Almost three weeks have passed since I returned from Iraq and I still haven't finished telling the tale of my trip back. As you can imagine, catching up on being away for two months, not to mention changing jobs and careers, has taken up what would other be prime blogging time. Even as bloggable material has never been better.
Ah well, when I started this thing I promised myself that I would not let it make me feel guilty about not writing. My other writing tasks (professional work, op-eds, a book proposal, etc.) already do enough of that and I don't want this to become another concern in the back of my mind. Nevertheless, when I have something to say in this space, I'll say it.
So, about the trip home... Kuwait is basically worse than Iraq if you don't count the security risk. It's a few degrees hotter, a few grains sandier, and just generally more austere. My billet was the upper bunk -- with no sheets -- of a super-air-conditioned tent that sleeps 16. There are hundreds of these tents sprawling across the desert at Ali Al Salem Airbase. Actually, "sprawl" is the wrong term, because it would not be possible to lay them out in a more orderly grid.
Beside the rows of tents are trailers containing showers and bathrooms, segregated by sex. Behind all the trailers are the MWR facilities (two gyms, a basketball court, a beach volleyball court, two recreation rooms with multiple movie/video game consoles) and outdoor "mall." The latter is pretty impressive, housing not only a McDonald's, KFC, and Green Beans Coffee, but a jewelry store, Middle Eastern bazaar, laundry/dry cleaner, and a couple of other establishments I'm forgetting. All the comforts of home, more or less. Then beside that complex is the DFAC. Standard fare there, just like Baghdad.
After passing out on my bunk (and somehow not freezing to death), I awoke in time to make the 0900 stand-by manifest for the R&R flight. They found me a seat! Which meant I had exactly four hours to PT, eat, re-pack my gear, and show up in the "big tent" to begin the travel process to Atlanta. All this I did, and began reading Randy Barnett's Restoring the Lost Constitution.
The remaining process was drawn-out but fairly painless. Scanning out my CAC card, unpacking and re-packing both my duffels (security check), sitting down to read and watch a movie on the big-screen TV in a "departure lounge," and then making the final formation of my "army career," as the chaplain wished us godspeed and we boarded a series of buses that would take us to Kuwait International Airport (about 75 minutes away).
We boarded a "World Airlines" jet, which seemed to have the same interior design and features as the ATA plane I came in on, and were wheels up in no time. After a brief layover in Leipzig (my first time in the former East Germany), we uneventfully arrived in Atlanta airport.
Showing posts with label army. Show all posts
Showing posts with label army. Show all posts
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Running with the Colonel Redux
This morning at 0530, for the third time now, I did the standard 3-mile loop around the IZ with my boss in the 90-degree pre-dawn heat. For the second time, I completed it without hitting a wall. For the first, I kept up my side of the conversation up to the very end. Now, I can't vouch that the pace of each of the three runs was the same -- though I think it was based on rough glances at my watch -- but I think we're making progress.
Which is good because, apparently, exercise makes you smarter.
Which is good because, apparently, exercise makes you smarter.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Regrets I've Had a Few
I've gotten a bit of flak for my Daily Standard piece, specifically for making it seem that the MNFI (or all Embassy) leaders are living a life of detached luxury while personnel are suffering, sacrificing, and dying in the field.
Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, and I apologize for any such implication. I just meant to convey the surrealism of life in the IZ -- with people dying out there and helicopters flying at all hours while we go back and forth between trailer and office.
People work long hours here: 12-16 hours/day is the norm, on both the military and civilian side. And everyone appreciates the sacrifices of the men in the field, and their families.
I thus apologize for any "friendly fire" my piece may have caused.
Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, and I apologize for any such implication. I just meant to convey the surrealism of life in the IZ -- with people dying out there and helicopters flying at all hours while we go back and forth between trailer and office.
People work long hours here: 12-16 hours/day is the norm, on both the military and civilian side. And everyone appreciates the sacrifices of the men in the field, and their families.
I thus apologize for any "friendly fire" my piece may have caused.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
God Bless the USA
If there's one thing sexier than a woman who orders steak, it's one who handles a heavy automatic weapon.
Marine, I salute you! (Taken on board a Chinook helicopter in flight from Fallujah to Ramadi.)
Tinkering with the Social Engineering
Soon after reading the story on insufficient army recruits, I came upon one describing a study finding that the Army's policy barring the assignment of women to units whose primary mission is combat. The main problem, says the report's lead author, Margaret Harrell of the RAND Corporation, is that "the policies do not anticipate the style of combat experienced in Iraq, where there is no clearly defined battlefield."
I had noticed and wondered about this phenomenon myself, as I observe female soldiers manning posts that are clearly dangerous and requiring the maintenance of weapons in a "red" (loaded, safety off) state.
As of July 21, 76 servicewomen have died in Iraq, including 62 soldiers. I don't know whether this is too high -- if the only acceptable number of combat enemy-fire fatalities is 0 -- or too low. My intuition is that it's just about right. You don't want to see "equality" in casualties (see, e.g., human nature, biology, psychology, etc. -- imagine if half the "flag-draped coffins" the media wails about were our "daughters" rather than our "sons") but if women are allowed to serve at all -- which I believe they should -- it is unavoidable, if they are to get meaningful assignments, that they occasionally be exposed to dangerous situations.
