We Happy Few

In an unexpected antithesis to my “Merry Freakin’ Christmas” post, I found Christmas Eve and Christmas Day here in the IZ to be quite pleasant and even memorable thanks, in part, to the Marine Corps major general who runs our Plans shop and our local Catholic chaplain.

On Christmas Eve afternoon, we had a Hail and Farewell, hosted by our Deputy Chief of Staff, a Marine Corps major general. We greeted new arrivals and presented end of tour awards to those who would be headed home in the next thirty days. At the end of the presentations, the general made some remarks which likened our presence together in Baghdad, a combat zone, as this year’s substitute family. He challenged us to look to each other as brothers because serving together, especially here, likened us as a family. He said we were here in Iraq at an auspicious time; the last six months have seen a remarkable down turn in ethno-sectarian violence and, unless things took a dramatic turn for the worse, we can say we were here at the turning point of this conflict. Each of us, in their own way, has contributed. To paraphrase Shakespeare’s Henry V, on the cold, rainy eve of the Battle of Agincourt, “We shall be remembered -- we few, we happy few, we band of brothers; and those at home, now-a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here whiles any speaks that fought with us upon this day.”

This morning, at Christmas Day mass, our Air Force chaplain similarly challenged us in his homily to reflect on the circumstances that brought us together this year. How many, he asked, could predict last Christmas, surrounded by those we love most, that we would come together from diverse countries like the United Kingdom, Italy, Kenya, Romania, and Poland, to spend Christmas together in Baghdad? We are all called by a higher purpose in our service to our respective countries be us military, civilian or contractor. This is memorable, he reminded us, and should rank with our collective set of treasured memories of Christmas. And like the spiritual promise represented by Christmas, our presence in Baghdad is the result of a promise delivered in part by all of us to make a difference here.

Merry Christmas to all.

Rico's Day Off

No one was more surprised than me when my immediate supervisor, an army Lieutenant Colonel, told me a few days ago, “Rico, this Sunday you’ll have the entire day off.” Each member of our three-man planning team is to have one full day off every month. I turned to two civilian friends who work for the FBI and DEA and are part of the Embassy’s Legal Attache (LEGAT) office. Their work regularly takes them around the International Zone and they agreed to give me a driving tour of the some of the sites.

We first crossed the 17th of July bridge over the Tigris River to the south bank. The bridge itself, and the area just on the other side of it, is still considered the Green Zone. Local Iraqis who work in the Green Zone can access it from the south over this bridge and its associated entry control point (ECP) on the south bank. After crossing the bridge, we walked on foot through the Coalition ECP onto a walk way. Along the way, we passed a bass relief monument to the construction of the bridge. On the extreme right of the relief was Saddam pointing and supervising to a multitude of construction workers. After walking more, we came to the Iraqi side of the ECP. Beyond was the “Red Zone,” that part of Baghdad not under Coalition control. We briefly stepped over the threshold (but still within control of the Iraqi army security forces) where I leaned over the concrete wall and snapped the first picture. The street was busy with traffic and there were people walking to and fro. It all refreshingly normal until my companions told me a story of an Iraqi housekeeper who worked in the Green Zone who was kidnapped from the very spot we were standing on. I suddenly felt very conspicuous in my uniform and body armor.

We walked back to the car, crossing back over the Iraqi and Coalition sides of the ECP. I made it point to greet every Iraqi I saw in Arabic (Sabah al Haer or Salaam). Most were surprised to hear someone in uniform speak this way and I even got a few smiles which was gratifying.

We did a cursory walk around the vehicle to check for any tampering (read, placement of explosives), crossed the bridge and drove west along the north bank of the Tigris. We drove past the walled US New Embassy Complex which is nearing completion. When complete sometime in mid to late 2008, all US Embassy personnel will leave the Republican Palace and work out of this new compound.

The drive took us to another edge of the Green Zone, the gate that leads to Route Irish. I had been here before on my previous trips to Victory Base Complex aboard the Rhino Runner and State Department SUVs. We U-turned and drove back into the Green Zone, turning north arriving at the famous Crossed Swords compound.

Saddam used this area to review military parades and had it constructed shortly after the end of the ruinous Iran-Iraq War (1980-1989). On either end of the parade ground are two sets of massive curved crossed swords held by giant hands. Many say the massive sculpted hands were modeled directly from casts of Saddam’s hands. Given his megalomaniacal tendencies, I believe this is true. Surrounding the base of each hand holding a sword are littered forty to fifty Iranian army steel helmets cemented in place, representing defeat of Iranian troops. A similar set of Iranian helmets are cemented into the asphalt roadway in neat rows resembling speed bumps which, back in the day, allowed Iraqi troops and vehicles to march ceremonially over them.

We explored both sets of crossed swords and then actually went into the central parade reviewing building, long since looted and abandoned after the invasion in 2003. After a climb up a dark staircase, we emerged into the sunlit reviewing stands. The center set of reviewing stand seats featured mysterious black plastic tubes which split into a v-like shape. After some inspection, I realized the tubes were air conditioning vents that came up from the floor to allow Saddam’s guests to view martial splendor in comfort. We admired the view, and imagined what it must have looked like watching divisions of Saddam’s touted Republican Guard march by the stands.

Inside the building was a large central atrium dominated by a modern looking, but ruined, chandelier. Flanking the atrium on either side were large assembly rooms whose long thin glass windows all were broken. One of the rooms had its entire marble floor ripped out by looters. Although the building was ruined it still managed to retain an air of grandeur. One could imagine important military related functions held at this place.

We hopped back in our armored SUV and drove to lunch at the Freedom Cafe, one of several authentic Iraqi restaurants in the Green Zone. This was a special treat for me; the only meals I’d had in country were provided by KBR at the DFAC. We sat down amongst Iraqis who worked in the Green Zone and ordered roasted chicken, lamb kabobs, babaganoush, and pita bread. It was fantastic. As our food arrived, my DEA friend spotted a Kurdish Iraqi Policeman he knew who had just returned to Baghdad after attending his brother’s wedding up north. He joined us and had a pleasant meal together. The policeman took the liberty of ordering tea for all us after dinner. Arabs drink sweetened Ceylonese tea. I had become a big fan of the tea during a trip to Egypt in early 1992 but had not had any since then. The taste of the tea brought back many good memories of that trip, taken with friends.

After lunch, we drove to the Baghdad Operations Center (BOC), a building near the foot of the 17th July Bridge, where a Joint Task Force of FBI, DEA, and other federal law enforcement agencies work together. It is surrounded by a walled compound that includes a soccer field with actual grass (green is such a rare color here). The FBI was hosting a flag football game against a team of military engineers. We watched the game in the afternoon chilly air, perfect football weather. The FBI team won.

Merry Christmas

Merry freakin' Christmas from Baghdad everyone!

Just Row

I’m getting to the gym on most days; it is a welcome break in the middle of the afternoon. But with more visits comes the need to change up the routine. I usually mix 30 minutes on the elliptical with weights. But in the last few days, I’ve discovered the rowing machine. Lately, I’ve taken to rowing 5000 meters which takes around 25 minutes and is more strenuous than the elliptical machine.

