Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal

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.

European Interlude III

2008-06-27T02:34:00.000-07:00

Fleeing the rain and coked-out models of Milan, LT Demolition and I venture north, intent on conquering the Alps en route to Zurich to join the soccer madness of Euro 2008. What Hannibal crossed with war-elephants, and Napoleon trekked through on a white steed, we stake our historical claim in a …

Grey Opel?

Oh irony, with your bitter face-spit. Did the rent-a-car place really have to give us the most popular vehicle of Iraqis, the nigh-daily VB-IED threat as reported by the intel geeks of Fortuna?

Fine. Pop in Queen’s Greatest Hits and let’s roll.

A postcard’s rugged beauty. Everywhere. Mountains crashing up out of the valleys like god-towers, rivers falling off the hills like feral waterslides. Where am I? A Green Party political ad? Switzerland is like Lake Tahoe on steroids, without the testicle shrinkage. And sans baseball career.

Hit the summit, and try not to be killed by all the speeding Formula 1 Darios on the winding spiral down.

Civilization. Stick with the SOP. Lodging. Food. Booze. Not necessarily in that order.

What time is it? Who cares? We’ve shed our watches, embracing the time-free existence. The only thing scheduled is nothing. We’ll meet that timehack.

Join the Italian rioters in the streets. Jubilation. A continent too tired for war and too haughty for idealism, instead bonging soccer jingoism in levels that would make Rupert Murdoch blush.

Party on. Sing sing sing, sway sway sway. And sure, why the hell not? Let’s do another round.

Why yes, even the Polizia are joining in the madness. They may not have guns, but they’re sporting some awesome reflective vests. Very authorityish. And no, I did not notice that Swiss girl with doe-eyes. Why do you ask, are you in need of a utility knife? I’m engaged, and in love! But I’m still the world’s greatest wingman – lead the way Maverick, Goose follows. Viva Italia!

Bright lights, white noise and puzzle-piece memories.

Wake up, overhung, unsure what country we’re in now. Gah. Damn it. I forgot to take my shoes off again.

Sniff the shirt. Ehh. It’ll do for another day. Laundry can wait.

Coffee. NOW.

How many days now until … ?

Uhh. Don’t think about it. Spare yourself the depression, and bask in the break. Everyone says you need it.

It lingers though. Like the feel of spider-legs creeping against skin, long after the insect has been smashed.

Back to the Opel.

When we stop for snackage, let’s try and not speak Arabic this time. The overly-friendly Euros start to freak out. Arabic to the Italians, Italian to the French, German to the Swiss… wait … what do the Swiss speak again?

Everything. If everything sounded like Hoefulingburginghamdensteg. Onto Germania!

Lazy days in a University town, reading books, sipping on beers on a river that is too smart to flow. Reminds you of more innocent times, times you know now you’ll never be able to reclaim. Can’t keep up with the kids anymore, be it intellectually, obsequiously, or spontaneously.

I need naps.

My back throbs under the pressure of invisible weights.

And somehow I lost all the answers to a world I swore would never break me.

God I miss her.

Here though, in a coincidence that rivals the return of the faux-hawk hairstyle in terms of happenstance, is an American Studies course that reads blogs, one of which being mine, to help foreign students learn English.

Blanket apology to anyone who reads this thing in an attempt to study a language. I’m beyond certain that I’ve had a negative impact on your language development. I. Hate. Grammar. Rules (so(I WILL Br8ke dem for no goode reezen!!!!!!!!!!!!(*)&^!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Too much e.e. cummings as a child, not enough Miss Manners.

LOLerSKATES!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. So being a minor internet celebrity is kind of cool.

One Euro beers in a college dormitory basement is cooler. I still got that foosball touch, you dig? Fratstars don’t die, we just go into hibernation.

More scattered puzzle-pieces swallowed by the metaphorical howling dog of randomness. More late nights. Even later mornings. Turn in the Opel, train rides across Germany, finding old friends and new adventures, wandering castles and biergartens alike. Not necessarily in that order. And then one sun, it was over. Just like The Hollow Men predicted, not with a bang but a whimper.

Maybe it was a throat-clearing cough. Anyways.

Ready or not, back to the Suck.

European Interlude II

2008-06-23T01:00:00.000-07:00

In this post-modern world of war and famine, 24-hour news coverage, and emo music, it’s easy to forget that something as ancient as romance can be true and pure and overwhelming and original and … right.

Big ups to Italia for the assist on that one.

Cue whirlwind week of possibility.

Greet LT Demolition in the airport with a fist-pound.

This place is weird he says.

I think we’re the weird ones now.

Yeah. I guess you’re right.

Scouts out. To the hostel we go where we find City Girl and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-She-Devil (inside joke, we’re friends, I swear) watching soccer. Awkward hug.

Umm. Hi.

Hi. How was war?

Umm. Different. How was life?

Difficult.

Right.

Yeah.

Let’s eat!

Then the tourist carnival; animal crackers of pandemonium all around. With pasta. I am Maximus Decimus Meridius at the Colosseum. I won’t shave for my girlfriend, but I’ll shave for the Pope, because you know, he’s the freaking Pope. The real Pantheon, the one that doesn’t include Captain Jack Sparrow.

And some creeks of flowing red wine. And an accordion dude. And singing hippies on the Spanish Steps.

And you know what? All things considered, this is pretty awesomely normal. Or is it normally awesome?

They both work.

Ahh, Italy. Onto Sienna. Romantic strolls through Tuscan plazas, under a flashlight moon that beams new hopes and old dreams alike.

For fuck’s sake, I’m a sapstar.

And then, after a rainy day spent bantering underneath umbrellas, I say to hell with it. I love her and I love her now and I know that will not change so what am I waiting for? No sane woman would ever put up with you or a deployment or a mixture of both.

Good thing I’m not attracted to the sane.

Today is so much better than yesterday. And tomorrow is no guarantee. We both know that now. So yeah. Umm. I’m taking a walk. I need … nail clippers. Yes. Nail clippers. Gah woman, I know it’s hailing water-bullets! I’ll be right back. Tell Demolition to mind the house, I’m hunting and gathering here.

Alright. Swiped an example from her jewelry bag to get the right size. Now I need to find a ring shop that takes me seriously, despite my terrorist mutton-chops, baggy plaid shorts, and plain white tee. And no, I don’t speak a lick of Italian. This should be interesting.

It was.

Wake up the next morning and check to make sure it’s still in the hiding place. Safe as a hibernating bear. Okay. You sure about this? I’m pretty sure matters like this are pondered over. Let’s ponder.

