A Reprimand

Today I was pretty busy down at the shop doing real work installing things as opposed to office work. One of my battalion’s first lieutenants came in to the office sign some paperwork, an action which today I was not involved with, thankfully. On the way down to the shop, the lieutenant had stopped by one of our local Hajji shops and bought a Hajji vision DVD that had eight movies for the price of one. Hajji vision is the semi-racist slang for pirated DVD’s which are usually sold for a dollar. Most are one movie for a dollar, but you can also buy multiple movies on one DVD where you sacrifice quality for quantity while still getting the great low price. They are almost always high enough quality that you can make out the plot. (I have only seen about four or five movies on Hajji vision and have never bought any even though it is a win-win situation for the buyer and the seller. Maybe the producer loses out, but two out of three winning must be okay, right?)

So everyone is looking at the newest purchase which is a collection of eight Oscar nominees: Chariots of Fire, Rocky, the Deer Hunter, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Next, and some others. I had seen exactly one of the movies, Chariots of Fire. Everyone thought this was completely unacceptable. I was accused of Communism, un-Americanism, and being culturally deficient, a berating that took close to a quarter of an hour. I’ll accept guilt on one of those counts. So the lieutenant gives me the disk (forces it on me, really) and tells me that I have to watch the rest of the movies. I bargained my way out of having to give written reports. In an attempt to be more culturally proficient, I will blame my cultural deficiency on my parents, my economic circumstances growing up, and on being a white male. If I hadn’t forgotten the DVD down at the office I would get started on cultural proficiency training tonight.

Gone, But Not Forgotten

As the new academic year starts at USNA, I know that I am not completely forgotten. In addition to still being on the Math Department email distro list, Koichi, who last year was certified as the greatest teacher at USNA, has gotten most of my old students together and made a DVD for me. Thanks for brightening my day.

Jointness

Yesterday for dinner I ate in the DFAC which is slightly out of the ordinary, but football was on the TV so I decided against taking carry-out to my room. The best seat I could get was next to two Air Force majors. One of them noticed that my uniform said Navy so we started chatting. They were both impressed that the Navy would “let me out of my career field so early.” As they were both majors and thus concerned about how every job they get will affect their career, it is starting to make sense to me why they thought I must be special to get to work with the Army, and that I was luck to be out here so young.
In 1987, the Nichols-Goldwater Defense Act instituted a requirement for “joint experience” to advance beyond a certain level. This really does make sense. You wouldn’t want the highest level decision makers in the Navy to understand only, for instance, the tactical employment of submarines. So the Department of Defense instituted two phases of Joint Military Professional Education (JPME I and II) that you should complete by the time you make O-5 and O-6, and as a requirement to make flag rank you have to serve in a joint billet. These billets have been traditionally difficult to get assigned to early in your career because more senior people need them to advance and when you’re a young submariner you should be learning the tactical employment of submarines instead of how to lead infantry. Billets that were designated as joint also tended to be broader in scope, not focused on the day to day employment of troops but on, for instance, the employment of large portions of the Army and how it fit together with the Navy in the grand scheme of making war. Again, this all fits with the idea that Nichols and Goldwater had in mind. As an example of a joint command, the Strategic Command in Omaha has about equal numbers of Air Force and Navy personnel since we both have strategic nuclear weapons. There are also some Army and Marines thrown in, I’m sure. The commander of StratCom used to switch between a Navy admiral and an Air Force general, but the last commander was actually a Marine. Going there was my second choice to teaching at USNA, but even if I had gone there I would not have gotten credit for serving my joint tour because I would have been in a job that was too narrow in scope to see how the Navy fit in with the big picture. There were only certain jobs that got the joint credit because they had a wide enough scope to see how the different services all contributed to the whole national strategic objective. It was a career hurdle that was a pain to get, but it really did make sense.
“So why can I so freely admit that something the military does make sense?” those who think I’m cynical may ask. Is it really me writing? I can say that the Goldwater-Nichols joint service requirement makes sense because they completely changed it this year. Like anything involving government that was not broken, after twenty years of good service we must find a way to break it. The old requirement for joint service did not “capture the broad experiences that many officers were having while conducting the global war on terror.” Something that sounds that well thought out usually precedes a strike by what is known as the “good idea fairy.” The good idea fairy that human tendency which causes people to make changes to a system that is working fine based on no relevant experience. For some reason congress changed Goldwater-Nichols so that there is now a point system which weights your experience and gives a certain credit to different experiences. The result is that I am getting joint credit right now. Let me say that again for all of you more senior officers who struggled to get the right billet: I am getting joint credit. Furthermore, since my joint credit is in a warzone, I get three points a month whereas an O-4 in a previously joint billet would get only one point a month. This is supposedly good for my career, but it is utterly ridiculous.
Here is my “joint experience”: I have been rented out by the Navy to the Army to fill a job that involves turning wrenches and working on a box with three switches and a USB connection. My joint command is headed up by a bunch of guys who are not from a variety of services to reflect the true joint nature of our armed forces, but are all Army. I just happen to be a Navy guy who is stuck with the Army. What am I learning about the Army that will give me a broader understanding of how the services work together to accomplish the National Command Authority’s goals? The first thing I have learned is that the Army generals who invited me out here think that their people are so untrainable that they cannot learn to operate a box with three switches and a USB connection free of Navy supervision. I have learned that the Army thinks the Navy doesn’t contribute to national security because our deployments are not 15 months. I have learned that they whine like two year olds about 15 month deployments. I have learned that most members of the Army are completely entertained by the Navy rank of Seaman and can find hours of amusement making jokes about sailors of that rank. And what has the Army learned about the Navy? I don’t know for sure, but I would guess nothing since by their own generals’ admissions they are untrainable.
That may be a little harsh. I’m sure they’ve learned to resent the Navy, too. Afterall, we only deploy for six months to hop from liberty port to liberty port. They would probably also say something about the Navy not having a PT uniform. The whole point of this is that this is not at all professionally enhancing and it is a travesty that I get joint credit for it.

