Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal

Kaboom goes Kerplunk

2010-04-20T20:13:00.000-07:00

Short version: now writing at Kerplunk

Long version:

Now it's time, to say goodbye, to all our company ...

If you aren't familiar with the above Mickey Mouse Club lyrics, you weren't hugged enough as a child.

Now. Serious-face time.

Some two-and-a-half years ago, in November of 2007, right before my unit deployed to Iraq, I decided to start a blog. I sat in a living room in Oahu, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and decided that the words I had typed weren't so ugly-sounding. I had some cursory knowledge of what blogs were, and figured it'd be a simple way to keep in touch in family and friends, so I kept doing it. I named it Kaboom because I was irreverent, and absolutely convinced an IED awaited in my future.

Ironically, one wasn't. But a lot of other Kabooms were.

It has been a hell of a ride, and one absolutely made by two sets of people. First, of course, were the soldiers. They changed my life in a way I'll never really be able to describe or comprehend. Being a platoon leader for the Gravediggers in combat was the greatest honor of my young(ish) life, and frankly, I somehow doubt anything will ever top it. I'm often asked how I made the blog posts so visceral. It was easy. I was telling stories of brave men in chaotic situations, doing their best to figure out why and figure out out. And I was there. I was one of them. I miss it, a lot. Not all of it, of course, but enough of it.

So, eternal gratitude to the guys. But I've already told them in the realness of reality all that. They know.

The other set of people I wish to thank are the readers. Vague, definitely, banal, maybe, but still absolutely true. Maybe some of you are still reading, maybe some of you aren't. The feedback I received from many of you proved ... overwhelming, and I mean that in a good way. From the onset of the blog, all the comments and emails forced me to understand that our plight was, in fact, understood, brooded over, and a concern for many, many others. And when the blog got shut down ... you all reminded me that my present wasn't my past, nor was it my future. So, sincerely, thank you.

The blog turned into a book. And it's cool. I'm happy with such. But like I posted recently, when writing about Corporal Hernandez ... it really doesn't matter. I hope people like and enjoy the book, and it means a lot when I'm told that, I won't pretend to be above that. We all like our egos stroked, and my ego now comes with binding in corporeal form. But even when people don't like it ... it doesn't matter. Kaboom was what happened to us, in that time, in that place. It was us. And it's there, frozen for history to judge, for us, and maybe you, to remember. That's the really awesome part.

Kaboom has gone through its fair share of deaths and revivals, but this will be the last one. I just felt like I was diluting some of the old posts, those straight from the Suck that channel straight sleep-deprived grit, with my veteran/writer/rambler posts of the present. Different time, different mentality, different man. Just another droplet in the e-seas, that somehow evolved into something else because of you. Many gracias, and Mucho thanks.

Fear not, though! I'll still be blogging over at Kerplunk, with the same amount of ironic detachment and irreverence that littered this quirky little site.

Just time for a fresh start, you dig? And I think I owe it to ... The Veracity gods or something ... to leave this site up, as close to as it was, that is now possible.

As I said some moons ago - thank you for caring. Agree or disagree with the war(s), if you're reading this, you're engaged and aware. As long as that is still occurring in a free society, there is something worth the fighting for.

Reality Check

2010-04-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a hell of a week. NPR interviews, Entertainment Weekly appearance, book event in Manhattan, and an awesome release party for "Kaboom" with family and friends. But all of that, while fun, pales in importance to what is currently going on in Afghanistan.

I was slapped into remembering the severity of it all when a family friend/step-cousin (gotta love postmodern American families), Marine Corporal Luis Hernandez, nearly died on Easter while on a dismounted patrol in Marjah. He spotted an anti-personnel IED in a rut, and being the good Marine that he is, immediately yelled at those behind him to run. That ability of immediate recognition isn't something all men/soldiers/Marines possess - it's inherent, and a testament to Corporal Hernandez's leadership.

The explosion of the IED knocked him to the ground, and shrapnel filled his body in 13 places, mainly in his upper torso and thigh. Unable to walk, his buddies dragged him to cover, tried to stop the bleeding, and called in a Bird for a medical evacuation.

Though expected to fully recover, it's going to be a long road for Corporal Hernandez, just as it was for my soldier, Hot Wheels, who's getting ready to finally leave Brooke Army Medical Center in Texas any day now.

My little brother, Luke G the Rascal King, was able to visit Corporal Hernandez in the hospital, stateside. He found him dipping, a Marine's cure if there ever was one. A parade was held for Corporal Hernandez in his hometown of Wolcott, Connecticut - something he certainly earned. His family is understandably filled with both pride and gratitude. For more information on this, please check out the following links:

Newspaper article

Television report

Not all soldiers/Marines are as "lucky" as Corporal Hernandez was. Some of my former soldiers and peers have already left for yet another combat deployment, or are gearing up to do so. I have a hard time comprehending this, because honestly, it feels like we just got back. And while the book is cool and everything, and I'm having a good time with it, I've promised myself to not take it too seriously.

Because in the grand scheme of things, it just doesn't freaking matter all that much. Soldiers and Marines are putting their lives on the line every day and night right now in hellholes half-a-globe away, and no words will ever be able to totally capture the tragic beauty of that.

Green Zebra

2010-04-07T09:52:00.000-07:00

I wrote a brief piece on the state of the veteran in our glorious postmodern Republic for The Sandbox. Check it out, or face the e-gallows!

Green Zebra

"Matterhorn" Review

2010-04-06T15:46:00.000-07:00

Nearly forty years after its inglorious end, the Vietnam War continues to dim the American conscience – no longer really eclipsing it, but it’s still there, looming, nevertheless. “Mattherhorn,” a new Vietnam War novel by Karl Marlantes, brings that eclipse back into the direct vision of anyone who reads it. An instant classic, “Matterhorn” deserves all the literary hype surrounding it. With the litany of Vietnam-era films, memoirs, and novels already out, I was skeptical that a new piece of art could contribute anything more to the murky chronicles of the Vietnam War. To color me wrong in this regard would be a disservice to the visible spectrum itself.

Though many great pieces of fiction have taken place in Vietnam, very few have attempted to do so in the sweeping, wide-vision manner of an epic – until now. The finest Vietnam novels, like Jim Webb’s “Fields of Fire” and Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried” tend to rely on the emotional rawness of the individual to drive forward plots and link together themes. “Mattherhorn,” true to both the mountain peak its name comes from and to its imposing size (600-plus pages), delivers in an all-encompassing manner. Though the story follows, for the most part, a young second lieutenant struggling to come to terms with the responsibilities of a platoon leader, the omniscient third-person narrative allows us inside the minds and motivations of privates and colonels alike. Clearly influenced by James Jones’ “The Thin Red Line” and Norman Mailer’s “The Naked and the Dead,” Marlantes presents a complete jigsaw puzzle to the reader, rather than allowing us to fill in the framework as we please. There is a lot to be said for this approach, as the narrative language is somehow cleansed of both biases and bitterness – something likely filtered out over the 35-some years it took Marlantes to write the book. As both a soldier and a writer, I know how difficult a task this must have been – anger can power the pen (or the keyboard, as it were) much more quickly than resolve can, but that doesn’t necessarily make the end product any more effective.

It’s not a perfect manuscript, however. Marlantes’ odd obsession with racial tensions within the American military structure dilutes the book throughout. I’m aware my own prejudices factored into this perception – the 21st century is so post-racial, brah! – but still, these tensions all too often feel like thematic means to a plot end, rather than vice versa, adding a contrived element that is blessedly absent in the rest of the novel. This forcedness peaks near the end of a book, when a black squad leader explains to the white platoon leader that racial tension, in Vietnam and elsewhere, will go forever away as soon as we all stop caring about the collective past and only worry about the future of the individual. If that argument sounds familiar, it’s the same one your cranky conservative family member trots out every year at Thanksgiving, after assuring everyone “I’m not racist, because my mailman is black, and we’re friends.” Having a young black soldier in 1969 voice the argument of an old white man in 2010 seems like it should be offensive … but instead, it’s just overwhelms with awkwardness.

Despite its flaws, “Matterhorn” deserves its place amongst the war literature royalty. Marlantes brings alive the struggles and sacrifices of men at war as successfully as the literary lions of old. We all know that Vietnam was a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but nothing, it seems, will ever fully capture the impact this had on the souls who fought in the jungles – both the ones who returned home and those who didn’t. “Matterhorn” comes as close as possible to accomplishing such.

All those words, for this - I highly recommend reading it!

We Remember

2010-03-26T11:30:00.001-07:00

Please keep the family of Greg Rundell in your thoughts and prayers today. This Wolfhound made the ultimate sacrifice in Iraq two years ago. We remember.

The military and social media - hugging it out

2010-02-28T20:27:00.000-08:00

Like all gigantasarus bureaucracies, it sometimes takes the military a while to put out official policies on new topics/subject matters. (http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/02/26/military.social.media/index.html) So, it should come as no surprise that only now are U.S. military personnel *officially* allowed to Tweet/Facebook/e-harmonize in ways that relate to their profession. And while all the PR gurus are claiming it's a match made in heaven now, based on my personal experience, I foresee a far rockier relationship ensuing between the Great Camo gods in the sky and social media.

Military structure is designed around control. There are rules, they are clear, and they are to be followed. They flow from the top-down, and on a macro level, are not conducive to interactive feedback from the bottom-up. As we've seen over the past few years though, social media allows interaction to occur between the top and the bottom, taking away control from the middle. Trust me when I say that the middle doesn't like this inability to filter messages. Further, as e-society develops, it's clear that the emo sub-current of expression is a tool utilized constantly and consistently in social media forums, especially amongst the young. Bitching about life/the job/etc. isn't just likely with soldiers at war, it's inevitable. And while the rules may claim only operational security violations will incur Higher's wrath for enterprising military social media-ites, I'm certain that the fine print includes a whole slew of other ways to do it. Like, I don't know. Describing a senior officer in an unflattering light. It's been known to happen, I guess.

If the military is going to successfully embrace social media, rather than having it embrace them - either can occur, because let's face it, even Delta Force can't kill the internet - it's going to have to do something it pays great lip service to, but isn't always great at executing - empowering junior leadership. The Pentagon can't read every blog, Tweet, or status update our brave soldiers/sailors/Marines/air-people produce. But each one of those personnel have a layer of leadership that can. If properly educated, junior leadership in the military can and will harness the beast of social media. Will they fall off, sometimes? Sure, but no rule implementation, no matter how rigidly or loosely enforced, proves perfect.

Big military has rules on underage drinking, but it relies on local leadership to enforce those rules. Social media restrictions should be no different, despite the possibility for high visibility violations. The alternative is to create a high level regulatory mechanism, which will only further the "us vs them" mentality that those on the tactical level feel exists. (Not saying it's true, just that the perception does). And pragmatically, this level of regulation simply won't work, and will only generate more acts of social media rebellion amongst the rank-and-file. (Damn the Man! And such). Official policies are swell and everything, but their direct impact in the trenches is minimal. How those are enforced matters far more. If the military is serious about utilizing social media constructs, it needs to accept the good and the bad now, and teach all levels of leadership what right looks like. If it doesn't, stories like Colby Buzzell's and mine will multiply tenfold.

In other news, I'm hoping to hire Optimus Prime's voice for the audio version of Kaboom. In no way am I kidding.

How Kaboom got Bookified - Part Deux

2010-02-15T13:46:00.001-08:00

We last left our hero - the Sultan of Swashbuckle, the Bastion of Brash, the Perennial Pirate - mentally drained and suffering from a severe case of typist’s wrists. Dare we even mention the burnt leg hairs still smoldering from the nigh-constant laptop exposure? Would finishing his tome negatively affect his ability to sire Irish degenerates in the future? He didn’t yet know the answer to that question, but he did now understand the difference between overwriting and overwroting – though sometimes accused of the former, he had never before accomplished the latter. And so …

He slept.

And when he awoke, he wasn’t in Hawaii anymore, and he stopped writing in the third person.

I spent my summer relaxing, decompressing, and adjusting back to the blandness of civilian life. After leaving Hawaii, I spent a few weeks at my mom’s house, in Reno, playing with our old (but still perky) golden retriever, and taking weekly excursions up to Lake Tahoe with City Girl. It was all very idyllic, deserving of a photo montage set to the tune of Louie Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” The bright lights and neon intrigue of New York City awaited at the end of the summer, but in the mean time, I was allowed the opportunity to compartmentalize the events of my recent past as a soldier with an older, more time-stained past of childhood. I assure you, I didn’t feel so blessed about my boyhood during middle school, but after Iraq, even the evils of puberty seemed harmless and sweet in moments of reflection.

Near the end of the summer, Luke, City Girl, and I drove down to Las Vegas to visit my father, stepmother, and stepbrother. Now, the desert between Reno and Las Vegas is vast and mostly barren, eight hours full of old ranch towns, tumbleweeds, and “No Trespassing: Federal Government Property” signs. (Area 51, you dig?) But, after stopping at a McDonald’s in Tonapah, and discovering that I had cell reception there, I chatted with Bob Pigeon for forty minutes about the first draft of Kaboom. He liked it, but as editors are prone to doing, he was going to edit – and wanted me to sharpen it some places, while slicing and dicing it in others.

Although, like most writers, I was convinced I had already completed a manuscript sans flaw, I paused and gave thought to his suggestions. Not only did they make sense, they made damn sense. After all, I thought, he’s a professional and does this for a living. I’m still just some punk kid prone to hero worship seeking out the Hemingway dream.

Then we discussed the issue of the subtitle.

Although Bob and Da Capo didn’t mind the blog’s subtitle, “A Soldier’s War Journal,” they didn’t think it accurately captured the content of the book – while it balanced out the sizzle of the main title, it didn’t really differentiate the book from the litany of other GWOT memoirs out there. This was a big sticking point for them, because Bob wholeheartedly believed (and who was I to disagree?) that Kaboom was different, quite different, in fact, from the products already out there.

We still have a few weeks, he explained, before the subtitle has to be finalized. We both agreed to start mining our brains, and hopefully, someone would strike subtitle gold. Bob then laid out the timeline until publication – a three-step editing process, followed by the distribution of galley copies. Marketing and publicity plans would be developing concurrently.

“Get excited,” Bob told me. “It may not always seem like it, but this process can be pretty fulfilling.”

In all its severe and pronounced glory, the word FAIL does not even begin to describe the subtitle ideas I produced in the coming weeks. Words like “odyssey,” “iWar,” and “counterinsurgent” were tossed around, but nothing ever really stuck. Finally, as the deadline neared, Bob’s assistant editor, Jonathan Crowe, put together parts of separate subtitle ideas to form the winner, winner, chicken dinner: “Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War.”

With a bona fide subtitle in tow, Kaboom continued its evolution from a theoretical idea to something very tangible – and was subsequently assigned a project editor, Collin Tracy of Perseus. Collin would drive the project train for the next couple of months, helping me through three painful editing and rewriting stages. Jen Kelland, the copy editor, did an amazing job sifting through my ramblings and ravings – certainly not a job I envied, but I appreciated it, nonetheless. And then, in mid-December, as an early Christmas present to myself, I finished my last renditions on the proof pages, and expunged any and all grammatical and capitalization laws from my brain.

The book was now baked and ready for the decoration of marketing and publicity – something I’ll cover next time, when the third and final episode of “How Kaboom got Bookified” is posted!

Ahh, I heart me some trilogies.

Marja

2010-02-15T12:49:00.000-08:00

As the offensive continues in Marja in Afghanistan, please keep Corporal Luis Hernandez in your thoughts and prayers. He and his fellow Marines are "mowing the grass" - also known as the clearing portion of counterinsurgency - and the more positive vibes sent their way, the better.

How Kaboom got Bookified - Part One

2010-02-08T13:05:00.000-08:00

A lot of friends, family, and e-acquaintances have asked about the book process, and how Kaboom evolved from a defunct blog to an actual book. The short answer is simply: the luck of the Irish. The long answer isn't much more informative, but perhaps it'll help some aspiring author in the future, and/or give you all more insight into this world.

After the Washington Post article ran - yes, that article - a fair amount of publishing houses and literary agents contacted me, offering their services for an eventual Kaboom book. Although I was busy making the rounds for a new set of "discussions" in offices across the FOB, I did a little research and decided on William Clark, of Wm Clark Associates, to represent the project. This allowed me to concentrate on something far more important - the remaining 7 months of our deployment.

I spent this time serving with a rifle company in an infantry battalion. This time meant everything to me, because it allowed me to get a fresh start and perspective, and still contribute to the Iraq counterinsurgency on the ground level. The grunts took me in as one of their own, and while there were a few cav scout jokes tossed around ("where's your horse?" was always my favorite), it was all in good humor. I wrote about my experience with the infantry company - code-named the Gunslingers - but mainly in a personal diary manner, rather than in blog form. At this point in my life, I hated the Internet and it hated me. Writing though, still served as a catharsis, allowing me in my free time to digest the events of my days and nights in Iraq.

Meanwhile, William did the legwork for trying to find Kaboom a publisher. He knew I couldn't finish the project until after we returned home in the winter of 2009, but between a couple sample pieces and the blog fallout (a spade is a spade: the WaPo article kick-started all of this), he believed there was enough material to spark a deal with a publishing house. We were nearing such a deal when the economy went all Sylvia Plath on us in the fall of 2008. The houses were wary of any first-time writer, let alone a writer about a supposed "tired" topic like Iraq, so William started his search anew, and the Gunslingers and I finished out the deployment. The airplane ride back was a joyous one, something made even more special when I wandered back a few seats and discovered some of the Gravediggers riding with us.

About a month later, in March, CPT Demolition and I journeyed to the Land Down Under to broaden our cultural horizons and party away the previous 15 months of our lives. Australia is a beautiful and invigorating country, and I will forever associate it as the place I found out that Kaboom the book was going to become a reality. Very early one morning - say noon or so - I emerged from a beer coma and stumbled to the restroom to confirm that I, in fact, still existed as something more than a headache. After doing so, I checked my phone to see what time it was, and noticed I had a text message from William Clark. "Call ASAP!" it read. I did, and subsequently learned that Da Capo Press, under the leadership of a passionate editor named Bob Pigeon, had made a very gracious offer for the publishing rights to Kaboom.

"Should we take it?" I asked William. I was ecstatic, obviously, but between the hangover and my ignorance to the book world, I probably didn't sound it.

"Hell yeah!" he replied.

Not that CPT Demolition needed anymore excuse to celebrate of course, but we did toast that night a few times to the news.

After returning back to Hawaii, I began the process of leaving the service. Anyone who has ever done this can tell you this is a painful, time-consuming process - time that was precious to me, because I had a deadline to meet in terms of the first complete draft of Kaboom. I somehow made it, though, mainly due to my roommate, Chris (book pseudonym: The Great White Hope), and little brother, Luke. After graduating from college that spring, Luke joined me at our apartment in Hawaii for my last month there, and ensured that I took breaks from my writing marathons to do things like eat. Or see the sun. Or even occasionally shower.

I was honorably discharged from the Army on June 10, and nineteen days later, with two hours to spare, I sent in the completed first draft of Kaboom. And then I took a deep breath and a very, very long nap.

So, in short, all I can really offer you in terms of securing a book contract is this: find someone passionate about your project and trust in them. I was blessed to find two such men in William and Bob. But that passion must originate with you - if you believe in your writing and your project enough, the likelihood of someone else feeling that way will increase exponentially.

In a few days, I'll write another segment, chronicling the steps taken with Da Capo to turn a rambling computer document into a tangible book.

Hope all is well out there, both in the interwebz and reality.

Another Long Overdue Update

2010-01-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

Greetings e-universe-

I hope this finds you all healthy and happy in the New Year. Things for me are going rather swimmingly, albeit much slower and slightly duller than my Army days. The big news, of course, is the publication of Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War, by Da Capo Press, on April 1. (While I appreciate a good gag on April Fool's Day, if this is one, I'm not in on it, I assure all of you). It bears a passing resemblance to the material on this blog, but the majority of its content is new and has been vetted by an honest to Allah editing process. Amazing what another set of eyes can do, isn't it? Further, it spans my unit's entire fifteen months in Iraq, as opposed to the six or so that are chronicled here.

Anyhow, I want this to be an informative update, not just a shameless plug, especially in the midst of this economy - nonetheless, I must mention that Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War is now available for pre-order on Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and Borders.com. Its own website will be up shortly, and I'll pass along that URL when the website is completed. I think the book is pretty good - pretty damn good, actually - and the good people at Da Capo are a big reason why. If you get a chance to read it - and I mean read it, not just buy it, because the former is far more important - I hope and believe you'll agree. My aim was to make it unlike any other modern war memoir out there, in terms of voice, literary style, and bringing my soldiers to life out of the banal silhouettes they are all too often described as. Only time and your feedback can determine is such an ambition was achieved.

On the personal front, I've settled into big city life in New York. The adjustments to the crowds and to the winter has been interesting, but the subway offers endless entertainment, and being able to see City Girl regularly is definitely worthy of hyperbole. I'm in the throes of grad school applications, and will likely be in school next fall channeling my Iraq experience into Islamic Studies or Middle Eastern History of some sort.

