I live on Mars

When I was kid, the Viking 1 and 2 landers landed on Mars and transmitted the first color pictures of that planet back to earth. Being a geek, a obtained a poster of one of the Martian views and put it up in my bedroom. I marveled at the rust colored rocks and orange sky in the picture which looked so alien. The vista was suitably exotic given my suburban existence at the time.

Now I live on Mars, or so it seems given the color of the sky over the last few days -- orange. The choking dust is back with a vengeance. It was clear enough in the morning but by mid-morning the dust covered the sky making everything sand colored (which is about the only color here). In the late afternoon, I went to the gym. While seated on the rowing machine, I saw the color of the sky gradually turn orange through a window on a nearby door as I made my way through the 5000 virtual meters I was rowing.

All I could think of when I left the gym was, “I’m on Mars.” It’s a lot hotter than Mars, sure, but it looks like Mars. I even saw dust devils swirling around the pavement augmented by the blowing sand. In these conditions even the slightest breeze is a hair dryer and I was surprised how much dust gets into your eyes.

The Peruvian security guards, who patrol the inner International Zone, have neck gators pulled up over their nostrils and wear sun glasses with wide brim hats. They look like Sand People, the deadly nomads who live on Luke Skywalker’s home planet of Tatooine from “Star Wars.”

This really sucks.

Solstice

June 21 came and went without me noticing it was summer solstice. In the northern hemisphere, this is the longest day of the year and heralds the arrival of summer. What reminded me that the solstice had come and gone was the thermometer pictured here. Although in the shade, it read over 115F (I think the actual high today was 117F). Summer in Iraq. Welcome to the party, beyotch!

Church

It’s been written that many people find religion during arduous periods. In a war it’s no different, I imagine. I remember attending my first mass in theater at a modest, wooden chapel in Camp Virginia, Kuwait last November. I went there in the company of a Navy commander who was part of my group that went through training at Fort Jackson. We made our way through the dusty walkways to the chapel on a Saturday evening.

The inside of the chapel was much nicer that the outside. It boasted proper wooden pews and even a few stain glass windows. The Catholic priest, an Army major, was stout man with white hair, kind face, and quiet voice. He came forward, before the start of the mass, and urged us all to sit closer to the front of the chapel. As we did so, he said there was shortage of Catholic priests in theater and that he had been in another part of Kuwait that morning. There was a quiet, intimacy in the way to spoke to us (we numbered scarcely more than twenty). He said something I’ve never heard another Catholic priest say. He urged us to look up during the preparation of the sacrament and watch what was happening. Although something that is done during every mass, he said people rarely look up to see what the priest does. It is simple ceremony, for those who many not be familiar with it, a series of blessings on bread and wine that become, symbolically something more. He spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially.

Maybe it was because of his suggestions or our small number but it this was one of the most special and intimate masses I ever attended. As soon as it began, it hit me that I was very far from home and about to embark on an uncertain and possibly dangerous tour. In that moment of realization, I felt terribly small and during the opening prayer, I felt tears welling up as I thought of my attractive wife and infant son back home. What would the coming year bring? How dangerous would it be? Would they be okay? What if I didn’t come back? The priest went on with the mass, his voice still very quiet. I had to strain to hear him properly. Was he tired? Or did the weight of his tour bear down on him?

Later, it was the same for the first few masses I attended after I arrived in the International Zone. Being so busy, it was only when mass began that I realized I was in Iraq and separated from my family. I found comfort in the prayers and the ceremony of the mass.

