Another day...

another Big Adventure.

I did something today that although I've never done before, just about every woman in Civil Affairs does at one point or another - I attended a Women's Council meeting. With another female NCO in tow, and an interpreter (male) who'd been cautioned that he was severely outnumbered and should behave accordingly, I made my way into a room full of the Women In Black.

It was something else. On one level, meeting with the women was great. Unlike those in attendance at a lot of our other meetings, the women had no sense of entitlement. They did not sit and explain why Coalition Forces should give them stuff and money. I don't think much of anyone has ever appeared like a Fairy Godmother and given rural Iraqi women (all of them mothers, most of them widows) a damn thing.

The things they asked us to look into were smart - can we get some sort of vocational training? How can we get a loan that complies with Islamic law that would allow us to open a beauty shop? Why can't we have better OB/GYN coverage in the district?

I have read, and it has been true in my (limited) experience, that engaging women and boosting their standard of living and productivity is a very good way to raise the quality of life for an entire community.

But, it is difficult, when we are in the phase of this conflict where we are turning control of funds and programs back to Iraqis, to belive that these women and their needs will become a priority. They make up more than half the country's population, they have paid their fair share of the country's debts in suffering and misery, but they are a too-easily-overlooked population.

Fortunately, "Women's Issues" were one of designated "priorities" from Higher. So perhaps, with some diligence, there's a slice of the pie out there for them.

My grandmother was in Columbia with the Peace Corps when I was born. She told me there was a little girl born there on the same day I was born in Michigan. Nearly every year on my birthday, she mentions that baby girl and reflects that, even then, she had considered the Columbian infant, thought of her new granddaughter, and realized how fortunate I was to have been born in the United States.

I realize that, too. Being born an American doesn't make me a better person than anyone else in the world. But I do realize that it makes me a very fortunate person. And as I see more people and places, I realize that being born in the US makes me an incredibly fortunate woman.

The future of Iraq

is in excellent hands. Those would be, of course, my hands.



Yeah. That's Your Author, with a cigarette in one hand and an Iraqi child in the other. And, yes, if you look closely, that Iraqi child is carrying a gun. Yes, it's a real gun, a .25 of some sort. And no - it wasn't loaded.

I swear, sometimes this is the weirdest place on earth. I am certain that the fact they arm children for special occasions (this picture was taken at a grand opening for a training program) means something, but I can't figure out what it is.

Killing time (*WARNING* graphic mouse photo at bottom of post)

Sometimes, it's exciting to be in Iraq. The past few days have NOT been one of those times.

The last mail run brought joy in the form of some outdoor hanging lights.



Those are flamingos and chili peppers. The table we stole from my boss, and it's been one never-ending spades game ever since. Although Soldiers, unlike Marines, do stop playing for sleep at a certain point.

So the past couple of evening have been sit, shuffle, toss cards...*SNAP*...then I jump up to go check my trap. Sometimes...I get lucky.



I've been using peanut butter, but on the advice of my PYSOPS buddies, am trying chocolate Rice Krispie treat. I wouldn't have thought of it, but the PYSOPS sergeant is the undisputed King of Mousewhacking around here.

Current Score - Abby 6, Mousies 1.

Updated Scorecard

I shall, in deference to the possible range of sensibilities among my readers, refrain from posting trophy pics (although, of course, I took trophy pics). I shall simply say...

Abby 2, Mice 1.

Let's hear it for old-fashioned snap traps and peanut butter, shall we?

As you SHOULD

Jerk.

Quick note to any local readers I might have...

If the US Army in your immediate area is being friendly, driving carefully so as not to knock down powerlines and, in fact, walking around your city to check things out, it is not in your best interest to start shooting at those walking Soldiers.

Further, if you live in a neighborhood where you think you'd like some stuff - like, oh, say, new powerlines, or a park, or new sidewalks, or whatever - it is really not a good idea to allow people to shoot at the Civil Affairs element as they walk by.

In addition to really moving your area down on the list of places that get money, that behavior attracts the attention of different Soldiers with a focus on activities other than improving your quality of life.

Thus ends today's public service announcement.

I have seen the enemy

and he is tiny and furry.

We've known there were mice. My dudes, in fact, have a rather robust and interactive population in their hooch (interactive as in they're so visible it was like having additional roommates). It got bad enough that my sergeant has taken to trapping them in water bottles using peanut butter and a string. He's gotten ten. In three days.

But the infestion in our hooch has been more understated. Oh, I've seen a couple from time to time while I've been drinking coffee at night. And I've heard them in the walls. But out of sight is out of mind. Or it was. Until last night.

Mom sent me, among other things, a bag of those little Snickers bars. Of course, I'd opened it and sampled a few. Then I closed the bag and set it on our table.

Long about 0100, I was racked out with a book and flashlight. When from the table, I heard a rustle. A mouse rustle. A mouse rustle among my goodies.

Like a ninja in Army PT gear, I hopped out of bed and turned the light on the table. Sure enough - I had movement in my Snickers bag. Some sort of blunt force was in order, so I survey the whacking potential of object I could grab without making any noise.

Axe - overkill. M4 carbine - plastic. Full can of M240B ammo - would definitely wake the roomie. Loaded 30-round PMag - that's the ticket! So I snatched up the magazine and hurled it, from a couple of feet, at the Snickers bag.

Being the ninja I am, it was a direct hit. There was sporadic movement, then stillness. Being kind of wimpy ninja when I am barefoot, I stepped into my combat boots and reached for the bag.

Which promptly tore, releasing a dazed-but-truly-terrified mouse. Which promptly ran away through a hole in the wall.

Mouse - 1, Abby - 0.

But, ladies and gentlemen, now that my candy has been threatened and my space invaded, it is on. There can only be one species eating from our Table of Snacks.

Stay tuned - I'll warn you if the pics are too grisly.

Mail!

The best day of any given period is mail day.

Letters from family...letters from family with pictures... That's the good stuff right there.

I brought a laptop, of course, and these days most of my pictures are digital. So a real highlight of today's mail call was a note from my grandmother in which she enclosed a picture of me and the Mister.

Further, I have noted that my mother and my husband (both Virgos, and both displaying several of the associated traits) share an approach to taping boxes. That is, there is no chance, under any circumstances, that boxes they pack will come open. Ever.

So I'm good on candy and soap and candy and trash bags and candy and razor blades and candy and all that stuff. And, best part about mail day, all my Soldiers got stuff, too. So we all feel loved.

More daily living

On those not-outside-the-wire days, I knock out NCO bidness. I wander around and talk to the guys who have stuff I need, shoot the breeze with the other "attachments" (those of us not assigned to this particular battalion, but who are nonetheless here to help), struggle to make phone calls (DSN to VOIP? VOIP to cell? Cell to DSN?) and generally handle the small stuff.

Once that's done, I drift back to AO Abby, fire up the coffeepot, dig out something I haven't read yet, and settle in.



Yep. That's my chair, on my porch. In front of it is my coffee cup, and immediately to the right is my ammo can ashtray. I like my porch, which is fortunate, because I think I shall be spending a lot of time there.