Bound to Happen

Explosions! Fire! Destruction! Living in a war zone, it is just a matter of time, and two days ago was my time. Yes, my building was “got.”
We had a voltage spike from 220 to over 400 volts on the generator that supplies my barracks. It wreaked havoc on our building. One of the switchboards started smoking. The air conditioner was down for at least five hours. Many people lost everything. Well, they lost their DVD players, TV’s, personal refrigerators, and some even lost their alarm clocks. I got off easy – only lost a power supply to my computer which I replaced for $35 – but that is only because I don’t have a TV or refrigerator. The internet, which I got rid of, was down for a day which almost gave me the feeling that I would suspect an investment broker would get when he sells a stock right before it crashes.
We’re recovering. The AC is back, and people are managing without big screen TV’s. Just goes to show that no matter how much steak and lobster you have, war is hell.

Someone Knows This Is A Big Week

I’m writing this on 11 August which is my anniversary. I just got off the phone with my lovely bride of six years. The irony that it her anniversary is on the same day as mine confirms that we are MFEO as they say in the shows. Here’s another bit of irony. Even though today is Saturday we had chapel tonight as tomorrow is yet another memorial service. (Audible sigh. Those really get old quickly.) So tonight we had church, and as I said, today is our anniversary. Irony of ironies, the text comes from 1 Corinthians 13 – the love chapter. And if that is not enough, as an illustration of the “when I was a child, I used to think as a child…” part of the passage, the chaplain describes how at a first birthday party it is cute when the kid dumps her face in the cake, but you would think something is wrong if a twelve year old did the same thing. So the love chapter on my anniversary, and the illustration of a first birthday on the week of Sarah’s first birthday. What are the odds of those two things being on a church service held on Saturday which also happens to be my anniversary? Spooky.

