Blather

The golden mist was gone. A shower rinsed off the funky residue of being sweaty all day long. We all had a bit of time before sleep. I loaded my language CD into my laptop, took a cigar and went outside. There was a stack of sandbags that looked promising. I set the laptop on the sandbags and lay down next to the laptop with my freebie-from-the-plane headphones. The sky was dark and primordial. Yes, primordial. The air was warm but not oppressive. The cigar didn’t impede my diction.

Stress and duration seemed critical in pronouncing Arabic. Though the sequence of words seemed illogical, I only wanted to hear the sounds and practice the morphemes, so if “machine gun” came after “left,” and English homonyms “here” and “hear” weren’t clear, the sounds of Arabic were finding a linguistic home in my ears. That’s how I learn- through my ears. I practiced the sounds. Curiously, the word or phrase was spoken at a normal pace first, then repeated slowly, for diction and clarity. And sometimes the vowels seemed to blend. But the sounds were there.

The night heard my efforts at making Arabic sounds. By the time my cigar was done, I’d reached some limit of hearing and making sounds. My hour on the sandbags was pleasant, making me wonder what would happen if I slept there. I’m not much of a sleep-under-the-stars kind of guy, but I’ve spent a couple of evenings in Iraq where this seemed like a good thing to try.

A few disappointments marred an otherwise uneventful day. We went to our first language class. The letters of the alphabet, along with single words that are use a particular letter, went by lickety-split. We went to an unclassified briefing on insurgency theory and counterinsurgency theory. Examples like Che Guevarra and Diep came up on the PowerPoint screen. Some highly intelligent and well-read people among the students participated with erudition. The moderator noted one student had used an educated word. "You can't be above grade E-5," he joked.

Then we left because the next class was classified. We went to the language lab. Locked. Then the Internet Café where the nice gal didn’t have Ethernet cables and didn’t know when any would become available. So we came back and reviewed stuff in the barracks, where it was at least air-conditioned. After lunch, we came back and rested a bit. I fell asleep. When I woke up, I went outside, but the air had turned Martian. It wasn’t fog, and it wasn’t dust. But you couldn’t see 50 yards for the yellow-orange mist everywhere. The sun, trying to burn away what was keeping him from warming the earth, lit up the air with a glow from everywhere. No shadows, just a golden light. And since everyone else was in a class, it seemed like we’d been moved to some other planet- quiet, golden, hot and alien.

Back to the language lab where no one answered. Then back to the Internet Café where we used the power strip from the TV to charge our laptops. (I’m typing this on a 90% charge.)

Dinner was good. Then we went to the language lab and got into discussions with the language teachers. Ours is very good. He’s from the north, and he talked a bit about himself and his family. He’s lived in New Mexico for awhile. He talked about Iraqi history and culture. And he answered my question about Iraq’s King Faisal very well- he’s the cousin of the Saudi Faisal from Lawrence of Arabia fame.

Our homework for tomorrow is to write our name. He gave us a list of phonemes. I found no “ch” sound (like in “church”) so my name will be Rish. Three rather long, complicated letters make that name. Johnny came to me for help with his name- he wanted to write an “O” from “Johnny,” but I talked him into writing it with an “ah” sound. (Otherwise his name would sound like “Joanie.”) So our homework is done.

I’m in a building with a Marine unit. They are all great guys. The major in charge let me borrow his “Modern Iraqi Arabi” book. I may try to download the CD to my laptop. But I may also just use the CD that the language teachers gave me, “Iraqi Basic- language survival guide” and see how that works for me. It’s hard to evaluate a language CD in just an hour or so. In a bit,

I’ll call it a night and try to sleep. Though there’s a lot of boring downtime, the session with our language teacher was excellent. I may learn to like being here.

Johnny and I put on our battle rattle and walked to the porch, where we’d get a ride to the airport. Our driver, a really nice and helpful guy, had been doing this for five years. He knew all the players at each place where passengers needed to be. His vehicle was the cleanest one I’ve seen in Baghdad.

We got to the terminal, did a bit of negotiating to check in. Did we have official orders? I wanted to say, “No, we just thought we’d fly to an Iraqi air base just for the heck of it.” But I refrained. An hour of waiting in the terminal went by. A top sergeant came and told us we could wait in the terminal because it was cooler than outside. But finally, someone got us and walked us to a large gravel parking lot. We stood around awhile, sweating lightly in the 95-degree night. The IBA battle rattle wasn’t getting any lighter. The company of soldiers we were to tag along with weren’t kitted up. Some were on the ground, relaxing. I dropped my backpack and vest, parked my helmet on the butt of my rifle and lay down on the dusty gravel.