Of course, there are some drawbacks. Those of you who've been there know what's coming, right?



Yeah. Those are my pet flies, just chillin' on my clothesline. Ugh. Please note that I do not soak my clothesline in sugared water, or any other substance to attract them. They are simply that friendly.

Army humor

There's still a lot of bitching going on about the Army Combat Uniform. It wears out too fast, it doesn't blend in with anything (except that one guy's couch and possibly gravel parking lots), the zipper sucks, etc etc.

A special point of emphasis for all that bitching has been the Velcro. Excuse me - the hook and pile fastener. Sticks to everything, wears out, makes too much noise...

There is a positive side to all that, though. It means we get patches. You got your standard unit patches, you got your morale patches, and then you got your sarcasm tabs.



I saw this one on, of course, a gentleman of Mexican descent, the other morning. After some further observation, it was on several gentlemen of such descent.

Heh.

You gotta love military humor. Given the somewhat...indelicate nature of how we address things, you can only imagine how the recent election has played out.

CA Stuff

Another day, another excruciating meeting. Today's focused on a local contractor who appears to be building a water purification station in a location and manner utterly divorced from those specified in the Scope Of Work.

This is, of course, a no-go.

These days, we spend Iraqi dollars (through the Iraqi Commanders Emergency Relief Program - ICERP) through city councils, but we still provide contract and procedural oversight.

So when we heard the contractor was not purchasing actual real filters, but instead building them himself with his own two little hands, that required visual inspection.

So off we trudged. Up the road, through the market (abnormally tidy), through the critter-slaughtering part of the market (only mildly disgusting, through the machine shop part of town (where they did not appear to be manufacturing IEDs).

Until we found the "filters."



That's one of our terps (interpreters), serving as a size reference.

So, yeah. Giant, rusty, badly welded, slightly misshapen pipes.

So guess who came back to FOB, got an interpreter and phone, and arranged a little meet-the-bitchy-new-CA-sergeant meeting for Mr. Substandard Contractor?

Sometimes, I love this job.

So...about that election

Well. That was a little more...definite than I had thought it would be.

I spent most of the morning in a room full of Sons of Iraq leadership, watching Al Arabia's coverage of said election. Explaining the electoral college through an interpreter is, in case you've never done it, kind of an adventure.

The Daily Routine

So there are two kinds of days here - there are days when we go outside the wire, and days when we don't.

You all know that our "official" mission outside the wire involves hanging out with the civilian populace, trying to ensure they're using decent local government practices and trying to teach them to do stuff for their communities without just stealing all the funds available. That's the official mission.

In truth...

Mostly we just go outside the wire to feed dogs.



That's Daisy. She lives at one of our regular stops and actually seemed pretty excited aout MRE Jambalaya.

On days when we don't go outside the wire, the mission remains home improvement. We finally found nails and a hammer.



And no - I did not tumble from the beams. Although my roommate did suggest perhaps I should don my helmet.

Just saying...

Have you ever been to a municipal meeting? A city council type of thing?

I sat through one of those today. With a less-than-motivated interpreter and the usual representatives from all 37,429 district-level Ministry offices. Water, Water Sourcing, Irrigation, Youth, Culture, etc etc.

And, unlike almost every other meeting I've been to in this country, nobody smoked during this meeting.

War is hell, I tell you. Hell.

In good news, fruit tree saplings will be available in January, at probably a little over 2,000 dinar per. This was, I kid you not, the hit news of the meeting. I guess everybody really likes fruit trees.

Things NCOs hate

My boss is gone. An emergency in the family forced him to take emergency leave almost as soon as hit theater. So Yours Truly has been in charge during the RIP/TOA process (Relief In Place/Transfer of Authority).

This isn't really all too bad - we fall in on the outgoing guys, learn what they do, follow them around, and then they leave and we're here. Pretty simple, eh?

Except for the other little part...the part where we sign for their equipment. Or, in my case, the part where the Team Leader signs for their equipment. If, of course, one's Team Leader is absent, that duty falls on the Team Sergeant.

And we're not talking about signing for little stuff either.



That, ladies and gentlemen, is an MRAP. Pretty big, huh? And it's full of stuff. Expensive stuff. All which I had to officially take possession of. Not the best feeling for someone who considers herself the reason they invented the dummy cord.

Losing an MRAP would probably have negative career consequences. But that wasn't the end of it.

Today I signed for all the team gear. That's another vehicle, pistols, radios, night vision and a pile of other crap. Including mystery boxes of ammo. Although those didn't require a signature, they did require sorting.



Yes, I did sub-hand-receipt as much of it as possible as quickly as possible, but there's still a pile of crap and two trucks in my name. I may lose my Sergeant Card for saying this, but I cannot wait until my officer gets back.

Interfacing with the locals

I've got one phrase for those of you who've been in this part of the world. Let's see what sort of imagery it conjures up:

Turkish shitter. In an Iraqi Police station.

For any of you who ever doubted my devotion to what I do, not only did I use that awful "latrine" a couple of days ago, I did so and then did not run screaming all the way out of the Middle East. Which isn't to say that after straddling a crap-filled trench in a small, urine-soaked closet that - by the way - did not seem to confine said crap to said trench, not to say that after that I did not want to run screaming. Because I did want to.

Alas, Civil Affairs sergeants cannot run screaming because the host nation is icky.

And today, at a city council meeting in another town, I used a "latrine" that, although of the same fiendish design, was not horrifying. And they fed me. So...win some, lose some.

Getting down to business

Not being the sort to let grass grow around us, we plunged headlong into wandering around our new AO (area of operations), looking at stuff and talking to people. Until I do a little more research, we're not going to talk very much about that. However, I can and will say that:

A - this area is significantly more permissive than the one I was in 2005-2006. This is obviously a Very Good Thing, but it does take some getting used to.

B - MRAPs are big and tall, and driving them through street across which the locals have hung a rat's nest of electrical wires is recipe for causing blackouts. Which is a great way to convince the locals not to kill us...I guess.

After a meeting with a local mover and shaker, we returned to base to start the truly important stuff - home repairs! We live in CHUs (Containerized Housing Units). My roommate and I were not fortunate enough to inherit one with a porch roof, and so we're slowly "acquiring" material to build one.

You can see the initial bits and pieces here.



Only in the interest of giving you all a concept of what "home" looks like here would I ever publish such an unflattering picture.

Another move

And now we have reached our final location. It's dusty, sandbagged,
has Army cooks, and is FABULOUS. Mostly because it's NOT co-located
with our headquarters.

Coming soon, to a spottily-updated blog near you...tales of hilarity
from First Convoy and First Real Mission.

Love this place

The only thing better than Iraq is Iraq in the rain.

 

That is all.

 

Well, hold on.  The only thing better than Iraq in the rain is Iraq in the rain when, apparently, any time mortars impact within a zillion miles, one has to spend an hour in a damp, urine-smelling bunker with a bunch of squirrely young Soldiers who want to sing popular hits of Journey.

 

I love this job.

 

 

Your Tax Dollars

are, apparently, being put to shocking good use in Texas - Military hospital opens for dogs wounded in war.