I always said I’d wait until I was 35. Well, after half-a-year in Iraq, I feel like I’m 35. Commitment issues with love don’t really seem like such a big deal after you deal with commitment issues with life.

Okay. Fair enough. It’s a little spontaneous, don’t you think?

Yes. But the best decisions in your existence have been spontaneous. Writing for the school paper. Going to Wake. Becoming a fratdawg.

This is a slightly bigger deal. And by slightly, I mean massively.

Okay. How about being born? Ten weeks early, that was pretty spontaneous, and all things considered, it worked out for you. Same with getting baptized. You could over-think anything if you allowed yourself, too. Spontaneous action is the only reason you've ever accomplished anything. Ever.

Touché.

For two weeks, you danced on the blackest edge, and because you don’t listen, made her do it, too. That will not happen again. It’s okay, though. You survived the test, and grew up. It happens to the best of us, even those of us with hero complexes.

Now you know. For sure. For surest’s sure.

Now we wait. For the right moment. The right place. The rightest right.

And try not to look like too nervous in the mean time. Stuttering like an idiot savant every time she asks you a simple question like please pass the salt isn’t helping matters.

Frago. Venice is drenched in a hurricane, and we’re not talking the metaphorical kind here. Good. Let’s avoid that cliché. Let’s stay on this coast. Onto the Cinque Terre! Lead the way Demolition and The-Artist-Formerly-Known-As-She-Devil. Me and City Girl, we’re too busy being disgustingly stellar back here.

Don’t let the haters hate. Appreciate.

Strolls along the beachfront. A long, winding lunch, and the barest of emotions shared overlooking the sprawling sea in colors too vivid for this world. And a sun just as fleeting as this holiday escape, teasing we mortals with forever rays.

The sapstar striketh anew.

And then it was. The next morning brings the verbal leaves, the crunchy summer-red ones that mean we must go our separate ways. Time. It waits. For no. One. Now or never. Never or now.

Night. A crescent moon, loaned to Italia by way of my Arab friends down yonder in the Cradle of Civilization. One last walk on the beach, letting the crashing waves speak for us in languages we don’t need to understand. Deep breath. You can’t mess this up, you Irish bastard. Back in the day, during all those basketball games with the boys, you prided yourself on being the clutchest of the clutch, the little point guard with a champion’s swagger and a first step to the left that could shake anyone.

Yeah, but this ain’t basketball.

I’m still fucking clutch, though. Smoother than ice.

Pause at a bench. One last deep breath. Soak in the ivory skin and refined grace and fiery auburn hair and jade ovals and brimming idealism and natural intellect and unrelenting sass that initiated this domino rally of classical romance way back when.

What follows is a word-valentine that I won’t share, out of deference to all things personal. Even in the internet age, privacy can and should exist. All you need to know is her response:

I absolutely will.

Revoke my man-card. I could care less. Hearts explode in millennial fireworks that know no limitations of time. Viva. This.

All’s fair. In love and … what’s that last part, again?

European Interlude I

2008-06-15T03:10:00.000-07:00

“Dude, for the love of God, if you remember anything while you’re in Poland, remember this – don’t drink the Windex.”

Those were MadBeard’s first words to me as I stepped off the plane; express shipment sent straight from Iraq. What two kids from the American West were doing in Warsaw was as much a mystery to us as anyone else, yet there we were. Him, the wandering freelancing computer programmer, too brilliant for traditional pathways, me, a very confused soldier in need of a break.

What better place for a break than passing out on top of the Iron Curtain. I think Churchill said that once.

Maybe not.

Warsaw is a kind of Eastern European steel city, forever stamped with a “Stalin Was Here!” harshness. Western Europe parties to celebrate, here, they party to forget. I wanted to keep a low profile, but between my clothes, basic mannerisms, and perpetual state of perplexity, I might as well be sporting a Captain America cape. It’s okay, though. The Poles’ perma-crush on all things Reagan have made the transition to the non-combat culture a little easier. And even the seriousness of this land can’t help but smile at my clowning antics.

So yeah. The Windex. Apparently, some of his local friends have been known to come up from Krakow with jugs of vodka mixed with blue sugar, arriving like a roving band of gypsies, striking at the most inopportune moments with their lethal brand of Polish moonshine. My old friend, aware that my immune system hasn’t sniffed beer for six months, let alone been steeled for homemade Slavic concoctions, wanted to save me from going blind. A kind gesture, to be sure.

That’s the difference between old friends and new friends.

If and when people find out I’m away from Iraq on holiday, I sort of become an instant celebrity. At first it was cool, until I realized it was the bearded woman type of celebrity, not the Hollywood brand. It’s no one’s fault, of course; normal people just don’t know how to react to things like that. Like that – being – as in – as in being – “Uhh. Yeah. I’m in Iraq. No. I don’t want to talk about it. Does the techno music ever stop here?”

And then. North. Where the sun sleeps less than soldiers.

Punch-drunk peace. The Baltic Sea propositions with prepositions. In. On. Along. By. The way.

By. The way. What in the name of Frederic Chopin’s piano am I doing here? Drinking on the beach watching the sunrise with a group of truly insane neo-Vikings?

Or did I By. The way. when I stumbled into a random public park, surrounded by thousands of rowdy Polska soccer jerseys, lost in a sea of red and white and diehard religious-like zeal?

Things that make you go.

WTF.

The sausage really is excellent, though. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Even if I’ve temporarily left the Desert, I still feel it with me. Backfiring motorcycles always hurt my soul, and according to one understanding Slavic female, “made your eyes look like a rabbit.” I tend to instinctually search the back of those ridiculous mini Euro cars for loose wires and hidden compartments. And yesterday, I walked halfway across a Polish town before realizing I was holding a loaf of bread like an M4 Carbine, poised at the low ready.

Big ups to the old village woman who started clucking at me as a result. It’s the only reason I stopped.

I’ve gone from a stranger in a strange land to a strange in a stranger land. Which, you know, is nice. You generally don’t think about things that way.

I haven’t heard from the Gravediggers, other than an occasional MySpace message, so I know they are doing fine. At least ten times a day, though, I stare off, and worry. They’re fine, of course. The NCO’s have it under control. They always do.

Knowing that doesn’t stop the staring off, though.

There’s more to write, there’s always more to write. But the madmen with the Windex have arrived. MadBeard escaped here to find, and it’s been comforting to share that with him, no matter how temporal the experience.

Time to get gone.

And I’m not talking about the Windex.