The rocks were soft.

My upper back was on the vest, which was tipped against my backpack. My lower back and the rest of me were on the gravel. I was surprised how comfortable one layer of 511 pants made the hard rocks. I did a quick mental scan of my dorsal area. Nothing felt out of place. Nothing sharp, nothing poked me. I covered my eyes with my long-sleeved arm and let my senses take over.

The ground was comfortable. The air was warm, but not uncomfortable. I smelled something faint, something like flowers. I thought about Iraq’s history a few millennia ago and imagined someone else smelling the same scent. Then I got to the other immediate senses. The breeze was soft, just enough to let me know the air wasn’t still. I heard a vehicle, maybe a pickup truck, drive along the road created by putting k-rails along the edge of the tarmac. The vehicle went further and I heard the constant growl of the generator that powered the single pole of lights where we were.

The lights were too bright to ignore, so I dug my boonie hat out and covered my face. I drifted off to someplace where generators hummed constantly, where breezes made you think of other times, where the lights of the civilian terminal glowed orange, contrasting with the white of the military airport lights. I went somewhere while my body rested on soft rocks.

And the rocks were still soft when Johnny nudged my foot. “Look there.” He pointed to a huge plane. It had parked about 100 yards from us. A ramp was full of orange-jumpsuited prisoners. A steady stream of these guys walked down the ramp and into one of four buses. Pretty soon our helicopters arrived, but the prisoner transfer wasn’t over. As I got into my seat in the helicopter, I saw white-jumpsuited prisoners going up into the plane. I couldn’t count, but I’d guess over 200 got off and 100 got on. Could have been more getting on, but I couldn’t watch because I was treading the tarmac with soldiers 1/3 my age onto our ride to Taji.

This job has a lot of drawbacks but I don’t think I could have paid enough to watch the lit-up ramp discharge humans surrounded by blackness. And then, watch the same plane take on more humans.

The crewman didn’t look old enough to shave. Yet he wore these night vision goggles, and he waved out the plane, presumably at his colleague on the other helicopter.

We lifted off, and climbed to maybe 100 feet, maybe a bit more. To me, it seemed we were skimming the treetops. But I guess we were several hundred feet up. I sat up near the pilot. I saw a hand from the left pilot’s seat play with a touchpad. Every time he did something, the helicopter did something. The lights of Baghdad got fewer, then they got more and more numerous, until they lit up the world below us. I saw a great concentric ring of lights, some white, some orange. This had to be the center of the city. Then they got fewer again. The lights never went away, like they would if we were in the country. Just as I looked at my watch to see how long we’d been flying, I felt a bump. We were here at Taji.

We left the helicopter, following the hand signals of a crewman. We filed out to the edge of the tarmac where we loaded our backpacks onto a truck. Then we walked to the compound where we were briefed. “Smoke only in the designated area. Don’t wake your roommates up- there are 34 to a barracks. The dining facility is there (he pointed and we looked) and the internet café is over there (ditto).” The two civilians (that included me) are in this dorm right here. And one female got a building all to herself.

We put our stuff away by flashlight so as not to wake our neighbors. And that’s all for tonight, folks!

The phone chimed. Shit, the ex-husband's landline. But he's not in the country. Had to be her son who was living there. May as well pick up.

"Hello, mom? The kids are invited to spend the weekend with us. Would you like to come along?"

She didn't know how to reply. This call was unexpected and being unexpected, unwelcome. Her life had been about control, especially controlling the children, though the ex-husband had escaped via divorce. However, she had kept him on an uncomfortable chain through California's Never-Ending Divorce. But the issue at hand was not the divorce. "Who's on top" is the issue right now. This unexpected invitation put her on the bottom. Being bottom bitch was an unpleasant reminder of how her mother had treated all her children. Damn! I don't need this aggravation.

"What? Um, when are you inviting the kids?" That was a sufficient stall. Answering a question with a question was good because it didn't provide any information and it put the conversational burden on someone else. If we discuss something or someone else, we don't have to talk about me, at least unless I'm sure it's a positive conversation. Yeah, the invitation was for this weekend, but not hearing what was said is a selective perception thing, well within conversational perquisites.