I continue to stay in contact with the Gravediggers and the Gunslingers (the unit I spent my time with in Iraq post-blog brouhaha). As occurs with most military units after a deployment, we are strewn across the globe at this point, with many preparing for yet another tour of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan. The stoic resoluteness of our soldiers continues to astound me, and I am keenly aware that my time in the service will always be with me, no matter where I may drift away to in this life.

I'll be updating this blog, fairly regularly, as the publication date for Kaboom nears. Many of my family, friends, and e-acquaintances have asked about the process, so I'll do my best to describe it as I go through it. It's definitely exciting, but don't expect a rock n roll diary - from what I've gathered thus far, the book world is slightly more boring than that.

Oh, and feel free to bask in the awesomeness of the cover!

Hasta.

A Long Overdue Update

2009-06-12T13:53:00.000-07:00

Salutations-

Well, we're nearing the one year anniversary of my blog's untimely extinction, so I figured now was as good a time as any to write a short update. My friend Nick, who created this archive, was kind enough to turn over operational control of the site to me.

Upon our unit's redeployment, the Gravediggers all went their separate ways, many of them staying in the Army and continuing to do great things for Uncle Sam. I separated from active duty earlier this month, and will be moving to New York City in the fall. After the Washington Post article ran about Kaboom, I signed with Wm Clark Associates, a literary agency based out of New York. A few months after that, I signed a book deal with Da Capo Press, and a print version of Kaboom should be out in late 2009 or early 2010. It's almost entirely new material, and a far more in-depth exploration of our experiences than what I was able to put on the blog.

Beyond all of that, I really want to thank everyone who supported me and my soldiers during the deployment. It was often very difficult to say so over there, but keeping those small connections with reality was vital for all of us. Thanks again and God bless.

Matt Gallagher

A Tactical Pause

2008-06-27T02:38:00.001-07:00

Due to a rash posting on my part, and decisions made above my pay-grade, I have been ordered to stop posting on Kaboom, effective immediately. Though I committed no OPSEC violations, due to a series of extenuating circumstances – the least of which was me being on leave – my “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage” post on May 28 did not go through the normal vetting channels. It’s totally on me, as it was too much unfiltered truth. I’m a soldier first, and orders are orders. So it is.

If you think, please think of us. If you pray, please pray for us. The second half of our deployment will be just as challenging and dangerous as the first half.

Thank you for caring. Agree or disagree with the war, if you’re reading this, you are engaged and aware. As long as that is still occurring in a free society, there is something worth the fighting for.

The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage

2008-05-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

I’d brushed aside the informal inquiries for months now. No, not me. Not interested. Keep me on the line. I want nothing to do with a lateral promotion to XO (Executive Officer) that involves becoming a logistical whipping boy and terminal scapegoat for all things NOTGOODENOUGH. I’ve been out here in the wilds too long, dealing with matters of life and death, to go back to Little America for PowerPoint pissing matches. Not me. I’m that too skinny, crazy-eyed mustang who drives a hippie van with a McGovern bumper sticker and keeps his hair long and actually read the counterinsurgency manual rather than pretending he did, even quoting it during meetings and out in sector in this era of recentralized warfare, remember? You aren't gonna break me, no matter how enticing the fires of the FOB are.

Semper Gumby.

I guess they forgot, and instead focused on matters of competency. Cue outright offer.

Cue LT G “thanks but no thanks” response.

Cue illogical backlash from higher, acting like a spurned teenage blonde whose dreamboat crush tells her point-blank that he prefers brunettes.

Q finding myself on the literal and metaphorical carpet of multiple field-grades, sometimes explaining, sometimes listening.

Mostly listening.

Yes, Sir. I’m getting out. No, I’m sure. Definitely sure. Surer than sure. What am I going to do? Don’t tell him Option A, he’ll scoff at Option A. He believes dreams are only for children. Option B will suffice. Well Sir, I’m going to go back to school, somewhere on the East Coast. Haven’t decided if I’ll focus on the Spanish Civil War or Irish History yet, though. I think I’d be a pretty good wacky professor. I already like to ramble and I look good in banana yellow clip-on ties. Sir.

No, Sir. I’m not saying that at all. I would absolutely bust my ass as an XO, and perform the job to the best of my ability. I’m just saying I’d be screwing a peer of mine, who is staying in, and could use this professional development, benefiting both him and the big Army in the long run. Uncle Sam agrees with me.

No Sir, I don’t think I’m selling myself short. Recognizing one’s own weaknesses isn’t a weakness in and of itself. Crushing balls is only my thing with people who aren’t wearing an American uniform.

If I throw enough clutter in the way, something will stick.

This is the Army, son. Your opinion doesn't matter.

Roger. Acknowledged. I'd figure I'd proffer it, just in case.

You need to start thinking big picture, Lieutenant. That’s what officers do.

I roll out of the wire everyday to bask in a third-world cesspool craving my attention for nothing more than the most basic human need - hope. Is there a bigger picture than that, or just different vantage points from safer distances?

Yes Sir, I will remember to think things out more rationally next time. (Pause long enough to make the point that this was already a well-thought out decision.) Of course. Sir.

No Sir, this isn’t just because I want to stay with my platoon. (Maintain eye contact so he doesn’t think you’re lying, for the love of God, maintain eye contact!) I won’t lie though, Sir – it was a factor. Just not my motivation.

Nice work, liar.

Another reason? Well, Sir, two of my best friends in the world are LT Virginia Slim and LT Demolition. If I were to become their XO, I would be extremely uncomfortable with possibly having to order them and their men to their deaths. As their peer, I should be right there next to them. Hell, I probably would insist on it.

Yes, I know that was a good point. Don’t say that out loud. Don’t say that out loud. Phew. That was a close one. I almost out-louded rather than in-loaded.

Yes Sir, I have full confidence in my platoon to be able to succeed without me. SFC Big Country would be more than capable of performing the job of a platoon leader. But he’s an NCO. He shouldn’t have to deal with lieutenant bullshit. That’s my bullshit to deal with. I’m the soldier’s buffer. (Cough. From you. Cough.) If a butterbar were here, I’d understand. That’s the natural order of things. But since an opening occurred without a backlog, I really strongly really definitely really definitively believe that it should go to a LT who wants it. Hell, there are some of them out there who NEED it. Aren’t I being a team player here?

The ballad of a thin man walking a thin rope. Moonwalking a thinly-veiled rejection of his superiors’ life decisions. Wondering why they are taking it personally. People are different. They want different things out of existence. Let’s not act like I’m a ring of Saturn stating the case that Pluto’s planethood should be reconfirmed.

Don’t fall on your sword, Lieutenant. No one likes a martyr.

Can’t help it, I’m Irish. And. Yes. They do.

Fine, I’m not going to make you do it. (Even though I spent three days trying to do so.) But you are now on my shit-list, and I want to fuck you over for daring to defy and defying to dare. A bullshit tasking will eventually come down the pipeline, and I got a rubber stamp with your name on it. And yes, I know your performance has been outstanding, and we have consistently rated you above your peers, at the top echelon. Doesn’t matter now.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter at all. Even if I’ve only haggled a few more months with the Gravediggers, it was worth it; I came here to fight a war, not to build a resume. My men need me. And. I need them. It would have been worth it for a few more days.

Victory.

Mustangs don’t blink.

You know where we learned how not to?

It wasn’t behind a desk.

Every day of free-roaming makes it worth it.

The Happiest Dog in Iraq

2008-05-16T23:13:00.000-07:00

Recently, our parent unit opened up another combat outpost in the hub of the outlying villages, earning the all too obvious nickname of Little Anu al-Verona. While one of our sister platoons operates out of here now, the Gravediggers recently covered down on their security operations for a day so they could get back to the FOB for a maintenance refit. It was here, surrounded by palm trees and an irrigation system that actually functions, that we discovered the happiest dog in Iraq.

Most dogs over here bear no resemblance to their domesticated cousins in the western world; instead, they are as feral as coyotes, as scrawny as hyenas, and as ugly as the Duke University student population. ("And I always remember that whatever I have done in the past, or may do in the future, Duke University is responsible one way or the other." - Richard Milhous Nixon.) It’s not a true dismounted night patrol unless there’s a close encounter of the canine kind with a frothing, demented, “rabies is the most benign thing my bite brings” beast-mutant. (We’re back to Iraq now, in case you were confused.) Luckily, these third-world abominations usually recognize what getting too close is and what ignoring the green laser of God means – a bullet through the skull. Still though, it’s all too evident that my too sweet and too stupid golden retriever from back home would last seven minutes - tops - in the back-alleys and alley-backs of Anu al-Verona. There’s not much to wag your tail about in Iraq, and there is no retrieving that occurs when playing fetch with exploding ordinance instead of tennis balls.

And yes America, while I care about said golden retriever far too much, she’s as good an analogy as any for the current state of the nation.

Anyhow, while settling into our security rotations at the combat outpost in Little Anu al-Verona, we heard PFC Van Wilder yelling from inside the center-most building in the billets area. SFC Big Country and I exchanged shrugs, and wandered over to see what the ruckus was all about.

“There’s a fucking giant rat in there!” PFC Van Wilder said as he came back outside. “It lives underneath a bed, and scared the shit out of me.”

“Hah hah hah.” PFC Das Boot’s hearty chuckle resonated from inside the building. “Hah hah hah.”

“What are you laughing about?” asked PFC Van Wilder. “You find that rat?”

PFC Das Boot, in all his gangly awkwardness, stepped outside with a grin to match his length. “There is no rat in there. It is a puppy-dog.” Sure enough, he was cradling a very tiny yellow dog, who was barking down at us playfully from its perch in our young soldier’s arms. It had a slim rodent-like tail, with no feathers, an undersized runt-frame and an outsized tongue flopping out of its mouth.

The platoon burst in laughter, mainly at the expense of PFC Van Wilder. Usually the instigator of the jokes rather than the culmination of them, he couldn’t help but shake his head at this dalliance with fair play. He wasn’t about to let the subject go so easily, though. “It must be a Russian dog. That’s why it likes Das Boot.”

PFC Das Boot set the dog back down on the ground. “I do not understand,” he said. “The dog is Iraqi and I am German. What does Russia have to do with this?”

“Shut up Ivan Drago!” PFC Van Wilder had resumed control of the situation all too easily. “Get your gear and get your KGB-ass up to the towers with me. We’re first on shift.”

While SSG Bulldog traipsed off with the first batch of soldiers on watch in his stead, the rest of the platoon took turns greeting our new friend and temporary housemate. “It must be Apache Platoon’s mascot,” SFC Big Country stated. “I guess it lives here with them.” We subsequently found the dog’s food and water dishes – Frisbees turned upside down.

The dog didn’t have a nametag, and we as visitors didn’t feel it was right to give it one, so “the dog” sufficed for the duration of our stay. It was unlike any other animal we had come in contact with thus far in our deployment. It barked, not out of fear, but because it demanded and craved attention from humans. Fascinated with everything we did, it followed around our most mundane movements like we were discovering the edge of the flat world. If ignored for even a few minutes, the consequences would usually be a string of military 550-cord wrapped around your ankles. Simply put, the dog enjoyed existing in a way most of us haven’t been around since we left home. Being fed regularly and being treated with kindness tends to have that effect on all of God’s creatures, I guess. It was happy with itself and happy with life, and wanted to share such with us.

Truth be told, it was a fucking weird experience at first. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for such a return to the ordinary. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen to it if and when Apache Platoon departed this place. Five months and some change into this thing, and cynicism splatters every thought of mine like a Jackson Pollock work.

My Joes loved it, though, and by the end of the night, the dog was exhausted. SPC Doc passed out with it in bed, and finally, the canine-terrorist was down for the count. Most of us moving around that night still compulsively tested our ankles for freedom of movement, however, and kept any sudden movements to a minimum. The dog was definitely more familiar with this terrain, putting us two-leggers at a distinct disadvantage.

I woke up before the sun the next morning. It has been a few months since I’ve been able to sleep for more than three hours at a time, something that – for better or for worse - seems to match our daily schedule. I grabbed a book out of my assault pack, found a group of ammo cans and old sandbags that served as a makeshift chair in this bizarro paradise, and fled the land of action for the land of words. Dawn’s light soon replaced my flashlight, and shortly after that, the unmistakable sound of a pup’s growl interrupted me. I looked up. Across the way, trotting down an empty ditch, the dog had discovered that it was not alone this morning.

“What do you want?” I asked.

My rhetorical question was all too obvious, and received an all too obvious answer. The dog perked up its ears and tilted its head to the side, and barked at me as if to say, “you know exactly what I want, you clown. I’ve been sent from the golden retriever gods to make you stop thinking for a few minutes. Grab a stick and let’s make this happen.” I threw the dog a stick for some minutes, and then I returned to my book. When I did, it curled up at my feet for an early morning nap. The sum result of the experience refreshed me mentally the way clean water can refresh physically - for a few minutes, I escaped the madness, the deadlines, the wars within the war. I escaped it all. I didn’t have to embrace the Suck, or wait around for it to embrace me first. I embraced the normal. My normal. There was nothing more normal in my reality than a book and a dog, and that still seemed be the case.

It all ended, of course. But not before I remembered a few things.

The Night of Gun-Toting, Barrel-Blazing Ghost Pandas

2008-05-14T15:50:00.000-07:00

Gunfire in Iraq is not a rare thing – especially at night. Most of the time, the scattered, random shots heard somewhere off in the distant shadows fade away with time, not warranting any American attention other than a brief radio report sent from the roof of the combat outpost. That’s most of the time. Occasionally though, the scattered, random shots do not fade – instead progressing into something military vernacular junkies describe as “direct” and “sustained;” i.e. a firefight. This kind of gunplay tends to require our own special brand of attentive intervention. The night of the ghost pandas was one of these times.

In vintage Gravedigger fashion, my platoon was set in a late-night OP, bantering back and forth on our internal net as a means of staying awake. Being the dedicated whYkids that we are, movie quotes flooded our verbal exchanges like a bursting dam of Americana. Pop culture keeps us connected to home in ways even the brain voodoos can’t explain.

SPC Cold-Nuts’ voice snapped across the net first. “Ron, are you paying attention?”

“Nope,” I responded, finishing the line from Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. I bit my lip and racked my brain. “Looks like you've been missing a lot of work lately."

“I wouldn’t say I’ve been missing it, Bob,” (Office Space) completed SFC Big Country, with the sensational timing of someone who has seen that film way too many times.

“I saw this saucy little thang the other day on dismount patrol.” It was PFC Van Wilder, operating on full jester throttle. “I had to ask her, ‘what are the chances of a guy like me and a girl like you ending up together?'"

“And she told you, ‘not good,’” drawled SPC Big Ern.

"You mean, not good, like one out of a hundred?"

"And then she said, 'more like one out of a million.'" The hetero-lifemates complimentary pacing, as always, was outstanding.

“So you’re saying there’s a chance!” (Dumb and Dumber). The platoon roared approvingly at PFC Van Wilder’s spot-on Jim Carrey impression, and the very obvious truth that he would have hit on a pretty Iraqi female, if allowed the opportunity to do so, in just that straightforward of a manner.

A single gunshot echoed to the east, towards the town center of Anu al-Verona. A few seconds passed by, and then a small burst of rounds erupted in the empty still. Silence followed.

Showing how much we cared about such a commonplace occurrence, PFC Boomhauer returned to the metaphorical well of comedic awesomeness that is Anchorman. “Panda watch!” he cracked, using one of my personal favorite lines and something I’ve been known to utter in meetings when fellow officers are droning on and on about unimportant, trivial, and altogether asinine matters. Time is never wasted when you’re wasted all the time – unfortunately, the Iraq War is a depressingly sober excursion. Anyways, my soldiers caught wind of my use and abuse of the Panda Watch phrase, and have thus been known to use it themselves when something happens that no one really cares about.

Honest to Allah, sixty percent of the time, the Panda Watch phrase works every time. This was not one of those times. A barrage of AK-47 output erupted just to the north of the original volley of gunfire, succeeded by the unrestrained chattering of automatic weapons. Sporadic bursts of both continued, and the black swirl of the sky lit up with tracer rounds. Our Strykers were already moving in that direction by the time CPT Whiteback told us to head that way over the radio.

The firefight continued as we got closer. Be ready to dismount. Everyone better be red direct, locked cocked and ready to rock. Gunners, let us know what you see. Ensure your night vision devices are on, and for Christ’s sake. Listen to the NCOs.

As soon as our Strykers came within sight of the main artery in town though – also known as Route Sabers to those of us not born under the Crescent Moon - all of the gunfire so prevalent moments before crashed off with the alacrity of a cliff-jumping lemming.

“White 2, does your gunner have contact with anything? Either audio or visual?”

“Negative. Neither of ‘dem got anything.”

“What about the dismounts in the rear air-guard hatches?”

“Negative. Neither do ‘dey.”

“Roger. Same here. 3, 4, you all got anything different?”“Nope.” And. “That's a negative, Ghost rider. The pattern is full.” (Top Gun).

What. The. Fuck. Over.

We kept creeping forward, machine guns scanning for any sign of movement, until we reached the northern reach of Route Sabers. In theory, this was a Sons of Iraq checkpoint, although none were currently manning their posts. Subsequently, PFC Cold-Nuts spotted a group of crouching silhouettes off the street and in the adjacent field, all oriented southwards. With the arrival of our Ghost Tanks, the Sawha rediscovered some gumption, and scurried over to us, where we met up with them on the ground. Sonic provided the translation, although most of it wasn’t necessary. Frantic, panicked pointing transcends most known language barriers.

“Ali Baba shoot us! From down there!”

“Yes! Yes! Ali Baba! Shoot! We shoot back!”

“We shoot back lots!”

“Okay … did you actually see who was firing at you?”

Nope.

“Okay … did any of their bullets actually hit anything around here? Like damage or something?”

Double nope.

“Okay … did any of you do anything but fire indiscriminately in the general vicinity that you heard gun shots come from?”

With this triple negative complete – thus rewriting any and all known grammatical rulebooks – I told the Sons of Iraq to resume their posts on the street, while we pressed south on Route Sabers. Slim as it may be (and I’m talking LT G in Iraq sweating into a skeleton slim here), there’s always the chance that somewhere in this hellhole, someone is actually stupid enough to present themselves as a known enemy and as a viable target.

Not a soul stirred as we pressed south – like most settlements mired in a war zone, Anu al-Verona can disintegrate into a ghost town instantaneously when the breeze brings in trouble. We eventually made our way to the very southern intersection of Route Sabers, finding a near-identical reflection of the scene we had just left in the north. Here though, a group of Iraqi Police and Sawha huddled in doorways instead of lying in a field. They ran up to us, and frantic, panicked pointing followed.

“Ali Baba shoot us! From up there!”

“Yes! Yes! Ali Baba! Shoot! We shoot back!”

“We shoot back lots!”

Sigh.

Before I could reconfirm the validity of the triple negative rule, the unmistakable tread-churning of T-72 tanks rolled in from the west. The Iraqi Army had responded to the scene too, and as per their standard operating procedure, were taking a sledgehammer to a fly. They were clearing every house within a three-block radius, filling the streets with irritated families while producing zero insurgents.

Ten minutes later – after the arrival of the IP command – damn near every security element in Anu al-Verona was perched somewhere along Route Sabers. After a rather heated discussion with the IA Lieutenant and Sawha commanders, the IP Colonel and I were able to convince them that the majority of rounds exchanged had been friendly fire (that ultimate of oxymorons.) While I was open to the possibility of an enemy combatant firing a few rounds at the southern checkpoint initially, it was evident from the piles of brass collected and the various stories of those present that they had fired in one another’s directions wildly, without anyone getting anything resembling positive identification. The IPs thus returned to their normal patrolling, and I instructed the Sons of Iraq to go back to their checkpoints. Then I asked the IA LT, a chubby man with an obnoxiously immaculate moustache, what his plan was for the duration of the night.

“I … I cannot say in front of my men.” Having worked with this guy before, I knew that choosing between paper and plastic would be an overwhelming decision for him. Still though, I at least expected a half-hearted lie on his part. SSG Chico and PFC Boomhauer turned around from their security positions, bemused as I was by this secret plan of no plan.

“What do you mean you can’t say? If you have actionable intelligence, action on it. Do you need our help? I seriously doubt clearing every house is going to do anything but piss off the locals. Why don’t we go back to the combat outpost, make some calls to informants, and -”

Is this motherfucker seriously walking away from me? Wrong dude to ignore, chief. I got more brashness in my right nut than you have in your entire being. You wanna play these petty Arab caveman manhood games, okay, I’ll play.

The red clarity seized me. We’re old friends, the red and me.

“HEY!” My voice echoed across the side street we had huddled on, startling everyone but we three Americans. Standing my ground and waving the IA LT back to me with my index finger, I tried to make my lecture as constructive as possible while still lacing it with a few verbal powerbombs. “If I’m gonna risk the lives of my men by coming here tonight, we’re going to work fucking together or I will fucking skull-drag you back to the unemployment line myself.” I paused, letting Sonic translate my words while he attempted to match my anger. The IA LT was staring back at me dully, but when I looked at him in the eyes and glared, he dropped his glance to the ground. I hate these petty games, I thought. They offend my idealistic liberal sensibilities. Oh well. So it is.

