365 and a Wakeup

Inscriptions

“I was sustained by one piece of inestimable good fortune. I had for a friend a man of immense and patient wisdom and a gentle but unyielding fortitude. I think that if I was not destroyed at this time by the sense of hopelessness which these gigantic labors has awakened in me, it was largely because of the courage and patience of this man. I did not give in because he would not let me give in."

             -Thomas Wolfe

     Some people come into your life like a leaf settling onto a pond, their arrival causing nary a ripple.  Others hurtle in like a stone falling from a high cliff, their entrance marked by a riot of spray and a corona of liquid motion. But after their explosive entrance these too quickly fade, the circlet of energy disappearing as its kinetic seed settles to the bottom.  And then there are people who pass through your life like a smooth river rock skipping across the surface. Their swift trajectory doesn’t allow them to settle into the chill depths of being, but their dance between the elements of air and water momentarily suspends the boundaries between all things.  And shows you, if only for a brilliant moment, that all things are possible. 

     There are no words that accurately describe those rare individuals, nor are there words to express the sorrow you feel when they have to move on. If there is a consolation it comes from the knowledge that their lessons are inscribed on the most durable of mediums.  Your soul.

Another Step Forward

     I consider Michael Yon both a friend and an inspiration. His most recent post is a perfect example -  score one for the away team! 

                                                     http://michaelyon.blogspot.com

Mexico

     This morning the sun bled into the sky in slow motion, the acetylene light scattering off the broad sheet of dust that shrouds the Baghdad skyline. As the sun clawed ever higher the gathering rays started to knife through the dirty haze, the light slowly shifting through the spectrum. And then it broke through its dirty chains, flaring in a brilliant second sunrise. The light show almost took my mind off the upcoming mission. Almost. The mission wasn’t anything special, just a jog to the IZ to pick up some supplies. But the everyday missions can be every bit as lethal as a combat patrol, so when I arrived at the motorpool the vehicles were already abuzz with troops performing pre mission checks on their armored HMMWVs. The vehicles were lined in neat rows like rough desert crops, and the troops moving among their green and tan hulls looked like farm hands tending their fields. Every Soldier performed their part in the process with practiced ease, their deliberate motions devoid of any wasted effort. The duties were parsed to each subject matter expert. Drivers ducked under open hoods to inspect the engine’s vital signs. Gunners lofted their oil bright machine guns into their turreted mounts. TCs (vehicle commanders) dove into the vehicles to perform radio checks and ensure the electronic suites were snapped to life. All while the extra passengers shuttled between the barracks and the vehicles, bringing with them coolers full of frozen water and Gatorade they loaded into the cavernous trunks. Everything happened simultaneously, the individual motions lost in an ocean of clicking, whirring motion. Once all the checks were complete troops congregated in small groups, snapping on body armor as they laughed and talked about brighter days.

     The groups all coalesced for a mission brief, and once that was complete everyone scattered to their waiting vehicles. The drive to the IZ wasn’t any different from any other mission outside the wire, the broken landscape slipped by the armored windows to the throaty roar of the turbo diesel engine. It is amazing how quickly your mind can adapt to the strange carnival of sights along Baghdad’s roadways. Herds of dust laden sheep grazing on fields of dirt and trash along the road. Ancient tractors pulling dismembered pickup beds filled with ripe melons. Plastic scooters zipping along with three riders – the last passenger hovering over the tailpipe on a flimsy board. And long frustrated lines of vehicles being pushed to rusted gas stations.

     One of the peculiar ironies of Baghdad life is the endless lines of vehicles waiting for fuel – the smallest line I have ever seen outside a gas station stretched more then a city block. The lines are so long many of the drivers just shut off their engines and push their wretched vehicles forward to avoid wasting the fuel they would spend idling. It’s the last thing I would have expected to see in Iraq, but the sight is so commonplace I’d be worried if we didn’t see a line of cars.

     Our final destination was a FOB carved out of one of Saddam’s bombed out palaces. The entire area is a lesson in contrasts – the graceful lines of reflective ponds are flanked by row after row of sheet metal trailer homes. I am sure they are great places to live, but compared to the artful lines of the deep pools they look like a metallic pox dotting the landscape. The centerpiece is the palace itself, a soaring complex riddled with wide empty gashes clotted with wreckage. The Air Force’s precision bombs gouged cavernous holes in this place, their enormous energies wrapping each puncture in a halo of tortured steel. The graceful spire that once capped the building took the brunt of the damage, all that is left is the skeletal fingers of naked steel girders jutting skyward. We parked in one of the graveled motorpools and set about our mission, by time the line for lunch was forming outside the DFAC we were loaded and ready to move out. The troops providing security had been ready to return for hours, it only took them a minute to mount their vehicles and roll back out of the palace grounds.

     That was about it, the ride back slid by without any problems. As we started to reenter the FOB my driver said “In a way this looks a lot like Mexico”. I thought about it a moment and had to agree with him. This place does resemble Mexico; it just has a lot more explosions.