Rowing also has a metaphorical meaning out here which is best articulated by a quote, posted in our office space, from the movie, Ben Hur: “Now listen to me, all of you. You are all condemned men. We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well, and live.” So says Quintus Arrius. In many ways, the headquarters staff is the ship and we, the staff officers, keep it moving inexorably forward. From our narrow view, we can neither see the ultimate destination nor get a sense of the ship’s course. We can, however, hear the drum and see some of the water rushing by in between strokes.

With the holidays upon us, five of my co-workers are taking their mid-tour rest and recuperation leave and will be gone for at least three weeks, when travel to and from the US is taken into account. Two of my co-workers will first take their leave and then perform a three-week assignment on the east coast. In short, there are fewer rowers. The acting chief of our planning shop, the same Navy captain who greeted me in the transient tent on my first day, advised those of remaining that we’ll have to “row faster.”

Al Faw Palace

Last week, I attended the big New Comer’s Brief, held at Victory Base Complex (VBC) at the famous Al Faw Palace. Saddam built the Al Faw Palace to commemorate the Al Faw campaign fought during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988). It’s one of the more opulent palaces and, today, serves as the headquarters for Multinational Force Iraq (MNF-I). The brief is held one a month and provides some insight into all the moving parts that make up MNF-I, US Mission Iraq (USM-I) -- the State Department’s presence, Multinational Corps Iraq (MNC-I), the subordinate command to MNF-I made up of actual multinational divisions (MNDs), and various other commands involved in the reconstruction of Iraq.

Getting there from the IZ meant another Rhino outing. Between forty and fifty of us from the IZ made our way, wearing bulky IBA and helmets, to the staging area near the Embassy and rode over early in the morning. I got another daytime view of Route Irish which now, seemed almost familiar and routine. Like my previous ride in the State Department Suburban convoy, Route Irish and the surrounding Sunni neighborhoods looked well inhabited with a fair share of civilian traffic riding along the route. Coalition member troops and Iraqi Army personnel manned various check points along the way and all looked well organized.

The Rhino convoy dropped us off within walking distance of the Palace which sits in one of the man-made lakes that dot the VBC. One enters the palace via a causeway over the water. The central room of the palace features one of the biggest chandeliers ever built (although it is made mostly of plastic) which is nevertheless, impressive.

Also in the central room is a famous throne, or more accurately, a big gaudy couch, presented to Saddam by former Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) chief, Yasser Arafat many years ago. It’s a favorite picture spot with CF members. It features a representation of the Al Aqsa Mosque, also known as the Dome of the Rock, in Jerusalem.

During the briefing, held in an adjoining ballroom, my eyes wandered to the ceiling which featured inlaid designs with Saddam’s now familiar initials, carved in Arabic calligraphy. Even while daydreaming, Saddam demanded your attention when in one of his palaces.

Fleece Envy

Being winter, it’s surprisingly cold here, especially in the early morning, which is something none of us consciously thought of when preparing to deploy; at Ft. Jackson, we scoffed when we were issued black fleece jackets and over pants along with DCU patterned gortex hooded jackets and over pants. I certainly am laughing no more; being light of bulk (i.e., skinny) I regularly wear the black fleece jacket on my morning walk from Poolside Camp to the DFAC and on to the Palace. By mid-day, the temperatures here in Baghdad rise to the low, and comfortable, 70s F. The days of hellish 130F highs are still a long way off so, despite it being a little chilly, everyone is enjoying the mild weather.

Everyone, except for members of the U.S Air Force who, as it was recently identified by a force-wide email, are forbidden to wear the black fleece jackets that were issued to them by their parent commands before coming here. Currently, the Air Force is transitioning from DCUs to their newly designed Airman Battle Uniform (ABU), which features a light gray and blue “tiger stripe” digital pattern similar in concept to the Army’s Army Combat Uniform (ACU). Some of the Air Force personnel who have been here a while are still wearing DCUs and those more newly arrived sport ABUs. Regardless, it seems they are not allowed, per Air Force uniform regulations, to wear the black fleece jackets. Such are the penalties for maintaining “the high appearance standards of the Air Force,” as quoted in the email that went out.

The fellow Navy officer I replaced suggested I read, “Catch-22” while here. I am beginning to see why.

Perfume Palace

Most of my Navy colleagues from NIACT live and work at Camp Victory and work in several palaces there which sit, picturesquely, alongside man-made lakes. Nowadays, the palaces function as office space for Coalition Forces. On 29 NOV 07, I attended a meeting at the Perfume Palace at Camp Victory. According to some reports, this palace was used by Saddam’s sons, Uday and Qusay, as a sort of brothel. The palace got its name by those who claimed it still smelled like perfume when coalition forces entered it in the spring of 2003.

Getting there meant going in a daytime convoy, this time courtesy of the State Department. We left in a convoy of four up-armored black Chevy Suburbans operated by very tough, heavily armed, professional men dressed in civilian clothing. You get the idea. This would be my first opportunity to see Route Irish in the daytime.

We left in the early afternoon, making our way through the crowded streets of the International Zone eventually arriving at the check point that leads out to Route Irish. A warning sign, vaguely cold-war-esque, warned us we were leaving the International Zone and that weapons should be loaded. Out on the open road, I saw regular civilian traffic: passenger cars, bongo trucks, jeepnees, etc. After four years of dealing with armed coalition convoys, Iraqi drivers know to pull to the side of the road. Those in the know here tell me Route Irish has been clear for numerous months, reflecting the general drop in violence in Iraq. In the early days of the war, Route Irish was notorious for Sunni insurgent attacks and Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). It earned the nickname, “IED Alley” and “the most dangerous road in Iraq.” Today, those dubious titles now belong to other routes and convoy operations between the IZ and Camp Victory have taken on an almost routine nature. Still, no one is slacking; stringent security measures remain in place.

Route Irish mostly is a straight, east-west route from downtown Baghdad to Camp Victory and the greater Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) cutting through traditionally Sunni neighborhoods. Along the route, Iraqi Police and Coalition check points check all traffic. Over concrete T-walls placed along the route, I caught glimpses of suburban neighborhoods constructed of the same sandstone brick so prevalent in Iraq. It makes for a monochrome landscape.

Our trip was uneventful and we arrived at Camp Victory, driving directly southwest to the Perfume Palace for our meeting. After our convoy parked, we were met at the door by our hosts who took us up six flights of marble stairs to the top floor of the palace. The roof is particularly ornate and is dominated by a spectacular, but mostly plastic, chandelier (unfortunately, no photos were allowed).

We didn’t get much time to sight-see; we were issued into an adjoining conference room and had our meeting. When it was over, we left the palace and drove back in the late afternoon to the Green Zone without incident.

Palace Thrones

While I may live in a trailer, I work in a palace. Saddam built many, many palaces throughout the country (I think they number in the low hundreds). Now that I’ve been in several, I can say that my bathroom experience has peaked. No longer need I frequent port-o-lets and wet crappers. Courtesy of Saddam’s former regime, I am in toilet nirvana.

The bathrooms in the Republican Palace all are lined with multi-colored marble and are large - about half the size of my trailer living space in some cases. The restrooms in the north ballroom were made to accommodate big functions and are quite spacious. The men’s room has a bank of urinals and upwards of fifteen toilets, each in their own marble-lined room with an oak door.

