365 and a Wakeup

Oceans of Time

     I once heard that the largest rivers in the world don’t cascade from high mountains, they silently churn across the tract less sea in wide ribbons of kinetic force.  Time here in Baghdad flows like those broad currents, always churning forward in some great anonymous flow.  Out here a calendar isn’t just a schedule.  It’s a map.  And a lifeline.  And an anchor.           

     There is no pattern to our days here, no chronological landmarks to tether your memories to.  You don’t realize how comforting the orderly progression of the week really is until the days of the week become arbitrary symbols.  Monday.  Tuesday. Wednesday.  Thursday.  Friday. Saturday.  Sunday.    In a world far from this place these words carry power.   But here in Baghdad they sit idle and useless.  There are no weekends to look forward to, no hump days to cleave the work week into manageable chunks.  There is just the slow march of the calendar.  Day after day.  Month after month.  Life reduced to geometry, with each square representing a day.  And each page a callous reminder of all that has been lost, and how much more must yet be borne.     

     Today is a sad anniversary of sorts, because it marks the one year point in our deployment.  Twelve pages of my calendar now lie crumpled, the discarded paper bearing witness to a year of youth and a year of life… gone.  I am still proud to serve here with my fellow Nightstalkers, but pride isn’t a magical pill that heals all hurt.  It doesn’t make the days ahead seem any shorter.  Fortunately the road ahead is shorter then the road behind.  And for now that will have to be enough.   

Wicked Light

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.                 

     - Act IV, Scene I, Macbeth

     This morning the sky raged with the burnt glow of a dying fire.  It was as if the wind had blown through some ancient wound in the earth and spilled the deserts very blood into the air.  Although a billion scattered neurons reminded me this was just a trick of refraction, their combined efforts couldn’t drown out the deep corner of my being that recoiled from the poisoned light.   This was no casual sandstorm - in another age this would have been the herald of some tragic change in circumstance. 

     After a few long minutes immersed in that burning light the cold light of reason turned my thoughts from evil portends to a sense of wonder.  Rather then cancel our workout 1LT Mo and I decided to make the trek to the gym through the teeth of the sandstorm.  The walk wasn’t an especially long one, but by the time we arrived we were frosted with a talcum fine web of earth.  The cloying powder latched on to every exposed hair follicle, dying our hair a ghostly white.  It was as if, in the course of the journey, the two of us had aged several decades.  We glanced in the gym’s oversize mirrors and laughed at the two old men staring back at us.  The gym was as empty as I had ever seen it – just us, the attendants, and a fog of airborne silt.  Since the air was thick with a blizzard of grit we skipped running on the idle treadmills and spent the next hour lifting dusty iron plates. 

     As we left the gym the air was still thick with unfamiliar light.  We trudged through the frenzied dust, slowly making our way back to the barracks.  The desert silt latched on to our skin with the same restless urgency as before.  It was as if some blind force had decided to paint our features with a mono color brush.  The desert creatures that returned to the barracks bore little resemblance to the two men that had left an hour before.  We were aged, our hair a brittle shade of white and our features dull and muted.  I don’t think the illusion of age was just the random scattering of light; there was more at work here.  Perhaps we looked old because for a few moments we were old, our mortal skin cloaked in the timeless shroud of the desert.  Perhaps… 

Relativity

     Einstein’s brilliant dictum on the nature of time and space introduced the theory of relativity, but his penetrating insight was limited to the world of matter and energy.  For all of its subtle genius Einstein was unable to provide even a glimmer of insight into the chaotic realm of the human heart.  Einstein wasn’t alone in his oversight, the cold world of hard science methodically avoids the turbulent interplay of emotion that defines our existence.  It find it fascinating that we can define the guiding principles of the very cosmos but lack an understanding of the world within. We may exist in the physical world, but we live in the dominion of the self.  And that sacred world seems to be far more elusive then the steller fireballs that burn softly in the desert sky.

     Tonight I can’t help but think that maybe Einstein’s theory has some parallel in the rugged landscape of my heart.  Gravity has no power in that silent domain, but there are other forces at work that seem to bend all time and circumstance.  The memory of the beautiful vineyard where I fell in love with my wife carries the raw power of a thousand suns - its tidal force tethering a ribbon of my being to that sunlit afternoon.

    When sleep cloaks consciousness, time dilates according to the needs of the heart.  And for a golden moment I am back home.  In green fields.  With my wife.   

Back to the Basics

"I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are the guys that wars can't be won without."

-         Ernie Pyle

     The infantry is a branch like no other.  It’s a course, testosterone soaked family where the adamantine bonds of brotherhood are forged and sanctified in bright misery.  In a world where technological innovations continue to transform human interaction the essential core of the Infantry remains unchanged and unchangeable. 

     The M1 Abrams main battle tank is without parallel in the modern world, it rumbles through the battlefield like the corporeal embodiment of the titans of lore.  The Apache attack helicopter is the aerial twin of the M1, an armored dragonfly that can pounce on unsuspecting targets with utterly ruthless efficiency.  But if tomorrow through some twist of fate, all of our thirsty engines seized up... then the armor branch and the aviation branch would cease to exist as an effective combat force.  Not so with the Infantry.  Even in those dire circumstances the infantry would remain, pushing on as they have done since time out of memory.  One dusty footstep after another.  That is what separates the Infantry from the other branches, we don’t use the weapons.  We are the weapons.