“I know your Major insists that we work together, so you better drop this bullshit attitude of yours and realize that smashing things isn’t always the correct course of action.” I contemplated using my favorite “square peg, round hole” quip, but decided it wouldn’t survive the transition into Arabic. A favorite local analogy would, though. “A tiger needs a tail. Now,” I said, taking a deep breath – “this is your mission, your town, and your country. We are willing to help. Do you need it? Yes or no. Either way, brief me on your plan.”

He looked back at me, with his eyes darting back and forth. “I … I do not know who shot at the checkpoint. Perhaps it was a ghost.”

“That’s cool man, I don’t know who shot at the checkpoint, either. It wasn’t a ghost, though.” I looked at my IA counterpart, and couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Men who can’t admit that they don’t know something or refuse to admit that they were wrong about something always fail as leaders, be them American or Iraqi. I’m no Dick Winters, but I know enough to understand that people respond to authenticity, and soldiers are no different in this regard. This poor bastard never stood a chance. He worried too much about what people thought about what he was doing rather than just doing it in the first place.

The IA LT finally said that he’d meet me back at the combat outpost, and we’d plan from there. He left some of his men at the Sawha checkpoints, beefing up their security temporarily. We exchanged forced pleasantries and a too-hearty handshake. As we walked back to our Strykers, SSG Chico and PFC Boomhauer were laughing about having watched their normally goofy lieutenant turn into Conan the Barbarian.

“You should’ve punched him,” SSG Chico said. “We had your back.”

“You know whatcha shoulda said, Sir?” PFC Boomhauer offered.

“What’s that?”

“You shoulda said, ‘Panda Watch!’ That woulda really confused him.”

I laughed, which helped filter out the remaining bits of rage still left. Once again, this young soldier displayed his natural Southern keenness. This whole situation was ridiculously stupid and an absolute waste of time; as worthy of the Panda Watch title as any other event. “He was so desperate for answers, he would’ve jumped all over that,” I said. “Ghost pandas! Of course! It was ghost pandas that fired at the checkpoints!”

After mounting back up on our vehicles, I briefed the rest of the platoon on what had happened. The reaction was universal: let's make a break for it and escape the madness. "You boys like Mex-i-cooooo?" crooned SSG Boondock, offering an all-too tempting alternative to the now. (by way of Super Troopers.)

We rolled back to the combat outpost, and made some telephone calls to various informants. They all said the same thing - there was no one on that street except for the Sawha and the IPs manning their checkpoints. They must’ve been firing at each other. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.

What a boring theory. I’m partial to the gun-toting, barrel-blazing ghost pandas, myself. Since when does this war have to make sense, anyways?

Making the Kids Smile

2008-05-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

PFC Das Boot attempts to fly a kite in the Iraqi breeze. Hilarity ensues. Narration - and tough NCO-style mentorship - by SSG Boondock.

Messing with the chAir Force

2008-05-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It’s not their fault. They don’t know any better. We’re all on the same team, we just have different specialties. Blah blah blah.

I don’t care if this comes off as short-sighted or harsh, funny is funny. And during a routine escort mission for a unit of Air Force civil engineers, funny happened. Since the Secretary of Defense thinks they aren’t pulling their weight right now, and I’m irreconcilably jealous of their six-month deployments, I don’t feel bad piling on the chAir Force like this.

Air Force Captain, obviously mesmerized by my gear rack and combat undershirt: “Wow … is that a different kind of material?”
LT G: “It’s just flame-retardant, Sir.”
Air Force Captain: “What? Why would you need that?”
LT G: “I guess they were having a problem with the normal cloth catching on fire after IED explosions.”
Air Force Captain, eyes wide open: “Oh … okay.” He then walks away from me, rather hastily, like I’m a man on fire at that very moment.

Air Force NCO, obviously mesmerized by SSG Bulldog’s M4 Carbine: “What’s all that on your rifle?”
SSG Bulldog: “Lasers.”
Air Force NCO: “What the hell are they for?”
SSG Bulldog, obviously disgusted at the nature of the question: “Well, theyz for lasering.”

Air Force Major 1: “Now, take care of them. They’ve never left the wire before.”
LT G: “We will, Sir. We can mess with them a little bit, if you want.”
Air Force Major 2: “Hah hah hah.”
Air Force Major 1: “Hah hah hah.”
Air Force Major 2: “Oh God … you’re not serious, are you?”
Air Force Major 1: “Hah hah hah.”
LT G: “Uhh, no, no Sir. Well. Actually, yes. Your call.”
Air Force Major 1: “Hah hah hah.”

SFC Big Country, pointing to one of the Air Force engineers deltoid wings, which are designed to wrap tightly around the deltoid to protect the arm from shrapnel. Instead, all of the engineers have their deltoid wings hanging loosely, flapping in the wind like actual wings: “Hey turbo, you want some help with those wings?”
Air Force engineer: “I got them on right. Sergeant.”
SFC Big Country: “You sure about that?”
Air Force engineer: “Yep. Sure am.”
SFC Big Country: “They’re for your arms. Not your nipples.”

Biggie Smalls: “LT, who are these men we pick up?”
LT G: “They are Air Force guys. They build stuff.”
Biggie Smalls: “Why are they all fat-bodies?”
(My crew breaks out into hysterics.)
SGT Cheech: “Too much FOB food, Biggie. They don’t sweat out the pounds all day and night like we do.”
PFC Boomhauer: “Yeah, and I bet even in the rear, they never did PT (physical training.) It sure don’t look like it.”
Biggie Smalls: “That is not fair! They must work hard like us and become slim like us!”
LT G: “Biggie, where did you learn the word ‘fat-body?’
Biggie Smalls: “One of the Big Sergeant’s (SFC Big Country) tough talks with platoon. He say ‘don’t be a fat-body!’ He is very good at yelling.”

SSG Bulldog, upon arriving at our combat outpost: “We’re here.”
Air Force engineer: “Phew. I can’t believe we made it here safe. Where were all the terrorists?”
SSG Bulldog, not a man known for his patience or understanding: “Get the hell out my Stryker.”

To the Principles! Office

2008-04-23T19:48:00.000-07:00

There are moments in this war – albeit more sporadic than the movies of the future will show and almost always spontaneous – when we’re conducting the combat operations I envisioned us executing prior to our arrival to Iraq. Running through side streets in the midnight black to storm known insurgent safe-houses. Digging up caches of homemade RPG launchers and warheads while the local leaders stammer that they have no idea how those things got in the ground in the first place. Penetrating deep into the unknown through a hail of flying bullets, effectively ending a firefight simply because we’re the biggest dog on the block - if said big dog had a long-barreled 50-caliber machine gun mounted on top of it. Still being over here doesn't negate the ability to already recognize that these are the times that will stick to my psyche like quicksand for the succeeding ever after. I’m no adrenaline junkie, but these lethal operations make getting up in the morning worth it. Warring during war with warriors just makes fucking sense, be it philosophically, grammatically, or serendipitously.

And then there are the other times.

Headquarters NCO: “Hey Sir, you busy?”

LT G: “Umm. Just perusing Facebook, seeing what drugs people I went to high school with are addicted to now, and who from my college class has sold out in the name of financial stability. So that would be a big, fat negative. What’s up?”

Headquarters NCO: “The two Sheiks from East Bumfuq Village are downstairs, screaming at each other again. And CPT Whiteback is back at the FOB. You’re the only LT around right now.”

LT G: “Fuck.”

Headquarters NCO: “I know. Sorry about that, Sir. Biggie is already downstairs waiting for you.”

LT G: “You set me up!”

Headquarters NCO: “Would you have gone otherwise?”

LT G: “Nope. I would have hid in my room until they killed each other or left. Those bastards are worse than two teenage gypsies cat-fighting over the same man.”

Headquarters NCO: “Thanks, Sir.”

LT G: “Grumble, grumble, grumble. And grumble.”

(Five minutes later, after multiple shots of coffee and a rather tasty Honey Bun snack, I saunter downstairs, seeing the two Sheiks still yelling at one another with all the traditional Arabic melodrama and pomp, complete with finger-wagging. One is pathetically fat, the other comically thin, and both are dressed in traditional Arabic wear, complete with white dishdashas [better known to U.S. soldiers as man-dresses] and red-and-white checkered headdresses. Biggie is sitting down in a chair across from them, still dressed in his old man silk pajamas, smoking a cigarette, smiling openly while he watches them fight.)

Biggie: “LT! Good morning!”

LT G: “What up, Biggie Smalls. What’s the deal with these two? Have they gone crazy?”

Biggie: “Crazy! Yes!”

LT G: “Alright, Sheiks. Follow me to the meeting room.”

(They follow me to the meeting room. Only after I give them the international hand-and-arm signal for “Shut the Fuck Up” do they stop speaking. Instead, they sit and opposite ends of the conference table, arms crossed, and glare at one another. At the beginning of the deployment, I found it odd to lecture men twice my age and supposed leaders of men about matters concerning their own people. I was overly concerned with phrases like “cultural awareness,” and other academic argot. [Argot is academic for bullshit.] I certainly feel no such internal pangs any longer.)

LT G: “I feel like a principal who has to settle a hide-and-go-seek dispute between two third-graders.”

Biggie: “Eh?”

LT G: “Nevermind. Okay, tell me what happened.” I raise both hands to the ceiling, evoking some higher deity to bless us with sanity, before the conversation devolves into rapid-fire tongue chaos again. “One at a time. You first, then you.”

Fat Sheik (through Biggie, as are all of their statements): “Our area must have one leader! Just one! This man is a terrorist! He work with al-Qaeda!”

Skinny Sheik: “You are the terrorist! I drive away all of the al-Qaedas from our village! You want to bring them back!”

LT G: “We had lunch in your village just two days ago. With both of you. Everything was peaceful then, and you both told me that you enjoyed working together. What happened?”

Fat Sheik: “We are two villages. Two tribes, two villages.”

Skinny Sheik: “My people are separate from his people.”

LT G: “Alright, alright. We’ve told you this before: your villages are the same, as far as Sawha contracts are concerned. I realize you are the heads of two different tribes, and that you think that a dried-up creek bed separates your villages. I’m telling you that if you both still want to get paid, and have your men get paid, then it doesn’t matter. You run East Bumfuq. Together.”

Skinny Sheik: “Yes. I understand that. He does not.”

Fat Sheik: “Yes I do! You are the scum who does not!”

(Cue tongue chaos, finger wagging, and uproarious behavior on both sides of the table. Biggie laughs and whips out another cigarette.)

LT G: “Hey! Hey! Calm the fuck down and listen. You are Sawha leaders and Sheiks, not warlords. If you ever want to see another payment from us, shut the fuck up and start listening!”(Aforementioned tongue chaos, finger wagging, and uproarious behavior comes to a screeching halt as soon as Biggie completes his translation. Money talks. Even through a terp.)

LT G: “Let me make this very clear: CPT Whiteback will gladly fire both of you if you can’t learn to work together. He will find someone who can control his emotions and remember that the security of the people is the most important part of being a Sawha leader. Not pride or ego.”

Skinny Sheik: “I wish to work together. He does not. He wants there to only be one of us.”

Fat Sheik: “I wish for him to run his checkpoints, and me to run mine.”

LT G: “Fine. Good. That’s the way it was and the way it will stay. You don’t have to like one another to work together.”

Fat Sheik: “Okay.”

Skinny Sheik: “Fine.”

LT G: “And I know you’re both smart enough to know that anyone who works with AQI, or allows them into East Bumfuq, will be caught by us. We know all. We see all. Especially in East Bumfuq.”

(I see both Sheiks eyeing one another suspiciously. Biggie seems to believe another round of tongue chaos is about to occur, and he begins to chide them in Arabic. I let him ramble. He knows the American talking points as well as anyone, and unlike us, is genuinely angry – rather than annoyed and/or disgusted - with the Sheiks for their childish behavior.)

LT G: “Have we reached an understanding? Agree to disagree, then?”

(Both the Fat Sheik and the Skinny Sheik nod their heads, but they do not laugh. Apparently, quotes from the movie “Anchorman” are not yet all the rage in East Bumfuq, Iraq.)

Fat Sheik: “Thank you, LT Talib. You are wise beyond your years. We must be thinking leaders, not leaders of the heart.”

Skinny Sheik, not to be outdone: “Yes, LT. This Sheik is often wrong, but he is right that you are wise for one so young. Thank you. And when is pay day?”

Fat Sheik: “Yes, when is pay day?”

Biggie: “Hah hah, money bring them back together. These men are crazy, yes!”

I nod in agreement and walk back upstairs. I need a near-beer.

The Brothel

2008-04-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

“We got nothing, LT.” SSG Boondock’s voice ricocheted around the thin walls of the Iraqi hut we had raided in the dead of the night. “No males, military-age or otherwise. Our guys must’ve bounced, already. Nothing here but the mom, the teenage daughter, a younger kid and a baby, and a crazy-ass grandma who won’t stop giving me the evil eye. Easy, lady! Put down the broom and come outside.”

I was standing in the main room of the house with Sonic – a young terp with a propensity to spike his hair - explaining to the mother why we were there. Yes, of course you can pick up the crying baby. No, we are not here to talk about your eldest daughter being so sick that she’s in the hospital, although that is awful. Yes, I want everyone in the house outside. Now. No, you cannot talk to each other. I want to talk to each of you separately. Yeah, including you grandma.

The previous hour had passed in a blur any Zoloft addict could appreciate. There I was, chillaxing in Sheik Stack-On-Me’s living room, drinking chai and watching Suzanne Somers’ workout videos, on his very expensive and very golden Arabic couches. My soldiers pulling inner security – SGT Chico and PFC Boomhauer – were slightly confused at the sight, but I had keyed in on the Sheik’s dirty old man status months ago. Finding him in his pajamas at night learning about the wonders of the Thighmaster only confirmed my suspicions. To his credit though, he hadn’t appeared the least bit embarrassed when he found us on his front porch, checking up on him due to a recent assassination threat put out by an insurgent cell. He simply invited us in, and lectured me about the benefits of “a woman with experience who … still exercise. Heh heh heh.”

Sheik Stack-On-Me was in the process of bestowing upon me a brand new chai set when my dismount radio buzzed with want. “Gravedigger 1, this is Gravedigger 4.” It was SFC Big Country, and he had the unmistakable “I am relaying a Frago from higher, would a plan every now and then seriously kill these fuckers?” crispness to his voice.

“This is 1.”

“Frago.”

“But I’m getting my chai set! Can’t it wait?”

“Yeah … about that … we’re gonna have to ask you to come in to work tonight. There’s a raid the Gravediggers need to execute.”

“Raid? Fine. At least it’s not another market assessment. I’ll be there in two mikes.”

Two minutes and a chai set bequeathal later, I got the full run-down from Bounty Hunter X-Ray. Fadl, a local thug for a Mahdi Army splinter group and known spreader of mayhem, had been spotted at a local female shopowner’s house in the northern portion of town, with another unknown man. Our source said that Fadl routinely came to this house at night to pay the mother money to – cue locals’ broken Aranglish - freaky-freaky with her teenage daughter. A family without a man of the house being unable to financially sustain themselves is not a rarity in Anu al-Verona. Unfortunately, neither is the solution utilized by this particular family. After a quick radio rehearsal and confirmation of the house’s location, our Ghost Tanks raced off into the darkness, grateful for this unscheduled variation in the nightly patrol grind.

The vehicle cordon called set. The dismount teams were stacked. I gave SSG Boondock the shaka’, and in they swooped, a silent, efficient testament to hours spent training under the rigid specificity of my NCOs. The raid itself lasted no more than two minutes, yielding no Fadl and no unknown man, either. JAMnation. Time to tactically question. One at a time on the patio with me, everyone else in the main room, where you can watch and verify that I am not committing horrible infidel acts to your family members. No talking, though. My men are going to search your house. Don’t worry, they won’t break anything. You don’t have any weapons? Not even an AK? No banana-clip magazines? Okay. You first, grandma.

I found two chairs in the main room and pulled them out to the patio. I took off my helmet, set my rifle to the side, and instructed the elderly woman to sit down next to me. “Hello Ma’am,” I said, completely certain that the manners so carefully ingrained into me by my Southern mother would be lost in translation, “my name is Lieutenant Talib and I need your help.” (Quick aside: I’ve settled on going by Talib, another Sheik’s designation for me, with the locals. Iraqi tongues never got the hang of my actual Irish surname, and previous nicknames no longer apply. I don’t look like the “Happy LT” anymore, and I definitely don’t feel like the “Young LT” anymore. So Talib it is.)

“I know nothing,” she responded to Sonic’s translation, automatically. “I am an old woman. I am tired. Let me go back to bed.”

“I will,” I promised. “Just help me first. We’re trying to find bad men we know are causing harm to your family.”

“I know nothing.”

“We’ll see. Maybe you know something important that you do not know is important.”

Five minutes and many rebuffs later, I was still as stonewalled as Don Juan at a nunnery. Fine. You win, you snaggle-toothed wench. Ma’am. Wench-Ma’am. Go back to bed. Bring me the little girl. Damn it, I said no talking in there! Translate that as soothingly as possible, Sonic. Huh? What’s soothingly?

Nevermind. They got the point.

A young girl walked up shyly to me, taking Sonic’s hand, who guided her to the seat next to mine. She had big black eyes, and wore her hair in pigtails. Her mouth hadn’t closed since she had first seen the American Giant, PFC Das Boot himself, some minutes earlier.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Talib. What’s yours?”

She gazed at Sonic for many seconds before answering. “Asma.”

“What’s her deal?” I asked my terp.

“She is surprised I speak Arabic,” he said. “Because I wear American uniform.”

“Ah. Okay, Asma. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“With what?” she whispered, avoiding any and all eye contact. Her eyes kept swinging back behind me, to the doorway where her mother and her older sister still were.

“Do any men live here?” I asked.

“Not since my father died.”

“When was that?”

“One year ago, I think.”

“Do any men come here now? Men who aren’t in your family?”

Her eyes betrayed her again. She tried glancing behind me again, and when I moved my body in between that vantage point, she suddenly became very interested in a piece of concrete below her.

“No,” she said. “The only men that ever come here come during the day to our shop.”

“Please don’t lie to me. I thought we were friends. Aren’t we friends?”

There was a slight pause before she answered. “No.”

I couldn’t believe it. I had been rejected by an eight-year old. “No? Why not?”

“Because you are American,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

Well, at least I’ll get one honest answer out of her, I thought. Sonic laughed, in spite of himself, and gave it a shot. “What about me?” he asked. “I am Iraqi. Can we be friends?”

She didn’t even bother to hesitate this time. “No. You are Iraqi, but you are American now. We cannot be friends. I’m sorry.”

I tried to ask her who had said we couldn’t be friends, but there are only so many questions you can ask an eight-year old before they go all oyster on you. Yeah, you know there are pearls of wisdom tucked away in there, but it’s for damn sure you aren’t unfurling them tonight. Go to bed, Asma, and bask in your friendless existence.

“Hey, Sir.” It was SSG Boondock, looming in the doorway. “House is clear. No weapons, no propaganda, not even an expensive TV. Nothing.”

“Any sign of a man being here recently? Clothes or something?”

He shook his head. “Nope. The only thing is … well … I think the story we got is right. There’s only one mattress in the entire house, and it’s in the older daughter’s room. Queen size. That don’t make any sense.”

“Okay.” I hadn’t been looking forward to this questioning. I’m awkward enough with girls, and that’s even when I’m not accusing them of being terrorist whores selling their body to Mahdi Army insurgents hellbent on my bloody destruction. “Might as well bring her out here, then.”

Out came an Iraqi girl so homely it was striking. She was built like a rectangle, hadn’t washed her hair for seemingly weeks, and wore way too much bright red blush. She claimed she was 23, but I wouldn’t have placed her a day over 16. The dynamics in this questioning had changed considerably from the last one. Now, my interviewee kept trying to stare at me, while I avoided any and all eye contact. (I wanted to use the term role reversal somewhere in that last sentence, but thought it was a little inappropriate, given the subject matter at hand. Oops.)

“I was hoping you could help us out by answering a few questions.”

“Sure. I’d love to help out the Americans.”

“Right. We know you know a man named Fadl. Tell us where he is now.”

“Fadl? I do not know a Fadl.” I looked back up at her face, searching for signs of a wry grin, but found nothing but dreary eyes probing me like I was an alien freshly arrived from the rings of Saturn. Just like the slutty girls back in high school, I thought, an empty face with an empty gaze. She has seen too much of the primal desires of man already to have any sense of awe anymore. There’s no intrigue left in human relationships for her.

“There is no reason to lie to me. We know what is going on here. I don’t care about that. We need to talk with Fadl.”

“I do not know anyone by that name,” she said. I couldn’t decide if I had picked up a tinge of smugness in her voice, or if that had been my imagination. I asked her about her bed, and was told that the whole family slept on the mattress with her. That was about as far as I was willing to go with that subject matter. You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped.

Having now been rejected by a two-dinar prostitute (or whatever the going rate is these days in the doldrums of Anu al-Verona) in addition to an eight-year old turning down my friendship request, I asked the mother to come out to the patio. I could hear the frustration seeping into my own voice. We’re Cav scouts, not beat cops; certainly there was something better, and more kinetic in nature, for us to be doing with our time. My men were pacing anxiously, waiting on me to finish up this boondoggle. I went with the expedited version of tactical questioning.

