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'.