A River Runs Through It

      If there is one single feature that separates Baghdad from the rest of this hellish desert it is the sinewy curves of the Tigris River. There are no promenades along its shores, just a sharp band of grey, rough hewn rock separating burnt soil from cool water. In the areas where the sand flows into the river you will see the most obvious works of man - the lithe curves of wooden boats and the artless shimmer of mass produced aluminum runabouts. Although the shores are dozens of degrees cooler then the hive of Baghdad’s neighborhoods the supercharged sun still beats its bright hammer on the boats – all of them have the same withered look you see on the cars shuttling around the rivers of asphalt.

     If the Tigris is Baghdad’s artery, then the capillaries are the hundreds of ugly metal pipes that pierce the rivers surface like a so many mosquitoes. The majority of Baghdad’s vegetation relies on what these bent, rusted pipes can siphon from the river – there is a direct correlation between the amount of agriculture in a specific area and the serviceability of the regions mechanical proboscis. But despite the decrepit boats and whirring machinery there is still beauty to be found on the Tigris.

     Long stretches of the river are lined with the emerald glimmer of green leaves, their fluttering motion helping to draw attention from the ugly welts of prefabricated buildings that also parallel the rivers course. The banks of the shore are also lined with tall blades of razor thin reeds, their thin arms swaying to the gentle rise and fall of the river. It is as beautiful a sight as you could hope to see in this broken land.

     But as is so often the case the beauty of the river comes at a cost. In our case that price is collected by the hidden clusters of IEDs that have thrown their twisted fragments against our armored vehicles. We haven’t had to pay the toll in blood, but are armor bears the jagged scars of several close calls. The upshot of all this is that we aren’t the only ones paying the price – our adamantine patrols have robbed the insurgents of yet another “safe” zone. Eventually our patrols will narrow their choices into a binary solution. Move or die. It seems somehow fitting – something as twisted and corrupt as the insurgents belongs out in the blistering desert.

The Rebound

     The most valuable armor a soldier can own isn’t government issue. It isn’t crafted in a metallurgical lab, or spun out of some advanced composite. It isn’t a tangible quantity; it can’t be measured or gauged. And it certainly can’t be bought… regardless of how much money you have. The armor I am speaking of is the arcane psychological plating that shields your psyche from the condensed misery of a warzone. It is something that hovers far below consciousness, silently intervening when the murderous environment attempts to leave its loathsome imprint on your being. It doesn’t help keep you alive, but what it does protect is as dear as life itself.

     A few weeks back my armor took a hit… and it was pierced. The wound was bloodless, but that didn’t mean it was painless. One of the key lessons you learn as a soldier is discipline, and that discipline kept me focused on the mission at hand. But for a few days I inwardly recoiled and set about my day to day tasks with the rigid formality you might expect from an automaton. It was ironic that just as the sun flared in the sky like a supernova I felt like everything seemed a little dimmer.

     There wasn’t any one thing that healed my secret wound and repaired my weathered armor, it was a combination of things. Or to be more specific it was a combination of people. The biggest single contributor was my loving wife, who has ever been my touchstone. Just hearing her voice over the crackling long distance line reminded me of the world I left behind. Of lazy afternoons that begrudgingly gave way to mild evenings. Of wonderful dinners spent around our dining table, and late breakfasts on our patio. In short, of all the little things that I slowly realized were the biggest things.

     And then there were the soldiers. If you ask anyone in the Infantry why they stay in the military you will get the same answer time and again. To be with the Soldiers. One of the biggest lies you will ever hear is that Soldiers on the line are people who lack the ability to hold down another job, and lack the skills to survive in the “real” world. I’m not sure who started that particular falsehood, but I’d bet my paycheck it wasn’t someone who had spent time in the Infantry. Just being with the troops in “Killer” Company was a humbling experience that snapped the world back into its proper focus.

     And then there were the letters from back home. One came with news that SGT Ferguson, who chances of survival were once considered remote, was back in California and well on his way down the long road to recovery. Another came full of comedy DVDs that had me laughing until my sides ached. And still another came from a 10 year old who asked if she could send her own stuffed animals here to Iraq for the destitute children around our FOB. In the face of so much support, and in the company of so many everyday hero’s it is hardly surprising I found myself renewed. This mission can be difficult, but it must be done. And I plan on doing my part… the best way that I can.

Desert Alchemy

     Today the wind returned, a stifling current of air that flowed through the FOB like the hot breath of some infernal entity. By midmorning the air was little more then an overheated conduit of raw energy. As I walked across the FOB I closed my eyes for a minute and felt like I was standing behind a jet turbine spooling up for takeoff. By early afternoon the thermometer that hangs outside our building was no longer a reliable gauge, the mercury had already pushed past 120 degrees.