Biggie's Lifetime Ban, or: Leave

2008-05-31T07:22:00.000-07:00

I’m running the FOB-gauntlet, complete with stops in Molasses Swamp and Gum Drop Mountain from the Candy Land board game. It certainly would appear that these super-fobbits graze in Candy Cane Forest more than three times a day, too. I didn’t know they made uniforms that big, you dig? My battle buddy, LT Demolition’s driver who’s going home to North Carolina for leave with his well-deserved Purple Heart in hand, and I are trying our best to play nice and hide our contempt for this land of excess. Like SSG Bulldog always says, “it ain’t their fault, LT. They just don’t know no bettah.’” I’m sporting the cleanest of my uniforms, which is still trulymadlydeeply filthy for these parts – dirt, grime, and lacquered gallons of man-sweat permanently stain the ACUs, apparently. This revelation and accidentally shocking a too earnest Brigade staff lieutenant with tales from the front over breakfast have been the highlights of the trip, thus far.

Anyhow, getting from Anu al-Verona to Europe may not be easy, but at least I’ll be able to do so, legally. (Yes Mom, I remembered my passport.) As I hide in the lodging tent to avoid the judgmental eyes, waiting for the next Bird out of here, I can’t help but remember one of Biggie Smalls’ classic life anecdotes; one he retells to the Gravediggers at least once a week before mission for entertainment’s sake. In short, our interpreter is banned permanently from the nations of Italy and France – something that still doesn’t sit well with him some twenty-five years later.

It’s so much more than that, though.

And it always starts out exactly the same.

“You know LT,” he begins, with his characteristic British-taught English peppering his words. “I have not always been a man of family. In my youth, I was very wild.” (My soldiers usually cheer and applaud at this point, which causes Biggie to giggle. With a professional comic’s touch, he waits them out before continuing.) “I thief, I fight, I drink the whiskey-”

“You don’t drink alcohol anymore, Biggie?”

He shakes his head morbidly at this point. “My wives, they make me stop three years ago. They say that we have kids to spend money on instead. I have to sneak it now.” (Note: This has not stopped him from repeatedly stating he could acquire Guinness for me, if I ever change my mind about following General Order No. 1.) “So, in my youth, I journey to Europe in search of women and whiskey. I tell my father I look for better work.”

(More cheers and nods of knowing understanding from the Gravediggers.)

“I first go to Greece, then to the Hun-gary, and then to Italy. Ahh, Italy!” His eyes tend to look skyward at this point, and the wonder that seizes his speech when he talks of the free world returns. “Whiskey, tequila, beer … it was the excellent time for me. You know how everyone love Biggie.” It’s true. If you can’t picture my terp as a local bar champion, wheeling and dealing and laughing and celebrating life with new friends and old buddies alike, you haven’t read this blog closely enough. He’s like a big, black Jerry Lewis, and could probably put more than few brews down back in his prime. “And best part is, even if you fail to find woman for the night, you go spend money on prostitute. Many beautiful prostitutes, in Italy.”

“Biggie!”

“What?”

Nevermind. Disregard my American, puritanical sensibilities. Continue.

“In eight months in Italy, I spend all my money that I save for five years work in Africa! Too many whiskey and women. Worst part, my papers (work visa) terminated during those six months. I could not find the work even now that I actually look for it.” He shakes his head again, and bites his lip, recalling lost opportunities. “A friend of mine write from the Portugal. Come to the Portugal he say! Good work and you don’t need papers! So I hop on next train to the Portugal.”

A dark cloud comes over the horizon of Biggie’s face, as the dreaded F word comes into play – France. “But they stop me in France!” His voice changes tones here, as he mocks the French accent. “They say, no African man, you cannot go to the Portugal, you have bad papers! It’s … it’s…”

“Profilin’!” offers SSG Bulldog. “Dose mutha fuckas even gettin’ us in France. That’s some bullshit.”

Biggie is clearly unfamiliar with the problem of racial profiling on the American continent, but that doesn’t stop him from agreeing with SSG Bulldog’s point. “Yes! Yes! So they say, you cannot go to the Portugal. You go to jail instead. I stay there for three months and then they put me on boat and tell me I can never come back to France or Italy. Not ever.”

I told Biggie I’d see if some of his old haunts are still open while I’m in Italy, although it isn’t my first stop. Until then, I’m killing time like it’s an IED-emplacing terrorist, daydreaming about a smiley face with a bloodstain shot through its’ yellow skull, and wondering why Dos Passos isn’t more of a household name. Keeping my mind off those damn midair Black Hawk drops, flyboys fucking with their ground-pounding cargo.

I guess I deserve such for all the disdain I had for those chAir Force guys a while back.

Shrug.

Onto the Interludes.

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 Bon Jovi IED

2008-05-25T20:23:00.000-07:00

O Dark Thirty. Memorial Day weekend, not that any of us were really aware of that at the time. Patrolling up and down Route Daytona, the highway stretch that serves as the logistical spinal column for the massive American body draped across this part of Iraq.

“Gravedigger 1, this is X-Ray.” My entire vehicle groaned along with me. Radio calls at this time of night rarely bring good news.

I responded and waited for the details for the latest goat symphony we needed to conduct. “Roger … move south, to Checkpoint AL5. There’s a convoy that has come to a halt on the far side of that checkpoint … claims they see a box with some wires coming out of it. They need someone to check it out.”

The obvious question followed on my end. “They can’t check it out themselves? If it's bad enough for them to totally stop, why haven't they called EOD?”

The TOC-roach on the other end of the radio just snickered. “It’s a super convoy of fobbits, making their once-a-year run between FOBs. So no, no they can’t check it out themselves.”

I just shook my head and relayed the Frago to my platoon. SSG Boondock began chuckling from the back of the Stryker. “Good Christ, it has gotta be bad when the dude in the TOC is busting their chops.”

Prophetic words. The Gravediggers rolled up to the checkpoint, and SSG Bulldog slurred in disgust. “’Dose mutha fuckas, they on the other side of the checkpoint. They keep beaming us and shit, but none of ‘em are on the ground. How the fuck can they even see anything from where they at? They too far away!”

“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “See you on the ground. We’ll check it out for them.”

Now, we don’t make it a habit of clearing possible IEDs on foot, but as we moved up dismounted to the location in question, we couldn’t help ourselves. We’ve seen IEDs of various sorts, up-close-and-personal. They don’t usually resemble broken banana crates.

