small population. Nor does the Mafia publicly butcher barbers because their trade is an offense against God. Their twisted interpretation of the Koran and forced propagation of Sharia law—not as most Muslims would know it, but a xenophobic, technophobic, gynophobic abomination before the progress of the last millennium—must not only be stopped, it must be eliminated.
I hesitate to call any man Evil. Good and Evil are values inherent in every action, but no man can be consumed entirely by one or the other. My religion tells me that only one man in history was purely Good, and I’m pretty sure we deified him. No, people are complex beings capable of complex actions. Each of our actions, no matter how evil they may be, can be rationalized in our minds as a contribution to a final good. This applies to me as well; killing a member of AQI is a small evil for a greater good, as I see it. These people have a vision of the future—which looks shockingly like the medieval past, romanticized—and they are trying to create a brave new world in its image. A Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Crusaders attempted the same, alongside Bolsheviks, Nazis, various churches, and yes, even us. We are ourselves in the process of making a brave new world. Are we evil? No. Are they evil? No. They are simply wrong. Very, very, very wrong. And sometimes, for the sake of human progress, we must expunge what is irreconcilably wrong. Their vision is of a world inspired by hate and controlled by fear. Their justice is unbridled mob violence fueled by paranoia and xenophobia. The new is a threat; paradise existed on Earth once, and for every day since then we have been drifting into the abyss. In my own cursory studies of history I have yet to encounter this paradise, but they seem quite convinced of it. Well, what we represent is new. What we are doing in Iraq is new. And now that the people of Iraq have tasted the fruit of the Tree of Western Knowledge, they’ve started acquiring a taste for it. This frustrates AQI to no end.
But they still aren’t evil people. They’re people driven by a delusion of a romanticized myth, doing evil acts. And in some respects, even their public justifications may only be a ploy. There is more at work here than misguided fanatical fervor. Mosul is going to be a battleground long after we leave; political machinations are bringing these fighters here. There are governments that can construe more benefit from their actions than just the propagation of Sharia. And Mosul, being situated almost evenly between the self-proclaimed champion governments of Sunni and Shiite Islam (still can’t say the names), is a prize for whoever can exert the most control over it. So, as you can imagine, another unnamed government is supporting their opposite insurgent number, the Islamic Army of Iraq. Their tactics are less brutal (though still heinous), and by attempting to co-op the Shia led Iraqi government, they may have more success in the region. These two groups have nothing in common but that they don’t like us, they don’t want the Iraqi government to gain strength or stability, and they both want to own Mosul. I will wait for further and firsthand evidence before making any final decisions on it, but my impression from what I’ve read in these reports is that Mosul is becoming the battleground for a proxy war between two other regional governments/religions that would profit from instability in Iraq. And we, oh lucky we, are right in the middle of their ambitions.
Anyway, between studying, training, and practicing my (very modest) Arabic, my days are pretty full. But I’ve found time to knock out this entry, so I’d better finish it with another attempt to upload it to the journal and find a way of contacting Hope. So, good luck to you all, and have a Merry Christmas. Celebrate for Blue Platoon, too... surprisingly enough, they don’t really celebrate it here.
Red saw his first camel yesterday. We’re still trying to find where he dropped his jaw. There are actual, literal HERDS of camels here. All over the place. I guess I should have figured, but I had convinced myself that this sort of thing was just romanticized beyond reality. They don’t actually have swarms of camels on everything, right? Wrong. They totally do. We were all out on the firing range zeroing our weapons in a place where roaming Bedouins are an actual safety concern (we have to keep reminding them not to ride around or set up camp in the middle of our firing lanes), and sure enough, we soon found ourselves completely surrounded, enveloped, and cut off by a fortunately benign forest of curious humps. There was a flurry of activity followed by communal browbeating and self-flagellation as we realized that none of us had brought a camera. That would have been an awesome Christmas card to send home. Oh, well.