“Do you know a man named Fadl?”

“No.”

“Do bad men come here at night?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

The mother stared back at me, just as stonily as her teenage daughter had minutes before, and then smiled. I lived with a single mother long enough to know that this woman was feigning deference. Behind this masquerade of feminine submission was a tartness as sharp as razorblades and a will as stanch as steel. Boyish charm or no, this woman wanted me out of her house as soon as possible – and that meant perpetuating the lies of her family members. I decided that her thinking was that the known horrors of Fadl were still better than the unknown horrors that could occur if it was learned she helped the Americans.

I tilted my head and looked back at her. “I understand why you’re lying to me. You are scared. I would be scared, too.” I pulled out my notepad, tore out a piece of blank paper, and handed that and a pen to Sonic. “Write down the number to the combat outpost,” I told him, before continuing my talk with the mother. “Call us if you get scared again. We can help you.” I took the paper from Sonic, and pressed it in the mother’s hands. “We want to help you.”

She bit her lip and whispered back at me. “I will.” She looked around her, absorbing the tall, broad-shouldered, straight backed, clean-shaven, stoic profiles of SFC Big Country, SSG Boondock, SGT Chico, and PFC Das Boot. For the briefest of moments, I thought she was going to collapse into one of their arms and begin weeping. Instead, she simply bit her lip again and stared down at the ground. It was the final, and surest, sign for us to depart.

On our way out though, I waved the teenage girl out of the house and to the front walkway. She brushed past her still motionless mother, and strolled up to us. “Tell Fadl,” I said as soon as she came within earshot, “that we’re going to capture him or kill him. It’s only a matter of time.” I turned around and meandered to our Strykers then, not bothering to listen to a fresh set of protests of ignorance.

A few days later – after receiving intel that Fadl had left town – we were conducting a mounted patrol in the same neighborhood as the house in question and decided to pay a visit. The dismounts hadn’t even knocked on the front door yet though, when the gunners radioed us, saying that they had stopped a car with two military-aged males, who had tried to break the cordon and make an escape.

Neither of them were Fadl. They were just two nobody punks, drunk on something, and high on something else. They eventually admitted though, that they had been visiting with the dreary eyes on the Queen-size mattress. For a price, of course.

I guess Fadl fleeing Anu al-Verona hadn’t solved all of the family’s problems. Certainly not the financial ones. We called the IP’s, who detained the two for being under the influence, and then we mounted back up in our Strykers. Perhaps there was something kinetic in nature out there for us to deal with.

If there was, we were going to find it.

The Gravediggers' Cache of Quotes (1)

2008-04-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

This is long overdue. Four months into the Suck, and some brilliant (or otherwise) quips have been uttered by me and my men – usually in the hazy, ambiguous hours after midnight and before dawn. Rip-It abuse can only carry a man so far. Here’s the initial collection of bodacious, quotalacious wisecracks; some of them were intended, but as is the case with something so repulsively serious as war, most of them were not.

1- “But Sergeant … I do not mean to brag, but my dick. It will not fit into the hole.” Then PV2 Das Boot, who, after receiving a verbal class on pissing in an empty bottle while on mission from SSG Boondock, still did not grasp the concept of utilizing the air pocket rather than sticking his entire member into the hole. Only after a whiteboard class complete with sketch drawings, and much verbal harassment regarding the size of his dick hole, did PV2 Das Boot successfully urinate in a bottle.

2- “It would appear that da dogs be doin' something in Boss Johnson’s car. Oh wait … yep, it’s a fact. Da dogs be eatin’ what’s left of Boss Johnson.” SSG Bulldog, making a very vile post-carbomb scene okay for us to laugh about as a coping mechanism.

3- “I ain’t a redneck, I’m just country. Rednecks aren’t smart enough to go armadillo huntin.’” PV2 Hot Wheels, talking with PFC Boomhauer, and speaking a foreign language in the back of my Stryker.

4- “God damn it! There will be no ‘Weeees!’ or even any ‘WOWS!’ on this vehicle! Weeees and WOWS are reserved for firefights and IED strikes only!” LT G, losing my cool with my young privates. Over the course of a long OP mission, they decided to start poking one another in the ass with an antenna pole, leading to a reaction that startled me and unleashed my LT wrath. It was funny. In retrospect.

5- “I finally got my regulation-size balls. They came in the mail.” CPL Spot, referring to a care package that included baseballs for him to throw around. Testicle jokes are not a rare thing in this man’s Army, and almost always appropriate.

6- “Three deployments. Wow. Just think SGT Cheech, you’ve spent a tenth of your life in Iraq.”
“Ah, thanks for pointing that out. Next time, do me an actual favor and shoot me in the foot, okay?” SPC Flashback and SGT Cheech, pontificating on deployment cycles.

7- “Gah! I got dip in my skeeter bite! It burns!” SGT Axel, proving that poker isn’t all fun and games.

8- “What the fuck? It’s not like these god damn mother fuckers are the fucking Vietcong and tunneled the fuck out of here. Where the fuck did they fucking go?” SSG Boondock, the night of the (in)famous IED-emplacement. And yes, that was a transmission on the Troop radio.

9- “Food tastes better out of the garbage.” SPC Doc, trying to justify his propensity to rummage for scraps.

10- “Admit it, you missed me.”
“Naw, I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Oh alright, come here and give me a man-hug. How was leave?”
“Wild. A crazy chick asked me to choke her out. It was awesome.”
“That sounds awesome. Can we stop hugging now?” PFC Van Wilder and SPC Big Ern. No commentary necessary.

11- “Prime, what are you reading up there? Playboy?”
“No, Sergeant. Popular Mechanics.” SFC Big Country and SPC Prime, after SFC Big Country heard muffled excitement coming from the driver’s hole of his Stryker.

12- “Wha ... huh? Last thing I remember I was awake. I promise. I thought my eyes were still open." SPC Cold-Nuts, upon finding himself in the gunner's cupola, drooling on himself, when his relief for guard duty woke him up.

13- "I think I hate the FOB more than I hate Iraq."
"No, you just don't understand the FOB. You hate the fobbits."
"Fine, I hate fobbits more than I hate Iraq." PV2 Stove Top and SSG Chico.

14- "This place is crazy! It's worse than the Superdome during New Orleans!" LT G looks over at the soldier who said this, shocked, and unable to respond. The soldier continues. "It's okay Sir, I'm black, I can say that!" SPC Haitian Sensation, as culturally sensitive as they come, commenting on the chaotic scene of a local Sheik's rice distribution near the combat outpost.

15- "I went to war and a garrison broke out." An Army-wide phrase gaining popularity amongst combat units, regarding the recentralized (as opposed to the decentralized concept espoused in counterinsurgency theory) war environment currently found in Iraq . The Gravediggers are no different in this regard.

The Five-O

2008-04-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

Braving the streets of Anu al-Verona on a day-to-day basis is more than just an enterprise of the American soldier. We consistently work with rotating elements of both the Iraqi Police and the Iraqi Army, security forces whose self-sufficiency will ultimately determine their nation’s fate and future far more than we strange westerners who arrived some five years ago, with rifles in one hand and lollipops in the other. These men are just of much of a target for the insurgents as we are, and sometimes more so. I can’t speak for the greater Iraqi nation, but in our little grid square in the board game of this war, the Iraqi Security Forces’ autonomy shows gradual – albeit inconsistent – signs of growth.

With an IP station located within close proximity of our combat outpost, it is natural for us to come in contact with the Iraqi Police, both on and off duty. The Big Army buzz word of the year is “joint operations” – after all, the quicker these guys can do their jobs without our supervision, the quicker we can unwrap that shiny Mission Accomplished banner again, and pop open da’ Bubbly on our flights back home. With these thoughts river-dancing through my mind, I sat down with three of the local IPs – affectionately nicknamed Bulldozer, Shady McShaderson, and The Unibrow by the Joes – at their station to get their take on the current situation in Anu al-Verona. Keep in mind that unlike their IA comrades, the IPs tend to come from the area they patrol. Also keep in mind that I couldn’t find a terp while I conducted the interview, instead relying on my rudimentary Arabic and one of the IP’s broken English. Standard language disconnect hilarity ensued.

LT G: “Can I ask you guys a few questions about Anu al-Verona?”

Shady McShaderson: “IPs are on patrol. No sleep. Patrol.”

Bulldozer: “Yes. No sleep. We promise. IPs are on patrol.”

LT G: “Yes, yes, I understand. IP’s zien! (Arabic for good.) IP’s zien!” (Accompanied by obnoxious American thumbs up.)

Shady McShaderson: “Zien!” (Accompanied by awkward Iraqi thumbs up.)

LT G: “The questions are not for a report. They are for my blog.”

The Unibrow: “Eh?”

Bulldozer: “Bog?”

LT G: “(mumbling to myself about Biggie’s questionable whereabouts.) It’s a computer thing. For back in America.”

Shady McShaderson: “Ah! Very good! Like television?”

LT G: “Kind of.”

Bulldozer: “LT will make us famous! On the television!”

LT G: “Umm … sure. Famous. Most of my countrymen don’t like reading anything more substantive than about some Hollywood starlet’s latest meltdown, but you got as good a chance as any at getting famous through my blog.”

The Unibrow: “Eh?”

PFC Boomhauer, who has remained silent up to now, speaks from the other end of the table: “Sir, this shit is hilarious.”

LT G: “Sigh. Nevermind. Tell me, how long have you all lived in Anu al-Verona?”

Bulldozer: “Whole life.”

Shady McShaderson: “Yes, whole life.”

The Unibrow: “Eh?” (At this point, Shady McShaderson rattles off an Arabic lashing The Unibrow’s way, who responds in kind.)

Shady McShaderson: “He say he move here from Baghdad when he was 15.”

LT G: “And how old is he now? How old are all of you?”

Bulldozer: “I am 25.”

Shady McShaderson: “No you are not. You are same age as me. I am 20.”

Bulldozer: “I am 20.”

LT G, after deciding that finding out The Unibrow’s age is not vital to the continued fluidity of the conversation: “How has Anu al-Verona changed since you were a child?”

Shady McShaderson and Bulldozer begin laughing, which causes The Unibrow to laugh along with them.

LT G: “Umm … that wasn’t a joke. How. How has it changed. Not has it changed.”

Bulldozer: “Oh.”

Shady McShaderson: “You want to know what Anu al-Verona was like before war? Back with Saddam?”

LT G: “Yes.”

Shady McShaderson: “It was … very different. More people, more shops. A lot more girls.”

Bulldozer, nodding his head in agreement: “A lot more girls.”

Shady McShaderson: “But it was also bad. Saddam’s commandolos (he meant commandos) would take people away in middle of night, for no reason.”

Bulldozer: “Yes, very bad.”

LT G: “Was it like it is now? With the Shi’as living on one side of town, and the Sunnis living on the other?”

The Unibrow spits and shakes his head at the mention of the Sunni/Shi’a divide.

Bulldozer: “Yes. It has always been like this.”

Shady McShaderson: “Eh, it was a little different before. Some Sunnis lived in Shi’a neighborhoods before. The poor ones. Now they all live over there, and Shi’as live over here.”

LT G: “How about the police force? Did you want to be a policeman growing up?”

Bulldozer: “We could not be police then. The police then were rich Sunnis who had big (important) fathers.”

LT G: “And now you are almost all Shi’a, correct?”

Shady McShaderson: “Yes.”

LT G: “If you didn’t want to join the police as children, what did you want to do?”

Shady McShaderson: “Play football for Iraq.”

Bulldozer: “Yes, play football for Iraq.”

The Unibrow: “Football!”

LT G: “Why are you police now?”

Shady McShaderson: “I do not understand.”

Bulldozer: “Eh?’

The Unibrow: “Eh?”

LT G: “Why do you do this (pointing at their police uniforms) job? For Iraq? For your family?”

Shady McShaderson: “It is job. That is why we do it.”

Bulldozer: “Family, yes. And protect neighborhood. And good money.”

Shady McShaderson: “Yes, money is good.”

LT G: “And Iraq?”

Shady McShaderson: “Eh, sure, why not?” (Begins to laugh nervously.)

Bulldozer: “Iraq good! America good!”

LT G: “Yes, yes, Iraq is good, and so is America. Tell me, Shady, I know that you specifically have detained people that you know from off the job that worked for Jaish al-Mahdi and AQI. What was that like?”

Shady McShaderson: “Eh. They are bad guys. I do good taking them to jail.”

LT G: “Was it weird?”

Shady McShaderson shrugs his shoulders, either not understanding the question or not liking the topic of discussion. His English has been known to come and go in that manner.

LT G: “Are your families happy that you are IPs?”

Bulldozer: “My father yes, my mother no. She want me to join IA instead.”

LT G: “How come?”

Bulldozer: “So I would leave home.”

Shady McShaderson: “Yes, my family is happy. They like my pistol.”

LT G: “What about him?” (points to The Unibrow. Shady McShaderson repeats my question in Arabic. The Unibrow responds.)

Shady McShaderson: “He say that his family does not know he is IP. He say that bad men would kill his family if they know he is IP. They think he goes to Baghdad to work in market.”

LT G: “Ah, okay. Fair enough. That’s all the questions I have. Is there anything you’d like to tell the people of America?”

Bulldozer: “I like the rap music. Especially that song black sergeant Bulldog (SSG Bulldog) play in gym.” (Repeats off-tune beat of T.I.’s “What You Know.”)

LT G: “Anything else?”

Shady McShaderson: “I want to go to America someday. I save my money now so I can leave Iraq forever. These two (pointing to the other IPs) will stay for their families. Not me. I want to leave. There is no war in America.”

(I shake all of their hands and give them the half-leaning man hug accompanied with the overtly-heterosexual male pat on the back, thank them for their time, and walk back over to the combat outpost with PFC Boomhauer.)

LT G: “Well, what do you think?”

PFC Boomhauer: “Well … I can’t say that I blame him. I love Arkansas, but if Arkansas was like this, I’d want to leave, too.”

LT G: “So you gonna move back home after all of this?”

PFC Boomhauer: “Yes, Sir. Being here has made me miss home more than ever.” He takes a pause to spit out the remnants of his dip. “What about you, Sir? You miss home?”

LT G: “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I pause, trying to think of a way to convey my complicated love-to-hate and hate-to-love relationship with suburbia to my young soldier, and eventually deciding against it. “And the other two?
Bulldozer and Unibrow. Stuck here because of family … poor bastards.”

PFC Boomhauer: “Home’s home, I guess. No matter where you’re from.”

Smart kid. Preach on, young Gravedigger, preach on.

iWar

2008-04-06T10:09:00.000-07:00

Rumble young man, rumble.

Make it more true than true is. As muddled as war appears on paper, it still has to make some sort of sense to survive the transformation into language. That is why I write. It makes more sense here than it does out there. If I ever make sense of it all, there won’t be a reason for these words anymore. I’ll finally fade into that proud sand castle defying the sea for the sake of defiance, then. Alone, under the red hot moon. Doomed to fail, blessed to try. That’s all I’ve really ever wanted out of life. To be left alone, to fight impossible on my own terms.

The act of creation. Jimmy Rabbit on a bus. Pogues in a Port-a-John. Emily Dickinson locked away in an attic. God at a pub, liquored up in a dark corner, doodling on a napkin. Like pulling fangs off of a rabid baboon with pliers, as explainable as the board game Wall Street Land to a people who do not comprehend the concept of excess. Diversify those bonds, mistah. We all have our methods. Mine has always been somehow sitting still long enough to retch up a pile of brain vomit, followed by meticulously rigid editing and reediting ingrained by journalistic tendencies by way of poking said brain vomit with a sanity stick. Don’t analyze that too deeply. There was nothing phallic about that statement.

WhoWhatWhenWhereWhyandWhyagainandWhyoverandover. Save the Chief Wahoo greeting for the mathematicians and meterosexual drag queens. Invert that pyramid. It takes time to organize random musings into something worth sharing and even more time to make it readable. I used to write at night, beer in hand, and edit in the morning, water in hand. Cue General Order No. 1. Now I write mad and edit sad, whenever I can.

iWar. Fitting, in that succinct, catchy pop culture kind of way. Perfect for this Era of Irony. No LOL-erskates for the whYkids, but they’ll get over it. iWar. It’s not my phrase, though I appreciate it and am happy to Oscar Wilde it. I got it from an article about blogging in the Iraq War that quoted me in it. Bask in the shameless self-promotion. To be fair, I don’t think it was the reporter’s phrase either. It begins with “i,” so Apple Computers probably has a patent on it. Just like iPod, iTunes, and iRack.

I War. Subject. Verb. Where’s the object? We’re still looking for it, five years later. How’s that for iRony?

I get it. My suffering and soul-searching is not as deep or as angst-worthy as your suffering and soul-searching was. Were you in Fallujah, LT? How about Somalia? Now that was some fucked up shit. My war was SO much more trying than your war. Spare me the juvenile sensitivities; internalizing anything makes you soft. We didn’t have time for that bullshit in Desert Storm. How tough can it be? You have internet access, for Mohammed’s sake. And a mattress.

Fair enough. Counterinsurgencies are not nearly as cool or memorable as the apocalyptic offensives that spawn their existence in the first place. Following that logic though, we all owe the survivors of Antietam our first-born sons and a free rub-and-tug at the local Asian massage parlor.

But wait! They had a pen and a pad to write letters home! Some of them even owned socks. They aren’t nearly as legit as Alexander the Great’s epical Macedonian Marauders. They literally did nothing but kill things 25/8, which clearly elevates them beyond mere soldier status. Their rules of engagement were simply two words. Rape. Pillage. The “and” came later, inadvertently fucking everything up, leading to the point where the world’s lone superpower can’t make juice boxes out of the fruit of their enemy’s skulls anymore. Not directly, at least. Now we just hire them to squeeze their own juice while we provide the fruit and the pre-shaped cardboard and the plastic straw.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

As the keyboard Marines of the blogosphere reminded me during the rules of engagement saga, this is war!!! How e-tuff. Thanks for the advice, it’s kind of hard to forget that when you live it and sleep it and breathe it on a daily basis. I play real-world Frogger with IEDs every time we roll out of the wire, Mesopotamian sand rests at the bottom of my lungs like spare change in a swimming pool, the Gravediggers are awaiting CABs for actioning into combat and whistling bullets without hesitation, and I’m still removing bits of Boss Johnson flesh grunge from my memory with a spatula – and the computer screen dares to lecture about what war is? Typing to kill and repeating asinine banalities found on World War II-era posters are clearly more profound and well-intentioned than ten pages of literary greatness devoted to five seconds of black-bursting clairvoyance written by someone who was actually fucking there. No thanks for the exclamation mark abuse.

Sigh.

To hell with it though, as skewed and as wrong as those individuals may be, at least they are interested. That’s about as rare nowadays as finding a polar bear that thinks global warming is a communist conspiracy.

Give the cute baby seals a hammer and sickle, and put them to work. For the Motherland, of course.

Chew Tobacco

Chew Tobacco

Chew Tobacco

Spit

If You Ain’t Cav

You Ain’t Shit.

I know people care about the iWar. But not enough, given the circumstances. Not even close. Agree or disagree with the war, I don’t care - just give a fuck. Be able to find Basra on a map, know that the Tigris isn’t some sort of unholy crossbreed found at the San Diego Zoo, try to figure out the difference between a Sunni and a Shi’a even if it conplexes and perfuses your mind beyond repair. I wish I could issue some loud, righteous proclamation here about the repercussions of such continued resounding American apathy, but who are we kidding? The warrior caste is simply too small nowadays, and too proud. There will be no reckoning for all of this. We’ll fight the fights not because we necessarily want to, but because no one else will. We were bred to protect. Even if we’re protecting nothing more than an isolationistic yawn prefacing the continental slumber history demands occur after protracted warfare.

I used to dream of a life without consequences. Like that defiant sand castle though, it has been swallowed up by a crashing surf of memories, washed away, lost in the swirl of bleeding blue.

iWar. Mine, not yours. This war. My War. Our War. We War. I War.

You peace. Out.

Here’s a secret, though. I’ll let you in on it, if you promise not to tell the chickenhawks or Jody or the Spooks. Sand castles can be rebuilt. The surf can destroy the castles, but not the sand itself. No one and no thing can destroy the sand but myself. And that won’t happen anymore. I will rebuild my sand castle, someday, somewhere else, somewhere where I think the surf can’t find me. In a lagoon where peace is stillness and stillness is peace. Alone, under the red hot moon. Fighting to fight, finding a noble cause in an ignoble world. And tucked away in the deepest dungeon of the castle, where no one will be allowed to go, not even me, will be a piece of scrap paper with the address to this blog site written in smudged ink on it. My link to this iWar, where I finally stumbled into an adventure that I couldn’t sleep off. The last link to a life with consequences.

Rumble young man, rumble.