"Well, we thought next weekend would be good. I'll barbecue and grill. And the little guy can help me with some yard chores that require a tall helper. Plus the two younger gals can see who makes a better pie. We all win, there. And they can play in the newly-done sewing room." Remaining unsaid was what she would do, she of the horizontally stately and perpetually queenly bent. She could recline in front of the TV, or she could remain on the bed, waiting for someone to bring her a sandwich, chips and a tall Coke with plenty of ice cubes. As long as she had a TV plipper and food, she was fine. What Oprah didn't tell her about real life, she'd learn from another male-bashing Lifetime movie. Maybe this time the wife-beater would get roasted in a fire; last time he got his comeuppance by drowning in his favorite muscle car, after rubbernecking a pretty girl. A bit simple, but getting even with a man needn't be complicated.

But how to respond? The conversational clock was ticking. "Next weekend? I'm not sure ...." Safe enough response. Slightly in the negative, but still leaving the option of "I'm so magnanimous that I'll juggle stuff to satisfy you." Maybe 'twould be good to underline that concept. "We might be doing something then." There, that created a world where there was something compelling, something more important than her son. And by inserting this concept into the conversation, she retained the possibility that she might change her mind. After all, he was the supplicant, not she.

"Well, it'll be good to see the brats again. Maybe I'll collect that Disney T-shirt that they promised me." A bit of intra-familial humor showed he wasn't yet angry. The reference to his siblings as brats showed he could demean them, but everyone knew it wasn't serious. And underneath the humor was the unspoken wait: the offer is still on the table.

"Oh, did they promise you a shirt?" was just a further stall. Let the conversation go to something that required no thought while the Big Issue hung in the background- to accept or not.

Accepting. What would that do? She'd have to return to the house from which she left, starting her life over, after 36 years with the same man. Sure, he was working in Iraq, but the house was there. She'd signed legal documents giving her ex her share. And she'd gotten half the serious equity before the real estate bubble burst, so she made out well. But the money she'd received had mostly evaporated in fast food meals, quarterly trips to her "happy spot," Disneyland and her yearly (and pricey) trips to Disney World. So going back to that house would only remind her of her fiscal foolishness. That much was certain. And thinking along that long and tangled road was a negative thing: reminding her of anything negative in her behavior was dangerous. Her personal event horizon was the end of the current month, so if she looked at the last few years as a financial manager, she'd have to live with the head-to-toe shame of red ink. Not good, no.

"Yeah, I usually get one from each of them. They're nice shirts. I try not to wear 'em in the yard for a year or so, till they get a bit tatty." The conversation can remain with the shirts a bit. He understood on a non-verbal level that she needed some time to think about visiting, let alone staying the night. Let's keep going with the shirts. "I dropped some tree-spray stuff on the Pirates of the Carribean one. But it came out with the second wash." Nothing but the sound of breathing. The pause drew out one more conversationally-required inanity. "Yep, it was still there after one wash, but it looks great now."

The word "ignominious" didn't come into her conscious mind. A feeling of error did. Washing over her was guilt for having wasted so much money. The money she borrowed to buy her sister's half of their inherited house, the money she took when she closed her retirement without saying anything, the money that should have gone to the mortgage three months in a row, the money she'd taken from her son because she told him it would be simpler for his money to go to their joint account, the money wasted in refusing to refinance a bad loan, the money she took from their joint account and hid, and the huge sums she got from her share of the equity. And now, she was being invited back to the house where she used to be in charge. As a guest. Yes, she could demand access to look for some of the personal property she'd left there over two years ago. But she didn't really need a broken sewing machine or a missing cake pan. And two years is ample time for personal property to move somewhere else. The missing box of photos hadn't yet turned up, but she couldn't make much of a ruckus over that, since she'd told her ex in a very sincere manner that they should go through that box together, after she got her daughter to sneak it somewhere.

She made the self-preservation decision. "No, I'm sorry. We can't make it." Stretching out the "we" implied that she was speaking for everyone. This presumed a lot. This presumed she could speak for her adult daughter and her driving-age son. But that was a simple, small step. That decision underlined her position as clan alpha. And further ratified her position as the party in the divorce who was in the right. The ex-husband had filed, therefor she was the aggrieved. With all the events that had ever happened in the marriage, some of which were genuinely not her fault, she needed constant reinforcement of her position and merit. And, like a bully who learns that bullying works, she learned that being alpha works because you are, in fact, the alpha. And you continue to be the alpha by being the alpha. And you're justified in being the alpha by continuing to be the alpha.

