Planes, Tractors & Automobiles

Getting back to Baghdad from Qatar was hell. It was like a Fellini movie filmed in black and white where you are forcibly kept awake by a transvestite dwarf and simultaneously taunted by the Sad Clown of Life.

I travelled with my co-worker Jan, an army lieutenant colonel. We left Camp As Sayliyah, Qatar at 2000 on 16 Aug and were driven in an SUV to Al Udeid Air Base. After the usual confusion at the check in counter on whether 1) we were correctly space blocked on the flight and 2) if there was an actual flight, we boarded a C-17 around 2300. Inside was a monstrous tractor whose wheels were made from steel and were prickled with large teeth. It looked like something out of the movie, “The Road Warrior.” About fifty of us filed aboard the plane, wearing our body armor and lugging our packs and bags. We sat in the installed jump seats along the side of the fuselage. Never quite sure of the plane’s actual itinerary, we were disappointed to hear that Baghdad would be the third stop on the flight. We would fly first to the northern Iraqi city of Tallil, then Balad in the middle of the country, and finally Baghdad.

I managed to doze a bit on the first segment. After landing at Tallil at around 0200 on 17 Aug, we were herded off the plane while the monstrous tractor slowly was unloaded and new vehicles were loaded on board. We were there about two hours. In the transient passenger tent, I watched most of “The Terminator” which was on Armed Forces Network (AFN) Europe television. The most striking thing about Tallil was the weather: it was actually cool. It was the first time I had experienced cool weather outside in, oh, about a thousand years. While outside, I heard then saw the metal wheeled tractor moving slowly across the tarmac in the darkness to a storage area adjacent to the parking apron. It was moving about one mile an hour and each spoke of the metal wheels made a loud clanging sound as it clamored across the concrete. It reminded me some kind of lumbering, mechanical leviathan.

We re-boarded around 0400 and took off this time with a HUMVEE and a large trailer loaded onboard. We landed in Balad sometime before 0600 to blinding daylight, the nocturnal portion of our journey now ended. Much to our surprise, we were told by KBR ground representatives that this was the final stop of the flight. Everyone looked at each other with the now familiar look of frustration associated with flying on military air (MILAIR). No, we all said, we were supposed to fly on to Baghdad. Really? The KBR guy was flummoxed. “The manifest says you’re all supposed to get off here.” It’s been my experience that KBR and MILAIR representatives stubbornly hold to the idea that their paperwork is Never Wrong. Grumbling, we were herded off the plane and boarded buses which then took us to yet another passenger terminal. This one was very large and even featured wireless Internet, a veritable paradise – at least for those of us with laptops. The KBR folks actually were very accommodating. “We’ll figure this out,” they said. And they did. Around 0700 we re-boarded and made the final leg to Baghdad.

When we landed around 0830, I was hit with that familiar smell of burning garbage accompanied by searing heat. Ah, home. Jan and I still had to get to the International Zone. Before leaving Qatar, I had made arrangements with my office for them to book “Space A” seats on a helicopter flight. Unfortunately, that flight didn’t leave until nearly 1800. We exited the passenger terminal and grabbed the bus to Stryker Stables. We slept for about two or so hours, grabbed lunch, and then hung out in the check-in area which had TVs tuned to AFN-Sports showing the Olympics. Eventually, we made our way back to Liberty Helicopter Pad, where our flight would originate from. This required taking a bus from Stryker Stables to the main bus stop at Camp Victory and then catching another bus to Liberty. It was about a thirty minute journey.

We got to Liberty an hour before our flight. Fortunately, our reservations were in the system and we waited in an air conditioned tent for the helicopters to arrive. By this time, Jan and I were walking zombies but at least we weren’t in front of a computer screen making PowerPoint slides.

The flight back to the International Zone was great; the slanted late afternoon sun illuminated numerous Iraqi neighborhoods speeding below each showing signs of refreshing normalcy. After landing, we made the long walk to our trailers. Finally, we were home after a journey of Homeric proportions; it took all of twenty-two hours.