While SFC Big Country took a fire team to go inform the super convoy that all was clear, SSG Boondock picked up the pieces of the crate and started pelting SPC Tunnel Rat, while using every colorful epithet for “pogue” imaginable. We still hadn’t found the reported wires though, and I knew that question would inevitably be asked, whether anyone blew up or not. I retraced our steps to the north, bent over, and picked up a long, dangling chord connected to a small squarish piece of plastic.

Cassette tape spool. Spool connected to a cassette tape. A cassette tape that contained the immortal, profound words of … Bon Jovi?

Things that make you go. What. The. Fuck.

Why won't the Eighties die?

Kaboom.

After asking the soldiers if any of them wanted a vintage copy of Slippery When Wet, I tossed New Jersey’s finest to the side of the road. I told everyone to mount back up, and found my platoon sergeant returning from the south side of the checkpoint.

“They have anything to say?” I asked.

SFC Big Country laughed. “Yeah. They said ‘thanks.’”

“What, those mutha fuckas’ don’t own no flashlights?” SSG Bulldog was talking to himself again. “What the fuck?”

“It could be worse,” SSG Boondock offered, as we traipsed back to our vehicles. “We could’ve called EOD for a banana crate and a cassette tape.”

PV2 Hot Wheels started busting out the chorus to Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive,” something that the rest of the soldiers either joined in on or started booing. We got back on our respective Strykers, and I called for Redcon statuses.

“This, uhh, Gravedigger 2,” SSG Bulldog drawled. “We Redcon 1.”

“Gravedigger 1, this is Gravedigger 3, we're Redcon 1!” SSG Boondock burst.

“This is 4,” SFC Big Country thundered. “Let's roll.”

“On your move 2,” I said, watching the wheels of my senior scout's vehicle begin to churn forward.

The patrol continued.

AngerSadnessHope: Two Half

2008-05-22T23:41:00.000-07:00

There was a boy who went to war, like many other boys before him. Maybe it made him a man, maybe it didn’t. Maybe he already was a man, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe none of it does, maybe it all does. Maybe. Maybe amongst many other sentimentalist pseudo-intellectual theories, this boy had a theory that the only emotions that matter are anger, sadness, and hope, and that everything else branches off from those in convoluted absurdity. He liked oversimplifications. The Green was first. Now the Orange.

Well before LT G was IrishSlim, and before he devolved into Awkward the Red, lived Kid Wonder – a child whose existence vacillated between idyllic and galvanizing, a truth that would eventually survive for far too many years than any child, of any country or station or class, has a right to. That might be why his transition to Awkward to Red, and successive devolutions after that, were so difficult: I was always joining a group of whYkids that suffered far longer and far more than I had. Much of Kid Wonder’s development hinged on his search for identity. In suburbia, where everyone has been designed to be exactly the same, a child seizes upon any kind of asymmetrical variance in an attempt to establish himself/herself as an individual. And so, as was to become a recurring theme in my youth, I went east.

Two years after the G brothers discovered America’s Midwestern backbone in Cleveland, we tapped into the country’s soul with a cross-country voyage to Boston. Momma G made it happen, despite financial realities which suggested otherwise; ever the Virginian, she was hellbent on showing her sons that a broader – and much more elegant – world existed beyond the suburbs of the West Coast. And ever brimming with Scottish resolve, she was to ensure that this glimpse wasn’t going to be an isolated snapshot.

Certainly, the seeds of seeking out history rather than waiting around for it idly were planted over the duration of this trip. We tossed tea bricks into Boston Harbor. We retraced the path of Paul Revere’s ride. We made the trek to Bunker’s Hill – and then to Breed’s Hill, for historical accuracy’s sake. Two constants pervaded our experience: One, Luke G the Rascal King never grew tired of terrorizing the flocks of pigeons found throughout the city (certainly a fascinating discovery for an eight-year old boy from the desert), and two, our nation became alive for us. And not in that corny, Fourth of July parade kind of way, either – although, coincidentally, we were there over that exact holiday. I instead refer to that transcendental jump a country’s resident can make to become a citizen. Just like Momma G planned, Luke G and I learned to care – both with our minds and with our hearts. The Revolutionary patriotism that seized the Bostonian people some two-hundred years prior instilled itself into two young brothers in 1994, although we were barely aware of such at the time.

There never was the mystery to my mother that there has been with my father. Obviously, a lot of that stemmed from growing up in her house with her rules, but in retrospect, their respective personalities also played a role in that. In contrast to Poppa G, who wards off the world with a perpetual poker-face and that famous Celtic fatalism, my mother chooses to fight reality more fashionably, somehow blending a hippie’s ideals with classic Southern charm. The result is an American caveman’s worst nightmare: a thought-provoking and educated woman who can out-smart him and then out-cook and out-class said caveman’s wife, all the while maintaining an air of refined femininity. Just like her parents - from whom she inherited an iron will, a clear sense of right and wrong, and unashamed self-sufficiency – Momma G was as stable as gravity itself. When you’re 11, stability isn’t too exciting. You think it’s stifling.

So in Boston, being 11, I didn’t appreciate Momma G’s grace and subtleties; all too often, they embarrassed me because they were different than everything else I had ever seen or experienced. I was more interested in comic books, basketball, and discovering what it took to be cool. I didn’t know why she insisted on smiling at strangers, or worse yet, talking to them and hearing their story. I didn’t know why she shook her head in sadness at men who didn’t hold doors open for women, and insisted that the Rascal King and I always do so. And I didn’t know why, even while we were on vacation, we watched the world news together every evening and then discussed these current events over dinner.

I certainly know why now.

The centerpiece of our family excursion through history was the Boston Pops’ Fourth of July Concert at the Esplanade, a pleasant public park set along the Charles River. As the concert began, we took our seats on the rolling green of the park along with thousands of others – with the exception of one very large man directly to our front, who refused to sit down for fear of dirtying his recently pressed khakis, thus blocking everyone else’s view of the Pops like a lunar eclipse. While the families around us all grumbled in discontent, no one dared to raise their objections too loudly, due to the man’s size and obvious combativeness. No one, of course, except my mother. Although horrified that she was participating in such a public display, and directly disobeying her order to stay put, I followed her as she stalked up to the lunar eclipse. I felt it was the least I could do, being the man of the house, and all.

