365 and a Wakeup

Last Days at the FOB

Every goodbye is the birth of a memory

                                Dutch Proverb

     What was to be our last day at the FOB started with pregnant drops of rain sizzling through the predawn darkness. They fell in a tumbling cascade, slowly gathering strength until the air was thick with water. The first few drops of rain splattered into the dust like micro meteorites, sending tiny puffs of dust into the air from their sudden impact. For the first few minutes the air was filled with a strange elemental alchemy – the elements of water, earth, and air all defending their respective domains. Eventually the rain turned into a torrent, and the fallow dust yielded, transforming into tarry pools of mud. Just like a year ago.

     The mud is the same, the high walls still grope for the sky, even the wind tastes the same as when we arrived. But I am not earth, nor stone, nor air. I am creature of blood and bone… and I have changed. I am leaving this FOB a different man then the one who arrived at these chill gates those many months ago. I’ve sipped from the poison chalice of loss. Felt my veins run with chill blood and my face streak with hot tears. And I’ve watched as the reaper’s scythe whistled through the desert air. Mortal things cannot brush shoulders with eternity without bearing the psychic scars of their meeting. And so I am changed... both inside and out.

     I have aged and weathered under the sun’s fierce glare, my face creased with worn lines as faulted as the sun splintered fields. They remind me of the fearsome toll every one of us paid. I don’t mourn their arrival, they are the outward manifestation of those ethereal scars the crease my soul. It seems somehow fitting and proper that I be left with a physical reminder of what was lost… and what was gained.

     Do not mistake my words. I am not broken, nor am I damaged. The story of our mission is not a tragedy, despite our losses. The deepest etchings on my soul, the ones that will remain in both this life and the next, were the incandescent examples of valor, courage, and brotherhood I witnessed each and every day. The men who served at my side were bound to me, and I to them, with tidal forces that have no equivalent in the sterile formality of the living world. Back home the concept of "self" is a rigid construct, a domain mapped with the formality of a land agreement. But here on the bleeding edge we became more something greater than our individual parts. We became a family.

     Our time in Iraq is drawing to a close. Our bags are packed. The sun is about to set on our 18 month deployment. And now that we aren’t in daily contact I’ve found my feelings centered on the fierce and solemn pride at having served alongside so many bright souls.

Autumn Memories

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. 

                       - P.D. James

     Tonight silvery clouds skipped across the sky, thick gossamer curtains that blotted the cold light of the moon.  I stood on the roof of our barracks for the better part of an hour just watching the night wind chase them through the high atmosphere.  In the grip of those ceaseless currents of air they would scatter like children playing a game of hide and seek, only to reform minutes later into billowing sheets of pearlescent light.  The last time I remember seeing clouds was months ago.  During the arclight days of summer the sun refused to share his high kingdom with any usurpers. 

     The breeze lazily shuffling past was crisp and cool, like a bite into an unripened apple.  When the wind flickered past I could feel the air greedily bleeding away my body heat, but I stood rooted in place.  Because when I looked up at that jigsaw sky, endlessly reforming itself in some chaotic ballet, I could almost fool myself into thinking I was home. 

     Standing there lost in memory I started to hear the skeletal scrape of leaves bouncing along the driveway.  For a second I caught a familiar scent on the wind, the smoky tang of seasoned wood crackling on a fire.  That phantom smell was enough to soften the cold lines of the FOB, and the next breath I took pushed me even farther into memory.  For a few minutes I wasn’t on a forlorn roof…  I was home.  I could see the flickering incandescesence of a fireplace dance on my wife’s face.  I could hear her voice, as pure as a claret and as bright as the searing embers in the fire.  I don’t know how long I remained absorbed in thought - dreams and memories follow their own meandering path through time.  Eventually I heard the rooftop door groan heavily on its dried hinges, the tortured sound pulling me back across the long miles.  Back across the oceans of sand, and it scattered islands of pain and strife.  Back across the fierce shoals of vehicles and weapons that ring our encampment.  Until I was once again standing on an ugly roof.  In Baghdad.  Alone.