Dead Guy Quote (10)

2008-04-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

"Here in America we are descended in blood and in spirit from revolutionists and rebels - men and women who dare to dissent from accepted doctrine. As their heirs, may we never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion." -- Dwight Eisenhower

Mojo's World

2008-03-30T04:35:00.000-07:00

The day before Muqtada al-Sadr lifted the Mahdi Army's freeze of attacks on Coalition Forces, things were obnoxiously normal in Anu al-Verona. Kids playing in the dirt, women shopping in the market, old men casting geriatric judgements from front porches, teenagers leering for the sake of leering - you know, the works. It all seems so distant now. Multiple 24-hour plus missions tend to have that effect on the memory.

As usual, Mojo was found near the combat outpost, on the front steps of the governance center. As the mayor’s son, he has the unofficial responsibility of hawking as much crap obtained by less than legal means as possible our way. Phone cards, cell phones, movies, iPods, and various forms of porn far more creative than necessary are always readily available through him – and that’s what he’s willing to try and sell in front of the LT. I’ve been informed there are even less refined aspects of the Mojo inventory. This isn’t exactly your friendly suburban neighborhood lemonade stand.

“LT,” he said, greeting me with a sly grin and green eyes that are far too dubious for one so young. “Maybe you want the phone cards today?”

I paused next to him, meeting the extended fist bump, and took off my Kevlar helmet. “I’m good on phone cards,” I told him, relishing the simple pleasure of running my hands through my cragged spikes of hair still drenched in sweat. “You got any Boom-Booms?” I asked, referencing the local brand of energy drink. The theories of what exactly makes up a Boom-Boom are many, but it certainly can keep a man awake hours beyond what the body is capable of. If it means anything, I haven’t failed a piss test yet.

“Why don’t you ever go to school?” It was the voice of SFC Big Country. My platoon sergeant has the rare gift of asking questions in the form of an order, no matter whom it is posed to. I’ve seen many young soldiers turn into deers caught in headlights because of this, and Mojo was no different.

“Because … well, because they would steal me or kill me if I went,” he responded eventually, kicking pebbles as he spoke. The green eyes swung back up at us from the concrete. “Mother fuckers. So I stay here, where the Americans are. And my father says getting my English better is better than school.”

SFC Big Country and I looked at each other, and exchanged conciliatory nods. “A fair point,” he said. “Although you probably should know soldier-English is a little different than regular English, Mojo. You can’t say ‘fuck’ every other word in America like we do here.”

A group of my Alpha section soldiers walked up at this time, bringing a bright smile to Mojo’s face. He momentarily shed the front of mischievous skeptic when SPC Haitian Sensation picked him up and twirled him around, and began to giggle - freely and easily and joyfully, just like any other child deserves to in this world.

“How old are you today?” SPC Haitian Sensation asked him, putting him back down on the ground, next to the broom closet that serves as Mojo’s shop.

“I’m still fifteen,” came the reply. It’s not as outrageous of a lie as it appeared, even though Mojo doesn’t look a day over a malnutritioned nine; the brutal reality is that most Anu al-Verona citizens do not know their exact age. Birth certificates aren’t exactly a traditional commodity over here. Most aren’t even sure what year it was when we invaded, even though that was only five years ago. Time is a lot more malleable in the third world.

We waited for the rest of the platoon, and started moving towards the combat outpost again. Mojo bartered quickly with a few of my soldiers, something I decided I was better off turning two blind eyes to. I had a patrol debrief to get to, anyways. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a voice behind me.

“Hey LT!” It was Mojo, scurrying after me. He handed me a Boom-Boom, and winked. “On the house,” he says, repeating a phrase SSG Bulldog taught him. As he ran back over to his Gravedigger clientele, I shook my head in bemusement.

That kid is going to either end up very rich or very dead, I thought to myself. Local kingpin or bust. I cracked open my Boom-Boom, and decided that it will probably be the former. He has certainly had enough examples of the latter over the course of this war to study. Just another sort of education that can’t be learned in school.

Mojo is still at his lemonade stand as I type this. He hasn't gone home with the sunset for a few days, though. Call it a hunch, but it may be a couple more days until he does.

Rules of Engagement

2008-03-23T23:12:00.000-07:00

Hour 18 of a 24-hour mission. Well, two missions really. We had spent the day pulling outer security for General Petraeus himself, while he strolled down Anu al-Verona with no helmet and basic body armor, surrounded by a camo entourage and media parade Patton’s ghost would respect, to buy some falafels. I didn’t get to meet the Big Man, but I did get a photo of the aforementioned circus from about 100 meters away, with all three rings in action. Trust me, I didn’t want to be any closer. No matter how many gorgeous aides there were in his posse who would have been dutifully unimpressed with a too-cocky, too-skinny scout platoon leader who can’t get rid of the black bags entrenched underneath his eyes, had drank 10 bottles of water in the past eight hours to fight off sunstroke, and hadn’t showered in two weeks.

After the General left, the Gravediggers charlie miked straight into an escort mission for an engineer unit tasked to fill potholes. A straight forward enough concept – surround the engineers in a Stryker diamond, and destroy any and all terrorists hordes that pour over the Anu al-Fulda Gap in the mean time. Translation: Rotate gunners and institute a much-needed and well-deserved rest plan for the platoon. Also, it gave us a chance to bring the three new Gravediggers – SPC Tunnel Rat, PVT Stove-Top, and PVT Hot Wheels – up to speed on the mechanics of our Strykers. Sounded like a great plan, at the time.

Then the war got in the way. Again.

45 minutes after we established our outer cordon security positions – right at the aforementioned hour 18 - SSG Boondock’s words boomeranged across the net, hiding the thrill in his voice as much as a teenage boy does while issuing instructions before a panty raid.

“Gravedigger 1, this is Gravedigger 3 … we got some real shady mother fuckers low crawling onto the road, down from the canal. It looks like two of ‘em.”

I bolted straight up in the back of my Stryker, and started studying my map. The 3 vehicle was on the complete other side of the diamond from my vehicle, oriented due south, overwatching a well-traveled north-south thoroughfare.

“Keep watching him,” I said, stating the obvious while conflicting thoughts of violent chaos and escalation of force procedures pumped through my mind like a million competing race car pistons.

Are they sure they’re seeing two guys low crawling? It’s night. They still haven’t done anything wrong yet. Technically. Not yet. Are they sure? Why are they low-crawling? Did I leave my rules of engagement card in the laundry? Are they sure? I need to stay calm, that’s what Lieutenants do in the movies in situations like this, they stay calm and make good decisions or they freak the fuck out and fuck everything up. Why are they low-crawling? Why can’t we just shoot, again? It’s not just night, it’s midnight. He said they were shady. Are they sure? Can they be sure with night-vision? Can they ever be sure with night-vision? Just don’t be the guy who yells CHARGE and you’ll be alright. I need to ask if there’s another heat signature other than the bodies. That’s what I need to ask. Are they fucking sure?

“Heat signatures?” I finally sputtered out, hoping my question would be accepted as proper radio brevity, and not typical LT G brain vomit.

Five seconds that felt like a standard Pentagon deployment passed before SSG Boondock replied. “Roger! Roger! It looks like there’s a box and my gunner reports they have set it down 250 meters from our position.”

Cue brain retching.

Light ‘em up. A quick burst or two of 50-caliber rounds should suffice. I’ve never tasted bloodlust before, not the lethal brew anyhow, but it seeped into my soul this night. As I’ve written before, I didn’t come here to kill, and never felt to impulse or desire to truly end a man’s life. But here it was, arriving as quickly as the crawling terrorists had. Kill or be killed. Never has this war been so clear, so pure, so obvious, so clean. And yet …

The platoon leader in me knew we couldn’t shoot yet, and tugged at my brain like a giant anchor holding in place a battleship on full throttle. Escalation of force. Fuck. Rules of engagement. Double fuck. They haven’t technically dug anything yet, thus, haven’t begin emplacing anything. SGT Axel was ready, certainly, zeroing in on the two human silhouettes with a long-barreled machine gun of raw destruction, but the Iraq War has become so PC, so cluttered, so trigger-shy five years into the war, that any round fired – no matter how justified or understandable at the time of the incident – yields paperwork inquiries and scrutiny more fitting of a Senate Judiciary Committee report. Staff monkeys have found new purpose in this combat zone as Monday morning quarterbacks, conducting investigations with omnipotent spotlights to cut through the fog of war days after the storm passed. I’m not claiming that such retrospective studies are not healthy for a military unit, nor am I arguing that precision and restraint should not be fundamentals ingrained in every soldier fighting an insurgency. Part of what makes an American soldier an American soldier is that he fights with rules that sometimes hinder him, in an attempt to keep sight of the ideals and principles which led him to fight in the first place. That’s all gravy. I am stating, however, that the fact that these thoughts clouded my mind in a decisive moment of combat – and not just my mind, as it would turn out – proves that we are officially no longer on the offensive here. To repeat a new mantra of some of my NCOs, “Uncle Sam has gone soft.”

I didn’t want to spend the next decade at Fort Leavenworth cutting stone, and certainly didn’t want any of my men to do that, either. Maybe that’s what would have happened if I had ordered them to shoot then. Maybe not. Anything now is just surmising, reflecting back with the benefit of hindsight on decisions made in mere seconds during a black tempest of confusion. We employed proper rules of engagement, just like we’re taught to by the Army lawyers hired to teach us how to avoid jail-time and war crimes and sensationalized scandals reported by a clueless, leaching mass media to an equally clueless public addicted to shock and awe. For every Abu-Ghraib there are hundreds of stories like this; unreported acts of trepidation brought on by the castigation of our combat operations in the name of nation building.

I kicked out my Bravo section’s dismounts, one team led by SFC Big Country (whose 4 vehicle was closest to the 3), the other by SSG Boondock, with the hope of being able to detain our targets. They were standing by behind the cover of our vehicles for the time being. I told SGT Axel, the 3 vehicle’s gunner, to beam the targets with a bright naked eye laser, to let them know we were watching. Then I told him, “If they begin to run, open fire and engage the targets.” There. I had satiated the gods of what if, and found an avenue for my soldiers to still do their job.

“Roger, will comply!” SGT Axel responded.

I had given the order to kill. Haughty enough to condemn two individuals to The End because they had been stupid enough to be fucking seen in a war of shadows. Somewhere in the time-space continuum, the boy who cried after my first fistfight - not because I was hurt, but because I thought I had done something to upset the instigator and still didn't understand the concept of bullying - hung himself with a calendar rope. At least he succeeded. That’s something at least.

“X-Ray, this is Gravedigger 1.” It had been a few minutes since I had sent up a situation report to Troop; an instrumental part of any Lieutenant’s job is to serve as a connection between the front line and whatever is behind us. Remembering such at this precise moment would turn out to be my only lasting regret from this whole ordeal.

“We have a possible IED-emplacement happening time now, at our location. Grid to follow. (Grid follows.) We’re employing ROE, and will engage with fire if they run and detainment is no longer a viable option.”

“Negative Gravedigger 1, you will not engage!” It was CPT Whiteback now on the other end of the radio call. What the hell was he still doing up? “Attempt to detain the individuals. Do not open fire unless the individuals attempt to directly engage you.”

I could hear the frustration oozing out of CPT Whiteback’s voice like puss coming out of a popped zit; I’m sure he wanted us to kill these two as much as we did. He has no love lost for insurgents. And as he reminds us at least twice a day, he had been in Sadr City in 2004, and knew what it was like to be pulling triggers all day, every day. So this newfound act of hesitation wasn’t a result of inexperience or nerves. That didn’t stop me from seeking clarification, though.

“This is Gravedigger 1 … I copy the only way we can open fire, even after positive identification, is if these guys open fire at us with rifles they don’t have or try to actually detonate the IED on us?” There may have been a few F-bombs in there, as well. I can’t recall.

“Roger,” came my answer.

I sighed, disbelievingly, and switched back to the platoon net. “You monitor the CO’s traffic, 3-Golf?”

SGT Axel’s voice could have cut through steel. It was that sharp. “This is 3-Golf. Roger.”

The next few hours morphed into a blur. I unleashed a primal howl and ripped the hand mic out of our radio, throwing it into the back of the Stryker, waking up a confused Biggie. SGT Axel lasered the two shapes, who quickly darted back into the canal. The two dismount teams moved after them in hot pursuit, but with it 1) being night and 2) not being our native terrain, we were automatically at a huge disadvantage in this impromptu hunt. No one was surprised when the only thing that was found was sets of muddy footprints behind some broken reeds. No one was really surprised either, when SPC Tunnel Rat and newly-promoted PFC Das Boot stumbled upon a compact brick-like object covered in tumbleweeds; after PFC Das Boot gave it the scratch-and-sniff treatment and informed SSG Boondock (“You did what, you big German fuck? You scratched it and smelled your finger? Are you high?”), we cordoned off the area and called the Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Turns out the brick was a state of the art pressure plate IED designed specifically for attacks on armored vehicles. EOD then blew it up without incident. Too tired to care anymore, the Gravediggers returned to the combat outpost with nothing to say to anyone who hadn’t been there with us. We felt like neutered wolves.

48 hours later, an individual detained by another unit outside of our AO admitted to attempting to emplace an IED exactly where we found the pressure plate exactly when we had observed him attempt to do so. Just like all emplacers, he was just a punk teenager who knew next to nothing, got paid $20 to feed his family for a week for his act, and literally shit himself when he got detained. According to the intel geek rumor mill, he was also very curious as to why we hadn’t shot him up instead of tipping him off to our whereabouts with a green laser. No word yet as to the fate of his shadow buddy from the night in question.

SSG Boondock came up to me the morning after the initial event, as I brooded on the Crow’s Nest. I don’t let go of things easily, and while my platoon seemed to have shed the events of the previous night rather quickly with some sleep and Guitar Hero, I had not. He took a seat next to me and lit up a cigarette.

“Fucked up shit last night, Sir,” he said.

“Yeah.” SSG Boondock had killed before in this war, and would be ready to do so again. I could only imagine his thoughts on the matter, and quite frankly, was not sure I was ready to hear them.

He leaned back and chuckled. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have given the fire command to open fire like you did. That took balls.”

I felt my eyes open wide with surprise. This was the last thing I expected this NCO to say. He had never hesitated to tell me how he felt about anything, even when it might hurt my feelings. I’ve always valued his candid voice, and simply could not believe he would have done anything but open fire if placed in my position.

“You’ve done it before,” I said. "A few times."

“Yeah … it was different then, though. Shit now … it’s just hard to explain how much things have changed here.” He patted me on the knee. “You did fine, LT. No one expects you to be Dick Winters. Fuck, no one wants you to be Dick Winters.”

I looked at him skeptically. “Did SFC Big Country put you up to this to cheer me up?”

Another cackle. “Naw, nothing like that. Three years ago, fuck yeah, those guys would be rotting corpses on the side of the road, and nobody would blink an eye. Things are just fucking different now. Everyone’s so scared to make a mistake, convinced they’ll end up on the cover of Time.” He paused, took a final drag, and continued. “Just get us home, LT. I’ll take care of the rest.” He cackled again, and walked back inside. I stayed on the Crow’s Nest to finish brooding.

Is one detained terrorist with some information better for the war effort than two dead terrorists? To hell if I know; it’s kind of one of those “is the glass half-full or half-empty” questions. I do know though, that the lesson I’ve retained from this sequence of events is simple and straightforward, and something that could be garnered from any Clint Eastwood film ever made: shoot first, ask questions later. The way out is through. Even if the only ones who understand that are the ones on the ground, living in the Suck every day and every night, placing themselves in harm’s way every time they roll out of the wire in a manner that their countrymen cannot, will not, and should not ever comprehend. That IED wouldn’t have hit the vehicle of the guy who tweaks the rules of engagement, or the guy who would’ve been appointed the investigating officer if we had shot, that’s for damn sure. They are tucked away safely and comfortably in some glass house on the Beltway and the FOB, respectively, casting stones. The IED would have cut through me, or my men, or some of my comrades in the other platoons, in an instantaneous fireball of death. Fuck it. I will not hesitate again, even for just a few seconds, nor will I call up an update until after the fact. There’s too much at stake now for me to not employ those lessons learned. The next time, we might not be able to find the damn thing until after it explodes and we’re separating scrap metal from human remains.

We’d be out looking for the other insurgent right now, but we can’t leave the combat outpost. Some jackass somewhere else had a negligent discharge and destroyed a clearing barrel, causing the entire Brigade to go on a safety stand-down. Beyond being Grade A Garrison Bullshit, I’m just hoping that the terrorists got the memo that the war’s on timeout for the next 40 hours. I’m certain that they did. The actual war part of this war may be carefully regulated now, but the paperwork machine still has free reign to terrorize.

It is what it is.

Gravediggers Photo Essay (2)

2008-03-21T23:25:00.000-07:00

I'm too tired for words now, and the words are too tired for me. From top to bottom:

1) The NCOs weekly(ish) poker game.

2) SFC Big Country the Benefactor gets mobbed for toys. The slow kids get toothbrushes, but the fast ones earn Beanie Babies.

3) Patrol brief. Note how I'm the only one wearing cold weather gear. You can take the kid out of the desert, but you can't take the desert out of the kid.

4) SSG Bulldog takes an Iraqi child for the ride of his life.

5) SGT Chico, SGT El Cortez, (now) PFC Boomhauer, and SPC Haitian Sensation take cover ... and a seat.

6) The classic LT radio shot.

Deep Thoughts with Biggie Smalls

2008-03-17T02:41:00.000-07:00

As someone whose foreign language efforts usually resemble beluga whale mating calls, I have zero right to criticize non-English primary speakers attempts at my native language. I rationalize this by saying that my love for the English language is just too pure and too right to be tainted by something else, but really, who knows. I guess that synapse hadn’t connected yet before I escaped the womb in a Caesarian jailbreak. I even dated a French chick for a few months and never made any serious progression to learn her language. If a woman can’t make you do something despite all her harassments to the contrary, it probably isn’t meant to happen.

Still, one cannot avoid the very obvious truth that English sounds funny when it comes out of mouths untrained to its’ complexities. That’s not being culturally insensitive, that’s just straight comedic fact. Language – any language – inevitably develops into a multitude of dialects, nuances, and cultural references that can be nigh impossible to understand, let alone replicate. Such is the case for the Gravediggers’ ever-present and always amusing interpreter, Biggie Smalls. A good-natured grandfather who has a weakness for ignoring his diabetes in the name of Pepsi Cola and cannot stand punk teenagers, Biggie causes as much of a ruckus around Anu al-Verona as we do; his diversity due to his heritage in the Heart of Africa and midnight black skin, when blended with his ability to make newfound friends everywhere he goes and the rolling chuckle that follows nearly every statement he makes, has proven to be an instrumental asset in the counterinsurgency fight. Everyone knows Biggie, and Biggie knows everyone.

Here is a short collection of some of Biggie’s finer moments with my platoon. Keep in my mind, that some of my soldiers think he suffers from PTSD, due to surviving multiple IED strikes in the three years he has worked for Coalition Forces. Also, after some prodding, he reluctantly revealed that he lost three young children during Desert Storm, and that he visits their graves every time he goes home. He has seen far more war over the course of his life than one man ever should. Not all warriors in Anu al-Verona carry rifles when they leave the wire.

-- Biggie: “I do not understand why you Americans insist on missions in night. Night is for sleep!” Me: “You’re right. You should take it up with CPT Whiteback.” Biggie, completely straight-faced: “That is a good idea, LT. I will summon him as soon as we return from mission and explain the situation.”

-- Biggie: “I am worry that my family would be hurt if people knew I work with Americans. That is why I do not tell them.” Me: “Wait? So you’re saying no one in your family knows you work here? Not even your wives?” Biggie: “Women cannot keep from the talk. They be too proud of me and do the chatter when I am away. Then they will die!”

-- PFC Boomhauer: “How do you feel about rules of engagement, Biggie?” Biggie: “I say kill them all! That way, I do not have to leave Stryker.”

-- Biggie: (after walking into a maze of wire at night, that my soldiers had to help him get out of): “Why is that still there! I say to have it to be taken away.”

-- SGT Chico: “I only have one wife, Biggie. That’s more than enough for me. Not to mention, she’d kill me if I married another woman.” Biggie, shaking his head in confusion: “But why? If they do not want to share, you must hit them around to show who is king. I had to do that with smaller wife when she stop listening to me.” SGT Chico: “Yeah, well, my wife would just hit me right back.”

-- Me, sitting in a Sheik’s house, anxious to return to my Strykers and feeling slightly guilty that not all of my soldiers are partaking in the impromptu feast laid out before us: “Let’s go, Biggie.” Biggie: “But … but why, LT? There is more food and chai to come. It is Arab culture!” Me: “I need to check on my guys, man. Let’s roll.” Biggie, clearly perturbed and shoving food into his mouth as I thank the Sheik, and begin to head out the front door: “But … but … LT, it is Arab culture! We must stay for more food!”

-- Biggie, who I stumble upon in the breakfast line, staring at a piece of sausage. “This is pork, yes?” Me: “Yeah, it is. Sorry man, I know you’re not allowed to eat pork.” Biggie: “Gah! I do not understand why Allah does not allow us to eat the pork when it smell so good.”

-- First Sergeant, catching Biggie carrying a new mattress to his room in the combat outpost: “No, Biggie, we don’t have enough mattresses for everyone. Not even all the soldiers are going to get one.” Biggie: “But you have one for Biggie, yes?”

