So you may have noticed…

That I don’t blog as much as I used to.  To my 3-4 friends who read this, my apologies.   When you get to a certain point in your deployment, there’s a feeling of futility in all of it.  What did you accomplish?  Does it matter?  Will everything be just as messed up when you board that plane to go home?  You try to fight through it, with coffee and nicotine.  You try to get amped up for the day, but why?  The days here bleed into one another.  Groundhog day indeed.

It’s hard to get excited about say, working with the Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police, when they are the ones suspected of blowing up convoys and rocketing your FOB for more money than they make in 5 years working.

It’s hard to work with officers who are completely inept and although hold significant rank, do not know how to do THEIR OWN JOB.  To have certain officers not listen to experience, but to make you work on their “ideas” of how things should happen.  To have others who are supposed to “lead” you unquestionably follow orders that are  just down right idiotic,  because they can’t formulate an opinion themselves or get up the courage to speak up.

It’s hard to want to talk to sheiks when at every meeting they are either working against you or lying straight to your face.

It’s REALLY hard just to muster the energy to walk over to the chow hall once a day to find the same food day in and day out, that looks and tastes like it’s already been eaten already.

The hardest thing, far and away is knowing that your distance has changed you and the ones you love.    You aren’t the person that they remember.    How could you be?   But from the other side it’s not seen that way.  There are the expectations, the let down.  You wonder with no small amount of fear what kind of world you are going to come home to.   If there is someone to come home to.   My (no longer) baby girl doesn’t even know who I am.   On the phone I hear her say “daddy,” but I know it’s an automated response-Like saying “duck” or “dog.”

So uh, yeah.  I’m going to try to stay motivated and keep this blog moving forward till the end.   Thanks for listening.

Hell can’t be this hot.

I will try to describe to you how miserable and hot it is over here:  Imagine a massive blowdryer on high blowing right at you, add the sun right over your head no matter where you go, and then sprinkle in the daily, sometimes ALL DAY  sandstorm flying into your eyes, face, mouth and yes, ears.  It’s magical.

If you are outside for more than a minute, you’re soaked.  You have already soaked through your clothes.   You sweat so much that you start seeing layers of salt pile up on your clothes.

The other day I was tasked by my new dumbass Captain to fix the tire of an MRAP that had gotten hit by mortar fire.   The job took 2 tanks, 4 hours, and and 5 joes.  For shits and giggles, we decided to see what the temperature was.  It was 130 degrees.  In the shade.   For added fun we decided to see how hot the equipment was we were using because we kept burning our hands.  160 degrees.   We were downing bottles of water and gatorade as quickly as we could, and I still almost passed out twice.

Working with interpretors.

Because US Army soldiers are made up mostly of American citizens, we primarily speak AMERICAN.  (Do not confuse AMERICAN with English.  Seriously-we’ll kick your ass.)  And as everybody knows, we Americans do not speak any other languages than AMERICAN.

So when you decide to liberate another country of a tyrant dictator that does not speak AMERICAN, then you need interpretors to yell at Iraqi citizens to get on the ground, to allow US Soldiers into their houses to do a search, pull over, pop their trunks, stop moving or we will shoot you in the face, stuff like that.  We call lovingly refer to them as ‘Terps.”   In Iraq, interpretors come in different categories:

Level 1.   A guy who probably took a bit of English in Secondary School or college, perhaps self taught.  Maybe hung around an U.S. Army Base or worked there and picked up a bit of AMERICAN.   Gets hired on at a base and makes pretty good money (for Iraq) working at checkpoints, or going out on missions with Infantry units.

Level 2.   Sometimes an Iraqi who has returned from living abroad learning English, or perhaps an individual who does live in the U.S. and just returned for work.  They have a very good grasp of the English/AMERICAN vernacular and can translate more complex and technical AMERICAN to Iraqi.

Level 3.   Basically an Iraqi citizen by birth, but has lived in the US for a long period of time.  Totally vetted by the government (READ: Uncle Sam has deemed them NOT A TERRORIST) and can fluently speak both languages.  Rare, like unicorn sightings.  I still haven’t seen one.

