Two things wrong with this pic... can you tell what they are?
Showing posts with label Iraq. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Iraq. Show all posts
Monday, February 23, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
I remember a conversation that I had with a pair of my gun teams, in Iraq. The conversation was actually part 3(?) of what had started in an argument between a few of my guys. The argument itself wasn't really all that important, and honestly, I don't recall exactly what it was about. I do remember generally that eventually it had something to do with citizenship, either natural born or naturalized.
We were up on a lonely hill, watching a whole bunch of nothing, again. The only item of interest that had occurred was that one of my guys had invented/discovered that, with only minor modification, a wooden ammo case can make a pretty good shitter, for field use. He was quite proud of this, and tried to insist that everyone take a look at his ingenuity.
Yeah, it was a real slow day.
After mean-ole Sgt. Murphy made him dispose of his 'perfectly good' shitter, the conversation took a turn towards when we would see (if ever) an influx of Iraqi-born servicemen in the U.S. military. Most seemed to think that there would be a few here and there, but most likely no huge numbers, for a long while. Some pointed out the ING soldiers that nearly killed their fellow soldiers in training and ops, to support their dim views of the prospects. Others pointed out the soldier we nick-named 'Old Blue', as damn near the highest mark of respect for a crusty old bastard.
Even our translator got into the mix.
'Yusef' was a good guy, a bit older than us, in his late 20s - early 30s, very bright, motivated, and interested in a lot more than just collecting a paycheck. His family was Christian, and therefore didn't do all that great before but were managing ok, in their current situation. He was happy to have work far from home to protect his identity, but even still he would cover up on some of the ops in town of larger populations. His accent was only medium thick, his grasp of subtleties, innuendos, and whatnot was kind of tenuous, but he could definitely read between the lines. He was able to tell when to immediately stop whatever he was doing if say we needed to un-ass an area, post haste. He would at time saunter up to us, and with a whisper and a nod, tell us that the two detainees in the line were educated Saudis, and therefore the guys that we might really be interested in taking back to the detainee facility. He taught me a lot of Iraqi Arabic, and I taught him a little bit of Spanish. He had asked about Marine Corps training at one point, but honestly admitted he might have a better chance at going Army, due to his age and conditioning. His main goal was to one day live in the States.
Shortly after we were rotated out, the unit that replaced us took a pretty bad hit due to a land mine strike. KIAs included too many Marines, one doc... and one translator.
There was no word for a while, and eventually / for the longest time I assumed that he was the unnamed translator onboard. Word eventually came in a roundabout way that it was another translator that died, and that he was not only alive, but had figured out a way to make it to the States.
A little bird told me a while back, so I'm not sure of the exact date, but I'm just going to mark it down here for me how happy it makes me to hear that soon (if not already), 'Yusef' will complete his training and become a fine addition to the United States Army.
Hooah.
We were up on a lonely hill, watching a whole bunch of nothing, again. The only item of interest that had occurred was that one of my guys had invented/discovered that, with only minor modification, a wooden ammo case can make a pretty good shitter, for field use. He was quite proud of this, and tried to insist that everyone take a look at his ingenuity.
Yeah, it was a real slow day.
After mean-ole Sgt. Murphy made him dispose of his 'perfectly good' shitter, the conversation took a turn towards when we would see (if ever) an influx of Iraqi-born servicemen in the U.S. military. Most seemed to think that there would be a few here and there, but most likely no huge numbers, for a long while. Some pointed out the ING soldiers that nearly killed their fellow soldiers in training and ops, to support their dim views of the prospects. Others pointed out the soldier we nick-named 'Old Blue', as damn near the highest mark of respect for a crusty old bastard.
Even our translator got into the mix.
'Yusef' was a good guy, a bit older than us, in his late 20s - early 30s, very bright, motivated, and interested in a lot more than just collecting a paycheck. His family was Christian, and therefore didn't do all that great before but were managing ok, in their current situation. He was happy to have work far from home to protect his identity, but even still he would cover up on some of the ops in town of larger populations. His accent was only medium thick, his grasp of subtleties, innuendos, and whatnot was kind of tenuous, but he could definitely read between the lines. He was able to tell when to immediately stop whatever he was doing if say we needed to un-ass an area, post haste. He would at time saunter up to us, and with a whisper and a nod, tell us that the two detainees in the line were educated Saudis, and therefore the guys that we might really be interested in taking back to the detainee facility. He taught me a lot of Iraqi Arabic, and I taught him a little bit of Spanish. He had asked about Marine Corps training at one point, but honestly admitted he might have a better chance at going Army, due to his age and conditioning. His main goal was to one day live in the States.
Shortly after we were rotated out, the unit that replaced us took a pretty bad hit due to a land mine strike. KIAs included too many Marines, one doc... and one translator.
There was no word for a while, and eventually / for the longest time I assumed that he was the unnamed translator onboard. Word eventually came in a roundabout way that it was another translator that died, and that he was not only alive, but had figured out a way to make it to the States.
A little bird told me a while back, so I'm not sure of the exact date, but I'm just going to mark it down here for me how happy it makes me to hear that soon (if not already), 'Yusef' will complete his training and become a fine addition to the United States Army.
Hooah.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Pucker Up, One Last Time
Peter had a post recently, here, about a li'l old lady that brought what she thought was a land mine to her local police station. Kind of humorous, in the end, due to the fact that no one was seriously injured by the antique... thing.
Reminded me of a story 'bout those who play by 'Better Safe Than Sorry', and those who should.
It was during the left seat / right seat, them in the left seat. This is to mean that the new Battalion was essentially running the show and that we had a few guys stay behind to sit 'right seat', to offer last minute advice, instruction, and anything else that might help.
Guess who was one of those that was initially told his services wouldn't be needed.... and then they were?
Yeah, I got a good picture of all my boys givin' me the friendly one finger salute as their 7-ton pulled out of the FOB.
We were out on patrol one day, nothing too extravagant, just moseying up and down our AO, seeing what was crack-a-lackin', and I was pointing out items of interest to the VC and crew that I was riding with. The reason I was talking to the Vehicle Commander and not the Squad Leader was that my Captain and the new companies OIC were chit-chatting in the vehicle, with the squad leader. That only leaves room for a driver and a gunner, both most likely Lance Corporals, and if anything was gonna get done in that vehicle, they'd need both of the work horses there. Besides, I had sat down with the new Squad Leader already, he looked like he had a good head on his shoulders - nobody I needed to worry about.
I was continuing a conversation that I'd started with a bunch of the new Lance Corporals - where we'd been hit, where we suspected the enemy was moving, how to read the roads, our immediate action drills according to specific situations, particularly spectacular convoy failures, the worthlessness of the average ING and IP when our Battalion started and some of their improvements, enemy tactics, their IED and land mine camouflage - you know, a few odds and ends here and there.
One of the Lance Corporals had asked me about our actions with landmines vs. IEDs, and what my personal thoughts on the matter were.
I started by telling him that there was definitely a progression in the ability of the enemy to set up, camo, and implement their weapons. During the time of my deployment, I'd noticed landmines that I couldn't see from more than 4 feet away and on foot, armor piercing MG rounds wrapped around arty rounds, incendiary IEDs, all building up to where our forces were at that day. The weren't too many stupid Jihadi Joes left, 'cause we'd already killed most of 'em. Our usual action once we determined that we had an actual threat was to call up EOD and let them take care of business. I stressed the fact that EOD was going to be escorted by some of their sister squads on their 'off' days, so it might be nice to know that when your squad is rolling out of the racks after only 2 hours of sleep that you can be pretty sure that you aren't going to get called out to disarm a bag of trash, a dead sheep, or a pillow. I told them that even if they were Blue Falconed that way, in my opinion it was always better to be safe than sorry. I'd take a shit-talkin' every day of the week for calling out a false alarm if it meant I could avoid a KIA, particularly moi.
One of 'em asked about shooting the IEDs. I told them that we hadn't, and that it would eventually be up to their command whether that flew or not, but from my experience, there was quite a few IEDs that were set up interior to a city, on a local bridge, or otherwise in an area where shooting it wouldn't be an option, really. If, on the other hand, they just happened to be out in the dunes oh, say, randomly conducting a test fire and 'just happened' to hit an IED, well then...
They got the idea.
It was about at that time that the lead vehicle spotted a possible land mine in the shoulder of the road, left side, immediately before crossing the bridge. The road was littered with previous craters lining both sides of the road and various vehicle debris, so it was something that definitely looked promising.
The call went out over the radio, the lead vehicle hauled ass over the bridge, the second and third were kind of stuck on account of terrain, but made do the best they could. Another vehicle started to make their way, off road, to link up with the lead victor, just in case. My vehicle stopped in place, turret faced to the rear, and the VC and I got out to check our area. I could hear the initial vocal tension of the FNGs' voices over the radio, and the relative calm as they realized they weren't dead, there was (initially, at least) no further threat, their figurative cherries were kinda-sorta popped, and there was still a job to do.
As the VC and I checked the area, I asked him for a verbal run-down of immediate actions that his vehicle and the squad needed to do. Once we established that our vehicle was secure, we pushed out a bit to face-to-face with the next vehicle and to cover ground in likely areas of attack. I had a separate radio on my gear, for my guys that were right-seating in other vehicles. One of 'em asked me to head up to his position, if I wasn't too busy. He was closer to the suspected mine, had better eyes on, and wanted me to confirm something for him. As the VC and I walked back to the road, I pointed out debris from convoys that littered the area. I wasn't trying to scare the guy, just impress upon him that this particular area was one to keep in mind, for the future.
As we were walking up and over the last of the hills before the road, he asked if I had any EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) trained Marines in my squad. I - still examining old tire, motorcycle, bicycle, sheep, and herder tracks - responded in the negative. I told him we had some former EMTs, some recreational gun-nuts, one radioman, one guy who liked to work on low-riders in his spare time, and an Irishman in some serious throes of alcohol withdrawal, but no EOD guys.
He paused, and asked if we had no EOD, why was one of my guys working on the landmine?
It was the guy who had called for me earlier.
The image that flashed though my head at the moment was one of a curious monkey poking a stick into a potential grub hill, for some reason. Brain Donor was using his k-bar to gently poke around the edges, at a good 45 degree angle, around the circular edge of what, from my closing distance and perspective, could be the edge of the pressure plate. As I contemplated getting blown up two days after my squad officially stopped patrolling, he managed to fit his knife under the device, and more or less pried up...
... what looked like an old, dusty, large paint-can lid that had been embedded in the dirt.
Good thing I had left a few extra pair of clean skivvies for the return trip to the states...
Reminded me of a story 'bout those who play by 'Better Safe Than Sorry', and those who should.
It was during the left seat / right seat, them in the left seat. This is to mean that the new Battalion was essentially running the show and that we had a few guys stay behind to sit 'right seat', to offer last minute advice, instruction, and anything else that might help.
Guess who was one of those that was initially told his services wouldn't be needed.... and then they were?
Yeah, I got a good picture of all my boys givin' me the friendly one finger salute as their 7-ton pulled out of the FOB.
We were out on patrol one day, nothing too extravagant, just moseying up and down our AO, seeing what was crack-a-lackin', and I was pointing out items of interest to the VC and crew that I was riding with. The reason I was talking to the Vehicle Commander and not the Squad Leader was that my Captain and the new companies OIC were chit-chatting in the vehicle, with the squad leader. That only leaves room for a driver and a gunner, both most likely Lance Corporals, and if anything was gonna get done in that vehicle, they'd need both of the work horses there. Besides, I had sat down with the new Squad Leader already, he looked like he had a good head on his shoulders - nobody I needed to worry about.
I was continuing a conversation that I'd started with a bunch of the new Lance Corporals - where we'd been hit, where we suspected the enemy was moving, how to read the roads, our immediate action drills according to specific situations, particularly spectacular convoy failures, the worthlessness of the average ING and IP when our Battalion started and some of their improvements, enemy tactics, their IED and land mine camouflage - you know, a few odds and ends here and there.
One of the Lance Corporals had asked me about our actions with landmines vs. IEDs, and what my personal thoughts on the matter were.
I started by telling him that there was definitely a progression in the ability of the enemy to set up, camo, and implement their weapons. During the time of my deployment, I'd noticed landmines that I couldn't see from more than 4 feet away and on foot, armor piercing MG rounds wrapped around arty rounds, incendiary IEDs, all building up to where our forces were at that day. The weren't too many stupid Jihadi Joes left, 'cause we'd already killed most of 'em. Our usual action once we determined that we had an actual threat was to call up EOD and let them take care of business. I stressed the fact that EOD was going to be escorted by some of their sister squads on their 'off' days, so it might be nice to know that when your squad is rolling out of the racks after only 2 hours of sleep that you can be pretty sure that you aren't going to get called out to disarm a bag of trash, a dead sheep, or a pillow. I told them that even if they were Blue Falconed that way, in my opinion it was always better to be safe than sorry. I'd take a shit-talkin' every day of the week for calling out a false alarm if it meant I could avoid a KIA, particularly moi.
One of 'em asked about shooting the IEDs. I told them that we hadn't, and that it would eventually be up to their command whether that flew or not, but from my experience, there was quite a few IEDs that were set up interior to a city, on a local bridge, or otherwise in an area where shooting it wouldn't be an option, really. If, on the other hand, they just happened to be out in the dunes oh, say, randomly conducting a test fire and 'just happened' to hit an IED, well then...
They got the idea.
It was about at that time that the lead vehicle spotted a possible land mine in the shoulder of the road, left side, immediately before crossing the bridge. The road was littered with previous craters lining both sides of the road and various vehicle debris, so it was something that definitely looked promising.
The call went out over the radio, the lead vehicle hauled ass over the bridge, the second and third were kind of stuck on account of terrain, but made do the best they could. Another vehicle started to make their way, off road, to link up with the lead victor, just in case. My vehicle stopped in place, turret faced to the rear, and the VC and I got out to check our area. I could hear the initial vocal tension of the FNGs' voices over the radio, and the relative calm as they realized they weren't dead, there was (initially, at least) no further threat, their figurative cherries were kinda-sorta popped, and there was still a job to do.
As the VC and I checked the area, I asked him for a verbal run-down of immediate actions that his vehicle and the squad needed to do. Once we established that our vehicle was secure, we pushed out a bit to face-to-face with the next vehicle and to cover ground in likely areas of attack. I had a separate radio on my gear, for my guys that were right-seating in other vehicles. One of 'em asked me to head up to his position, if I wasn't too busy. He was closer to the suspected mine, had better eyes on, and wanted me to confirm something for him. As the VC and I walked back to the road, I pointed out debris from convoys that littered the area. I wasn't trying to scare the guy, just impress upon him that this particular area was one to keep in mind, for the future.
As we were walking up and over the last of the hills before the road, he asked if I had any EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) trained Marines in my squad. I - still examining old tire, motorcycle, bicycle, sheep, and herder tracks - responded in the negative. I told him we had some former EMTs, some recreational gun-nuts, one radioman, one guy who liked to work on low-riders in his spare time, and an Irishman in some serious throes of alcohol withdrawal, but no EOD guys.
He paused, and asked if we had no EOD, why was one of my guys working on the landmine?
It was the guy who had called for me earlier.
The image that flashed though my head at the moment was one of a curious monkey poking a stick into a potential grub hill, for some reason. Brain Donor was using his k-bar to gently poke around the edges, at a good 45 degree angle, around the circular edge of what, from my closing distance and perspective, could be the edge of the pressure plate. As I contemplated getting blown up two days after my squad officially stopped patrolling, he managed to fit his knife under the device, and more or less pried up...
... what looked like an old, dusty, large paint-can lid that had been embedded in the dirt.
Good thing I had left a few extra pair of clean skivvies for the return trip to the states...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Down Time, Clips, and a Doh!
I was cruising through the MC Times the other day, when I read this.
Pretty nifty, huh.
Heh, '... for the most part...'
Good times.
It was a 9 year-old little girl shriek - trust me, I kno... - er, I'm pretty sure...
Ah, the good old days...
Dad was really keen on getting ahold of all of the pictures and clips that I had collected on my all expenses paid trip to fun in the sun for his collection and for distribution to family. I don't think I had yet confessed that the one collection of pictures I had sent of a hummer hit in an IED attack was actually my hummer, but it was coming, I'm sure. Anyways, we were both on the couch, his laptop on his lap, and mine on mine. I was pulling discs from the pouch, inserting them into my laptop, getting a rough idea what was on it, and handing it over to him for copying. My part of the process was quicker than his, so he had a nice pile of discs waiting to be copied. He still noted when I subtly slipped a few discs back into the pouch. "What're those discs?" "What discs?" "The ones you just put back." "Oh, those. Those're nothing, just some ah,... recreational stuff." "Recrea... sure...."