It's a difficult issue, one with which the Defense Department has obviously struggled. I've neither see nor heard anything to suggest the need for a change of policy, other than perhaps operational tinkering around the edge to make unit-assignment rules more clear to commanders.
I had noticed and wondered about this phenomenon myself, as I observe female soldiers manning posts that are clearly dangerous and requiring the maintenance of weapons in a "red" (loaded, safety off) state.
As of July 21, 76 servicewomen have died in Iraq, including 62 soldiers. I don't know whether this is too high -- if the only acceptable number of combat enemy-fire fatalities is 0 -- or too low. My intuition is that it's just about right. You don't want to see "equality" in casualties (see, e.g., human nature, biology, psychology, etc. -- imagine if half the "flag-draped coffins" the media wails about were our "daughters" rather than our "sons") but if women are allowed to serve at all -- which I believe they should -- it is unavoidable, if they are to get meaningful assignments, that they occasionally be exposed to dangerous situations.
It's a difficult issue, one with which the Defense Department has obviously struggled. I've neither see nor heard anything to suggest the need for a change of policy, other than perhaps operational tinkering around the edge to make unit-assignment rules more clear to commanders.
An Army of Very Few
I just saw yet another one of those AP stories about how the army is having a hard time recruiting (though it exceeded its July target) and is increasing its normal staff of 8,000 recruiters by 1-2,000 more people.
The striking thing about this story, which I unfortunately can't find online, is a pie chart showing the percentage of qualified, recruitable youth, age 17-24. It shows the following three "pieces" of pie: 11% of the above demographic is qualified but enrolled in college; 15% is qualified, eligible, and available to be recruited; and a whopping 74% are disqualified (medically or for drug or alcohol abuse, criminal record, dependents, or low aptitude). That is, almost three-quarters of our young people aren't of sound enough mind and body to be a private, seaman, or airman.
This is appalling. Despite the recent lowering of the bar to allow certain ex-cons, high school drop outs, and recovering drug addicts to enlist, 74% of the target population apparently still does not measure up.
Time to create a foreign legion, Congress. Many of the world's youth, healthier in many ways than our own, would literally die for the opportunity to serve this country if it meant being able to live here at the end of their tours.
The striking thing about this story, which I unfortunately can't find online, is a pie chart showing the percentage of qualified, recruitable youth, age 17-24. It shows the following three "pieces" of pie: 11% of the above demographic is qualified but enrolled in college; 15% is qualified, eligible, and available to be recruited; and a whopping 74% are disqualified (medically or for drug or alcohol abuse, criminal record, dependents, or low aptitude). That is, almost three-quarters of our young people aren't of sound enough mind and body to be a private, seaman, or airman.
This is appalling. Despite the recent lowering of the bar to allow certain ex-cons, high school drop outs, and recovering drug addicts to enlist, 74% of the target population apparently still does not measure up.
Time to create a foreign legion, Congress. Many of the world's youth, healthier in many ways than our own, would literally die for the opportunity to serve this country if it meant being able to live here at the end of their tours.
Friday, August 10, 2007
A Facebook User and a Gentleman
As I was doing my PT this morning, I listened to last week's podcast of On The Media, NPR's popular show covering how the "sausage" of journalism is manufactured. (Yes, I listen to certain NPR programming, and also eat sushi, drink lattes, and read the New York Times -- while also supporting the Iraq mission, wanting to cut taxes, eliminate most federal agencies, and bring back the Constitution circa 1937... you got a problem wit dat?)
Anyway, one particular segment caught my attention, a piece on how internet social networking sites reinforce preexisting social divisions rather than create a new world utopia where we all hold hands and sing Kum-ba-ya. To wit, a researcher has determined that sites like MySpace and Facebook self-segregate by class.
MySpace originated in the indie music world of LA, and has continued to be a fannish/high school type of place. Facebook, meanwhile, was created by Harvard students, quickly expanded to the rest of the Ivy League, then to all college students, and of late seemingly anyone (though with certain gatekeepers).
Further, the military has restricted access to MySpace (ostensibly for bandwidth reasons), but not Facebook. The researcher surmises that this policy results from a situation whereby, of the military community that uses these sites, most officers (being college-educated) skew toward Facebook, while enlisted men use MySpace.
So, accepting the above distinction between MySpace and Facebook users (and limiting our discussion to those two sites), there are two things going on here: 1. People choosing to join virtual communities where they can find their peers, and 2. Official policies privileging what is perceived as the higher-class online network.
On the first, well, that's human nature. I don't want to tell people who like and are comfortable with MySpace to switch to Facebook because I personally find MySpace too cluttered and juvenile. Similarly, forcing Facebook users to suddenly switch to Facebook would do nothing but create resentments. As a rough analogy, look at the effects of busing schoolkids in an attempt to remedy racial segregation (leaving aside the issue that the Supreme Court recently decreed such a practice to be unconstitutional).
On the second, I can't imagine that the military instituted its internet policy to discriminate in favor of officers (and then concocted some bandwidth ruse to justify it). Everything I've seen suggests that enlisted men are treated fairly, and are valued as soldiers/sailors/airmen/marines and as citizens. There must be something to the bandwidth issue, but also the type of content available (and pushed) on MySpace may not be in line the military's rules and regulations on conduct befitting servicemembers.
