There's a lot of religion in a war zone, but not a whole lot of church. Yes, it's available on base every Sunday, but I work every Sunday, and so does everybody else. This week, however, was Ash Wednesday for Catholics, so I got my boss to give me a precious hour and a half off to go to church.
I walked over to mass with our senior enlisted person on our shift, Staff Sgt. M., who is originally from Columbia and speaks English perfectly, but had to resort to Spanish throughout the mass because she couldn't remember the English mass without a book.
The building is actually one of the free-standing "real" buildings on the palace grounds, not a tent or trailer. Not sure what it once was, but you cross a quaint (for concrete) bridge across the canal to get there. Kind of like Venice, only there are no boats going beneath it.
The chaplain, an older guy wearing combat boots that stuck out from under his vestment, gave a good sermon on contradictions, starting off with quotes from Genesis and other bible bits. How contradictory, he said, that we were here to use force to promote peace. But that, he said, was in the nature of the world.
He had a point, I guess. I realized it after communion. I took the bread, and then a sip of wine - probably the only alcohol allowed on the entire base - and then headed back to my seat. As I made my way through the aisle, I carefully stepped over all of the M-16s laid down across the path. Church, I thought to myself, was never like this back home.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Superbowl Monday
Yesterday was a rather normal day in most respects. Of course, being on live T.V. in front of 84 million viewers isn't all that normal. But everything else was.
It was Superbowl Monday. Sunday for y'all, perhaps, but we're 9 hours ahead of Texas time. I got up a bit early and walked over for my very important assignment. The Lt. Colonel had given me a task worthy of only the best and brightest 1st Lieutennant - picking up the food for the Superbowl party at Pizza Hut.
Yes, we do have a Pizza Hut here. It's in a little 10-foot trailer with a little phone-booth sized cachier's box a few feet away. I had gone there Sunday afternoon to put in my order, and right around midnight went back over to pick up the food. It was pretty lively in our little outdoor food court - a dusty open area paved with loose gravel. The coffee shop was doing brisk business in the very cold late evening and some of the soldiers sat around giving their predictions for the game. I waited until they called our number, grabbed the six large pizzas, and made the half-mile walk to work. As I went, the inside of my hands (those parts next to the pizza boxes) were snuggly warm. The outsides of my fingers, however, were close to getting frostbite.
I got in to work and we did our shift change. The day folks grabbed a slice or two and headed off before the night folks ate our pizzas and settled in for work.
About 2:40 a.m., we were splitting our time between work and watching the pre-game show when an announcement was made by the Public Affairs Officer that there would be a taping in the studio in five minutes for the National Anthem at the Superbowl. Any live bodies who wanted to come were welcome to do so.
My commanding officer, Lt. Col. Box, took one look at me, and then without a word, stood up and quick walked out of the room. For someone who is almost inseparable from his work - he comes in 2 hours early for his 12 hour shift - this was surprising. Soon, however, there were at least a dozen folks heading out. I wasn't planning on going, but then an Army Captain said she'd cover me if I went. So I grabbed my hat and headed out.
Within a few minutes, we were outside, across the way, and into the studio, where we stood up on a platform, just like you did for your third-grade class photo. The idea, we were told, was to show footage of some soldiers standing at attention for the national anthem. We listened to the banter back and forth between the Army cameraman in front of us talking into his headset, and the speakers, which broadcast the voice of the Superbowl producer, who spoke in a thick New York Accent.
First they did a test shot. Then the producer asked if we could salute. This, however, wasn't going to happen. You don't salute indoors, and we're in a studio. So the best we could do is stand upright at attention. Then we had to give him our location and unit for the graphics.
"Multi-National Corps - Iraq" the Army cameraman said into the mic.
"Multi-National C-o-r-e Iraq, right?"
"No. Corps. Spelled C-o-r-p-s."
Finally they got it right and set up the shot. It was a simple pan from left to right. For any reader who may have taped the game, I'm in the picture at the very beginning, and it quickly pans away from me (email me a screen shot if you can...Edit: someone did. It's below).