We had a level 2 ‘terp, named “Layla.”  (CODE NAME)  She was awesome.  Mother of 2 from Chicago.  Treated all of us regardless of age as her children.  We were all immediately nicknamed “Habibbi.”  Except for Schoeneman because he’s old.  (His name really confused her so she calls him “Abu Rohan” which is Iraqi for Rohan’s dad.) She fed us Iraqi food that made our stomachs hurt like hell, but was yummy.  She wore a lot of make up and a bit too much perfume.  But that’s OK, it was like having a mom in a place where there are no moms. 

She was amazing at cutting through the bullshit and telling us when a Sheik or just an average Iraqi was clearly lying.   We would have to riegn her in at times and be like, “you can’t call this guy a liar,” or “you can’t yell at this Sheik even though we know he’s shady.”  She wasn’t having no part of it, which made her rad.   We lost her and now it’s really hard to find a Terp who you can trust talking to Iraqis with.

We will get guys (Level 1) who when you tell them what to say to the individuals you KNOW they aren’t saying the right thing to the interviewee!   I will have to ask a question four different ways, get 4 different answers just to take all answers and find what I THINK is the real answer.  The Terps will sometimes have conversations with the people instead of just asking the question I asked and giving an answer.  They will eventually get pissed at me because they mumble answers or just straight up make up answers and I call them on it and make them do their job.  

Just recently we have just lucked out and picked up a kid we call “Ceaser.”  He’s 21 years old (looks 30) and has been ‘Terping for over 5 years in country.  You do the math.  Totally sweet kid.  He’s working out really well, except he is always trying to go on vacation.  You know, when you say you want to take the weekend off and then you come back the NEXT weekend, you’re on vacation.   We all have a soft spot for him because he swears a lot, and has a brand new little Habibbi at home.

How to speak Iraqi: Lesson 1.

So Arabic is hard. Really hard. The sounds that you have to make to speak it are sometimes similar to the sounds that one makes when clearing your throat. I know, I know, not PC. But if you’ve ever heard it spoken you know I’m not lying.

I have picked some up conversationally however it’s really difficult when you have an interpretor or “terp,” as we call them speaking and translating on your behalf.

There is however one phrase that pays. It’s the most important phrase you will ever learn to understand Iraqi Culture, why this country is the way that it is, and why, perhaps our efforts here may not even note a footnote in history : Incha’allah. The phrase simply means “If God wills it” or “God willing.”

It’s used at LEAST once in every sentence spoken here. Seriously. You can’t say anything without that phrase creeping in.

“Hey Sheik so and so, I would love to meet up with you in regards to

“________”   at 10 tomorrow.

(translated)

“I want you to know that I would be very happy to meet at this time, incha’allah.”

Now you might assume that I’m going to meet with this person tomorrow at 10 in the morning.  Ha.  Ha. Ha.   Silly American.   I may meet with this person at 10, I may meet with them at 11, I may not ever meet with this person at all that day.  That’s Incha’allah.

You see, the person has no control over time.  Just as we don’t.    He understands this.  Only GOD does.  This guy really may really want to make this meeting, but there are things that may occur, and he will be delayed.   He does not fight this.  An appt is a fluid thing, it can happen or it cannot.  If GOD really wants this meeting to happen then everything will go according to plan and he will be wherever he’s supposed to-That we have made it to EVERY appointment EXACTLY on time EVERY single FREAKING time only means that God willed it.  Incha’allah.

It’s deep.  So deep that the entire country runs on this logic.

Will there be a democracy here?  Incha’allah.   Will the locals that we keep safe let us know when others mean to do us harm?  Incha’allah.

“just another day in paradise…”

You are guaranteed to hear these words fall from a joe’s mouth at least once a day. Goes pretty much like this:

“How’s it going, ____expletive/nickname ______?”

“Just another day in paradise, man.”

And so it goes. Over and over. Like I said, Groundhog Day.

I figured it would be a treat for you viewers to actually see what a day in paradise actually consists of…

This is our Hass. Why is it called a hass and not a F**KING hanger you ask? You’ll have to ask an officer. Depending on whether or not there’s a mission (mission: going outside the wire, getting up early and usually getting back late) we wake up around 5-6AM. Not quite Oh-Dark-thirty. This is our coffee machine. There are some comforts no human should be without.  You bet your ass I hand grind those beans.