Of course, the question remains: Where does Friendster [or insert another networking site] fit into all this? My intuition is that if you surveyed all of these different sites, you'd find a much richer, more parsimonious way to categorize them than simply by class or education level -- much as the "offline" world can be sliced in a practically infinite number of ways.
Anyway, one particular segment caught my attention, a piece on how internet social networking sites reinforce preexisting social divisions rather than create a new world utopia where we all hold hands and sing Kum-ba-ya. To wit, a researcher has determined that sites like MySpace and Facebook self-segregate by class.
MySpace originated in the indie music world of LA, and has continued to be a fannish/high school type of place. Facebook, meanwhile, was created by Harvard students, quickly expanded to the rest of the Ivy League, then to all college students, and of late seemingly anyone (though with certain gatekeepers).
Further, the military has restricted access to MySpace (ostensibly for bandwidth reasons), but not Facebook. The researcher surmises that this policy results from a situation whereby, of the military community that uses these sites, most officers (being college-educated) skew toward Facebook, while enlisted men use MySpace.
So, accepting the above distinction between MySpace and Facebook users (and limiting our discussion to those two sites), there are two things going on here: 1. People choosing to join virtual communities where they can find their peers, and 2. Official policies privileging what is perceived as the higher-class online network.
On the first, well, that's human nature. I don't want to tell people who like and are comfortable with MySpace to switch to Facebook because I personally find MySpace too cluttered and juvenile. Similarly, forcing Facebook users to suddenly switch to Facebook would do nothing but create resentments. As a rough analogy, look at the effects of busing schoolkids in an attempt to remedy racial segregation (leaving aside the issue that the Supreme Court recently decreed such a practice to be unconstitutional).
On the second, I can't imagine that the military instituted its internet policy to discriminate in favor of officers (and then concocted some bandwidth ruse to justify it). Everything I've seen suggests that enlisted men are treated fairly, and are valued as soldiers/sailors/airmen/marines and as citizens. There must be something to the bandwidth issue, but also the type of content available (and pushed) on MySpace may not be in line the military's rules and regulations on conduct befitting servicemembers.
Of course, the question remains: Where does Friendster [or insert another networking site] fit into all this? My intuition is that if you surveyed all of these different sites, you'd find a much richer, more parsimonious way to categorize them than simply by class or education level -- much as the "offline" world can be sliced in a practically infinite number of ways.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Running with the Colonel
This morning I awoke at 0515 to meet my boss for a nice little run before it got too hot outside. Of course it was already 85-90 degrees, with the air as heavy as it always is here, but never mind.
We exited the embassy compound proper and began running along the concrete barricades in the pre-dawn light. The talk turned to swimming and tennis, as the Colonel tried to feel out my athletic background, to see how much he could really push me on this 3-miler. (He had completed four marathons in his day, with a best time of 2:44 no less -- and I had been warned not to let him bet me money on a footrace.)
Then, naturally, we broached Cobra II -- which I posted about earlier this week -- and the latest book I've been reading, Niall Ferguson's Colossus. By the time we finished all that, dawn had broken in its full splendor, so we could see all the stray dogs and hand-painted "Villa for Rent" signs on the side of the road. (A villa in the IZ... yeah, "snookums how about we start summering on the Tigris; it's the Marbella of the Middle East, you know... " -- not so much.)
Toward the end of our run, long after we passed the "Victory Over Iran" monument, my energy began to flag. Not so much my energy as, seemingly, my lung capacity. My legs still felt fresh -- was ready for the finishing kick -- but the ol' respiratory system was feeling it. And of course the Colonel was psyching me out with all his, "just past the arch," "just around the corner," "only about 200m after the light."
So I shut it down early and made it to the gym about half an hour after we set out, just in time to put in some push-ups, shoulder presses, and bicep curls before hitting the showers, breakfast, and continuing to do more before 9am than most people do in a day.
We exited the embassy compound proper and began running along the concrete barricades in the pre-dawn light. The talk turned to swimming and tennis, as the Colonel tried to feel out my athletic background, to see how much he could really push me on this 3-miler. (He had completed four marathons in his day, with a best time of 2:44 no less -- and I had been warned not to let him bet me money on a footrace.)
Then, naturally, we broached Cobra II -- which I posted about earlier this week -- and the latest book I've been reading, Niall Ferguson's Colossus. By the time we finished all that, dawn had broken in its full splendor, so we could see all the stray dogs and hand-painted "Villa for Rent" signs on the side of the road. (A villa in the IZ... yeah, "snookums how about we start summering on the Tigris; it's the Marbella of the Middle East, you know... " -- not so much.)
Toward the end of our run, long after we passed the "Victory Over Iran" monument, my energy began to flag. Not so much my energy as, seemingly, my lung capacity. My legs still felt fresh -- was ready for the finishing kick -- but the ol' respiratory system was feeling it. And of course the Colonel was psyching me out with all his, "just past the arch," "just around the corner," "only about 200m after the light."