Of course, it wasn't exactly live. It was about 10 minutes prior to the actual national anthem, so as we stood there at attention as the camera made two passes across our formation, I sung the song in my head. The camera, however, was taking time and getting lots of footage, and I was singing a little fast. The cameraman was still filming when my imaginary "Star Spangled Banner" ended. So I did the only thing a true God-Fearing Texan could do. I immediately struck up the band for a rousing mental rendition of "Texas, Our Texas." It was this second pass, I'm convinced, that they ultimately used. So if you see one Navy guy in a sea of Army uniforms standing even more proud and respectful than the rest, you know why.
That being done, we got back to work, and for the next four hours, caught the game as we worked our way through our morning tasks. Eventually, we all stopped working for the last couple of minutes to catch the exciting end to the game. Having no team of my own to root for, I did what I always do in that case: root for the underdog. Hence I was excited to see the end of the game and the upset win.
It being a Monday, I had half a day off. It's about the only time off I ever get. So as I stepped out of the palace to head for breakfast, I walked excitedly towards my rendezvous with scrambled eggs - as opposed to the exhausted, downcast trudging that I normally do.
About halfway towards the dining hall, I heard a loud boom off in the distance. I turned and instantly knew where it was. At the same moment, I heard the sirens go off, again, in the distance. It was another base, about a mile away. I listened patiently, but there were no more explosions. A rocket, most likely, I figured. Fortunately, my fellow soldiers at that base didn't have their post-game celebrations disrupted to badly, for as I later learned, no one was injured.
Later that day, of course, I was walking over to that very base. I needed to pick up some supplies at the post exchange, which is larger at that base than at ours. Normally, there's a bus that takes you there, but I had time and needed to actually get outside and see the sun. As it neared noon, it had warmed up to a very pleasant low 60s day.
Arriving at their food court, I got in line and ordered from Taco Bell. Taken along with the pizza in the morning, this is the first time I had eaten junk food twice in the same day since I've been here. On the plexiglass window at the cachier's box was a note:
Due to convoy problems, we are currently out of hot sauce, cheese sauce and beans. Taco Bell appologizes for the inconvenience.
"Great," I thought. "The taco bell supply truck hit an IED."
After eating, I went to the Bazaar. This is a medium-sized metal building where Iraqi merchants sell gifts, supplies and trinkets to the soldiers. It's meant to supplement the exchange, and you can buy all sorts of things there, from Iraqi flags, to old currency with Saddam on it, to power tools and Hookah pipes.
I had bought my guitar here a few months back, and now I picked up some new strings. I also bought a gift for a friend of mine. As I was waiting to check out, I noticed a small clear plastic box with money in it. At the top was a slit to drop your donation in, and a sign saying the donation was for the Bazaar workers who had been killed. Not just 'killed' as in random violence, but murdered in retalliation for working here...On our base...Because some screwed-up person thinks that the guy selling me guitar strings is an infidel and apostate who has insulted all of Islam.
There were photos too. One of the vendors who had been killed looks like he was about 19. The poor kid was just trying to help his family. He could have taken money from an insurgent group to shoot RPGs at a rival group's mosque. He could have built an IED into a soccer ball to target children. He could have been a suicide bomber. Instead, he chose an honorable profession. And for that, he was killed.
This kind of stuff angers me to no end, and it motivates me every day. The stories I could tell are without end. Misery, to be sure, but also courage. And it is the courage that motivates me most, because it's the courage that gives me hope. The young girl who escaped from Al Qaeda thugs and leaped from a three-story building, breaking her legs rather than be raped and held hostage for ransom - a ransom that funds the insurgency. The young son of a shiek, who saw a suicide bomber targeting his father and the American troops he had grown to love. The boy tackled the bomber and held him down until everyone could get behind cover. When the bomber blew his suicide vest, the only other victim was that young hero.
