And then the Air Force says, "hold on, there IS a plane!" And there
is much scrambling, and much waiting, and....eventually...
One reaches another place to wait.
But this one has a 24-hour coffee place.
So...our soldier trying to go on leave encountered the great "canceled flight." Poor soldier, filled with rage, is wandering aimlessly around Higher, trying to find another flight, and becoming such a pain in the ass that perhaps Higher will even help find a flight.
I love this job.
OK, so here we are at Big Base, because someone is getting ready to go on mid-tour R&R leave. In the name of operational sercurity, I won't say who, but the individual in question is abso-freakin'-lutely ready to get out of this country for a little bit.
Hooah, cold beer.
Anyway. A couple of you asked for followup to the earlier post about SGT B's trip to get meat. He won, and upon his return, SGT C (who does not eat pork) left the FOB for a few days. So SGT B and I did the only thing we could do - Pork Fest 09!
My Mom (who rocks), had sent some marinade-in-a-packet with hickory flavoring. So we made up a dry rub.
Then, we recalled, some people often roast, simmer or boil their ribs before putting them on the grill. We had only one pan, but sometimes one has to make do.
They got a wee little simmer while I attended a meeting. When I returned, they were ready for the sauce. Then a quick toss onto the grill, and...
Oh, yes. Hooah, ribs.
Roughly two weeks ago, the Bossman put together a little "request for
support" to Higher.
"Could we get," he asked, "some CR123A batteries, some writable CDs,
and perhaps some school supply type of stuff for the kiddies?"
Higher sat quietly, mulling the issue over. Many requests are, of
course, best handled by simply ignoring them. Some requests should be
directly disputed in regards to their scope or format, then
subsequently rejected. But this request...ahh...this request offered
opportunities to Get Rid Of Stuff.
I received an email - "Stand by to received Stuff. Coming on convoy
soon. In box. Marked for you."
The time came for delivery. Said box was coming on a convoy that was
due in, of course, at 0130. Because this is the Army, it was also
raining. SGT B and I stood outside in the mud, arms crossed, scowls
in place, striking the traditional pose of the Cranky NCO.
The convoy rolled in. We spied a white box of the type desscribed.
Most of these boxes are labeled with sheets of paper inside document
protectors, printed with a unit designation in a large font. This
one...well, it had MY last name spraypainted on the back side, over
the course of two lines, and with the skill one would normally expect
to see if the painting had been done by a retarded howler monkey. In
magenta.
[sigh]
We claimed our box, and a very nice private forklifted it over to our
little quadcon, where, since it was at that point 0230 and still
raining, we simply locked it in and left.
Today we sent out our Borrowed Specialist. "Please go look in that
box and try to get an idea of how much of what we got," I instructed.
"I do not want you counting individual crayons - just ballpark it."
The specialist returned.
"So," I enquired, "what do we have? I assume no batteries, CDs, or
anything for us, right?"
"Right, sergeant," he answered. "But we have twelve boxes of coloring
books, 20 books per box."
"That's 240 coloring books," I volunteered, earning me an
I-did-graduate-high-school look from the specialist. "Sorry.
Anything else?"
"Oh yeah. We got six boxes of pencils."
"How many per box?"
"Umm...3,000 pencils per box, sergeant."
I blinked. Did the math. Did it again to make sure I hadn't
misplaced any decimal places. Looked at SGT B and the specialist.
"18,000 pencils?"
"That's a lotta pencils," SGT B pointed out.
"They're sharpened already. But they don't have erasers." The
specialist grinned. "Most are green, but there are some red ones.
Not that the lead is red, but the pencil itself, that's red."
So. The coloring books are not very challenging - I have some crayons
and colored pencils around here somewhere, and such things have a way
of trickling in from various well-meaning groups out there.
But 18,000 pencils? Perhaps I need to put some thought into some sort
of junior engineering program, wherein local children construct
bridges, buildings and water treatment facilities (on a small scale,
of course) out of pencils. I do believe I have a few bottles of
Elmer's Glue...
The Boss is still out of town, so my sergeants are Home Alone With
Abby. As is in keeping with my leadership style, we held a Team
Meeting.