Clarity

      In the last couple days I’ve sat up awake, staring into the empty darkness and waiting for dreams to take me far from this barren land. I wish I could say that my insomnia stems from something noble, like an earnest reflection on the ebb and flow of fortune. But it isn’t the larger questions of mortality that have kept me up lately, its something far more personal – I’ve lost a coherent portrait of life back home. That may sound like a small thing, but memories of home have been my phrenic umbilicus to better times and places.  And somehow the loss of all the subtle mental details seems to stretch the distance between Iraq and California to a shade under infinity.

     If there is some consolation it is that I can see some things with perfect, almost brilliant clarity. The clearest of memories involve my beautiful wife. The way her shimmering hair cascades onto her shoulders. Her glittering eyes, and her wide and perfect smile. The way she would neatly arrange her hair brush next to the sink. Even things ancillary to her seem to burn a little brighter, as if her lilting presence somehow dignified details that otherwise would have been lost.

     But in a way those perfect snapshots only highlight all the other details that seem stretched and pale. When I try to remember everyday scenes from back home it almost seems as if I’m peering through a rain fogged windshield. At first I was convinced that my memories were falling victim to entropy, as if the arid environment could somehow shift neurons in synchronicity with the tides of blowing sand. But the more I mull over it the more I’m convinced that the problem isn’t a matter of systematic degradation, I simply failed to appreciate the little things.  Instead of recognizing each day as precious I assumed I would be there to watch the next dawn, as if my mortality were somehow preserved through willful ignorance. Rather then revel in the raw splendor of just being alive and aware I was eternally fixated on some future destination that never seemed quite so important once it had arrived. My only consolation is that the time I spent with my wife snapped me out of that empty self absorption and left me with memories as clear and deep as a mountain lake.

     Looking at the contrast between memories makes me loathe the careless way I used to move through life, and reaffirms a lesson I have learned here in Iraq.  Both danger and potential lay curled in every passing moment, we have only to watch with keen eyes for their fateful silhouette. Maybe that level of attention is impossible to maintain for any significant length of time.  I guess I’ll just have to see.

Pushing On

The best way out is always through.
                     - Robert Frost

     Grief has hit like a sledgehammer these last few days, leaving deep gouges in the collective memory of our battalion. A lifetime of anguish, bravery, loss and regret were compressed into a handful of days. I haven’t been able to chronicle the events in anything more then a cursory fashion because at some point my emotions slipped away, blanketed by a insensate numbness. Like a patient that has just been pumped full of too much novocain my psyche feels detached - as if that feeling, sensing part of my being has been somehow blunted. 

     In many ways it feels like some armored bulwark has slammed down to mute the inchoate rush of emotion. I know that this slipshod form of mental triage will eventually fade, so I don’t feel the need to forcibly cast it off. To do so would be akin to scratching a scab off the puckered edges of a fresh wound.

     I will not forget our honored dead, someday when I am safely ensconced in the familiar I will grieve properly, in a way that is fitting for so painful a loss. But for now I’ll accept the stilted range of emotions I’ve been left with and focus on the missions at hand. To do anything less would be courting disaster.

Balance

     There are days where pain seeps into your veins like a venom, slowing only to settle in marrow deep pools.  There are days where no amount of rest can crack the adamantine circlets of fatigue that seem to bind your frame.  There are days where memories of home seem like a cracked and faded picture, leaving just faded impressions shorn of all the subtle shadings that made the moment unique and special. When these days come they bear down on your heart like a steel press. 

     But there is symmetry to all things under heaven, and for every suffering there is a joy of equal measure. It doesn’t always come instantly, but it always seems to come. On the days where the carrion birds circle your consciousness that knowledge alone can be enough to ward off the darkness and mend the hurt.