One Bright Spot

If the World War II raw recruit was a hayseed (I remember my grandpa telling stories about drill instructors calling cadence with “Straw foot, hay foot” instead of left/right because many farm boys didn’t know the difference between left and right), then the raw recruit of this war is a punk. No example necessary. But they are fun. About a week after I get here, I was shaving in the bathroom and this pimply face kid notices my navy shirt and starts talking to me. He must have really needed to hear his voice, because he tells me all about how he grew up in Asia, had spent time in the Philippine militia, and how he didn’t really agree with having to call officers sir. He was a likeable enough guy, but he was really a self-centered punk. He told me how he was not really meshing with his unit, but how that didn’t really matter because he was just in the Army to pad his resume so he could get a job with the “contractors.” I assume he meant CIA or some soldier of fortune organization that he had seen on TV. He was a real character, but I can only say that because he was someone else’s problem child. If I had been his platoon sergeant, I would have popped him in the jaw.
I saw the same kid again in the bathroom yesterday. He remembered me because he said, “You’re an officer, right?” (Obviously he was still not big on the sir thing, but there are really more interesting things to be concerned about in my mind, too. Not having to care about those types of things is one advantage of being with a service whose professional future you really don’t give two hoots about.) I had no rank on as I was about to take a shower. I said, “And you’re the guy who used to be in the Philippine militia.” He said, “Last time we talked, I was really having some problems in my company, but I’m not any more.” He went on to tell me how his company was doing (they have taken no KIA’s, and he is rightfully proud of that since they are in a particularly bad neighborhood.), how he was reenlisting to get orders to Korea, and quite a bit more especially considering that I really just wanted to take a shower. The change in his attitude, no more chip-on-the-shoulder all-about-me tone, was really refreshing.
There is no doubt that this war is messing up a lot of people physically and mentally. It is not easy going from a garrison environment on the FOB to a war zone outside the wire once a day, and there are some really bitter, disillusioned folk in this area. But this war is also shaping a generation of punks into a higher quality of punk than they would have been otherwise with a little bit more of an appreciation for what they have and for the other people around them.

Tut, Tut! Looks Like Rain

Not really, but there were some clouds in the sky today in the middle of the day. It was not cloudy in the “portends of precipitation*” type way. They were more of a “there is hope that somewhere in the atmosphere there is moisture” type of cumulus-nimbus types of clouds. I’m not the most observant, but I don’t think there are many clouds during the day. It has been a balmy 109F which is a welcome break. I no longer feel like all of my flesh is burning off as soon as I step outside which is another much appreciated change.

*I do not know if portends should be followed by “of” or not. Brandon? Tim? Dad?

First Step to Recovery

Hi. My name is Matt and I have a problem - I live in Iraq.

How many more steps until I get to go home?

Life in the 90’s

Back when I was a kid, in my junior high and high school days, we didn’t have the internet. I mean, we weren’t totally primitive because if you wanted to check your bank account balance you could go to the ATM so human interaction was avoidable, but you couldn’t just go to your banks website and know your account balance in 30 seconds. I’m not quite sure how we did research papers, but I know that I never had a teacher warn me not to use Wikipedia as a resource. There were inconveniences of course, but the pace of life was slower and people tended to know each other personally, by voice over the phone for instance, instead of by email or IM.
Iraq is many years behind the times, but I don’t live in Iraq. I live on Rustamiyah, a semi-American outpost that seems to be a cross between living in my childhood Tulsa and living on the moon, with mortars and rockets interspersed with putrid sewer air. I think that should paint a clear picture. One of the innocences I have recovered from my childhood by living here is a self-imposed semi lack of internet. I thought I would go nuts, but it has been about ten days and I’m doing just fine. If you are reading this, you should deduce that I do have some internet access, but it is not the on-demand, high speed, click-on-an-icon-and-be-there internet that Americans have come to take for granted in the years since my youth. I have found that I don’t have to check the Corner on National Review or refresh Drudge every fifteen minutes. In fact, I never had to. I just thought I did because those are the most interesting things on an information super-highway that is really not that interesting.
After slowly devolving from high speed internet in America back to a state of dial-up and then eventually to no internet (on my personal computer at least), I have discovered what the ancients of my parent’s generation once knew: the internet is not life. It is not even a good substitute. Sure, it is boring having to live in reality out here, but if I had, say, a family around I think that having no internet would bring some benefits. Don’t get me wrong. I know that the clock will not turn back, and I wouldn’t really want it to. Al Gore’s net is here to stay. But checking your email only once a day is scandalously liberating.