When you put it all in perspective, then, you realize how special a place like America is. Our greatest contest is played out not on the bloody battlefied of sectarian war, but on the gridiron, amongst passionate men who struggle, compete - but ultimately shake hands at the end of the game, regardless of the outcome. We have superbowls not suicide bombers. We have political primaries, not political assassinations. Ultimately, you can't help but stand proud when the national anthem plays. Because you realize that the "bombs bursting in air" were endured, overcome, and transcended, and are nothing but a memory in our own nation's history. We should wish only the same for the Iraqis, and hope for a day when the things that unite them overcome those which divide them. All countries, all people deserve it. Certainly, they do most of all.
It was Superbowl Monday. Sunday for y'all, perhaps, but we're 9 hours ahead of Texas time. I got up a bit early and walked over for my very important assignment. The Lt. Colonel had given me a task worthy of only the best and brightest 1st Lieutennant - picking up the food for the Superbowl party at Pizza Hut.
Yes, we do have a Pizza Hut here. It's in a little 10-foot trailer with a little phone-booth sized cachier's box a few feet away. I had gone there Sunday afternoon to put in my order, and right around midnight went back over to pick up the food. It was pretty lively in our little outdoor food court - a dusty open area paved with loose gravel. The coffee shop was doing brisk business in the very cold late evening and some of the soldiers sat around giving their predictions for the game. I waited until they called our number, grabbed the six large pizzas, and made the half-mile walk to work. As I went, the inside of my hands (those parts next to the pizza boxes) were snuggly warm. The outsides of my fingers, however, were close to getting frostbite.
I got in to work and we did our shift change. The day folks grabbed a slice or two and headed off before the night folks ate our pizzas and settled in for work.
About 2:40 a.m., we were splitting our time between work and watching the pre-game show when an announcement was made by the Public Affairs Officer that there would be a taping in the studio in five minutes for the National Anthem at the Superbowl. Any live bodies who wanted to come were welcome to do so.
My commanding officer, Lt. Col. Box, took one look at me, and then without a word, stood up and quick walked out of the room. For someone who is almost inseparable from his work - he comes in 2 hours early for his 12 hour shift - this was surprising. Soon, however, there were at least a dozen folks heading out. I wasn't planning on going, but then an Army Captain said she'd cover me if I went. So I grabbed my hat and headed out.
Within a few minutes, we were outside, across the way, and into the studio, where we stood up on a platform, just like you did for your third-grade class photo. The idea, we were told, was to show footage of some soldiers standing at attention for the national anthem. We listened to the banter back and forth between the Army cameraman in front of us talking into his headset, and the speakers, which broadcast the voice of the Superbowl producer, who spoke in a thick New York Accent.
First they did a test shot. Then the producer asked if we could salute. This, however, wasn't going to happen. You don't salute indoors, and we're in a studio. So the best we could do is stand upright at attention. Then we had to give him our location and unit for the graphics.
"Multi-National Corps - Iraq" the Army cameraman said into the mic.
"Multi-National C-o-r-e Iraq, right?"
"No. Corps. Spelled C-o-r-p-s."
Finally they got it right and set up the shot. It was a simple pan from left to right. For any reader who may have taped the game, I'm in the picture at the very beginning, and it quickly pans away from me (email me a screen shot if you can...Edit: someone did. It's below).
That's me on the second level, on the end.
(centered under the word "National")
I'm in a lighter-colored uniform
(known as the DCU, as opposed to the greenish ACUs of the Army
and the other light uniforms of the Marines (below and to my right).
Of course, it wasn't exactly live. It was about 10 minutes prior to the actual national anthem, so as we stood there at attention as the camera made two passes across our formation, I sung the song in my head. The camera, however, was taking time and getting lots of footage, and I was singing a little fast. The cameraman was still filming when my imaginary "Star Spangled Banner" ended. So I did the only thing a true God-Fearing Texan could do. I immediately struck up the band for a rousing mental rendition of "Texas, Our Texas." It was this second pass, I'm convinced, that they ultimately used. So if you see one Navy guy in a sea of Army uniforms standing even more proud and respectful than the rest, you know why.