     Sometimes felicity is writ large, like the cool desert mornings where the sun stains the horizon with sublime banners of crimson and gold. There are other times where satisfaction flows from being in the company of so many tough and determined soldiers. At other times joy comes from little more then seeing my name scrawled on a care package, the familiar words as intoxicating as the finest liquor. But all of these lesser joys pale in comparison to the raw sense of bliss that comes from just being alive another day. Life is something all too easily taken for granted, its brilliance muffled beneath an avalanche of the unimportant and unnecessary dramas of being. But out here you see firsthand just how tenuous the thread of life can be, and that awareness makes every pulse of your heart something strange and miraculous.

     When this mission comes to a close I’ll carry back memories as sharp as razors, and there will be times when they continue to cut. There is no use bemoaning that reality, it simply is. I’m alright with that, if nothing else those memories will focus my attention on what has real value in this world. It isn’t anything as empty as money, or as base as fame. It’s the simple things that brought me joy even here in the middle of combat. My loving wife. My family. The company of good friends.  Nature in all her incarnations.  After all this I don’t think I’ll ever take any of them for granted.

The Silence of the Lambs

     For the most part Iraqi cuisine is relatively simple fare, heavy on regional staples like pita bread, rice, and lamb.  So when our commander, CPT Mac, decided to ask his Iraqi counterpart for a authentic Iraqi meal he was totally unprepared for what appeared in front of him.      

     His first inkling that this was no ordinary meal was when one of the Iraqis placed oversize bowls in front of each of the invited guests.  Calling the cavernous dishes bowls stretches the definition to the breaking point – these curved plastic dishes were large enough to mix a batch of concrete in.  Each bowl was carefully lined with steaming layers of pita bread, giving the impression the dining table was marred by great bread lined craters.   Any reservations CPT Mac might have had about the strange bowls were countered by the excited faces of his Iraqi hosts, who were scarcely able to contain their ravenous excitement as the bowls were carefully laid out.      

     A minute later the cook wheeled out an enormous steaming pot – his sweaty face beaming with the singular pride of a father bringing a Thanksgiving turkey to the table.  He wheeled the pot over to CPT Mac and carefully placed the main course in the middle of the bowl.  The cooks obvious pride in his culinary masterpiece did little to assuage CPT Mac’s shock when he realized his meal was staring back at him.  To his credit CPT Mac didn’t let the Iraqi’s see his sudden wave of nausea, but in that instant all the Americans suddenly regretted asking their hosts for an authentic Iraqi dinner.     

     The delicacy that looked back at CPT Mac was the apex of Iraqi cusine – fresh, boiled sheeps head.  And when I say whole – I mean whole.  Apparently the entire preparation involved little more then cutting the head off and dumping it in a vat of boiling water.  The cook made his way around the table, gently placing a steaming head on every dish with practiced care.   By this point the Iraqis could no longer contain themselves, and the entire scene started to look like a clip from an Indiana Jones movie.  The Iraqis used their bare hands to eagerly tear chunks of meat off the sheep’s heads, pausing only to pull of clumps of matted wool.  For a few minutes all conversations ceased, and the room filled with the happy sounds of eating. Two of the senior NCOs decided to make a game of the dinner, and spent the next few minutes daring each other to eat random pieces of the head.  After a few rounds of “eat the mystery body part” they finally dared each other to eat the animals eyeball.  As the first NCO sucked out the eyeball his face took on a decidedly pale shade of grey and the contest quickly ended.  CPT Mac did his best to appear to enjoy the meal, pushing the head around the plate and pretending to place pieces in folded pockets of empty pita bread.  But the Iraqi sitting next to him wasn’t fooled for a moment, and figured the CPT’s reticence was due to the lack of eating utensils.  He turned to CPT Mac, gave a broad and brain spattered smile, and reached over to help the commander with his meal.  He pushed his hands into the braincase and started to pull out quivering, glistening morsels.  As he pulled out each piece he would hold the piece for the commander’s inspection, as if it were a rare and luxurious pearl snatched from the seafloor.  Although the Iraqi was doing his best to be a gracious host, the sight of the Iraqi’s dirt stained hands pushing their way into the animals skull was almost too much for CPT Mac to bear.  As the Iraqi offered the pile of slippery chunks to the commander all he could manage was a weak smile.  Fortunately the Iraqi wasn’t offended, happily munching away at the shuddering mass he had so assiduously pulled from the sheep’s head.        