We have done the drill so many times, that we have our routines down. Crewserve, check. Ammo, check. Water, check. Pogey bait, check. Commo is up, and we’re good. On a mission, just like your weapon-you live and die by the vehicle that you drive. Most day’s we take out the Hummer. I have made good friends with my personal Mechanic SSG Williams down in the motor pool. He needs anything, he’s got it, and vice versa. I ensure that it’s tip-top as my man Jules would say.

This is my buddy O-Town and our mascot

You prep the vehicle with all the essentials you are going to need for the day…need I say more? (Your care packages are being put to good use!)

We ride around our AO, (or Area of Operations for you civilians out there) working with our friendly Iraqi Army…

ladies and gentlemen, Rambo has come to Iraq.

Taking in the sites…ah yes, the lovely, lovely sites and smells. A bit of feces here, burning trash there, did you know that the Iraqis make bread ovens out of dried cow manure? I seen ‘em do it. And I will tell you this: it’s crazy delicious. You will see in the picture below the mounds in the back is dried manure that they make the bread in. You will also see, that’s right folks: sewage running down to…

…the river where thousands of people get their water. I’m pretty sure I was served Chai from that exact river.

For the pic below I wasn’t quick enough to get the pic of the cow eating the insulation. Kids from this village like to throw rocks at us for shits and giggles.

More importantly however I get to interact with the local Sheiks and listen to their problems. No really it’s great.

We also work with the local IP’s or Iraqi Police. They assume that we all drive around with porno mags, and ask us for them daily. We started bringing along the most boring reading we can find AND THEY STILL WANT TO SEE IT. They swear we are holding out on them.

Yes, that is a bed on the roof…and yes that’s a bedframe with an AK-47 on it and nobody is around to guard it.

We are always doing assessments of the area that we are in control of. The missions may change daily but it’s always a gas.

When we get back to the hootch we try to get some PT in to keep us from becoming disgusting fatbodies. If you saw the crap we consume on a daily basis, you’d understand why.

One thing you are guaranteed should you make it through the end of the day is one of of these:

Goodnight from FOB Hunter. Tomorrow we’ll do it all over again.

I think introductions are in order.

I have met some really great people here on this deployment. Funny how that works in the military-you find yourself thrust into circumstance with people you’d probably never ever met in your regular life.   I guess one could liken it to working many different jobs.  On a deployment however, the people you meet can quickly become family.  You know them better than their blood families ever will.  You see the best and sometimes the absolute worst of who they are.   You can say anything to these people.  You talk shit to one another mercilessly.   You find each others weaknesses and exploit it , like pouring salt on a wound.  Hardcore brother on brother hate crimes happen daily.  It may sound harsh, but it’s funnier than hell.   I will also guarantee you this:  If you aren’t getting ribbed, and nobody is talking major league smack to you, then nobody likes you.   Here are the boys, in no particular order:

SPC Schoeneman:  AKA SHO-Daddy, AKA Abu Rohan, AKA Herr Schoeneman, AKA Slothy McSloth Sloth.

Schoneman had a visit from the panty fairy.

The panty fairy is eeevil. I mean, Delta Burke panties? Ouch.

His voice is part Churchill, part Shatner.  Says things like “been” and makes it sound like “bean.”  Extremely smart.  He is A CO’s  resident smart guy.   He had just finished law school before he got called up.  He’s studying for the bar while over here.  Finishes books in hours.  Eats ridiculous amounts of junk food.   I’m serious.

SGT Overton:  AKA O-Town.

Idealist.  Religious.  Has really cool tattoos.   LOVES to do squats.  Loves Prince.  Not a big dude size wise, but very strong.   We kick each others asses at the gym.   Definitely the guy you want in your corner when things get hot.

SPC Dann Carlson:  AKA Big Dann, AKA Big Carl, AKA Big Snarl, AKA Carrson

Quite possibly the first person in the world to have a heart attack before the age of 21. (He’s 20) Smokes like a freaking chimney.  Chews tobacco like all day long.  Sometimes does both at the same time.   Drinks Monsters/redbulls/rip-its from morning till night.  Swears like every other word.  Introduced us to our new favorite game: cribbage.   Flies into blind rages every 15 minutes.   He may act like a toughguy, but he’s really a total softy.   He’d do anything in the world for his friends and family.