"Sorry to hear that. Maybe the kids can come over just for dinner one night." No use asking about the following weekend. Next month would not be easier for his mother. And tossing him a bone- letting the kids come for an hour or so- might make things easier, since no mother really wants to split her children from each other, right? Besides, some of the stuff she'd said to him and done to him still rankled. He wasn't entirely sure it would be a good thing to have his mom spend the night with him. Too many ways an adult man could find himself kow-towing to a mother who wants control.

A spark of something like love flared in her. "Yeah, maybe they can find some time soon." That was a sop for him. He could see his siblings, but not her. After all, an alpha can't back down, even to her adult son. Yet some small part of her motherhood would feel like she was doing something good for her son, letting him see his siblings. Heck, she was also letting the sibs see their older brother. That counts, too. Being magnanimous stroked her ego, making her feel better.

"OK, mom. We'll catch up another time." Seeing the sibs would be good. Now he didn't have to worry about dealing with his hard-to-deal-with mother.

"Sure thing. Thanks for the call." You're dismissed. Time to click the end button and get on with my life.

Where was that cold Coke? Let's see what's on Oprah. Where's that half-box of See's candies; they taste really good with Oprah. I need more than these eight pillows. Should I get up and see what sort of snacks are in the kitchen or should I call my daughter and get her to fix me a sandwich? I'm stressed from dealing with this call and some high-carb, high-calorie food would make me feel better.

Today was an uneventful day. The day went slowly, beginning with an early morning decision to skip breakfast. At lunch we were going to head for Camp Liberty, but some of our IPA colleagues came back from the air base without getting on a plane for somewhere else. So we skipped Camp Liberty for lunch, planning to go there for dinner. But that got eclipsed by other not-very-compelling urgencies.

The steel trailers absorbed too much sunlight and radiated infrared. Cool water helped, but not much. More people arrived, taking some vacant beds in the tent. The internet seemed to stop working for awhile, so I read some of the e-book my son bought me online.

All in all, a day full of something that nautical Germans call "Windstille," a more descriptive term for the doldrums- literally, "No wind." That pretty much describes today- no wind nor other propulsive element to make progress in being here. Iraq just seems so far away and so close. The dust is out there, and the 120-degree heat makes any effort seem pointless. Inside, things are a bit more comfortable but the word "interminable" comes to mind in describing the slow way the day unfolds.

Today was the penultimate day of our "Death by PowerPoint" sentence. The presentations are dry, mandated by the omniscient Higher Authorities but made palatable by the presenters' wit and experience. But this isn't about the training.

This is about coming back on the bus and getting a whiff of barbecue. This is about a bit of Americana in Baghdad. As soon as I stepped off the bus in front of the plywood gym's porch, I smelled America.

Camp Klecker has a lot of transients (including moi) but it's home to a lot more Americans. Periodically, people try to bring a bit of home to this place. Today the air was a mixture of Baghdad's hot, dusty atmosphere scented with grilled steaks. Amid casual-dress folks poking at a steak on plastic dishes, sliding around the Army-provided golf-ball-sized gravel in their flip-flops, their bare legs tipped this way and that below non-regulation shorts. Some people wore their Sunday-best sunglasses, others just the issued baseball hats. But everyone worked the floor in their own way. An alcohol-free Lowenbrau and crispy ribs puncutated discussions of work, of assignments, of this or that FOB (Forward Operating Base) and the work there. Sometimes you heard bits of conversation regarding plans for a vacation or how long it took to get somewhere from here via Blackhawk helicopter.

You couldn't get away from the endemic heat. The gal who poked the steaks over the coals had company. And she was casual about her beer bottle in one hand while the other flipped the well-done steaks. And there were more than just Americans around. Some South Africans are part of the cadre, so they were there, too. Maybe American culture is spreading world-wide. These folks were participating in what was essentially and quintessentially an American rite.

Though the inside of the MWR (an acronym for where you can sit in a comfy chair and watch TV in an air-conditioned trailer) was just a step away, these hardy folks chose to sit outside and make the best of a too-hot situation. Steak, non-beer, and soft drinks out of a cooler were the afternoon's importance.