     Later, as I relayed the story to Naz (one of our interpreters) he looked at me with stunned disbelief.  Naz snorted out “You mean the commander didn’t like the head”.  When I explained that eating a sheeps head wasn’t part of America’s culinary tradition he just shook his head and said “When I buy 4 sheep heads for the interpreters it is never enough – we eat the s**t out of the head”.  As he said this he was practically drooling at the memory of his last meal.  I spent the next few minutes listening to Naz explain the nuances of this particular dish, and by time he finished I resolved to avoid this dish at all costs.  I may have a cast iron stomach… but sucking the brain out of an intact sheep’s head is a little much.  MREs never sounded so good.

The Break

     One of the ironies of military operations is that soldiers will get injured even in the absence of enemy activity.  A lot of the risk can be mitigated by strong leadership and meticulous planning, but after all the cards are dealt sometimes chaos comes up with the best hand. Last night was one of those times.

     As our patrol moved along a shadowed road one of our gunners screamed in pain. The Platoon Leader, 2LT Lucky, called out over the radio that he had an injury and in that instant the patrol transformed from a stealthy column into a coiled ring of force. Gunners scanned for targets, dismounts spilled onto the road to take up overwatch positions, and our medic went sprinting for the stricken truck. When he arrived the vehicle was unblemished, but the gunner was bent over in pain. SPC Tiberius started treating the gunner while the rest of the patrol secured the area, pausing only to give instructions to the combat lifesaver’s assisting him. In a few minutes he had the bleeding staunched and the gunner prepped for evacuation back to the FOB. The dismounts jumped back into the gunships and the silence was broken with the whining roar of the turbo diesels flaring into life.

     After a breakneck sprint we roared back onto the FOB and brought the gunner, SPC Math, into the TMC (troop medical clinic). The company commander was already there to check on his soldier, and by time we cleared our weapons he was joined by the Battalion Commander and the Command Sergeant Major. As the doctors worked in the dull glare of the cold fluorescent light it was obvious that while his injury was painful, it wasn’t life threatening. The platoon leader, the commander and I waited there in the hallway in full battle rattle waiting for SPC Math to have his hand x-rayed, talking about the incident in hushed tones. A few minutes later the Doctors came by to tell us he had two breaks in his hand, but would be alright. There was a collective sigh of relief that was echoed a moment later when I relayed the message to the troops waiting outside the TMC. As I returned to the treatment room the Doctors asked that we wait near the entrance while they finished treating SPC Math. We waited in the tiny waiting room for another hour before SPC Math was ready to be released, chatting about idle empty topics to speed the passage of time. When he finally came through the doors of the treatment room, woozy from the painkillers and propped up by his SSG Vent, the stubborn cloud of unease finally lifted. As we made our way back to the vehicle we all joked about the accident and took turns looking at his heavily bandaged hand. To an outsider we probably looked like a laughing pack of hyenas, but to those with clear eyes we were something rare and precious. We were a family made whole again.   

Rolling with the Heavies

     Here in Iraq the M1 Abrams tank is the apex predator, even at rest its sleek lines convey a sense of lethal menace.  The M1 isn’t so much a vehicle as a rolling battleship, it’s massive belts of armor were designed to absorb or deflect direct hits from the main guns of enemy tanks.  There must be some parallel between the ballistic laws governing deflection and the laws of aerodynamics, because the M1’s low profile mirrors the shapely lines of an exotic sports car.     

     Being an light infantry officer doesn’t afford you many opportunities to work in conjunction with these mountains of steel, so when I had the opportunity to jump onboard an M1 heading out on patrol I seized the opportunity.  As the driver spools up the engine there is a low whistling whine and then a soft growling hum that seems to course through the tank.  You don’t really hear it as much as feel it, when the turbine is running you can literally feel the tank shiver with horsepower.   That is the first thing that surprises you about an M1, when the engine is running the Abrams practically bleeds power.  That sense of coiled intensity is no illusion, when the driver lurched the vehicle forward I was thrown against the rear of the hatch by the hard wave of acceleration.      