Eventually, I got kind of lazy and began relying on the label details of what was on one of the discs. During the deployment I had eventually gotten detailed about what was on the discs, dates, names, and all of that. The last two discs weren't actually even anything I had taken, but some discs that other Battalions had handed out. Our Battalion had approached the end of our tour at the same time as some others, and during the inevitable down time that always happened back in the rear, we managed to trade a number of discs back and forth. Gave each other a rough idea of what else was going on in the greater AO while we were each in town.
I asked Dad if he wanted 'em, he said 'sure', and I handed 'em over.
It was only a couple of hours later that I remembered what one of those discs contained. The Battalion Disc in question had compiled a bunch of video sources together on one disc, voted on by popularity by its Marines. There were the standard combat ops, down time funny stuff, and some miscellaneous stuff towards the end. There was no question in why one clip at the end was hugely popular; apparently, one lonely soldier (female type) had decided to make a clip of herself... er, dancing around to Marvin Gaye's 'Lets Get It On', I seem to remember. I guess it was pretty warm in the can, 'cause she was pretty scantily clad at the end of the clip, you could say.
Very nice.
Wonder if Dad ever got that far in the disc...?
Pretty nifty, huh.
Especially nice when they talk about service members and loved ones being able to communicate about babies first steps, birthday parties, and the like.
Obviously, this memory isn't about such wholesome and family friendly things. Heck no, this one's about what they don't allow on the family friendly channel...
Obviously, this memory isn't about such wholesome and family friendly things. Heck no, this one's about what they don't allow on the family friendly channel...
I might've mentioned before that some of the guys would take digital video and pictures out on patrol. I don't remember this ever being something that was officially sanctioned, but the fact was that it was eventually commonly accepted as part of the information gathering process. For the most part, all knew when it was appropriate to have a camera out and when it wasn't. Also, it was much, much easier to pass over a memory card at the debrief rather than try to describe familiar tattoos on bodies or suspicious drawings and arabic writings. We'd much rather take personally owned equipment rather than take what would have been the military issued, gen 1, 25 pound, rarely functioning, often assed-up, Camera: Picture, Polaroid, 1.
Heh, '... for the most part...'
I remember one stop we made to the guys up north. If I remember correctly, we were delivering misdirected mail and dropping off a repaired hummer. We pulled into the staging area, got all the vehicles topped off, and I sent the guys to grab some chow while I checked in with the CO. After a fairly uneventful debrief and a little chewing of the fat with some of the staff, I grabbed a bite and wandered the area looking for some buddies I hadn't seen in awhile. I poked my head into one of the squad rooms.
"Hey, anybody know where y'alls squad leader is?"
Their eyes were rooted to the tv show they were watching. One guy pointed vaguely 'upstairs', another grunted something sounding like 'farther back down this hallway', and one guy farted.
"Hey, anybody know where y'alls squad leader is?"
Their eyes were rooted to the tv show they were watching. One guy pointed vaguely 'upstairs', another grunted something sounding like 'farther back down this hallway', and one guy farted.
Good times.
As it turned out, they weren't really watching a tv show, but an episode of Combat's Funniest Videos. Not familiar with that program? Lemme 'splain...
When I mentioned that most guys knew when to have the camera in their hands and when to have a rifle, well, that was correct. See, after all the hoopla has passed is the time to bust out the cameras for the record. Angles of approach, maps, id, uniforms, weapons, vehicles, anything and everything that can possibly help the intel weenies should be noted, and in detail. When the enemy is attacking well, let's just say not the best time to record, unless...
When I mentioned that most guys knew when to have the camera in their hands and when to have a rifle, well, that was correct. See, after all the hoopla has passed is the time to bust out the cameras for the record. Angles of approach, maps, id, uniforms, weapons, vehicles, anything and everything that can possibly help the intel weenies should be noted, and in detail. When the enemy is attacking well, let's just say not the best time to record, unless...
Apparently one of the guys in the squad I visited had hit on an idea. He had a fairly lightweight camera and a number of spare batteries. He was a Lance Corporal, so he managed to 'acquire' an extra helmet cover and a bunch of zip ties. He trimmed some helmet cover material with his bayonet and used his sewing kit to fashion cammo covers for his camera. He then affixed his camera to his helmet. Other than taking a little extra care getting into and out of his vehicle, he was good to go. No hands necessary after pushing the record button.
What resulted was a little bit documentary, a bit of COPS, and a whole lotta funny.
What resulted was a little bit documentary, a bit of COPS, and a whole lotta funny.
There was a passable Aussie accent when recording a pair of mutts going at it, some shaky footage of a Marine taking a deuce, and a short while later, the ambush. It was pretty standard as far as ambushes went back then, a bunch of amateurs with beat-to-hell weapons and questionable tactics, but his voice during the attack was what made it memorable. While narrating the video, he was grinning and chuckling as well and trying to explain his thoughts during his hasty nose dive out of the vehicle (not tripped, 'hasty vehicular dismount'). His running commentary of, 'ohshitohshitohshitohshit' as he ran to a building (talking to himself whilst trying to keep attempting to gain personnel accountability, not freaking out), and his high-pitched "Aiiiieeee" was a rallying cry/way cry (and most definitely NOT a 9-year old girl shriek).
It was a 9 year-old little girl shriek - trust me, I kno... - er, I'm pretty sure...
Hey! Who's laughing in the Back? Rambo? Well, ok then... the rest of y'all, tell me how you do the first time downrange!
Anyways, fast forwarding to a half-dozen months in the future, and I was sitting in my parents living room, my assorted bags scattered around, and my mom's toy poodle humping my leg.
Anyways, fast forwarding to a half-dozen months in the future, and I was sitting in my parents living room, my assorted bags scattered around, and my mom's toy poodle humping my leg.
Ah, the good old days...
Dad was really keen on getting ahold of all of the pictures and clips that I had collected on my all expenses paid trip to fun in the sun for his collection and for distribution to family. I don't think I had yet confessed that the one collection of pictures I had sent of a hummer hit in an IED attack was actually my hummer, but it was coming, I'm sure. Anyways, we were both on the couch, his laptop on his lap, and mine on mine. I was pulling discs from the pouch, inserting them into my laptop, getting a rough idea what was on it, and handing it over to him for copying. My part of the process was quicker than his, so he had a nice pile of discs waiting to be copied. He still noted when I subtly slipped a few discs back into the pouch. "What're those discs?" "What discs?" "The ones you just put back." "Oh, those. Those're nothing, just some ah,... recreational stuff." "Recrea... sure...."
Eventually, I got kind of lazy and began relying on the label details of what was on one of the discs. During the deployment I had eventually gotten detailed about what was on the discs, dates, names, and all of that. The last two discs weren't actually even anything I had taken, but some discs that other Battalions had handed out. Our Battalion had approached the end of our tour at the same time as some others, and during the inevitable down time that always happened back in the rear, we managed to trade a number of discs back and forth. Gave each other a rough idea of what else was going on in the greater AO while we were each in town.
I asked Dad if he wanted 'em, he said 'sure', and I handed 'em over.
It was only a couple of hours later that I remembered what one of those discs contained. The Battalion Disc in question had compiled a bunch of video sources together on one disc, voted on by popularity by its Marines. There were the standard combat ops, down time funny stuff, and some miscellaneous stuff towards the end. There was no question in why one clip at the end was hugely popular; apparently, one lonely soldier (female type) had decided to make a clip of herself... er, dancing around to Marvin Gaye's 'Lets Get It On', I seem to remember. I guess it was pretty warm in the can, 'cause she was pretty scantily clad at the end of the clip, you could say.
Very nice.
Wonder if Dad ever got that far in the disc...?
Friday, November 7, 2008
Just Another Day In Paradise, Pt1
Finally.
All the vehicles were in more or less a decent position for the terrain, overwatches set, and no (major) issues to deal with. I still wasn't exactly sure what was going on, just that higher had sent word to stop the patrol and hold position for further developments. We had diverted from patrolling the MSR (Main Supply Route) and basically set up camp in the middle of nowhere to wait... and wait... and for some more variety, wait some more. In between monitoring the radios, some of my guys were talking about their fondly remembered conquests. Business as usual. At least they weren't acting out these heroic adventures or taking, uh... matters in their own hands... er, that I knew of, at least. The sun was setting (again), so nothing was for sure, of course.
I rolled over to the convoy net to see if there was something going on there that I needed to know about, like a particularly large convoy or anyone that had found an IED in our area...
Nada.
I keyed my squad radio.
"All victors go to 50%, driver primary, VCs (Vehicle Commanders) to my victor." After my guys showed up we had a short talk about the situation (standby to standby), the patrol (loooong hours, and counting), and the fact that I at least wanted my drivers to catch a few zzzs so they didn't almost kill anybody, again. None of the VCs had anything for me, so they went to their vehicles to wait for the word. I started rummaging in my vehicle for my etool and my personal Roll of Life (toilet paper - ain't no way I was gonna use the MRE-supplied 'paper', nuh-uh).
One wise-ass asked, "Gonna take a dump, Sergeant?"
I glanced down at my tp and shovel. "Nope, gonna make a surrender flag and call it a night, Einstein."
He chuckled and returned to his story, this time with girlie voices and sound effects.
Dang, his chick voice is starting to sound pretty good... it's definitely been a long deployment.
Ask any Marine about what's the quickest way to interrupt a perfectly good period of boredom and they'll tell you;
1) Light up a smokey treat.
or
2) Pop a squat (in pitch-black darkness, no less).
I was about half-way through #2 (ha!) when, of course, we got the word to move.
ME: Comeon!, ya bastard...
RADIO: [stage whisper] Hey, Sergeant, we got the word from higher, gotta go! Sergent! You over there?
ME: [groan/whimper]
RADIO: [chuckling] You ok, Sergeant? What's the hold up?
ME: Jale... peno... [pant,pant]... chee... ese.
Gingerly climbing back into my hummer and easing into my seat, I asked what the word was. My radio man rogered up and told me that we were to return to the FOB for an escort of Psycho.
Sweetness.
Back at the FOB, the new XO introduced me to the Sergeant First Class in charge of the Psychological Operations (Psycho) team. The good Sergeant nodded his head and said, "Bob", as introduction. I shook his hand, grinned, and introduced myself, "Sergeant". First name basis completed, he informed me that he needed us to escort him to a general location, east of the city that regularly lobbed little forget-me-nots over to our FOB. In response to my general inquiry as to what generally they'd be doing at said general location, he smiled and said "Psychological operations".
Touché.
We spit-balled a few ideas for the escort, a somewhat more specific location for the op, and set a departure time in just under an hour. XO added the standard stuff, the good Sergeant had rank, but I was responsible for his ass to and fro the objective. At the party he was the man, and I was to help out wherever I could. No stickyfingered Marines near the soldiers' hummer, for security and common decency reasons. There was still more than enough time to pass the word, for my guys to raid the chow room for midrats (midnight rations), and still leave us all enough time to transit to our position to arrive on schedule at zero dark thirty.
"On the road again..."
Exiting the FOB again, this time with the Psycho vehicle in our train, we meandered on a somewhat scenic route to our destination. As it was about 0300 hrs and we were driving sans lights there really wasn't too much scenery to be had, but it was definitely not the straightest route, that's for sure.
Our route to approach the city included taking the hardball for the last few miles to our objective. As we crossed the last of the dunes and began our approach to the road, I started to pick out where I wanted to get on in the green blur of my NVGs. This was pretty important, because it would really ruin my day to get blown up before we even got the job done, you know. I directed my driver to the area I wanted, hopped out of the hummer, and walked up to the road. Not seeing anything particularly suspicious in the shoulder of the road, I marked where I wanted my vehicles to get on the road and started jogging in the direction of the city. One by one, my vehicles and that of Psycho climbed the berm of the road and turned after me.
Hopping back into my seat, I told my driver to keep the speed slow, as to allow all of the vehicles to get onto the road without too much space between us. I grabbed the mike and told my trail VC to advise me when they were on the road and ready to step. Meanwhile, my vehicle was proceeding forward at what would be a fast walking pace. My last vehicle finally climbed onto the road and rogered up that they were good to go. I was responding to his information when, from out of the pitch-black darkness, a huge friggin' deamonbeast of a mutt decided to stick his snout in my window and express his displeasure at my presence, loudly, vigorously, and with much snapping of teeth.
To my credit, I avoided shrieking like a girl (much), and even managed to restrain myself from okaying a MK19 expenditure. Thankfully, that was about the extent of excitement on the whole ride over there.
At the objective, well, it got a bit more interesting...
All the vehicles were in more or less a decent position for the terrain, overwatches set, and no (major) issues to deal with. I still wasn't exactly sure what was going on, just that higher had sent word to stop the patrol and hold position for further developments. We had diverted from patrolling the MSR (Main Supply Route) and basically set up camp in the middle of nowhere to wait... and wait... and for some more variety, wait some more. In between monitoring the radios, some of my guys were talking about their fondly remembered conquests. Business as usual. At least they weren't acting out these heroic adventures or taking, uh... matters in their own hands... er, that I knew of, at least. The sun was setting (again), so nothing was for sure, of course.
I rolled over to the convoy net to see if there was something going on there that I needed to know about, like a particularly large convoy or anyone that had found an IED in our area...
Nada.
I keyed my squad radio.
"All victors go to 50%, driver primary, VCs (Vehicle Commanders) to my victor." After my guys showed up we had a short talk about the situation (standby to standby), the patrol (loooong hours, and counting), and the fact that I at least wanted my drivers to catch a few zzzs so they didn't almost kill anybody, again. None of the VCs had anything for me, so they went to their vehicles to wait for the word. I started rummaging in my vehicle for my etool and my personal Roll of Life (toilet paper - ain't no way I was gonna use the MRE-supplied 'paper', nuh-uh).
One wise-ass asked, "Gonna take a dump, Sergeant?"
I glanced down at my tp and shovel. "Nope, gonna make a surrender flag and call it a night, Einstein."
He chuckled and returned to his story, this time with girlie voices and sound effects.
Dang, his chick voice is starting to sound pretty good... it's definitely been a long deployment.
Ask any Marine about what's the quickest way to interrupt a perfectly good period of boredom and they'll tell you;
1) Light up a smokey treat.
or
2) Pop a squat (in pitch-black darkness, no less).
I was about half-way through #2 (ha!) when, of course, we got the word to move.
ME: Comeon!, ya bastard...
RADIO: [stage whisper] Hey, Sergeant, we got the word from higher, gotta go! Sergent! You over there?
ME: [groan/whimper]
RADIO: [chuckling] You ok, Sergeant? What's the hold up?
ME: Jale... peno... [pant,pant]... chee... ese.
Gingerly climbing back into my hummer and easing into my seat, I asked what the word was. My radio man rogered up and told me that we were to return to the FOB for an escort of Psycho.
Sweetness.
Back at the FOB, the new XO introduced me to the Sergeant First Class in charge of the Psychological Operations (Psycho) team. The good Sergeant nodded his head and said, "Bob", as introduction. I shook his hand, grinned, and introduced myself, "Sergeant". First name basis completed, he informed me that he needed us to escort him to a general location, east of the city that regularly lobbed little forget-me-nots over to our FOB. In response to my general inquiry as to what generally they'd be doing at said general location, he smiled and said "Psychological operations".
Touché.
We spit-balled a few ideas for the escort, a somewhat more specific location for the op, and set a departure time in just under an hour. XO added the standard stuff, the good Sergeant had rank, but I was responsible for his ass to and fro the objective. At the party he was the man, and I was to help out wherever I could. No stickyfingered Marines near the soldiers' hummer, for security and common decency reasons. There was still more than enough time to pass the word, for my guys to raid the chow room for midrats (midnight rations), and still leave us all enough time to transit to our position to arrive on schedule at zero dark thirty.
"On the road again..."
Exiting the FOB again, this time with the Psycho vehicle in our train, we meandered on a somewhat scenic route to our destination. As it was about 0300 hrs and we were driving sans lights there really wasn't too much scenery to be had, but it was definitely not the straightest route, that's for sure.
Our route to approach the city included taking the hardball for the last few miles to our objective. As we crossed the last of the dunes and began our approach to the road, I started to pick out where I wanted to get on in the green blur of my NVGs. This was pretty important, because it would really ruin my day to get blown up before we even got the job done, you know. I directed my driver to the area I wanted, hopped out of the hummer, and walked up to the road. Not seeing anything particularly suspicious in the shoulder of the road, I marked where I wanted my vehicles to get on the road and started jogging in the direction of the city. One by one, my vehicles and that of Psycho climbed the berm of the road and turned after me.