It sounds like a highly spiffy new place, and quite an improvement over the previous arrangement.

Before the center opened, veterinarians treated and rehabilitated dogs in a cramped building that opened in 1968, when the military trained dogs for work in Vietnam.

This is obviously nothing but tail-wagging news. In addition to the fact that I like dogs, we know the contributions they make and the lives they save on today's battlefield.

To treat the trainees and injured working dogs, the new hospital has operating rooms, digital radiography, CT scanning equipment, an intensive care unit and rehab rooms with an underwater treadmill and exercise balls, among other features. A behavioral specialist has an office near the lobby.

That's good stuff.

Characters

We've got this guy.  He's a staff sergeant in his mid-to-late 40s.  He's been in the Army since Christ was a corporal.  He seems to get out from time to time, so he's held a bunch of different jobs.

 

He's a wiry dude, white, with thinning hair, leathery face and a nifty little mustache.  There's a little bit of the surfer or stoner in his speech and posture.  He chain-smokes and consumes somewhere north of 30 cans of Dr, Pepper a day. We will, when feeling cheery, refer to him as "The 'Stache."

 

I was sitting at chow last night with a sergeant, a corporal and a specialist, and the talk to turned to The 'Stache.

 

He's like the smartest guy in the world, said the specialist.  He knows everything.

 

I don't think he sleeps, I pointed out.  Does he?

 

The dudes shook their heads.  The 'Stache, apparently, has been witnessed sitting down and leaning against something, and once even pulling his hat down over his eyes, but never actually sleeping.

 

This one time, remembered the specialist, when Ace left that SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) in that class?  I saw him get mad, and it was like, whoa...he barely even raised his voice and I felt bad.  I didn't even do anything wrong!

 

Discussions went on until we'd established that nobody has ever seen him trim his mustache, get a haircut, or engage in PT.  Of course, he's entirely within regs at all times and has never failed a PT test.  He's always got extra cigarettes to hand out, and we'd trust him to perform neurosurgery with a lighter and a pocketknife.

 

One of those guys that, with just a slightly different personality, you could hate.  But because The 'Stache is The 'Stache, you love him.  You see a lanky figure strolling up in the dark with a can of Dr. Pepper and a pack of smokes, and you hear that west Texas accent starting out with, "well, isn't that some bullshit..."

 

 

 

 

Kuwaitin' Around

Wow. I'm sure there's a point to the time we're spending here, but what it's really accomplishing is turning us all into nocturnal chain-smokers. This is how the day passes in the Giant Chick Tent:



At night we smoke cigarettes and, wearing our absolutely-no-kidding-required reflective belts, trudge around the camp to the 24-hour coffee places. During the day...well, there's a lot of napping.

Not a bad morning

I finally woke up rested. So I made my way to the shower, where I have to admit I took more than the allowed 5 minutes. I hand washed some underclothes, since the laundry turn-in process here is rumored to be cumbersome.

I got back to the tent, and it was New Uniform Day, which is always awesome. I had a brand new pair of UnderArmor hot weather boots socks, so I dusted my feet with some Gold Bond Medicated foot powder (the stuff in the blue container) and pulled them on.

Taking a can of coffee, I wandered out the smoking area, where the shade was over the benches and the people didn't suck.

I don't know, folks. There's no body armor scheduled today, and things are looking good. It's almost enough to make me nervous.

More fun than

a barrel of camels. Which we saw, by the way, while standing out on a range in the middle of the godforsaken desert yesterday. Well, camels at least. No barrels were observed.

In fact, let's just not talk about yesterday. We shall simply point out that yesterday went from 0300 until 1800 and all we did was fire 18 rounds. 'Nuff said.

Today, on the other hand, was reasonably useful. We trooped over to yet another big brown tent/building thing for the body armor upgrade. This is the part where we swap the IBA with Outer Tactical Vest for the IBA with Improved Outer Tactical Vest. Here's the money quote on that subject:

...the IOTV has several advantages over its predecessor. It is three pounds lighter; it provides more coverage in the small of the back; it sits higher around the armpit area; and it sits lower on the torso...

All of which is awesome. And I tried one on. Although on my last deployment I wore a small IBA, this time I've been working a medium. It hasn't fit very well, and rides out on the shoulders. These new vests, though, they're great. They fit snugly, feel lighter, don't chafe the bade of the neck...

And apparently cannot be made fast enough in Medium, Small or Extra-Small.

[sigh]

Eight of the not-quite-thirty of us will be continuing to rock the less-comfy IBA for the time being. Although the vest people swear more are coming, and, in a few months, when they arrive, the vest will find their way to us at our final destinations...

The little Soldiers, the slight, short and generally compact Soldiers, sighed, rolled their eyes and trudged out in the dust. Disheartened, they filed onto the bus. One of the big Soldiers followed, climbing happpily aboard with his spiffy new vest. Then he stood up too soon, and whacked his big, tall, head into the door frame. The little Soldiers laughed.

I really don't understand this...

I think I somehow posted the last entry several times as a direct result of either jet lag or a jacked-up internet connection.  I think we'll blame it on the latter.  I whacked the duplicate.  I think.

 

Anyway, here's the photo I attempted to upload.  I think it adequately conveys the beauty and joy that is Kuwait. (This is also a test.  My email is working more smoothly than my internet, and I can't get the image to upload.  Let's see if it goes through the mail)

 

 

 

 

It Lives!

I was sitting by a guy today in the chowhall.  He's from another CA unit, but we've somehow crossed paths pretty frequently throughout the last few years.

 

"Well," he said, "this blows."

 

"Yep," said I.  "It seems like a lot of the moments when I say maybe this wasn't such a great idea seem to happen in Kuwait."

 

We have made the big leap to a country that someone, somewhere, probably in a national publicity office, probably refers to a The Jewel of The Middle East.

 

[OK - so the image upload isn't going to work tonight.  I'll try again soon]

 

Fortunately, we'll move along from here after an appropriate length of time.  And I don't think there's any OPSEC violation at this point in saying that Kuwait is making Iraq look good.  And that ain't cool.

 

Our movement was uneventful, but let me just say this - from the time we dragged our bags outside until we got on the plane, it took sixteen hours.  And folks, that wasn't bad compared to some other trips.  The flight was long, punctuated by one of those random and anonymous military stops at some flightline somewhere where we could smoke but not buy beer, and then another flight.  Ugh.

 

Weather report - days are hot, but not oh-lord-kill-me-now-because-I'm-already-buring-in-a-fiery-pit hot.  Night is nice enough.  The dust level is not high by middle east standards.  The sun, as usual, is bright enough I wonder if somehow it moved several million miles closer while we were on the plane.

It just keeps getting better

So here we are. We sit. We smoke. We go get coffee. Once a day there's a meeting, and the poor soul we designated as the "movement officer" shares some vital piece of military information.

Ummm..the duffle bag that was called the A Bag? Now that's the C bag. And the rucksack? That's the new A bag.

All the team leaders and team sergeants nod, make a note of the change (or perhaps just draw a stick-figure unicorn) in our little Rite In The Rain notebooks. The movement officer continues.