Medical Records and 2007

I sometimes compare 2007 to a traumatic amputation. I mean no disrespect to those who have actually lost a limb because my loss is slight in comparison, but in 2006 I was the equivalent of driving along minding my own business. I took 2007 for granted – next year had always been there and I had always thought it would. Then December 7 came along and a whole year of my life was gone. How did that happen? A puff and a cloud and it’s gone. I could draw the metaphor out talking about phantom pains and 12 steps of coping or however many steps it takes.
I think I’ve found a metaphor that is better though, and even though I sometimes doubt it I know it is true. There were quite a few things the Navy gave me to do in preparation for renting me out to the Army (no, not that metaphor) many of which included medical exams (no metaphor there either). So I checked out my medical record and went and got shots and filled forms out, etc. On January 1 the family drove down to Norfolk for check-in. I had all of my paperwork in my backpack, and when I showed up the next day to get all of the same shots again and fill out all of the same forms a second time my medical record was gone. Not just gone. It was G-O-N-E. That’s not something you want to lose because it is important to you the person, not just you the sailor. I searched everywhere and even called up and asked Koichi to check out my office. I had Tim search my house. I called the Medical Clinic in Annapolis to see if it was there. It was gone. All I could figure was that it had fallen out of my backpack when I stopped for gas. To this day I do not know where it went. They made me a new one in Norfolk, but I have never really felt like it was mine.
Part of applying to medical school with the Navy is filing what is called a contingent resignation which is required because the Navy drops you in rank. Part of the contingent resignation is sending in some forms that are in your medical record, but not in your hastily assembled record made so that you can deploy on time. These forms are in your real medical record that you’ve had since July 1, 1997, when you were just a little plebe. They want to know about the real medical you, not some fake medical you that was contrived in Norfolk a couple of months ago. When I checked with the Rusty medical staff, they said I would have to find a way to get to the Green Zone to go to the big hospital so that I could get all of the tests done so I could get the right forms filled out – this is not an easy prospect. Besides, I don’t like the idea of riding around Baghdad, and who wants to get blown up after successfully passing a physical? Not this guy, for sure.
I called Hawaii, where these forms had originally been filled out, and they said they had them electronically. The corpsman was actually very willing and helpful when I called him on Saturday (he was on duty), but alas he has not come through. This was starting to be stressful since Navy Bureaucracy has set a deadline on when my contingency resignation must be filed, and Navy Bureaucracy makes no exceptions, even for people that Navy has lent to the Army. Bureaucracy yields to no man when it has the tonnage to run him under, which Navy Bureaucracy has tonnage to spare. On a lark I decided to call the clinic in Annapolis to see if they could help, and the guy there tells me they have my medical record. I still tilt my head and blink when I think about it. The corpsman who I talked to had a mastery of phone skills that complemented the poor phone connection so I did not get the story of why my medical record was where it belonged. (In his defense he was new, and like most corpsman probably wouldn’t have thought it was odd for a medical record to be stored in the medical records vault, so I didn’t pursue the question.) He was very helpful and emailed me all of the forms I needed.
I have never been one to comment on the silver lining when there is a dark cloud to mention, and 2007 has had plenty of dark cloud. Tonight will be the exception that proves the rule, a turn of phrase which I find vacuous and am ashamed to have written. I’m convinced that somehow my medical record is a better picture of 2007 than getting a limb blown off, although I can’t explain how. Maybe how will never be known, but who is certain. When you have a miracle like a lost medical record showing up exactly when you need the forms that you can’t get any other way, then only a fool could doubt that a whole year could be lost forever.

A Weather Watcher’s Note

Those of you who have stood under a low flying helicopter will agree that helicopters accentuate the day’s weather and add several miles an hour to the local breeze. If it is cold and rainy outside, underneath a helicopter there will be driving rain and an unpleasant wind chill factor (conjecture as I have not personally experience the concept of cold in Iraq). If it is hot and dry, low flying helicopters will make it hot, dry, and dusty. This “helicopter effect” is magnified by multiple helicopters flying in formation.
Helicopter pilots, being pilots and having a high probability of being cocky, probably believe that a) they create the weather system in a global sense (“Hey, it’s windy wherever I go, ergo it is windy everywhere, ergo I create the weather…”), and b) think that they command the world to move up or down, backwards or forward, and side to side, by their sheer coolness and knowledge of the mystical powers of their control stick. I will allow them to keep the second misconception as there are several pilots I care about, and I would hate to be the one that crashed their conception of physics. But not the first. The weather effects are local. LOCAL!
They would never use a word as geeky as ergo in normal speech, either.