So I shut it down early and made it to the gym about half an hour after we set out, just in time to put in some push-ups, shoulder presses, and bicep curls before hitting the showers, breakfast, and continuing to do more before 9am than most people do in a day.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Steak & Lobster Night
Today it was steak and lobster night at our dining hall. Nobody announced it, there was no anticipatory murmuring among the hoi polloi, and even when we learned of it people weren't particularly more excited than they normally are at dinner time. This isn't because soldiers and diplomats are snobbish or expect to be served steak and lobster, but because the food here is pretty darn good. (The lobster was a bit dry tonight, but hey, I'm sure that Maine-to-Mesopotamia flight can be rough.)
And I must say generally that military food -- at least that which I've been exposed to at Fort Benning, Camp Sather (the Air Force base by Baghdad Airport) and here -- has been a very pleasant surprise. There's a huge variety of entrees, sides, salad and sandwich items, drinks, and desserts. You can eat as healthy as you want and as much as you want, and everything is always fresh and clean.
The DFAC (Dining Facility something something, aka "mess" "chow hall") here is enormous, and here's how the process works: First you walk across the pathway from the embassy and clear your weapon (if you're carrying one) into a sand-filled barrel. After the Peruvian guard [more on the Latin American contractors working checkpoints in future] checks that you have the proper badge -- I'm telling you, badges are everything here -- you step into air conditioned splendor, wash your hands, and go down one of two "main lines." There, for every meal, you have a choice of three entrees and commensurate sides and fixin's. If the main line isn't doin' it for ya, you can check out the "theme bar" (I've seen Arabic, Chinese, Indian, Louisiana, pasta, potato, and pizza, among others) and get scrumptious chow there. Then you proceed to the salad bar (or you can pick up a slice of cake or pie first) and load up on whatever you want (including at least two types of lettuce, bok choy, and jalapenos). If you still need more food, you can make a detour to the grill -- which offers different items each meal (omelettes for breakfast, sausage 'n' peppers, roast beef, gyro, carved ham, Mongolian stir fry, fajitas, etc.) -- or to the soup station, which features two soups daily. Finally it's time to pick up drinks, which range from various kind of milk and juice boxes (my favorites are the cocktail of nectars and the pink grapefruit) to iced tea (sweet or regular), sodas, several kinds of Gatorade, and, of course, bottled water. Then you go to your seat and chow down.
Unless you want something from the short order grill on the other side of the hall, with the TVs showing sports 24 hours/day. There you can get burgers, dogs, fried fish, chili, grilled cheese or turkey sandwiches, fries, and onion rings. Once a week it's its own separate pasta bar.
After dinner, if you want to make what my JAG buddies call the "walk of shame", dessert ranges from fresh-baked cookies to soft-serve frozen yogurt, Belgian waffles to 10 or 12 kinds of ice cream. Plus the aforementioned cakes, pies, and other baked goodies. And of course many kinds of fresh fruit, including my favorite: kiwi (from New Zealand no less).
Before you go, or before they roll you out of there, be sure to pick up a PowerBar and Gatorade to keep in your hooch. Because you may have to wait as long as three hours before the DFAC opens again for the next meal...
And I must say generally that military food -- at least that which I've been exposed to at Fort Benning, Camp Sather (the Air Force base by Baghdad Airport) and here -- has been a very pleasant surprise. There's a huge variety of entrees, sides, salad and sandwich items, drinks, and desserts. You can eat as healthy as you want and as much as you want, and everything is always fresh and clean.
The DFAC (Dining Facility something something, aka "mess" "chow hall") here is enormous, and here's how the process works: First you walk across the pathway from the embassy and clear your weapon (if you're carrying one) into a sand-filled barrel. After the Peruvian guard [more on the Latin American contractors working checkpoints in future] checks that you have the proper badge -- I'm telling you, badges are everything here -- you step into air conditioned splendor, wash your hands, and go down one of two "main lines." There, for every meal, you have a choice of three entrees and commensurate sides and fixin's. If the main line isn't doin' it for ya, you can check out the "theme bar" (I've seen Arabic, Chinese, Indian, Louisiana, pasta, potato, and pizza, among others) and get scrumptious chow there. Then you proceed to the salad bar (or you can pick up a slice of cake or pie first) and load up on whatever you want (including at least two types of lettuce, bok choy, and jalapenos). If you still need more food, you can make a detour to the grill -- which offers different items each meal (omelettes for breakfast, sausage 'n' peppers, roast beef, gyro, carved ham, Mongolian stir fry, fajitas, etc.) -- or to the soup station, which features two soups daily. Finally it's time to pick up drinks, which range from various kind of milk and juice boxes (my favorites are the cocktail of nectars and the pink grapefruit) to iced tea (sweet or regular), sodas, several kinds of Gatorade, and, of course, bottled water. Then you go to your seat and chow down.
Unless you want something from the short order grill on the other side of the hall, with the TVs showing sports 24 hours/day. There you can get burgers, dogs, fried fish, chili, grilled cheese or turkey sandwiches, fries, and onion rings. Once a week it's its own separate pasta bar.
After dinner, if you want to make what my JAG buddies call the "walk of shame", dessert ranges from fresh-baked cookies to soft-serve frozen yogurt, Belgian waffles to 10 or 12 kinds of ice cream. Plus the aforementioned cakes, pies, and other baked goodies. And of course many kinds of fresh fruit, including my favorite: kiwi (from New Zealand no less).