Hopping back into my seat, I told my driver to keep the speed slow, as to allow all of the vehicles to get onto the road without too much space between us. I grabbed the mike and told my trail VC to advise me when they were on the road and ready to step. Meanwhile, my vehicle was proceeding forward at what would be a fast walking pace. My last vehicle finally climbed onto the road and rogered up that they were good to go. I was responding to his information when, from out of the pitch-black darkness, a huge friggin' deamonbeast of a mutt decided to stick his snout in my window and express his displeasure at my presence, loudly, vigorously, and with much snapping of teeth.
To my credit, I avoided shrieking like a girl (much), and even managed to restrain myself from okaying a MK19 expenditure. Thankfully, that was about the extent of excitement on the whole ride over there.
At the objective, well, it got a bit more interesting...
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Amateurs
A clip, by way of Theo.
Thaaat's gotta suck...
I like this clip for a number of reasons (besides the obvious).
Yes basically, the mortar is a pretty simple weapon... to fire. If you want accuracy with it, well that's another thing, but just getting it to go 'boom' is really pretty simple. Make sure the safeties are removed from the round, drop it in the tube, it falls to the bottom and hits the firing pin and - well, the rest just kind of comes naturally.
Usually.
If you're the type to skip out on aiming stakes & sights and go by the tried and true 'spray and pray' method, well, you're probably also the type to take a pass on cleaning out the bore every now and then.
Mortar barrels have been known to get dirty, just like rifles and definitely not like that floozy showing off too much ankle three hovels down from your own.
When barrels get dirty, rounds can (will) get caught up in the tube. When rounds get caught up in the tube, I'd imagine that more likely than not they're not going to explode in the barrel (the explosion in the barrel comes from the propellants attached to the rear of the round), but all that pressure's got to go somewhere. (This is that same pressure that shoots the round up to the neighborhood of 3000 meters.) If the pressure can't go up, it'll go down and probably either find that faulty and/or loose firing pin or it'll definitely find that barrel failure that you didn't see upon inspection of your weapon. Dumbass.
The fact that the video existed to post up for posterity leads me to belive that the round didn't spew shrapnel all over the place turning the guys into meaty man-chunks (to include the camera man and his camera), but, Inshallah, the failure of the tube was enough to ensure that all in the immediate vicinity had a Very Bad (read: slow & terminal) Day. Further viewing of the clip shows the barrel failure (flash at the bottom), resulting in it getting some air time (lovin' it!), suggesting that the round was almost definitely stuck in the barrel and the ass end of the tube was hopefully embedded in the tender bits of nearby schmucks. If not the bits of the tube in the bits of the guys, I'm sure the sand bags, base plate, rocks and other assorted items were moving fast enough to make things interesting...
Thaaat's gotta suck...
I like this clip for a number of reasons (besides the obvious).
Yes basically, the mortar is a pretty simple weapon... to fire. If you want accuracy with it, well that's another thing, but just getting it to go 'boom' is really pretty simple. Make sure the safeties are removed from the round, drop it in the tube, it falls to the bottom and hits the firing pin and - well, the rest just kind of comes naturally.
Usually.
If you're the type to skip out on aiming stakes & sights and go by the tried and true 'spray and pray' method, well, you're probably also the type to take a pass on cleaning out the bore every now and then.
Mortar barrels have been known to get dirty, just like rifles and definitely not like that floozy showing off too much ankle three hovels down from your own.
When barrels get dirty, rounds can (will) get caught up in the tube. When rounds get caught up in the tube, I'd imagine that more likely than not they're not going to explode in the barrel (the explosion in the barrel comes from the propellants attached to the rear of the round), but all that pressure's got to go somewhere. (This is that same pressure that shoots the round up to the neighborhood of 3000 meters.) If the pressure can't go up, it'll go down and probably either find that faulty and/or loose firing pin or it'll definitely find that barrel failure that you didn't see upon inspection of your weapon. Dumbass.
The fact that the video existed to post up for posterity leads me to belive that the round didn't spew shrapnel all over the place turning the guys into meaty man-chunks (to include the camera man and his camera), but, Inshallah, the failure of the tube was enough to ensure that all in the immediate vicinity had a Very Bad (read: slow & terminal) Day. Further viewing of the clip shows the barrel failure (flash at the bottom), resulting in it getting some air time (lovin' it!), suggesting that the round was almost definitely stuck in the barrel and the ass end of the tube was hopefully embedded in the tender bits of nearby schmucks. If not the bits of the tube in the bits of the guys, I'm sure the sand bags, base plate, rocks and other assorted items were moving fast enough to make things interesting...
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Doing The Mostest With The Leastest
By the time grunts actually get set free to go out looking for that which needs blowin' up and those that need blowin' away, they are the friggin' Yodas of Adapt & Improvise. This is due to a traumatically ingrained memory of having next to nuthin', throughout most (if not all) training.
'Butta-Butta Jam, anyone?'
The inevitable result of this are a near constant tendency to use items for other than their originally intended use. Some of the more well known items might be things like;
crazy string as a trip-wire detector.
entrenching tools used as ass-props whilst 'dropping bombs'.
zip-ties for damn near everything.
skivvy-shirt sleeves as emergency t.p.
remote-control trucks as a c4 delivery devices.
flash-bangs for wayward local national drivers.
shelter-halves used for Hummer tires' traction in mud (good times).
vacant mortar base-plate holes as recliners and as personal *ahem* 'drop zones'.
MRE shells as barf bags, wound covers, and storage bags.
Of course, nearly all of the above can, has been, and will be used for practical jokes of one sort or the other, but that's like noting that the sun is bright or the sky is blue. With the short above list in mind, a pic.
Neat lookin' (actual technical phrase) aircraft abandoned outside Camp Cupcake.
Anyone venture to guess what the above was used for, during my time?
1) Source for spare parts and as a training aid for the '04 Iraqi Air Force.
2) Reference point when travelling through the Area of Operations.
3) Prime real estate for a morning constitutional.
You get three guesses, and the first two don't count.
'Butta-Butta Jam, anyone?'
The inevitable result of this are a near constant tendency to use items for other than their originally intended use. Some of the more well known items might be things like;
crazy string as a trip-wire detector.
entrenching tools used as ass-props whilst 'dropping bombs'.
zip-ties for damn near everything.
skivvy-shirt sleeves as emergency t.p.
remote-control trucks as a c4 delivery devices.
flash-bangs for wayward local national drivers.
shelter-halves used for Hummer tires' traction in mud (good times).
vacant mortar base-plate holes as recliners and as personal *ahem* 'drop zones'.
MRE shells as barf bags, wound covers, and storage bags.
Of course, nearly all of the above can, has been, and will be used for practical jokes of one sort or the other, but that's like noting that the sun is bright or the sky is blue. With the short above list in mind, a pic.
Neat lookin' (actual technical phrase) aircraft abandoned outside Camp Cupcake.Anyone venture to guess what the above was used for, during my time?
1) Source for spare parts and as a training aid for the '04 Iraqi Air Force.
2) Reference point when travelling through the Area of Operations.
3) Prime real estate for a morning constitutional.
You get three guesses, and the first two don't count.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Pleasant Conversations
In the movies, the guys take a moment from the action to wax eloquent about the meaning of life, make heroic speeches, and/or foreshadow their impending doom.
Real life, as you might be shocked to learn, is usually a wee bit different.
We were set up just outside the boundaries of a cemetery and on either side of the only decrepit pontoon bridge for miles around. Beyond the cemetery, on a slight rise and to our direct front was the village, and to our rear was the river. It wasn't the greatest of locations by a long shot, but the mission of being ready to provide support for friendly units in the immediate area left us little choice in the matter. My APL (Assistant Patrol Leader) grumbled about why we didn't go ahead and drop trou, bend over, and spread the cheeks for the bad guys, but he was always the pessimist. I rationalized that the village folks only marginally hated our guts, so we should be okey-dokey. (If they openly despised us oftentimes very little actually happened (right then) and if they apparently all loved us you knew you were royally screwed).
Nevertheless, we of course followed SOP and set up our security. 'Complacency kills', you know...
It was shortly after we had all set up for the indeterminate wait and I had linked up with our sister-squad's leader that I realized we'd be there for much longer than originally anticipated.
Nice.
I began to make my rounds.
After the squad sets up pretty much anywhere for any length of time, I would go around and double-check the situation. There's quite a bit to look after, even when the squad was just hanging around; dismounted Marines' positions to check, vehicles' lines of sight / interlocking fire, VCs (Vehicle Commanders) understanding of the plan / the back-up plan / the plan for when plan Z goes bad, quashing horseplay and/or general mischief - all this while/after co-ordinating with friendlies, checking in with the rear, and the like. When passing my vehicle again, I found my APL doing pretty much the same thing.
Good man.
We took a moment, at my vehicle.
We covered some of the rough plans for the day, all of 'em pretty much at some point involving the phrases 'goat rope, semper gumby, SNAFU, and follow my lead'. There was some discussion as to the two guys that were still blowing mud from eating the local... 'food' that the ING soldiers offered us the other day (there's being polite, and then there's being smart. Guess which one I was? Most definitely in the 'smart' column, thanks be to Allah). Coming back to the matter at hand, my APL nodded in the direction of the graves and grunted. I responded by telling him that we'd try to stay off the final resting place of dear ole Ab and Om if possible, but if things got real interesting, we might have to really piss off everybody in the village by driving right through. Thankfully, the local po-po and ING showed up around that time, marginally reducing my ever-constant expectation of attack.
Important business nearly completed, it was time to move on to the next order of business; chow. Opening the flaps on the MRE box in the foot well of the rear-right passenger seat, I saw that the top-most MRE was Frankfurters; Beef, 4. Uhhh, no. Flipping that one to the side, I saw that there was only 4 or 5 MREs left in the box, and the second one I looked at was also the 4 Fingers of Death meal. Ignoring the chuckle from the gunner in the turret, I was about to check out the rest of them when one of my Lance Coolies popped his head around the vehicle and excitedly informed me of some Important News.
"HeySergeant,gunnerofBlack3justcameonthesquadradioandsaidthe
terptoldhimthatthere'sawhorehousearoundhere!"
Sighing at the collection of Meat-Sticks and Crapolaya, I grabbed a MRE, tossed a curse in the general direction of my vehicle crew (and promised them more fire watch), and turned to the Lance Corporal. "What was that?", I asked. "Whores!" was the excited response.
Seriously?
"Wanna check it out on our way out of town?", my APL asked, "might be something... uh, interesting going on in there. You know... uh, suspicious activity, or something."
I'm pretty sure he was mostly joking around.
"What in the heck are we gonna do in an Iraqi whore house?", I asked.
I decided to ignore his raised eyebrow.
My Lance Corporal put a disappointed look on his face and commented as to how I never let the guys have any fun [pout]. I told him that the squad, their weenies, and for that matter his mom would thank me later. He trudged off to tell the rest of the guys the bad news.
I know, I know, no 'troop welfare'. Bad Sergeant...
HERE was going to be where I linked to a story about a visit to 'what just happened to be' a south american brothel (yeah, just one), but I wasn't able to find it. Have I not posted it on this blog?
Turning to my APL who looked like he wanted to continue the discussion, I held up one of the weenies from my MRE. "Can we talk about something that else, at least when I gotta choke this bad boy down?"
"Sure", he said, " I got this rash..." [scratch, scratch]
sigh.
Real life, as you might be shocked to learn, is usually a wee bit different.
We were set up just outside the boundaries of a cemetery and on either side of the only decrepit pontoon bridge for miles around. Beyond the cemetery, on a slight rise and to our direct front was the village, and to our rear was the river. It wasn't the greatest of locations by a long shot, but the mission of being ready to provide support for friendly units in the immediate area left us little choice in the matter. My APL (Assistant Patrol Leader) grumbled about why we didn't go ahead and drop trou, bend over, and spread the cheeks for the bad guys, but he was always the pessimist. I rationalized that the village folks only marginally hated our guts, so we should be okey-dokey. (If they openly despised us oftentimes very little actually happened (right then) and if they apparently all loved us you knew you were royally screwed).
Nevertheless, we of course followed SOP and set up our security. 'Complacency kills', you know...
It was shortly after we had all set up for the indeterminate wait and I had linked up with our sister-squad's leader that I realized we'd be there for much longer than originally anticipated.
Nice.
I began to make my rounds.
After the squad sets up pretty much anywhere for any length of time, I would go around and double-check the situation. There's quite a bit to look after, even when the squad was just hanging around; dismounted Marines' positions to check, vehicles' lines of sight / interlocking fire, VCs (Vehicle Commanders) understanding of the plan / the back-up plan / the plan for when plan Z goes bad, quashing horseplay and/or general mischief - all this while/after co-ordinating with friendlies, checking in with the rear, and the like. When passing my vehicle again, I found my APL doing pretty much the same thing.
Good man.
We took a moment, at my vehicle.
We covered some of the rough plans for the day, all of 'em pretty much at some point involving the phrases 'goat rope, semper gumby, SNAFU, and follow my lead'. There was some discussion as to the two guys that were still blowing mud from eating the local... 'food' that the ING soldiers offered us the other day (there's being polite, and then there's being smart. Guess which one I was? Most definitely in the 'smart' column, thanks be to Allah). Coming back to the matter at hand, my APL nodded in the direction of the graves and grunted. I responded by telling him that we'd try to stay off the final resting place of dear ole Ab and Om if possible, but if things got real interesting, we might have to really piss off everybody in the village by driving right through. Thankfully, the local po-po and ING showed up around that time, marginally reducing my ever-constant expectation of attack.
Important business nearly completed, it was time to move on to the next order of business; chow. Opening the flaps on the MRE box in the foot well of the rear-right passenger seat, I saw that the top-most MRE was Frankfurters; Beef, 4. Uhhh, no. Flipping that one to the side, I saw that there was only 4 or 5 MREs left in the box, and the second one I looked at was also the 4 Fingers of Death meal. Ignoring the chuckle from the gunner in the turret, I was about to check out the rest of them when one of my Lance Coolies popped his head around the vehicle and excitedly informed me of some Important News.
"HeySergeant,gunnerofBlack3justcameonthesquadradioandsaidthe
terptoldhimthatthere'sawhorehousearoundhere!"
Sighing at the collection of Meat-Sticks and Crapolaya, I grabbed a MRE, tossed a curse in the general direction of my vehicle crew (and promised them more fire watch), and turned to the Lance Corporal. "What was that?", I asked. "Whores!" was the excited response.
Seriously?
"Wanna check it out on our way out of town?", my APL asked, "might be something... uh, interesting going on in there. You know... uh, suspicious activity, or something."
I'm pretty sure he was mostly joking around.
"What in the heck are we gonna do in an Iraqi whore house?", I asked.
I decided to ignore his raised eyebrow.
My Lance Corporal put a disappointed look on his face and commented as to how I never let the guys have any fun [pout]. I told him that the squad, their weenies, and for that matter his mom would thank me later. He trudged off to tell the rest of the guys the bad news.
I know, I know, no 'troop welfare'. Bad Sergeant...
HERE was going to be where I linked to a story about a visit to 'what just happened to be' a south american brothel (yeah, just one), but I wasn't able to find it. Have I not posted it on this blog?
Turning to my APL who looked like he wanted to continue the discussion, I held up one of the weenies from my MRE. "Can we talk about something that else, at least when I gotta choke this bad boy down?"
"Sure", he said, " I got this rash..." [scratch, scratch]
sigh.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The Fog (Smoke) of War
Combat photography is an interesting subject, full of cool photos, but often I can't help but think to myself, 'Self, why does this guy not have a rifle in his hands and why is he not killing someone right now?'
Well, I found out the answer to that one... sorta.
Howdy.
The distinctive "Wwwwwwwhhhhhrrrrr!!!!" preceded the inevitable explosions as the enemy mortars and rockets exploded within the Forward Operating Base (FOB) perimeter. Inevitably, curses and joyous shouts filled the air from my Marines.
Myself and my squad were hanging out in the 'morgue', so named for the large empty rooms filled with the slabs of concrete, about 25 of them, that would be perfect for bodies... except for the whole being in the middla Iraq, no A/C, and all that jazz. This being the Corps, said slabs were topped with 3 inch high foam pads and called, 'beds'. 'Morgue' was just another name for our quarters.
