365 and a Wakeup

The Endgame

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

                        - George Santayana

     I was looking at the spattered dust outside my room today when it hit me.  Someday our soldiers will leave this ugly, barren FOB.  The high guard towers will lay empty, their glowering profile softened by unruly nests of squawking birds.  The sandbags will rot away from dusty windows and the shimmering light of day will finally dance in cloistered rooms.  Warehouses full of supplies will lay barren.  Motorpools thick with the low, lethal silhouettes of armored vehicles will sit empty save for wretched and twisted weeds.  Sections of the high perimeter wall will crumble and fall into chaotic piles of masonry.  And the only sound will be the tortured screech of broken sheet metal roofs banging in the desert wind.  The FOB will be dead – drained of the throbbing pulse of men and machinery that make her so powerful and fell.

     When that inevitable day comes I will have long since rotated home.  But I can’t help but wonder what Iraq will be like when the door closes on this chapter in our military history.  Will the new democratic Iraq survive its tempestuous infancy and serve its people with justice and mercy?  Will fathers and mothers be able to raise their children to be strong and proud? Will we have left the cradle of civilization a better and brighter place for having been here?  Every fiber of my being wants this to be true, it would justify the price we have paid in blood and anguish. 

     But I have another selfish reason for hoping this all comes to pass. Someday I hope to raise a son… and I don’t want him to have to fight another war in this burning land. And if we cut and run before giving Iraq a chance to become a free society that is exactly what will happen.  I have managed to read a couple articles from the mainstream press where impassioned editors have screeched about the incredible cost in lives and treasure this war has cost our country. They perform their dark calculus, tallying lives lost and money spent, and use to justify cutting and running. But they aren’t out here sweating and bleeding and dying. They don’t stay awake nights wondering if they did everything in their power to get their men back home safely. They don’t cry bitter tears over lost friends.  And they don’t see the enemy for who they really are.

     Have you ever stopped to think about who the insurgents really are? Or about what their final goal really is?  Do you think for a moment that they are fighting for freedom? For their people?  Have you ever wondered why foreign jihadists are trickling into Iraq to attack our forces? In case you have been living under a rock for the last several years I will spell it out for you in as clear a fashion as I am able. The insurgents are composed of two primary groups. The first is composed of former Baath Party member who long to once again crush their populace for their own personal gain.  The second group is inhabited by jihadists whose malignant form of Islam calls for the destruction of anything counter to their backwards ideology.  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not bashing the whole of Islam.  I’m referring to a small but virulent subset of the religion that is bent on imposing their draconian will on others.  That is the face of our enemy, and you would be a fool to think that leaving that plague unchecked would bring anything except disaster.

     Our country has drawn a line in the sand, and committed her forces to allowing Iraq to choose her own destiny. If we turn our back on that solemn pledge we not only dishonor the memory of the troops that sealed this promise with their very lifeblood, we embolden the jihadists bent on destroying everything we stand for.   Do I want to melt under the blistering sun day in and day out? No.  Do I want to shuffle off this mortal coil in a foreign land? Again no. Did I want to leave my beautiful bride?  A thousand times no. But in the end it comes down to this.  I would rather see this through to the end and spend the rest of my days in peace - then leave this country before the mission is through and have these same jihadists attack the fertile soil of home. 

The Hotbox

     My soldiers spent the bulk of the morning loading our armored LMTV with supplies – a thoroughly unpleasant mission made all the worse by the feverish sun. By time the truck was loaded the had painted their uniforms with thick, dark whorls of sweat. They took a few minutes to wring out their saturated tops and swallow long draughts of cold water and then they settled in front of our blustering air conditioner.

     As the cool air spilled over them their drawn expressions smoothed over, and as the minutes ticked by you could see the heat borne fatigue bleed away. By time lunch rolled around they were fully resuscitated and ready to continue on with the usual business of the day. But loading was only the first half of the mission – the supplies still needed to get to their final destination out in sector.