SSG Abby: Okay, guys. We're bingo on meat. I'm thinking of
dispatching one of you on an emergency run to Big Base. What do you
think?
SGT C: I'm about it. I'm living on Ramen noodles and tuna. Walking
over to the DFAC is....[shakes his head mournfully]
SGT B: Meat! Meat meat meat!
SSG Abby: Okay, then. We've got stuff going on this week, but I
think meat is more important than the future of this particular part
if Iraq. Agreed?
SGT C: [laughs, nods]
SGT B: I don't think we're totally tapped any day this week, are we?
SSG Abby: Nope. And I think there's a convoy headed that way soon.
I can cover down on your meeting, you can take mine later in the week.
SGT C just got back from Big Base, and utterly failed to bring meat,
so he's not getting another chance. I hate Higher and don't want to
be on the same base with them, so that's YOU, SGT B.
SGT C: They were OUT of meat, sergeant! I went to the PX twice the
last day I was up there -
And so there were instructions, and briefings, and shopping lists.
SGT B has a cover mission, and strict instructions to avoid Higher
and, if spotted, to feign utter ignorance of the English language.
There were, of course, PCCs and PCIs (precombat checks and precombat
inspections).
SSG Abby: You've got the list? And the giant wad of cash? And a bag?
SGT B: Yep. Look. Only thing in the bag is my night vision.
SSG Abby: Excellent. Godspeed. Be safe out there. Remember -
SGT B: I know - "failure is not an option."
My team consists of a major, a staff sergeant and two buck sergeants.
We have, collectively, nine tours in Irakistan, and about fifty years
of service. We would be entirely useless, however, without our
interpreters.
I shall refer to them by their "terp names," since we do not use their
real names for anything other than pay purposes. We (my team) have
three, two of whom are on the FOB with us at any given time. They are
Tim, Ronoldo and Ali. Two are guys from the local community, and the
other is from Baghdad.
All ours are Arabs. That's a good thing, since several of the groups
here have been assigned Kurdish terps. The Kurdish terps tend to have
decent English, but their Arabic often leaves something to be desired
and, occasionally, the presence of a Kurd is less than helpful.
Ronoldo is a younger guy, working on his paperwork to get a visa to
the US. I would hope that if he is successful, he applies himself to
whatever stateside work he finds with the same diligence he's pursuing
the visa, rather than the diligence he brings to his duties with us.
Because he is one lazy dude. Decent interpreter if you can:
A- Find him
B- Wake him up
C- Get him to admit he's healthy enough to work
Then there's Ali. Ali is a local and a very nice man. However, Ali's
English leaves a bit to be desired. OK – make that a lot to be
desired. OK – to be perfectly honest, let's go ahead and say that Ali
doesn't speak any English at all beyond "OK" and "would you like to
drink chai with me?" The guys hear that second one a lot, which
creeps them out a little.
But the third terp, that one makes up for the other two. Because the
third one is Tim – superterp. Tim is also a local, a respected family
man who has worked as a schoolteacher (of – what else? – English).
Tim has been working for Coalition Forces since shortly after the
invasion. He has visited each and every village, asking about the
status of sewer, water, electricity, academics, trash, medical,
transportation and agriculture (a godawful combination we refer to as
SWEAT-MTA). He has interpreted the negotiations for most of the
projects, successful and failed, in the area. He is, in short, a
lifesaver.
We made it through our first month or so here in typically stupid
fashion, slaving diligently to re-invent the wheel and generally
acting like we were the first US Soldiers to set foot in these little
towns. Until we began to tap into the wisdom of Tim.
"Tim, that contractor seemed like he was up to no good. Do you have
any idea about that?"
"Well, yes, sergeant Abby. His uncle is Sheik Thatguy, on the
council, and makes sure he gets contracts. But he is stupid and
incapable of building things – he has been stupid since he was a small
boy – and his oldest son does most of the site management. That
oldest son is named Amar, and he is over there in the green T-shirt."
And the lights came on and the angels sang.
And now, we are able to reach that rarest of Nirvanas for those of us
working with the populace out here – sometimes, we can figure out what
the Hell is going on.
"Tim, what's up with that group of women who say they live in some
village where there's no water or anything?"