-- First Sergeant, catching Biggie with a dinner plate that would feed a block in Anu al-Verona: “Come on Biggie, you gonna tell me you gonna eat all that?” Biggie, who puts his plate down and flexes: “Of course! I have two wives, I must be strong for them!”

-- Me, seeing Biggie grab a Pepsi during a meeting: “Biggie, put that down. Grab something without sugar.” Biggie, laughing: “You are good leader of me, LT! I will have orange drink.” Me: “Biggie, how long have you known you have diabetes?” Biggie: “Oh, I don’t know. Ten years?”

-- Biggie, after unleashing a tongue-lashing on a Shi’a fourteen-year old kid who failed to produce his ID in a timely fashion: “Stupid mother fucker.” Me: “Man, Biggie, what did you tell that kid? He looks like we ran over his house.” Biggie: “I tell him next time he looks at Americans with the angry we will come and drop him off alone in Sunni neighborhood. We will not have problem again with him.”

-- Biggie, who has become addicted to Macgyver re-runs: “It is excellent show. He always use his mind, you know? Very good hero.”

-- Biggie, on the Saddam era: “It was not so bad. There were discos.”

-- Biggie, on his actions during the initial American offensive in 2003: “I see smoke from American tanks and American heli-choppers and American bombs and I go inside. I stay in house for three weeks and make two new babies with my wives.”

-- Biggie, on his actions in 2004, when members of the Mahdi Army showed up at his business and requisitioned all of his assets, financial or otherwise: “There were 30 men with AK. They tell me we shoot you and kill or you give everything. I say, ‘okay, have it all, bye bye! I go home now.’”

-- Biggie: “I tell all the other LTs and all the other terps- no one works like Gravediggers! We work, work, work. We no talk – we just do.” Me: “Word, Biggie. Word.”

-- Biggie, with a sense of absolute wonder in his voice that only someone from a third-world nation can attain: “Ahh-merr-ikaaa … America. It must be very beautiful place, yes?”

It is Biggie, it really is. I just wish we could understand that the way that you do.

Field Trip

2008-03-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

The only time CPT Whiteback can get all of his lieutenants together in one room is late at night, sometime before the cock crows, sometime after Arab MTV airs three hours worth of Laguna Beach re-runs. During one of these sleep-deprived, coffee-fueled, wild-eyed-do-not-question-me-at-this-hour sessions, our CO announced that one of the line platoons would have “the pleasure to escort some Green Zone moneybags around Anu al-Verona tomorrow.” Apparently, they wanted to see what the real Iraq was like, and as per the military industrial complex tradition, would be bringing all kinds of pogue-alicious brass with them. He scanned the room and smiled viciously at me.

“The Gravediggers will hate this mission the most,” he said. “That’s why you’ve got the golden ticket, G.”

I stuck my hands in the pockets of my fleece and glared at my laughing comrades. No respect for the senior platoon leader. “The real Iraq, huh?” I said. “To see real life Iraqis in real Iraqi homes with real Iraqi poverty?” CPT Whiteback nodded, familiar with my brand of rambling, overindulgent sarcasm. “Can’t they just read my blog instead to educate themselves?”

He arched an eyebrow at me, elevating his wild-eyed look to crazy-commander levels. “Don’t flatter yourself. There aren’t enough stories about me for your blog to be the sole authority on the ‘real Iraq.’ Be Redcon 1 by 0900. I have to go, too, so don’t think you’re the only one drinking from the Suck hose. Now, LT B, you and the War Pigs …”

Sure enough, five hours later, under orders to trudge through a shitty-but-not-too-shitty portion of Anu al-Verona, the Gravediggers found ourselves serving as shepherds to said Green Zone moneybags’ clueless sheep. My platoon was doing exactly what it was supposed to – executing a combined mounted and dismounted patrol, with SSG Bulldog’s Stryker in the lead – with textbook spacing in between the vehicles and interspersed dismounts. The same could not be said however, for our attachments, who clustered together in the center of our formation like a gaggle of moshers at their first punk concert. Some of them hadn’t even bothered to put a magazine into their weapon, let alone charge the damn thing. I had spent the first ten minutes of the patrol attempting to inject some tactical sense into the Green Zoners, as tactfully as a young lieutenant can while making recommendations to a group of superior officers. Only one of the Majors had even bothered to acknowledge my existence. Fine, I thought, telling my men to back away from the parade of clowns. If they wanted to die, they weren’t going to take any of us with them.

I reminded myself of what SSG Bulldog always tells me when I get frustrated with attached elements. “It ain’t their fault, LT – they just don’t know no bettah.” It didn’t help. My internal scowl must’ve spread to my face, because as we pulled into a short halt to talk to some local shopkeepers, the aforementioned Major walked over to my position. The Gravediggers had automatically posted 360-degree local security, and I joined them on the perimeter, kneeling against the end of a building, rifle peeking around an alleyway. He took a knee next to me.

“Lieutenant, I just wanted to thank you for taking us out today,” he said. “I know it must be like herding cats.”

I did my best to keep my voice steady. “No worries, Sir. That’s what we’re here for.”

We talked for a few minutes. He was doing what good field grade officers do – asking about the ground situation, asking about the soldiers’ welfare, actually giving a shit about the executors of his plans and not pretending to be above it all. He listened instead of lectured. Once the mission continued, one of his peers proved to be the Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll.

“We’re ready to move,” he yelled to no one in particular. “Why isn’t this vehicle?” He was referring to the Stryker.

I had the hand mic in my grip, and was radioing up to the lead Stryker to begin movement. ‘Just give it a few seconds, Sir,” I said. “We’ll be moving shortly.”

He looked over at me, eyeing me up and down with all the pomposity of a French dignitary. “Just make it happen, Lieutenant,” he said.

I felt the red rage rise up through the base of my skeleton and blaze across the wheat fields of my mind. Gotta dig that instantaneous Irish temper. I wanted to tell him to put a fucking magazine in his weapon before we left him alone in the wilderness, as helpless and oblivious as Tom Wolfe at a frat party. Only the presence of my men within earshot forced me to utilize the brain-to-mouth filter. “Roger, Sir,” I said, biting my lip, arching my eyebrows, and quietly thanking the smidgeon of Scottish practicality imbued into my spirit by my mother’s side of the family.

I don’t really remember the next few minutes; my world was now a post-Armageddon wasteland, complete with lava rivers, crashing meteors, and cackling demons. I’m more of a scrapper than a brawler, and I’ll never be confused for a big guy, but I have beaten the living shit out of another man before when the situation called for it. (A story from the Old World for another time.) Just like that moment - when nothing else mattered except for the the fight itself, blood-drunk, the object to gain supremacy on my adversary in order to channel an eternity’s worth of primal wrath and contemporary justice through my knuckles onto his face and onto his face and onto his face - I knew nothing but the vehicle of my own righteousness, and was only faintly aware that such was simultaneously driven and fueled by my own insecurities. Unlike then though, there was nothing I could do about it, except to keep walking, and check on the Gravediggers’ intervals.

We stopped at a house on a dirt corner. The Green Zoners began to talk to the residents, and without provocation, my platoon posted security around them, keeping them alive for no other reason than they knew they were supposed to. I took a deep breath and leaned against a wall. I spied SSG Boondock across the way. He was smiling wildly, and then began to cackle, hands and arms outstretched like a starman.

He’s laughing at me, I thought. He thinks it’s funny the LT is so pissed off. That bastard. We’ll see who’s laughing next time the guard roster comes out.

I whipped out my Camelbak hose, sucking down some hydration, closing my eyes in the process. When I opened them, CPT Whiteback was leaning against the wall next to me.

“How’s the water?” he asked.

“Stellar,” I said, forcing a smile. “Always stellar.”

“What a clusterfuck,” he said, pointing to the Green Zoners. They had trotted out a video camera and were filming audaciously. It was more than evident that this simple conversation with locals about their daily struggles in Anu al-Verona would end up as a public affairs commercial in due time.

“They’re going to talk about this 30-minute excursion for the rest of their lives,” I said. “At every dinner table conversation it can be brought up, their ‘experience’ with the tragedies of Iraq will be trotted out in an all-out dog and pony show, for everyone to ooh and ahh at. And think of the children! The poor, poor children!”

CPT Whiteback chuckled. “Whoa there, sipping on the Hater-Ade a little early today, aren’t we?”

I took another sip of water. “I spiked it myself.”

My CO patted me on my back with his giant gorilla hands, and nodded. “Yeah, well, you’re probably right,” he said. “This is probably the first and last time they’ll leave the Green Zone. But hey, at least they did. And they have a lot of money to dole out. If them coming here means we get more funding to help these people, don’t you think one morning of bullshit is worth it?”

I stared blankly back at him. He’s really good at making me feel like a jackass, when he wants to.

He winked at me and started walking back towards the live commercial. “Ease up on the pogues, brutha’,” he said. “They’re just trying to help. And think of it this way – at least we know there aren’t any snipers in this area right now. I can guarantee you that they would knocked somebody off by now, if there was. How’s that for a combat operation?”

I stroked my chin in contemplation. “Sir … this isn’t the war I thought it was going to be.”

He turned back around and looked at me quizzically. “They never are.”

A fair point, I thought. Ten minutes later, we mounted everyone back up in the Strykers, and returned to base, two hours earlier than planned. Whatever it was that our visitors needed to see or hear, they had seen and heard en masse. The Gravediggers rolled back into Anu al-Verona that night, platoon pure, finding it just as we had left it. There is comfort to be found in knowns.

Stepson of Iraq

2008-03-09T15:24:00.000-07:00

A walking exit strategy, the Sons of Iraq – also known as the Sawha – spread across Mesopotamia with an industrialist’s spirit and the subtlety of a drunk weatherman. When I stop playing Army and finally grow up, I want to be one.

Every LT worth a fuck dreads the harsh inevitability that his platoon leader time is a transient experience; a fleeting familiarity with the hands-on and the hardy reality of the front lines. After that, it’s off to become the XO, a logistical whipping boy and desk jockey, or even worse, to staff, where the Iraq War is simply something for the Powerpoint gurus and TOC-roaches to design reports around, and firefights occur so photographs can be taken for the after action storyboard. Through a sporadic mix of luck, guile, and shameless throwing of peers under the proverbial bus, I’ve managed to stick with my platoon for over a year now, with no replacement yet to pop up in my crosshairs. Still though, there is no guarantee that I’ll be able to pull these shenanigans off for the duration of the deployment, and thus, I’ve had to deal with the possibility of LT G’s post-PL life. And that’s where the Sons of Iraq come in.

Consider my application pending.

As far as I can tell, a Son of Iraq has three basic job tenets. One, don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Or, in this case, remember not to blow up the people who are paying you. Two, show up to work enough of the time that you aren’t in the grossest violation of the Americans’ compliance inspections. This will differ from week-to-week and from area-to-area, but from my perspective on the ground, two out of three (days) ain’t bad – just like the Meatloaf song states, and will keep you out of the most trouble. And three, show up every month on the doorstep of the American combat outpost, demanding anything and everything short of Chemical Ali’s vintage pog collection.

Dormant? Check. Lazy? Double check. Obnoxious? Show me the dinar, mistah! Triple check. Hell, I’ve found my ideal vocation. It’ll be like being a towel boy at the casinos again, just with even more time to read books and without the solicitations from fat Bay Area pedophiles. I’m sure the dental plan isn’t as good as the one I have with Uncle Sam, but the hours would be a huge improvement.

Granted, I don’t necessarily bring the traditional resume to Sawha, Inc. I didn’t come through the traditional street pipelines of Jaish al-Maida or Al-Qaeda in Iraq, and don’t have any shady connections to the various mob bosses that run the Sons of Iraq. I’ve never emplaced an IED in an attempt to kill and maim infidels, and don’t profess blind, scathing hatred towards my Shi’a/Sunni counterparts. Further, I tend to hit what I’m shooting at, although in all fairness, I’ve never worked with a Cold War-era AK-47 before. If I purposefully wet my powder and got access to some Guinness here, I’m fairly certain I could learn to miss my targets with that musket.

If granted an interview with any of the Sawha bosses, or sub-minions, I will promise them the following things, in order to land a job on one of their checkpoints: I will only search cars if the Americans are directly overwatching me (thus forcing them to spend their time on the job ensuring that I’m doing mine, redefining the word “inefficient”), I will never tell the Americans something is amiss, and I will definitely nap away at least half of my shift, and claim confusion regarding the sleep rotation if inspected too closely by said powers that be. I’d also tout my legit understanding and historical knowledge of the paramilitary movement, focusing on the relationship and development of guerilla warfare and politics in twentieth century Ireland. That’d be sure to impress them, and if they’re an anticipatory leader, they’ll value the possibilities such education could yield them and their men in the near future. Stockpile those caches, mistah – the Coalition of the Willing willfully can’t find them all, willingly or not.

While there are some Sawha leaders who would be shocked by my candid honesty, and claim that they’d never hire such a degenerate scumbag with a shamrock fetish, I know a few that would appreciate my bluntness. Even Iraqi bureaucracies fear boat-rockers and bomb-throwers. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) And yeah, I know men much smarter, much harder, and of much more rank than I have decided the Sawha are instrumental to American success in Iraq. I’m not disagreeing with such an assessment. I’m simply stating that I want in on this epical greatness. As SSG Bulldog sometimes tells the Joes, the Army seldom provides you an opportunity to “get you yours. When it comes, you get you yours.” This is one of those rare times. I would play by the unwritten Sawha rules of sit, watch, and wait. I’ve been doing that my whole life; the military man of action I now serve as shouldn’t be too hard to discard in the name of nation-building.

Viva la Reconciliation!

Fiddler's Green

2008-03-07T12:20:00.000-08:00

If you think and/or pray, please remember both 1LT David Schultz (1-31-08) and 2LT Mark Daily (1-15-07), who lost their lives in the Iraq War. I graduated with both of them from the Armor Officer Basic Course and the Scout Leaders Course in 2006. Both were capable officers and good men, who left behind young wives and loving families. 1LT Schultz left behind a baby son, as well.

Personal feelings about Christopher Hitchens aside, he wrote an excellent article about 2LT Daily here, at Vanity Fair. http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2007/11/hitchens200711

If there is a more fitting tribute to Cavalrymen than the following poem, I am not familiar with it. Rest in peace, both of you, and see you on the other side.

Fiddler's Green

Halfway down the trail to hell
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good old-time canteen
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler’s Green.

Marching past, straight through to hell,
The infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen,
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

-- Anonymous

Dead Guy Quote (9)

2008-02-29T04:59:00.000-08:00

"There are no second acts in American lives." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Still Alive Lady Quote (2)

2008-02-22T14:57:00.000-08:00

"Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean." -- Maya Angelou

Crank That in Iraq

2008-02-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

SPC Haitian Sensation attempts to teach LT G the Crank That Soulja' Boy dance in Iraq. Hilarity ensues.

Dead Guy Quote (8)

2008-02-07T10:51:00.000-08:00

"You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something,
sometime in your life." – Winston Churchill

A Soundtrack to War

2008-02-03T09:50:00.000-08:00

After perusing the greater world wide web, and surfing some other war blogs, I’ve come to understand that a blatant contribution to this community that Kaboom lacks is a music playlist that the Gravediggers use to get pumped up for missions. Straight auditory stimulation, Homz. So, in an attempt to rectify this glorious misstep, and to better depict the atmosphere of my platoon before, during, and after mission execution, I bring to you this: Gravediggers Mix Tape, Volume I. Be advised, this is no normal Army sampling of straight death metal rock – my guys are an eclectic mix of killers, clowns, lovers, and good ole’ boys. Hemingway wrote that war brought out the bare spirit of all men, and if their musical tastes are any clue, such a statement resonates with validity, even today, through us.

This is what booms through the walls of the combat outpost in the minutes leading up to all-out Cavalry scout awesomeness in Anu al-Verona. At least until First Sergeant stalks over and regulates on the frat castle vibe. Just push play.

Gravediggers Mix Tape, Volume I

“Pour Some Sugar On Me,” by Def Leppard, played by PV2 Van Wilder. Everyone’s favorite stripper anthem reverberates with glam glut and synthesizer abuse.

“Dancing for Rain,” by Rise Against, played by SSG Boondock. Straight rock crescendo that bursts with killer impulse and primal rage.

“I’m So Hood,” by DJ Khaled, played by SPC Haitian Sensation. Pop rap has never been so catchy. Or repetitive.

“Du Hast,” by Rammstein, played by PVT Das Boot. Loud, proud, and so clearly German.

“Hound Dog,” by Elvis Presley, played by SPC Big Ern. This mellow tune is usually utilized when we roll back after mission, and the Joes are smoking out on the Crow’s Nest – our combat rec room - swapping tales and exaggerations. It definitely has its’ ‘Nam-era reverse-psychological destroyer appeal, though.

“The Taliban Song,” by Toby Keith, played by PV2 Boomhauer. I don’t know if it was beer or the military that finally made country music tolerable to my ears, but it has happened.

“Calm Like a Bomb,” by Rage Against the Machine, played by SGT Chico. A very fitting song for this personality. I don’t think a modern-day combat playlist exists that doesn’t have at least one Rage song on it.

“Untitled,” by O.A.R., played by LT G. Mesopotamia clearly needs more jam band serenity.

“Da Funk,” by Daft Punk, played by SPC Flashback. Bust out them glowsticks, it’s a techno rave. Memories of the nineties are optional.

“Here Without You,” by 3 Doors Down, played by PFC Cold-Nuts. Hopelessly banal, yet something the rest of us do identify with. We just don’t admit it in public.

“Free Fallin,” by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, played by SGT Cheech. Nothing says “Yeah, I know Iraq sucks. Try doing it three times” quite like Petty.

“Mama Said Knock You Out,” by LL Cool J, played by SSG Bulldog. As he asked me many months ago during a training exercise, “What you know ‘bout LL Cool J, LT?” I coolly replied, “Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years …”

“Numb/Encore,” by Linkin Park and Jay-Z, played by PV2 Romeo. Seamless mix of rockrap, or raprock, depending on which part of the country you come from and whether you’re willing to admit that you used to own a Limp Bizkit album.

“Good Life,” by Kanye West, played by SPC Doc. Like we always do at this time … except for right now, of course. Iraq is hardly the good life, except for maybe the business contractors making a fortune over here. War profiteering – the world’s second oldest profession.

“Smash,” by The Offspring, played by CPL Spot. A sniper’s anthem, rhythmically pacing the beats of a heart as crystal blue eyes narrow through the sight lining up crosshairs onto the head shot steady the breathing now and don’t think about anything except for a devoid void where nothing but you and this shot exist time to inhale squeeze slight recoil exhale watermelon explosion. Target.

“Truckin’,” by Grateful Dead, played by SPC Prime. Seriously, name a highway or an area anywhere in the greater continental United States, and SPC Prime has 1) traveled through it and 2) remembers the highway regulations of said area. It’s actually slightly unsettling when you realize he knows more about your hometown than you do.

“Fuck Authority,” by Pennywise, played by SGT Axel. Never has one man been so sure about cutting his losses and getting out of the Army when this deployment ends. Given the long-established American tradition of disenchanted vets, this is certainly saying something.

“Burning Bridges,” by the Mike Curb Congregation, played by SFC Big Country. If you’ve never seen Kelly’s Heroes, you wouldn’t understand. It’s where the Gravediggers found their name, and our collective aura certainly can trace its’ lineage back to the combat rascality chronicled in this film and through this song.

A whYkid's Guide to Enlightenment

2008-01-31T12:17:00.000-08:00

Popular culture dominates the whYkids’ realm and souses our minds. This certainly is not a new manifestation for the youth culture – Fitzgerald had his Jazz Age, Kesey had his era of groovy, etc. – but it certainly feels like pop culture has crested. It’s no longer utilized as a narcissistic escape; pop culture now trumps both high culture and arch culture in terms of forcing itself upon the modern youth’s development. Recognizing movie quotes from Adam Sandler movies and rattling off lyrics from Jay-Z’s early albums establishes a whYkid’s au courant credentials, much more so than being able to name a country in South America. Recognizing a sonata by Chopin probably will never be considered cool again – but pointing out that the actor who played Borat is engaged to the crazy redhead from Wedding Crashers certainly is. Being defined as indie, as in dependent musical tastes found via independent labels, is cooler. And being so well-versed in the fashion twists of the emo subculture that you can blather on about the gel integrity of the faux-hawk haircut cannot be anything but the coolest.

Ron Burgundy and Abe Lincoln are equals for the modern youth who seeks to be well-rounded. By constantly being bombarded by the hip and the now, pop culture has infiltrated every aspect of our lives. It’s beyond one channel, one magazine, or one label by now – pop culture is the new oral history (in terms of historical solidity), as everything a whYkid does or desires to do must be related to something we’ve seen, read, or listened to for it to be considered genuine or real. Trends don’t end anymore, they swell across e-America like the Mongols spread across Eurasia, branching out into a multitude of subgenres and nuances only fat, bald music executives and thirteen-year old girls can follow. The seeds planted by MTV twenty-five years ago have sprouted into a Laguna Beach rainforest of fleeting glitz and shameless self-promotion, where paper paparazzi tigers stalk willing victims with golden hair and vintage purses, where the founders of MySpace and Facebook are viewed as baboon oracles of self-presentation, and David Hasslehoffs long thought dead swing again from hanging YouTube vines. If that analogy disturbs you – as it should – try to remember that things could be worse. At least the two Coreys have been regulated to the minor leagues of VH1 in the yawning Tens of the new millennia.