That Smell

Remember this post where I said Baghdad smelled different than Kuwait? It's burning garbage, FYI.

Trailer Park

With my arrival in the International Zone, the tendency of the quality of quarters to degrade with my arrival at a new location finally reversed. The IZ is surrounded by numerous residential camps with such inviting names as “The Palms,” “Riverside,” “Poolside,” and “Embassy Suites.” Despite such creative names, all are trailer parks. Still, such trailers are the best quarters in theater.

The day following my arrival, I was assigned a wet trailer, that is, a trailer with an attached bathroom with true running water in the Poolside camp. Such trailers usually house four military or two civilian occupants who share the central bathroom. My side of the trailer measures only 10 x 12 feet, small by terrestrial standards, especially with a roommate, but luxurious and spacious by shipboard standards. The living space features a refrigerator, TV and air conditioner/heater.

After arriving, I quickly received word that my Navy colleagues assigned to nearby Camp Victory (from which I convoyed on the Rhino the night after I arrived at Baghdad) all were assigned dry trailers. Showers and toilets (wet crappers, I’m told) usually range from between 50 to 100 feet away. This makes the four AM visit to the bathroom much more complicated, requiring donning some type of outerwear and some kind of foot ware. In the winter, Camp Victory get notoriously muddy with rain. You get the picture.

Psychologically, it was gratifying to finally unpack with the knowledge I wouldn’t be repacking within a few days and hauling all that gear around. One sea bag and my suitcase were completely unpacked with clothes and uniforms. Two sea bags remain packed with gear I was assigned back at Ft. Jackson and that I won’t be using while assigned to the IZ (e.g., ruck sack, sleeping bag, rain gear, chemical gear, etc.).

When I arrived, I had a roommate, a laconic Army major of the Engineer Corps, who volunteered to come out of retirement for a one year assignment. He wasn’t very talkative and appeared hooked on Soduku puzzles. One night, I went to sleep as he sat on his bed working on a puzzle book and awoke the next morning with him in the same position. He had, of course, gone to sleep. He informed me he was getting ready to go home within the next few days. And after a few, he was packed and gone. It’s been wonderful to have my own room now for two weeks; the IZ is so cramped whenever one goes that it’s gratifying to have a space of my own. I hope it will go on although I imagine I’ll get another roommate eventually.

The Chicken Dance

There’s not much to do here but work. KBR folks here run a great Morale, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) program that includes Karaoke Nights, Movie Nights, Salsa and Swing Dance Lessons but these activities tend to be frequented more by people with less demanding work schedules than those of us in the military. Still, every night, at 2100 sharp, the North Ballroom formally ends the day’s (and night’s) work with the Chicken Dance. When first described to me, I was sure I didn’t understand. “You know, the ‘Chicken Dance’? they said, “That song they play at baseball games and weddings?” I explained that, having grown up in southern California, I was unfamiliar with it. But, okay, so they play the Chicken Dance. “Oh, we throw things back and forth at each other.” “Like what?” I asked. “Nerf balls, Frisbees, decks of cards, whatever lands in our office area.” This is possible because our office pens don’t have ceilings. Like the ballroom’s original function, no one quite knew who originally started this peculiar tradition or, for that matter, who actually played the music. The wooden office pens prevent anyone from seeing over to the next area.

As it got closer to 2100, one of my co-workers produced a Turkey Call. I heard it before seeing it. This seemed to spark whistling and general anticipation from other denizens of the ballroom. Soon, quite close by, I heard the strains of the immediately recognizable Chicken Dance song. Some people sang along wordlessly, others clapped during the chorus. And, of course, all manners of nerf-like objects started flying through the air. My co-workers produced a cardboard box and passed around tennis balls and other sundry missiles which we launched to other office areas.

At one point, a somewhat substantial ball, a little smaller than a volleyball, bounced close to me. I though, hey, why not launch it like a volleyball? I lobbed it into the air and hit it in an overhand serve which careened just below the wall of our office pen and into a horizontally mounted fluorescent bulb assembly. The force of the collision dismounted the bulb and spun it onto the lip of the office wall. It hovered there momentarily and then fell over into the next office pen. This, of course, elicited great whoops and laughing from my co-workers who were happy to see the new guy commit such a faux paux.

After the song ended, I went to the next office pen and found, to my relief, that the occupants had left earlier in the evening. The bulb however had shattered on impact with a desk that housed their coffee maker and coffee-related materials. Another co-worker and I grabbed a broom and dust bin and we cleaned everything up. As far as I know, they are none the wiser. Thankfully, my actions did not result in any new nicknames around the office. The next night, the Army colonel who runs our office was told about my gaffe. He looked at me sternly and said, “Have your wife teach your kid sports.”

The Emerald City

I was awoken to the sound of a Navy Captain, a very senior officer equivalent to an Army Colonel, saying my name. This is not the way one wants to wake up. Given my penchant of sleeping with a watch cap covering my eyes, a habit I developed during my stay in the open bay barracks at Fort Jackson in order to get to sleep early, I had slept until nearly 1130. Having such a senior officer come find me was both disturbing and shocking; I bolted out of my sleeping bag and groggily went through introductions. It turns out he worked in the office I was assigned to and was the only one around that morning to come collect me (the Good Samaritan Navy Commander from the previous night had left a message that I was in the transient tents).

I quickly dressed and accompanied him to the DFAC for lunch. In the daylight, the Palace looked just as impressive only now there was a multitude of people, some in uniform – some in civilian clothes, walking to and fro. Overhead, US Army Blackhawk helicopters flew into and out of nearby Landing Zone (LZ) Washington, located on the other side of the Palace compound. Gators, the same type of armored golf cart I had rode in the previous night, rode past us. Heavily armed, up-armored HUMVEEs, which either had arrived or were preparing to leave on convoys, also were visible parked in recesses along the road and near the palace.

During lunch at the DFAC, the captain told me there were really only three types of days: Mondays through Thursdays and Saturdays were the same; the work day began at 0730 and ended at 2100 with a multi-hour break for lunch and individual physical training (PT). On Fridays, the usual morning briefings took place at 0900 so we could come in late. On Sundays, there was no update briefing and we didn’t start work until 1300. The “Groundhog Day” syndrome took only one week to come into effect, he told me. Cool.

After lunch, we walked the entire lengthwise part of the Palace, starting at the south end, to our office space located in the North Ballroom area of the building. Along the way, we passed the central portion of the building where a 24 hour Green Beens Coffee shop (the most important service in the building) and an Internet Cafe resided in an ornate lobby or ballroom. Along the same hallway was the barber shop and a diminutive version of the DFAC, where one could get sandwiches and light fare. Everywhere, tacky chandeliers hung from the ceilings and inlaid marble floors and ceilings stretched before us. Saddam’s decoration tastes ran squarely in the gaudy category. Perhaps it looked better before the coalition took over. Probably not, I decided.

The building, for now, is the US Embassy and is run by the Department of State. However, the military has many people here running Multinational Force Iraq. A new embassy building is in the works down the street but, as of the time of my arrival, no concrete plans exist for its opening.