The occasional staccato burst of automatic weapons from the neighboring Iraqi compound and the times when conversation comes to a stop while the helicopters fly overhead are the woof and warp of this life's fabric.

And just to underline the casualness of the event, many people chose to be elsewhere. No one took offense at the ones who didn't make an appearance. This is overseas and almost a forced casualness pervades like the oppressive heat- attendance is purely voluntary. It's so casual, it's *not* forced. You can't see this aspect, but it's there.

In some ways, I'm a million miles from home; this afternoon's camaraderie and barbecue made me realize- we bring America to wherever we are. One day, we'll all be somewhere else. But we'll always have this moment as part of our collective life far away.

I don't know if Baghdad will ever be universally Americanized. But that doesn't matter. For us, this afternoon, Baghdad didn't need to be more than it is- a hot, dusty, far-away place where lots of Americans collectively create something unique- clinking bottles amid steak-laden aromas, dusty feet below tanned legs and memories to bring back home.

This afternoon around five, we boarded the white and purple Nissan bus and headed for the Sather chow hall. Just as we pulled off the road, there were a few cars waiting to get past the gate guard. Up went our ID cards for the guards to check.

But no one moved forward.

Then we noticed that the Bollard was up. (Maybe it's not a genuine Bollard, but that's what I call a humongous piece of steel that lifts up out of the ground and keeps you from driving farther.) Could this be a test? Maybe a periodic check of the security processes? The guard put on his armor and kevlar. Uh oh, maybe this isn't a test.

We were wondering what was going on when we heard a loud "Thump!" and saw a plume of black smoke over near Camp Liberty, just on the horizon. Over the next hour and a bit, nine more "Thumps!" happened. During this time a few helicopters flew overhead. A large white plane with no windows taxied somewhere, but didn't take off. A thin-skinned MP Suburban drove to the gate; the driver talked to the gate guards and they let him by. He took off, leaving a cloud of dust 30 feet in the air as he headed for the area over open fields. Periodically, the two gate guards, wearing armor and kevlar, would patrol around the guard shack. They shuffled in the heat and dust, looking down as if they'd lost their keys and couldn't go home until they found them. I felt sorry for them because the heat was oppressive and the armor was heavy and hot. They were doing what they were supposed to do, but they knew they wouldn't find anything in their searches. This took some grit and determination.

In front of us were three humvees with hungry crew who were headed for the same chow hall. One soldier with a black bandana looked right out of "Apocalypse Now" with the bandana and attitude from that movie. He put his kevlar over the scarf and got back into his humvee. Two more MP vehicles went through and took off for the horizon. About 1/4 mile away were the cement bunkers that we were supposed to get inside if the excrement hit the ventilator. (Aw, you know what I mean.) But we stayed put in the bus until the guys with the M-16s told us it was OK to go there.

After we heard a loudspeaker from the horizon call "All Clear," the Bollard went down. By the time we got to the guard, he was out of his armor and everything was back to normal. "Nine DOD" got us past him and we went for chow. In the chow hall, the food was hot, the lights were on and everything was normal. Well, as normal as life can get after mortars hit inside the wire.

Today we got trained on improvised explosives and the operation of Humvees. Both training sessions were conducted by soldiers who are really young. I see children with guns. But they're all decent. Something about the military makes better people. I can't put my finger on what it is, but these are all great young people. I want to refer to them as "kids," but they are too competent and deserve a better label.

Now for the details: After some classroom stuff, we boarded a bus and rode through Baghdad's hot, dusty air to a different part of the city. The sun burned overhead, the breeze cooled a wee bit, but picked up the extremely fine Baghdad dust so we were like in a flour warehouse, full of fine dust that makes your teeth gritty and sticks to your face like talcum powder. The heat occupies your attention. Your brain goes to your immediate condition- sweat running into your eyes and down your back; where's that liter of water?

The EOD guys showed us the latest in improvised explosives. Shaped charges that create a stream of plasma can cut through almost anything, including armor. PVC pipes and propane tanks look harmless enough until someone rigs them with high explosives or even home-made ANFO. (Remember, the Oklahoma bombing was done with ANFO.)