Also, on the packing list, it says four pairs of socks in the C Bag. Two of those have been moved to the B Bag.

A hand goes up. Hey, the question is offered, is there going to be any kind of inspection of these bags at any point? Like, is anybody going to count how many socks my Joes have in each one?

The movement officer glances up from his clipboard.

No. Actually, they're not.

Another hand goes up. I know you said the sharps have to go in the belly of the bird, but are we doing to TSA liquid thing?

The movement officer flips pages. Ummm...yep. Little bottles in the carryon.

An officer mutters. We're hand-carrying rifles but we have to bag liquids?

Seriously, people. I am continually amazed we do not all speak German. My Grandpa went to war on a troopship. Today's Army, given that much time to screw around with Soldiers, would disembark the most confused but best-packed troops in history.

A note: There is an exception to the no-sharps, no liquids over three ounces rules, but I still can't believe anybody publicized it with a straight face, so I'm going to let it go unaddressed.

Relativity

It's funny, isn't it, how long six or eight hours can be. When you're in school in late May, or driving across the midwest to get to a family get-together, or watching the clock on a Friday afternoon. A thousand years.

And it's equally funny (yet godawful depressing) how fast six or eight hours can fly by when you're comfortable at home and there's a plane ride in the afternoon.

This part, I will point out, is the worst part of this whole process. I don't care who you are, nobody wants to get on the plane at this point - you just want to dive back under the covers with your significant other and hide.

Just a note

I'm just sayin'... 'cause I was at the VFW and there were beers...

If the election was held today, these guys would make Sarah Palin Goddess of the Universe.

Which may or may not be a second-order effect of her being hot. Again, I am just sayin'.

Here's to

bloody wars and sickly seasons, as the British Navy says.

It appears the US Army is good and desperate these days, as I finally procured a copy of the most recent Senior Promotion Board results, and, lo and behold, it appears I am to be moving up in the world and will soon be SFC Abby.



It appears that I shall remain SSG Abby for a while yet, as there's some sort of identified-vacancy promotion system in place that means that, eventually, someone will send us a set of orders. When they get around to it.

Nonetheless, it's happy news. Alas, since we'll be falling under General Order 1A, I won't be able to spend a bunch of money on beer for my comrades.

Fabulous

I woke up this morning in my own bed. On the grand scale of nice, with 1 being "okay" and 10 being "super!" it was right around 11.5.

We've got Tango the Licky Hysterical Dog at the house right now. Remember Tango?



I woke around 0230 for a bathroom run. My feet hit the floor before I remembered I was in the land of Licky Hysteria. I hurtled into the bathroom, swatting at dogs, and hurtled back out, leaping from the bathroom door to the bed.

Where I found Sparky had moved onto my pillow in my brief absence.

Of course, all the excitement had led Tango and Jack to start playing, which required snapping, growling, yowling and tag jingling. Whimpering, I poked the Mister in the side.

Do you sleep at all around here?

Now you see, he grumbled, why I drink.

Nonetheless, it's good to be home.

I got nuthin'

We've reached the End of the Late Beginning. It's nice. Uncle Sugar has seen fit to afford us an opportunity to spend a last small bit of time with our families before the Very End of The Beginning and the Beginning of the Middle.

Once home, I look forward to sharing some more imagery with y'all that I didn't have time to upload with the hamster-powered internet connection here.

Debate Fun

I'm catching just a little of the presidential debate in the dayroom.  It is, incidentally, standing room only.

 

This part where the candidates are playing "who can pronounce more obscure Russian names in one answer" is pretty entertaining. 

 

That's all I have to say about that.

The weird random cool stuff fairy

passed overhead and took another dump on us today. Look what rode back to the barracks with our supply PFC.



ACU pattern? Check. MOLLE attachment system? Check. Weird lanyard dummy cord thing? Check? But what is it?



Duh. It's an axe. A combat axe. In fact, it's an Ontario SPAX.

That was the weird pinnacle of the supply drop that included an ACOG per team, binoculars, slings, backup iron sights, M4 rails, and some weird gay vertical foregrip/bipod thing.

Things you really only see in the Army

(okay, well, maybe the other services, too)

The other day we got to run around do Advanced Combat Pistol (mostly drawing, weak-hand firing, etc) and transition firing (that'd be the transition from M4 to M9). This is good stuff. The first part was about 250 rounds of Uncle Sugar's ammo, and the transition fire was also a good armload of pre-filled magazines. Pre-filled mags, free ammo, and a sunny day. T'was fun.

And then it ended, and we did the Brass Police Call.



This is kind of like...an Easter Egg hunt that's not much fun. After you run four or five relays of twenty shooters walking up and down the range firing, you get everybody out to dig through the sand and pick up all the brass. You separate the brass by caliber, and collect the live rounds in another pile. You can use boxes, or hats. Either way, it's a hoot. Extra fun bonus points if you do it at night.

It hasn't all been fun shooty goodness, of course. The vast majority of military activity is routine and dull. And nothing is more routine and dull than a chow hall that is serving eight bazillion mobilizing people a day.

The food's not awful, but it's not very good, either. They really hit a new hit in crappy and weird the other evening, though.



That, ladies and gentlemen, is fried ravioli.

I know. I was not aware that such a thing exisited. Here's a hint - if you ever have the opportunity to enjoy military-issue fried ravioli - don't. I ate half a piece, then shared up another hunk with the guys at my table. We all eyed the plate suspiciously.

It's like a cheese stick, one sergeant said, but with no flavor.

No, corrected another. There's some flavor. It's bad, but it's there.

But the sauce, I asked. It doesn't have any flavor, does it?

In the end, I enjoyed some red jello and a cup of coffee. Thank god for jello and coffee, and the reserve of candy I keep in my cargo pockets.

MORE cultural awareness

We spend so much time studying the way "They" like things that you occasionally have to wonder whether, assuming this is a clash of civilizations, they might already have won.

 

We were having the Ramadan discussion. 

 

They abstain, the instructor droned, from food, drink and sex from sunup to sundown for a month.

 

Hell, we've been abstaining from booze, sex and decent food 24/7 for closing in on a month now.  It's making all of us pretty cranky, so perhaps that explains the ongoing rage problem from the Islamic world.  Food for thought.

Camping (again)

Sorry for the relative silence - this time we ended up in the ghetto block of the Big Army Campsite, and we don't get wireless. Our MRX (I actually have no idea what that stands for, although I'd guess Mission Readiness Exercise) has kept us quite busy the past several days, and so this is the first evening I've had time (or energy) to walk around with an open laptop and a hopeful expression.

I guess I got lucky in that I didn't have to be out here running missions on the first day of the MRX. The downside? That was because I was attending UPL training.

My Army folks out there just started laughing. See, the UPL is the Unit Prevention Leader. Basically, the Urinalysis Czar. The job is nice in that it means I won't have to be an observer for a pee test for another year. Bad because it means I'll have to handle warm and slightly damp plastic jars of warm piss.

You win some, you lose some.

After that wonderful day (yes, we did conduct a training urinalysis. Yes, I did have to handle pee. Yes, it was warm), it was all high-quality training, all the time.