Year Six, Part II

Last March, also while TDY to Qatar, I wrote about the completion of the fifth year of the war here in Iraq and the challenges ahead for year six. At the time, I had only vague inklings about just how personal it could become. As I tried to get back to Baghdad following that TDY, Shiite extremists -- members of Jaysh al Mahdi -- fired artillery rockets into the International Zone in protest of the Iraqi Army’s offensive against JAM elements in the southern Iraqi city of Basrah. After getting back to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP), I caught a helicopter to the International Zone. As we attempted to land near the embassy, I looked down and saw people running out of the passenger terminal and into bunkers. I looked out to the right and saw the impact of rocket near the banks of the Tigris River and accompanying plume of smoke. Just fifty feet from the ground, the helicopter pilot applied power and we veered away from the landing zone. We raced back to BIAP and waited for things to settle. Welcome to year six, not an auspicious start.

Since then, things thankfully have quieted down and, dare I say, improved. The Iraqi Security Forces (ISF), who every day grow more professional and capable, completed their security sweep of Basrah and performed similar operations in Sadr City (where most of those pesky rockets were fired from) and Amarah, another important JAM bastion near the Iranian border. Amongst the dwindling press coverage of Iraq, you can read about a current operation ISF is performing in the Diyala River Valley, north of Baghdad, to root out both Shi’a and Sunni insurgents.

The most troubling recent trend is Al Qaeda in Iraq’s (AQI) use of female suicide bombers. While we were away on this TDY, female suicide bombers struck three times targeting Shi’a pilgrims in the vicinity of the Shi’a holy cities of Najaf and Karbala. It’s a familiar AQI technique -- trying to foment sectarian violence -- only this time using female Sunni suicide bombers. As the press has reported, women in Iraq (or any Islamic country) are not typically subjected to searches by police due to religious taboo and thus can pass relatively unhindered through security checkpoints. AQI recruits Sunni destitute widows who, under Islamic practice are virtually persona non grata, with promises of money for their families. While the attacks this week were devastating, they are the mark of a desperate foe and it is certainly not a viable long term strategy. Nevertheless, it shows that things are far from over here even as they slowly improve.

As I write this, we are nearly half over with year six of this war.

On a more positive note, and while I’m writing about five year anniversaries, let me also say it’s my attractive wife’s and my fifth wedding anniversary today. When I think of what I was doing six years ago, it seems like I was in another world and another person. Of course, something similar might be said about my current position but there is light at the end of the tunnel: There are sixty-two days left in my tour in Iraq.

Arithmetic on the Frontier

A scrimmage in a Border Station

A canter down some dark defile
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee Jezail
The Crammer’s boast, the Squadron’s pride
Shot like a rabbit in a ride

No proposition Euclid wrote
No formulae the textbooks know
Will the turn the bullet from your coat
Or ward the Tulwar’s downward blow
Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can
The odds are on the cheaper man

“Arithmetic on the Frontier”
-- Rudyard Kipling, 1886

Today, while in a side bar meeting, I saw this verse written on a white board. No one in the room knew who wrote it and, despite a lot of other writing on other whiteboards, no one wanted to erase it. I scribbled it down in my notebook.

This excerpt from Kipling’s poem describing British casualties in their war with Afghanistan is clear: you’re never too smart to get killed by someone dumber, wielding a cheaper weapon than you. Kipling might as well have been describing Improvised Explosive Devices or suicide bombers.

Strike hard, then. Shoot straight. Good advice, Mr. Kipling.

(ETA: Thanks to my friend, Mark W. for providing the link to the full poem.)