"They are part of a tribe that had a murderer. The murderer killed
someone in the neighbor tribe – all of this happened in the Next Town
Over – and there was…revenge? Another killing? For honor?"
"An honor killing? To set things right?"
"Yes. But of course, that is not all. So the murderer's family had
to leave and now they are all in one neighborhood and there are not
many men. They are pitiful."
"Can we do anything about it?"
"No. Nobody cares to help them. They had a murderer. That is the way it is."
It's especially helpful when he explains "the way it is."
"Tim, there are a lot of farmers here. People are interested in
starting a 4-H program to teach kids better farming techniques. Do
you think that will catch on?"
"No. "
"Why not? Everybody loves 4-H!"
"The people here are already farmers. They do not have money and
seed. They do not need to be taught to farm. The children work on
the farms. That is the way it is."
Sometimes it's not work-related, just interesting.
"Tim, do you take your family on vacations?"
"Sometimes, before 2003. But not often."
"Why not?"
"It is complicated. I have eight children, and to take my family on
vacation, I must first ask my wife's mother."
"Your wife's mother? I don't get it."
"Yes. It is difficult. But it is the way it is."
Often, Tim drops by and hangs out on my porch. We've talked about all
sorts of things, from Saddam's use of chemical weapons to oil
refineries in Israel. I've asked a couple of times what Tim intends
to do when the US leaves Iraq. He's torn, more so than most of the
terps. Of course, he's older, and a family man.
"I do not know, sergeant Abby," he says, lighting another cigarette
and accepting a soda. "I think it might be best to leave here, but
with a family…"he shrugs. "These things are not easy."
Dude, I said to my sergeant as we were cleaning off the table for another cookout. What are you using to wipe that?
Uhh...these wipes, he said, gesturing at a plastic package. Why?
Man, I yelped. Don't use those! Use the Clorox wipes! Those are butt-wipes! I can't use Clorox wipes on my butt if you waste all the butt-wipes on the table!
The sergeant blinked, then reached for the Clorox wipes. You have really, he said, got to start stealing toilet paper again.
If you're out there, whoever keeps stealing the toilet paper from the porta-jon, I hate you.
I made a trip out today to look at my favorite ditch.
Pretty impressive, isn't it? Fortunately, this time, the pipe was in the ditch and one of the contractor's guys showed up with a shovel before I had to crawl down in there to verify it.
It was the first trip out there with our new manuever guys, and it was the usual adventure. See, during all the trainups to coming over here, the Army devotes significant time and effort to preparing Soldiers to survive in a combat environment. This is, of course, a Good Thing. Hooah, surviving.
The downside is that nobody really prepares these guys for the situation as it normally is on the ground. That is, very intensely not house-to-house combat.
I understand force protection, and I'm a huge fan. But we're really not at the part anymore where inspecting a water line should involve cordoning off a small village and racing around like it's Fallujah 2005 on a smaller scale.
Why, said the young leader of the grunts, are the people not coming out to talk to us?
I am the very picture of saintly diplomacy, but I was so deeply annoyed that I couldn't say anything and, instead, just looked at him, at the trucks squatting in the road, and at his dudes circling around houses.
Not getting my hint, the leader then finally cornered a local man who hadn't run back inside quickly enough and asked.
Because you are scaring them, the terp explained. He says your Soldiers are running and it makes the people of the town nervous.
It's a hard thing for a tactical-level leader to grasp, this weird combination of war/not-war we've got going on. But it can't be ignored - although the war occasionally shows up and needs to be handled appropriately, that's not what's happening the majority of the time. The vast majority of what's going on right now is low-key. It's us, with our Iraqi Security Forces partners, hanging out in our towns, chatting with people not like interrogators and targets, but like neighbors with a language barrier. It's Soldiers not tromping through folks' vegetable gardens and startling them in their yards, but instead kicking a soccer ball around with the local urchins.
It's not the best for force-protection; we're much safer if we occupy the bejesus out of a given area and don't let anyone approach. It's not as sexy as kicking in doors, but it's what the situation requires.