     Since I was the only member of the shop that hadn’t broiled under the withering sun I let my troops stay in the office and started prepping my gear for another convoy. After checking and rechecking all my gear I started donning the thick layers of armor and equipment, one heavy layer after another. There are times when our bulky equipment makes you feel like a strange cross between a medieval knight and a beast of burden, but as I snapped on the last of the equipment I couldn’t help but feel more of the latter. And then I walked outside into the baking heat and climbed into the waiting LMTV.

     The cab was sweltering, I spent the first minute fidgeting back and forth to keep the seats from searing a hole in my DCUs. By time it had cooled enough to sit comfortably we were at our link up point and I jumped out to hammer through a convoy brief with our escorts. Once all the coordinations were complete I remounted the truck and listened to the whining roar of the engine spooled up.

     And then we were off, slowly making our way off the FOB. I could already feel hot trickles of sweat slithering down the back of my neck before catching on my armored neckpiece. As we left the gate I battened down the open hatches, loaded my weapon, reached over and loaded the drivers weapon and then eased back in my seat. As soon as I sat down the air conditioner died. Maybe died is the wrong word – after all the vents were still blowing air. The only problem was the air it was blowing was as molten as the shimmering river of asphalt we were bearing down on. Under normal circumstances the thick armor slabs that coat the LMTVs are a blessing, but without air conditioning the cab quickly became hellishly hot. Before we had even hit the hardball my driver was asking if he could open one of the hatches to cool off. I waved him off with a half hearted smile. As miserable as the heat was I figured it would be better to lose a pound of sweat then risk losing a pound of meat to an IED.

     As we made our way through the cluttered Baghdad traffic drop after drop of sweat kept raining down onto ballistic goggles, smearing the images into a blurred smattering of dark and light. It’s one thing to drive down a Baghdad street – it’s another to do so half blind. I pulled the goggles farther down my nose and let the sweat cascade into my eyes. It was uncomfortable but at least I could see through the goggles. Fortunately there wasn’t much to see, the Killer company escorts were bustling back and forth in broad lethal arcs creating a wide pocket of traffic for us to drive through. Their perfect symmetry was as beautiful as it was reassuring.

     As we pulled into to the Iraqi compound I was desperate to get out of the cab. I jumped down to the ground, flexing my knees to absorb the extra weight of my armor and equipment. When I stood up I was amazed at how refreshingly cool the air felt against my saturated uniform. It was 118 degrees outside but it felt like a fresh ocean breeze compared to that armored hot box. I ordered my driver to dismount and left with one of the Killer Company NCOs to link up with the Iraqi Colonel. Once we arrived at his office we used a bastard mix of sign language, Arabic, and English to let him know the supplies had arrived. It took a few minutes to get the message across but once he understood he dispatched one of his soldiers to escort us to their supply warehouse.

     As I left the building I radioed my driver and told him to follow me to the drop off point. As he climbed back into the cab I started to squeeze into the Iraqi soldier’s Toyota truck. It was only then that I realized how spacious our HMMWVs really are – I wasn’t sitting in that truck as much as I was cocooned in it. With all my gear on the only way I could shoehorn into the front seat was to assume an ungainly armored fetal position and wait for the claustrophobic ride to end. When we arrived at the warehouse I didn’t really get out – I just spilled out in one graceless motion. It wasn’t the commanding exit I wanted to convey but I just wanted to get out of that miniscule seat. The LMTV was following behind and as I got up I could see my driver chuckling at my ridiculous dismount.