It helped that we had a wonderfully charismatic Franciscan priest, Father Kerry, an Air Force major, who converted to Catholicism and who grew up as an evangelical Baptist in the south. This winning combination made for fantastic and energetic homilies. Yet he also had a calmness that showed itself during several tense moments last April. Beginning on Easter Sunday, and for four weeks in a row in April during Sunday mass, the International Zone was hit by rockets. During one mass, a particularly heavy barrage occurred while we were singing the closing hymn. Father Kerry usually was the first person to leave mass so he could say goodbye to everyone as they exited the chapel. In the second verse of the hymn, he walked back into the chapel and said over our singing, “I need everyone to duck and cover now…” which we did. As we did so only then did we hear the warning alarms of an incoming attack. Everyone lay prone in the chapel, the only sounds from outside were the alarm and the periodic explosions of impacting rockets. It went on this way for an interminably long time. After a particularly close impact, someone began whispering the Hail Mary prayer which we all began to recite.

Our parish is called the Roman Catholic Community of Saint Michael, The Archangel, of Baghdad, Iraq. As patron saints go, St. Michael is particularly apropos for this place; he is mentioned in both the Bible and the Qu’ran. At the close of each mass, we say the following prayer which was penned by Pope Leo XIII in the late 1800s:

“Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host by the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and the other evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

During those four weekly rocket attacks I can say with some surety that St. Michael took care of his parish here in Baghdad.

Hot & Dusty

Growing up in southern California, I am accustomed to hot, dry summers and smog (these were the days before catalytic converters on automobiles). Although we had some hot days here in Baghdad before I went on leave, those don’t compare to the consistent 109F heat we are experiencing now. And it’s not even summer yet. I’ve heard the horror stories of the 130F heat of the high summer here. Interestingly, I was told by someone who has been year two years (!) -- a linguist contractor -- that there is not much difference between 110F and 130F; both are equally uncomfortable. And, with the daily, inexorable increase of temperature, people here adjust accordingly. If you’ve ever heard the term, “boiling frog,” you’ll know what I mean. Since my return from leave, the daily high as hovered consistently around 109F with one or two days hitting as high as 111F.

But there is no escaping the dust. In addition to the heat, we are beset by nearly daily periods of heavy dust in the air accompanied by a strong, hot wind. When outside, the result is a new twist on the familiar Hair Dryer phenomena: a Hair Dryer blowing very fine sand particles into your eyes. There is no respite, even indoors: the long hallways of the Embassy have a fine cloud of dust hanging in the air that is more visceral and visible. You can see it if you look far down the hall but it’s not immediately visible around you.

The dust, we are told, is a result of Baghdad’s dry and colder than average winter. With not enough rain to irrigate farm land, the summer winds regularly lift fine Iraqi sand into the air where it stays for hours on end. There is sometimes relief from it in the evening when the winds eventually die down. Back in April, such days were looked on with dread as insurgents used the low visibility to launch rocket attacks on the International Zone. However, in a testament to the steadily improving security situation, we have not experienced any rocket attacks since my return.

Pick Up Game

I've been back now for about two weeks and have gotten back into a routine. I'm convinced, after seven months here, that it is the key to maintaining sanity. Having a routine makes the time go faster, or at least it seems that way. However, for the first few days being back, time absolutely crawled, my routine wrecked. The pleasant and all too recent memories of being with my attractive wife and precocious, talking two-year old son for fifteen short days were bittersweet.

Complicating getting back into a routine was the degree of change that occurred while I was away. Many billets here turnover this time of year, more so than in the winter when I first arrived. For example, both my teammates – my team chief and my co-worker -- went home while I was on leave. Two additional co-workers on other teams also redeployed. And shortly after I returned, our Australian coalition teammate went home. This meant the office was full of newly arrived people. With all the new people, the entire office dynamic, in fact, had changed.

One would think this would be bad but here is the amazing thing about this place: everyone who walks in the office here is top notch. At Multi-National Force-Iraq (MNF-I), General Petraeus’ staff, we are somewhat jealous of the divisions and units at Multi-National Corps-Iraq (MNC-I), our subordinate unit. They largely deploy as a cohesive whole; that is, they were all serving together to begin with in the same unit before coming here. At the staff, we are assembled from all the services (army, navy, air force, marines) and across all commands. The result is a large pick up game; we need to learn to be effective teammates with each other while simultaneously learning a new skill set. Sometimes it works very well, other times less so.