The good news is, the new guys are slowly figuring it out. Within a week or so, they'll relax a little and figure out when hiding locals is a bad sign, and when hiding locals means we scared them. They'll accept the tactical risk of having a security team and a playing with kids team.
But wow - that first week is frustrating.
Higher has decided to come visit. Not just the company commander and first sergeant, but the CA battalion commander and CSM.
Ugh.
Our actual battalion headquarters is still in Texas. But we fall under another battalion here, and, for one reason or another, those folks have decided to come down to our little FOB.
We had one of these visits scheduled once before, but through some bit of...umm...horrible, terrible luck, flights were screwed up and our visitors didn't make it in.
Working on the priciple that if we're prepared for them, they won't show, but if we're sleeping late and our spaces are filthy they'll arrive early, the dudes and I cleaned. Ever beat a rug that's been in use in Iraq for a year or so? That's a hoot.
In good news, the Bossman has been out and about for several days, and he's scheduled to ride back here with the visitors. And I believe he's bringing steak. It's like a silver lining. A fat-marbled, bloody-yet-crispy sliver lining.
TOne occasionally wonders, doing this, if one is seeing something
significant. I spent today at a district-wide economic development
conference.
Now, this is the sort of thing that did not happen the last time I was
here. But now? There was actually discussion of travel and tourism
potential in the southern Kirkuk province. Crazy.
Of course, I spent a couple of minutes thinking about the overall
significance of this sort of gathering in this country, decided it
might be a ground-breaking moment, then lost interest. Hey - your
author isn't perfect. And we'd handed off our interpreter to the
panel discussion, so...
Instead of thinking about the big stuff, I started checking the dudes
out. No - not like that. It's a long tour, but it's not that long.
I was looking at their clothes. There are two options for Man About
Town attire here. You have the Western look, and the Arab look (hence
referred to as the Suit and the Man-Dress).
Some of the folks we work with typically wear western attire. For
instance, the "city manager" or "mayor" of each of our (sub)districts
is not a sheik - he's a hired official. In all three of the councils,
that individual wears the Suit. In the two of our councils that
function best, oddly, the "mayors" are pretty snappy dressers.
The sheiks who make up the councils, however, typically wear the Man
Dress. And nice ones, too. not the run-of-the-mill lightweight white
button down Man Dress over a wifebeater, but well-made robes.
We also interact with Ministry Representatives who work at the local
level. These gentlemen are also frequently in Western attire, but
it's never as snappy as what the mayors wear.
I suppose I can understand the divide - the mayors and the Ministry
reps aren't as concerned with whether or not the public perceives them
as 'adequately Arab." They spend the vast majority of their time
interacting with either government officials in Kirkuk (largely Kurds,
who are fairly western in their attire and habits) and Coalition
Forces. So I suppose they adapted.
The sheiks, on the other hand, although they certainly aren't elected,
are doubtlessly under a certain amount of pressure to represent their
villages and appear to be powerful in a traditional way.
All fine.
But one of them appeared at a recent meeting in a suit. He's a bigwig
- I know him. But I got through a large part of that meeting without
making the connection that the tall, handsome, dignified older
gentleman on the other side of the room was Abu Farras.
I know what my sheiks look like in their traditional attire - I'm past
the phase where they all look the same.
But it wasn't until I found myself actually surprised by Abu Farras'
"transformation" that I started examining that a little bit.
This is my second tour here, and it hasn't all been nice lunches and
long naps, so you're going to have to forgive me. But I have fallen,
occasionally, into the trap of thinking of them as "savages," as
"lying Arabs," and things much more politically incorrect.
Which is what it is. It's a war, and I'm certainly not the first to
catch myself dehumanizing the "other." Probably won't be the last,
either.
But I felt ashamed of myself standing in the hall looking at the
sheik. Of anyone in the Army, a CA type shouldn't fall into that trap.
I was perceiving the sheik differently. Had we had occasion to
speak, I'd have interpreted his words differently, read a different
subtext, probably not suspected that every word was utter bullshit.
And all it takes is a suit?
How different, I wonder, would this whole campaign be going if the
citizens of Iraq were just a little less alien to us? If every
political, social, economic and military consideration were the same,
but if they dressed exactly like Americans? A foreign culture is just
that - foreign. But I did have to think about how much of that
foreignness really is them, and how much of it is perceived
foreignness because of the significance we attach to a suit and tie.