     As soon as the LMTV was in position a platoon of Iraqi soldiers started downloading the cache of supplies, chattering happily at the sudden appearance of this overburdened vehicle. As we stood back to watch the supplies downloaded several Iraqi soldiers in T-shirts came forward to stare at their strange armored benefactors. After a few minutes one of the soldiers finally came forward and asked in a conspiratorial voice “do you have the girl magazines” emphasizing his point by tracing an hourglass figure with his outstretched hands. I told him that all we had were the supplies on the truck but he persisted. “The Veronica magazines. Do you have any?” he whispered. I laughingly assured him we didn’t have any, but I had to repeat myself nine or ten times before he finally believed me. By time he was convinced that I wasn’t holding out on him the supplies were downloaded and we prepared to leave. As I was clambering back into the LMTV I hear the sharp, angry sound of automatic weapons fire on the perimeter fence. A moment later the lead gunship came over the radio and confirmed the perimeter was taking rounds. We buttoned up the rolling oven we were sitting in and the convoy made its way out of the gate.

     By time we returned to the FOB I was soaked to the bone, my uniform a soggy, clinging mess. I made my way back to the office, slipped out of my armor and stripped off my soaked uniform top – desperate to be rid of the infernal heat. Then I sat down under the air conditioner and said a silent prayer of thanks. Another mission down.

Godspeed

    Tonight our battalion huddled together under a boiling wind and said goodbye to Arnold Duplantier II, a team leader in Charlie “Rock” Company.  SGT Duplantier was a man that effortlessly earned the respect of his commanders and his soldiers. A tireless soldier, a faithful friend, a caring leader, a loving husband, and a proud father. 

     After the national anthem and invocation the Battalion Commander, LTC Tomahawk, came forward and offered a final memorial:

     Let us turn our thoughts today to Arnold Duplantier. Sergeant of Infantry.  And recognize that there are bonds between us, and all God’s soldiers fighting in this ancient land. Ties of hope and love, brotherhood and blood. And we are bound together in a desire to see the world become a place in which our children can grow free and proud. We are bound together by the tests that stand behind us and the road that lies ahead. We are bound. And we are bound.  The essential elements of nature are earth, water, wind and fire. I saw in Dupe these elements so balanced and perfectly blended that I could find no fault in that sweet, brave and honorable man. These fundamental forces so combined in him as to make the world stand on end and say “Behold, there walks a soldier”. Chief among the elements of nature is earth.  And the soul of the earth is rock., survivor of the cosmic explosion that shaped all things. The rock endures. The waters break upon it but cannot drown it.  Fire can rage about it but cannot consume it. The wind encompasses it, it howls about it in its fury but cannot move it. A rifle company is a beautiful thing, and if ever there was an example of such a thing it is Charlie Rock. Like unto the rock of ages it stands silent, strong, wonderful and proud. How fitting, how perfectly acceptable that Dupe would find his home in Charlie Company. Adding his strength to theirs.  Strength on strength.  Bearing the fair burden of combat. Like the rock bearing the next storm, the next fire, the next flood. My heart is full, my mind at ease.  For I walk with the rock. They inspire me, they provide me my constancy and purpose. Dupe was the human incarnation of all the goodness of Charlie Rock.  What remains for  a family of men bereft of a brother like that. Only the will.  The will to persevere.  To endure.  To strive and never to yield. Like the granite mountains that form the backbone of our cherished homeland. Nothing in nature is created.  Nor is it destroyed.  It mysteriously recombines… and presents itself again to existence as earth, wind, water and fire.

     The Battalion Commander was followed by SGT Duplantier’s chain of command, each offering their own memories of our fallen hero. By time they finished the assembly was a sea of subtle motion as calloused hands wiped away bitter tears. And then the ceremony was over, and the Nightstalkers waited in a long, silent line to offer one last salute to a fallen friend.

     It breaks my heart to think of SGT Duplantier’s family - I know that the sorrow we feel is a drop compared to the yawning ocean of loss they must feel.  Please keep them in your thoughts and prayers.

The Day the Laughter Died

“No man is an island, entire of itself. Any man’s death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee”

              - John Donne

     I first met SGT Arnold Duplantier II a few years back, in a sandy desert hundreds of miles south of here.  At the time our company was tasked with securing the Patriot missile batteries sprinkled across the Kuwaiti desert, each platoon assigned to an individual battery.  Every so often I would get the chance to visit the other platoons, and it was on one of these random visits that I first bumped into a young soldier with a smile as broad as a barn door. I was stopped at the entry control point for a vehicle inspection, and while my vehicle was being inspected SGT Duplantier rattled off a joke that left my sides aching. That was what I remember most about SGT Duplantier – that wide, easy grin and infectious sense of humor.