That being done, we got back to work, and for the next four hours, caught the game as we worked our way through our morning tasks. Eventually, we all stopped working for the last couple of minutes to catch the exciting end to the game. Having no team of my own to root for, I did what I always do in that case: root for the underdog. Hence I was excited to see the end of the game and the upset win.
It being a Monday, I had half a day off. It's about the only time off I ever get. So as I stepped out of the palace to head for breakfast, I walked excitedly towards my rendezvous with scrambled eggs - as opposed to the exhausted, downcast trudging that I normally do.
About halfway towards the dining hall, I heard a loud boom off in the distance. I turned and instantly knew where it was. At the same moment, I heard the sirens go off, again, in the distance. It was another base, about a mile away. I listened patiently, but there were no more explosions. A rocket, most likely, I figured. Fortunately, my fellow soldiers at that base didn't have their post-game celebrations disrupted to badly, for as I later learned, no one was injured.
Later that day, of course, I was walking over to that very base. I needed to pick up some supplies at the post exchange, which is larger at that base than at ours. Normally, there's a bus that takes you there, but I had time and needed to actually get outside and see the sun. As it neared noon, it had warmed up to a very pleasant low 60s day.
Arriving at their food court, I got in line and ordered from Taco Bell. Taken along with the pizza in the morning, this is the first time I had eaten junk food twice in the same day since I've been here. On the plexiglass window at the cachier's box was a note:
Due to convoy problems, we are currently out of hot sauce, cheese sauce and beans. Taco Bell appologizes for the inconvenience.
"Great," I thought. "The taco bell supply truck hit an IED."
After eating, I went to the Bazaar. This is a medium-sized metal building where Iraqi merchants sell gifts, supplies and trinkets to the soldiers. It's meant to supplement the exchange, and you can buy all sorts of things there, from Iraqi flags, to old currency with Saddam on it, to power tools and Hookah pipes.
I had bought my guitar here a few months back, and now I picked up some new strings. I also bought a gift for a friend of mine. As I was waiting to check out, I noticed a small clear plastic box with money in it. At the top was a slit to drop your donation in, and a sign saying the donation was for the Bazaar workers who had been killed. Not just 'killed' as in random violence, but murdered in retalliation for working here...On our base...Because some screwed-up person thinks that the guy selling me guitar strings is an infidel and apostate who has insulted all of Islam.
There were photos too. One of the vendors who had been killed looks like he was about 19. The poor kid was just trying to help his family. He could have taken money from an insurgent group to shoot RPGs at a rival group's mosque. He could have built an IED into a soccer ball to target children. He could have been a suicide bomber. Instead, he chose an honorable profession. And for that, he was killed.
This kind of stuff angers me to no end, and it motivates me every day. The stories I could tell are without end. Misery, to be sure, but also courage. And it is the courage that motivates me most, because it's the courage that gives me hope. The young girl who escaped from Al Qaeda thugs and leaped from a three-story building, breaking her legs rather than be raped and held hostage for ransom - a ransom that funds the insurgency. The young son of a shiek, who saw a suicide bomber targeting his father and the American troops he had grown to love. The boy tackled the bomber and held him down until everyone could get behind cover. When the bomber blew his suicide vest, the only other victim was that young hero.
When you put it all in perspective, then, you realize how special a place like America is. Our greatest contest is played out not on the bloody battlefied of sectarian war, but on the gridiron, amongst passionate men who struggle, compete - but ultimately shake hands at the end of the game, regardless of the outcome. We have superbowls not suicide bombers. We have political primaries, not political assassinations. Ultimately, you can't help but stand proud when the national anthem plays. Because you realize that the "bombs bursting in air" were endured, overcome, and transcended, and are nothing but a memory in our own nation's history. We should wish only the same for the Iraqis, and hope for a day when the things that unite them overcome those which divide them. All countries, all people deserve it. Certainly, they do most of all.