Food for thought.
Incidentally, today's meeting was probably about 60/40, Western/Arab look.
The dust has returned. It was hazy this morning, outright dusty by afternoon, and it's now best described as thick.
We don't tend to run non-essential missions when the visibility is limited, so if doesn't lift, my entertainment for tomorrow is in jeopardy. That's no good, because I'm on a roll this week - two for two at getting lunch provided by someone other than the US Army.
That's the thrown-together version of lunch we stumbled upon Monday, out looking at canals and counting sheep. You'll see chicken (cooked on one of those big rotating sticks that I can't spell), rice, tomato-based soup of some sort, and that wonderful bread that might well be the only thing Iraq really has going for it.
The young man I cropped out of the photo had never done one of these sit-on-the-floor-and-grab-some-chow things, but he caught right on, much to the delight of our host, the local mukhtar, who is looking on with some amusement.
The roommate came stomping back in out of the darkness. Something had gone terribly wrong, it seemed, on her trip to the porta-jon.
The first pooper? she said (yes, she actually uses the term "pooper"), there's poop all over the seat!
I blinked. I was getting this information because I had announced my intention to visit the Green Closet after she returned.
Does this mean, I asked, that the Mad Pooper has struck again?
The Mad Pooper Incident was recorded photographically but, because I respect basic human concepts of decency, I have not shared those photos with you. You can imagine, if you try, what exactly the Mad Pooper Incident involved.
No, Roommate answered. It's just a little poop. But then the second pooper? There's pee all over the seat. I didn't have enough paper to wipe it up, so I sort of had to hover. I'd recommend you use the second pooper, but take lots of paper.
So I went to the second closet, taking enough paper to make the seat...habitable. But I gotta wonder, folks, what's so damn difficult about using a porta-jon? Our have the little "urinal feature," so about two-thirds of the available hortizontal surface is totally in play for succesful peeing. And still... And the pooping issues... I dunno. That just ain't right. At least we finally got the locals to stop straddling the hole and splashing water all over...
aren't even worth getting out of the rack and shuffling to the Green Closet, you know?
First there was the Battle of the MBITR Radios, which we eventually won, but really, it was one of those that wasn't much worth fighting. This radio works in this mount, but neither radio works in the other mount... One of those where nothing can ever just be simple. Duct tape was involved in the solution.
Then there was some indirect fire, or maybe not. Some threat of something, and since we were standing out in the middle of a giant open area, we really had no choice but to take cover and smoke bitterly.
Then there was the E. Coli outbreak.
(incidentally, I cannot ever think of "E. Coli" without thinking of that throat lozenge commercial. Riiiiiicooooooolllllaaaaa!!!!! Worse, probably, is that I say "E. Coli" with that same inflection)
I think I'm going to go to bed. Perhaps when I wake up, it will be a warm, sunny, happy day in Iraq.
slow. Phenomenally slow. Like...glacially slow.
If I'm ever in charge of a war, I'm deploying units, and none of them are coming home until we've either won or lost entirely. There will be no "rotations," there will be no "relief in place," and there will be no "transition."
Nobody will take servers full of information and just leave, and nobody will look at me and explain that they need to visit every cluster of huts within 25 klicks to "learn the AO."
No city leader will have to listen to another junior - the tenth in five years - officer explain that his unit is there to "help the people of Iraq learn to leverage their government structures." No farmer will have to explain to an earnest Soldier with a clipboard that he has six hours of electricity on the average day, ten on a good day, and none at all on occasion.
[Sigh]
Grumpiness like this is probably why I'm not allowed to be in charge of wars. Well, that and the part about being a staff sergeant in the Reserves.
than free beer in Iraq?
Free beer in Iraq with another recovering jarhead, that's what!
That's right - we trudged over at 0130 for our two MGDs-in-cans. They were great. Consider this a big thank you to the American taxpayer. Those dollars, at least, were well-spent.
(note - the other jarhead is our company commo guy, who's hiding out with us for a few days)
We sat outside, the Boss and Roommate and I, discussing the latest Bright Idea from Higher.