We got to look at their tracked robots. Very clever little gizmos. They didn't actually drive them for us, but we got to touch them and ask questions. Later on, I talked with the 20-something sergeant who briefed us. He's a great kid, someone I'd be proud to have in my family.

We broke for lunch, then the delayed Humvees from yesterday showed up. Again, the young soldiers were terrific- knowledgeable, friendly and helpful. They showed us where passengers sit, but also showed us how to operate the driver's and navigator's equipment. Honestly, I think this is beyond me, though I might be able to drive one. The other stuff is too techy for geezers like me. One uf us climbed up into the gunner's perch, but we won't be there for real. We're passengers, period.

The Humvee operators are, again, very young and very capable. I hadn't thought much about the individuals who are stationed here, fighting a not-too-popular war. But they are the best anyone could ask for. Yeah, being patriotic is often regarded as foolish and backward, the venue of old soldiers who reminisce about "Dub-ya Dub-ya Eye Eye" and appear in our consciousness only at Veteran's Day spaghetti feeds at the local VFW building. But I can't avoid being proud of the things these guys (not "kids") are doing for me. I am a lot more appreciative of their efforts.

Thus I think more of these young people after today than I did before. Is this some sort of event an alembic? Sure. But it's very appropriate.

Moi went shooting yesterday. The day started off easily enough- a couple of hours of classroom stuff. Then we got our TA-50 gear and weapons and went to the range. In case you forgot, TA-50 gear is named for the Tough Ass 50 pounds you wear. That stuff is heeeaaaa-veeee!! Then we had to load up magazines of .223 and go zero the weapons. Since I'd never touched an M-16 or M-4, I was unfamiliar with the operation of this weapon. The Army guy who was in charge of the range took pity on me and showed me how to do everything. Here's the charging handle, there's the magazine release, etc.

Too soon, we had to begin shooting. The first position was prone. I got down in the dirt and gravel and tried to get a sight picture. Among the sharp rocks and shell casings, the fine powder of Iraq's soil was extremely fine, like 7A pancake makeup. My body slid away from the vest because I was laying on the three .223 magazines and the two 9mm magazines which were attached to the front of my vest which, in turn, was rendered thicker by the afore-mentioned heavy-ass plate. The vest slid up towards my neck. The helmet's back hit the vest so I couldn't get enough of the helmet above my forehead to get a good look at the rifle's sights. The very first round gave me some recoil, scraping my right elbow. We were supposed to get three rounds off to see where the rifle was aimed. I got two off, because I just could not see well enough. One round hit the paper. The sergeant helped me by adjusting the helmet, removing the sling and coaching me on breathing. The next time, I got three rounds in a straight line, about four inches across. He adjusted my sights for me, and one more time I got three rounds in a decent sized triangle, but below the silhouette. He advised me to put the front post on the center of the target. The last time, I put three rounds in the one-inch circle inside the target. Woo hoo!!! Sure, it sounds like I'm a very quick study, but the credit has to go to the Army seargeant who gave me months of training in as many minutes.

Then we took a break while others in my group shot the Beretta. (I didn't shoot then because I was going to qualify later on.) Then it was my turn to qualify with the M-4. We loaded mags, walked out and took instructions. Prone again, darn! But I scooted my body forward along the ground, and that slid the vest down towards my waist. I could *barely* get a sight picture, but I did. I think I didn't shoot all the rounds from the prone position, but I shot enough. Then we backed up and shot more, some standing and some kneeling. I've qualified enough times to know not to just pull, pull, pull the trigger- I waited till I had a good sight picture and then squeezed the trigger. Kneeling wasn't very hard. The rifle is light, so even a geek like me can hold it and aim in.

We shot, then went up and counted the holes. I had plenty to qualify. Not exactly a perfect score, but very respectable. Then one more break, and out to qual with the Beretta. I'd never operated one, so I had to look at the guy next to me. I saw he was having trouble because the decock lever was not showing the red dot. I made mine show the red dot and when we got the command to fire, I pulled and shot center mass. I figured out the magazine release and slide release on my own. I kinda like the Beretta- it's a good gun. Anyway, I qualled the first time out, too. I beat my Immigration buddy who's had a Beretta as a duty weapon. He said if we got into a firefight, he wanted to be with me and my Beretta. Hee hee- I don't want to get into a fight with the 9mm, but ... I qualified. Thus, for someone who never touched an M-4, I did pretty well. Ditto the Beretta.