The training goes well, given the short notice we’re working with. We’ve had a few frustrating experiences where we get everybody up and into their gear, trudge over to a range or simulator, and find that nobody actually allocated us ammo or sim time. My initial response is to demand the heads of the morons responsible, but after a little time I remind myself that those guys in headquarters are currently buried in bureaucracy and paperwork trying to sort out where all of our equipment is, where it’s going, how it’s getting there and when, and why the Brits, Aussies, Pakistanis, Kuwaitis, and Iraqis here have trouble understanding our plans or instructions. The yelling my company makes about our training resources is probably a miniscule drone in the background of the S3 shop, and what frustrates us beyond belief is most likely just a minor annoyance to them—if they register it at all. Still, the infantry pride in me occasionally fights to take over the more rational and understanding aspect of my personality and remind these people that, if our base is overrun because my men were never allocated the appropriate training or even ammunition, the fault lies with them. Fighters should have priority in a war. And in that vein, where are the other ten men I need to bring my platoon up to full strength?
But I could fill a book with complaints. It wouldn’t do anything to fix the problems. This is not an ideal world (I doubt the Army would even be necessary if it were), so I’ve been learning to accept “complications” with grace. In the meantime, between disappointments, we’ve been training the men in MOUT (Military Operations in Urban Terrain) procedures, giving classes on the rules of engagement and proper escalation of force, conducting medical training, and going for night movements with our Night Vision Goggles (NVGs, or NODs, as the Army has at least a dozen different names and acronyms for everything). One man (we’ll call him Demure, a play on his name and a generally accurate description of his gentility and shyness) did suffer a minor back injury during one of these events. He’s been out of training for a couple of days, but with any luck, he’ll be back with us shortly. Just proof to my old suspicion that the best training is the most dangerous. We were conducting a NODs movement—running with the goggles on, which reduces depth perception as the cost of providing vision—over a series of dirt berms. This teaches you confidence in your equipment while forcing you to adjust your gait, as that discolored piece of green (it’s all green in one way or the other in those things) is not just a change in soil but a big rock (so step lively). I myself enjoyed an epic face-plant at one point, going head first and completely without dignity into a nice soft piece of earth, but my embarrassment was tempered by the fact that everyone was dropping like cement bags everywhere. PVT Demure did not suffer as well on his fall (or, in that case, did he suffer better? Talk amongst yourselves). We’re awaiting X-ray results, but at least he’s back up on his feet and moving well. My real admiration goes out to the guys who completed the movement with the old PVS-7 series goggles. I use a 14 series set, which goes over one eye and leaves the other free—albeit in the dark—for depth perception and sudden flashes of exterior light. The 7s are a bizarre Cyclopean contraption that cover both eyes but leave only one green monocle on the other side. This completely destroys any hope at seeing in depth. I used to comment, during my training with them, that I could clearly see every tree I hit on the trail.
So the men are, all in all, doing well. The proximity of our imminent departure to Mosul is forcing a sense of seriousness and urgency into men who were too lackadaisical before. Additionally, some changes in our junior leadership and their ensuing demonstration of their skills at leading (usually a dichotomous vacillation of instilling confidence or terror in their men) have contributed to an ambience of unpleasant reality. We’re going to war, and it’s sinking in. People who were marginal before are showing their use now. SGT Mountain, for instance (so named because he came to us from the 10th Mountain Division and was also, after suffering a serious leg injury in Afghanistan that stopped him from exercising, subsequently—and for our pseudonym, fortuitously—mountainous), has been stepping into his role with vigor. We expect good things from him. Over the past few weeks he’s also dropped a couple of stone in weight and is now approaching the standard. That kind of motivation is valuable. He was adept at leading by instilling confidence before; now he is demonstrating that he can also instill terror when necessary, thus completing the aforementioned prerequisites for team leadership. SGT Skizz (his choice of pseudonym, as it is actually on a nametape on his body armor) is a recent arrival from the headquarters platoon, and he is setting a new standard of excellence for team leadership in our platoon. I hesitate to give glowing reviews to anybody at this point, since we have so many things ahead of us, but as of now I’m impressed with his performance. I speculate that part of the recent improvement in our other team leaders can be attributed by a desire on their part not to be eclipsed by our new addition. Regardless of the causes, I’m pleased with the results.