We arrived finally at the opposite end of the palace – the North Ballroom. Crossing through another check point we entered the ballroom proper. The floor is white marble with colossal green columns running the length of either side of the room. Each green marble column features a gold colored statue, adorned in a niche, presumably representing some achievement of the Iraqi state under Saddam. The statues have a vaguely socialist realism look to them and could have been designed by some Soviet-era artist: men and women in heroic agricultural and revolutionary poses. The ceiling is equally ornate: a white roof crossed with diagonal beams inlaid with turquoise and gold motifs. Later, someone pointed out to me that the flowery designs in the beams were actually the Arabic script for “SH” Saddam’s initials.

The “offices” here were constructed by building wooden office pens on either side of a long central hallway. Opening a wooden office door leads, usually, into a central office bull pen with smaller adjoining smaller offices for more senior officers. The result is a desk with a view of either end of the ballroom and those gaudy golden statues looking down on you. No one is quite sure what sorts of functions were held here. Likely, grand Iraqi state functions. Ironic now that the US military and Department of State use it for more mundane purposes.

Entering here was not unlike Dorothy’s entrance into the grand chamber of Oz; the color schemes are almost the same although, of course, there was no giant floating head dominating the room. Some people call the Green Zone “The Emerald City,” even though its official moniker is the International Zone, or IZ. Aside from the marble columns, nothing here is green; everything is expressed in shades of brown. Even the palm trees look predominantly brown due to the fine sand dust that permeates everything here.

The Rhino

The IZ is connected to BIAP via a 12 kilometer stretch of highway called Route Irish (during the initial invasion, Main Supply Routes – MSRs – were named after college and professional football team mascots). Initially unprotected, Route Irish was notoriously referred to as, “the most dangerous road in Iraq,” and was the site of many Improvised Explosive Device (IED) attacks on coalition forces. Nowadays, it’s much safer but everything here is relative. Rhinos, a uniquely designed armored bus, regularly convoy, between BIAP and the IZ day and night on changing schedules. For one journalist’s experience on the Rhino, read this article.

We loaded up our gear (recall, three heavy sea bags, suitcases, back packs, weapons, etc.) on a semi truck (also armored) and then boarded our assigned rhino. Everyone who rides the Rhino is required to don full IBA and helmet. Most people looked comfortable boarding a vehicle that looked liked it belonged to the climactic scene of “The Road Warrior.”

We left Camp Stryker in the middle of the night and the convoy made its way along Route Irish. I got a window seat and surreptitiously inserted a loaded magazine into my pistol. Not that having a nearly loaded weapon would make any measurable difference if we were attacked; it just made me feel better. (One would think that, as a member of the military, I would be allowed to carry a loaded weapon in a combat zone but this, paradoxically, is not the case.) There was not much to see during the drive and twists and turns made the route seem ominous that it was.
After about twenty minutes, we began passing through heavily defended check points signaling our arrival at the Green Zone. Eventually we stopped in a lit compound/parking lot and were told to de-board. We formed a human chain and unloaded everything off the armored semi and laid it out along painted lines in the parking lot and were told to stand aside. I looked up for the first time to see the ruins of some impressive building in the near distance, I was told, the former headquarters of the Republican Guard. Was this one of the buildings I had seen blown up live on CNN back during the so-called “Shock and Awe” campaign of 2003? Now here I was.

As I gawked, Dog handlers appeared and their charges sniffed our luggage for contraband. I hoped the dogs weren’t checking for explosives as I knew there was ammunition residue all over my sea bags (and on me). After they were done, we were told to collect our luggage.

There were about three of our group still traveling together. A navy commander met us in the parking lot and told us he would be helping us get settled. It was well past 0230. Thankfully, he had a small 4 x 4 ‘gator’ – a sort of armored golf cart. We piled way too many sea bags and suitcases into its small bed and left the Rhino staging area. We drove, slowly, through the deserted streets. It was only then that I began looking around and saw the palace.

Saddam’s Republican Palace, which functioned as his main seat of power and was untouched during the war because many thought it had important documentation and records housed inside, dominates the central part of the IZ. It was all the more impressive as we drove along side it, lit up by strong sodium lights. Now it is home to the US Embassy and much of the headquarters for Multinational Force-Iraq (MNF-I), the organization I would be augmenting. The building was designed to be impressive; it’s made of sand-colored limestone, and features carved eagle heads and winged gryphons, calling to mind some giant Egyptian or Babylonian temple. The gaudy, Stalinesque, “Saddam the Warrior” bronze head statues, which adorned roof platforms on either end of the palace were removed shortly after the war.

Our guide, took us to the KBR Billeting Trailer, manned 24 x 7, and arranged temporary housing for us. I ended up in a colossal transient tent, more like a small building, adjacent to the south end of the Palace. I dumped my gear, unrolled my sleeping bag on an empty bed and fell asleep. It was 0430.

Getting to the International Zone

Well, before I actually got my actual game on, I had to get to the place where I will work: the International Zone which lies around twelve kilometers east of BIAP/Camp Victory. For the majority of us who arrived today, ultimate work assignments were in Camp Victory proper. Some were met by representatives of the various offices and activities they where here to work for and were shuttled off in small vehicles. For those of us going to the International Zone we were informed we had to board a shuttle to nearby Camp Stryker and arrange further transportation to the IZ. A quick review of articles in the media about getting around Iraq shows a constant theme: hurry up and wait. When our small group arrived at Camp Stryker at approximately 0830, we were informed the Rhino shuttle, a convoy armored buses wouldn’t leave until the early hours of the next day. Ironic that the last twelve or so kilometers would take nearly twenty hours to cross. With lots of time to kill, our group first acquired space in a transient tent to relax and catch up on some sleep. Later, we ventured into the camp and stopped in the food court area since we missed breakfast at the DFAC. After the early lunch I dozed in the tent for three hours to catch up on sleep.

We spent the day walking around Camp Stryker, alternately visiting the small food court area, the PX, and the transient waiting lounge/tent (nicknamed, "The Stables"). At 2000 we formally signed up for the Rhino. The lounge was full of other transients, both civilian and military, also waiting to get to the Green Zone. I played cards with two women who work for Kellog, Brown & Root (KBR), a contractor who provides major services support for the Green Zone. One was finance manager and the other was a contracted fire fighter who was returning from a vacation in Australia with her boyfriend, also a KBR firefighter but who is assigned to Baghram, Afghanistan. We only had time for a short game when, in the early morning hours of 11 NOV, the Rhino convoy arrived.

Flying to Baghdad

We returned to Camp Virginia the evening of 10 NOV expecting to leave for Iraq the next day, giving all time enough for repacking and some rest. Instead, we were informed that those of us going to Baghdad would be leaving at 0245 hours, technically, yes, the next day, only closer. We all rushed to dinner and then took showers to get several layers of fine Kuwaiti sand out of various parts of our bodies and started repacking. I grabbed three hours of sleep, woke up, grabbed my gear and loaded it onto yet another bus. We drove to another air base and boarded an Air Force C-17 transport for the one hour flight to Baghdad. We left around 0700 on 10 NOV. Thankfully, the flight was uneventful.