...just another day in paradise.

So, I’ve been away.

Things have been batshit bananas here.  Mostly in a good way.  Thanks for the emails asking about the blog. That means a lot. I really didn’t know how many folks were even reading it. I’ll try to stay on top of it.

“Sexually deprived for your freedom.”

Wise words I read today off a Port-a-Potty. (Yeah we got those now.)

Happy Valentines day ladies.  I hope this is the best most romantic, Valentines-iest Valentines ever.

Gents: It’s been 5 months.  5.  Months.  I’m going to go workout.  Again-No, it really doesn’t help.

So I just realized something…

As I was in a chopper flying over Iraq in the moonlit darkness and the  cargo hanger is down so you can get some fresh air.  You can see for miles and at 5000 feet without the trash, and the fighting and the sadness, Iraq looks beautiful through the fish eye windows.  I realized that THIS IS WHY I’M IN THE ARMY.  We get to do this crazy ass  S**T that you guys in the civilian world can’t or maybe have no interest at all in doing.   And that’s cool.  Yeah, sometimes it sucks.   Sometimes we are put in places with “austere” conditions or we drive into the fight.  Sometimes we lose brother and sisters.   Sometimes we lose those we love who just can’t handle the distance.   That’s the breaks I suppose.  I love my job.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  

P.S.  For my coworkers at Vendio reading this:  I love my job there too =)

Iraqi kids are cute, and a pain in the ass.

cute...and eeeevil.

Provided for you are the required “cute” pics of Iraqi children in their native habitat. I say this is required, because if you know of a guy or gal who’s been over here, they will inevitably show you a shot of them surrounded by adorable kids in thrift store attire and all kool-aid smiles. Now that I think about it, they must have told us to do this in our “welcome to Iraq” brief. These kids are freaking adorable. No doubt about it. They come in all shapes in sizes. I swear to God I saw a few kids here with blond hair and blue eyes. Little black kids. My Mexican buddy Gonzo thinks that he sees his brothers everywhere here, and that they are “stealing all the jobs from the Iraqis.” Here is what you don’t see in those pictures: Each one of those Iraqi kids has a little beggar Satan in them. Seriously. The phrase that pays is “Mistah” and “Gimme.” “Mistah, gimme your watch.” Or, “mistah, gimme money, yes…” Mistah, gimme-POINTS TO WHATEVER IT IS THEY WANT- yes.” With this very serious face, like it was an intense negotiation. Like you would ever, even kinda debate to give a kid your F**KING WEAPON. When you first hear it, it’s kinda funny, foreign. You know in the US, we see people begging, with signs and you know you can just totally ignore them, or just say “sorry.” NOT THESE KIDS. They will NOT leave you alone. If you are in your vehicle and stopped, they will walk up to your vehicle window, peer in and smile at you and yell, “Mistah!” if you try and ignore them, they change their tone to “Miiiiiissstaaaahhhhh!!!” until you basically can’t stand it anymore and then engage them, that my friends is when they have you. You give in. (Cue dark, menacing piano music, NOW.) You give maybe one of them something small, insignificant. Maybe you even swear them to secrecy, telling them that this is just for them, and that they are special. Because you’re an American, and dammit, you care. We are the good guys. You love kids and you want to do something good for them. Maybe you got kids, and if your children were in this situation, well you would hope somebody would do the same thing for you…you shove the kid off, trying to act like nothing happened. (DUM DUM….DUM!!!) Within 30 freaking seconds you got every kid from a 3 mile radius at your vehicle asking for every damn thing that is not nailed down. Some of the older ones will literally shake you down! One will try to move in on you from different angles and divert your attention, while another will try to take stuff right off you! All this is going on while say you are talking to the Sheik of a village. He’s swatting them like flies, occasionally grabbing his shoe and throwing it at them while in mid sentence with you. He’s doing this on your behalf, but he knows. He’s totally aware that they will come right back with reinforcements. God I heart Iraq.

cute…and eeeevil.

Ok, these kids didn’t ask me for anything, but their buddies tried to mug me.