It was, I declared, the absolute Stupidest Damn Thing I Ever Have Heard. In fact, I further elaborated, it sounded like the end product of a branding meeting conducted by rhesus monkeys. No, I corrected myself, since I am under the impression that rhesus monkeys are kinda bright and capable of learning simple tasks, this latest Bright Idea sounded like something that was dreamed up by carp. Or tree stumps. I folded my arms and glared.
You are, the Boss pointed out, one angry lady.
I shook my head. No, sir, I explained, that's just not so. I could deal with stupidity and the silliness and the fact that my feet kinda smell funny 'cause I wear boots all the time, but they made me leave my dog at home.
And it's true. What a morale boost one of my dogs would be. Better, I daresay, than even beer. Either dog would work just fine here.
Sparky would have his pluses, what with being small and a good sleeping companion and being the Scourge of Mice. 
He could sit in my lap while I read and I could tote him around in my assault pack. Or maybe I could even get some sort of specialized ACU-pattern MOLLE-compatible Yorkie-toting device.
Jack, of course, would fit right in. 
Maybe he'd do some floor peeing during the occasional indirect fire event, but other than that, he'd be super. I have a beanbag chair I won in a USO raffle he could sleep on, and he could trot around the FOB with me. He'd be great company for porch-sitting, and excellent for cleanup at our team cookouts. The interpreters do not seem fond of dogs, so he'd keep them away from our CHU. And if he could get past the fact that the few windows on an MRAP don't open, and so there's no sticking one's head out, he'd even be great on mission.
Alas - no. Although I would have been more than willing to bring a dog either large or small, Uncle Sam has said no dogs. And so we're left with FOB cats. Because of our rodent problem, the Powers That Be have declared the cats allowed, as long as nobody pets them (because then they'd cease being vector control and become pets, right?).
Cats.
[sigh]
You know, I'm just saying, the last time we really no-crap won a war, there were dogs all over the place. Working dogs, sure, but look at the pictures. Pet dogs, too. (Seriously, go look at the pictures - they're great)
US Army with pet dogs - defeats Nazis, saves world.
US Army with cats - six-year involvement in low-intensity conflict, of which both the causes and likely outcome are still sorta iffy.
We were out and about today, introducing a new manuever unit to the AO. We hit a meeting, a couple of ICERP projects (school addition, complete; health clinic, progressing very nicely), drove past a couple of key points. Then we got to the part where the outgoing manuever unit wanted to introduce the incoming manuever unit to a local "sphere of influence."
The gentleman in question, a retired general from the old regime, exerts significant influence in part of the AO. His support of coalition efforts has, without a doubt, contributed substantially to the security improvements in the area.
We needed to talk about some election site security issues and do the introductions, so we parked the trucks in his compound, set most of the dismounts to playing soccer with the children, and headed into his "conference room" for chai and conversation.
It's a very nice conference room. The Iraqis don't seem to have figured out the concept of the "vacuum cleaner," so one of the ways the general keeps his conference room nice is by insisting footwear be removed before entry.
A little weird - I know - but at this stage of the game, if we've decided you're wearing a White Hat, and you want us to take our boots off, we take them off. So, sock-footed, we filed in. My part of the conversation was extremely brief, and I had time to sip my godawful sweet chai and look over the new guys we'll be working with.
Platoon leader...has his little book out, looks engaged, is participating in the conversation. Good. Platoon sergeant...looks like he'd rather be kicking in a door and whacking someone, but is paying attention. Good. Random second lieutenant...trying to follow the conversation, tapping his foot, which makes him look bored and...what the Hell?
Remember, dear readers, when your Mom used to tell you to wear clean underwear in case you ended up in the emergency room? 
[sigh]
Bad enough that it looks tacky, but a dead giveaway of a military man whose training didn't involve nearly enough forced marching.
One of our Iraqi hosts must have seen my double-take, because he looked too and very nearly snorted scalding chai onto the nice conference room rug.
Fortunately, that part ended quickly, and we adjourned to the outdoor picnic area and ate far too much food. Good food, too. Kinda sad that we eat better out there than we do on the FOB, but such is life. It's rough out here, folks.