We landed around 0800 at Baghdad International Airport, referred to collectively as BIAP, which, in turn, is surrounded by the vast Camp Victory Complex. When the rear half of the C-17's loading hatch came down, we all got our first look at Iraq. It smelled different from Kuwait, more urban, with copious palm trees on the horizon. As we walked out of the plane, two AH-64 Apache attack helicopters flew nearby over the adjacent runway, banked right and flew off over the city. It was a powerful visual. We were here. Game on.

Convoy Exercise - Udairi Range

The next morning, we boarded our HUMVEEs at 0630 and continued our practice session. We ironed out problems not covered the previous day and, at 0900, rolled out from another simulated FOB onto the real range which featured role players, good guys, bad guys and pyrotechnics. It was great but, since it deals with real operational techniques, I won’t elaborate. However, we solved four of five technical problems (that is, we were blown up only once).

Camels!

During our CQC exercise, we saw our first camels. A herd appeared on the far berm which caused a temporary shut down of the range. Our instructor explained that Udairi was all open range and that indigenous camel and goat herders had right of passage here. We all gawked to see them; even far way they looked big.

In the late afternoon of the next day, our section boarded nine HUMVEEs and practiced maneuvering in a different part of the range. While stopped to review one of the convoy problems for tomorrow’s exercise we spotted another herd. We didn’t think much until all of a sudden, the camels were in our midsts. They are BIG. Compare them to our vehicles. Thankfully, none of them spit at us.

Udairi Range - Kuwait

The following day, we packed yet another sea bag for our two and a half day stay at the Udairi Range complex. We traveled for about forty minutes north into the desert. Udairi Range is vast, so large in fact, that is covers two thirds of Kuwait (this is the part that has neither cities nor oil). As a result, there is no fence, per se, just a series of sprawling training complexes. We were at one particular complex that simulates life at a typical Forward Operating Base (FOB) in Iraq. In fact, we were only eight miles from the border with Iraq.

FOB life is austere; there is no running water but there is generator-provided power. Buildings are the current descendants of semi-circular World War II Quonset huts and are (thankfully) air conditioned. Our classroom also functioned as our sleeping area. After our first afternoon, we stacked chairs in the corner and spread out sleeping bags, while keeping our sea bags outside. We also set a rotating watch for our gear. No one really slept well and we looked back nostalgically at our bunk bed equipped tents at Camp Virginia.

The next day we woke at 0400, ate an MRE for breakfast (penne pasta in spicy sauce, for me), put our on IBA and marched in the pre-dawn darkness to a weapons range. Udairi is run by a contracting company whose staff consists of retired senior army enlisted personnel. My section’s instructor for the day was a retired army first sergeant (E-8) who saw action in both Iraq and Afghanistan. We shot a close quarters combat (CQC) course. While at Fort Jackson, we learned basic marksmanship with our pistols and rifles. CQC stresses fighting at much closer ranges, typically moving while firing. We each received sixty rounds of ammunition for the day (not that much but better than nothing).

Like many army activities, our drills were done via exercise commands, not unlike our PT exercises at Fort Jackson, shouted first by our instructor echoed back as a group. For example, the instructor would shout, “The Walk Stop Turn and Shoot!” Us: “The Walk Stop Turn and Shoot!” Him: “Fighter Stance!” Us: “Fighter Stance!” Him: “Ready!” Us: “Ready!” Then we would walk away from the targets, pause, look over our shoulder at the target, pivot 180 degrees, fire two shots at our targets, and pivot back the other direction. Accordingly we spent a lot of time on safely executing these firing drills as we were close together.

The afternoon was spent indoors with another, charismatic, instructor, Mr. Massey, another retired Army First Sergeant with a lot of combat experience, who prepared us for the culminating convoy exercise to be held the next day. He taught us about how convoys have adapted to the enemy’s tactics, techniques and procedures (TTPs), how our own TTPs changed in response, and how the enemy counter-responded. HUMVEEs today in Iraq are third generation, up-armored variants (M1114) which are very blast resistant to roadside improvised explosive devices (IEDs). Our convoy course would run though simulated Iraqi towns and feature five check points where different problems, all drawn from real life operations, would be encountered.

In keeping with our training program’s focus of encouraging junior leadership, a female junior officer was designated as our section’s convoy commander. She quickly rose to the challenge and we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening mission planning. My assignment was easy; a passenger in vehicle three whose focus would be as a gun truck and traffic control. My responsibilities were too easy, as they say in army training: scan five meters out in the event of a vehicle stop and dismount and patrol out to twenty-five meters in the event of a prolonged stop.

Camp Buehring - Kuwait

After a few days of adjusting to the time difference we had our first real training evolution, HUMVEE Evacuation Training, held at nearby Camp Buehring. We boarded buses and traveled there in the afternoon. Since there were three sections of us and only two simulators, our section had to wait an hour and a half. Camp Buehring looked a lot like Camp Virginia only all the familiar components (port-o-lets, wet crappers, prefab buildings, etc.) were arranged differently only slightly reinforcing the concept we actually were, in fact, somewhere else. It did have a bigger BX/PX (Base Exchange) store. Informally rating a particular base or camp’s PX seems to be the yard stick of one’s relative level on the standard of living scale. In this case, Buehring rates higher than Virginia.

We reported back and took turns sitting in a HUMVEE simulator that pivoted along its central axis and that turned a full 180 degrees, simulating a vehicle that has completely flipped over. The regular passengers don’t have a problem, provided they are wearing their seat belts. It’s the vehicle’s gunner, who sits/stands in a turret who faces the most risk. He/She calls, “Rollover!” if the vehicle tips more than 25 degrees off axis and drops into the crew compartment. The rest of the passengers grab the gunner’s torso and legs accordingly during the rollover to keep them in place. We each got to perform the drill once. Although the simulator’s rate of turn was very slow it still managed to completely disorient us. Operating the HUMVEE’s doors upside and down and turned around was a lot more difficult than anyone thought. I hope this doesn’t happen to me. Still, the training was fun.

Camp Virginia - Purgatory

Speaking of shell shocked, I’ve noticed a peculiar phenomena intrinsic to Camp Virginia: it’s a sort of Purgatory. The Marine Corps and Army personnel are returning here from extended combat tours of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan (often of fifteen months or more). The Navy personnel are arriving here on their way to extended Individual Augmentee tours between six and thirteen months. Either way, our existence here at Camp Virginia lies between the paradise of back home and the hell of Iraq/Afghanistan/Horn of Africa. We’re all here awaiting some kind of fate -- either the joy of returning home or the hardened resolve of going to get a particular job done somewhere in-country.

This manifests itself in the way people here carry themselves. We all walk, but mostly plod, through the shallow sand drifts on our way to and from the Dining Facility (DFAC) and the PX and the USO tent and the mini-mart. We’re constantly all walking somewhere but going nowhere. After all, we’re surrounded by, and in the middle of, nowhere. Everyone in my IA group desperately wants to be somewhere more real.

Camp Virginia Denizens

Camp Virginia is quite cosmopolitan; there are Coalition members here from Great Britain, Republic of Korea, Republic of Georgia, Poland, the Czech Republic, and the Fiji Islands. Of these, the Fiji Islanders are most ubiquitous, especially at the DFAC (curiously, no one seems to know what they actually do). Inside the PX, there is a wall were previous visitors have left name tags and ID pictures. I even found a sticker from the Naval Air Station Fallon, NV Search and Rescue Squadron; I was assigned at NAS Fallon as a reservist for four years between 2000 and 2004.