Momma G’s ability to logic and debate, though cultivated in law school, were born during late-night discussions in the Sixties with her parents. As you might guess, joining the Vietnam antiwar movement while being an Admiral’s daughter was not an easy thing to explain at home, but that never stopped her from trying. (My grandfather is now chuckling in tired accord as he reads these words.) The same relentlessness that allowed him as an immigrant to become the walking American Dream poured through the veins of his daughter, and continues to do so. I certainly was viewing such in 1994, as she chipped away first at the large man’s logic, then questioned his sense of decorum, before polishing him off with a verbal stab only a Southern woman could unleash successfully.

“Well Sir, thank you for your time. I’m sure your masculinity will remain intact, as you block the view of women and children so you don’t get your pants dirty. Enjoy your evening. And Happy Fourth of July!”

Steeled sweetness, at its finest. Most women would’ve come across as bitchy, or even worse, shrewish, with such a statement – thus pushing the large man into the caveman corner of having to remain standing to salvage his pride. Not a Virginian, though. As we returned to our seats, the eclipse set itself down on the ground with the rest of us mortals, and a loud cheer and a round of applause rang out for my mother. My brother and I grinned at each other for the rest of the night, even as the fireworks exploded over our heads. Then we wished America a Happy Birthday with that specific sense of sincerity only children are capable of achieving.

It was my first lesson that being different was rarely cool, yet there were far more important matters in this world to be dealt with. And in the end, ironically, not giving a damn about what cool is can be the coolest thing.

We returned home, eager to save money and plan for another trip to discover the grander American nation. Reno fucking Nevada never deserved a woman of the caliber of my mother, yet she eventually grew to appreciate its’ rustic authenticity and rugged landscape – even if it still doesn’t understand why she insists on having supper ready ever night at six o’clock on the minute. And over the years, such a reverse manifest destiny played itself out for me and my brother over and over again – after all, you can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you came from in the first place. Momma G always advised us to put out into deep waters, for great abundance would reward those brave enough to do so. I know I haven’t always felt rewarded, but both of her sons still seek out deeper and deeper waters. That’s something. That’s definitely something.

With both the Orange and the Green in my blood, I was born to be different.

There was a boy who went to war, like many other boys before him. He doesn’t think who he was would recognize who he is anymore. He doesn’t feel things the way he used to, so he’s wondering if that makes him a man now. Maybe it’s always like that. He doesn’t know.

Triple Digits

2008-05-20T00:46:00.000-07:00

As spring limps into summer, a new contender with an old face ascends to challenge the concept of war for peace for complete dominance of Iraq’s ever-malleable now. It reigns with small flares of absolute tyranny, doling out punishment to the masses and the elite equally in spells of burning subjugation. What this aspirant lacks in constant staying power, it makes up for in the promise of consistent rebirth every dawn, rising like a digital Jesus stuck on repeat.

I speak, of course, of the big ball of orange suck the Tibetan monks and icebergs commonly refer to as the sun. And yes, this will be a very elaborate, very obnoxious, and very imagery-laced, vocabulacious way to say that it is fucking hot now. Here’s to the wordgasm.

Baroque birdman badness, even. In blue bursts like banana-bombs, brimming beyond Baghdad burning.

?(Here’s to writing for nobody but yourself !)

Down goes the ramp. In comes the light. Out goes the soldier.

97...98...99...

It starts with a dry mouth. Thirst. The body is more clever than the brain, no matter what the haters say. Speaking of which … Hater-Ade is far more prevalent than water and Rip-Its over here, with flavors ranging from that old vanilla staple “Bored Colonels Make Grown Men Cry” to the newest rage “Passionless PowerPoint Punch.” No liquid is going to help you though, when you realize the source of the thirst in question. There’s that big ball of orange suck again, climbing up the horizon like a stoned sloth lost in a tree.

Diggity.

Suddenly the personal tragedy becomes less of a bitch and more of the Bitch. You remember that your 140 pounds of raw American fury carries 70 additional pounds of raw American gear. The lightest glide becomes the heaviest step. Anu al-Verona’s shoebox diorama walls fall down, revealing a destitution that exists beyond e-journal entries made every two or three or oops I got lazy four days. Stay vigilant, you're here to kill. Remember? And then you feel the sweat – and it’s not coolly bracing anymore. It’s the physical manifestation of everyone’s internal What the Fuck monologues. It might as well be another layer of skin, lacquered up underneath cloth. What the Fuck monologues? As in. What the Fuck. Over. As in. Pour and pour and pour.

Say again? You’re coming in broken and retarded.

100! 101...102...

Would you rather be refrigerated or air-conditioned? Be careful how you answer that. It’s a much weirder question than it appears to be at first glance.

I’m a desert child. I understand the arid, the dry, the barren beauty only the gila monsters and man-monsters appreciate. This is something else, though. Over-baked, like any Western Europe megalopolis, and baked over, like the little blue pills for America’s Greatest Generation. This place literally sizzles with a heat that links every living creature to a chain-gang slaving away in Loki’s very own boiler-room. This … this was the Holy Land? We're sure about that? I’m at the point where I truly believe the first Hawaiians and Caribbeans straight punked out the other founding members of humanity. Or they were really good at Go Fish.

Either or.

105...110...115...

The sun’s rays beat on. Maybe another sandstorm will happen today, you think. That’d be nice. Cool everything down with dust and clutter and maybe even a flying goat if we're lucky. Even if it provides cover for Ali Baba to plant another IED. I mean, whatever. There are ways to negate all that.

Don’t be giving the Good Idea Faerie any more Absinthe. She’s already got the bored Colonels addicted to the sauce. Which, you know, is alright with me. Not that they need my support with these matters.

Drink water, for the hydration nation.

116 ... 118... 119...

Ramp goes up. Lock-and-load. Black shades go on. The soldier moves forward.

How'd we skip 117? Crafty, that 117.

That damned stoned sloth. So pretentious. So demanding. So fleeting.

119...120...alright, that's enough. It can go higher, just don't tell me about it. I don't want to know if the thermometer is playing me. No mas, mistah.

Diggity.

So yeah. It’s fucking hot.

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?

The Montagues and the Capulets

2008-05-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Evenings spent at Sheik Stack-On-Me’s compound never fail to entertain. The old man, despite his questionable loyalties and general creepiness, has that fatalistic flair for melodrama many of his countrymen share. In addition to his Thighmaster fetish, his Sheikliness has a weakness for all things caramel, regales us with old soldier stories from the Iran-Iraq War in the eighties, and blames all violence in history on feminine wiles. (Normally, I’m all for sweeping misogynistic rants, but considering the Arab tradition of not allowing their women outside of the house, I don’t follow his logic. It’s not like war is crashing the party here in Mesopotamia, two hours after the keg got tapped.) Perhaps not so coincidentally, his place is a standard stop during the Gravediggers’ evening patrols of Anu al-Verona.