What I am NOT pleased with is the communications equipment on Camp Buehring. The internet NEVER works, and the phones are constantly on the fritz. Coupled with these obstacles is the eight hour time difference between Hope and myself, and the added burden that most of the hours I can talk to her are spent in training or getting my four hours or so of sleep a night (might be the jet lag, here, but I’m actually not all that tired about it). Subsequently I’ve only managed to call her twice. I’ve wandered the camp on my free time, urgently seeking a way of calling her, and am frequently frustrated in my efforts. It may actually be driving me a bit crazy. Honey, I’ll at least be able to send you an e-mail when I get on and post this. I’ll try to call, but only certain computers here have partially reliable internet, and none of them allow me to Skype. Until then, I’m sorry. I’m trying. I love you. Additional apologies to my family, who I haven’t been able to contact yet. This update will include an e-mail for you, too.
The rest of my days are spent reviewing intel of our Area of Operations, or AO, a nebulous blob that seems to change a few times a day. War is an extension of politics (thank you, Clausewitz), so our plans are about as fluid as the political situation. Situations. Two countries, here. Both the USA and Iraq have something to say about the way the counterinsurgency is going, and both like to change things up. Anyway, I still don’t know exactly what neighborhoods we’ll be tasked to manage. So I’m reviewing the whole sector. And the sector is not pretty. Not by a long shot. The unit we’re replacing is averaging 10 significant actions (sigacts) a day. A SigAct can be anything from small arms fire to an IED, a weapons cache found, or Al Qaeda in Iraq (AQI) executing people in the streets in order to spread terror.
Most insurgencies are bolstered by support of the local populace. AQI is not. They have lost all political capital in Iraq through a continued campaign of terror and threats. These are Sunni foreign fighters coming from a country I cannot disclose here (not Turkey), and they finance themselves through kidnapping and extortion. They take most of your money, threaten your life, kill a family member or two, and then try to close the circle by offering a little of the money back every time you turn in someone who cooperated with Coalition Forces. These people are true, shameless, Mafia style scum. Actually, I’d like to apologize to the Mafia for the comparison. The Mafia never threatened to execute any woman going to Mosul University who does not adhere to strict Islamic dress. Even if the woman is Christian, of which Mosul has a small population. Nor does the Mafia publicly butcher barbers because their trade is an offense against God. Their twisted interpretation of the Koran and forced propagation of Sharia law—not as most Muslims would know it, but a xenophobic, technophobic, gynophobic abomination before the progress of the last millennium—must not only be stopped, it must be eliminated.
I hesitate to call any man Evil. Good and Evil are values inherent in every action, but no man can be consumed entirely by one or the other. My religion tells me that only one man in history was purely Good, and I’m pretty sure we deified him. No, people are complex beings capable of complex actions. Each of our actions, no matter how evil they may be, can be rationalized in our minds as a contribution to a final good. This applies to me as well; killing a member of AQI is a small evil for a greater good, as I see it. These people have a vision of the future—which looks shockingly like the medieval past, romanticized—and they are trying to create a brave new world in its image. A Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Crusaders attempted the same, alongside Bolsheviks, Nazis, various churches, and yes, even us. We are ourselves in the process of making a brave new world. Are we evil? No. Are they evil? No. They are simply wrong. Very, very, very wrong. And sometimes, for the sake of human progress, we must expunge what is irreconcilably wrong. Their vision is of a world inspired by hate and controlled by fear. Their justice is unbridled mob violence fueled by paranoia and xenophobia. The new is a threat; paradise existed on Earth once, and for every day since then we have been drifting into the abyss. In my own cursory studies of history I have yet to encounter this paradise, but they seem quite convinced of it. Well, what we represent is new. What we are doing in Iraq is new. And now that the people of Iraq have tasted the fruit of the Tree of Western Knowledge, they’ve started acquiring a taste for it. This frustrates AQI to no end.