We'd made do with what we had at hand, filling the odd sand-bag that had emptied out and re-stacking them in the windows, re-hung a black-out curtain in the doorway, 'acquired' an odd mattress and some cots, enough for each slab, and even appropriated some spare lumber for the cause. I had a number of amateur and semi-pro carpenters, mechanics, computer super-nerds, electricians, and assorted riff-raff to take care of the odd jobby here and there, and while it was still far from approaching a comfy level, my guys had managed to work between patrols to add some appliances, hang some speakers, and construct a few lofts. One enterprising bugger had made his loft about eight feet high, hung curtains all around his rack - from top frame to concrete slab, organized a veritable dry-goods grocery / uh... 'alternative reading' aisle on the slab, and hung a sign from the head of his rack entitled, 'The Jack Shack'. Even had a little platform for his DVD player that angled down to his rack, I guess to leave his hands free for... whatever. His favorite line before getting in the rack wasn't the infamous 'Prepare to mount...' that most every Marine remembers from boot, but 'If the rack is a rockin', don't come a knockin...'
That's my war, baby.
The slab next to his was empty and served as the community care package, extra pogey bait, 'instructional DVD', 'reading material', and etc collection point. It also was the MAPs card table, as needed.
Marine will gamble and bet on darn near anything.
Call it too much time and money and not enough sense, but Marines will take bets on how long they can avoid taking bets. They would bet for firewatch, chow, DVDs, bragging rights, money, trinkets, and just about anything you can imagine.
They would even bet on stuff like enemy action.
If I remember correctly, the longest we went without enemy mortars or rockets was something on the order of about 9 days, so whenever we'd get to about four or five days free from incoming, you better believe that there was some interesting bets going on. Whenever the inevitable would happen, there were a few phrases that you could always expect to hear;
1) Incoming! / Cover! (no kidding)
2) Get some!
3) QRF up! (Quick Reaction Force, or the guys that go looking for trouble when it's already found you.)
4) Yeah, Five and a half days! Pay up, bitches!
Number four was what I heard immediately after the explosions.
I mumbled and grumbled and jumped out of the rack. We weren't officially the QRF (Quick Reaction Force), but the assigned QRF had already been launched for some suspicious activity in the AO. As we were the only MAP (Mobile Assault Platoon) on the reservation at the time, it wasn't a leap to figure that we'd be tasked with going to the party. My guys, seeing me grabbing my gear, muttered their own commentary and grabbed their own gear. Not that it needed to be said, but I sounded off to my Assistant Squad Leader across the room, 'Comm and weapons checks, stage the Victors by the CoC, stand by to Oscar Mike!' He gave me a sleepy thumbs up and scratched his nuts whilest looking for some gear. Guess it was nappy time for him too.
I hustled down the stairs at the end of the building, narrowly avoided getting run over by one of my own Hummers tearing ass over to the staging area, and jogged to the Command Center.
It was hoppin'.
I blew a kiss to the new PFC manning the radio, sidled up to the Staff Sergeant at the map table, and asked if he knew where the POI (point of origin) was. He nodded as the building rattled with more incoming. I told him that I was going to the vehicles, my call sign, and that we'd be ready to launch in about 3 minutes. He nodded as the room began to flood with Officers and Staff NCOs. I exited the room, turned the corner and was pretty much at my vehicles. Victor 1, my own, was staged just beyond the edge of the building, facing the road that eventually led out of the FOB. My guys were tightening down straps on their flacks, fingering their mags, and re-checking their gear - basically just killing time before we launched. I yelled at one knucklehead and asked if he heard the incoming, then asked him why his kevlar wasn't on his head. My ASL came up to me, told me that all Marines were present and ready to go, victors were good, the radio on victor 4 was acting froggy, but he had the comm Yoda on it. If Yoda could get it up and running before we left, great; if not, we'd just swap out vehicle positions.
I grabbed the command dedicated radio and did a comm check.
"Command, Command, this is Black 1, radio check, over."
"Last station, say again your last, over?"
"Black 1, comm check, I'm good to go and ready to launch, how copy, over?"
"What's your pos, Black 1?"
Come on, PFC, get with the program...
I leaned over a few feet and pounded on the wall with my free hand.
*thump, thump*
"Roger Black, stand by."
Turning back to my vehicle, I looked through the windshield and noticed a curious sight from the palm groves down the way... smoke, and lots of it.
I looked up at my gunner standing in the turret, behind the 240G and with binos to his eyes. "Is that what I think it is?" I asked him, and he responded in the affirmative. "Fuckers look like they are just inside / behind the tree line, but yeah, Sergeant, that's where it's coming from."
"Do we have the range?"
"Nope. Our mortars do, guys at the gate do... maybe, but not us, not here."
I rogered up on the radio to tell command that we had eyes on, and to request permission to leave friendly lines. I got told to stand by. Again. My Marines were getting antsy, looking to kill something, anything, wh-
There was a massive explosion that rocked the buildings, shook the ground, and rattled your teeth.
As we still hadn't gotten the go ahead to depart the FOB, I told my guys to leave the (unarmored) victors and get inside the (sandbagged) building. They immediately made for the nearest building, and probably got a few looks as they tried to occupy the same space as nearly all the FOB's Staff & Officers. Hey hey hay! - Party time!
I had stayed with the vehicles to maintain eyes on (my vehicles - heck, there's Marines about) and to welcome any unexpected visitors should they over-run the combination USMC and ING gate guard contingent (unlikely). Probably a good thing that the ING guys didn't cut and run (more likely), because if they had come running around the bend in front of my vehicle, well... it probably would've sucked to've been them.
About the time when I started to wonder if I was gonna have to run down to the FOB's 81smm gun line and start kickin' ass and takin' names, the FOB resumed their return fire.
'So there I was', hanging out at the vehicles, out of return fire range, well within enemy range, on orders to 'stand by to stand by'... business as usual. I just happened to have the camera that my folks sent me...
Mortars: Reach out and touch someone.
Well, I found out the answer to that one... sorta.
Howdy.
The distinctive "Wwwwwwwhhhhhrrrrr!!!!" preceded the inevitable explosions as the enemy mortars and rockets exploded within the Forward Operating Base (FOB) perimeter. Inevitably, curses and joyous shouts filled the air from my Marines.
Myself and my squad were hanging out in the 'morgue', so named for the large empty rooms filled with the slabs of concrete, about 25 of them, that would be perfect for bodies... except for the whole being in the middla Iraq, no A/C, and all that jazz. This being the Corps, said slabs were topped with 3 inch high foam pads and called, 'beds'. 'Morgue' was just another name for our quarters.
We'd made do with what we had at hand, filling the odd sand-bag that had emptied out and re-stacking them in the windows, re-hung a black-out curtain in the doorway, 'acquired' an odd mattress and some cots, enough for each slab, and even appropriated some spare lumber for the cause. I had a number of amateur and semi-pro carpenters, mechanics, computer super-nerds, electricians, and assorted riff-raff to take care of the odd jobby here and there, and while it was still far from approaching a comfy level, my guys had managed to work between patrols to add some appliances, hang some speakers, and construct a few lofts. One enterprising bugger had made his loft about eight feet high, hung curtains all around his rack - from top frame to concrete slab, organized a veritable dry-goods grocery / uh... 'alternative reading' aisle on the slab, and hung a sign from the head of his rack entitled, 'The Jack Shack'. Even had a little platform for his DVD player that angled down to his rack, I guess to leave his hands free for... whatever. His favorite line before getting in the rack wasn't the infamous 'Prepare to mount...' that most every Marine remembers from boot, but 'If the rack is a rockin', don't come a knockin...'
That's my war, baby.
The slab next to his was empty and served as the community care package, extra pogey bait, 'instructional DVD', 'reading material', and etc collection point. It also was the MAPs card table, as needed.
Marine will gamble and bet on darn near anything.
Call it too much time and money and not enough sense, but Marines will take bets on how long they can avoid taking bets. They would bet for firewatch, chow, DVDs, bragging rights, money, trinkets, and just about anything you can imagine.
They would even bet on stuff like enemy action.
If I remember correctly, the longest we went without enemy mortars or rockets was something on the order of about 9 days, so whenever we'd get to about four or five days free from incoming, you better believe that there was some interesting bets going on. Whenever the inevitable would happen, there were a few phrases that you could always expect to hear;
1) Incoming! / Cover! (no kidding)
2) Get some!
3) QRF up! (Quick Reaction Force, or the guys that go looking for trouble when it's already found you.)
4) Yeah, Five and a half days! Pay up, bitches!
Number four was what I heard immediately after the explosions.
I mumbled and grumbled and jumped out of the rack. We weren't officially the QRF (Quick Reaction Force), but the assigned QRF had already been launched for some suspicious activity in the AO. As we were the only MAP (Mobile Assault Platoon) on the reservation at the time, it wasn't a leap to figure that we'd be tasked with going to the party. My guys, seeing me grabbing my gear, muttered their own commentary and grabbed their own gear. Not that it needed to be said, but I sounded off to my Assistant Squad Leader across the room, 'Comm and weapons checks, stage the Victors by the CoC, stand by to Oscar Mike!' He gave me a sleepy thumbs up and scratched his nuts whilest looking for some gear. Guess it was nappy time for him too.
I hustled down the stairs at the end of the building, narrowly avoided getting run over by one of my own Hummers tearing ass over to the staging area, and jogged to the Command Center.
It was hoppin'.
I blew a kiss to the new PFC manning the radio, sidled up to the Staff Sergeant at the map table, and asked if he knew where the POI (point of origin) was. He nodded as the building rattled with more incoming. I told him that I was going to the vehicles, my call sign, and that we'd be ready to launch in about 3 minutes. He nodded as the room began to flood with Officers and Staff NCOs. I exited the room, turned the corner and was pretty much at my vehicles. Victor 1, my own, was staged just beyond the edge of the building, facing the road that eventually led out of the FOB. My guys were tightening down straps on their flacks, fingering their mags, and re-checking their gear - basically just killing time before we launched. I yelled at one knucklehead and asked if he heard the incoming, then asked him why his kevlar wasn't on his head. My ASL came up to me, told me that all Marines were present and ready to go, victors were good, the radio on victor 4 was acting froggy, but he had the comm Yoda on it. If Yoda could get it up and running before we left, great; if not, we'd just swap out vehicle positions.
I grabbed the command dedicated radio and did a comm check.
"Command, Command, this is Black 1, radio check, over."
"Last station, say again your last, over?"
"Black 1, comm check, I'm good to go and ready to launch, how copy, over?"
"What's your pos, Black 1?"
Come on, PFC, get with the program...
I leaned over a few feet and pounded on the wall with my free hand.
*thump, thump*
"Roger Black, stand by."
Turning back to my vehicle, I looked through the windshield and noticed a curious sight from the palm groves down the way... smoke, and lots of it.
I looked up at my gunner standing in the turret, behind the 240G and with binos to his eyes. "Is that what I think it is?" I asked him, and he responded in the affirmative. "Fuckers look like they are just inside / behind the tree line, but yeah, Sergeant, that's where it's coming from."
"Do we have the range?"
"Nope. Our mortars do, guys at the gate do... maybe, but not us, not here."
I rogered up on the radio to tell command that we had eyes on, and to request permission to leave friendly lines. I got told to stand by. Again. My Marines were getting antsy, looking to kill something, anything, wh-
There was a massive explosion that rocked the buildings, shook the ground, and rattled your teeth.
As we still hadn't gotten the go ahead to depart the FOB, I told my guys to leave the (unarmored) victors and get inside the (sandbagged) building. They immediately made for the nearest building, and probably got a few looks as they tried to occupy the same space as nearly all the FOB's Staff & Officers. Hey hey hay! - Party time!
I had stayed with the vehicles to maintain eyes on (my vehicles - heck, there's Marines about) and to welcome any unexpected visitors should they over-run the combination USMC and ING gate guard contingent (unlikely). Probably a good thing that the ING guys didn't cut and run (more likely), because if they had come running around the bend in front of my vehicle, well... it probably would've sucked to've been them.
About the time when I started to wonder if I was gonna have to run down to the FOB's 81smm gun line and start kickin' ass and takin' names, the FOB resumed their return fire.
'So there I was', hanging out at the vehicles, out of return fire range, well within enemy range, on orders to 'stand by to stand by'... business as usual. I just happened to have the camera that my folks sent me...
Mortars: Reach out and touch someone.It got kind of busy after that but all in all, it was a good day.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Work harder, not smarter.
What does this picture say to you?
1) Work harder, not smarter.
2) Immediate obediance to orders. When the angry Sergeant says, "Friggin' get the friggin' Hummer outta that friggin' mud right friggin' now!", that is NOT the time to say something about 'Simon Says'...
3) Someone didn't want the driver of said vehicle to be lonely on my Shit List of Doom, so he left his rifle lying on the ground. That's a buddy for ya...
4) [insert your witty comment here]
Thursday, February 21, 2008
What's Arabic for, 'If I just close my eyes, maybe they won't see me'?
I was in the FOB's HQ room, conducting a qualitly control check... on the coffee, of course. I was also interested in conducting a raid of opportunity of the candy cup on the Staff Sergeant's deck, but he knew a good thing when he saw it (twizzlers), and he also knew a sneaky Sergeant (moi) when he saw one.
It wasn't gonna happen, I was beginning to fear.
Might as well get an AO update while I was here, I thought. While perusing the items of interest next to the AO map (and keeping an eye on the wary Staff Sergeant), I noticed a pin at a well known intersection. It was at a cross-roads in kind of an out of the way location, and to my knowledge, hadn't really seen too much action. We had different colored pins for the Area of Operations (AO) map, color indicating what type of event happened. The color of this pin indicated that it was an IED/Landmine recovery, unexploded. Jumping to the events description page, I got kind of pissed and had a chuckle, as well.
Seems that one of the other MAPs had been in the area, checking out some convoy's report of suspicious activity. Now, we all knew that 'suspicious activity' as reported by a convoy could be nothing but complete bunk, reported as an immenent attack, to legitimate intell... reported at the end of the convoy, roughly 5 hours to late to act upon. The good Sergeant however, wasn't taking any chances (good for him).
Arriving at the intersection, he paused for a moment to take stock of the scenario. Like I mentioned it was in a kind of an out of the way location, with not much but some rather large hills off in the distance to the east and a few small, rolling hills off to the near west. The intersection itself was a 'main' road, north/south, with one lane of travel each way. The intersection part was a road that T-intersected the main road, leading off to the east, and eventually a small town by the river. The Iraqi dirt and dust was everywhere but the poorly paved, cracked road top.
The Sergeant directed his MAP to go off road to the west for the intersection approach. By avoiding the road alltogether, he didn't have to worry about civilian traffic, a possible SVBIED (Suicide Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device), or buried IEDS or landmines. Weaving his way through the hills on the west side of the intersection, he noted that traffic was very light (possibly a bad sign, as the locals tended to know about and avoid any immenent threat), and that other than one nomadic goat herder way off in the distance, there were no people within view, wandering around. There was one small building, about 300 yards away from the intersection, in the southeast corner. No other buildings present, and besides the hills he was currently occupying, very little in the way of defilade for an enemy to hide in.
He dismounted his vehicle, slowly climbed one of the hills, inspecting the terrain along the way, and then by using one of the squad's personal scopes, got eyes on the intersection. It was fairly evident that someone had been very naughty recently, right along side the south east corner of the roads. The Sergeant called it in, got the EOD rolling, blocked off the road and then noticed something interesting.
What would you think, if you were the Sergeant on the scene, when, after discovering what was later determined to be an IED of a HE mortar round origination, you noticed, amidst the complete lack of local persons, driving, walking, or anywhere else in the immediate vicinity, you notice two guys hanging out on the roof of the only building around, looking right back at you... through binos of their own.
What do you do, in a situation like that? Pop the bird? Wave? Let Ma Deuce say, 'hi!'?
He wandered over, to make introductions, sure.
He found two very nervous local guys up top, and around the back of the house a wheelbarrow with some IED making materials / leftovers. On the guys he found a patrol brief for one of the up-coming convoys.
Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot, over.
There are lots of locals in the bases and FOBs in Iraq. They can be found in jobs ranging from landscaping and maitenance to working in the Iraqi National Guard. Undoubtedly, some are not who they claim to be, and are actively working against us. Part of the game, I suppose. They do what they have to do, and we do what we have to do. We (at least most of us) keep that very strongly in the forefront of our minds, and take the utmost in care in any and all paperwork that could give anyone an edge up on us. Looks like someone in the convoy's origional station wasn't so careful.