      There are two hatches on the top of an M1, one for the TC (tank commander) and one for the loader.  Since we would be patrolling with hatches open that meant we would spend the mission standing on our respective seats.. When you stand in that position your chest is about level with the thick armor roof of the Abrams, and your upper body is free to use the machine guns that festoon the turret.   As we loaded the weapons I felt like we were loading toy guns.  The machine guns weren’t any different from the weapons that adorn our HMMWVs, but next to the menacing profile of the main gun they looked like little more then an afterthought.      

     As the Abrams slipped into traffic the engine was finally free to unload its staggering might and the tank accelerated forward like a shot.  In a few seconds I could feel a stiff breeze cooling my face, and a few seconds later I noticed the Abrams was catching up to the civilian traffic.  The driver eased off the throttle and we continued forward at a steady trot, the vehicles ahead of us gunning their engines to avoid the ominous figure in their rear view mirror.  The second thing that surprises you about riding in an M1 is the butter smooth suspension.  When our HMMWVs drive down the roads the journey is usually a jarring, kidney rattling affair.  But in the Abrams all you feel is the steady throb of the engine curl up through your feet, the suspension just absorbs the uneven roads as if you were riding a polished piece of ice.      

    

We spent most of the morning patrolling one of most fearsome roads in sector without hearing a single shot.  For a few hours that contested piece of road was as quiet and still as a mountain lake, the insurgents knew that tangling with the Abrams was a sure path to the next life.  Standing there in the turret, surrounded by tons of thick armor I could understand why so many tankers are loathe to dismount their vehicles.  Inside those overpowered fortresses you don’t protect terrain – you dominate it.  The M1 leaves the insurgents utterly impotent; all they can do is crawl into a corner and wait for you to leave.  And that is the essence of power – defeating the enemy without ever firing a shot.

High Flying

     After spending the better part of a minute adjusting the straps on the four point harness I finally heard the last strap click into place.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and looked around the Blackhawk, taking a little comfort from the fact that I wasn’t the last one to clip in.  I don’t know why Blackhawk harnesses are so difficult to latch into, but I can’t remember a single instance where someone didn’t need the crew chief to help them buckle in.      As we were fumbling with our restraints the crew chief waited impatiently at the door, silently cursing our lack of manual dexterity.  After watching for about a minute he gave an exasperated grunt and latched the last soldier into his harness, then stood back up and inspected all of our restraints. Satisfied that none of his hapless charges were going to fall out he muttered something that was lost in the growl of propwash and slid behind one of the low slung machine guns in the front of the bird.      

     The moment the crew chief settled into position the dull howl of the engines started to ratchet up until it was a throbbing shriek.  The entire airframe seemed to bristle with power, as if the entire assembly were some great metallic predator ready to pounce.  For a long moment nothing seemed to happen, then the pilot made some imperceptible shift on the controls and our Blackhawk dutifully leapt into the sky.  Taking off in a military helicopter in a combat zone is nothing like taking off in a commercial airliner.  The raw power that seems to course through the entire assembly is literally awe inspiring, as we took off I could feel my back muscles flexing to adapt to the vertical acceleration.

       I had the good fortune of sitting in the seat closest to the yawning doors, which afforded a view that put most convertibles to shame.  As I sat there watching the earth retreat under my dangling feet I felt like I was reliving some half remembered dream – a dream where I could just up and fly away from our graceless FOB.  After a minute or two a sun bright flash caught my eye and choked me back to reality.  It took a second to understand just what was going on, but when a second micrometeorite shot past the door I realized the automated flare dispenser was throwing out anti-missile decoys.        