But the day wore me out. You try wearing 50 pounds while sweating four liters. Yep, I drank five liters of water yesterday, but only peed about one. The other four liters were in my clothes. I was muddy- sweat mixed with Iraqi powder was like paint. This training was physically more taxing on me than working Miami CET.

I came back to the tent, did some admin stuff, then took a shower. Oh, I felt soooo much better!! I was ravenous and achy, so I had to decide whether to eat or sleep. I jumped on the chow bus and rode to Sather AFB for chow. I ate plenty, too- hamburger *and* chicken, rice and watermelon and lots of kool-aid. Then I fell off the carb wagon by eating a scoop of ice cream and a macadamia cookie. Yeah, I've got to watch my carbs, but I was so drained yesterday, I thought my body could handle the extra 40 grams of carbs. By seven-thirty, I was back in the hooch, clean, fed and extremely exhausted. Around seven forty-five, I was asleep.

That was a tough day, yesterday. I've got a pic of my target under the M-4, with my dusty feet in the frame, but I'm not sure when it'll be OK to post it. I qualified with both the M-4 and the M-9 on the first try with each weapon. I'm kinda proud of this accomplishment.

First- the porch (from the preceding post) is attached to a plywood building that would never pass code. But that's OK, it's not a habitable building anyway- it's the gym. Some weight machines, stair-steppers and treadmills and a pretty decent TV occupy the space. The gym also has a fridge with a freezer where people people put the water bottles so they'll get nice and cold.

But back to the Rats Among Us: Two nights ago, our single female who sleeps in another tent got bit by a rat. The same night, so did one of our group in the male tent. The next day they went everywhere to get checked by lots of medics and doctors. Though the bites were small, everyone panicked because of the possibility of rabies.

Yesterday evening, the gal chased a mouse out of her bed. She was certain it was a mouse because it was small, not a rat. Later that afternoon, someone spotted a rodent in the gravel parking lot. He called for back up, and several guys went to surround the fleeing felonious rat. I wasn't there, but I believe they dispatched the rat by (avert your eyes, PETA) stepping on him. Since we don't yet have guns, I don't know if there would have been an alternative. I don't think "trap and release" is a viable option here in the Green Zone.

Then last night, one more guy got bitten by a rat. Ever the solicitous individual, I asked if he were OK. He assured me that he was fine. Then I opined that perhaps someone should make sure the rat won't get sick from biting him. My droll sensibilities did not go over anyone's head; this is a sharp crowd!

Thus, I've updated the gentle reader regarding the actual porch and adjacent building; I've also described the vermin situation in our abode. Unfortunately, photos of the dead rat are not yet approved by the appropriate officials. Aw, if you've seen one dead rat, you've seen 'em all- pointy nose, whiskers, you get the idea.

Still in Kuwait's Ali Al Salem aka Camp LSA, I did my emails, went to midnight chow. I got a nap after midnight till three AM. Then we got up, dressed and put our duffel bags outside the tent, waiting for the ATV to take them to the staging area. Made a pile of duffel bags in one place, then moved the pile 40 yards to where they needed to be. The flight guys loaded the duffels onto an aluminum pallet while we went inside for processing. Scan our CAC cards, turn in two copies of our orders, then sit and wait. They briefed us- roll call at 0630 and
"no pictures."

Around six-thirty, they called out out our last names, we responded with our first names and boarded some buses for the plane. A bit of excitement because there appeared to be one body more than was supposed to be on the buses. We got on the plane and waited an hour before take off. This is the part where the stewardess in coveralls told us to buckle up. Never mind "here's how the buckle works." The oxygen mask instructions were a bit scarier because of the possibility we'd actually need to learn them. When the pilot got to the runway, he revved the motors and locked the brakes. When he released the brakes, we shot forward like from a huge slingshot. Every flown a 747 and felt the acceleration? This was more intense, even though we were carrying cargo to the gunwales. (OK, that's a nautical expression and we were on a plane, but you get my drift.)

The one-hour flight wasn't bad- noisy, but that's what the ear plugs were for. The pilot brought us in quick and we went to a hangar where they briefed us- no pictures.

We got shepherded by our meet-n-greet guy, then carried the duffels in the hot morning sun to a flatbed tow truck and boarded a couple of small buses for Camp Klecker. Got into a tent, where we were briefed- "Don't take no pictures." In spite of the ungrammatical double negative, we got the message.

