Going on Leave

Last month, I traveled to Qatar for a conference and I wrote of the Hell That is Travel in theater. That trip turned out to be quite smooth, actually. On both legs, our group flew in style aboard Air Force C-17s instead of the more quotidian, prop-driven, C-130 Hercules. The key to our success was traveling on official business or, in military parlance, Temporary Duty (TDY). Under the aegis of TDY orders, we were able to space block ourselves (military for making a reservation) on an outbound flight.

Tonight, I left the International Zone on the first step of my mid-tour leave. While I am traveling on orders, they are leave orders, not technically TDY. In fact, leave orders are lower priority than cargo. After all, it’s not like there is some kind of mission essential reason why you need to get out of country to go on leave.

Step one was a routine ride on the Rhino Runner from the IZ to Victory Base. I said good bye to my two teammates, both of whom will redeploy home while I am away. Upon arrival at Victory Base, I was dropped off at the Al Faw palace, headquarters of MNF-I. I needed to get to Baghdad Int’l Airport (BIAP). I walked about a quarter mile, wearing body armor and toting my backpack, to a bus stop to figure out a way to BIAP. To my dismay, there wasn’t a way to get there from where I was. However, I could take a bus to Camp Stryker, specifically the Stryker Stables where I spent time six months ago just after my arrival in country. I knew there was an hourly bus that left for BIAP from the stables. A quick look at the schedule showed I had nearly fifty minutes to wait. I spied a local DFAC and figured I would follow the advice given to me by an Air Force pilot I knew (“Eat when you can.”). I dropped off my gear at the Mayor Cell, an office that administers housing on Victory Base, and ate a quick, Mexican-styled dinner in honor of Cinco de Mayo.

As I approached the Mayor Cell building I heard an incoming alarm warning of indirect fire. Now an expert at this particular drill, I opted to sprint into the office which appeared pretty sturdy. As I walked in, the alarm abruptly stopped. Previous experience suggested this was a false alarm. I walked into the office to find all the army personnel prone on the floor. I said, “I think they’re trying to mess with you,” trying to be funny which got no reaction. Shortly, an army lieutenant appeared and verified it was a false alarm. I grabbed my gear and walked back to the bus stop.

Another long and bumpy bus ride ensued. Darkness fell and the environs of Victory Base turned into harshly outlined scraggly trees and desert brush flanking the roadside lit by the bus’ headlights. Having spent so little time here, I kept forgetting how big Victory is. At one point, the road detoured onto a dirt path, complete with impressive potholes. The driver, an Indian national, expertly wove the teetering Toyota minibus around the potholes and uneven earth. Squished into my too small seat, wearing body armor, and cradling my too big back pack, I felt quite the third world traveler. How would noted travel writer Paul Theroux describe it I wondered? Better.

As luck would have it, we arrived at the Stryker stables ten minutes before eight in the evening. I walked from the Toyota Jeep-nee to a more sizable bus waiting to take other soldiers to BIAP. Another bus ride, this time solely confined to paved road, brought us to BIAP.

I checked in the R&R desk and was told to come back at 2200 for a formation. This is the army’s way of addressing a large crowd. I found the Navy liaison trailer, air conditioned, and watched the first episode of the sitcom, “Chuck” that my friend Chris from back home sent along with the rest of the show’s season. At 2200 I formed up, along with a plethora of army bubbas. A sergeant came out and told us to pass our ID cards to the right. Providing we were on the list of people authorized to go on leave, we would be manifested onto a flight that would leave “sometime in the future.” It would take one hour to manifest us on whatever flight we would take. Come back in one hour.

2315 hours. We huddle around the same sergeant. Over the din of air force cargo planes taxiing on nearby runways, they begin announcing who is going on what flight by using the last four digits of our social security numbers. Everyone is used to hearing their last name but try listening for a unique four digit string among a sea of numbers. It’s harder than you think.

I was assigned a flight for the next day. Show time was 0915 and estimated take off 1215. Given the vagaries of military air lift, I opted to stay overnight at the terminal instead of heading back to the Stryker stables. I went back to the relative comfort of the Navy trailer. I swept the dust out of a corner of the office/trailer and spread out a long kevlar blanket I found tucked under a desk. It made a fine ersatz mattress. The rhythmic thumping of taxiing helicopters not far away vibrated the trailer -- and me -- to sleep.