With the stated intent of discussing rumored weapons traffickers working in a rival group of Sons of Iraq, and the implied intent of securing SSG Boondock his own chai set to bring home to his fiancée, we dropped by Sheik Stack-On-Me’s headquarters on a dry spring night. Well, as much as four humming Ghost Tanks swathed in long-barreled machine guns and state-of-the-art armor can drop by someone’s residence in Iraq. And that’s even before they shit out sections of malcontent and stubborn scouts daring the darkness to remember this is a war.

SSG Boondock, PFC Boomhauer, PV2 Hot Wheels, and the recently-reawakened Biggie Smalls joined me and the Sheik inside, while the rest of the platoon established their security positions. Usually, I banter with local leaders for a few minutes, easing them into the uncomfortable specifics that generated the meeting in the first place. Tonight though, Sheik Stack-On-Me skipped over these niceties, deferring to his very own Frago.

“I just receive a call from my men!” he said, as soon as we sat down on his immaculately clean couches of gold. “They say they capture someone trying to run over here from Sunni side of town in the dark. Maybe they trying to plant IED!” He pointed at his map of Anu al-Verona, prominently displayed underneath a hilariously austere portrait of himself. Sure enough, he pointed at the road that bisects the Sunni and Shi’a areas of our little Iraq microcosm – known as Route Earthquake by Coalition Forces to highlight the invisible fault line it represented. “They are bringing the person here so I can question them.”

Sheik Stack-On-Me’s own military background sometimes causes him to overstep the normal guidelines outlined for Sawha leaders, but I for one, support this kind of initiative. It certainly is better than the normal “I can’t make any decision whatsoever or execute any kind of authority whatsoever unless there’s an American standing next to me” drivel we heard every day at the combat outpost from most of the Sheik’s peers. “Interrogate away!” I told him, with a sly smile on my face. “We’ll be here drinking chai if you decide he’s worth keeping.”

SSG Boondock radioed the rest of the platoon, updating them on the situation, and after five more minutes of Suzanne Somers’ eye-worship, we heard a car’s engine pull up in the driveway. “That must be them!” Sheik Stack-On-Me said, springing up from his recliner, leading us outside.

Two of his Sawha exited the front of the sedan, and while one pulled security with his AK-47 at the low ready, the other opened the rear door to bring out their captor. I half expected the ghost of Saddam Hussein to appear, complete with dictator moustache, command beret, and aviator sunglasses, with his hands balled into fists of totalitarianism as if to say, “Bwahahahaha. That’s right, Americans, I’m back! I figured this war needed a prominent villain again. Bwahahahahaha.” Instead, a small girl with darting black eyes and tears streaming down her face skulked out of the back of the car. I estimated her age at 13, and she couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds.

“What the fuck?” SSG Boondock asked behind me. “This night is getting fucking bizarre.”

Sheik Stack-On-Me’s men frisked the young girl, and having determined she was weapons of mass destruction-free, turned her over to their leader. He grabbed her by the shoulder and led her back inside. I looked at my men, shrugged my shoulders, and followed. It’s not like we had anything better to do.

The girl’s rags contrasted sharply with the Sheik’s obvious material prosperity, a fact highlighted by her fascination with the various displays of such, especially an encased jewel collection in the back corner of the room. After being instructed to sit down on the golden couches – something she clearly was uncomfortable with, as any child is with furniture that has been purchased for show rather than comfort – Sheik Stack-On-Me began to lecture her in Arabic. She stared at the ground in shame, and occasionally whispered back in response. Biggie leaned over, and translated for me.

“He ask her what she is doing running from Sunni side … she say she live near here and was going home … she say she is Shi’a … she say please don’t tell my father … she is crying again (I know that, Biggie) … he ask her if she put the IED in the ground … she says no, no, nothing like that … he say then why do you violate curfew, only Ali Babas violate curfew … she say that she is no Ali Baba but she is scared to tell him why because he is powerful Sheik … he say that he will take her to jail now and her father can get her there if she does not tell truth … she say she will tell truth, but not in front of Americans. They scare her.”

I looked around the room. I knew that how she saw us was completely different than how I saw us, but still, we were hardly in our most intimidating form. SSG Boondock had his helmet cocked back, grinning his maniacal grin, and PFC Boomhauer and PV2 Hot Wheels were leaning against walls, pulling security casually, chomping on bubble gum. I myself was more interested in a fourth round of chai and a mosquito I couldn’t seem to swat than channeling raw American fury at the moment. It’s an interesting thing, coming to terms with your own boogeyman status. Nevertheless, the Sheik led the girl into a side room, returning some forty seconds later. His deep belly-laugh filled the room like a balloon filled with hot air.

“She has Sunni boyfriend she visits at night!” he said, in between wheezes. “She say her father would beat her if he knew she had a boyfriend, especially a Sunni boyfriend!” The girl reemerged behind him, still petrified, and unsure how to react to the old man’s hysterics. I bit my lip to suppress a smile, in light of the girl’s embarrassment. “You understand why I laugh?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “My grandma was horrified when my mom told her she was marrying a Catholic. Same concept, right?”

My own family tale sent the Sheik into a new fit of belly-laughs. “Hah! Yes, yes! Catholics are like Sunnis! Hah!”

“Kind of like Romeo and Juliet, ain’t it, Sir?” PFC Boomhauer was shaking his head from the other side of the room. “Her daddy prolly would kill her if he finds out.”

Biggie stood up, patted the girl on the shoulder, and barked orders at the Sheik’s men. He turned back to me. “I tell them to take her home and not to tell father. She has suffered enough tonight, I think. I do not think she will try to sneak over to Sunni side for long time. That is okay with you, LT? I thought it is what you would want.” I nodded, both in agreement and in appreciation at my terp’s humanitarian take on the situation. In many ways, men like Biggie would make better Sheiks than the ones allocated simply because they weren’t raised to become Sheiks in the first place; it’s the Mesopotamian version of the self-made man versus the blueblood elite.

Sheik Stack-On-Me clapped his hands, ensuring his men followed Biggie’s instructions. After the sedan pulled away, girl in tow, he couldn’t stop chuckling to himself, though. He turned back over to me and Biggie, intertwining his fingers in the Arab hand-and-arm signal for working together. “Maybe there is hope for future,” he quipped. “The younger generation are having their own Reconciliation!”