Before you go, or before they roll you out of there, be sure to pick up a PowerBar and Gatorade to keep in your hooch. Because you may have to wait as long as three hours before the DFAC opens again for the next meal...
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Family Values
I have yet to meet a member of the military my age (30) or older who is not married, and proportionately fewer singles at each age below that than in the civilian population back home. Not for these guys is the extended post-collegiate adolescence increasingly noted by pop sociologists.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Freedom Flight
As promised, a bit of back-fill on how I got to the IZ from Fort Benning:
Last Friday my escort dropped me off at the CRC "pavilion" so I could check my duffels (one duffel of "personnel effects," one of body armor, neither of which was allowed to be over 70 lbs.) and get a green light to deploy. Instead of "hurry up and wait," this was just "wait." I got there at about 1100, when the poor folks who hadn't been treated as VIPs had been there since 0730 for some reason. I waited there in the heat (over 100 degrees plus humidity, making it worse than Baghdad's 120 dry degrees) till about 1730, when we boarded buses for the airfield and what would be known as a "Freedom Flight." (But wouldn't the return be the real Freedom Flight?)
In that time I read two books (ended up finishing five, plus several inches of background legal materials to prepare for my job, in the week since departing for Georgia) and had a decent boxed lunch. Then, as we were boarding said buses, the heavens opened up and unleashed a rainstorm unlike any I've seen in quite some time.
Thus we arrived at the airfield and entered the huge waiting area. First we went through security, which consisted of weighing us and our carry-ons, emptying our pockets, and then a wanding. I couldn't help but chuckle to see all the soldiers in front of me standing with their arms and legs spread getting wanded while holding M-16s in their hands. Suffice it to say, you didn't have to put your shampoo in a ziploc bag. Then the K-9s sniffed through our carry-ons while we had a nice meal of turkey with all the fixin's (Thanksgiving in July?).
We hung out on barcaloungers, watching SportsCenter and Seinfeld re-runs until we were called for out final pre-flight briefing. The chaplain spoke, as did several others, and a warm feeling of togetherness settled over us as we walked onto the tarmac, to the leased commercial jet that would take us to Kuwait via one stop that shall remain nameless. (They use refueling locations at commercial airports and military airfields all over the world.)
After two uneventful legs, we arrived at Kuwait International Airport and again boarded buses, this time to an army base/airfield about an hour away that is a way station for soldiers and civilians deploying to and returning from operations all over southwest Asia. It was HOT -- over 100 degrees in the dead of night -- with klieg lights and flying sand everywhere. Enormous white tents sprung out of the ground, interspersed with concrete barriers.
We got another briefing and filled out one more form, though were told by the man in charge of contractors that we could "forget about all those regulations back in the United States" because we were "headed to the war zone and will be treated like adults." Alrighty then. This adult was met by another escort, this time a JAG captain who brought a manila folder with the picture from my firm bio on it and "Operation Shapiro" written in block letters.
He helped me get my bags -- after all us civilians formed "bucket lines" to unload them from big trucks -- brought me food because the DFAC was closing, and held my hand through the final flight arrangements that needed to be made. I took a shower -- it had now been over 24 hours since I'd left Fort Benning -- changed, and passed the time by watching some weird movie that was showing on the "gate area" big-screen TV. This stage of the trip seemed like a way-station from one of those Star Trek spin-offs; all sorts of familiar but slightly off features, with different species (military, government civilian, contractor, journalist) embarking to and disembarking from far-flung reaches of the galaxy.
Eventually it became just listening for the last four digits of my social security number, shake the JAG captain's hand, and out the door to the blinding white light of Kuwait at 0530.
I inserted my earplugs, boarded the belly of a C-130 (military cargo plane), sat wedged along fellow deployees and across from others (about 80% military), and lifted off yet again. About an hour and half of half-asleepness later, we began circling and eventually landed, somewhere in the desert. This was Baghdad, and it was very very bright and incredibly, broilingly hot.
Last Friday my escort dropped me off at the CRC "pavilion" so I could check my duffels (one duffel of "personnel effects," one of body armor, neither of which was allowed to be over 70 lbs.) and get a green light to deploy. Instead of "hurry up and wait," this was just "wait." I got there at about 1100, when the poor folks who hadn't been treated as VIPs had been there since 0730 for some reason. I waited there in the heat (over 100 degrees plus humidity, making it worse than Baghdad's 120 dry degrees) till about 1730, when we boarded buses for the airfield and what would be known as a "Freedom Flight." (But wouldn't the return be the real Freedom Flight?)
In that time I read two books (ended up finishing five, plus several inches of background legal materials to prepare for my job, in the week since departing for Georgia) and had a decent boxed lunch. Then, as we were boarding said buses, the heavens opened up and unleashed a rainstorm unlike any I've seen in quite some time.
Thus we arrived at the airfield and entered the huge waiting area. First we went through security, which consisted of weighing us and our carry-ons, emptying our pockets, and then a wanding. I couldn't help but chuckle to see all the soldiers in front of me standing with their arms and legs spread getting wanded while holding M-16s in their hands. Suffice it to say, you didn't have to put your shampoo in a ziploc bag. Then the K-9s sniffed through our carry-ons while we had a nice meal of turkey with all the fixin's (Thanksgiving in July?).