Advice to Graffiti-ists

Bathroom stall graffiti, or “Latrine Art” as they would call in on National Public Radio, has varying character in different military locations. At Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard, the public stalls were alive (oh, yuck) with debate on the differing strengths of Native Hawaiians and Howlies, with neither making a strong showing. The transient latrines in Kuwait made a clear distinction between arriving soldiers (“3RD Infantry Division will kill’em all,” type sentiments), departing soldiers (“Thank goodness I’m going home” or “Write your senator to stop the war,” were two main themes. The second often spawned lively debate in the thinking room.) and Marines (not quoted due to the family friendly nature of this blog, but always pro-USMC.) Port-a-johns usually just have “Shout-outs” from different area codes marked with a city name (“760! O-town, baby!”) or some tasteless art made iteratively less tasteful. I believe the lack of air conditioning stifles whatever intelligence desire there may have been to debate. Except on the subject of religion: many a port-a-johns on the other side of the FOB has the message of an ardent evangelist whose preaching has merit but whose presentation style is not mine personally; his calls to repentance are denounced vigorously by non-believers even in the heat and stink of the port-a-john. In latrines frequented by the infantry, public service warnings are issued to all who may sit and read to avoid whoever the perceived least manly member of the unit may be.
Whatever your graffiti style may be in your home latrine – be it scholarly debate, denouncing a person or group based on perceived shortcomings, or a humorous Leno-like top ten list – you will not be as successful impressing your intended audience if you do not give adequate attention to spelling and grammar, being especially cautious of using words with homophones. When you say that another person “prolly” has done such or such an act, the focus will no longer be on the debauchery of the individual. Based on experience, it will turn to the intelligence of the author. When you misspell your request that people of another race stop causing whatever problem for which they are responsible, you will “prolly” be denounced as an ignorant member of a different race or socio-economic class. The convert rate tends to be lower when the syntax of the promise of divine protection in war is incorrect.
Take care! It is the little details your readership will notice. You may have the best case against the war in the world, but write “affect” when you meant “effect” and “prolly” no one will ever write their senator.

Happy Hawaiian Memories

Since I no longer have internet in my room, one of the more important uses for my computer is playing music. I don’t require much variety in my life, so I have about ten CD’s copied to my hard drive, and I only listen to two of them regularly. My favorite by far is Ko-Aloha by Daniel Ho. Not only is Hawaiian music easy on the ears, this was Kate’s, and by extension my, most listened to CD in Hawaii. Some nights I am once again sitting on the couch with Kate and little Sabrina is playing on the floor in our first house there. It is a unique memory that I treasure because in retrospect having only one small child is peaceful in a way our house will never be again, and because that house was so distinctly Hawaiian.

Based on the number of layers of paint on the walls, I would guess that it was built shortly after WWII when Americans would be satisfied with single wall construction and louvered windows in place of air conditioners. There was tile on the floor and the cabinets were old, but it meant that you were in Hawaii. It meant you were at home. About six months before we left the island they tore it down to build new housing which was indistinguishable from mainland housing. Sad. Those nights at home between duty days and underways will probably always be one of my happiest memories.

I do have to be careful listening to Daniel Ho, though, because another distinctly Hawaiian memory that he brings back is walking up to SubBase on Pearl Harbor. I hope they never tear those buildings down because they also capture Hawaii. The main building has a huge native Hawaiian tree that I’m sure Rhonda could name in front of it, and is where Husband Kimmel had his office in December 1941. The whole of SubBase is almost frozen in time. If I had to guess which year I would say 1964. Submarines had their heyday during WWII and the Cold War when they had a more appreciated mission – an imperative if that is the right word. The buildings just make you feel like you are still a part of those eras with their oldness, and even when the submarine brass is around those buildings, they seem to forget their mania with passing the next inspection and finding ways to be more by the book than the next guy. It is hard to be a Nuke – a word with a meaning that any submariner knows and any Submariner disdains - when you are on SubBase because it is the hallowed domain of warfighting Submariners. As I said, gotta be careful with Daniel Ho because, unfortunately, submarines are filled with Nukes and not the Submariners of old and nostalgia makes for Department Heads.

But I can love our old house without need for care.

Oh Holey Underwear

Note the “E” in Holey.

I really love the laundry guys here. They are mostly cheerful even though they have a hot, fly-infested office. Most of them are from Macedonia and one is from Palau, I think. One reason they are cheerful is that for them, being here having a good job is a real blessing they do not have at home. Like all of the KBR employees, they are under appreciated.