I did get a chuckle out of the time, effort, and nerves that must have been expended by some very sneaky desert-ninjers, only to hand the result of their efforts over to two amateur schmucks who, after doing what was reportedly at best a half-assed camo job on the IED, pick the worst hiding spot in a terrible ambush location.
I left the HQ, only temporarily in failure for my constant search for sugary deliciousness, to see who on the FOB had a cigar or two with which I could toast my fellow Sergeant's successes.
It wasn't gonna happen, I was beginning to fear.
Might as well get an AO update while I was here, I thought. While perusing the items of interest next to the AO map (and keeping an eye on the wary Staff Sergeant), I noticed a pin at a well known intersection. It was at a cross-roads in kind of an out of the way location, and to my knowledge, hadn't really seen too much action. We had different colored pins for the Area of Operations (AO) map, color indicating what type of event happened. The color of this pin indicated that it was an IED/Landmine recovery, unexploded. Jumping to the events description page, I got kind of pissed and had a chuckle, as well.
Seems that one of the other MAPs had been in the area, checking out some convoy's report of suspicious activity. Now, we all knew that 'suspicious activity' as reported by a convoy could be nothing but complete bunk, reported as an immenent attack, to legitimate intell... reported at the end of the convoy, roughly 5 hours to late to act upon. The good Sergeant however, wasn't taking any chances (good for him).
Arriving at the intersection, he paused for a moment to take stock of the scenario. Like I mentioned it was in a kind of an out of the way location, with not much but some rather large hills off in the distance to the east and a few small, rolling hills off to the near west. The intersection itself was a 'main' road, north/south, with one lane of travel each way. The intersection part was a road that T-intersected the main road, leading off to the east, and eventually a small town by the river. The Iraqi dirt and dust was everywhere but the poorly paved, cracked road top.
The Sergeant directed his MAP to go off road to the west for the intersection approach. By avoiding the road alltogether, he didn't have to worry about civilian traffic, a possible SVBIED (Suicide Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device), or buried IEDS or landmines. Weaving his way through the hills on the west side of the intersection, he noted that traffic was very light (possibly a bad sign, as the locals tended to know about and avoid any immenent threat), and that other than one nomadic goat herder way off in the distance, there were no people within view, wandering around. There was one small building, about 300 yards away from the intersection, in the southeast corner. No other buildings present, and besides the hills he was currently occupying, very little in the way of defilade for an enemy to hide in.
He dismounted his vehicle, slowly climbed one of the hills, inspecting the terrain along the way, and then by using one of the squad's personal scopes, got eyes on the intersection. It was fairly evident that someone had been very naughty recently, right along side the south east corner of the roads. The Sergeant called it in, got the EOD rolling, blocked off the road and then noticed something interesting.
What would you think, if you were the Sergeant on the scene, when, after discovering what was later determined to be an IED of a HE mortar round origination, you noticed, amidst the complete lack of local persons, driving, walking, or anywhere else in the immediate vicinity, you notice two guys hanging out on the roof of the only building around, looking right back at you... through binos of their own.
What do you do, in a situation like that? Pop the bird? Wave? Let Ma Deuce say, 'hi!'?
He wandered over, to make introductions, sure.
He found two very nervous local guys up top, and around the back of the house a wheelbarrow with some IED making materials / leftovers. On the guys he found a patrol brief for one of the up-coming convoys.
Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot, over.
There are lots of locals in the bases and FOBs in Iraq. They can be found in jobs ranging from landscaping and maitenance to working in the Iraqi National Guard. Undoubtedly, some are not who they claim to be, and are actively working against us. Part of the game, I suppose. They do what they have to do, and we do what we have to do. We (at least most of us) keep that very strongly in the forefront of our minds, and take the utmost in care in any and all paperwork that could give anyone an edge up on us. Looks like someone in the convoy's origional station wasn't so careful.
I did get a chuckle out of the time, effort, and nerves that must have been expended by some very sneaky desert-ninjers, only to hand the result of their efforts over to two amateur schmucks who, after doing what was reportedly at best a half-assed camo job on the IED, pick the worst hiding spot in a terrible ambush location.
I left the HQ, only temporarily in failure for my constant search for sugary deliciousness, to see who on the FOB had a cigar or two with which I could toast my fellow Sergeant's successes.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Hmm...
Maybe there's hope for my wayward package(s), afterall. Link is to an article detailing a postcard, mailed in 1929, that was recently delivered.
Yup, that's what I thought, too.
One of the roughly bajillion classes that we got before our 'world tour' was regarding mail. The Staff-NCO who gave the class was full of helpfull information, including the use of field expedient postcards (MRE box sections, probably one of the few good actual uses for some of them besides, you know, choking them down), free postage, and rules & regulations regarding authorized items in the mail system.
He told a few horror stories about guys trying to mail home explosive and grenades, with the predictable result.
He mentioned the fact that he got a care package during his second deployment... that was mailed to him during his first deployment.
Basic rules of thumb were;
Don't mail anything stupid, like grenades or landmines.
Don't mail anything valuable, either monetarily (electronics) or personal ('special' pics of the ole lady).
Don't mail anything issued, like gear, weapons, or First Sergeants.
Don't mail anything (else) on the prohibited items list. This one would change about 3 times a week, so if you weren't sure about mailing the First Sergeant, just wait a bit. The list might change.
You know, it's funny, the way one can accumulate stuff when living out of ones seabag. Aside from all of the reading material that I brought along with me (actual reading material, guys), friends and family were good about mailing a couple of books to me with most of the care packages. Mom and Dad would send a few disposable cameras with their packages, and the rest of my stuff I would amass when the opportunity arose.
What would happen with general 'Any Marine' care packages was this. Whoever was on mail detail would take note of the address, and prompty ensure that it went to a 'random' platoon. 'Random' means, of course, his own platoon. As admin was always on primary mail detail, guess who got the choice pick of goodies?
Never fear, though, for I had A Plan.
See, a Sergeant of Marines has to make a lot of rounds throughout the day. He might have to go visit Company or Battalion Command, might have to meet a number of NCOs and Occifers from outside his chain, just to make sure that his guys weren't getting screwed when it came time for acutal work. I'm not even going to mention much the abilities of nearly all Lance Corporals. Heck, one of their more popular monikers is, 'Lance Criminals'. Those guys can mostly fend for themselves.
Well, all Sergeant were all once Lance Criminals, as well.
I would take note of which office had the goodies, and might actually snag some loot before getting chased off my some Staff Sergeant. I might casually pass along the word to one of my sticky fingered charges, and that was pretty much the end of my part of the operation. Occasionally, I would see a couple of my guys running around a corner with a tray full of Dr Peppers, boxes of candies, or other assorted goodies.
Remember, Marines don't retreat. They just make rapid tactical advances to safer positions. Especially when facing hot pursuit by some cranky Corporals.
It wasn't all that bad, you know. Some of the other platoons' guys wouldn't mind one or two Marines going through their 'platoon box o' goodness'. Most of the stuff had been pretty well picked through, already, and most of the guys were pretty generous. When roughly half a dozen Lance Coolies from one squad are observed skulking around a box full leftover smokes and dip, well, that could be a sign of an impending non-official raid by friendly forces.
Back to the link and the theme of this story.
Round about a month left in country, and I realized that I was going to have to start thinking about getting all of my crap back home.
Being alive: Good Thing.
Realizing I had too much crap for one seabag and pack: Not.
I started divvying up all my stuff, all of the things that I would hand off to the guys who were relieving us, and all of my personal junk. I had quite a bit, too. Other than issued gear, I had a folding stool, tons of books ranging from fiction to classics, about half a dozen ammo cans, containing all kinds of stuff ranging from extras (extra batteries, extra slings, extra of just about... everything). I had a CD player, DVD player, and quite the collection of CDs. I had tons of paperwork (seriously, I was at the burn pit for friggin' days.)
I had lots of cold weather gear, 'cause whod'a figgured it would get that cold in the desert? I made out better than most guys, as it was, because in addition to the issued stuff, I had brought some of my own cold weather gear. Just about everybody had to buy, 'aquire', or have more stuff sent from home, though, when it got no shit below freezing a couple of times. Yeah, waiting for cold weather gear (roughly 2 to 3 month wait) when it was already cold was a bit rough, as some guys found out.
I wound up mailing somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 or 7 boxes back home.
In the excitement of getting home and the various festivites of same, I didn't even realize that I was short a box or two for quite a while. At last estimate, it was the box that contained nearly all of my extra-backup cold weather gear (yeah, obsessive, I know) and somewhere around 3 or 4 disposable cameras.
At the very least I kind of hope it was returned to Iraq to someother guy with a simlar name, so that somebody might get some actual use out of it.
Maybe there's hope for my wayward package(s), afterall. Link is to an article detailing a postcard, mailed in 1929, that was recently delivered.
Yup, that's what I thought, too.
One of the roughly bajillion classes that we got before our 'world tour' was regarding mail. The Staff-NCO who gave the class was full of helpfull information, including the use of field expedient postcards (MRE box sections, probably one of the few good actual uses for some of them besides, you know, choking them down), free postage, and rules & regulations regarding authorized items in the mail system.
He told a few horror stories about guys trying to mail home explosive and grenades, with the predictable result.
He mentioned the fact that he got a care package during his second deployment... that was mailed to him during his first deployment.
Basic rules of thumb were;
Don't mail anything stupid, like grenades or landmines.
Don't mail anything valuable, either monetarily (electronics) or personal ('special' pics of the ole lady).
Don't mail anything issued, like gear, weapons, or First Sergeants.
Don't mail anything (else) on the prohibited items list. This one would change about 3 times a week, so if you weren't sure about mailing the First Sergeant, just wait a bit. The list might change.
You know, it's funny, the way one can accumulate stuff when living out of ones seabag. Aside from all of the reading material that I brought along with me (actual reading material, guys), friends and family were good about mailing a couple of books to me with most of the care packages. Mom and Dad would send a few disposable cameras with their packages, and the rest of my stuff I would amass when the opportunity arose.
What would happen with general 'Any Marine' care packages was this. Whoever was on mail detail would take note of the address, and prompty ensure that it went to a 'random' platoon. 'Random' means, of course, his own platoon. As admin was always on primary mail detail, guess who got the choice pick of goodies?
Never fear, though, for I had A Plan.
See, a Sergeant of Marines has to make a lot of rounds throughout the day. He might have to go visit Company or Battalion Command, might have to meet a number of NCOs and Occifers from outside his chain, just to make sure that his guys weren't getting screwed when it came time for acutal work. I'm not even going to mention much the abilities of nearly all Lance Corporals. Heck, one of their more popular monikers is, 'Lance Criminals'. Those guys can mostly fend for themselves.
Well, all Sergeant were all once Lance Criminals, as well.
I would take note of which office had the goodies, and might actually snag some loot before getting chased off my some Staff Sergeant. I might casually pass along the word to one of my sticky fingered charges, and that was pretty much the end of my part of the operation. Occasionally, I would see a couple of my guys running around a corner with a tray full of Dr Peppers, boxes of candies, or other assorted goodies.
Remember, Marines don't retreat. They just make rapid tactical advances to safer positions. Especially when facing hot pursuit by some cranky Corporals.
It wasn't all that bad, you know. Some of the other platoons' guys wouldn't mind one or two Marines going through their 'platoon box o' goodness'. Most of the stuff had been pretty well picked through, already, and most of the guys were pretty generous. When roughly half a dozen Lance Coolies from one squad are observed skulking around a box full leftover smokes and dip, well, that could be a sign of an impending non-official raid by friendly forces.
Back to the link and the theme of this story.
Round about a month left in country, and I realized that I was going to have to start thinking about getting all of my crap back home.
Being alive: Good Thing.
Realizing I had too much crap for one seabag and pack: Not.
I started divvying up all my stuff, all of the things that I would hand off to the guys who were relieving us, and all of my personal junk. I had quite a bit, too. Other than issued gear, I had a folding stool, tons of books ranging from fiction to classics, about half a dozen ammo cans, containing all kinds of stuff ranging from extras (extra batteries, extra slings, extra of just about... everything). I had a CD player, DVD player, and quite the collection of CDs. I had tons of paperwork (seriously, I was at the burn pit for friggin' days.)
I had lots of cold weather gear, 'cause whod'a figgured it would get that cold in the desert? I made out better than most guys, as it was, because in addition to the issued stuff, I had brought some of my own cold weather gear. Just about everybody had to buy, 'aquire', or have more stuff sent from home, though, when it got no shit below freezing a couple of times. Yeah, waiting for cold weather gear (roughly 2 to 3 month wait) when it was already cold was a bit rough, as some guys found out.
I wound up mailing somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 or 7 boxes back home.
In the excitement of getting home and the various festivites of same, I didn't even realize that I was short a box or two for quite a while. At last estimate, it was the box that contained nearly all of my extra-backup cold weather gear (yeah, obsessive, I know) and somewhere around 3 or 4 disposable cameras.
At the very least I kind of hope it was returned to Iraq to someother guy with a simlar name, so that somebody might get some actual use out of it.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Too much input CAN be a Bad Thing
A little lesson in comm;
Of course, mileage on this will vary, depending on the unit, mission, and branch of service...
My Company was a Weapons Co., acting in country as a MSR/ASR security element. That is to say that, instead of utilizing the 81mm mortars that my platoon was trained for, we would be traipsing around the roads and dunes in Hummers, as sort of low-tech mine/IED sweepers, convoy & raid security, and general (or General's) beyotch/gopher.
Go figure.
Mission Accomplishment and Adapt, Overcome, & Party (or something like that), we needed a way to effectively communicate between our squads, the Company, Battalion, and any other units that were in the area. When it came time to suggest radio handles, we had plenty of suggestions.
Unfortunately, 'Pork Sword of Death', 'Gunslingers', 'Big Johnson', & 'Jihadi-Fu*%ers' were all nixed as call signs.
Someone decided that since we were split up into MAPs (Mobile Assault Platoons), we would just KISS, and go by MAP 1, MAP 2, MAP 3, etc.
Joy.
Being that there were multiple vehicles in each MAP, the call was made that the MAP would internally go by a color designator.
For example, MAP 1 might be designated 'red', so if one were to get a radio transmission from, say, 'Red 2,3, or 4', you would know what vehicle in the MAP was calling you. If you got a call from 'MAP 1', it was automatically known that the MAP 1 Patrol Leader was on the other end.
When it came time for color selection, the only thing that the Staff Sergeant wanted was that no two MAPs had the same color, to avoid any possible confusion between MAPs in the field. He approached me with the color assignments to date when I was meeting with a few of my Corporals. I paused our vital conversation on the importance of maintaining a lint-free pooper when out in the dunes for extended periods, and thought of a color.
ME: Uh, if red is already taken, guess I'll go with... white.
SSGT: Nope, that's MAP 2.
ME: Uh, alrighty then-
SSGT: Map 3's blue.
ME: Hmmm, ok.
[Turning to my Corporals]
ME: Any recommendations?
Ever helpfull, they responded.
Mauve!
Khakki!
Fuchsia!
Stripeys!
Taupe!
Stripeys?
I gave them the hand and arm signal familiar to all Marines, that of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman's, 'choke yourself', and responded, "Black will do fine, Staff Sergeant."
He grunted something unintelligible, and left the tent.
Of course, mileage on this will vary, depending on the unit, mission, and branch of service...
My Company was a Weapons Co., acting in country as a MSR/ASR security element. That is to say that, instead of utilizing the 81mm mortars that my platoon was trained for, we would be traipsing around the roads and dunes in Hummers, as sort of low-tech mine/IED sweepers, convoy & raid security, and general (or General's) beyotch/gopher.
Go figure.
Mission Accomplishment and Adapt, Overcome, & Party (or something like that), we needed a way to effectively communicate between our squads, the Company, Battalion, and any other units that were in the area. When it came time to suggest radio handles, we had plenty of suggestions.
Unfortunately, 'Pork Sword of Death', 'Gunslingers', 'Big Johnson', & 'Jihadi-Fu*%ers' were all nixed as call signs.
Someone decided that since we were split up into MAPs (Mobile Assault Platoons), we would just KISS, and go by MAP 1, MAP 2, MAP 3, etc.
Joy.
Being that there were multiple vehicles in each MAP, the call was made that the MAP would internally go by a color designator.
For example, MAP 1 might be designated 'red', so if one were to get a radio transmission from, say, 'Red 2,3, or 4', you would know what vehicle in the MAP was calling you. If you got a call from 'MAP 1', it was automatically known that the MAP 1 Patrol Leader was on the other end.