We hung out on barcaloungers, watching SportsCenter and Seinfeld re-runs until we were called for out final pre-flight briefing. The chaplain spoke, as did several others, and a warm feeling of togetherness settled over us as we walked onto the tarmac, to the leased commercial jet that would take us to Kuwait via one stop that shall remain nameless. (They use refueling locations at commercial airports and military airfields all over the world.)
After two uneventful legs, we arrived at Kuwait International Airport and again boarded buses, this time to an army base/airfield about an hour away that is a way station for soldiers and civilians deploying to and returning from operations all over southwest Asia. It was HOT -- over 100 degrees in the dead of night -- with klieg lights and flying sand everywhere. Enormous white tents sprung out of the ground, interspersed with concrete barriers.
We got another briefing and filled out one more form, though were told by the man in charge of contractors that we could "forget about all those regulations back in the United States" because we were "headed to the war zone and will be treated like adults." Alrighty then. This adult was met by another escort, this time a JAG captain who brought a manila folder with the picture from my firm bio on it and "Operation Shapiro" written in block letters.
He helped me get my bags -- after all us civilians formed "bucket lines" to unload them from big trucks -- brought me food because the DFAC was closing, and held my hand through the final flight arrangements that needed to be made. I took a shower -- it had now been over 24 hours since I'd left Fort Benning -- changed, and passed the time by watching some weird movie that was showing on the "gate area" big-screen TV. This stage of the trip seemed like a way-station from one of those Star Trek spin-offs; all sorts of familiar but slightly off features, with different species (military, government civilian, contractor, journalist) embarking to and disembarking from far-flung reaches of the galaxy.
Eventually it became just listening for the last four digits of my social security number, shake the JAG captain's hand, and out the door to the blinding white light of Kuwait at 0530.
I inserted my earplugs, boarded the belly of a C-130 (military cargo plane), sat wedged along fellow deployees and across from others (about 80% military), and lifted off yet again. About an hour and half of half-asleepness later, we began circling and eventually landed, somewhere in the desert. This was Baghdad, and it was very very bright and incredibly, broilingly hot.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The Chicken Dance
The last two nights I left the office before 2100, to the lament of a couple of the Aussies working with us because I would miss "the chicken dance." Tonight I stayed to this twitching hour: At precisely 2100, a stereo began playing that chicken dance song (you know the one) while everyone chucked nerf bals and other non-harmful ballistics among and between the cubicles in the ballroom where we're set up. It literally rains cats and dogs (and footballs and rubber chickens). Full-bird colonels -- pardon the pun -- are among the more enthusiastic of participants, encouraging their staffs to "let off some steam." After the three-minute long song ran its course, everybody went back to battle stations.
Granted my experience with the army has not been long, but this has got to be one of its weirdest customs.
Granted my experience with the army has not been long, but this has got to be one of its weirdest customs.
Friday, July 20, 2007
BBQ, Baseball, and Botched Post-War Planning
Last night Fort Benning's Staff Judge Advocate (SJA -- the head JAG) invited me to the annual Chattahoochee (and another Georgia county) Bar Association barbecue, held at and during a minor league baseball game in Columbus, Ga. I was fortunate to have been (electronically) introduced to the SJA by a a partner at my law firm who had previously been the JAG (or TJAG, the head lawyer) of the Army.
Anyhow, I met many of Fort Benning's JAGs and other local lawyers, and spent a wonderful summer evening conversing about today's military, what went right and wrong in Iraq, and how to fix the rule of law there. Most frustrating, of course, is that, as in other aspects of post-war planning, the Pentagon (and the administration generally) simply dropped the ball as to building up and institutionalizing the rule of law. We've righted that ship, but the question remains whether the window of opportunity closed before we did so. I of course would not be going to Baghdad if I thought the situation was hopeless. More on that when I'm in country, but for now I'm savoring my last night in America, complete with homemade peach cobbler and wisecracking bullpen pitchers.
Anyhow, I met many of Fort Benning's JAGs and other local lawyers, and spent a wonderful summer evening conversing about today's military, what went right and wrong in Iraq, and how to fix the rule of law there. Most frustrating, of course, is that, as in other aspects of post-war planning, the Pentagon (and the administration generally) simply dropped the ball as to building up and institutionalizing the rule of law. We've righted that ship, but the question remains whether the window of opportunity closed before we did so. I of course would not be going to Baghdad if I thought the situation was hopeless. More on that when I'm in country, but for now I'm savoring my last night in America, complete with homemade peach cobbler and wisecracking bullpen pitchers.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
First Aid First, Then the Guns
I am exhausted. On top of the previously mentioned side-effects from the shots, I've had to make formation at 0600 and 0530, respectively, and spend a 13-hour and an 11-hour day going through a variety of training sessions, spending about half of this time in the central Georgia heat and humidity. (Unseasonably cool, I'm told, at 90-95.)
Yesterday we went through a series of sessions on first aid (evaluating a casualty, calling for medivac, treating abdominal, chest, and head wounds) and IEDs/unexploded ordnance (including walking through a trail/road set up with trip wires, mines, booby-trapped cars, etc.). Almost all of it was useful -- and, I have to say, taught in an interesting manner -- but at a certain point it just becomes hard to absorb anything. I wonder why they didn't do some of the training Monday-Tuesday, to sop up some of the ridiculous wait times that regular (aka not "distinguished") visitors have to endure.