The DFACs are staffed with Asian Indians and the local maintainers of the camp (truck drivers) appear to be Kuwaiti.

The Navy uses the camp primarily for incoming personnel while the Army and Marine Corps use it for outgoing personnel. That is, the Army and Marine Corps use this pace to decompress before going back home. The Navy uses it to prepare and give final training for its personnel coming into theater. There is a constant litany of moving armored HUMVEEs and Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) rumbling through camp. Their electronics and communications gear wreak havoc with the tenuous WiFi network which I am using to keep the blog up to date. Some of the Marines I’ve seen look like they’re ready go home. They don’t look shell shocked, just ready to leave. I wonder if I’ll look like that a year from now.

Camp Virginia Training

Here at Camp Virginia, we’ll conduct one more week’s worth of training before reporting to our respective commands in Iraq, Afghanistan or Djibouti. We’ll get more HUMVEE instruction, including how to egress a HUMVEE that has flipped over -- an unfortunately common occurrence in theater -- and another convoy exercise which will include live fire and role players (the two of course, are mutually exclusive). The convoy exercise, to be held later this week, will be held in a remote area called the Udairi range where we will sleep over two nights. Udairi has none of the palatial amenities that we enjoy at Camp Virginia, thus preserving the trend of encountering worse quarters at each subsequent stop on this deployment.

Yesterday, we kicked off with the time honored practice of filling out travel claims that covered the first part of our deployment. If one has been in the military for more than week, one already knows that this process hardly ever works the first time. Yet, we have been assured the finance people here take great pride in fixing pay problems and executing travel claims.

At present, I’m only $125 in the hole, which was the charge for my week’s stay at the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters (BOQ) at NMPS, San Diego, whose lavish indoor plumbing, cable television, large bed, and hard wire Internet access, are now but a halcyon memory.

Crappers

Just as my three weeks at Ft. Jackson made me appreciate the plight of the common infantry man, so my day-and-half at Camp Virginia made me appreciate the genius of indoor plumbing. The crappers here come in two varieties: the common port-o-potty, or, as my attractive wife refers to them, port-o-lets, and the more Gucci wet crappers which feature flushing urinals and toilets.

The wet crappers (there must be a better name for them) stand imposingly two to a unit and have a stairway leading up to them. This gives the illusion one is arriving at some important place (all too true, of course, depending on one’s current biological condition). Inside can be found a sink, urinal and toilet and copious air fresheners. Trucks arrive in the morning and fill up a water tank at the top of the wet crappers and, separately, to pump out the septic tanks.

When either the sink, toilet or urinal is operated, gravity fed water flushes the corresponding apparatus and feeds to a septic tank below. I’ve already learned it is advantageous to use the facilities in the morning hours when there is still water available for flushing. An informal survey last night showed that most of these units run dry later in the day, effectively demoting the wet crappers into clogged up versions of the port-o-lets.

Camp Virginia - Kuwait

We previously were advised to prepare for an eight-hour evolution after landing before we could sleep. We arrived at 2330 local on 2 NOV, effectively losing a day in transit. I, along with thirty-nine others, volunteered to be baggage handlers. I don’t know what I was thinking as, one, I am not that burly an individual, and two, I was still suffering from acute tendonitis in my right forearm. Along with three others, I climbed up the conveyor belt into the belly of plane where we were greeted by a sheer wall of green sea-bags. Every third one or so was filled with heavy IBA. As we cleared more and more bags, we established a daisy chain where, to my horror, I found heavy sea-bags being hefted at me. I’m happy to report I was not knocked over.

After unloading sea-bags and weapons, which were in locked cases, into a awaiting trucks, we boarded air conditioned buses and drove for an hour to Camp Virginia, a staging camp for personnel coming into and out of theater. Our first real views of Kuwait came from behind curtained windows on the buses. Not much to see at night of course.

After arriving at Camp Virginia, we gave awaiting personnel our ID cards which were electronically swiped into bar code readers officially recording our arrival. Later, we learned that our Boots on Ground (BOG) counters started the date of our arrival -- 2 NOV. Only 349 to go.

Next, we unloaded weapons and sea-bags onto the sandy area in front of our twelve-man transient tents. Under less than ideal lighting conditions, I eventually reclaimed my three sea-bags and one rolling suitcase. Originally, I thought the rolling suitcase was a good idea since it had wheels. I round said wheels were useless in sand.

We piled into our air-conditioned tents and found more bunk beds and a few lockers. Since my bunk was nearest the door, I just set my bags nearby. After some perfunctory unpacking, we walked in darkness to the Dining Facility (DFAC) for breakfast at 0630. After a surprisingly good meal, I walked back, in emerging daylight to the tent to sleep.

Flying to Kuwait

The next evening, 1 NOV, we said goodbye to our drill sergeants and McCrady Training Center and boarded buses to Columbia Airport where a chartered MD-11 waited. We had a final good bye from the Task Force Marshall Company A commander, an aged Army Captain with bushy eyebrows, gray hair and a distinct Southern Carolina accent who quoted from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar:

Farewell! And whether we shall meet again, I know not.
Therefore, our everlasting farewell take:
For ever, and for ever, farewell!
If we do meet again, then we shall smile;
If not, ‘tis true this parting was well made.

We loaded our four to five sea-bags plus personal luggage into the plane and took off at 2245 local. Our itinerary took us to Bangor, ME for refueling. We arrived nearly at 0200 local and were met by Troop Greeters from the local Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) post. They were lined up, six or seven deep, and shook everyone’s hands as we deplaned. Most were Vietnam vets but there were also some were graying World War Two vets who, to a person, greeted us using army ranks (after all, not many planes arrive solely carrying Navy personnel). Although we were tired from just a few hours sleep, it was very touching indeed to see these vets who clearly cared deeply about what we were headed out to do.

We were ushered into a large waiting area which had open restaurants, coffee shops, and souvenir stands, all for our plane. I chatted for a time, with a Troop Greeter about local resident/philanthropist Stephen King; the Troop Greeter wore a black baseball cap that featured an LED flashing American flag. As I’m not a Stephen King fan, per se, the flashing flag served to keep me focused and awake. He was nice enough guy who, I’m sure, had better things to do than hang out at the Bangor Airport at two thirty in the morning.

After about an hour plus layover, we re-boarded and flew across the Atlantic to Leipzig, Germany. I managed to sleep through two in-flight movies but caught the hot meals. We landed some six hours layers in a light drizzle. My only other time in eastern Germany was in 1991 when I drove with my college roommate, Victor, in a rented Fiat Tipo from Paris to Prague. Sadly, all we saw on this visit was a special Leipzig/Halle airport lounge that caters to transient troops. It also featured a souvenir shop and beer, which we were not allowed, of course, to partake with.

After another hour, we once again re-boarded and flew another six hours to Kuwait. We enjoyed two more hot meals and two more movies (Live Free or Die Hard and Blades of Glory). As we got closer to landing, I noticed lights in the darkness below, my first view of Kuwait. Upon closer examination, I saw they were not lights at all but licks of flame coming from oil wells, natural gas burn off. These were same wells infamously torched by Saddam Hussein’s army as they retreated from Kuwait in 1991.