Has it always been like this? Who am I to say it hasn’t? We only live once, and thus, only develop in one generational era. As an amateur scholar who dabbles in social history though, I have to believe that this glut and superabundance directly results from the excess of the 1980’s. Stupid Brat Pack with their stupid cocaine abuse and their stupid electric mullets and their stupid synthesized rock. I thought the whole Seattle grunge gig killed off all that ardor for excess circa 1991 … but then along came the internet, and quicker than HST rambled into bat country, a whole new threshold for mass media consumption sprung an e-moonbow of instant gratification and catalogued information. All glamour, no tangibility or substance. This is more than just another scrap in humanity’s social indulgences, however; it’s also a scientific statement on an already known natural law. Gravity does not function in reverse: what goes up must come down, but what goes down does not have to come up.

I’d explain what the hell that even means, but I need to check out if the rumor about Radiohead releasing their catalogue on iTunes is true or not. I’ve downloaded 4,347 songs in preparation for the deployment, and am always scrounging the music library for more.

Nothing says legit like a diverse music library. And you’re damn sure LT G be legit, yo. Trend on.

In My Army ...

2008-01-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

The gripe: A military tradition as time-honored as dehumanizing the enemy, as expected as giving your rifle a feminine name and persona, and as innate in the soldier’s soul as feeling abandoned by the kinsmen they fight for. After all, you don’t worry about the soldiers who bitch, you worry about the ones who aren’t bitching. Such comprehension doesn’t change the fact that bullshit always rolls downhill - or that at the platoon level, said bullshit rolls in like a crashing avalanche, steadily progressing in size and strength, arriving with a reeking stench of mundane regulations and asinine humorlessness.

With that analogy in mind, I bring to light a sampling of the current gripes of the Gravediggers. Stoicism certainly has its’ time and its’ place, and that is usually out of the wire. In the wire, though, venting catapults itself into even the hardiest of hearts in this man’s Army. Let’s just say that if LT G were Lord Protectorate G of the Desert Cavalry of Pure Raw Awesomeness, things would be a little different. Gathered over the course of assorted grievance councils, usually held in the post-mission unwinding that occur on the combat outpost’s front stoop over some cigarettes and profanity-laced jokes, this is how things should be – and would be, in my Army…

-- I’d be able to be a scout platoon leader for the next 20 years.

-- The electronic leash commonly referred to as a radio would only work once every hour, for only one minute, and CPT Whiteback and Headquarters would be cool with such.

-- SSG Bulldog’s poker games with some of the other NCOs would end just before I burst through their door with the latest Frago, instead of having just begun.

-- Not everything that ever occurred in the entire country of Iraq would be an immediate emergency. Mesopotamia has been at war with itself for at least two millennia. Seriously, what’s the big deal if I need another 20 minutes to finish dispatching my vehicles? What’s the freakin’ rush?

-- The meat-eaters would outnumber the leaf-eaters 16:1, instead of the way it is, which has leaf-eaters outnumbering the meat-eaters 16:1. (Think dinosaurs and evolution if you’re failing to grasp the awe-inspiring depth of this analogy. Then relate to the military branches, and you’ll be golden.)

-- Garrison regulations would’ve stayed back in Hawaii; combat regulations would only exist here. As a result, I wouldn’t have to live in a world of cafeteria combat, where a manatee pushing a lottery ball with its’ nose randomly chooses when and where soldiers should’ve employed kinetic force, and when and where they shouldn’t have. (I.E. abusing all that is hindsight and retrospective from behind a desk, where the only thing to fear is carpal tunnel syndrome and great joy occurs in crushing the occasional cheeky junior officer who thinks he knows everything.)

-- (*Some*) staff officers would have a little comprehension of history, and realize that “winning over hearts and minds” is more than just a poor choice of words when discussing the local population’s temperament towards American military forces in their country. I sarcastically suggested they watch Platoon during one of their meetings instead of arguing about the color scheme and numbers on a PowerPoint slide. No word yet as to whether my proposal gained any support.

-- CPT Whiteback’s computer conference calls with Squadron wouldn’t be the most unintentionally hilarious thing this side of SPC Doc’s propensity for rummaging through trash. I like to laugh, but listening to one of those things caused me to laugh for all the wrong reasons.

-- The punkass pogue warrant officer who barked at my soldiers at the chow hall on the FOB for not having haircuts, needing showers, and wearing their Army-issued fleeces over their uniform after we rolled back after fifteen straight days of patrolling would still be eating mud, three days later after it happened. If I hadn’t stayed back with SFC Big Country to check on the maintenance of our vehicles, such would’ve occurred. Seriously, when I find out who you are, Fuckstick, I will systematically destroy everything you hold dear, and do so rockin’ my fleece and eating a bowl of mint ice cream while my Joes giggle hysterically as they watch in the distance.

-- (*Some*) Field grade officers would have more serious things to worry about during a war than the size of PV2 Van Wilder’s moustache, or LT G’s wear of the Army-issued fleece cap during the day while off-duty. (Hey, I’m a skinny guy. I get cold easily.) Like, oh I don’t know, ensuring that the Iraqi Police have an equal balance of Sunnis and Shi’as on their force to avoid allegations of corruption. That might a good place to start.

-- Other units would stick to their own showers, and not take our hot water when we finally do get back to the FOB. However, if this changed, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure to witness SFC Big Country turn off the hot water heater while four Grunts showered in our stalls, so perhaps this was worth it. Check that. The high-pitched shrills that resulted definitely were worth the sacrifice.

-- I wouldn’t see the same brain-dead “source” walk in to the combat outpost every day, feeding us the same crap over and over again, just so he can get some snack food and a warm place to stay for a few hours. Actually, I can sympathize with the source, living in a third world country clearly sucks. My ire lies with our intel geeks who continually fall for his ploys, and end up convincing higher to send us out pursuing wild, unsubstantiated rumors, instead of building up rapports with the locals in our AO like we’re supposed to.

-- I could sleep for more than two hours in a row without waking up in a panicked frenzy, checking to ensure that the batteries to my radio haven’t died.

-- The dog and pony shows that inevitably occur whenever anyone with any rank whatsoever swings by (always during the day, and never too early in the morning, by the way) wouldn’t be painful, nor uncomfortable, nor throw a monkey wrench the size of an orangutan into current operations. (And yes, the simile zoo of animal analogies in this gripe is intentional, and being abused to illustrate the cattle-car nature of the military bureaucracy.)

-- 12 hours of a bureaucratic trail of tears and papercuts would not be what sends a detainee to jail; finding a freakin’ Soviet-era sniper rifle in his backyard in a water pipe would be enough.

-- Instead of a Stryker, I’d be able to drive around Anu al-Verona in an up-armored version of Rufus, my 1974 baby blue Volkswagon Bus, defiantly blaring the hippie proclamations of Bob Marley and giving the Hawaiian shaka’ to the local populace. Talk about legit.

-- I would never go to bed weary and sore and drained, absolutely convinced that the details of me and my men’s lives were nothing more than a PowerPoint slide being passed up the chain-of-command on memory drives. Not even our own presentation. Just one little slide. This happens at least once a week.

Whew. I feel better. See? Venting can be therapeutic. We all have our outlets. Rock stars have heroin, soccer moms have Oprah, even my golden retriever back home barks at ducks to relieve stress. All I need is a warm cup of coffee, a computer to vomit my raving brain into, and fifteen minutes of freedom. I’m good now, thanks for making it this far. I appreciate it, and certainly hope you aren’t one of the individuals I railed against above. That would be … awkward.

Just so you know, I’m still going to castrate that warrant officer when we return to the FOB.

Dead Guy Poem (2)

2008-01-27T19:45:00.000-08:00

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose –
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath –
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of gangster death
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain –
All, all the stretch of these great green states –
And make America again!

Langston Hughes, from “Let America Be America Again”

The Pantheon

2008-01-26T07:39:00.000-08:00

LT G, on finding immortality through death, rather than around it:

Whether we like it or not, life is as temporary and as fleeting as that corporeal feeling a young child gets on Saturday mornings, literally swelling with the happiness and freedom possibility yields. I'm no mad scientist, and I offer no magic potion that counters this very basic truth. But immortality does exist for those brave enough to claim it. For those dumb enough to make a dash for it. For those lucky enough to comprehend it.

It is in this vain of thought - a thought, by the way, that is not nearly as morbid as it may appear upon first read - that I bring you the examples of IT; a Pantheon of Rockin’ Heroes we all should celebrate and canonize. It may appear that this is a random list, with a random number of members, with random tangents entwined randomly. Well … that’s the point. Random is good. Because if greatness is anything, it is random. These individuals did more than Embrace the Suck, and went beyond discovering that Happiness is Diggity. They evolved into the walking manifestation of the Toro, waving the red cape of history, deftly toying with the raging bull of existence. Some eventually felt the horns’ gore, some did not, but that’s not the point. The point is that at one time, even if it was for just one illustrious moment, they were completely and utterly in charge and brimming with anticipation, shunning the reactionary nature of their human brethren. (Cue awesomely 80’s glam rock anthem, “The Final Countdown,” by Europe.)

18-Randolph Childress – Pure swagger. A Wake Forest baller small in stature, bursting with pride and confidence. The Tar Heel player whose ankles were nearly broken trying to keep up with his killer crossover is still getting waved back up by Childress, and is still stuck on the ground hopelessly, fifteen years after the conference title game in question.

17-Ron Burgundy – Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe diversity is an old wooden ship, from the Civil War era …

16- Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte I – Deserves recognition for being the only man in history more vain than Thomas Jefferson, Prince of Agraria. Respect.

15- Cleisthenes – The godfather of Athens. He rocked the Spartans, ousted the oligarchs, seized power for himself -- and then he willingly handed over demokratia to the masses. In classic political study circles, there is only one word for this: Pimpin.’

14- David Hackworth – A soldier's soldier, and the type boat-rockin' officer the Army needs more of, especially right now. Further, he single-handedly would be able to destroy the metrosexual movement spreading across America like the black plague if he were still alive.

13-Gambit- The X-Men cartoon revolutionized my youth. No longer would I be content to be just another sprite suckling off the world’s metaphorical tit until I grew weary of the polluted milk only to realize that my deathbed was near so it was time to embrace God ‘just in case.’ I was going to transcend that. Furthermore, one errant day during my novice training, I dressed up as Gambit, trench coat and all. Then I accidentally hit Momma G in the eye with a flying ace of spades. I still feel bad about that.

12—Tupac Shakur – I realize I’m prone to romanticism, especially when martyrdom is involved (blame that damned Celtic blood), but ‘Pac’s eternal duality strikes a chord in all young American males who feel caged by their surroundings, no matter what those surroundings may be. Just because it comes in gangsta’ rap form doesn’t change the broad appeal of his message. He had groupies but hoped for one love, he screamed Thug Life but cried when he was alone in jail, he wrote elegant poetry but also sang “Hit Em Up.” Complexity shatters labels; always has, always will.

11- Ernest Hemingway – All that is Man. ‘Nuff said.

10- Wonder Woman- True, she is one of only two women on the list, and no, it’s not to avoid a discrimination lawsuit. One, she’s the most dominant force on the planet and two, she does it all in a very revealing bathing suit. Thank you Wonder Woman, for making puberty just a little easier. God bless your Amazonian soul.

9- Hot Rod- From the Transformers. Granted, when he inherits the Matrix and becomes Rodimus Prime, he starts to suck, but before that he is sweeter than a gallon of Carolina Nestea. Not to mention being a turbo-revving young punk voiced by Judd Nelson. You can’t go wrong when you bring the Brat Pack together with choppy Japanese animation.

8- Senator Barack Obama – I’ll spare you a political diatribe, and simply state that if you can’t recognize the vital importance of hope and change in modern American government as personified by this man, I sincerely recommend taking a cyanide pill to cleanse you of your rampant cynicism. It’s the only remedy. (I’m kidding, of course … mainly because I get the feeling the vast majority of my readers are proud conservatives.)

7-Robin Hood- Face it – no weapon is cooler than a bow and arrow, not even the claymore. Well, maybe a mace, but that’s different. And the whole ‘robbing the rich to give to the poor’ gig may be directly responsible for Karl Marx. Or Trotsky, at least. And no, I can’t prove that last statement with anything resembling fact. He also had a thing for sassy spitfires, which I can … empathize with.

6- Jim Morrison – The Lizard King himself, crooning ballad after ballad about the coming End and the rivers of sadness and the killers on the road, and exploring the outer wilds of all that is bizarre, prosaic, and …
Immaculate.

5-Padraig Pearse- Yeah, he was an impractical poet who got in way over his head with the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916. He still deserves credit for backing up his haughty words and proclamations with direct action. That doesn’t happen very much anymore.

4- Captain Jack Sparrow-A drunk, swashbuckling madman whose sole goals in life were self-aggrandizement and finding a horizon to be alone. Never has a dastardly anti-hero been so outrageously awesome. Or stylish.

3- Grace O’Malley- Let’s get this straight. She’s Irish, she’s a pirate queen, and she pillaged the British? What a woman. Damn you Father Time, for bearing me half-a-millennia too late.

2- Gandhi- You can’t argue with success. And while his non-violent agitation campaign would never work in my crusade against modern American excess, one still has to give mad props to India’s founding father. And indeed, the rumors are true; props are best when angry.

1- Muhammad Ali- You are, kind Sir, very much the Greatest. And you knew it. And you let everyone else know it. Sniff. The Holy Trifecta of IT.

The Great Dragunov Jigsaw Puzzle

2008-01-21T13:50:00.000-08:00

“Hey, LT.” SSG Boondock’s rapid banter rose above the incessant prattling of four Iraqi women, upset at being shepherded out of their house in the desert orange dawn. “You’ll want to check this out.”

I left the terp Billy the Kid with the locals, and followed SSG Boondock’s lead around the corner of the house – a mud hut, really, only consisting of two small rooms that supposedly housed two military-aged males, one of the men’s mother, three younger women, and four children. We were operating in the farmland outskirts of Anu al-Verona, acting on a tip one of the local Sheiks had provided us about a new family in his area possibly housing insurgents. The information relayed to us had been flimsy at best, and that combined with the unabated exhaustion that comes after an all-night OP immediately transitions into a predawn raid, left the majority of the Gravediggers impatient, annoyed, and eager to get back to the combat outpost. All we had found of note thus far had been a litany of poorly-threaded blankets, some homemade herb the grandmother claimed helped the children with their many illnesses, and a torn Van Halen tee shirt that SPC Big Ern thought he had owned in 1987 when he sported a mullet and drove a pesticide truck for a living.

SGT Axel and PV2 Das Boot awaited our arrival on the backside of the mud hut. They stood next to a well, from which a water pipe emerged, connecting to the residence in question. Through the eyes of a green lieutenant, everything looked about as normal as an Iraqi hellhole can look. They didn’t exactly cover what happened next in ROTC, you know?

“Watch this, Sir,” SSG Boondock said, not breaking stride in his steps. He raised his arms at the center of the water pipe to grasp it, stood up on his tip toes, and tilted the pipe towards PV2 Das Boot. “Reach in there,” he instructed the young private.

The soldier did as he was told. “There’s hay in here, Sergeant,” he said.

“Reach deeper.”

A look of confusion crossed PV2 Das Boot’s face as he strained his reach further into the pipe. Confusion subsequently developed into bewilderment. He pulled out an elongated piece of metal, approximately eight inches long and three inches in diameter, that glinted alluringly in the arriving daylight. It shined with polish and showed no signs of rust or neglect.

SSG Boondock and I spoke concurrently. “Mother fuckers,” I said, while SSG Boondock said, perhaps just as eloquently but definitely more accurately, “a mother fucking bolt.”

The next half-hour passed as a blur. With the discovery of the rifle bolt, I unleashed my platoon’s rejuvenated energy and instinctive hunting skills upon the mud hut. The two men, who had already been separated, simply hung their heads in resignation when I showed them the metal piece. Billy the Kid laughed in their faces and told me that they knew better than to claim ignorance at this point. The rest of the family quietly stood off to the side and gathered around a homemade fire in a barrel as we ransacked – as gently as possible, I may add – through their personal belongings, unearthing a trigger assembly, five ammo magazines, and at least 100 7.62mm rounds in a carefully dug cubby hole found underneath a rug. CPL Spot unwrapped the mother-load that had been buried even deeper in the water pipe – a Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle, carefully wrapped up in dishtowels and very recently cleaned. SFC Big Country’s brow was still furrowed, though, when I suggested that we were nearing the end of the search. “We’re still missing the stock,” he said, racking his mind for potential hiding spots we had overlooked.

“Damn it,” he continued, stalking over to the barrel where the family huddled around the fire for warmth. He shooed them away, and doused the flames with water from his Camelbak.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, walking up behind him.

He smirked, and reached a burly Midwestern paw into the barrel, pulling out a very charred but still recognizable homemade wooden rifle stock. I shook my head in disbelief, as Billy the Kid started grilling the grandmother. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“A mother’s instincts protecting her son?” I asked the terp, when he finished.

“Yes,” he answered. “Crazy female.”

I instructed the Gravediggers to start policing up the hut and blindfold the two detainees while I inventoried our bounty; SFC Big Country walked back to his Stryker to update Headquarters. As SSG Boondock and SGT Axel led the two men away, I snuck a glance towards the family left behind to clean up after our spontaneous foray. The grandmother stared stonily off in the distance, seemingly oblivious to her departing son, his friend, and the incurring Americans. Two of the younger women fought back tears, while the third walked back inside, nursing the youngest of the children. The other three children wept openly, and one of them tried to run after our detainees, before the women collectively scooped him up.

As we walked back to my Stryker, the sniper rifle and accessory parts in hand, I looked over at Billy the Kid. “I feel kind of bad, you know? These guys are probably just stooges, trying to make some money.” I nodded back at the women and the children. “I mean, it’s not like this is their fault. How are they going to support themselves now?”

He looked at me skeptically. “Do not feel bad, LT. They should not have bred with stupid mother fuckers.”

You don’t always have to use big words or utilize profound analogies to articulate a philosophical known.

Dead Guy Quote (7)

2008-01-21T13:41:00.000-08:00

"We’re all scared. You hid in that ditch because you think there’s still hope. But Blithe, the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you’re already dead. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll be able to function as a soldier is supposed to function. Without mercy. Without compassion. Without remorse. All war depends upon it." – CPT Ronald Spiers

Dead Guy Quote (6)

2008-01-18T00:52:00.000-08:00

"Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you're a man, you take it." -- Malcolm X

Gravediggers Photo Essay (1)

2008-01-09T12:18:00.001-08:00

I'm a giver. Thus, I can't limit my e-war journal to just the literate.

From top to bottom:

1) Sunset in Mesopotamia. A little birdie told me sunsets are profound and emotionally-stirring.

2) SFC Big Country (left) and LT G chillax at a local Sheik's house.

3) SSG Boondock (left) and SSG Bulldog smokin' and jokin.'

4) Enthralled by the mandatory videos put out by the Department of the Army.

5) PV2 Van Wilder helps PV2 Das Boot put on his gear.

Anarchy in the U.S.A.

2008-01-08T14:27:00.000-08:00

Anarchy has always been an essential streak in the American psyche, and the verity that it’s fading may be the strongest evidence yet that our country needs stimulation.

Does that statement surprise you? Did you write off all of these words as some romanticized, populist tribute to nationalism and xenophobia? I could understand if you have – between the haughty subtitle and my omnipotent soldierisms, that reaction is probably an inevitability. And yet …

Like most good patriots, I have an anarchist in me aching to blow up something, anything, that can be described as important, historical, or even remotely attractive. I believe that’s the Minuteman in us lashing out – part of us hates any person, ideology, or institution that would ever dare impose on the most beautiful of concepts: liberty. Thomas Jefferson famously stated that every generation needs a new revolution, and while that might get expensive, we’d at least maintain our freedoms. (If only through continued relenting of them followed by continued rediscovery of them.)

But I’m no Nihilist; I know there are essential truths and base morals, even if they do take a lot of suffering and anguish to find and comprehend them. Furthermore, just because I understand the temptations of anarchy doesn’t mean I’d ever advocate it. It’s really more than unrealistic, it’s silly. This isn’t some small Incan village, or some town hall in Vermont. We’re the most powerful industrial nation in a world continually devoted to globalism. No government at all? No power or control at all? Replace your “u” with “dys,” and now add in the “topia.” Have you people ever seen Mad Max? We’d all be trapped in a landscape where the Latin Kings, the Italian Mob, and Pacman Jones’ entourage engaged in shootouts over the wave pool at water adventure theme parks. Not a good place to be, and don’t get me started on what that would do your local Krispy Kreme franchise.