No, seriously. It was, of course, an organization not part of the yahoos mobilizing us that provided said training.

Lots of good civilian role players, lots of pyro (devices that make smoke and noise and fire), etc etc. I got whacked once and injured once. Yesterday's injury was a testament to how difficult it is to move a 140-pound woman (me) wearing combat gear. My "body" only needed to go about 75 feet, and between the armor, helmet, and my "dead" status, it didn't even have to be gentle. It's not very hard to drag someone six or eight feet to cover, but sclepping someone who's dead weight, while packing a lot of extra gear yourself...well, it'll kick the ass of pretty much anyone.

Today's wound resulted in a field IV for SSG Abby. The specialist sticking me hit the vein on the first try, and although there was blood, there was no real pain.



(I swear, by the time the real Big Trip starts, I'll have possesion of the normal digital camera so you all aren't subjected to cell phone photos anymore)



Alas, the same cannot be said for the gentleman I had to stick on the following iteration. I got the IV going, but it was more of an adventure than my poor "casualty" probably would have liked.

And, a final note to any female NCOs who may read here. I think - by which I mean I suspect but am not certain - that my male soldiers lie to me more because I am a woman. So, gals, if your boys ever nod and tell you they know how to work an M240B, that they've done it a million times, that they are damn proficient to nth degree...well, have them demonstrate. Or you will find yourself on the hood of the truck during a test fire explaining the concepts of "open-bolt weapon" and "brass to the grass." Using a lot of four-letter words.

Highly efficient

yep - that's us.

We actually had a down day yesterday. Now, since we've all volunteered to be here, we obviously deserve to be treated rather like especially dull privates. Thus, we are not permittd to leave the post, to consume alcohol, or to wear civilian attire. Nonetheless, we embraced our day off, jumped through a few hoops, and went fishing.

We even caught a few.



I caught a lot of fish, but that one is about average. Oh well - it beat doing anything for which there are sign-in rosters.

And now it's back to regular grind, which started with more shots in the hours before sunrise, and now seems to be set on "do nothing" until a class which - I kid you not - is scheduled to run from 2200 to 0600.

And no - it's not a class that involves doing anything in the dark.

That's obviously pretty high on the stupid scale, and our Leadership is out driving around asking (for the third and fourth time), if that block of time is typo or simply a really dumb idea. But forcing logic on the mobilization process is like trying to teach Sparky to land the space shuttle.



Yeah. I'm thinking it's going to be a long night.

On the positive side, we have a crack team of guys who've made it their mission in life to ensure we've always got a five-gallon coffee jug at these training evolutions. We might have to write those guys up for Distinguished Service Crosses after this.

More fun

than should probably be legal. Yep - we recently had NBC day! Of course, it's not "NBC" (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) anymore - now it's CBRN (Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear - pronounced Sea-Bern).

Anyway, it's the same old routine. Mask on, mask off. Suit on, suit off. Suit on, help your buddy change suits.

The buddy part, of course, was a hoot.



That's me, of course, having my trousers removed in the Army-approved manner. This was not as amusing as when I had to remove my buddy's. See, practice suits are just handed out without regard to size. I had a giant one. My partner, who is a little more sturdy than I am, got a smaller one. And did I mention there's an elastic strap on the back of the jacket that one pulls up through one's legs and fastens at the bottom of the front zipper? Yeah. My partner's was pulled tight as a fiddle string.

Dude, brace yourself. I'm going to try to unhook this gently so it doesn't fly loose and snap you in the balls, but...

It's one of those things that's funny as can be in rehearsal, and yet you hope you never, ever have to do in real life. Because if my buddy's worn out one chemical suit, and we have to do team suit changes because the environment's still poison, well...that's pretty much the definition of really bad day.

The reasons why we're here

We had a formation at 0700 today. Not much to look at - around 15 of us standing in the dirt with our rifles, getting ready to start the day's classes. 

 

The company commander took charge of the formation, put us at ease, and started to talk.  He reminded us of the date which, I'm ashamed to say, had slipped some of our minds.

 

That day, that attack, all our dead countrymen, he reminded us.  That moment, that morning, was why we were standing in a formation, preparing, saddling up again.  Ours not to wonder at the method, but to apply ourselved to our appointed tasks in response to that day.

 

Then the mood lifted, and we promoted a PV2 to Private First Class.  E-2 to E-3.  The PFC is 19.  He was 12 when those buildings came down.

 

The difference between sixth grade and a soldier.  That makes it seem like a long time.  It doesn't feel that way to me.

Camping

In the wilds!  OK - so the tents have wood floors, bunkbeds and wall lockers.  And electricity.  And there's a PX (trailer).  And internet connectivity.  But the connectivity is spotty, and the tents are tents, so it's the field and we're roughing it.

 

We aren't going to be out here for very long, but I suppose it's a box that must be checked.  And we all know that those boxes will be checked.  Boxes get checked, or Soldiers die.

 

Sorry - I let the mob' bitterness win for a second there.  I woke up with a case of the chapped heinie this morning, and never really got my false motivation level where it belongs.

 

One interesting thing they've done with the "FOB" (forward operating base) concept here is play a recorded "call to prayer" over loudspeakers at the appropriate times.  One of those occurred as we were dragging bags into our tents.  One of our specialists, another recovering jarhead for whom this will be the second Big Trip, looked and me and shared his opinion.

 

"I really didn't miss that at all."

 

Sometimes, when I was in Iraq, the sun would be going down.  Dust would hang in the air, and it would be a thousand degrees.  The whole country seemed to smell of burning trash, human shit and rage.  And then the mosques would start up with the prayer call.

 

I don't speak Arabic, but I know what it always sounded like to me - You're about as far from home as you can get.  This place might as well be Mars, for all you understand about it.  Learn fast. 

 

 

Thinking Martha Stewart thoughts

So there we were, sitting around bullshitting. I know - Soldiers sitting around bullshitting - who'd'a thunk it? It may even have been raining.

We were talking about that coolest of military toys, the real reason we all stay in - the chemlight.

(Seriously - there's the next generation of Army recruiting right there, even with a war on. Heck, especially with a war on. Join the Army, go to Iraq, and get armloads of chemlights for free! All the chemlights you could want! Even the special high-intensity bright ones!)

Somehow the conversation drifted to kitchen applications for the mini-chemlights. The ones that are like two inches long.

It first occurred to us that one could use them in Jell-o. Like fruit, only better. One doesn't want to eat chemlights, so it would be more of a centerpiece sort of thing, but still unique and eye-catching. We thought it would be a particularly groovy look with grape Jello and a Halloween theme.

But then we realized that although glowing Jell-o would be cool, we could do better. Chemlights in a festively-theme hunk of ice (probably formed in that same Jell-o mold) bobbing in a bowl of punch. At night. For a party.

Because let's be honest - Jell-o and punch are both already cool, but they'd be waaay more cool if they glowed.

It was enough to make me wish I had access to my kitchen.

[pauses, thinks]

Hold on - they are sending us home on pass in a few weeks...