     With that thumbnail sketch in mind you’ll better understand my disappointment at moving into the Battalion S4 slot on the very eve of deployment.  The move from a line infantry unit into the grinding world of logistics was in many ways a compliment, but I still felt like I was leaving home.  In the last year I have learned more about the dark art of logistics then I ever cared to know, and in the process gained a new found respect for the combat service and support branches.

     Any success I may have had was a testament to the professionalism and dedication of the seasoned NCO’s and soldiers who toiled at my side day after day.  SFC Smoke, SSG Cuddles, SGT Cas, SGT Moe, and SPC Rivers were the living, beating heart that drove the logistics chain that kept our soldiers armed, armored and equipped.  Their tireless work went largely unrecognized, as is so often the case it was eclipsed by the violence that blossomed outside our FOB.  But these silent professionals didn’t toil for accolades or recognition – their reward was the knowledge that their effort would bring their friends back home safely.

     It was a privilege to work with these soldiers, but there wasn’t a day where I didn’t long to return back home to where the rubber meets the road.  To those not acquainted with the cloistered world of the Infantry this might seem like an unusual wish in the middle of a warzone.  It’s not something I can easily describe, some things exist in the shadowy realm eternally out of phase with the conscious mind.

     But my time away from the line has finally come to a close.  It didn’t happen in quite the way I expected, but I’ve finally got my wish.  Huuuaaaahhhh!

Desert Creatures

     The sun has been pitiless these last few days, doubling and redoubling its radiant energy until everything stationary shimmers in its own invisible pyre.  The sputtering coughs of wind that limp across the cracked soil lack any real force; it’s as if the temperatures have cowed the air into refusing to stir. In these temperatures nothing moves without purpose.   The troops that have to move back and forth across the FOB move along deliberate paths, their heads slightly bowed in unconscious deference to the flashbulb brilliance. 

     Now that we are several weeks into this withering season our cycles of work and rest have come to mirror the desert creatures that creep and slither through this harsh land.  As is so often the case, we’ve had to slowly relearn the lessons nature hardwired into the native wildlife.   The biggest key to surviving the temperatures is to (surprise, surprise) avoid the sun.  Our barracks serve the same purpose as the desert creatures underground haunts – they both offer reservoirs of chill air.  The only difference is our concrete berths hum to the steady whir of overworked air conditioning units. 

     Soldiers who decide to be infantryman don't join for the luxurious acomodations.  That doesn't make it any easier to leave the air conditioned barracks, but it does help muster the will to keep heading out those doors into the atmospheric inferno.  The sun isn't the only cruel taskmaster, the sheer weight of our combat equipment more then doubles the misery index.  The thick ballistic carapace that we all wear is a life saver, but on days like this it seems to be a karmic bank selling protection in exchange for hour after hour of broiling misery.  When you are wearing slabs of ceramic armor evaporative cooling becomes impossible, the sweat just soaks through layer after layer until your uniform is a sodden, salt encrusted mess.  It is a pain, but nobody really worries to much about coming away from a mission soaked.  We have a lot more to worry about then how to leach salt from a uniform.

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.

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 Letter

     One of my close friends, Carl, sent me the text of an ancient letter.  The letter was found in a small trunk in the attic of a house his grandparents purchaded in Lexington, Mass.  The letter details the progress in the war for Independence and Carl felt I might find some parallel to the current struggle for freedom here in Iraq.  He couldn't have been more right.  As I read through the letter I was stunned by the conviction, faith, and strength this young soldier so eloquently conveyed.  Those early days were nearly disasterous, but this young patriot persevered.  We could learn a lesson from him. 

For Deacon Joseph Kilburn of Lancaster

Cambridge Sept 30, 1776

Honored Parents,

       I here present my dutiful respects to you, hoping that these lines may find you and all my Friends in the enjoyment of health & comfort, as they now leave me thro’ the goodness of divine Providence. I think much but I am afraid too little about the times & my friends that are gone & going into the Army.

       The times wear a gloomy aspect. Our friends at New York have not had the successes desired, I suppose the news with you is much as it is here that our men have retreated on the Island of New York and it is feared with considerable losses. But God is able to turn all these things to our advantage, and will certainly do it, if we return unto him by repentance and reformation.

       I want very much to hear from you what news the Post brought from New York, how our Friends do, and whether they have been in any battle or not. Be so kind, if you have an opportunity, as to let me know who are going in these last recruits.

       I wish Tim would write to me that I may know how he got home, whether he broke his l----ls or not, how affairs go on at Choxett about securing the meeting-house and settling a Minister & c. Remember my respects to all enquiring Friends, to Grandfather Sawyer & Grandmother, tell them I hope God will be their chief consolation in these troublesome times.

       The Lord commands in war, his matchless might
       Hangs out and guides the balance of the Fight.
       May we forever in our God confide
       Our troubles here on earth will soon subside.

Your dutiful son,

J. Kilburn

     After reading this I couldn't help but think that we are the same flesh, blood, and bone that we have ever been.  I just pray that the same powerful, passionate blood that founded our nation still thrums through her citizens.

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.