Southern Comfort

The night before our departure, 31 OCT, eight of us, primarily from my barracks, grabbed a cab and went to the Tombo Grille in Columbia for dinner. The restaurant featured a “Spook Easy” in honor of Halloween -- all of the waitress were dressed in coordinated 1920s flapper dresses. A jazz guitarist/vocalist played in the lobby next to an ornate (and fully stocked) bar. We ordered entrees that cost between $20 and $30 plus two bottles of California wine (Benzinger Cabernet and Coppola Claret) and desserts (real Key Lime pie, for me).

Midway through dinner two ladies came to our table, introducing themselves as Louann and Rita. Louann was dressed as a witch and Rita as a flapper. They asked what eight men were doing dining alone at Halloween and we told them it was our celebratory, pre-deployment dinner before flying to Iraq. They were instantly very concerned and wonderfully respectful -- a marked and welcome difference from the average person in northern California where I reside. They thanked us for our service and asked us to join them at the bar after dinner.

At the end of our meal, our waitress announced that we didn’t have a bill; Rita and Louann had taken care of it. Our waitress began to tear up and thanked us for our service. We were, to a man, shocked; an informal calculation of bill should have been upwards of $350 for the eight of us. We lamely went to the bar, where we were applauded by the people there, cheered on by Rita and Louann. We immediately bought a round of Kalua shooters for them and our waitress as another waitress sang “Ain’t Misbehavin’” in our honor, accompanied by the jazz guitarist. We stayed on for two more rounds. When we left, Rita and Louann hugged and kissed every one of us.

Never, in my seventeen plus years of military service, was I treated so well by perfect strangers. We love you, Rita and Louann, and the good people of South Carolina.

The Convoy Exercise

Today we had our big convoy exercise where we got to apply nearly everything we've learned here at Fort Jackson. Our mission to drive to a simulated Iraqi town and meet with the mayor/sheik about a recently opened girls school. We had nine HUMVEEs; three for the convoy, three to man an entry control point (ECP) outside the town, and three to act as a quick reaction force (QRF) to come to the aid of any other vehicles that may come under attack.

I was a truck commander for one of the QRF vehicles. I had a turret gunner and rifleman along with a drill sergeant who drove but otherwise did not participate as a player. The QRF stayed behind after the first six vehicles left and we waited to be called into action.

We didn't wait long; we received word via radio the main convoy was hit by an IED at a traffic roundabout. We drove over quickly and assisted in securing the scene. One vehicle was destroyed and one soldier was dead. As we were securing the scene, an insurgent opened fire on us. Luckily, we killed him before he killed anyone else. When we examined the body, we found he was sitting on several pounds of C4 explosive. We left the body alone and called Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD). We then remounted and continued on to the town.

On the way to the town, we were hit with another IED. One vehicle was damaged in the blast but was still drivable. With our turret gunner providing cover, we dismounted and established security. Our forces flushed out another insurgent and killed him. Another solider and I conducted the body search. The insurgent had a command detonator, rifle and ammunition. Luckily, there were no booby traps on this one. We confiscated all and moved onto the town.

The main convoy element, and one of our QRF trucks, went into the town. My vehicle was stuck with rear security. The convoy commander met with the mayor/sheik who told him the school needed pencils and water. He also said there were several suspicious foreigners (i.e., non-Iraqi Arabs) occupying a house in the center of town. A team was sent to clear the house and ended up in a fire fight. We lost one more soldier and another wounded. We killed one insurgent and captured another.

As I've written earlier in this blog, I now have undying respect for the common infantry man. It was very difficult moving around tactically in IBA when dismounted from the vehicles. Even in the vehicle, it was hard to work the radio because of the cramped conditions. Altogether, it was very eye opening experience.

Local Flavor

Here at Ft. Jackson we're all eating cafeteria food which has its ups and downs. For example, it's great if you enjoy scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast -- every day. We usually eat breakfast and dinner there when we have training in the field (where lunch consists either cold Meals Ready to Eat or sandwiches).

One of the best things about the cafeteria is the "Cuz" guy. He's a local hire who greets everyone in line with the phrase, "How 'bout it, cuz?" or "What'll be, cuz?" in an authentic South Carolina accent. It's the first time I can recall ever being called, cuz. By the end of week one we began answering back, "I'll have some Salisbury Steak with mashed potatoes, cuz." He usually has some snappy comeback, based on your choice of entree. "Aw, those sausages will make you run fast, cuz."

This evening he asked if we were still on schedule to finish our training this week and fly to Kuwait. I said we were. He said, "You be and sure an' tell the Navy folks over there the Cuz Guy says hi." It hit me that nearly every Navy IA in the last five years has had food served to them by this guy. We really like him.

Lunch with ADM Greenert

During our convoy exercises preparations, Admiral Jonathan Greenert, who heads Fleet Forces Command in Norfolk, VA visited Fort Jackson specifically to see hour our program is going. He ate lunch with us in the field and answered questions we had about the Navy's Individual Augmentee (IA) program, which we all were mobilized under regardless whether we are active duty or reserve component.

Although he only took over FFC a month ago, ADM Greenert was very well versed in what we IAs are going through and was keen to learn about any snags in the process of augmenting we experienced. I was fortunate enough to be one of twenty five or so sailors selected to eat lunch with him. It's gratifying to hear a four star admiral so concerned about us.

Convoy Preparations

Today we prepared for our big Convoy operation which takes place tomorrow. It's a sort of final exam which brings together all the training we've received during our time here at Fort Jackson. We will run a convoy operation of ten vehicles from our training area to a fake town on base. The town has buildings and will be populated with role players playing Iraqis. Along the way, we'll have to deal with potential threats to include Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) and insurgents (who will be role played by our own drill sergeants).

We took turns by platoon learning HUMVEE operation (yes, we got drive), practiced getting in and out of HUMVEEs with IBA on (harder than it looks), practiced room entry and clearing in groups of four, learned how to man an Entry Control Point (ECP) and otherwise learned about our over all mission during the exercise.

Based on the gleeful anticipation exhibited by the Drill Seargeants, we don't expect to live long during the exercise. Nevertheless, it should be great experience.

Full IBA

For the heavy weapons fire we were instructed to assemble full IBA. That is, we had to affix two additional side strike plates, two underarm pads, a neck guard, two deltoid pads, and the groin pad. All in all, another ten or so pounds. All of the pads are contain a small arms resistant kevlar weave. Two front and two side strike plates contain, to quote GlobalSecurity.org, "a boron carbide ceramic with a spectra shield backing that [is] an extremely hard material. It stops, shatters and catches any fragments up to a [rifle] 7.62 mm round with a muzzle velocity of 2,750 feet per second. It's harder than Kevlar."

You can see more of the side plates and deltoid pads in the movie below of me firing the M240B machine gun. Compare what I'm wearing in the photo above with the earlier version of IBA we wore last week to see the difference.