Shortly thereafter, we left Sheik Stack-On-Me’s compound, after receiving another Frago and another mission. Just another night in the wilds of Anu al-Verona.

Numb

2008-05-09T02:02:00.000-07:00

The days bleed into nights and the nights bleed into days and there’s really no point in acknowledging the difference anymore. The sun just means we drink more water, the night just means we live in the green world of night vision rather than the grey world of day vision. Patrol. Eat. Sleep. Patrol. Go to meeting. Patrol. Eat. Make phone calls home and ignore the strain in their voices since they're doing the same. Patrol. Sleep. Get woken up in a panic, it’s time for a new and Fragolicious. Patrol.

If my calendar hadn’t hung itself in the winter, it would tell me that we’re a third of the way through the deployment. That’s something, at least. Something tangible. Something concrete. Something that seems far too long and far too short all at the same time. Time over here just doesn’t make sense. It does make cents, though, which you know. Matters to some people.

(AMERICAN DISCLAIMER: It’s easy to be flippant about money when you’ve always been comfortable and are only responsible for ensuring that such flippancy remains one’s only responsibility.)

There’s nothing new to this war, anymore. Same threats. Same bitches and gripes. Same bad guys, even if they have new faces. Same lie that death is the ultimate consequence. Same truth that death is the ultimate release. Same old rivalries, same old skirmishes, same old riding to the sound of the guns because no one else will. I’d comment on that ambiguously hollow word “progress,” but I realize such would be unfair since the tip of the blade isn’t supposed to understand the motion of the sword as a whole. (Although it has a pretty fucking good idea this time around.) I’ve accomplished everything I’ve wanted to personally, now it’s just a matter of avoiding complacency and ensuring the platoon does the same.

Remember. It’s better to be lucky than good. And that truth has nothing to do with war.

My girlfriend thinks I need my mid-tour leave. My family thinks I want it. My soldiers think I’m dreading it. They’re all right, of course, but all wrong, too. It kind of depends on what mood I’m in. And whether I have the energy at the time to even care or spawn a mood in the first place.

I think I’ve figured out why soldiers have trouble telling their war stories back home – these are the real soldiers, by the way, the ones with war stories not only worth telling but worth listening to. It’s because they know the words that come out of their mouths, no matter how eloquent or clear or fair, will do a disservice to what actually occurred. How can you explain absolute madness to people who have only known order? None of this makes.

(Insert interpretation here.)

If you really want to know what happens over here, or happened before in other foreign lands in other Sucks to older soldiers, you have to disappear. Find a big group of recovering warriors, get them drunk so their relearned civilities fade, and just listen. I’m new to this whole veteran gig, but I gotta think, that’s the only way. That’s only if you really want to know, though. Know about the fears, the panics, the epical failures, the late night bullshit sessions that always end in “I don’t know, man. Fuck it.” None of the parade stuff, the Red the White and the Emo. I’m not sure there are too many individuals who want to know about it all on that level, not that I blame them. An abyss of confusion is best reserved for those who sought it out willingly.

Draft that, scumbags.

Except for the truly good ones – and I love my soldiers, but truly good men are as rare as truly logical women - we are all emotional burnouts by now. I don’t know if it’s a natural reaction to the darkest humanity has to offer. I don’t know if it’s a cop-out. I don’t know if the brain voodoos could explain it. I do know, though, that I just don’t feel things the way I used to. I tried to reread some of my early posts the other day, in search of some clarity, and couldn’t get through them. Well written, to be certain. But it was all too right, too clear, too surprised at the everydayness of the now. I would have laughed, except that I know that that mother fucker was way more well-intentioned than I am. He deserves his peace. It’s a dangerous thing to mock a young man’s earnestness.

Someone with too few life experiences will read these words and say, “Gee whiz, he’s depressed!” Someone with too many life experiences will read these words and say, “Damn it, those bastards got ‘em again.” Those bastards, of course, being the world. Collectively. Consider it a cross-gender slur.

God will read these words – well, He has already read them, even before I wrote them, because he’s omniscient and everything – and say. “And.”

God tends to avoid using question marks.

I’m not okay, but you know, that’s okay. You’re not supposed to be okay. I don’t know how it was for previous generations, but being born after Vietnam, you have no illusions about what war is and what war does to the human condition. Sure, it still shocks the senses into nothingness, but no one can claim ignorance to this inevitability. In post-modern America, going to war for some of us was almost like finding a validation for being so disillusioned in the first place. Yeah, we did it backwards, but at least we did it. At least our children and grandchildren might be tricked into thinking that the iWar destroyed our wits and yielded our indulgences, and not the Smurfs some twenty years previous. How embarrassing would that revelation be? Ruined before puberty; truly, a historical achievement worthy of posterity.

Some want this to be another silly little imperialist war, others, a generational calling called the GWOT. (Seriously, who signed off on that acronym?) Having been here long enough to comment, I will steer clear of the politics of the issue and simply state both are incorrect labels. This is too protracted, too bloody, and too starkly different than everything else going on in the new century to be the neo-Philippines – but who are we kidding, a generation has to be involved and interested for a generational calling to occur. Something beyond stretching the limits of the warrior caste has to transpire in that wet dream of slogan-speak and Orwellian doublethink.

Lord, give me the strength not to attack with a baseball bat every fool and every chickenhawk and every Apathy Kid and every soft elitist and every intellectual hack and every Jody and every yuppie and every thirty-something child still finding himself when I get home. It’s not worth my time. Do give me the strength to convince them to stop breeding and to kill themselves, in the name of bettering America. It’s the only chance we have.

And yes, I am that self-righteous. And kidding.

One of the above statements is true.

I say again - I’m not okay, but you know, that’s okay. I didn’t want to be. Okay people suck. Five months down, ten to go. I’ll get my men out of here, honor intact, then get myself out of here, sarcasm intact. Honor and sarcasm do not suck. They are the staples of sane people, albeit two different variants of sane people. The rest we can figure out later, in gardens across the sea where our compassion will grow back, under the careful supervision of loved ones who let us pretend we’re in charge, and the comforts of the lost knowns. Until then, we’ll charlie mike. Numb to it all, some of us okay with such, some not. That’s the thing of it, though.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. It just is until it is not. And then it will be.

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.”