One note, not even a complaint, is that I think they use old food processors as washing machines. While my utilities are holding up pretty well, my t-shirts and socks look like they’ve been laundered in a warzone. One other note: they probably don’t use Tide because they don’t get whites white. One soldier commented that Crayola was going to come out with a color called “KBR Gray” because laundry comes back a tan-gray color that isn’t even in the box of 96 crayons. I blame the Iraqi water. That’s probably what eats holes in my unmentionables, too.

Under the “Oddly Enough” heading you can file this tidbit: the PX here does not sell men’s underwear. They do sell some frilly women’s stuff which makes me wonder, but no men’s underwear. The reason for this (for lack of men’s, not presence of women’s frillies which I won’t comment on) is that the Army has a uniform replacement program. Every month they pass around a list of uniform parts and you can order up to $50 dollars worth. Underwear is on the list, but that has not helped my situation. When I first got here, the list came around and I signed up for some stuff, and they didn’t turn the list in. The next month, the Battalion cancelled the uniform replacement order because they decided to save everyone’s money and give every soldier four new sets of uniforms with the replacement money before the soldiers went home. This decision was made before the Battalion got extended, so there were only two months left and underwear and t-shirs were not a concern. Then they got extended and restarted the replacement program and passed the order list around… while I was on leave.

Honestly, I don’t need anything new, but being able to order stuff and get a package delivered with all sorts of unnecessary stuff is a bit like Christmas. You can order the cool sweat wicking t-shirts that melt in bomb blasts, extra infra-red American flags or cold weather stuff to help you get through the Baghdad summer. I’ve been promised to be allowed to participate this month, but I’ll believe that checks in the mail when the postman delivers. I just hope they don’t give me four more pairs of Army uniforms when I leave.

Welcome Home

By now one of our companies that left Rusty three days ago should be home or at least close. E 1/125 is an infantry company that was attached to our MP Battalion because there are only so many MP’s in the world. They are Michigan National Guard, so even though they should be flying out of Kuwait any moment, they still have about a week of demobilization left before they get home back to their normal jobs and lives. Even if they are not quite home, every one of them is (wild guess alert) happy to be back in the states even if they are not looking forward to the family and job messes that I know some of them have. I overheard one of them say he would rather stay in Iraq than go back home, but no matter how tough your home situation is it is better to have family difficulties in the US than Iraq.

Four of their soldiers went home early. One was killed in September and three were killed two days before Christmas last year. It was a rough tour for them, but they did well. They had a bunch of quality guys, especially their comms sergeant SSG Bansimer and their intel liaison SPC Palmateer, who I’m going to miss.

Well done, guys. You did Michigan proud.

On The Way Home

Today is the day that my Battalion would have been on the plane going home had it not been for the extension of all Army deployments from twelve to fifteen months. One sergeant looked at his watch and said, “Well, we’d probably just be taking off right now.” Even if they are going to get about two years at home (My unit will. Others are just scheduled for one.) it is a real punch in the gut to have 90 days tacked on in the middle. Both of our active duty companies that were extended (National Guard and Reservists didn’t get the extra 90 days) lost a soldier during that that extension time. As if it would not be hard enough without thinking they by all rights should have been home.

There is no other hand to losing a soldier, but on the other hand of the extension I am now in my eighth month of extension beyond the limit when I “by all rights” should have been home. It still irks me when soldiers get snarky about how easy the Navy has it with our eleven month tours. The nerve. We are out here running their equipment. They can’t run their own gear by themselves and then they have the cheek to say that those who are running it for them are getting a good deal. Everyone loves to point out how much worse their lot in life is than the guy next to them – I don’t begrudge them that. But I’ve really about had it with that particular line of self-pity. When this war is over, the Army will go back to deploying once every blue moon, and the Navy will continue to deploy on a routine basis at pretty close to the same rate the Army is now. You can bet your last dollar that we will never go crying to the Army asking them to stand our watch.

Although every time sailors have to hang around soldiers it is also safe to guess that we will whine to them about how hard our life is having to deploy all the time. They won’t want to hear it from us either. Even though then it will be legitimate.

Tan Lines

Barefoot is not the order of the day on Rusty. Even though the weather is decidedly summerish, the Army insists on wearing trousers, long sleeves and boots. The more I wear this, the worse I feel for thinking the British Navy’s topical whites (the same thing as our summer whites with shorts) looked silly. Anyone who says that white leather dress shoes with knee high socks and shorts is anything less than stylish has never worn ACU(WABUS)s (Army Combat Uniform (Worn Also By Unlucky Sailors)) in August in Baghdad. I’m taking my summer whites in for tailoring when I get back, against American regulations or not.