Seems like the awareness is high for pictures. They told us of all the things we shouldn't take pictures of. So until I understand better what I can post and what not, this will remain text-only. Apparently, the Department of State has minions whose job it is to search the web and find who's posting pictures on the net. Thus my briefing to you- no pictures.

We grabbed a bunk in the Hilton. This is some genuine military humor. "The Hilton" is a huge tent, full of beds and contrasts with the Sheraton, another tent. Mine is terrific- one skinny, lumpy mattress, one fitted sheet and one blanket. No wall locker, no foot locker, not even a hook. The male latrine and showers are separated from this tent by rows of shipping pallets on the ground, along which we traipse with alacrity, lest our shower shoes slip between the slats of the pallets. I have one luxury- the bed next to mine is now empty. The guy there just left- he's headed for a helicopter nearby; that's his taxi to his assignment. I helped him carry his gear out to the van taking him to the helicopter. Wow, I see two extra pillows and another blanket. Ah, the vagaries of life! No sooner did I type this, than someone came in and took the vacancy.

Maybe this part is better without pictures- The toilets, in trailers, have optional toilet seats. That's "optional" as in "they ain't there" in more than half the cases. The showers have no place for your dry clothes to sit, so you hang everything from one hook inside the shower stall. The construction makes me wonder what was going on in the mind of the architect. Take a standard, molded shower floor. Attach it to the floor and run some plumbing. Not too difficult so far, right? But then construct a small room, just about one foot larger in two dimensions than the shower. This leaves you with a foot of "bathroom floor" on two sides of the shower. No shower curtain, so splashing water on the floor is very likely. But that's the only place for your shaving kit. I learned to put all my dry clothes on the hook, my shaving kit on the doorknob, and I left my old clothes on the floor; if they got wet, they were going to get washed anyway.

There's an old Coke cooler and a cooler with strange writing on it on a small porch. Each is stuffed with one-liter water bottles. No building for us, just a porch. The building looks like a quick-and-dirty job- plywood exterior with non-standard roofing. It's got lights, so I assume it also has a function. Someone made a two-by-four armchair and another on rockers to go with the park bench. This is the common area, a place where smokers enjoy the evening. Past these tall plastic containers of dirt, there are trailers or "hooches" where some people live. One of the trailers is a laundry. There's a nice Filipina lady who will wash your clothes for a fee. But if you prefer to do your own laundry (I do) it's fine with her. I think she has sufficient business that she doesn't mind losing a potential client.

There is more here, but I haven't been to see all of it. Check again later.

This is the hallway of my building in Fort Benning's CRC. Down at the end is the men's room aka "latrine." Next to that are the stackable washing machines that work pretty well. Not visible are the ants that plagued us. Half the time, the building smelled like Raid.




Part of the processing for working in Iraq involved training and processing at Fort Benning. There were a lot of regular soldiers deploying to Iraq with us. I noticed a few things different from the Army I recalled in 1968. There were many more females in the group. Not so many that it was half-and-half, but anything above zero is memorable.

I noticed that there was a lot less separation between officers and enlisted. And we contractors were a class among ourselves, neither officer nor enlisted. The strange part is that during the Vietnam era, when you needed more soldiers, you got more soldiers. These days, if you need more soldiers, you get some contractors. The majority of contractors are middle-aged guys, retired guys, though there are a few younger ones, too.

The training was good- it was intensive, and the first-aid parts had some gory videos. But the training was very thorough. I now carry a medical kit with two thoractic needles, with which to stab someone between the second and third rib to help a collapsed lung and an 8mm nasal tube to help with breathing. I also have this large clotting pad, but we shouldn't use it for traumatic abdominal wounds.

The cadre at the CRC's Charlie Company were great! Everyone knew what we were supposed to do, and they all helped us get the mandated processing done. Some people had problems with the paperwork for medical and dental, others needed to draw their equipment. And everyone needed to eat. Those soldiers whose jobs it was to get everyone processed were conscientious and friendly, helpful and efficient.

When we got to the air terminal, our routing was supposed to remain confidential. I guess I'll leave it so here, too. But the commander spoke to all of us, soldiers and contractors, when he paraphrased General Patton. "When you tell your grandchildren what you did in the war on terrorism, you won't say, 'I shoveled shit in Louisiana.'"