Groundhog Day

The military has a word for daily routine: battle rhythm. In Baghdad, our shop works seven days a week, 0730-2200 (7:30 AM - 10 PM, if you’re a civilian) with a two exceptions: we come in at 0900 on Fridays (our nod to the Muslim holy day) and 1300 on Sundays (where we get a whole half day off). My only complaint is that assigned work hours are like hard drives: work, like data, expands, often unnecessarily, to fill the space available to it. As a result, I believe we are in the office longer than the work we’re actually doing calls for. The only advantage of our Draconian hours is that the days seem to fly by when we’re busy (which is most of time). Week days become meaningless; numerous times, I’ve tried calling my attractive wife at her office when it was a Saturday or Sunday. When you’re on our battle rhythm, weekends lose their meaning.

Here in Qatar on TDY it’s much the same only not as intense. Since most of the people attending conferences here are coming from commands in the US where they still have eight hour work days and weekends, our meetings usually wrap up between 1800 and 1900. You can see the consternation on their faces as early evening approaches. I chuckle. In Baghdad, dinner is more like lunch during the work day back in the World.

Everything here at Camp Asaliyah is the same as it was when I was last here in March: Stark, utilitarian, buildings, blinding sunlight, heat, bunches of enlisted kids on four day passes, Toyota mini-buses hauling them over the large expanse of the base from the living quarters to the DFAC and the PX. My ten minute walk from billeting to the building where my conference meets is exactly the same (only it’s hotter this time). After work ends, we grab dinner at the DFAC, walk back to billeting, change into civilian clothes and walk to the Top Off, a giant converted hangar housing three bars, a performance stage, pool tables, and Internet computers, where we can enjoy our sanctioned three beers a night. I’m drinking with roughly the same group of people from last March. I’m wearing the same one and a half sets of civilian clothes (two polo shirts, one pair of canvas pants) and listening to bad Karaoke wafting over the roofless walls of the pub from the performance stage. It’s like I never left (or arrived, depending on the point of view).

Among the many things I miss (my attractive wife and clever two year old son being chief among them), is simple daily variation. Or maybe it’s variety. Of course, routine has a quality all its own, especially if you want time to pass quickly.

More Travel!

Another conference! This time at Camp Asayliyah in Qatar which means more intra-theater travel using military air (MILAIR). The advantage is that Qatar is in the same time zone as Iraq. The disadvantage is that it’s still the desert and it’s hotter. I was here last March on a similar assignment. I’m headed down to this particular conference with two other colleagues. Last week, I spaced blocked (the MILAIR version of a reservation) the three of us on a flight leaving on the 6th of August. We showed up at the Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) passenger terminal at the appointed hour only to find our flight was cancelled (not an auspicious start to the trip). We were especially disappointed because the flight we were supposed to go on was on a C-17 which is much nicer than a C-130. We grabbed great and caught the bus over to Stryker Stables to spend the night. More walking on rocks to and from the tent.

The next morning, we caught the bus back to BIAP and began the waiting game for the next available flight. Fortunately, we caught a flight leaving in the early evening, although it was on a C-130 (less room, less comfortable, and takes longer to fly to Qatar). We were called into boarding area but then inexplicably had to wait another hour. I asked what was going on and was informed we were waiting on some Army general who needed to catch the flight.

Eventually we boarded the plane by walking across the concrete ramp from the terminal. The shimmering heat of the early evening reflected off the ground as we walked toting our carry on packs and wearing body armor. Fortunately, the flight wasn’t crowded. Once aloft the cabin temperature dropped dramatically as the plane gained altitude and the air conditioned overcame the oppressive heat. Unfortunately, there is no middle setting and it quickly became genuinely cold. We made the best of our situation during the two and a half hour flight. Most people took off their body armor wore it in front like a blanket. As we descended, the temperature began to rise but with an added bonus: humidity. The cold air coming from the overhead air conditioning vents quickly misted as it collided with the increasingly warming air of the cabin.

When the plane stopped and the ramp opened up at roughly 2130 local time, we were assaulted by a wave of temperature and humidity such as the likes I have never experienced before. Worse than Florida in summer. Completely unbelievable. We walked, toting our gear, about 200 yards to the passenger terminal. All of us were dripping with sweat by the time we arrived five minutes later. I lamented my decision to bring only one uniform on this trip. I will be doing lots of laundry.