     I don’t know if the shimmering heat magnified my sense of smell, or if the baking temperatures triggered some strange chemical reaction, but the FOB was redolent with a witches brew of scent. In one area the noxious smell of burning plastic seemed to soak into my uniform, until it was replacesd in turn by the sickly sweet smell of diesel fumes.  In another areas all I could smell was the foul stench of boiling trash - a corrupt odor that seemed to poison the very air.  In still another area the only smell was the cloying scent of radiator fluid, a smell so strong and overpowering I expected to find an army of overheated vehicles around the next bend.  The smells came one after another with such piercing clarity that at some point my nose just shut down.  What can I say - the heat can do strange things out here.

Resolve

     There are many fronts on the war on terror – and the most lethal aren’t always our engagements with the insurgents.  Our troops are patrolling the grinding crucible of Iraq on a day to day basis – but we have never taken losses as severe as the attacks on London this past week.  And our total losses here in Iraq still pale in comparison to the loss in life we incurred in the attacks of 9-11. 

     After losing so many innocent lives there is a natural tendency to view the terrorists as little more then blind and bitter zealots – but doing so would discount the true depth of their depravity. If you take a glance into their merciless ideology two things become readily apparent.  The first is that they are in this for the long game.  The second is that they have grasped an ancient truth – that the key to any fight is mercilessly hammering your enemy’s weak point.

     A perfect example is the mission here in Iraq. The insurgents arrayed against us aren’t brave fighters or great warriors.  In fact every time we fight toe to toe in a direct fire engagement they limp away like scared dogs.  But the insurgents aren’t dumb, they have learned to hide their weakness by relying on IEDs, the modern equivalent of a bear trap.  In the dead of night they skulk out of the shadows and lay their volatile traps, then lay in wait for one of our vehicles to roll into the blast radius.      

     When those brutal devices blossom into roaring, rending splinters they gouge men and machine alike. When those white hot pieces of metal find flesh to chew into they strike America's sole the gift of prescience; I don’t know what Iraq will look like when we do decide to pull out. But I do know that if we let the insurgents plan the timeline then we will have lost a key battle in this war without borders.  My heart aches for the losses in London, but those horrible losses have only strengthened my resolve to help cut out this cancer. 

     If I could take the average citizen along with us on a combat patrol I have no doubt they would feel the same way. But I can’t.  All I can do is hope that America will continue to support this mission and let us win this war. Is it costly?  Very. Is it painful? Even more so. But in the end it comes down to this – in the entire history of the human race, from the dark avenues of prehistory up to this modern “enlightened” age, there are precious few instances where bowing to an enemy seeking your annihilation did anything but lead to a much uglier world. And I for one don’t plan on letting that come to pass.

Bleached Skies

     Our barren little patch of earth is a bare notch over monochromatic. If an artist wanted to paint the images that splash across our retinas there would be little use for any colors except black, tan, drab green, and gunmetal grey. If color were transmuted to sound then our FOB would echo with a hard, grating dirge.

     The only oasis from the stark landscape is the ocean of bleached blue that pinwheels overhead. The flashbulb fury of the sun prevents anything more then a brief gaze into the heavens, but sometimes that is all that is needed to break the visual monotony of the FOB. In the last few days a bone dry wind has ensured even that feeble shading was lost to us.

     I don’t know what is worse – the wind pumping like an infernal bellow, or the loss of any shred of color. At first blush I would have to say the river of shimmering heat that hungrily siphons liter after liter of sweat. But the truth is they are fairly equally matched, the loss of the only token of nature in this kingdom of grit exacts its own hateful toll. Maybe tomorrow the wind will die and the soft blue sky will leak through the dirty film hanging over Baghdad. We’ll see…

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday my love.  I wish that I could watch you blow out those candles...

Happy 1st Anniversary

Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great.

                        - Christpher Marlowe

     The eyes of the world are still riveted on Iraq. It isn’t just idle curiosity - the next chapter in America's history will be written in these blazing sands. I can’t imagine what the situation in Iraq looks like from outside eyes, I have a feeling the answer depends on how many sources of information you tap into. For the troops here on the bleeding edge of America's bright sword there is no overarching plot, just the sense that there are many more chapters yet to be written. When you are submerged in the turbulent confluence of death, desolation, hope, and honor you quickly lose sight of the big picture and learn the importance of focusing on your specific mission.

     But a strange thing happens when you focus to narrowly - lines blur, time splinters, and direct paths seem to follow great meandering loops. When that happens everyone has to have a refuge, a safe harbor to regain their bearings. Some Soldiers immerse themselves in video games; others click on their DVD players and lose themselves for a few hours.

I just write.

And miss my wife.

     You might think that against the backdrop of this war – a war that will determine the future of nations – everyday life would seem bland and unimportant. But you would be wrong. I’ve spent a hundred evenings dreaming about leaving work and coming home to my loving wife. The brightest part of my soul never made it to Iraq, it is back in California with my better half. And I do mean better half – every quality I possess she eclipses a thousand-fold. That’s why I married her. A year ago today. Happy Anniversary my love. You are my… everything.