     This time around I didn’t see much of SGT Duplantier.  Every so often I’d see him laughing and joking in the DFAC with his troops, but that was it. 

     I won’t ever see have the chance to hear SGT Duplantier tell another joke because yesterday a sniper took his life.  That lone bullet didn’t just kill a good man – it wounded and scarred every man lucky enough to know him. 

Another Year

     Today I turned 32. Birthdays in Iraq aren’t really celebrations as much as they are waypoints, gentle reminders that another year has slipped by. This time last year my fiancé and I were spending a weekend with my family in Southern California. Back then my biggest concern was trying to get my family together for a mountain hike. I still remember that hike. I remember the foothills looking like burned butter, and I remember the reverent silence of the trail that wound its way through thick stands of oak. I knew there was a war going on, but on that day it seemed very far away.

     The everyday battles we fight here eclipse anything as insignificant as a birthday, I just figured I’d dump it in the same emotional pile that houses all the missed anniversaries, holidays, and other special occasions that have slipped past. But my soldiers didn’t forget. As the day came to a close I found a carefully folded napkin on my computer with the words “Capt Bout Happy Birthday  From:Your Boys”. When I pulled it aside there was a pastry from the dining facility topped with a cigarette. My troops sang happy birthday and I pretended to blow out the cigarette. In a world of dust and death my peerless soldiers managed to throw a party.  As I cut the "cake: into slices for everyone I didn’t need to make a birthday wish.  After all I already have everything a man could ask for. I just need to get back home to it.

Happy Father's Day

     One of my favorite pictures is of a laughing little boy lofted up on his father’s shoulders. Many years have passed since the camera captured that snippet of time - now I’m as old as my father was when the picture was snapped. But in many ways my father is still holding me up.

     My father was born on the emerald green island of Java in the middle of World War II. As the war drew to a close my father’s family left the bloodied Pacific for the damp fields of the Netherlands. My dad spent the next few years struggling to adapt to the rigid educational system of post-WWII Holland. At the time the school system was a cold assembly line that used standardized tests to sort students into predestined futures. By the time he was fifteen his academic scores forever closed the door to his dreams.

     But my father would not be so easily denied. Rather then numbly accept a future preordained by a few pen strokes my father joined the crew of a merchant marine cargo vessel. When he boarded that ship he left behind the only home he had ever known, and every person he had ever met. I am still awed at the courage it must have taken to simply walk away from everything familiar and leap into the unknown. But leap he did, and when he finally came to rest it was on the shores of the United States of America.

     And in America my father finally found a place big enough to hold his dreams. Over the next decade he found a good job as an electronics technician, became a US citizen, and met my mother. His dreams had found fertile ground in the bright sun of southern California. A few years later I was born - the first child of eight. Although we never had a lot of money we were rich in all the ways that really matter. Every facet of my character was chiseled by his firm counsel, and by watching my father I learned what it meant to be a good man.

     I learned strength of character is more enduring then any feats of physical aptitude. I learned to take a fall, but more importantly how to persevere. I learned to treat all men with dignity, and to see through the crippling illusions of class and creed. I learned the sanctity of hard work, but that family always comes first. And I learned that all the money in the world can’t buy back a man’s sacred honor.

     I grew up around children with more money. Their father’s had bigger houses, faster cars, more prestigious jobs. But I never cared – I had a better dad. My father’s powerful blood courses through my veins and for that I am ever thankful. Happy Father’s Day Dad.  Thanks for everything.

Goodbye

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;

a time for war, and a time for peace.