But they still aren’t evil people. They’re people driven by a delusion of a romanticized myth, doing evil acts. And in some respects, even their public justifications may only be a ploy. There is more at work here than misguided fanatical fervor. Mosul is going to be a battleground long after we leave; political machinations are bringing these fighters here. There are governments that can construe more benefit from their actions than just the propagation of Sharia. And Mosul, being situated almost evenly between the self-proclaimed champion governments of Sunni and Shiite Islam (still can’t say the names), is a prize for whoever can exert the most control over it. So, as you can imagine, another unnamed government is supporting their opposite insurgent number, the Islamic Army of Iraq. Their tactics are less brutal (though still heinous), and by attempting to co-op the Shia led Iraqi government, they may have more success in the region. These two groups have nothing in common but that they don’t like us, they don’t want the Iraqi government to gain strength or stability, and they both want to own Mosul. I will wait for further and firsthand evidence before making any final decisions on it, but my impression from what I’ve read in these reports is that Mosul is becoming the battleground for a proxy war between two other regional governments/religions that would profit from instability in Iraq. And we, oh lucky we, are right in the middle of their ambitions.
Anyway, between studying, training, and practicing my (very modest) Arabic, my days are pretty full. But I’ve found time to knock out this entry, so I’d better finish it with another attempt to upload it to the journal and find a way of contacting Hope. So, good luck to you all, and have a Merry Christmas. Celebrate for Blue Platoon, too... surprisingly enough, they don’t really celebrate it here.
Arriving in Kuwait
KUWAIT 16DEC08
Blue Platoon gathered in the company area at 2300 on Friday evening, 12DEC08, surrounded by our families and friends. We had spent two weeks on pre-deployment leave with them, and then had a few half-days of work while we completed our final preparations—enjoying the other half of those days with our loved ones—but this precious time together was marked by a sense of urgency and tension. I may have finished my leave even more reluctant to leave my wife than if we had just flown out without those weeks. There isn’t much you can say when the two of you are looking down the tunnel at a year of absence. The time is so great that it is ridiculous to contemplate; a vague, abstract concept. Not real. Especially as we already expect this tour to be extended, and possibly by another six months. There is no light at the other end of that tunnel.
Hope and I spent the final day clearing out the apartment, moving what we had into storage or into her car for her use during the year at school, and finally settling in for a last evening together in a hotel by the base. We didn’t let go of each other for the better part of six hours. But as 2200 rolled closer we came to terms with the deployment. Putting my uniform on had a profound sense of finality that evening. For those of you who know Hope, you’d know that only a complete idiot would ever want to leave her for a year. We are so ridiculously happy together that we actually make people nauseous around us. We’re one of those couples that are bound to inspire nostalgia among the old and serious jealousy around the single. Still, as cliché as it sounds, some problems are bigger than our lives, and what we might want for ourselves is miniscule compared to what we as a people want for the world. So the boots were laced, the duffel bags were packed, and we drove to base.
The entire platoon, to their credit, was present for deployment. No attempts at desertion, no straggling, no evasion. Even the one soldier who went to jail that night for excessive speeding, who could have drawn out the legal proceedings and missed months of the deployment without raising an eyebrow, quickly settled his affairs and made formation an hour before the flight. Blue Platoon is ready to roll. We drew our weapons from the arms room, completed the flight manifest, and Hope and I even managed to work in a game of Scrabble before we had to move the proceedings to the gym. She (narrowly) won, thus breaking a recent winning streak of mine. Hopefully not an omen.
The entire battalion convened inside the gym for an hour, a final chance to say goodbye to our families, and Hope and I barely restrained ourselves from making a scene. Not that it would have mattered, of course; the entire place was replete with the sound of crying. It was gratifying to see how many of the families of my men had come to see their soldiers off. But what struck me was how many of them just gathered among their battle buddies, alone and without family support, and patiently waited through that hour. The stereotypes about Army life, and the people who choose it, are occasionally and tragically correct. A lot of these guys—very good men, who deserve better—have nobody. Some are estranged from their families, some have focused their entire lives around the military, and some are just alone. They’re shipping out for very different reasons than I am, typically. The Army is a chance for them to break free from home, or from a cycle of poverty, or to give them opportunities for education and jobs that otherwise wouldn’t have presented themselves. It never ceases to amaze me how so many different people of radically diverse backgrounds and rationales are gathered for a common cause. When we get into country proper, though, I would deeply appreciate any gestures made on behalf of those men. Even cards addressed to “Dear Soldier” have an effect. It reminds them that people at home are still thinking of them, even as the war starts to wind down and take the backburner as the Afghanistan campaign receives the attention that it so desperately needs.