Halfway through, Old friends and New Faces
Well I just crossed the halfway point of my deployment. I'm here for 10 months, which is more than most Navy folks, but less than most Army folks. It's kind of hard to believe that I've been working non-stop for over four months without a day off that whole time. In that span I've put nearly 50 percent of my actual hours into work. In that time, I have completely forgotten about most luxuries. I haven't sat on an actual couch since September.
But while I've still got a long way to go, it's the end of the road for my hard-working and long-suffering comrades. We had become a fairly tight-knit group, but they're all going now. The army typically swaps out whole units at a time, so the corps that I work for is all going back home to Fort Hood and a new corps is coming in to take its place.
Of course, I'm an individual augmentee, which means I stay on as a holdover. In my smaller group of co-workers (about 15 officers and enlisted), there are four of us who are staying. Suddenly, we have to learn a whole new group of personalities to work with and share common experiences with.
When I arrived, the folks I began working for were sort of the grizzled veterans of Iraq. They'd been here for a year, and most were on their second tour. They were smart. Even the youngest Non-commissioned officer knows more about Iraq than almost every member of congress. It's what we do. Intelligence and analysis. And these guys and gals had learned their trade well.
I thought that I could never get to that level. Certainly not in only 10 months. But in the crash course immersion program I've been through, I realized that 1 month here is as intense as 5 months in my regular job back home.
This all hit me as the new folks arrived. Quite a few of them began asking questions that seemed to me to be very naive. Questions that I thought everyone knew the answer to. Of course, it was only gradually that I realized that these people are basically where I was five months ago.
With five more months to go, I feel like I'm finally hitting my stride in usefulness. Gone are the days when I wondered if what I did really mattered in the big scheme of things. Now I know it does, and I take pride in my work. Even if it means spending extra time to make sure every little detail is right, it's worth it. Decisions are made, ultimately, off of the work that I do. Decisions that affect real people.
That's what I remind myself as I move on. Even though it's the downhill slide, there's no room for sloppiness. Next month, though, I get my glorious two weeks of leave. A chance to recharge my batteries and come back for the home stretch. And then it's work, work, work, but at least the end will be in sight.
But while I've still got a long way to go, it's the end of the road for my hard-working and long-suffering comrades. We had become a fairly tight-knit group, but they're all going now. The army typically swaps out whole units at a time, so the corps that I work for is all going back home to Fort Hood and a new corps is coming in to take its place.
Of course, I'm an individual augmentee, which means I stay on as a holdover. In my smaller group of co-workers (about 15 officers and enlisted), there are four of us who are staying. Suddenly, we have to learn a whole new group of personalities to work with and share common experiences with.
When I arrived, the folks I began working for were sort of the grizzled veterans of Iraq. They'd been here for a year, and most were on their second tour. They were smart. Even the youngest Non-commissioned officer knows more about Iraq than almost every member of congress. It's what we do. Intelligence and analysis. And these guys and gals had learned their trade well.
I thought that I could never get to that level. Certainly not in only 10 months. But in the crash course immersion program I've been through, I realized that 1 month here is as intense as 5 months in my regular job back home.
This all hit me as the new folks arrived. Quite a few of them began asking questions that seemed to me to be very naive. Questions that I thought everyone knew the answer to. Of course, it was only gradually that I realized that these people are basically where I was five months ago.
With five more months to go, I feel like I'm finally hitting my stride in usefulness. Gone are the days when I wondered if what I did really mattered in the big scheme of things. Now I know it does, and I take pride in my work. Even if it means spending extra time to make sure every little detail is right, it's worth it. Decisions are made, ultimately, off of the work that I do. Decisions that affect real people.
That's what I remind myself as I move on. Even though it's the downhill slide, there's no room for sloppiness. Next month, though, I get my glorious two weeks of leave. A chance to recharge my batteries and come back for the home stretch. And then it's work, work, work, but at least the end will be in sight.
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