Back to my point. The only time I wear shorts outside is walking to and from the gym and to and from the shower. The only time I wear my foot-massaging Addidas shower shoes is walking to and from the shower. Today I noticed that I have tan lines on my feet. I always thought Kate was a little neurotic about sunscreen (I can say that in this forum since it is a matter we have agreed to separate opinions), but now I’m rethinking. I’m still not convinced that sunscreen is needed for playing in the backyard for fifteen minutes, but sunscreen may have some merit in the desert. I still won’t put it on just to go to the shower, but I will reserve judgment and withhold derision from those who do.

Not The Biggest Threat In This Neighborhood

Today as I was walking out of the hospital, I paused to put on my boonie hat and safety glasses. This there is a soldier sitting in the waiting area looking nervous. He asks how I’m doing. I reply fine and ask how he’s doing. It soon became obvious that he was not concerned about my welfare, but instead need someone to listen. He told me that he was not doing well and was in fact very nervous about getting his anthrax vaccine. Based on the looks of his uniform, he had been in the dust for more than one day and by his unit patch on his sleeve I knew he had been in country for a while. What could make a soldier in Baghdad nervous? Of course the answer is getting vaccinated. It was not fear of needles that our brave young soldier confided. To me, an officer he had never seen before, he proclaimed that he would refuse orders to get vaccinated if the vaccine would threaten his fertility. He was the last of his line, he told me in the fifteen seconds we talked, and he didn’t want his family name to be extinguished. What was this family name that he felt a moral burden to carry on you ask? Why, Jones, of course.

A new technological era

Sorry I didn’t post last night or the night before. There is a reason that goes beyond the laziness that is inherent to hot weather. Drum roll: today I entered a new era of Rustamiyah internet technology. I have finally decided that the price the contractor charges for the service you get is not quite a good bargain, so I gave up the in room internet. Since the original intent was to be able to do webcam with my girls, there is really no loss, but it after going a day without my own net to surf I am amazed at how many hours can just disappear when one link leads to the next. Now I get to use the one unclassified office computer and take turns, which might be slower than the Rusty service I did have. Sorry in advance if I’m slow(er) answering emails. We’ll see how long I can go without going nuts and signing up again. August might end up being a long month.

Thank goodness for air conditioning

That is a complete days thought by itself, but as it might leave you with an incomplete picture of my day I will go further. Today was quite a bit dustier than usual, but most of it was high in the air. I didn't get any of that nasty grit in your eye or grit in your mouth stuff except when I had to replace a cable underneath a truck, a completely weather unrelated event. The main effect it had was canceling some of the voluntary air missions. Makes since to me that when you can't see as well you won't take a risk flying the brass out to FOB Holeinthewall to see (or be seen by) their troops. Viva la dust!

The other missions that fall in that voluntary category is taking people in to the main airport to go home. One of our contractors down at the shop was supposed to go home today, and he wasn't pleased that his flight was canceled. Another one of the EWO's was supposed to go on R&R, and let me tell you, I have never heard a more spirited defense of Naval aviators compared to Army pilots by a non-pilot in my life. This EWO went on a tirade (to the rest of the Navy EWO's of course) about how the Navy would fly in this weather even if they had zero visability and gale force winds with the carrier pitch thirty degree even if the wings had fallen off their planes, etc. etc. He was so vocal about the superior qualities of Navy air that there was a moment he almost sounded like a pilot himself.

So after a couple of hours the dust goes away and the brass starts flying again. And people get to go home again. And you start wondering what day of the week it is until you go get dinner. And that is another day in the books at Rusty.

Not a bad day...

...considering the company and the location. I must be getting back in the routine because I'm starting to notice the days by the meetings and meals. Today is surf-n-turf and BUB meeting day. I'm really impressed how KBR keeps trying. Today, in addition to a steak that looks like it came from a cow, there were crab legs, crab balls, lobster tails, and fried scallops. None live up to civilian expectations, but all of us out here really do owe a thanks to a country who tries to do right by us. Next time you see the cost of the war, remember that it could be cheaper, but the guys who have the bad jobs deserve the good meals.