                 Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3

     As the sun set today some trick of the atmosphere left it as bleached and forlorn as a brittle shard of bone.  Or maybe the atmosphere had no part in dimming the rays of the dying sun.  Maybe the sun itself was grieving... because tonight our band of brothers said goodbye to SPC Jorge Estrada. 

     Saying goodbye to a fallen comrade is never easy, but the circumstances of SPC Estrada’s death made it doubly so. We all carried the implicit assumption that soldiers heading home for leave were safe from harm. To have that illusion callously shredded by a petty criminal simply added to the aching sense of loss.

     Every soldier not on mission was in attendance, and the grave faces of the assembled warriors lent nobility to the drab concrete pad. Each member of SPC Estrada’s chain of command stepped forward and paid their last tributes to a committed soldier, a trusted friend, a loving husband, and a committed father.

After the tributes the HHC First Sergeant performed the role call.

"SPC Martinez" called the First Sergeant.

"Here First Sergeant" replied SPC Martinez.

"SGT Myers"

"Here First Sergeant" bellowed SGT Myers.

"SPC Estrada".

After a long moment the First Sergeant cried out again "SPC Estrada".

Again the call went unheeded.

The First Sergeant put forward one last call "SPC Jorge Estrada"

As the First Sergeant’s words faded out of existence our silent reverie was shattered by the angry crack of rifle fire. The firing party discharged three volleys, and as the last shots echoed off the barren walls the mournful cry of a lone bugle cut through the dying light. Every soldier in the Nightstalker Battalion stood and held one last, long salute as the baleful notes of "Taps" echoed off our troubled hearts.

Rest in peace Jorge. You will not be forgotten.

The Buffalo

     Today I jumped onto a “Rock” company convoy to another FOB to take care of some coordinations. The drive was blissfully quiet and we pulled onto the FOB just as the cool morning air finished burning away. As we pulled into the staging area troops jumped out of the HMMWVs to strip off their armored carapaces’. Kevlars helmets were unsnapped and replaced by wide brimmed boonie caps, and thick layers of armor were peeled off like snakes shedding calloused skin. And then we waited.

     Rather then sit around in the sun I walked around the motorpool and took a good look at the motley assortment of vehicles. The biggest vehicle was a rolling mechanical platypus - an armored behemoth that looked like a hybrid between a boat, a truck, and a tank. It towered over the rest of the vehicles like some tall and grave king. As we were looking over the vehicle one of the lumbering Buffalos pulled into the motorpool.

     The Buffalo isn’t as much a vehicle as it is a rolling fortress, a monolithic battlewagon whose every line is a testament of function over form. The Buffalo has the toughest niche job in the US Army – to find and destroy the insidious IEDs the insurgents plant along the roads. But what was on our mind that morning wasn’t how tough the Buffalo’s job was – it was how tough that hulking vehicle looked as it pulled into the lot. There was a clear family resemblance between the vehicle we had been ogling and the far larger Buffalo that had just pulled up, and as soon as the troops dismounted we peppered them with questions. They were proud to show off their enormous vehicle, and we spent the next half hour hearing about the vehicles capabilities.

     What struck me most about the story wasn’t the mechanical specifications but the Buffalo’s developmental history – and what that story had to say about the United States of America. The smaller vehicle we had first run into was a South African mine disposal vehicle. The vehicle had proven its worth and durability in the service of the South African Army and eventually it was noticed by the US Army. Now keep in mind, this vehicle wasn’t experimental – it was a powerful, heavily armored vehicle with a proven track record. But that wasn’t good enough. Instead of adopting the vehicle “as is” the United States asked the South African manufacturer to build an even larger, and more thickly armored hull. These gigantic chassis were then sent to the United States where teams of contractors performed the military equivalent of MTV’s “Pimp my Ride”.