When it came time for color selection, the only thing that the Staff Sergeant wanted was that no two MAPs had the same color, to avoid any possible confusion between MAPs in the field. He approached me with the color assignments to date when I was meeting with a few of my Corporals. I paused our vital conversation on the importance of maintaining a lint-free pooper when out in the dunes for extended periods, and thought of a color.
ME: Uh, if red is already taken, guess I'll go with... white.
SSGT: Nope, that's MAP 2.
ME: Uh, alrighty then-
SSGT: Map 3's blue.
ME: Hmmm, ok.
[Turning to my Corporals]
ME: Any recommendations?
Ever helpfull, they responded.
Mauve!
Khakki!
Fuchsia!
Stripeys!
Taupe!
Stripeys?
I gave them the hand and arm signal familiar to all Marines, that of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman's, 'choke yourself', and responded, "Black will do fine, Staff Sergeant."
He grunted something unintelligible, and left the tent.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Technogizmothingayahoomabobs
I had the opportunity early in the year to do a ride along with an old buddy that went from green to blue, so to speak. It was quite the interesting experience. Apparently, the evening that I showed up at the substation was also the first time that a number of the soon-to-be-new police officers were going out for their ride alongs. For the life of me, I had a number of flash backs to whenever the new PFCs would wander aimlessly around the base, practically begging for some old salty Gunny to tear into 'em. They all had the same look on their face. I was happy to say that I was able to restrain myself from screaming out, "BOOOOT!!!" during the entirety of the time that I was there at the station. I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that it was a good decision...
One of the first things that my buddy did when we got to his car, was to double check all the gear. I forget what the name of it is, MVD or MVT or something, but it is the laptop lookin' thing in the squad cars that is used for everthing from checking locations, to writing reports, to probably playing some pretty neat games, or something. When he booted up the system, he entered in his password, muttered, re-entered in his password, grumbled at its slowness, accessed a few databases, entered in another password, mumbled definitely-not sweet nothings at the previous officer who declined to update the system, entered in a password to allow updates etc, etc, etc.
"Technohooya kinda reminds me of the BVT we had in Iraq", I commented.
He started to chortle.
One of the neat thing about improvement in technology is the filtering down of said technology to the grunts, the shape it takes, and how the Marines are able to implement it.
I remember the class where the squad leaders were introduced to the Blue Force Tracker.
Most of us that weren't on patrol were gathered up one day and given a class by some anonymous Lance Coolie. This motivator really knew his stuff, and was pretty excited about the Blue Force Tracker. What is the Blue Force Tracker, you ask? Imagine near the top of the wish list of a squad leader, he wants a neat little tool that'll track his position, give him a bird's eye map of the area for... about ever and a half, let him know where other friendlies are (hence the Blue Force Tracker name), etc. etc. etc. The result is a laptop looking thing (industrial-strength grunt-resistant Hummer desktop-ish thing for the infantry). Back to the Lance Corporal, I think he ordered a pizza and was playing ninja games on-line with it, too!
I think pilots have had this stuff for a while, but for us, it was brand spanking new stuff, and Neat-o, at that.
Now, we had some pretty bright guys as squad leaders, guys that have now been promoted to staff-NCO positions, gone out into the business world, made some good money... and me. I was kind of relieved to find the same glazed look on the Marines' faces as mine. Not that it wasn't interesting, it was just a lot of information to swallow on short notice, you know?
I somehow figured out how to turn the thing on and off without letting the screen light me up for all the enemy in Iraq and how to figure out the GPS on it, and off we went. I sure as heck wasn't going to toss all my maps, personal GPS, and compasses, though.
Like alot of the other things in the military (and law enforcement, as I hear it), some stuff you learn in class, the proficiency you gain through actual experience.
There's this one squad, I won't mention any names, that soon thereafter decided to test out the capabilities of their Hummers. Most of the Hummers were hand-me-downs, and the suspicion was that most, at some time, had been rode hard and put up wet. Kind of a good idea to find out exactly where the speed capabilities of said Hummers were, right? Well apparently, the C.O. can, on his BFT, look up all of his little squad bunnies, to find out where exactly they are, and how fast they are moving. Know what kind of killjoy it is to get a 'return to base' call... for speeding?
The colloquial name of the Blue Force Tracker (BFT) was shortly (and permanently, thereafter) changed to the Blue Veined Throbber (BVT), capable of getting one into trouble when least expected.
One of the first things that my buddy did when we got to his car, was to double check all the gear. I forget what the name of it is, MVD or MVT or something, but it is the laptop lookin' thing in the squad cars that is used for everthing from checking locations, to writing reports, to probably playing some pretty neat games, or something. When he booted up the system, he entered in his password, muttered, re-entered in his password, grumbled at its slowness, accessed a few databases, entered in another password, mumbled definitely-not sweet nothings at the previous officer who declined to update the system, entered in a password to allow updates etc, etc, etc.
"Technohooya kinda reminds me of the BVT we had in Iraq", I commented.
He started to chortle.
One of the neat thing about improvement in technology is the filtering down of said technology to the grunts, the shape it takes, and how the Marines are able to implement it.
I remember the class where the squad leaders were introduced to the Blue Force Tracker.
Most of us that weren't on patrol were gathered up one day and given a class by some anonymous Lance Coolie. This motivator really knew his stuff, and was pretty excited about the Blue Force Tracker. What is the Blue Force Tracker, you ask? Imagine near the top of the wish list of a squad leader, he wants a neat little tool that'll track his position, give him a bird's eye map of the area for... about ever and a half, let him know where other friendlies are (hence the Blue Force Tracker name), etc. etc. etc. The result is a laptop looking thing (industrial-strength grunt-resistant Hummer desktop-ish thing for the infantry). Back to the Lance Corporal, I think he ordered a pizza and was playing ninja games on-line with it, too!
I think pilots have had this stuff for a while, but for us, it was brand spanking new stuff, and Neat-o, at that.
Now, we had some pretty bright guys as squad leaders, guys that have now been promoted to staff-NCO positions, gone out into the business world, made some good money... and me. I was kind of relieved to find the same glazed look on the Marines' faces as mine. Not that it wasn't interesting, it was just a lot of information to swallow on short notice, you know?
I somehow figured out how to turn the thing on and off without letting the screen light me up for all the enemy in Iraq and how to figure out the GPS on it, and off we went. I sure as heck wasn't going to toss all my maps, personal GPS, and compasses, though.
Like alot of the other things in the military (and law enforcement, as I hear it), some stuff you learn in class, the proficiency you gain through actual experience.
There's this one squad, I won't mention any names, that soon thereafter decided to test out the capabilities of their Hummers. Most of the Hummers were hand-me-downs, and the suspicion was that most, at some time, had been rode hard and put up wet. Kind of a good idea to find out exactly where the speed capabilities of said Hummers were, right? Well apparently, the C.O. can, on his BFT, look up all of his little squad bunnies, to find out where exactly they are, and how fast they are moving. Know what kind of killjoy it is to get a 'return to base' call... for speeding?
The colloquial name of the Blue Force Tracker (BFT) was shortly (and permanently, thereafter) changed to the Blue Veined Throbber (BVT), capable of getting one into trouble when least expected.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Mail Call & A Special Memory
Mail call was - is one of the more important parts of the day. After a little while, it's kind of easy to fall into a Groundhog day sort of effect... only so many weights you can lift, trips to the old & understocked px, or visits to the same old chow hall.
There were never any shortages of volunteers to go pick up and sort the company mail.
Mail came in large, hideous yellow/orange sacks a little bit larger than sea bags. A cursory glance at the sacks would tell you how much mail there was for the company, how much of it was in boxes vs. letters, and therefore what your changes were of getting some mail. Mail would be divvied up between the platoons, and go from the Platoon Sergeants to the Squad Leaders... eventually. Woe be the day when mail was horribly mis-sorted, but on the rare occasions that it was, we usually figured out how to resolve the situation, chop-chop.
Know how ole pooch reacts when you so much as walk close enough to pass a draft of air over the crinkly bag of bacony goodness that is their treats? Well, it's the same way with Marines and the nylon straps of the mail bags. I swear I expected to see li'l tails wagging one night, sooner or later.
As the names were called out, there was almost always the accompanying good-natured banter. Care packages were almost always opened immediately, and the squad usually got a good look at what the individual received. Trading would usually commence immediately after mail call, so it was a good idea to know what kind of goods were going to go on the market, you know. If anyone got an excessive number of letters from a wife and/or girlfriend, there was some heckling. "Not fair, Sergeant, when all yer cousins are also your girlfriends, well, that just ain't fair to the rest of us, you know? Tell Bubba to share some of his letters or cousins or something!"
Photos were also proudly passed around, especially the ones of the kiddos or the significant others. Er, most of the pictures of the S.O. were passed around, that is. I know of a few occasions where some... uh... 'personal' photos were, quite understandably, NOT for public display. Made it all the more interesting when they were eventually discovered.
Yeah, a word of warning for all the ladies out there; think you're going to brighten up your man's day with some risque pics? You just might be brightening up a few more people's days than you expected... Oh yeah, by the way, Thanks!
Moving right along, there were also some DVDs. No, not those DVDs, but home video versions (and no, not those home movies, neither). That didn't stop the nervous silence when one Marine popped in a home movie to see his girlfriend with a few new friends out at a water park, hanging out, etc. There were alot of personal DVD players and laptops, so anyone who got a DVD always had a good chance of watching it right away. Any new-movie DVDs that came were usually put into the rotation of movie night, probably the squad's favorite was the Band of Brothers dics. Took us a long time to get through them all, with the tempo of patrols, but it was definitely worth it.
Somewhat related to Band of Brothers was the letter I got from Grandfather (mom's dad). He was a mechanic in WWII, and had only recently started to put down his thoughts to paper, humorous stories, bitter-sweet memories, and the like from his own days in the service. I had set his letter aside while handing out my Marines' letters, and had to put off reading it for a meeting afterwards. I had returned to my can late that night, prepped my gear for the morning patrol, and stepped out onto my 'porch' (an old wooden pallet) to read the letter and smoke a cigar.
Unfortunately, I don't have the letter anymore because it was packed into a box of stuff that was mailed off to my US address, and for all I know is still making the rounds of the postal system netherworld.
He wrote of family news and concerns for my safety. Many of my cousins are of age now to start families of their own. Some that I haven't seen since we were kids now have kids of that same age... A few of my uncles had served in the army, they had their own suggestions and advice, also greatly appreciated.
He wrote of the development of his writings, and how much he was enjoying the slow progress. I don't think writing was something that came particularly easy for him, but it was a growing hobby. The family, quite large and now located all over the states were enjoying the reading of Grandfather's letters and passing them around.
He wrote of suggestions and advice. Some of it was the general advice that all soldiers give and receive, the be carefuls, suggestions for boredom and grief, and some humorous stories.
I remember pausing while reading the letter, waiting for the sound of a jet taking off to finish screaming down the runway. It was amazing how quickly they could launch themselves into the sky and vanish from sight in the night sky. I thought about the inevitable day when Grandfather would be gone. I was thankful for the letters that he was starting to write, and wondered if I would one day write my own letters to a grandchild, with my own thoughts and memories.
Nodding to a few Marines on their way back from their patrol, I turned back to the letter. Grandfather had finished with the advice and started winding up his letter. He wrote how the weather was changing again, the winds were picking up and the rains were coming in. He and grandmother were debating about where exactly in the South to head to, to avoid the cold. I forget the exact words that he used, but the sense that I got was that it was a very clear picture in my head, my grey-haired grandfather, stooped over an old wooden desk, carefully writing down the words I was now reading, while the rain started to fall outside.
And as I was picturing this, late at night and reading by the faint scattered lights of the base, ever so slightly, and ever so softly, it began to rain.
There were never any shortages of volunteers to go pick up and sort the company mail.
Mail came in large, hideous yellow/orange sacks a little bit larger than sea bags. A cursory glance at the sacks would tell you how much mail there was for the company, how much of it was in boxes vs. letters, and therefore what your changes were of getting some mail. Mail would be divvied up between the platoons, and go from the Platoon Sergeants to the Squad Leaders... eventually. Woe be the day when mail was horribly mis-sorted, but on the rare occasions that it was, we usually figured out how to resolve the situation, chop-chop.
Know how ole pooch reacts when you so much as walk close enough to pass a draft of air over the crinkly bag of bacony goodness that is their treats? Well, it's the same way with Marines and the nylon straps of the mail bags. I swear I expected to see li'l tails wagging one night, sooner or later.
As the names were called out, there was almost always the accompanying good-natured banter. Care packages were almost always opened immediately, and the squad usually got a good look at what the individual received. Trading would usually commence immediately after mail call, so it was a good idea to know what kind of goods were going to go on the market, you know. If anyone got an excessive number of letters from a wife and/or girlfriend, there was some heckling. "Not fair, Sergeant, when all yer cousins are also your girlfriends, well, that just ain't fair to the rest of us, you know? Tell Bubba to share some of his letters or cousins or something!"
Photos were also proudly passed around, especially the ones of the kiddos or the significant others. Er, most of the pictures of the S.O. were passed around, that is. I know of a few occasions where some... uh... 'personal' photos were, quite understandably, NOT for public display. Made it all the more interesting when they were eventually discovered.
Yeah, a word of warning for all the ladies out there; think you're going to brighten up your man's day with some risque pics? You just might be brightening up a few more people's days than you expected... Oh yeah, by the way, Thanks!
Moving right along, there were also some DVDs. No, not those DVDs, but home video versions (and no, not those home movies, neither). That didn't stop the nervous silence when one Marine popped in a home movie to see his girlfriend with a few new friends out at a water park, hanging out, etc. There were alot of personal DVD players and laptops, so anyone who got a DVD always had a good chance of watching it right away. Any new-movie DVDs that came were usually put into the rotation of movie night, probably the squad's favorite was the Band of Brothers dics. Took us a long time to get through them all, with the tempo of patrols, but it was definitely worth it.
Somewhat related to Band of Brothers was the letter I got from Grandfather (mom's dad). He was a mechanic in WWII, and had only recently started to put down his thoughts to paper, humorous stories, bitter-sweet memories, and the like from his own days in the service. I had set his letter aside while handing out my Marines' letters, and had to put off reading it for a meeting afterwards. I had returned to my can late that night, prepped my gear for the morning patrol, and stepped out onto my 'porch' (an old wooden pallet) to read the letter and smoke a cigar.
Unfortunately, I don't have the letter anymore because it was packed into a box of stuff that was mailed off to my US address, and for all I know is still making the rounds of the postal system netherworld.
He wrote of family news and concerns for my safety. Many of my cousins are of age now to start families of their own. Some that I haven't seen since we were kids now have kids of that same age... A few of my uncles had served in the army, they had their own suggestions and advice, also greatly appreciated.
He wrote of the development of his writings, and how much he was enjoying the slow progress. I don't think writing was something that came particularly easy for him, but it was a growing hobby. The family, quite large and now located all over the states were enjoying the reading of Grandfather's letters and passing them around.
He wrote of suggestions and advice. Some of it was the general advice that all soldiers give and receive, the be carefuls, suggestions for boredom and grief, and some humorous stories.
I remember pausing while reading the letter, waiting for the sound of a jet taking off to finish screaming down the runway. It was amazing how quickly they could launch themselves into the sky and vanish from sight in the night sky. I thought about the inevitable day when Grandfather would be gone. I was thankful for the letters that he was starting to write, and wondered if I would one day write my own letters to a grandchild, with my own thoughts and memories.
Nodding to a few Marines on their way back from their patrol, I turned back to the letter. Grandfather had finished with the advice and started winding up his letter. He wrote how the weather was changing again, the winds were picking up and the rains were coming in. He and grandmother were debating about where exactly in the South to head to, to avoid the cold. I forget the exact words that he used, but the sense that I got was that it was a very clear picture in my head, my grey-haired grandfather, stooped over an old wooden desk, carefully writing down the words I was now reading, while the rain started to fall outside.
And as I was picturing this, late at night and reading by the faint scattered lights of the base, ever so slightly, and ever so softly, it began to rain.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Life Sucks When...
You know your armor situation is bad when the snipers are donating their old vests for you to sit on to help protect 'the boys' while sitting in your vehicle.
When you do finally get one up armored vehicle in the middle of winter, at least it warmed my heart to see, (freezing as I was with every article of cold weather gear that I had on) my Marines get out of the up armored Hummer, steam rising from their bodies, as they lazily stretched and took a leak while giving me the thumbs up.