I’m happy to say, the new guys all appear great and already I have a new team dynamic. It’s very different from the first team when I arrived. For example, I have had four team chiefs and three teammates since arriving here. For the most part, every iteration was great. The good news is that this is the team that I will finish with here four and half months from now.

Back to the IZ

Of course, arriving at Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) doesn't mean arriving at the International Zone (IZ) which lies some 17 kilometers east. Getting to the IZ usually means either a ground convoy, such as the Rhino, or a short helicopter ride. Getting manifested for either is the real trick. I was traveling with an Army lieutenant colonel named Pete, who also is a co-worker of mine from an adjacent office in the Embassy. He is quite affable but, at times, can produce the sort of inverse stress that only the perpetually cheery can induce.

We arrived in the full heat of early-morning. While away on leave, the typical late May high temperature had risen to 106 F. Similar to my first arrival back in November, the first thing that hit me was that smell. It was all the more pungent in the heat. To make matters a little more chaotic, the waiting area in front of the passenger terminals, which to date consisted of bare earth liberally strewn with small rocks, was fenced off for construction. Future passengers will be able to recline on concrete slabs while waiting for news of their flights.

After having our ID cards electronically swiped, which memorialized our arrival back in Iraq, Pete and I lugged our gear and bags to a nearby Navy Liaison Trailer. I discovered this little air conditioned piece of heaven when I left Baghdad for Qatar last March. It’s a place where Navy personnel can wait for flights and keep their gear (semi) secure. Like everything here, it is not well-marked or advertised. Being an army officer, Pete was unaware of it and when I led him there he was that much more cheery.

Leaving our bags and body armor, we walked to the nearby Dining Facility (DFAC) to catch the last of breakfast. It was good to sit down and eat a hot meal after the previously night’s nocturnal traveling. Next, we walked across the street and visited the all powerful Green Beans trailer for coffee. While we finished our coffee, the barber shop opened and we both got hair cuts. Between our breakfast, coffee, and hair cut, we felt like new men.

Back at the terminal, I called to see about getting us manifested on either a Rhino convoy or a space available helicopter flight. The Rhinos were all booked until after mid-night but we were able to get a space on helicopter flight leaving in the early evening. That gave us a few precious hours to get some rest. We took a bus from the passenger terminal to the Stryker Stables, a transient camp about ten minutes away. We reserved spaces in a tent and promptly fell asleep.

We awoke for lunch at the Stryker DFAC and then returned to the tent for more rest. Despite having several small air conditioners running, the interior of the tent was well over 90 F. No one complained though; everyone realizes that the amenities here are the best in Iraq.

In the late afternoon, we took the bus back to the terminal and began waiting for our helicopter flight. Upon arriving we were informed that our original flight had been cancelled. We next would need to check in at 2030. We once again dumped our gear and bags in the Navy trailer and went to the DFAC for dinner. We returned to the terminal and began the Long Wait.

At 2030 we were told to gear up and walk to the flight line where two helicopters awaited, engines running. As we boarded the first, we noticed the second helicopter stopped its engines. As we strapped in, our engines also stopped. A crewman told us over the din of the dying engine that the second helicopter was “down,” meaning it had some kind of engine problem. We un-strapped ourselves from the seats and walked back to the terminal.

To make a long story short, we walked out to the flight line two more times and were turned away. Either the helicopters in question were full or were not flying to the IZ. The third time was the charm. By this time, it was well after 2200. Our helicopter took off and made the short flight to the IZ. Despite the long wait, it was well worth it. We arrived well before the midnight Rhino would. I walked from the landing zone and caught site of the imposing girth of the Republican Palace. Back … home. Yeah, that’s a weird thought.

I passed through the Embassy and walked to my trailer where I found my air force roommate, Bill, still awake. I was thankful as trying to unpack in the dark would have been problematic and noisy. Despite the jet lag, I went to sleep right away.