     The vehicle was fitted with a massive new engine, the four enormous tires were replaced with six tires – each even larger, and state of the art electronics were mounted. The crowning touch was a powerful robotic arm that looked like the space shuttle’s manipulator… on steroids. It was classic American engineering – take something big and make it bigger. Take something powerful and amplify it ten fold. Turn a dumb mechanical assembly into an atomically precise electronic wonder. There wasn’t anything wrong with the earlier incarnation, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the Buffalo. American ingenuity had taken something good, and made it great. As we walked away back to our vehicles I had to smile. Only in America.

Return to Namelessville

     This morning soldiers from "Killer" Company rolled up to the TOC - ready to provide an armed and armored escort for our return to the small hamlet nestled in "Little Vietnam". In the days since our last visit word has spread about the children's lack of shoes and a small fund had been established. Once the money had been collected one of the interpreters went to a local market and returned with an oversize cardboard box brimming with sandals. Since I was buried under a mound of paperwork that looked more like a "Jinga" game then an in-box one of my soldiers, SPC Rivers, went along with the convoy.

     The patrol to the overgrown palm groves flashed by, and as the vehicles approached the foul oil soaked road it looked like it would be a quiet and uneventful journey. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

     It wasn't the report of a rifle or the shock wave of an IED that broke the silence. It was the keening cry that seemed to blaze a sonic trail behind the children racing one another back to the village. As the vehicles pulled into overwatch positons the sound only grew, until the sound of children's breathless laughter pierced the armor and drowned out the growling turbo diesels. By time the engines shuddered to a halt the vehicles were awash in a universe of smiling children and hopeful parents.

     As the soldiers started to dismount several Iraqi soldiers in the area came to see what was causing all the ruckus. As the HMMWVs slipped into their view you could see the tension bleed off, and they eagerly approached our vehicles. Within a few short minutes the soldiers not pulling security were laughing with them and posing for the "Hollywood" photographs that are part and parcel of any "bilateral" operation.

     Meanwhile something altogether unheard of was occurring... the children were self organizing. For a moment entropy stopped in its tracks and that rarest of creatures, good order, seemed to spontaneously appear. It was if a phoenix was rising from its own chaotic ashes - its every feather in perfect alignment. And surprisingly the children remained patient as SPC Rivers pulled out the box of sandals. By time the box was empty all the children were proudly parading around in their new sandals, stopping every few steps to admire their feet like little hens. The troops spent a few more minutes conversing with the heads of the household before moving back toward their vehicles. The children followed in a giggling, smiling group to see the soldiers off.

     But the giving wasn't over. As the children approached the vehicles the gunners who had been providing security reached into their turrets and pulled out bags of candy. Each gunner grabbed enormous handfuls of candy and tossed them in long parabolic arcs towards the kids. Before the first handful had even reached the ground any semblance of order was gone. If you have ever been at a children's birthday and seen the wild abandon with which children attack a pinata then you know exactly what I mean.

     As the village faded into the dusty wake of the HMMWVs the soldiers once again slipped into the hypervigilence that combat patrols demand. But the smiles splashed on everyones face at missions end came from more then just a safe return. It came from a job well done.

Rebuilding

Yellow Bracelet

My words fall flat on the living room floor

As we try to speak of shallow things

But the only thing in our minds is the unspeakable

Your pain makes this silence so heavy

Its breaking me down

You fidget with your yellow bracelet

A bracelet meant to represent hope

But now it only serves as a reminder of the emptiness of home

The price of freedom seems too much for you to bear

To you he is a father and a victim

To me he is a hero

            - Sommer Rees

     Sommer is best friends with SGT Ferguson's daughter, and shortly after his injury she penned this verse for to ease her friend's anguish.  Not all the casualties in a war occur on a battlefield - the second and third order effects often ripple through a community with the chill strength of a tidal wave.

     SGT Ferguson has slowly improved and was recently moved from Bethesda Medical Center to a veterans facility in Palo Alto, California.  But his ordeal, and that of his family and friends, is far from over.  While we labor to rebuild a country, they labor to rebuild a life.  Our jobs may be a little more dangerous, but theirs is just as difficult.  Please keep them in your prayers.