Ugh

It was one of those 0415-wakeup mornings, and last night was a sleep-after-midnight thing.  So I set my alarm carefully, knowing that oversleeping was not an option.

 

In the hours so dark they really aren't even "pre-dawn," I lurched out of the rack, stripped off the shirt I sleep in, got halfway into my uniform T-shirt, and realized I couldn't hear any of the guys hurtling around in the hall.  So I glanced at my watch.  0315.

 

[sigh]

 

I did enjoy that "extra" hour.

 

It was a long day of IED lanes, and frogging around with vehicles.  The whole thing culminated with a stirring hour on "Sexual Assault Prevention."  At 1900.  The poor instructor must have thought we were ruder-than-average students, since even the guys standing in the back of the room were falling asleep.

 

I just topped off the day when I went in to move laundry from the washer to the dryer.  Only to realize that it washes much faster if you turn the washer on.

 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen.  Your tax dollars pay me to be at the pointy end, and I had my ass kicked by a washing machine.  Be afraid.  Be very, very afraid.

Slow day

We finished off our Combat Lifesaver training today.  That was actually a quality class, which we made sure we communicated to all involved.

 

"The part where you had instructors with recent combat experience in the subject they were teaching?  That was great."

 

We stayed a little late so our PFC, who is a nervous little dude, could do one more live stick on a sergeant we now call "Mr. Giant Veins."  The PFC is a great kid, but he's the second junior man in the company, eager to please and, as is to be expected, prone to tripping over himself in his eagerness to do good.

 

Immediately following the conclusion of that evolution, we returned to the barracks just slightly ahead of the outer rain bands from Tropical Storm Hannah.  A quick evaluation of the weather convinced us that it was a perfect afternoon to conduct practical exercises in rack ops.  I am pleased to report that with the sole exception of a specialist who's assigned as Overworked Headquarters Slave, all the Soldiers received a "GO."  Seeing as rehearsals are key to success in any battle drill, we may still have to conduct more rack ops in the near future.

Info request

Ok, this is an odd one.  I know that at some point I saw a picture of an AR-15/M-4 on which someone had mounted a cupholder.  I'm not kidding - a rail-mounted cupholder.

 

They gave us rails. 

 

And so now I want the cupholder.  No, no, no.  Not for any sort of real-life use.  But it's a long year, and at some point, I think my whole team will probably need a laugh. 

 

So if any of you happen to know where to find such a thing, or, really, any other TRULY RIDICULOUS rail-mounted accessory, drop me a line in a comments or with the email button.

Commence Scam Operations...

Time - now.

That's what we've got going on this afternoon, after we all successfully made it through the "live stick" portion of CLS. I'd never done it before, so I was mildly concerned about damaging one of my soldiers, but I hit a nice vein on the first try and all was well.

This evening promises to be a hoot, with another fascinating COIN (that's COunter INsurgency, for anyone who isn't aware) brief on the schedule. The Army has decided to renounce all its prior religions and affiliations, it seems, and offer our total devotion to the philosophy of General Petraeus. The Army has decided to wholeheartedly embrace COIN with an enthusiasm not seen since they embraced Velcro.

Which is fine, really. I mean, hey - it seems to be working better than whatever we called our prior strategy.

But really - the briefs. Now, remember, all our predeployment training is run by a specific organization that exists strictly to mobilize and demobilize soldiers. A lot of the folks who hang out in that specific organzation...well, they've been hanging out there for a while, and have no actual deployed experience. And there doesn't seem to be any...umm...any requirement as far as an area of expertise.

I would say that 80% of the Civil Affairs folks here have at least one deployment to either Iraq or Afghanistan. I'd venture to guess at least 50% have two.

So I'll stipulate that there is some population of deploying soldiers that really benefits from having a series of briefs wherein a random soldier with a random background reads verbatim from a set of slides boiling our national counterinsurgency philosophy down to a few easily digested phrases. I'm sure that helps some people. Really.

But...having stipulated that these briefs are very valuable in their own right, I would think that we could enhance their value to deploying civil affairs soldiers significantly. Since we're required to have several phases of COIN briefs, it would be vastly more useful if we had someone who had recently worked in CA, PSYOPS or SF in the theater of operations come down here and discuss how the Army change in philosophy is effecting the way we (CA) "support U. S. national objectives by assisting the government of a host or occupied area to meet its peoples’ needs and maintain a stable and democratic civil administration."

But that's just one gal talking. Since I doubt my proposed solution will be adopted in the next several hours, I'm going to cease and desist bitching. My immediate priorities include a nap and a little PT.

Awkward AND Annoying!

The past 18 hours have pretty much revolved around people peering at my crotch. The day started with a 0445 pee test, continued into a CLS class in a hot building, and was broken up only by the mandatory pre-deployment PAP smear and GYN checkup.

I escaped that room as quickly as possible, and found my sergeant (who'd driven the truck over) racked out. Apparently, he adopted this particular napping posture to express his solidarity with his fearless leader.



[sigh]

The bright side is that I fully expect to be allowed - in fact, encouraged - to keep my trousers firmly pulled up and in place for the remainder of this mobilization.

The party just never ends

I haven't had much for y'all the past couple of days. We were on the range with our trusty M4s and shiny new M68 CCOs over the weekend. Tell you what - only the Army could make new toys, free ammo, sunshine and range time suck.

Got my team qualified without any major drama, although one needed a couple of tries and the other one will have to return to the zero range once they get him a front sight post that's, like, you know, straight up and down.

We did something today, but it was such an irrelevent check-the-box evolution that I've already forgotten what it was. Something with a sign-in roster.

The fun part after that was the retrieval and dragging upstairs of our unit's Big Black Boxes.



That's the ever-popular Stanley Mobile Job Box. The trusty old-school wheeled Contico is also popular. These make a fabulous sound when you drag empty ones up three flights of barracks stairs. We did have to call the entire operation to a halt so we could rustle up the officers who'd packed theirs full of crap, as we are not dedicated enough to schlep field-grade officer knick-knackery any further than required.

I have no idea why anyone would have packed one of those full coming here, since we'll probably need the space to pack all the not-really-necessary crap out of the piles of gear they keep issuing.

Highlights of this week are anticipated to include Combat Lifesaver training, the issue of more crap, and plenty of last-minute changes. Hilarity may well follow.

The upper body workout of Satan

The Interceptor Body Armor is good stuff. I've got a couple of wicked chunks of shrapnel at home on a shelf I pulled out of mine last tour. I am a believer. There's always word of something newer and better out there, but this stuff is nothing to turn up one's nose at.

However...in the ongoing attempt to make even combat as safe as is physically possible, and, in fact, to let nobody ever die for a lack of equipment, the Army has added, by my count, six pieces of additional crap to the IBA since the last time I had one. And, since they are new to us, and since this is a training environment, we are staring out by wearing every single piece of the system.

Ugh.

When I last did this, we wore the vest, plates, collar and throat pieces (well, gunner wore the throats). There was some other arm stuff I wore when riding in the turret, but most of our guys opted for mobility and skipped that when they were dismounted. And pretty much nobody ever wore the much-maligned "pecker protector."