The best part of the BUB was not that it was under two hours. The best part was that I got out with no additional tasking. I'm learning better and better that giving additional information, even if it pertains to my portion of the war, really doesn't add anything. All it does is generate random tasking, which is the worst kind since spur of the moment questions often have impossibly difficult and meaninglessly unrewarding answers. I avoided that today, so life is good.

We also got water back in our bathroom, but the same day the water truck was repaired the hottentots hit the other bathroom with permanent pipes. What's with these people? What do they have against hygiene? For the love of Pete, let us shower!! And if you would quit messing up the rest of the country, everyone out there could shower, too. What a wonderful world it would be. I don't think their stated goal is "War on hygienic practices" because no one would be silly enough to make war on a method rather than the people who practice it. I think they make war on us because we bring hygiene to their country which threatens their way of life.

But come on, guys! Just behave and you won't have to stink. And neither will I.

Something special in the air...

Jim, nothing against you and your fellow American buddies (except no leg room and charging for meals), but yesterday it was not American Airlines that has something special in the air. As I walked out of the hospital, I heard a series of booms, about three in a row. From my personal vantage point on this war, there are several types of booms that are common. It is not uncommon to hear IED's exploding outside the FOB, artillery counter-fire although not as often as I would like, and all too often incoming mortars and rockets and the like. Some would say they each have their distinct sound signature, but I was not a sonarman so I can not tell for sure. To me, a boom is a boom and the biggest variance is in how loud the boom is.

These booms that I heard were a cross between machine guns and IED's, similar to a Mk-19 for the benefit of Tim and Koichi. They were also of the not so loud variety, which is my favorite type. As I was taking my first step to the nearest bunker, I noticed a bunch of people just standing around looking at the sky so naturally I did too. There I saw two of the cutest little helicopters just going around in circles, and every third or fourth pass they would unload with five or six rockets. As I watched, I was reminded of stories from WWI where soldiers would watch dog-fights from the trenches, only there was no enemy in the sky and Rusty is a far cry from the trenches. I would much rather everyone out here in Iraq just behave so that no more of these booms and this shooting would go on, but since that doesn't seem likely this week it is nice to know that our helicopters are shooting back.

One for the grandkids

I will now make a statement that even the most simple among my readers (a null statement made simply for rhetorical purposes as my readers are decidedly not simple) will agree without hesitation: when given the choice, it is always better to choose not to be shot than to be shot. If you disagree with this or even quibble, you are a loon. This obvious statement could be codified with the smart man's rule of warfare, were there such a code. I make this disclaimer lest any of you doubt that I, being a smart man who follows even hypothetical smart man's codes, DO NOT WANT TO BE SHOT. Not in Iraq, not ever, not anywhere. Disclaimers like this are inevitably followed with a something that makes you wonder if the disclaimer is just there to ward off critics, and this is no exception. At risk of being lumped with the loons, I proceed:

As I walked into the clinic tonight, the sea-foam green curtain was drawn around one of the trauma beds, a terrible thing to see as sea-foam green is well known in naval and literary circles to be a harbinger of pain and unhappiness. The positive sign was that the whole hospital was not in code blue status, but any sane person still hates to see sea-foam green. As the night progressed about thirty minutes, the doctor* who I would want to be operated on had I been shot (WHICH I DO NOT WANT TO BE) came out with what in years to come will be a momento this soldier will show his grandkids. He had been shot from behind and the bullet had gone through his left tricep and entered his chest... almost. The bullet had pierced that part of his under arm that connects to his pectoral, stayed completely outside the ribcage and had lodged itself in his Bible. You hear stories about people carrying their Bible in their pocket and it stopping the bullet from hitting them, and while the bullet still did hit him, the fact that it hit his Bible rather than changing course by two inches killing him should be enough to confirm in a lifelong way the belief that caused him to carry the Bible in the first place.

Now I will repeat this once more: I DO NOT WANT TO EVER BE SHOT. If one is to be shot though (WHICH I DO NOT WANT TO BE) that's about as neat a story as you can get, in an outpatient only down for a couple weeks, sort of way. Not nearly as neat as my hopeful war story when I get home: I WAS NEVER SHOT, but a (distant) second.

*This is the doctor who did the operating in the Washington Post story I linked the other day. Some say the story is embellished, and one doctor proudly claims that he was the main hurdle over come, but it is still a cool story.