     The flight over Southern Baghdad was nothing short of spectacular.  From 500 feet in the air all the rot that clutters the streets seemed to melt into the background, and the settlements seemed to take on orderliness altogether absent from the ground.  The farmland was criss-crossed with canals, dull concrete bulwarks that seemed to triage the fields themselves.  On one side of a canal you might find the rich brown of tilled soil and just on the other side you might find dried pools of cracked and blistered mud.  There was no order and no pattern to their arrangement, they just were.  And through it all there was always the gentle curl of the Tigris in the background, reflecting the sun like a bright pane of shimmering glass.      

     I was so wrapped up in the flight I stopped keeping track of time.  It didn’t help that the only clue that time was still following its steady course was the occasional hiss of decoy flares shooting out of the Blackhawk.  And then all too soon the Blackhawk wheeled around and started heading back to the FOB.  The pilot feathered the bird in and we all jumped out and started walking back to our barracks.  I don’t think walking has ever seemed quite that slow.

Snapshots

If you watch how nature deals with adversity, continually renewing itself, you can't help but learn.      
                              -Bernie Siegal, MD     

     Central Baghdad itself is a dense knot of infrastructure – a place where grandiose homes adjoin crowded hives thick with humanity.  One of the only consistent theme you see in this area of Baghdad is the omnipresent litter.  Every street is lined with random pieces of junk, and every fence line flutters with chattering pieces of plastic and paper.  Some fences are so thick with the windblown flotsam they start to resemble lines of Tibetan prayer flags twisting in the wind.  The other unifying theme in central Baghdad is the jury rigged electrical lines that seem to tie together every building in a muhallah.  As you drive down one of the narrow alleys its hard not to think the entire muhallah is caught in some colossal, haphazard spider web.      
     Southern Baghdad is a world removed from the twisted maze of streets you find in the heart of the city.  For convenience sake you might call the area agricultural, but that description is like a broth with too little substance… it doesn’t provide any real flavor.  In some areas of Southern Baghdad you will find small suburbs where multistory homes sprout off of dusty main roads like unripened grapes on a vine.  Many of these homes squat in virtual compounds, only their upper floors peeking out over their outer walls.  It’s ironic but there is a inverse relationship between a building’s former opulence and its current state of decay.  Many of the larger homes are covered with scabs of peeling paint and crumbling masonry.  These homes stand all at once both proud and forlorn, as if they were some vain group of actors unable to comprehend that no amount of makeup will hide the march of time.      
     Although the population is centered on these small urban outposts, the vast majority of southern Baghdad is composed of vast tracts of farmland crisscrossed with hundreds of steep sided canals.  The canals are the very essence of the region - access to water is what differentiates the burnt and barren fields from the dull green pastures filled with growth and life.  Interspersed in these fields are broad patches of palms arranged in arrow straight rows.  The palms stand in their orderly rows like soldiers in formation, the clean precision of their lines broken only by squat mud brick homes hiding in the cool shade.  The mud brick homes that rest in the palm groves are identical to the drab and baked buildings that dot the landscape, but here under the palm trees’ they seem somehow different.  It is almost as if the long, graceful necks of the palm trees lend some dignity to what would otherwise be a spectacularly unimpressive home.     
     There is one other community that flourishes in the area, the shantytown. Shantytowns sprout like weeds in the oil soaked wasteland bordering the major expressways.  From the expressway these hardscrabble communities look like one long collection of roadside debris, but the scene is far different when you patrol through the area.  On foot the details velocity encrypts becomes accessible, and you can see that the jumbled string of forlorn homes are divided into distinct neighborhoods.  Each neighborhood clusters behind broken walls of mud brick and discarded material, like travelers huddled together for companionship in a foreign land.  The buildings themselves are ugly, utilitarian affairs that line narrow alleyways strewn with trash, but their brusque lines are softened by the throngs of laughing children. 
     Within a minute of arriving in one of the shantytown neighborhoods children will start showing up, waving and giggling at their strange visitors.  The braver children will approach and try to practice their English skills, which usually revolves around the phrase “Mr., Mr., Saddam is a dork”.  The people living in these ugly neighborhoods have few comforts, but in spite of their atrocious conditions the children here are the quickest to smile and wave at our patrols.  I just wish I could carry more candy out on patrol.