Conversation with a Dead Friend

I’ve had terrible jet lag since returning from TDY; I haven’t been able to sleep for more than four hours at a time. Last night, I went to sleep at midnight and right on schedule, I woke at 0400. I used the restroom and noticed I actually was still tired as I got back into bed. I carefully put myself in the same position, lying on my left side, in an effort to trick my body into going back to sleep. Much to my subsequent surprise, I did but not before having a strange dream.

I dreamt that I was walking alone on a sidewalk in west Los Angeles, where I used to live years ago (in the dream, I was visiting). It was pitch dark and I was looking for a restaurant/bar I knew was close by. I got out my Blackberry to look up the location but couldn’t remember the name. While still walking, I came across a well dressed crowd of people waiting on the sidewalk. A woman dressed as a waitress came out of the building and announced, “we’re open,” and everyone began filing inside. I realized this was the restaurant/bar I had been looking for. As I put my Blackberry away and walked to the front of the building I saw my friend Brian, whom we all called “Radar” since he had a slight resemblance to the actor Gary Burghoff of the 70s TV show M*A*S*H. Brian passed away in May 2007.

He fell into step with me, as if we had arranged to meet there. But he looked a little confused. He asked me how I’d been. “How’s life at home?” he asked. “I’m married now,” I replied, “and I have a two year old son.” This seemed news to him although it shouldn’t; he knew I was married before he passed away. He looked tan and was now taller than me. I got the sense he didn’t know he was dead so I tried to be careful about what we talked about.

We sat at the end of the bar and looked at the menu. The hamburger looked good but I wanted a steak before I knew I would have to return to Baghdad. The female bar tender told us to hurry with our decision. I chose the steak but had to order the condiments a la carte. I wanted the mashed potatoes but got the number wrong. “Twenty-nine, the mashed potatoes,” I said. “You mean twenty-seven,” she said. I looked at the menu but it said, twenty-nine. “Rico was never good with numbers,” Radar said. It was true. But really, the menu said twenty-nine for the mashed potatoes. The bar tender laughed.

And then I woke up; it was morning.

En-Mic-Pees

According to my desktop tracker, I have less than 80 days left! Since getting to less than 100 days in mid-July I've been obsessed with tracking the time. It's not good for me; I have plenty to get done. Yet, seeing the numbers steadily decline on my tracking spreadsheet is a kind of guilty pleasure for me. It provides a framework to fit my remaining tasks around. Early in my tour, work was a giant, amorphous amoeba relentlessly filling all my time. Now, I can see how the story arc will finish, at least for me. I know what I'll be able to get done before I leave.

That is, when I actually leave. After getting below 100 days left in theater, we are supposed to start checking an online system, the Navy & Marine Corps Mobilization Processing System (NMCMPS, or, en-mic-pees), to see if demobilization orders have been cut. After logging in today I found out that 1) I don't have de-mob orders, 2) I don't have a de-mob detach date, and, most surprising, 3) I am not currently filling a requirement (see screen shot). Huh?

Another field mysteriously claims my Sourcing History End Date was yesterday, 31 July. I've since been told that date is a "glitch" in the system and that my billet's actual End Date is in 2009. (That means the system is supposed to replace me with another lucky reservist when my tour is up.) It further was explained to me that once my billet's end date was renewed to 2009, NMCMPS doesn't bother to update the field online. Hey, Ideamatics (the contractor who makes NMCMPS), that sounds like a bug to me.

About a month ago, the Navy informed me my replacement was chosen and that he would be arriving in Baghdad in early October. It was great news and put a spring in my step. However a few weeks ago, the Navy informed me that my replacement was found to be medically unqualified and that his mobilization was cancelled. Technically, it shouldn't matter; when my orders say de-mob, I de-mob, at least that's the theory.

It's too soon to start stressing about this but I'm watching it anyway. Hell hath no fury like an Individual Augmentee left twitching in the wind.

Oh, the weather is back to being hot, dusty, and generally crappy.