The flight out was, as if the Almighty was enjoying a moment of dark humor, delayed. So after I had kissed Hope goodbye and sent her back to the hotel for much needed sleep, Blue Platoon spent the better part of that day in the terminal waiting to depart. When we finally did get the wheels up, that evening, we had already been awake for something on two days. So the sleep on the plane was pretty good. And in the true Army form of treating soldiers in garrison with a sort of detached neglect but lavishing resources on those deployed, the food was good and plentiful. We even managed to spend a few hours on layover in an airport in Ireland—the first time some of these men had ever been abroad. We actually had to take one soldier’s credit cards from him since, in his excitement, he couldn’t stop buying trinkets and souvenirs. Red, as we’ll call him here (he once wrote on an Army form that the two languages spoken in his home were English and Redneck), had to be reminded that he would soon have to physically carry all of his possessions around the country, and infantrymen are already loaded to capacity. But there wasn’t an Irishman in the entire terminal who didn’t have a picture taken with him. “My God, sir,” he observed with a delighted fascination, “they look just like us!” We’ll give his cards back eventually. Maybe.
Finally, on Monday morning 15DEC08, we landed in Kuwait. From the airport in Kuwait City we took buses (with armed escort) to Camp Buehring, where I’m writing my first deployment entry. We’ll be spending a few weeks here conducting final training and preparation. Weapons will be zeroed, night vision and other equipment tested, and additional armor installed. It is COLD. Not Minnesota cold, but a kind of dry, windy cold that only the desert can accomplish. We grabbed our gear and struggled into our tent (more like a building at this point, as it has a floor and heat), and finally got to drop that weight. I probably weighed well over 450 lbs with all of that stuff on, and I imagine the smaller guys physically comprised of maybe a third of their total weight, so the relief was palpable and sincere.
So, we’re here. Not really in deployment yet, but the days are already ticking down. Kuwait is just the last waypoint on a journey that started when I took the platoon six months ago... or maybe the next to last stop on a two year epic beginning when I decided to join This Man’s Army. I had grown tired of academia and politics and wanted to get my hands dirty (sandy?) doing something where I knew people were needed. Well, there’s plenty of work to do here, and much more up north. And on that point, I’d better stop typing and catch some rack time so we can get back to it. My love to Hope and my family. We’re all safe and sound.
Blue Platoon gathered in the company area at 2300 on Friday evening, 12DEC08, surrounded by our families and friends. We had spent two weeks on pre-deployment leave with them, and then had a few half-days of work while we completed our final preparations—enjoying the other half of those days with our loved ones—but this precious time together was marked by a sense of urgency and tension. I may have finished my leave even more reluctant to leave my wife than if we had just flown out without those weeks. There isn’t much you can say when the two of you are looking down the tunnel at a year of absence. The time is so great that it is ridiculous to contemplate; a vague, abstract concept. Not real. Especially as we already expect this tour to be extended, and possibly by another six months. There is no light at the other end of that tunnel.
Hope and I spent the final day clearing out the apartment, moving what we had into storage or into her car for her use during the year at school, and finally settling in for a last evening together in a hotel by the base. We didn’t let go of each other for the better part of six hours. But as 2200 rolled closer we came to terms with the deployment. Putting my uniform on had a profound sense of finality that evening. For those of you who know Hope, you’d know that only a complete idiot would ever want to leave her for a year. We are so ridiculously happy together that we actually make people nauseous around us. We’re one of those couples that are bound to inspire nostalgia among the old and serious jealousy around the single. Still, as cliché as it sounds, some problems are bigger than our lives, and what we might want for ourselves is miniscule compared to what we as a people want for the world. So the boots were laced, the duffel bags were packed, and we drove to base.