Tyranny continues to be an ever-present threat, though. Only an active and politically-conscious citizenry can combat it, and anarchic tendencies of disengagement is the ultimate trump card for those on the side of liberty and freedom. Viva la Revolutionaries, if not the Revolution itself – history can only handle so many fights at a time. The Revolutionary can’t help when and where he is and isn’t born. There’s always a fight worth fighting, whether it’s pure in nature or not. Our grandparents had such an overwhelmingly clear and just cause to fight in World War II, that Americans tend to measure all causes by that impossibly translucent calling. History shows us that causes are hardly ever that obvious. Nothing since has been, at least. So it’s up to the individual to make do with what history yields him or her, and seek out something noble in an otherwise ignoble world.

Did I really just reference Thomas Jefferson, Mad Max, and the Latin Kings in the same rambling expose with a subject matter of anarchy?

Huh. I may need a beer.

Dead Guy Poem (1)

2008-01-08T14:25:00.000-08:00

There’s an old adage that says if you die with your eyes open, you probably deserved it.

No argument here.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

-- Wilfred Owen, “Anthem for Doomed Youth”

Still Alive Lady Quote (1)

2008-01-04T21:39:00.000-08:00

"Boys, there are three types of people in this world: People who talk about things, people who talk about other people, and people who talk about ideas. Unless you want to be simpleton or a fool, you will talk about ideas." – Momma G, relayed to two G sons whenever we boarded the gossip train in the years between 1989 and 2001.

Dead Guy Quote (5)

2008-01-04T21:38:00.000-08:00

"Progress is a nice word. But change is its motivator. And change has its enemies." – Bobby Kennedy

First Impressions

2007-12-30T23:03:00.001-08:00

Machine gun fire crackled in the distance as I sat down to type this. Fitting, in that “for real, dude?” kind of way. Yes, for real. Dude. Machine guns. And not the ones that fire blanks.

Here are a few additional, often unrelated, thoughts, after my first day spent in the combat zone of Iraq. (Apologies, some serious sleep deprivation is keeping me from organizing these into a more literary-pleasing form of thematic structure.)

-- I’m not sure what this means in the larger socio-political sense, so I’ll just state the facts: Baghdad International Airport, the place that served as the epical climax of Third Infantry Division’s Thunder Run in 2003, and the place where SFC Smith earned a Medal of Honor in that same year, now has Subway and Pizza Hut. Take that however you see fit.

-- Being able to fall asleep in bizarre places and in bizarre positions is an absolute must for an individual to succeed in the military. I can now check C-17s and Chinook helicopters off my list of “Military Transports to Fall Asleep In.” (Big ups to the Chinook pilot who turned on the seat warmers halfway through our flight – that was absolutely clutch. Huddling for warmth in between SSG Bulldog and SPC Haitian Sensation didn’t have quite the same effect.)

-- From the air, and under a blanket of midnight darkness masking the various destructions of war, the countryside of Iraq offered an odd sense of tranquility. With the scattered lights of various townships all dotting a high desert landscape, I couldn’t help but think of rural Nevada. The steady crooning of the chopper’s blades quickly snapped me back to reality, though. 80-pounds worth of Army equipment on my back ensured I stayed there.

-- According to The Army Times, the average soldier gains ten pounds when deployed to Iraq. After visiting the dining facility here, I can see why. Ever seen the movie Hook? Picture that dinner table scene with the Lost Boys, just without the “having to imagine the food into being” part.

-- Most of my NCOs who have been here before are confused, bordering on disgusted, with the amount of development on our FOB (Forward Operating Base.) I’m inclined to agree with their point – it’s difficult enough maintaining combat focus, without the distractions of Little America clouding our minds. Bastogne, this isn’t. On the other hand, I didn’t make the rules, and if the military industrial complex sees fit to grant me access to free internet, an Olympic-sized pool, and ever-flowing fountains of Pepsi Cola, who am I to shun it? I may be ready for misery, but I don’t feel compelled to force it upon myself. I’m certain it will arrive in due time.

-- Near-beer – it’s just not the same.

-- SFC Big Country and his fellow platoon sergeants have been dumpster-diving daily, collecting all kinds of treasures for our vehicles that previous units discarded in their haste to get back home. Words cannot describe the oddity of seeing large, grizzled NCOs emerge from a dumpster, giddy as a child on Christmas morning, proudly holding up an antenna base. Scavengers, the lot of ‘em.

-- New Man Law: While slightly homoerotic, huddling together with 50 other scouts for body warmth in the predawn hours like penguins in an Antarctic storm is not gay. It’s also fascinatingly Darwinian, as a constant struggle evolves for a position in the middle of the appropriately titled “Dodo Bubble.”

-- Good news, Momma G – the nearest bunker is literally ten feet away from me and SFC Big Country’s front door. That means when the mortar rounds come in the middle of the night, I can run to the bunker in my underwear, boots, and helmet, run back to my room in just a few seconds to grab my pants out of the hamper, and then scamper back to the bunker with my decency intact.

-- My platoon and I cannot get out to our combat outpost quickly enough. Even with the perks of the nigh-2008 Iraq War, the FOB is still bursting with Brass, 2-hour meetings that last 1-hour-and-45-minutes too long, mind-numbing regulations, and Fobbits. (See updated military terminology.) I’m not saying there’s not a place in the Army for those things, I’m just saying that that place isn’t where the Gravediggers want to be.

Dead Guy Quote (4)

2007-12-30T22:54:00.000-08:00

"Many will call me an adventurer – and that I am, only one of a different sort. One of those who risks his skin to prove his platitudes." – Che Guevera

Happiness is Diggity

2007-12-29T09:47:00.000-08:00

I have a retro tee shirt, with a smiling Jamaican DJ, powder blue, with three simple words etched onto the front: Happiness is Diggity. Don’t ask me how I got it, I don’t remember. I probably found it at a Goodwill on the cheap, like most of the keepers in my wardrobe.

Downtown Waikiki one night last year, I was strolling around with my friends, admiring the antics of the street vendors, embracing the environment of endless possibilities in liquid form. Normal Friday activity for the single junior officers in the Cavalry, you know. Anyways, this old Hawaiian woman came up to me out of nowhere. She was all bones and cigarette smoke, waving a finger in my face, and jabbed at my chest with her other hand.

“You,” she says. “You! That is the new American Dream, isn’t it?” She was pointing at my retro tee shirt with the smiling Jamaican DJ.

I swear, I didn’t blink an eye before I responded. “Naw, lady. It’s the oldest one there is. The only one, in fact.” And then I kept walking, leaving her dumbstruck with her bones and her cigarette smoke and her small jar she used to pander for change.

I can be slightly profound, apparently, when the right mixture of freedom, Guinness, and slapdash blend together into a Smoothie of Insight. LT Demolition ran back and gave the lady five dollars, just in case she wasn’t as impressed by my verbal gift as we had been.

Dear John

2007-12-26T01:06:00.000-08:00

The first of my guys received a Dear John letter the other day. (Well, to be completely accurate, it was a Myspace message. Whatever. Same concept, new century.) While I'm not surprised it happened, I am a bit perturbed that it happened in the first freakin' month of our deployment. Who knows how many more Dear Johns await the Gravediggers. Here's hoping that my illustrious and beautiful girlfriend, City Girl, at least has the decency to Facebook my Dear John letter - a Facebook message is WAY more classy than a Myspace message. (I kid, I kid ... not about Facebook being more classy, though.)

Anyways, if you're unfamiliar with the contents of a Dear John letter, or are interested in penning one yourself, I've gone ahead and drawn up a composite sketch. All you have to do is fill in the specifics. You are more than welcome. Remember, I'm here to serve you. And yes, I'm aware that my writing can occasionally slip into the anachronistic and mysoginistic. Sometimes such is fair, sometimes not. This definitely falls into the former category, given the situation that sparked this post.

Dear (insert rank and name here):

Hi. I know it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve gotten all your letters … it’s just hard, you know? With you in (insert foreign nation here) fighting in (insert war from American history here), it’s not like things back home have been easy. Or simple. I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to tell you like it is: I’ve met someone else. His name is Jody. I swear to God, I wasn’t looking for anything like this to happen – it just did and now we’re in love.

I know you have to hate me. I promised that this would never happen to us, but it did. Life’s funny like that, isn’t it? While you’re half a world away, getting shot at for a living by (insert enemy here), protecting freedom, justice, and the American way of life, I’m discovering my inner concubine, getting penetrated by Jody’s inferior geothermal thunderstick on a nightly basis. But he’s a far better cuddler than you ever were, he flatters me every morning, and he communicates with me! Imagine that, you insensitive prick.

What else needs to be said? You’re probably going to go crazy now, so you should recommend to your C.O. to take away your weapon for a couple of days. Suck it up, tough guy – remember, like you always told your friends, you can’t make a ho a housewife.

From your former dream forsaking you to a lifetime of what ifs,

(Insert every horribly negative term for a female here)

P.S. I’m keeping the dog.

Dead Guy Quote (3)

2007-12-20T07:21:00.001-08:00

"If I'm free, it's because I'm always running." -- Jimi Hendrix

Addicted

2007-12-17T23:01:00.000-08:00

Tobacco is the lifeblood of the Cavalry scout. It doesn't matter what form it comes in, my guys will smoke, chew, dip, and inhale their way into a tobacco-laced escape. Hell, I'm pretty sure that they would freebase it if they needed to. Never underestimate the creative ingenuity of a 19-Delta.

Don't ask why, it's just a part of the camo culture. It definitely helps them stay awake and alert longer, and then there are always those urban legends about scouts who smoke on their two-mile run to propel them to a faster time, or the scouts who keep the same monster dip in their mouths over the course of a 72-hour dismounted OP (observation post) mission.

SFC Big Country has managed to get me hooked on black coffee - the less taboo vice of the military - and swears I'll be dipping and smoking like an addict three months into our deployment. He figures I'll have to, to salvage some sanity over the long hours. It makes sense, as I am prone to addictions (see sugared cereals, Guinness, the DeaconSports Quad), but I'm going to make a concerted effort to resist. The buzz from smoking doesn't do much for me, and the two times I've dipped before (given to me by my NCOs after late night missions, as in their expert opinions, I needed it to settle me down before I started tweaking), my head span for five minutes before I crashed out on whatever flat surface I could find. Not exactly my definition of a good time. I didn't vomit either time, though - something I take great pride in.

Anyhow, I'm sure the PC Fascists won't like this particular piece. Sometime between Woodstock and Y2K, smoking became a faux pas worthy of societal scorn. Smokers are like lepers now, complete with isolated colonies in public buildings. I'm not trying to celebrate the scout's never-ending quest for more and more tobacco, I'm just pointing out that it is a staple of our culture - just like reverence for the fallen, male chauvanism, and fart jokes. We all have our vices, and trust me, there are plenty more vices that soldiers have and deserve. Not all are as humorous, or as printable, as this one.

How not to initiate an assault

2007-12-17T22:44:00.000-08:00

I don't remember much from my freshman year in Army ROTC. I remember dreading Thursday afternoons because of ROTC lab, and the overwhelming sense of freedom that arrived upon our release some three hours later. The rugged pride I now have for my vocation had yet to develop; it was a nuisance then, a club I didn't want to be a part of, but had to participate in to placate my parents. ($160,000 price tags for a college education tend to have that effect.)

With all of that said however, one of my favorite IrishSlim (LT G's collegiate persona) stories transpired that year. We were lying on the ground of the Water Tower field, learning how to assault through an objective - combat arms 101. I wasn't really paying attention - I remember being more concerned with my nightly pledge duties for my fraternity. I think I was sober driving that night, and I was not interested in either driving or staying sober. I was also trying to hide the fact that I was wearing my dress uniform belt again instead of my field uniform belt. CPT Ryan was a stickler for uniforms, and fully aware that "I couldn't find it in the cluster of chaos that is my closet" would not qualify as a suitable excuse, I kept my movements to a minimum.

Anyways, the aforementioned stickler snapped me out of my daydreaming.

"So, Cadet IrishSlim, what would you do to initiate this assault?" The nasal crispness of military decorum rattled my mind back into reality.

I wasn't trying to be funny. Honest to Allah, it seemed like the right answer at the time. Looking back on it though, I can kind of understand how I earned the reputation of a smartass.

At least I yelled it. There was no question or doubt in my voice.

"CHAARRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGEEEEE!!!!!!!!!"

(For the record, the correct answer would have been "by opening fire with the primary weapons system." Ehh. I was kind of close. I guess it was just my inner Cav scout asserting himself.)

11 things worse than being in Kuwait

2007-12-14T22:20:00.001-08:00

Kuwait sucks. Envision the oppressive heat of Death Valley, but with much finer sand, and no mountains in the distance promising that something else, anything else, exists beyond the horizon. Then add layers upon layers of mandated micromanagement and bureaucratic inanity. Now add a litany of kiddie-glove pogue-tastic regulations and the infinite reach of the American military industrial machine, and The Suck forms, both as a theory and as an actual place. Hunter S. Thompson isn't streaking across the Mojave in an open convertible here, smoking up on the Madness and the Fear, searching for a new freedom. The desert in Kuwait offers only endless waves of tinted-window mystery, comortably tucked away in luxury SUVs. Sometimes they drive on paved roads, most of the time not, but their horns are always honking. (Quick aside: who needs a freakin' SUV in Kuwait? Haven't they heard of carbon emissions here? And no, they aren't hybrids. I checked.)

However, in the name of that troublesome trait burgeoning in the human spirit known as optimism - sometimes referred to as delusion - some of my guys and I figured there are at least 11 things worse than our current station. This was the end product. I mean, is there anything more American than a countdown list? Or the number 11? Throw in a dash of Gen Y's rampant abuse of hyperbole, and awesomeness is bound to ensue. These are all in addition to not getting shot at yet, of course. That's the obvious one.

11 things worse than being in Kuwait

11) Being Michael Vick right now. 15 months is less than 23 months, and feel free to insert dropping the soap in the shower joke here.

10) Having to embrace this part of The Suck in July, rather than in the far less demanding winter.

9) Being a Russian soldier at Stalingrad in World War II. It turns out things like "training," "guns," and "a plan" can be beneficial in battle.

8) Having to watch The Sopranos finale again. Worst. Ending. Ever.

7) Being trapped in a bear pit, ala Ron Burgundy in Anchorman. "I immediately regret this decision ... these bears are massive!"

6) Being stuck in that steel sardine can of a plane that brought us here in a 32-hour spastic joyride, whose flight pattern resembled Hellen Keller's coloring book. Again.

5) Being one of the star attractions at the La Brea Tar Pits.

4) Being the guy who introduced Lindsay Lohan to cocaine. Seriously, when I find out who you are, I will hunt you down personally and play your skull like a bongo drum with Guinness bottles. LiLo got me through the epical ice-storms of 2004, and she will be avenged for her rapid decrease in hotness.

3) Four words, six syllables: Married to Ike Turner. (What? Too soon?)

2) Being associated with the Warren G. Harding administration, in any form or fashion.

1) Being a Cleveland sports fan, eternally doomed to a black hole of what ifs and almosts. Oh wait. Damn it.

Dead Guy Quote (2)

2007-12-08T23:47:00.000-08:00

"We were wrought up with ideas inexpressible and vaporous, but to be fought for. We lived many lives in those whirling campaigns, never sparing ourselves any good or evil; yet when we achieved and the new world dawned, the old men came out again and took from us our victory, and remade it in the likeness of the former world they knew. Youth could win, but had not learned to keep, and was pitiably weak against age. We stammered that we had worked for a new heaven and a new earth, and they thanked us kindly and made their peace. When we are their age no doubt we shall serve our children so."
– T.E. Lawrence, “Seven Pillars of Wisdom”

The Gravediggers

2007-12-06T19:36:00.000-08:00

(Note: Due to operational security – a buzzword I’ll use frequently over the coming months – I’ve substituted nicknames for the real names of my soldiers. In the modern American military, the environment of austere professionalism is occasionally tested, but never crossed. Either way, this isn’t some Vietnam spoof, and we don’t actually go by these nicknames. We are almost always “(Insert Rank/Insert last name),” except when we’re in the field and by ourselves. So accept the illustrious acronym OPSEC and accept the pseudonyms. You never know who’s reading, after all. Except for Uncle Sam. You can always count on him, and not just because he works for the NSA now.)

When you visualize the pack of collective undertaking and resolute efficiency that is The Gravediggers platoon, I want you to picture them the way I remember them when I stumbled into our office as a brand new platoon leader. Wide-eyed and self-conscious, I decided to allow them to do all the talking.

There’s the platoon sergeant, SFC Big Country, a corn-fed giant brimming with competence, military bearing, and a no-nonsense brand of Midwestern keenness. The senior scout, SSG Bulldog, struts around, intimidating the junior soldiers into any form of work they can find. Only a deep, Southern rumble when laughing betrays his otherwise flawless manifestation of a Hollywood drill sergeant. My other section sergeant, SSG Boondock, issues instructions with the deadpan earnestness of a Joe Sixpack everyman. The team-leading buck sergeants, they that make the Army go, bark with the power they’ve tasted while still hungering for more; SGT Chico moves in silent effectiveness, while SGT D-Wizzle jolts in frustrated amusement. Our soldiers worship these men, and do so with good reason – on a daily basis, my NCOs teach them how to walk that subtle line between victory and defeat, how to shed that post-boyhood buzz in the name of something far less fun but more profound, and how to listen to the instincts that lead to survival rather than the other instincts that lead nowhere but a tomb in Arlington.

And then there are the Joes, who watch me in questioning regard. PFC Twanger, unimpressed with my college-boy credentials, explains the nuances of the gunner’s cupola in the Stryker. The other gunners, SPC Flashback and SPC Spot, hang on to every word of technical expertise being passed down from the NCOs, while darting quick glances my way. One of the drivers, PFC Big Ern, tries in vain to silence PFC Twanger from talking to the new lieutenant, while SPC Prime, a former trucker, goes into painfully-specific detail about the machinery in a Stryker’s engine. The resident joker, PVT Cold-Nuts, waltzes in ten minutes late with a litany of excuses, and gets verbally power-bombed into submission by SFC Big Country. I quickly realize my life perspective will forever be altered by working day-to-day with these people. Not long after I decided such would be for the better.

Nearly every single one of these men are from Rural America, be it the South or the Midwest - America’s heart and backbone, respectively. While I don’t necessarily convey prototypical West Coast cool, most of the Joes find my Reno heritage interesting, nonetheless. The NCOs have served in the Army long enough to stop caring about the whims of the American society they protect so effectively; the Joes are just removed enough to not fully recognize how the same society that reared them has naturally detached itself from the war we’re all destined to fight. In a volunteer military, we fight for the nation, not with it.

To borrow an analogy from one of our sister unit’s emblems, we were and are wolfhounds bred to keep the wolves away from the masters we’ve sworn to protect. But that doesn’t matter to them, just as I would come to realize it didn’t really matter to me, either. We find honor and sacrifice through one another, and that is enough. More than enough, actually. Even if I was just a new butterbar, still sparkling with collegiate polish and absolute lack of military pragmatism, every single one of my men were still professional enough to call me “Sir” and mean it. They had the muscle, the brains, the passion, the efficiency, the pure American fury. All they needed was a LT smart enough to leave them alone and let them do their thing after my whole planning gig, but dumb enough not to become a glory-hound when it became clear I happened to lead the greatest scout platoon this side of Jeb Stuart’s raiding cavaliers.

I’ve fit the bill, thus far.

Most of those guys are still with the Gravediggers. Some have left and have been replaced by new faces; such is the cyclical nature of any military unit. But mentioned or not, all of them are the men we tend to celebrate in the abstract. Although I desire to have them honored specifically and individually, they wouldn’t want it that way. That’s not what the inheritors of Sparta seek. So I’ll do it for them. I have no such pretensions against shameless self-and-group promotion, and stoicism has never been my style.

Sleep soundly tonight, America. Because we probably won’t – and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

Dead Guy Quote (1)

2007-11-23T13:02:00.000-08:00

“The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out and meet it.” – Thucydides

Tropicana

2007-11-23T12:45:00.000-08:00

Due to a series of technical transformations and bureaucratic futility, it has been a solid three years since my unit has deployed. Given the current state of the U.S. Army, that’s more than just an extended break between deployments. Myself, I’ve been in Hawaii for about a year-and-a-half now … I don’t know, all I can say is that it’s disturbing watching the most powerful fighting force in the history of the world slowly bleed out while you drink Mai Tai’s at Duke’s at Waikiki Beach and shamelessly flirt with morally casual female tourists, just waiting for your turn to join the fight.

I don’t mean to convey that my soldiers and I are eager - just anxious. Quelling a guerilla war half-a-world away isn’t exactly a black cloud one enjoys hanging over them, no matter how tropical a paradise your holding pattern may be. Hell, I feel like I’ve spent the last 15 months stuck in the Hawaiian delusions of December 6th in From Here to Eternity.

Might have something to do with the fact that the Schofield barracks haven’t been renovated since they filmed the movie there some fifty years ago. Or that my house is literally five minutes from where that famous beach scene took place. Or that I’ve drank all over the island with an eclectic collection of honorable and profound mother fuckers, just the type the world always seem to relish destroying in war. Whichever way, I keep looking to the skies over Kolekole Pass, but the Japanese planes never come.

I guess when you’re bringing the fight to the enemy, the twisted romance in it all changes somewhat.