Today was equally educational but a lot more fun. My body was less achy -- especially the arm that took the tetanus shot --and I got a full night's (more or less) sleep, having collapsed at about 2100 last night. Just in time for gun day: Some contractors (and, of course, all military) had to "qualify" but I was just there to learn what to do if I'm ever in a situation to use a gun. (Of course, if it comes to that, we're in a whole lot of trouble.)
The CRC cadre was nice enough to let me draw an M9 (9mm pistol) and I learned how to operate and maintain it before going to the range to shoot at man-sized targets popping up out of berms in the field. And you know what? I qualified as a marksman! Watch out al Qaeda...
Then we went over to shoot M16s (assault rifles). These guns have automatic ("machine gun") capabilities, but we just shot them as semi-automatic.
I found the M-16 much more difficult -- and the qualification standards are higher. Only six contractors had to qualify but, even though I did better than several of them on the M9, I could not match them now. So I guess I'll stick to handguns.
Yesterday we went through a series of sessions on first aid (evaluating a casualty, calling for medivac, treating abdominal, chest, and head wounds) and IEDs/unexploded ordnance (including walking through a trail/road set up with trip wires, mines, booby-trapped cars, etc.). Almost all of it was useful -- and, I have to say, taught in an interesting manner -- but at a certain point it just becomes hard to absorb anything. I wonder why they didn't do some of the training Monday-Tuesday, to sop up some of the ridiculous wait times that regular (aka not "distinguished") visitors have to endure.
Today was equally educational but a lot more fun. My body was less achy -- especially the arm that took the tetanus shot --and I got a full night's (more or less) sleep, having collapsed at about 2100 last night. Just in time for gun day: Some contractors (and, of course, all military) had to "qualify" but I was just there to learn what to do if I'm ever in a situation to use a gun. (Of course, if it comes to that, we're in a whole lot of trouble.)
The CRC cadre was nice enough to let me draw an M9 (9mm pistol) and I learned how to operate and maintain it before going to the range to shoot at man-sized targets popping up out of berms in the field. And you know what? I qualified as a marksman! Watch out al Qaeda...
Then we went over to shoot M16s (assault rifles). These guns have automatic ("machine gun") capabilities, but we just shot them as semi-automatic.
I found the M-16 much more difficult -- and the qualification standards are higher. Only six contractors had to qualify but, even though I did better than several of them on the M9, I could not match them now. So I guess I'll stick to handguns.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
A Heavily Armored Pin-Cushion
Last night I assembled my body armor (inserting plates, attaching supplemental bits -- nice of them to issue a groin piece) and got name patches for my ACU (all-purpose combat uniform) and hat. Even if I'm not a soldier, I'll sure be able to play the part! Especially after Thursday's weapons training.
Today was less exciting, less involved, but, quite literally, more painful. The lieutenant tasked with holding my hand this week picked me up and took me to the "med shed" for my medical/optical/dental screening. I'm in fine health but nobody told me to bring any medical records to CRC so I had to undergo a full panel of vaccinations: tetanus, typhoid, TB test, MMR, polio, and something else. Plus they drew two vials of blood. (I opted out of smallpox and anthrax, which are especially painful and annoying.) Would there be any side-effects, I asked the doc. You might feel a bit achy, maybe a little feverish, he said, advising that I take Tylenol and Advil over the next 48-72hrs. And take it easy, no PT (not that even a mad dog or limey would go for a run in Georgia between the hours of 1000 and 1900)...
OK, so I guess I'll just hang out at my distinguished quarters, watch some distinguished TV, and take a distinguished nap... which I did, and then went to see the new animated film, Ratatouille, which I highly recommend.
Today was less exciting, less involved, but, quite literally, more painful. The lieutenant tasked with holding my hand this week picked me up and took me to the "med shed" for my medical/optical/dental screening. I'm in fine health but nobody told me to bring any medical records to CRC so I had to undergo a full panel of vaccinations: tetanus, typhoid, TB test, MMR, polio, and something else. Plus they drew two vials of blood. (I opted out of smallpox and anthrax, which are especially painful and annoying.) Would there be any side-effects, I asked the doc. You might feel a bit achy, maybe a little feverish, he said, advising that I take Tylenol and Advil over the next 48-72hrs. And take it easy, no PT (not that even a mad dog or limey would go for a run in Georgia between the hours of 1000 and 1900)...
OK, so I guess I'll just hang out at my distinguished quarters, watch some distinguished TV, and take a distinguished nap... which I did, and then went to see the new animated film, Ratatouille, which I highly recommend.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Distinguished Visitor Quarters
Today, while in the modst of more "hurry up and wait" -- getting our wills in order, seeing the chaplain to pick up the prayer book of your choice, setting up code words for potential hostage situations... you know, the usual -- I was pulled out of line and told that I was a VIP and henceforth would be avoiding such waiting time. So they gave me this red tag, and an escort, and got my military ID (CAC card). It took the personal authorization of an undersecretary of defense to get me said CAC card, but all's well that ends well.