Life sucks when, as a trained mortarman, one of the closest times that you came to buying the farm in Iraq was from mortars. Fired by friendlies.
It's really fun when you are tasked to escort an Army IED hunter team, seeking out and taking care of IEDs, with your unarmored Hummers.
There are few words to describe the sensation of returning from a mind-blowingly long series of patrols, knowing that you'll have to wait only one more week for a shower and maybe two more for a haircut, when you see a minty clean Recon Lance Criminal step out of his room in shades, pt shorts & chanklas, scratching his nuts and yawning at the bright and early time of... 1400, as he looks back in his room to ask his buddies if they had any Dr P. left over from their stash.
It is only a minor relief to discover that; no, the right ear bud for my mp3 player is not dead, I'm just still deaf from finding that one IED the hard way...
Life really sucks for those guys when they realize that they are trying to plant an IED well within range of our neighborhood unfriendly tanks that just came to join the party!
When you do finally get one up armored vehicle in the middle of winter, at least it warmed my heart to see, (freezing as I was with every article of cold weather gear that I had on) my Marines get out of the up armored Hummer, steam rising from their bodies, as they lazily stretched and took a leak while giving me the thumbs up.
Life sucks when, as a trained mortarman, one of the closest times that you came to buying the farm in Iraq was from mortars. Fired by friendlies.
It's really fun when you are tasked to escort an Army IED hunter team, seeking out and taking care of IEDs, with your unarmored Hummers.
There are few words to describe the sensation of returning from a mind-blowingly long series of patrols, knowing that you'll have to wait only one more week for a shower and maybe two more for a haircut, when you see a minty clean Recon Lance Criminal step out of his room in shades, pt shorts & chanklas, scratching his nuts and yawning at the bright and early time of... 1400, as he looks back in his room to ask his buddies if they had any Dr P. left over from their stash.
It is only a minor relief to discover that; no, the right ear bud for my mp3 player is not dead, I'm just still deaf from finding that one IED the hard way...
Life really sucks for those guys when they realize that they are trying to plant an IED well within range of our neighborhood unfriendly tanks that just came to join the party!
Monday, November 19, 2007
$$$
Don't you just love it when you find some money that you had long since forgotten about?
I just found around 7000 big ones!
Now, before the air gets thick with muttered curses, proposals of marriage, and the occasional naughty-lookin' bra (J-cup, natch), I should probably mention that those bills that I just found were Iraqi dinars, not U.S. dollars.
Doh!
At some of the larger bases, there were areas where small stalls were set up in a market specializing in local stuffs. You could find all kinds of mementos, Iraqi smokey treats, and a restaurant or two. Those shops would usually give your change in dinars, whenever possible, and 7000 was just what I would up with in my pocket when I came home.
I think it came out to about 4 dollars at the time.
Some of the more enterprising money-schemers in the platoon were going crazy. Seems like every unit has one or two, but in Iraq, with the large number of units all crammed onto the same base, all of the money-loonies congregated at the conversion area. They always knew the conversion figure down to the second or third decimal, and were already making plans for the oodles of cash that they were going to make from their latest and greatest scheme.
Interesting point.
For all of the in-country plans of investments like stocks, buying property, fixing up houses, etc. there sure was a lot of new motorcycles and trucks after we got back to the 'land of the big px'.
One of the more popular plans was to take some dollars and convert them to dinars. Some guys would take around 100 bucks, and some would take paycheck(s). In talking to one of my guys with a trash bag full of dinars, he tried to explain the theory. In a nutshell, the prevailing thought was that 'someday' the dinar would be worth a lot more compared to the dollar. If the dinar only went up to half the value of the dollar, the one dollar that one changed into 2000 dinars a number of years back would be worth a lot more. Makes sense, right?
Like a lot of other things that 'make sense', I decided to not jump into the waters with both feet. Figured that the surest way to guarantee that it might actually work would be for me not to get anywhere near it.
I'm keeping half an eye on it, however, and if in 30 years I'm proven wrong, besides tearing out what little hair I'll probably have then, I'll be making plenty of phone calls, 'cause I expect a cut of the earnings for not cursing 'the plan', dangit!
I just found around 7000 big ones!
Now, before the air gets thick with muttered curses, proposals of marriage, and the occasional naughty-lookin' bra (J-cup, natch), I should probably mention that those bills that I just found were Iraqi dinars, not U.S. dollars.
Doh!
At some of the larger bases, there were areas where small stalls were set up in a market specializing in local stuffs. You could find all kinds of mementos, Iraqi smokey treats, and a restaurant or two. Those shops would usually give your change in dinars, whenever possible, and 7000 was just what I would up with in my pocket when I came home.
I think it came out to about 4 dollars at the time.
Some of the more enterprising money-schemers in the platoon were going crazy. Seems like every unit has one or two, but in Iraq, with the large number of units all crammed onto the same base, all of the money-loonies congregated at the conversion area. They always knew the conversion figure down to the second or third decimal, and were already making plans for the oodles of cash that they were going to make from their latest and greatest scheme.
Interesting point.
For all of the in-country plans of investments like stocks, buying property, fixing up houses, etc. there sure was a lot of new motorcycles and trucks after we got back to the 'land of the big px'.
One of the more popular plans was to take some dollars and convert them to dinars. Some guys would take around 100 bucks, and some would take paycheck(s). In talking to one of my guys with a trash bag full of dinars, he tried to explain the theory. In a nutshell, the prevailing thought was that 'someday' the dinar would be worth a lot more compared to the dollar. If the dinar only went up to half the value of the dollar, the one dollar that one changed into 2000 dinars a number of years back would be worth a lot more. Makes sense, right?
Like a lot of other things that 'make sense', I decided to not jump into the waters with both feet. Figured that the surest way to guarantee that it might actually work would be for me not to get anywhere near it.
I'm keeping half an eye on it, however, and if in 30 years I'm proven wrong, besides tearing out what little hair I'll probably have then, I'll be making plenty of phone calls, 'cause I expect a cut of the earnings for not cursing 'the plan', dangit!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Combat Action
A Gunny I once had described the Marine Corps as a big penis. He likened the head as the infantry, i.e. those that do all the up-close and personal interaction. Everything else in that region is pretty cleverly designed to aid and support the 'tip of the spear' to do its job. Not the description that I would have chosen, but it did do a remarkable job of illustrating a point. Here I am, almost 10 years later, remembering and describing a snippet of a 30 minute conversation.
The point that he was trying to make was that the infantry isn't going to get anything done without its administrative and support peeps. Despite the amount of shit that is said from the infantry to everyone else, it is very true. Thankfully, the admin guys that we had were good to go, and most went out of their way to help us out in whatever way they could.
One of the ways that we would say thanks was to take some of them out on patrol every once in a while. Some of the guys were cooped up in the rear for loooong hours every day and wanted nothing more than to go out on patrol and see what there was to see. Some of them had skills that could be easily used on patrol and were an asset to our mission.
Sitting around, blissfully wasting away an afternoon on a very rare day off, one of the admin guys barged into our quarters and proudly announced that he had now earned his combat action ribbon.
The combat action ribbon is one of those things that most Marines look forward to earning. You wouldn't believe the amount of time and mental powers that were spent pondering what actions earn it, who does and does not rate it, etc ad nauseum. I understand that the confusion has been somewhat cleared up by now, but at the time it was still one of the raging debates. I figured 'We're in Iraq. Patrolling the roads. If we DON'T get the CAR somehow, someway (and about 5 times over), that'll be a friggin' miracle.'
His story follows thusly.
Out on a patrol with one of the other mobile assault platoons, Admin Stud was taken as an extra dismount. His job would be not too extensive, he was there to cover any additional danger areas that might pop up, and to take photos if needed. As the sun set over the horizon, the patrol leader got an additional order to check on the power-line security tent in the area. A number of years ago a security department was set up to guard the power-lines. Locals would earn a wage, do something useful, and we might possibly have an extra set of eyes and ears in the area. Of course, the enemy might have an extra set of eyes and ears in the area as well, but that is just part of the whole party.
Back to the story. As the patrol was gradually making its way across the dunes to the tents, in the main tent under the power lines there was a little fiesta going on. The two man teams from both the tent to the north and south had gathered at the main tent to socialize, eat some grub, and perhaps to get their drink on. The after action report states that one of the Iraqi guards heard some vehicles approaching their position. When they heard the revving of multiple engines and saw no lights, they immediately assumed that it was a caravan of insurgents coming to pay them a visit.
They unloaded with their issued AKs at the Marine patrol to scare off what they thought were insurgents. Imagine their discomfort when they possibly thought that the insurgents were now fighting with our machine guns, grenade launchers, and rockets!
On the other side of this unfortunate firefight, the Marines performed almost perfectly. Following their contacts SOPs, they assumed their positions and returned fire. Admin stud recounted his admirable performance that no doubt was going directly into his commendation or award decree. Speaking with the squad leader later, turns out that Admin Stud actually did fairly well, but he did mention that he was 'slightly occupied' at the moment and did not have any more time than to ensure that Admin Stud wasn't getting himself killed.
The Iraqi guards must have very quickly realized the error in their ways, so they abandoned their positions and crawled into the wadi immediately behind the tent. They spent the next twenty minutes getting intimate with the sand at the bottom of the wadi, examining in microscopic detail every granule of dirt that was present. Their weapons were hastily flung into the scraggly bushes near the entrance to the tent.
Completing the immediate action drill for contact, the squad swept the area and investigated what was left of the tent, the guards' gear, and their vehicles. The guards themselves were completely intact, if only a little bit shaken up and quite sandy. Explanations were offered, apologies were made, and new gear was requested for the very lucky guards.
Was a mistaken ambush from a 'friendly' local unit enough for a combat action award? I don't know, and I don't really care. What I cared about was that no Marines were injured or killed, they learned valuable lessons relating to movement under fire, returning fire, good communication, and that the trigger happy locals were somehow spared. I know of others that have gotten higher awards for less, and a few that should have gotten a lot higher awards for definitive heroic actions, but didn't.
Besides, I was in the middle of a much deserved nap.
The point that he was trying to make was that the infantry isn't going to get anything done without its administrative and support peeps. Despite the amount of shit that is said from the infantry to everyone else, it is very true. Thankfully, the admin guys that we had were good to go, and most went out of their way to help us out in whatever way they could.
One of the ways that we would say thanks was to take some of them out on patrol every once in a while. Some of the guys were cooped up in the rear for loooong hours every day and wanted nothing more than to go out on patrol and see what there was to see. Some of them had skills that could be easily used on patrol and were an asset to our mission.
Sitting around, blissfully wasting away an afternoon on a very rare day off, one of the admin guys barged into our quarters and proudly announced that he had now earned his combat action ribbon.
The combat action ribbon is one of those things that most Marines look forward to earning. You wouldn't believe the amount of time and mental powers that were spent pondering what actions earn it, who does and does not rate it, etc ad nauseum. I understand that the confusion has been somewhat cleared up by now, but at the time it was still one of the raging debates. I figured 'We're in Iraq. Patrolling the roads. If we DON'T get the CAR somehow, someway (and about 5 times over), that'll be a friggin' miracle.'
His story follows thusly.
Out on a patrol with one of the other mobile assault platoons, Admin Stud was taken as an extra dismount. His job would be not too extensive, he was there to cover any additional danger areas that might pop up, and to take photos if needed. As the sun set over the horizon, the patrol leader got an additional order to check on the power-line security tent in the area. A number of years ago a security department was set up to guard the power-lines. Locals would earn a wage, do something useful, and we might possibly have an extra set of eyes and ears in the area. Of course, the enemy might have an extra set of eyes and ears in the area as well, but that is just part of the whole party.
Back to the story. As the patrol was gradually making its way across the dunes to the tents, in the main tent under the power lines there was a little fiesta going on. The two man teams from both the tent to the north and south had gathered at the main tent to socialize, eat some grub, and perhaps to get their drink on. The after action report states that one of the Iraqi guards heard some vehicles approaching their position. When they heard the revving of multiple engines and saw no lights, they immediately assumed that it was a caravan of insurgents coming to pay them a visit.
They unloaded with their issued AKs at the Marine patrol to scare off what they thought were insurgents. Imagine their discomfort when they possibly thought that the insurgents were now fighting with our machine guns, grenade launchers, and rockets!
On the other side of this unfortunate firefight, the Marines performed almost perfectly. Following their contacts SOPs, they assumed their positions and returned fire. Admin stud recounted his admirable performance that no doubt was going directly into his commendation or award decree. Speaking with the squad leader later, turns out that Admin Stud actually did fairly well, but he did mention that he was 'slightly occupied' at the moment and did not have any more time than to ensure that Admin Stud wasn't getting himself killed.
The Iraqi guards must have very quickly realized the error in their ways, so they abandoned their positions and crawled into the wadi immediately behind the tent. They spent the next twenty minutes getting intimate with the sand at the bottom of the wadi, examining in microscopic detail every granule of dirt that was present. Their weapons were hastily flung into the scraggly bushes near the entrance to the tent.
Completing the immediate action drill for contact, the squad swept the area and investigated what was left of the tent, the guards' gear, and their vehicles. The guards themselves were completely intact, if only a little bit shaken up and quite sandy. Explanations were offered, apologies were made, and new gear was requested for the very lucky guards.
Was a mistaken ambush from a 'friendly' local unit enough for a combat action award? I don't know, and I don't really care. What I cared about was that no Marines were injured or killed, they learned valuable lessons relating to movement under fire, returning fire, good communication, and that the trigger happy locals were somehow spared. I know of others that have gotten higher awards for less, and a few that should have gotten a lot higher awards for definitive heroic actions, but didn't.
Besides, I was in the middle of a much deserved nap.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Hello, Mr. Flash Bang!
Flash Bangs are essentially grenades without the shrapnel. Lots of sound and light with little to sear through any of your tender bits. Lest anyone get the wrong kind of idea, it is definitely not a good idea to hold on to one of these whilst it makes the pretty colors or noises, but you can be relatively close to it with little harm. They will scare the bejeezus out of you, even if you are expecting it, though.
My first experiences with these neat little devices came in training. Towards the end of one of my work-ups, we had the opportunity to do some simunition training with them. Simunition is basically 9mm paintball-on-crack, but that is entirely another story.
One memorable incident was when I had the opportunity to watch one squad leader develop the mother of all attack plans, violating the KISS principle that I had already learned the hard way. Naturally, everything went awry just about at the word 'go'.
The plan (as I understood it) was that the base of fire would lay down covering fire while the assault elements would take up positions around the building. With not enough radios, the squad leader would coordinate with the base element, and they would begin throwing 'grenades'. As soon as the flash-bangs went off, the base element would cease fire, and the assault team would make entry. [Mistake #1, probably a better idea to have the actual assault team toss the flashbangs]
What happened was that the three different assault elements discovered that there was only one way to access the building [Mistake #2, Intell? We don't need no stinkin' intell!]. That way was currently being 'covered' by the base of fire team, so it was a no-go. Therefore, the three elements congregated in a nice tight group right in one of the kill zones of the building [Mistake #- Aw, heck, you get the picture]. The instructors started tapping Marines on the head, screaming 'SNIPER, YOU JUST GOT SHOT, ASSHOLE!!! LAY DOWN!'.
Squad leader, realizing that this was somewhat less than ideal, tried to establish communication with the base of fire element by waving his arms. Those guys, recognizing the pre-arranged signal, started chucking the flash bangs. The assault elements started taking flash bangs to their group, and attempted to force their way into the building. The instructors were pissing themselves with amusement at the picture definition of the phrase, 'goat rope'.
Sheeeit, I would never be caught in THAT situation....
When we got in country, the unit there before us had a few established standard operating procedures. They ran a lot of convoy ops, stayed mainly on the road, and didn't worry about civilian traffic in the convoy. They had never really been hit by a suicide vehicle-born improvised explosive device (SVBIED). After some new intel, a couple of bad days, and a little common sense, we figured to put a stop to civilian vehicles weaving in and out of our convoys, but we needed a way to communicate with the locals, and a means to discourage the stubborn and the stupid.
We started to talk to the local imams and mayors, telling them to pass the word that we would not allow civilians to approach our convoys. We also started handing out pamphlets in English, Arabic, and in pictures for the locals to stay away from us when we were on the road.
After a while, the new SOP became standard, and most in the area would avoid getting too close. Eventually, some info from another area drifted to our ears. Someone was passing the word that if local-Joe was driving along lost in his own thoughts, a way to get his attention and strongly suggest that he keep away from us was with flares and flash bangs.