It's a fine line between protection and agility, and it gets sorted out as time goes on. But as for the first day back in this system, attaching all available bits and pieces had us all grumbling this morning. Well, wearing all available pieces had us grumbling this morning. Attaching all the pieces had us grumbling last night.



"How the Hell does this..."

"What in the fuck is the supposed to be for?"

"How many damn pieces are there here?"

[sigh]

A bitching Soldier, they say, is a happy Soldier.

Free Stuff!

Okay - that might not be entirely accurate. Crap the Army gives me is not, I suppose, technically "free." You've paid for it, and, with only a one-year exception, so have I.

But I got a big bag of cool stuff, and I didn't have to fork over any cash, so that's good enough for me. We call it RFI - Rapid Fielding Initiative.

The long and short of it is - all the cool stuff that's out there that hasn't had time to filter through the Army's procurement and distribution process is simply handed to us during mobilization.

We kicked the old ALICE pack and frame to the curb, and got this adorable pair.



Aren't they cute? On the right we have the Great Big MOLLE Rucksack. Beats the heck out of the old metaland-pipe frame on the ALICE packs we were using. It's also supposedly a big improvement on the briefly-attempted plastic ALICE frame that seems to have crashed and burned shortly after release. One the left we have the companion assault pack, which can be attached to Giant Ruck or carried separately.

For carrying stuff one might want faster access to, they really hooked us by providing this year's premiere ensemble - the MOLLE Rifleman's Kit.



Although I'm not sure entirely why we were issued eight zillion rifle magazine pouches, it's a nice setup. However, experience in an M1114 teaches valuable lessons, and so the interesting part is minimizing the "pieces of flair" to keep one's sides and back more or less clear. I have a much easier time envisioning a requirement to unass my truck at a high rate of speed without hanging up than I do envisioning a situation in which I need 360 rounds and can't get to a fellow soldier or my vehicle.

We also have a Giant Pile of Extreme Cold Weather clothing, but that picture didn't turn out very well, and who wants to look at a giant heap of long underoos?

My personal highlight was the part where we chicks each got four desert tan Patagonia sports bras. That's one item we know the supply sergeant won't want back when we come home!

This is a dramatic improvement in issued gear over what I received when I did this in 2005. If we didn't want to use woodland ALICE gear clipped awkwardly to our DCU IBA that time, we had to go out and buy our own stuff. That sucked, and I'm glad we're not doing it any more. They're giving us what we need, at the beginning of the process so we can train with it, and everything matches.

Of course, there are more supply issue evolutions ahead of us, so we'll see how much crap we finally end up with. But if it continues to progress as well as the RFI did, I am prepared to be happily impressed.

All fun

all the time.

I've executed another move, and am back at the Groundhog Capital of the Eastern Seaboard.

We've made the jump from pre-mobilization to actual mobilization. Which means that things are about as annoying and confusing as can be imagined. They will remain annoying as long as we're here, but the confusion should ease in a day or so.

I got another anthrax shot today, narrowly passed a hearing test (I was sitting next to some LTC with a very active digestive tract, which didn't help me trying to catch the tones), and listened to several excruciating briefings.

Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen. However, it's not all dreary from that perspective. In my next post, I'll tell you about RFI - Rapid Fielding Initiative - in which process we receive a giant bag of really cool stuff.

Thanks

for all the kind words. It sucks the big one that the furry critters in our lives have such short lifespans in comparison to ours. But dog people (and, yes, cat people too), know that going in.

The saving grace of this happening right now is that things are very busy, so I haven't had too much down time.

Again, thanks for your support in this crappy time.

Sad day

We lost Casey today.

After a period of decline and a couple of scary days, she finally reached the point where mercy was the only option.

So I drove home from the Reserve Center (crying), and up to the vet (crying). Fortunately, the Mister handled the drive back (crying).

I've not had to do that myself, and it is truly one of the godawful things about being a grownup.

I've always been a fan of the idea that if there is any kind of Heaven, it involves our dogs, and that they are probably waiting for us in some sunny field, chasing squirrels and rolling in the grass. I did have to modify that a little for Casey, since her heaven would, based on her criminal record, probably feature black children on bicycles, riding slowly enough to catch.



Good dog. Good dog.

All this much fun

and a paycheck, too!

After a most enjoyable respite that largely involved nudity and good food, it's back to the grind. It's a sleeping-in-my-own-bed grind for a few more days, though, so that's nice.

Now...somehow, between three days ago and this morning, my belt has disappeared. My spare belt is packed up, but I remember seeing my primary one just last night.

[sigh]

The Mister has got to be counting the seconds until I get out of here for the duration, and his life is again free of giant heaps of foliage green crap strewn around the house.

Home

for a couple of days.

Have I mentioned lately how much I adore air conditioning, beer and yes, even hysterical dogs?

Escaped!

Not from the greater San Antonio area (yet), but I did get away from lovely Camp Rustic by throwing myself into a 15-passenger van that was headed to Gandalf AFB and pretending I had some pressing business here.

Lord knows that as we wind down, I have no pressing business there.

I thought I'd share with y'all a couple of shots of our lovely quarters. They're really not too bad, as little hut-things go.



Occupancy is 12 - six per side on cots. That's a little tight, but not awful. We have two female huts, and so we've got a little more space than that to stretch out. Concrete floors, little heaters, fan system.



There's a big long line of 'em - 17 in our row. I thought about taking a picture of the interior, but decided we can all do without that shot.

A plumbing problem in their latrine building has forced the men to share ours (we managed to get our own building after much lobbying). Normally, when we have to share a latrine, we designate and hour in the morning and an hour in the evening as "female shower time." It normally works out so we have a good hour on one end of the day, and a less desirable one on the other end.

But now...we are a little giddy with power, because, as our time here is short, a powerful ally sided with us and the men have the designated times.

Overheard yesterday from a male: You mean if I'm busy between 2000 and 2130, I don't get a shower?

Female soldier with shit-eating grin: That's about how it works! You get another block of time in the morning, though!
It truly is the little things in life that keep one going.

(an aside - it would be truly difficult to maintain this schedule for long. Not because of the shower issues, but because of the washing machine access. There are two washers and two dryers in each latrine, and it's very difficult to get your laundry done in a latrine you can't be in most of the day. We'd have to give the men the greater share of the day if we were going to be using the arrangement for very long)

Adventures in land nav

Actually, it wasn't that exciting. My team lacked a lieutenant or a private, usually the source for great land nav tales. We did learn, however, that when someone needs to crawl though thick brush with a compass, that someone ends up being me - not either of the very large gentlemen on my team.

As land nav courses went, this one lacked the usual fun parts. You know, the point signs that have fallen over, concealed coils of old concertina wire, giant ditches. It did have UXO, though, which always adds a little something.

We've continued with our relentless online-class-taking. We've also added a new activity in which a soldier is given two copies of his or her orders and then, over the course of the next several days, is asked for six or seven. Since we have no copiers, we are trying to figure this one out.

More fun

Just as we were starting to feel ahead of the power curve, it was decreed that we needed to complete more...[can you guess it? I bet you can!]...online training.