A Recentralized War

2008-05-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

There is the war I trained for. Studied. And sweated over. The powers-that-be call it decentralized warfare. It is a theory that has succeeded before in practice; the most cited modern example being the involvement of the British in Malaysia. This is where small units like platoons function as nigh-independent entities, operating free of bureaucratic restraints and traditional military sluggishness. It’s the counterinsurgency’s version of a cell. Here, in this malleable, flexible world, creativity and ingenuity replace buzz words and reactionary constrictions as the central pillars of a military’s output. You are not simply marking time in this kind of war, you are making it. This type of war is a Lieutenant’s dream and a General’s nightmare – where power is dispersed and control is scattered to the thousand corners. Traditionally, the order of war dissolves into anarchy as time yields more and more blood. This theory, this dream, this purported historical success – it is the inverse of conventional battle, because it is through the anarchy of bloodshed that order is established. This is the war I trained for and studied and sweated over.

Then there is the war I fight.

The Gravediggers were conducting a vehicle maintenance refit back at the FOB when I got the word from CPT Whiteback to prepare for an impromptu mission. Frago-licious. We think we have one of our top targets isolated, he said. Abu Mustafa, a high-ranking member of an extreme JAM cell network. He’s visiting his family in another village, but that doesn’t matter. He’s our priority since he operates in Anu al-Verona. Get the target packet from the intel geeks, and start planning. They’ll let you know when it’s time to execute. You’ll have to keep the landowning unit involved, so coordinate that through the Squadron TOC.

Although few and far between, these are the moments that many of my soldiers now live for. Any alteration to the anesthetizing mechanics of routine breathes new life into their respective existences; it’s too easy to recognize such in their eyes during my ramp briefs. This is especially the case when said alterations involve the war being turned back on. The young ones, especially, love that shit. On top of that, we had legitimate, actionable intel, not information for the sake of information. It seemed too good to be true, and I should have known better – but alas, hope-dope spring eternal.

I recognized most of the details of Abu Mustafa’s target packet from conversations I’ve had with various Sheiks, Sons of Iraq, and locals. He had worked his way up through this wing of the Mahdi Army from the ground level, rising from IED-emplacer to street thug to street king to bomb-maker to financier to network operator. He bounced around constantly, always on the run, rarely returning home to the village where his wife and children lived. He wielded power by evoking fear, and had been known to brutally kill other JAM members who did not follow his orders quickly enough or thoroughly enough – something that, through process of elimination, had also propelled his rise through the ranks. I recalled a muggy night back in February, when a cooperative Son of Iraq refused to utter his name above a whisper, his words drowned in absolute terror. Bagging this mother fucker might make our month, I thought. And there was always the chance that he was stupid enough to try and fight back with gunfire …

I walked over to the TOC, and briefed Major Y on the basics of my plan. Vehicle cordon sets here, dismounts kick out here, if all goes well, target is acquired here. Looks good, he said, and then added a few constructive tweaks. We’ll let the landowners know, he continued. You conduct your rehearsals and stand by for confirmation of the target’s location from the intelligence gurus.

Check … and … check. Continuing with this bizarre foray into the planned and deliberate, barely an hour passed before we received the word. Location confirmed. Go ahead and make your move. Our Strykers ripped towards the FOB’s gates, as if the sheer act of motion could somehow prevent the inevitable gorilla-wrench.
Remember, red direct as soon as the ramps begin to drop. Remember cordon, crew serve weapons oriented out. Remember dismounts, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Remember –

Gravedigger 1, we need you to turn around and report to the TOC, time NOW.

Uhh, roger, over. I’m halfway out the front gate, heading towards the drums of war. Another time, perhaps?

Negative. Return to the TOC, time NOW.

Roger, over. Doing my best to convey WHAT THE FUCK. Over.

Alright guys, stay staged and ready to roll at Redcon 1. I’m sure whatever it is, it won’t last too long. They know we have a raid to conduct.

And … roger.

Sixty precious minutes later, I staggered back to my Strykers, confounded but slightly amused at what I had just witnessed. It would’ve been maddening to a true believer. As it was, I was considering referring myself to mental health on the grounds of too much sanity. It would have taken less time than sorting through this clusterfuck, and that’s with the mandatory follow-up appointment.

Time to round up my NCOs. Yeah, I know I said I would be right back. Yeah, I know it has been an hour. What happened? Oh Lord, what didn’t happen. I’ll tell you as we walk over to another brief, and yes, we all have to go. Time? Yeah, I know the target is time sensitive, but our time is not ours to manage anymore. Let me explain. Apparently, this TOC told that TOC we were going into their area, but that TOC did not tell that Major, they only told that other Major. That Major was talking to this Major in passing, and happened to find out about what was going on, and freaked out, calling this Lieutenant Colonel. This Lieutenant Colonel didn’t know either, so he called that Lieutenant Colonel. And so on and so up. Basically, we were moving too fast for the rest of the Army, even though that’s exactly what we were supposed to do. Gotta keep everyone in the loop, even if that loop swells into a black hole. Straight up - imaginary lines drawn on a map doomed our platoon mission. Yes, of course I pleaded with them to let us go handle this ourselves, and that we were already briefed and Redcon 1. Over and over again. And yes, I was told again that nobody appreciates a Lieutenant who thinks he knows everything. I’ll spare you anymore gory details and simply state that we are now conducting a joint mission with the landowners. Do I think Abu Mustafa will still be there when we finally get to roll? Trust me, Sergeant. You don’t want to know what I think right now.

The landowning Captain’s plan wasn’t bad. More complex than mine, certainly, but it had more moving parts, and was involving units that had never worked together before. Whereas my plan was like crashing lightning, in and out of there just long enough to nab JAM-Master Flex, this was like rolling thunder, a methodical cordon steeped more in book tactics than situational intelligence. His brief was better than mine, though. Very fluid, no crutch words. And his maps were in color, and had all kinds of cool demographical breakdowns. Shiny is fun, and keeps those of us with the attention span of gerbils entertained.

As SSG Boondock is fond of saying, plans are great, but instinct and clear heads are what rule once the first boot hits the ground. So by the time we finally kicked open the front door to Abu Mustafa’s family home – some two-and-a-half hours after we got the initial confirmation of his whereabouts - he was long gone, with no sign of his family, either. Maybe the presence of so many Coalition Forces tipped him off; anything larger than a roving platoon is out of the ordinary for any village in this part of Iraq. Maybe he had guards posted on the outside of town, and it wouldn’t have mattered if we had low-crawled in a fire team or air-assaulted in the Division. Or maybe we just took too fucking long. Whatever the case, Abu Mustafa had ghosted yet again. I can’t help but wonder if he coordinated with his terrorist brethren upon moving into their AOs during his exfiltration.

This is the war I fight. You don’t really have a choice with these kinds of things. You just work with what you got.