This kit saves lives in theater, no doubt, but it's heavy. In the barracks, we estimate it weighs 45+ pounds. Add the kevlar helmet, weapons, etc. and you're walking around with 50+ pounds of gear. That's quite an adjustment for a guy who stands 5' 8" but weighs only 140 pounds. My attractive wife says I should just suck it up.

Mk 19 Grenade Launcher

Here is a brief video of the Mk 19 Grenade Launcher. This fires 40mm grenades which explode on contact. Listen for the rounds going downrange followed by the explosions. The targets are old M113 personnel carriers.

M240B Machine Gun

Here is a brief video of me (yes, me) firing the M240B machine gun. It's mounted in a simulated HUMVEE turret.

The M240B replaced the venerable, but long in the tooth, M60 machine gun first used in the Vietnam era.

"Ma Deuce"

Here is a brief video of the mighty M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun we fired today at the heavy weapons range!

Heavy Weapons Familiarization

Today we got our first look at three heavy weapons systems: the M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun, the Mk 19 Grenade Launcher, and two variants of squad automatic weapons -- the M240 Machine Gun and the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW). Examples of all four weapons systems were laid out on the main drilling field. We divided up into groups and received briefs from our drill sergeants on basic operation of each system.

Unlike the other weapons we saw, which are all relatively new, the M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun hasn't changed since World War Two -- because, like the shark, it is a nearly perfect killing machine.

We will get to fire all these tomorrow. It rained today so the ranges should be -- squishy.

Obscure 80s Reference

I'm not sure how many people remember this obscure video from the Australian group, Men at Work, but my life lately seems a lot like it. Not that I think what I'm doing is a mistake, mind you. It's that whole transition thing...

Weapons Qualifications

One thing the Army does well is build firing ranges. Last week those of us who were issued M9 pistols qualified with them on very cool pop-up range. The targets were man-sized, three dimensional shapes painted green (think life-sized toy army men). Sensors in the target actuators tell whether or not you hit it. If so, it falls down; if not, it stays up mocking you.

The course of fire involved numerous magazine changes and even movement forward to engage the targets. To aid in target acquisition, every other lane's targets had heads that were painted white. The result made them resemble Imperial Stormtroopers. I found it amusing. Unfortunately, I was assigned a lane where the targets were painted green missing out on a boyhood fantasy of playing Star Wars for real. I qualified nonetheless.

After qualifying on pistols we went to another high-speed range to practice qualify with our M16A2 rifles. The range had pop-up targets ranging from 50 to 300 meters which also were equipped with sensors that not only registered a hit but where on the target the bullet hit. We got immediate feedback and Army instructors made additional adjustments to our rifles.

Today, we qualified for real on the rifles on another range. Same set of pop-up targets but this time no feedback other than knocking the targets down if we hit it. The course of fire is forty rounds and forty targets ranging from 50 to 300 meters. I'm happy to report I can hit a man-sized target at 300 meters with plain iron sites (most of the time) with the crappy loaner M16 the Army gave me. We ran the qualification several times and I qualified on each one.

Later this week, we get to try out heavy weapons such as the M2 .50 caliber machine gun, Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) and the M19 Grenade Launcher. Good times.

The Barracks ...

Perhaps the thing least looked forward to about NIACT is the accommodations: open bay barracks. You've seen it before in several movies (Stripes, Full Metal Jacket, Biloxi Blues), two long rows of steel framed bunk beds separated by foot lockers. Here at McCrady the barracks are in relatively new buildings. Our group is separated into the barracks by rank so I'm in a building of twenty-five or so Lieutenant Commanders (O-4s). The Commanders (O-5s) are in another and Ensigns (O-1s) through Lieutenants (O-3s) are in another. The ten or so Captains (O-6s) have their own building where they sleep two to a room. The enlisted ranks have several buildings. The female barracks include both officers and enlisted due to their small numbers.

Barracks living isn't as bad as I thought it would be -- at least in the O-4 "Hootch" as we call it. We do our own cleaning on a rotating schedule and everyone is good about personal space and keeping quiet.

Of course, there is a lot of snoring which most people can't help. In the middle of the night it's akin to a frog pond where one frog calls to another. Every few minutes, all the frogs call out in unison.

Thankfully, I have ear plugs.

Battle Rattle

After putting on IBA for the first time, I understood the meaning of the term, “battle rattle.” One is carrying between 40-50 pounds of gear, mostly in the form of body armor and kevlar helmet. Miscellaneous gear (ammunition, magazines, etc) is stuffed into other pockets on our DCUs. The result is a strange rattle produced when one is walking -- in my case waddling -- from place to place.

Our first march with IBA happened last week during weapons familiarization. Although it was only about a fifteen minute walk, I really began to feel carrying not only the IBA but rifle and pistol as well. For some reason, wearing my helmet gives me a headache (probably due to the extra weight). Needless to say, I have new found respect for the Army or Marine infantryman; they have to carry not only IBA but other gear (radios, more ammunition, etc., etc.) as well which typically adds up to 70 pounds or more. On a good day I weigh 140 pounds dripping wet; I am not used to all this extra weight.

As the week went by though I began to get more comfortable (a relative term, believe me) with moving around in IBA. We take it to every training evolution but thankfully remove most of it off to practice shooting. For some reason we kept it on for our M9 pistol qualification last week (we did our practice shooting with it off). Some people had difficulty with the transition but I qualified nonetheless. Thankfully, we have been assured that next week’s M16A2 rifle qualification will be shot without IBA.

NIACT - Week One - Ft. Jackson, SC

Our Navy C-40A touched down at Columbia, SC airport on 14 OCT. Several chartered buses were waiting for us directly on the tarmac. We unloaded the plane and loaded our personal luggage, plus that newly issued seabag, into the buses and drove to Fort Jackson. This army post has been training Army personnel since 1917. The Navy occupies a small portion of the base known as McCrady Training Center, which trains the South Carolina National Guard. There is a small Naval Liaison Office which coordinates the hundreds of Navy personnel who attend Navy Individual Augmentee Combat Training (NIACT) program.

Our class has over two hundred and fifty navy professionals from all over the country. We range in rank from E-4 (Petty Officer Third Class) to O-6 (Captain). As a class, we are here to learn how to integrate and fight with the Army. That means we are here to learn how to be infantry; that is, how to wear interceptor body armor, advanced combat helmet, elbow/knee pads, carry/fire/clean an M16A2 rifle and M9 pistol, work a radio, drive a HUMVEE, administer combat first aid and a host of other tasks.

Upon arrival, we were divided into two companies -- A and C -- each with four platoons of around 40 personnel each. I am assigned to A Company, 2nd Platoon. We are led by an Army E-7 (Sergeant First Class). We address him simply as "Drill Sergeant." Our Company is led, day to day, by an Army E-8 (First Sergeant)

Our first week was very busy and included lots of new gear issued to us (the aforementioned body armor, helmet, socks, another pair of boots, packs, cold/hot weather gear, holsters, camelbak, gloves. etc., etc.) Altogether, it was another three full seabags worth of gear. We jumped (literally) into Army Physical Training (PT), marching to and from everywhere, basic rifle and pistol marksmanship, and more medical training. We have put in an average of 12 to 13 hour days. At week's end, we have qualified on the M9 pistol and practice qualified on the M16 rifle.