[sigh]

I'm also getting a little traffic from a news story about the heat issue.

I've got to admit to being a little uncomfortable with drawing any attention, but this is no fun if we're not pointing out the silly stuff and laughing about it.

That aside, I think we're about done with these journeys to the Land of Internet, so a little silence from here for a while should not be a cause for a alarm. We're not far from the end of this phase of our journey, so there's a light (and good A/C) at the end of the tunnel.

But in exciting news - tomorrow is LAND NAV! The potential hilarity level is high.

Looking silly

Yesterday, when I discovered I had to spend some quality time on the internet, I borrowed my team leader's car so I could drive to the Land of Internet.

My team leader, somewhat oddly, drives a VW bug. One of the newer ones.

Upon hearing that I was heading to Civilization, one of our captains volunteered to ride along with me. So we loaded up in the VW and prepared to take off. It was then that I first looked down. The Bug is a stick-shift. Not a problem, thougt Abby, so is the Jeep.

But the R...well, it was on the left of the 1. Not way over to the right, after the high end like I'm used to.

But the letters on the knob are like a guide, right? You put the knob in the appropriate pictured spot, and there you are. Right?

Wrong. I tried a couple of times and couldn't get the thing into reverse. So I pulled slowly forward out of the parking space, and all was well. The captain and I reached the land of the Internet, did our respective things, then took off. Or tried to take off.

The car would still not go into reverse. Finally running out of patience, the captain gave in to his Inner Guy and tried to find reverse while I stood on the clutch. Nada.

There was a curb in front of us, which precluded the creeping forward approach. So we opened our doors, extended the outboard legs, and rolled it far enough back to be able to pull out.

A repeat performance at a fast food place where we stopped, and we made it back to Camp Rustic without further drama. I caught up to my team leader later in the evening at a company meeting.

Sir, I asked, does your car have reverse?

He looked at me as though he had just realized he was going to be trapped with a retarded team sergeant for a year.

Umm...yeah. He paused. You know you have to push it down to get into reverse, don't you?

No, sir, I replied. But that explains it.

He paused, since we were having this conversation quietly while the first sergeant expounded at length about something or other. Suddenly, the picture in his head made him look back at me.

Hey, [Abby], he whispered. How did you guys back up then?

I glanced at him, extended my left leg, and made a pushing motion.

My team leader dissolved in giggles. The first sergeant shot him the Look of Death, and I did my best to sit and look appropriately innocent of any part in the loss of military bearing. You learn something new every day - I had never heard of such a thing. Down to get into reverse. How 'bout that?

Another Day

And I am almost finished with the Online Security Form From Hell. I actually shouldn't complain - I have some friends who have the really high-speed security clearances, and I know their process for granting/refreshing/renewing those is truly the Eigth Ring of Hell.

I'm managing to accomplish this while hanging out at a place that sounds like Gandalf Air Force Base. I'm still not sure what thought process led our leaders to do pre-mobilzation training that largely consists of administrative requirements at a camp with zero internet access, but it does give us an excuse to drive over here, where there's coffee, A/C and a good PX.

We keep picking up more soldiers, since we've had some at Civil Affairs school and other locations getting qualified to do a wide variety of things. We just picked up a company supply dude who is a PFC straight out of school. The poor guy showed up without his military ID card, so that adds just one more thing to wrestle with. [sigh] He has no idea how tortured he's going to be once we bring him online.

For the amount of actual stuff we accomplish on a daily basis, we're abnormally busy. That's both a characteristic of the Army, though, and a particular characteristic of the mobilization process. With people wandering in and out, here and there, it can take an amazing amount of time to get everyone to fill out a one-page form correctly. Then, when we get word that it isn't the correct edition of said form, it can take another day and a half to redo it.

Last time I did this, we came to the conclusion that the entire process is set up so that once you've been good and thoroughly mobilized, you're so annoyed you're begging to get on a plane headed overseas.

Too much fun

The day started out silly, when I signed out a range so we could truck the entire company out to fire four - count 'em, four - rounds from our new-to-us M4 carbines. We acomplished the mission, though, which was to ensure, simply, that the rifles work.

(We could, and I swear this is the truth, get our hands only 120 rounds. Hence the 4-per thing)

The fun part ended, and now I am wrestling with that Mother Of All Nightmares - the online security clearance tool. Yep - Higher finally came back with a response to my request for some sort of written substantiation of this clearance they keep saying I have. Their response - what clearance?

[insert sound of head hitting desk here - repeat]

You know, the one that's a prerequisite for my job, which I've been doing for the last five years???

In typical Army fashion, though, since the whole situation is apparently quite confusing, I am now filling out the whole form again. Because, you know, that's what I do when I go the field - I take a list of everyplace I have lived and worked, along with points of contact at each.

So, I'm off to hate some more and wrestle with that ^%%^$*(& online application.

Every day a holiday,

every meal a feast. Or something like that.

We continue to sweat, and conduct a very small amount of actual training combined with a shocking amount of administrative goatfuckery. This would be more disturbing if it wasn't one of the constant parts of this process.

We have a muckety-muck type of guy on the ground here today, so we're all hiding or looking busy. I, for instance, am doing this entry in the background while completing some online risk management course.

Have I mentioned how much I hate online courses? I think I have.

I sat through a truly asinine class yesterday on a piece of software designed to assist us in cataloging infrastructure assessments. This might have been useful if the software was actually being fielded, but it's not, so it was more like sitting through an eight-hour timeshare sales pitch.

There's been some drama down here as a result of a formal complaint another unit lodged alleging horrible living conditions that subjected them to "grotesque heat." It is hot, but it's not grotesque. The unit in question, however, was moved from our current location to a hotel so that they may sleep in comfort. I won't name them, but I will say that I hope they're not around if I'm ever bleeding in the desert, since they probably wouldn't bring me a pressure dressing if it's above 85 degrees.

There's not much else to add from here. In addition to hiding, I have to go ensure my soldiers are packing their rucks with enough crap to give them a suitably heavy load for our practice ruckmarch this evening.

[sigh]

I can't believe they actually pay me to have this much fun.

Too much fun

[ugh]

Has anyone noticed how much fun South Central Texas is this time of year? Especially without a/c?

The bad news is, the days are really hot. The good news is, it cools off enough at night to sleep comfortably.

I've been only semi-busy, engaging in all the fun stuff - re-entering the exact same info into multiple databases and onto multiple DA forms, getting a gas mask fitting, and taking mandatory classes. I'm two days through an "IED Defeat Trainer" class. That's consisted largely of looking at slides featuring photos of dirt and being asked, "can you spot the IED?"

Well, partner, if we could spot them, they wouldn't be such a problem, would they?

In more entertaining news, I was trapped in a porta-jon for a brief period of time by one of the colony of skunks here. Said skunks seemed to find it amusing to hang out in front of the porta-jon and watch me try to figure out if I dared to walk out right next to it. I didn't dare, but then again, I didn't get sprayed, either.

More updates as time passes, now that I've found a fellow Soldier with one of those nifty Verizon internet cards.