The entire platoon, to their credit, was present for deployment. No attempts at desertion, no straggling, no evasion. Even the one soldier who went to jail that night for excessive speeding, who could have drawn out the legal proceedings and missed months of the deployment without raising an eyebrow, quickly settled his affairs and made formation an hour before the flight. Blue Platoon is ready to roll. We drew our weapons from the arms room, completed the flight manifest, and Hope and I even managed to work in a game of Scrabble before we had to move the proceedings to the gym. She (narrowly) won, thus breaking a recent winning streak of mine. Hopefully not an omen.
The entire battalion convened inside the gym for an hour, a final chance to say goodbye to our families, and Hope and I barely restrained ourselves from making a scene. Not that it would have mattered, of course; the entire place was replete with the sound of crying. It was gratifying to see how many of the families of my men had come to see their soldiers off. But what struck me was how many of them just gathered among their battle buddies, alone and without family support, and patiently waited through that hour. The stereotypes about Army life, and the people who choose it, are occasionally and tragically correct. A lot of these guys—very good men, who deserve better—have nobody. Some are estranged from their families, some have focused their entire lives around the military, and some are just alone. They’re shipping out for very different reasons than I am, typically. The Army is a chance for them to break free from home, or from a cycle of poverty, or to give them opportunities for education and jobs that otherwise wouldn’t have presented themselves. It never ceases to amaze me how so many different people of radically diverse backgrounds and rationales are gathered for a common cause. When we get into country proper, though, I would deeply appreciate any gestures made on behalf of those men. Even cards addressed to “Dear Soldier” have an effect. It reminds them that people at home are still thinking of them, even as the war starts to wind down and take the backburner as the Afghanistan campaign receives the attention that it so desperately needs.
The flight out was, as if the Almighty was enjoying a moment of dark humor, delayed. So after I had kissed Hope goodbye and sent her back to the hotel for much needed sleep, Blue Platoon spent the better part of that day in the terminal waiting to depart. When we finally did get the wheels up, that evening, we had already been awake for something on two days. So the sleep on the plane was pretty good. And in the true Army form of treating soldiers in garrison with a sort of detached neglect but lavishing resources on those deployed, the food was good and plentiful. We even managed to spend a few hours on layover in an airport in Ireland—the first time some of these men had ever been abroad. We actually had to take one soldier’s credit cards from him since, in his excitement, he couldn’t stop buying trinkets and souvenirs. Red, as we’ll call him here (he once wrote on an Army form that the two languages spoken in his home were English and Redneck), had to be reminded that he would soon have to physically carry all of his possessions around the country, and infantrymen are already loaded to capacity. But there wasn’t an Irishman in the entire terminal who didn’t have a picture taken with him. “My God, sir,” he observed with a delighted fascination, “they look just like us!” We’ll give his cards back eventually. Maybe.
Finally, on Monday morning 15DEC08, we landed in Kuwait. From the airport in Kuwait City we took buses (with armed escort) to Camp Buehring, where I’m writing my first deployment entry. We’ll be spending a few weeks here conducting final training and preparation. Weapons will be zeroed, night vision and other equipment tested, and additional armor installed. It is COLD. Not Minnesota cold, but a kind of dry, windy cold that only the desert can accomplish. We grabbed our gear and struggled into our tent (more like a building at this point, as it has a floor and heat), and finally got to drop that weight. I probably weighed well over 450 lbs with all of that stuff on, and I imagine the smaller guys physically comprised of maybe a third of their total weight, so the relief was palpable and sincere.
So, we’re here. Not really in deployment yet, but the days are already ticking down. Kuwait is just the last waypoint on a journey that started when I took the platoon six months ago... or maybe the next to last stop on a two year epic beginning when I decided to join This Man’s Army. I had grown tired of academia and politics and wanted to get my hands dirty (sandy?) doing something where I knew people were needed. Well, there’s plenty of work to do here, and much more up north. And on that point, I’d better stop typing and catch some rack time so we can get back to it. My love to Hope and my family. We’re all safe and sound.
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