Then I was issued my body armor, which is quite heavy ("the normal [lighter] kevlar stops shrapnel and 9mm rounds, but not machine gun, so we need to give you the [ceramic] inserts" I was told), helmet, and gas mask. Then I was taken to see the company commander, who apologized for not having identified me earlier and promised to transfer me to "distinguished visitor quarters."
And distinguished these quarters are, basically half of a wonderfully furnished house... I guess it's the end of summer camp.
Then I was issued my body armor, which is quite heavy ("the normal [lighter] kevlar stops shrapnel and 9mm rounds, but not machine gun, so we need to give you the [ceramic] inserts" I was told), helmet, and gas mask. Then I was taken to see the company commander, who apologized for not having identified me earlier and promised to transfer me to "distinguished visitor quarters."
And distinguished these quarters are, basically half of a wonderfully furnished house... I guess it's the end of summer camp.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Hurry Up and Wait
I'd come across the expression "hurry up and wait" a few times before, in reading about the military or conversing with buddies who had lived that life. Now I've come to experience it. We are repeatedly told to make "formation" at a certain time (this morning it was 0700), and then have to wait to get called to go form a line somewhere, wait some more there, do some administrative task that takes five minutes, wait somewhere else, etc. This afternoon we were explicitly told that tomorrow would be a "hurry up and wait day" because five doctors -- actually physician's assistants -- have to go through 500 people to medically clear us for transport to various locations (mainly Afghanistan and Iraq). We were also told to bring a book or other source of entertainment. Luckily, I have several inches of background legal-political reading to do ahead of my work in-theater, as well as 6-7 books that I brought along for the ride. I just hope I don't get through what I was expecting to be a two-month supply of reading material in one week...
Oh, and we also had some training on surviving a kidnapping or hostage-taking. Fascinating -- though I wonder whether it wouldn't have been more effective to give us a few lessons of Krav Maga (the mixed martial art developed by the Israeli military).
Oh, and we also had some training on surviving a kidnapping or hostage-taking. Fascinating -- though I wonder whether it wouldn't have been more effective to give us a few lessons of Krav Maga (the mixed martial art developed by the Israeli military).
Saturday, July 14, 2007
What is a Jew?
One of the things we had to do at our CRC registration was fill in a form requesting dogtags. One of the questions therein asked for "religious preference." I figured I shouldn't write "no, thank you," but was stumped beyond that. I mean, I identify as Jewish, but not in the religious sense. So in what sense then? Ethnically? Is Jewish an ethnicity? (What about the Ashkenazi/Sephardi split?) Culturally? -- maybe, but ahead of Jewish culture I'm more attuned to/infused with American, Latin American, Russian, and southern cultures, among others. Maybe just as a part of my identity generally, then, components of which include a certain mentality derived from my parents, a propensity for engaging in the neocon conspiracy to rule the world, etc. Yeah, those are the tickets. But then, why I would I want to self-identify that way on dogtags, tipping off the bad guys that I'm the one they definitely want to behead?
No, for religion I put down "none" -- as directed, actually, for applicants "expressing no religious preference." (But it's not that I don't have a preference, valuing each one equally... oh, whatever.) I just hope the ghost of Thomas Jefferson doesn't scorn me for not being cute and putting "deist."
No, for religion I put down "none" -- as directed, actually, for applicants "expressing no religious preference." (But it's not that I don't have a preference, valuing each one equally... oh, whatever.) I just hope the ghost of Thomas Jefferson doesn't scorn me for not being cute and putting "deist."
First Day of "Boot Camp"
Today I flew down to Atlanta and took a shuttle from the airport to Fort Benning, about an hour and a half away. Here I'm doing training at CRC -- CONUS (Continental US) Replacement Center -- which seems to consist of a variety of administrative tasks, as well as seminars on IEDs ("This is a bomb. Do not drive over it."), first aid, and a bunch of abbreviations with which I'm not yet familiar. The setup is impressive; weekly funneling hundreds of contractors, civilian DoD employees, and active duty military (those who are re-deploying) through all these training modules. Plus coordinating meals, issuing gear (I'll be getting my body armor soon), writing wills and powers of attorney, and a host of other logistical operations.
But it feels like summer camp. When I first got to the base, in a heat and humidity that, unseasonably for these parts, was more than tolerable, they assigned me a room in the barracks. Next I picked up linens, a pillow, and a mattress pad. Then I hauled my one duffel of personal effects, plus my laptop-containing knapsack, to the aforementioned barracks -- a large cabin with rooms housing four people on two bunk-beds! Claiming a top bunk for the first time since college, I threw my gear in the bedside locker and headed out for the initial briefing of my newly assigned group (gang? tribe? platoon?): Bravo Company!
I had arrived.
But it feels like summer camp. When I first got to the base, in a heat and humidity that, unseasonably for these parts, was more than tolerable, they assigned me a room in the barracks. Next I picked up linens, a pillow, and a mattress pad. Then I hauled my one duffel of personal effects, plus my laptop-containing knapsack, to the aforementioned barracks -- a large cabin with rooms housing four people on two bunk-beds! Claiming a top bunk for the first time since college, I threw my gear in the bedside locker and headed out for the initial briefing of my newly assigned group (gang? tribe? platoon?): Bravo Company!
I had arrived.
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