They managed to get EVERYONES attention.
We wrote it into our SOPs for machine gunners. If a vehicle approaches too quickly, or at a high rate of speed, make every effort to; signal for them to stop with hand and arm signals or verbal commands. Shoot flares or flash-bangs. Use your weapons. Everyone was very clear that everything other that opening fire on a suspicious vehicle was if there was enough time.
There were more than a few memorable incidents with the flares and flashbangs. It definitely get the heart going pitter-patter when you watch one of your vehicles turn a corner or crest a hill when all of a sudden, you hear BOOOOM!!!! Every damn time I thought that they had hit another IED, but it would usually turn out to be that the gunner had to throw a flash bang.
At one (yeah, *snort*, just one) intersection there were these little children that always came running out to beg for candy. 'Meester, meester, candy meester!!!' Those little buggers could run pretty fast, too. Marines would sometimes save candies or unwanted MRE components to give to the them.
One afternoon there was not enough time to stop to chat with the kiddos, we had to blaze home for some reason or the other. Approaching the intersection, I was on the radio with higher, and keeping an eye out so that we didn't squish any of the crumb snatchers. Running at an angle to the hummer was this really pretty little Iraqi girl, begging for candy. 'what the hell, might as well', I thought to myself as I extended the half-eaten bag of M&Ms to her. My gunner atop the Hummer had a higher perspective and was able to spot a vehicle seemingly disregarding all of the other stopped traffic to approach us from the cross road at a high rate of speed. Just enough time to do something, but apparently not enough time to advise me, he shot off a flare...and a flash bang or two.
Flares make a really loud whooshing sound, especially when the sound is reflected off of the turret armor.
Girl - Meester, Meester!!!
Me - Here you go, salaam!
Girl - Thank you meester, than-
WHOOOOOSHBOOOOMM!!!!
Me - Fuck Me! RPG!! RPG!!
Girl - AAAaaahhhh!!!
Me - Aaaaaahhhh... .... ....?
Remember how I mentioned that we were approaching the intersection?
Well, after the gunner tossed everything he had up there, we had just enough time to get to the intersection before the second and third flash bangs went off...at a distance of about 3 feet from my door.
It had the desired effect, in that it got noticed by EVERYBODY, and the driver of the civilian vehicle decided that it might be a good idea to stop lest the Marines stop being so nice.
I'm for the moment blind and deaf, the gunner is about 1/10000 of an ounce of trigger pressure away from making this guy have a Really Bad Day, and the little girl is probably traumatized for life. I didn't even mind screaming exactly like that little girl, I was just happy it wasn't actually an RPG.
My first experiences with these neat little devices came in training. Towards the end of one of my work-ups, we had the opportunity to do some simunition training with them. Simunition is basically 9mm paintball-on-crack, but that is entirely another story.
One memorable incident was when I had the opportunity to watch one squad leader develop the mother of all attack plans, violating the KISS principle that I had already learned the hard way. Naturally, everything went awry just about at the word 'go'.
The plan (as I understood it) was that the base of fire would lay down covering fire while the assault elements would take up positions around the building. With not enough radios, the squad leader would coordinate with the base element, and they would begin throwing 'grenades'. As soon as the flash-bangs went off, the base element would cease fire, and the assault team would make entry. [Mistake #1, probably a better idea to have the actual assault team toss the flashbangs]
What happened was that the three different assault elements discovered that there was only one way to access the building [Mistake #2, Intell? We don't need no stinkin' intell!]. That way was currently being 'covered' by the base of fire team, so it was a no-go. Therefore, the three elements congregated in a nice tight group right in one of the kill zones of the building [Mistake #- Aw, heck, you get the picture]. The instructors started tapping Marines on the head, screaming 'SNIPER, YOU JUST GOT SHOT, ASSHOLE!!! LAY DOWN!'.
Squad leader, realizing that this was somewhat less than ideal, tried to establish communication with the base of fire element by waving his arms. Those guys, recognizing the pre-arranged signal, started chucking the flash bangs. The assault elements started taking flash bangs to their group, and attempted to force their way into the building. The instructors were pissing themselves with amusement at the picture definition of the phrase, 'goat rope'.
Sheeeit, I would never be caught in THAT situation....
When we got in country, the unit there before us had a few established standard operating procedures. They ran a lot of convoy ops, stayed mainly on the road, and didn't worry about civilian traffic in the convoy. They had never really been hit by a suicide vehicle-born improvised explosive device (SVBIED). After some new intel, a couple of bad days, and a little common sense, we figured to put a stop to civilian vehicles weaving in and out of our convoys, but we needed a way to communicate with the locals, and a means to discourage the stubborn and the stupid.
We started to talk to the local imams and mayors, telling them to pass the word that we would not allow civilians to approach our convoys. We also started handing out pamphlets in English, Arabic, and in pictures for the locals to stay away from us when we were on the road.
After a while, the new SOP became standard, and most in the area would avoid getting too close. Eventually, some info from another area drifted to our ears. Someone was passing the word that if local-Joe was driving along lost in his own thoughts, a way to get his attention and strongly suggest that he keep away from us was with flares and flash bangs.
They managed to get EVERYONES attention.
We wrote it into our SOPs for machine gunners. If a vehicle approaches too quickly, or at a high rate of speed, make every effort to; signal for them to stop with hand and arm signals or verbal commands. Shoot flares or flash-bangs. Use your weapons. Everyone was very clear that everything other that opening fire on a suspicious vehicle was if there was enough time.
There were more than a few memorable incidents with the flares and flashbangs. It definitely get the heart going pitter-patter when you watch one of your vehicles turn a corner or crest a hill when all of a sudden, you hear BOOOOM!!!! Every damn time I thought that they had hit another IED, but it would usually turn out to be that the gunner had to throw a flash bang.
At one (yeah, *snort*, just one) intersection there were these little children that always came running out to beg for candy. 'Meester, meester, candy meester!!!' Those little buggers could run pretty fast, too. Marines would sometimes save candies or unwanted MRE components to give to the them.
One afternoon there was not enough time to stop to chat with the kiddos, we had to blaze home for some reason or the other. Approaching the intersection, I was on the radio with higher, and keeping an eye out so that we didn't squish any of the crumb snatchers. Running at an angle to the hummer was this really pretty little Iraqi girl, begging for candy. 'what the hell, might as well', I thought to myself as I extended the half-eaten bag of M&Ms to her. My gunner atop the Hummer had a higher perspective and was able to spot a vehicle seemingly disregarding all of the other stopped traffic to approach us from the cross road at a high rate of speed. Just enough time to do something, but apparently not enough time to advise me, he shot off a flare...and a flash bang or two.
Flares make a really loud whooshing sound, especially when the sound is reflected off of the turret armor.
Girl - Meester, Meester!!!
Me - Here you go, salaam!
Girl - Thank you meester, than-
WHOOOOOSHBOOOOMM!!!!
Me - Fuck Me! RPG!! RPG!!
Girl - AAAaaahhhh!!!
Me - Aaaaaahhhh... .... ....?
Remember how I mentioned that we were approaching the intersection?
Well, after the gunner tossed everything he had up there, we had just enough time to get to the intersection before the second and third flash bangs went off...at a distance of about 3 feet from my door.
It had the desired effect, in that it got noticed by EVERYBODY, and the driver of the civilian vehicle decided that it might be a good idea to stop lest the Marines stop being so nice.
I'm for the moment blind and deaf, the gunner is about 1/10000 of an ounce of trigger pressure away from making this guy have a Really Bad Day, and the little girl is probably traumatized for life. I didn't even mind screaming exactly like that little girl, I was just happy it wasn't actually an RPG.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
A Funny Feeling In My Tummy
So, Iraq can be a dangerous place, at times.
Pipe down y'all!
It can be made more... interesting at times, due to the nature of the mission at hand.
There are things that you do in the interest of lessening some of that danger, or at the very least to lessen the consequences of the wort possible scenario. A big part of planning for the worst was distribution of... everything.
Ammo was divided just about equally, save for those vehicles that at times had the only particular type of larger weapon.
We had two guys on our squad that had been volunteer firefighters in a previous life. As tight as they were, they understood my decision to separate them into different vehicles, and not seated with the doc.
Noncoms were distributed amongst the vehicles, not just for the leadership value, but for the continuation of the squad's chain of command, just in case.
Every vehicle had stretchers, fire extinguishers, and tow chains/straps. (Not if, but when...)
Because we were in vehicles, we had the advantage of the thought that if there was something worth putting in one vehicle, chances were pretty good that we could beg/borrow/acquire/pilfer/appropriate/etc. that same item for the other Hummers, without a great likelyhood that we would have to hump our gear back to the FOB.
Dangerous Missions.
I don't really think there was any other type, really. Indeed, the company probably took more casualties from the everyday 'boring' patrols than the Hollywood sexy raids.
Even the chow hall Dr Pepper raids were dangerous, in their own way.
One of the types of patrols that made life interesting were the escorts. Escorting wasn't too bad, in concept; just fill one boat space, take one or more Bubbas from spot A to spot B. Adding rank to the equation wasn't even as much as an issue as I would have imagined, at least most of the time. A few exceptions aside, most Officers or higher ranking Marines recognized that while they did outrank me, I had the experience. I was always happy to listen to advice, but while out in the middle of something was not the place to play 'Who has the bigger pe-pe' game based upon rank.
So, back to and from the title, what gave me the funny feeling this particular story was not the hot chow from the previous night, nor the food of questionable freshness contained in my last care package (Thanks, Mom!). The source was the higher ups (up to and including the Company Commanding Officer) riding along with my squad.
I wasn't afraid of my guys 'getting caught' doing something wrong, or at least not too much. My guys might have gotten me into some stuff when in the rear, but outside the wire, for the most part, they were good to go and did their job. I wasn't even afraid of the Staff or Os finding something wrong in my tactics. I'm one of those types that know there is always something to improve, and welcome criticism on just about anything I do.
What did kind of bother me was that we would have a good portion of the Company's chain of command contained within one squad, for most of one afternoon. This is not an everyday occurrence, and for good reason.
I don't care how hot one squad is, we all know that anything can happen, at anytime, for any reason.
I think there is a law about that somewhere...
At least the C.O. was agreeable to distributing the Staff NCOs and Officers amongst my vehicles. He did insist on taking out another vehicle, and while it wasn't in the greatest shape and would require some creative maintenance and squad personnel distribution, it would add another platform for a big gun.
The reason that the chain was riding along with us was that, if I remember correctly, an Officer was returning to Iraq from the States. He had had either a really bad day and/or a really lucky moment some time earlier, and after the recovery and ok from the docs, was cleared to rejoin the company. He was a great guy, and everyone wanted to get in on the welcome back party.
Everything went fine on the pick up, he was looking good, all got to ooh and ahh over his new scars, and word got passed regarding the guys here and the guys already sent home for recovery. As an added bonus, we even got some how chow out of the deal. Score!
Naturally, this meant that the return trip would get interesting. Sure enough, one of the Hummers died on the return trip.
Give ya a clue as to which one, it wasn't one of my regular Hummers, and was added to my squad just before the patrol...
I had in my squad a couple of tinkerers of the automotive inclination, and those guys could do wonders under a hood. I'm not the most mechanically minded type (stop laughing, you!), but I knew enough to know that if my two vehicle yodas were at a loss for why a vehicle was down, you might as well put a bullet in her and call it a day.
After enough of a delay, I had enough and told my guys that we would tow the dead vehicle to the FOB. It was about this time that the C.O told me that he was going to have a spitball meeting in his vehicle on the remainder of the return trip.
I thought that he was talking about getting together with another Officer. When I realized that in one vehicle (the one getting towed!) we would have numerous Staff NCOs and Officers, driving down the road popularly known as 'the gauntlet' for it's isolation and number of enemy activities, to me, that's the equivalent to thumbing one's nose at Lord Murphy (never a good idea, especially with my squad).
I wandered over to where the First Sergeant was, scowling at pretty much... everything. Nodding over in the direction of the C.O.'s hummer, I asked him, "Hey, Fir'Sergeant... uh, you heard about-" He turned his glare to me and responded with, "Yup".
I don't remember the exact words, but we had a brief conversation regarding who would be the likely candidates to fill the leaderships' spots after what was generally agreed upon as too much temptation for the cruel gods of convoy ops.
Pipe down y'all!
It can be made more... interesting at times, due to the nature of the mission at hand.
There are things that you do in the interest of lessening some of that danger, or at the very least to lessen the consequences of the wort possible scenario. A big part of planning for the worst was distribution of... everything.
Ammo was divided just about equally, save for those vehicles that at times had the only particular type of larger weapon.
We had two guys on our squad that had been volunteer firefighters in a previous life. As tight as they were, they understood my decision to separate them into different vehicles, and not seated with the doc.
Noncoms were distributed amongst the vehicles, not just for the leadership value, but for the continuation of the squad's chain of command, just in case.
Every vehicle had stretchers, fire extinguishers, and tow chains/straps. (Not if, but when...)
Because we were in vehicles, we had the advantage of the thought that if there was something worth putting in one vehicle, chances were pretty good that we could beg/borrow/acquire/pilfer/appropriate/etc. that same item for the other Hummers, without a great likelyhood that we would have to hump our gear back to the FOB.
Dangerous Missions.
I don't really think there was any other type, really. Indeed, the company probably took more casualties from the everyday 'boring' patrols than the Hollywood sexy raids.
Even the chow hall Dr Pepper raids were dangerous, in their own way.
One of the types of patrols that made life interesting were the escorts. Escorting wasn't too bad, in concept; just fill one boat space, take one or more Bubbas from spot A to spot B. Adding rank to the equation wasn't even as much as an issue as I would have imagined, at least most of the time. A few exceptions aside, most Officers or higher ranking Marines recognized that while they did outrank me, I had the experience. I was always happy to listen to advice, but while out in the middle of something was not the place to play 'Who has the bigger pe-pe' game based upon rank.
So, back to and from the title, what gave me the funny feeling this particular story was not the hot chow from the previous night, nor the food of questionable freshness contained in my last care package (Thanks, Mom!). The source was the higher ups (up to and including the Company Commanding Officer) riding along with my squad.
I wasn't afraid of my guys 'getting caught' doing something wrong, or at least not too much. My guys might have gotten me into some stuff when in the rear, but outside the wire, for the most part, they were good to go and did their job. I wasn't even afraid of the Staff or Os finding something wrong in my tactics. I'm one of those types that know there is always something to improve, and welcome criticism on just about anything I do.
What did kind of bother me was that we would have a good portion of the Company's chain of command contained within one squad, for most of one afternoon. This is not an everyday occurrence, and for good reason.
I don't care how hot one squad is, we all know that anything can happen, at anytime, for any reason.
I think there is a law about that somewhere...
At least the C.O. was agreeable to distributing the Staff NCOs and Officers amongst my vehicles. He did insist on taking out another vehicle, and while it wasn't in the greatest shape and would require some creative maintenance and squad personnel distribution, it would add another platform for a big gun.
The reason that the chain was riding along with us was that, if I remember correctly, an Officer was returning to Iraq from the States. He had had either a really bad day and/or a really lucky moment some time earlier, and after the recovery and ok from the docs, was cleared to rejoin the company. He was a great guy, and everyone wanted to get in on the welcome back party.
Everything went fine on the pick up, he was looking good, all got to ooh and ahh over his new scars, and word got passed regarding the guys here and the guys already sent home for recovery. As an added bonus, we even got some how chow out of the deal. Score!
Naturally, this meant that the return trip would get interesting. Sure enough, one of the Hummers died on the return trip.
Give ya a clue as to which one, it wasn't one of my regular Hummers, and was added to my squad just before the patrol...
I had in my squad a couple of tinkerers of the automotive inclination, and those guys could do wonders under a hood. I'm not the most mechanically minded type (stop laughing, you!), but I knew enough to know that if my two vehicle yodas were at a loss for why a vehicle was down, you might as well put a bullet in her and call it a day.
After enough of a delay, I had enough and told my guys that we would tow the dead vehicle to the FOB. It was about this time that the C.O told me that he was going to have a spitball meeting in his vehicle on the remainder of the return trip.
I thought that he was talking about getting together with another Officer. When I realized that in one vehicle (the one getting towed!) we would have numerous Staff NCOs and Officers, driving down the road popularly known as 'the gauntlet' for it's isolation and number of enemy activities, to me, that's the equivalent to thumbing one's nose at Lord Murphy (never a good idea, especially with my squad).
I wandered over to where the First Sergeant was, scowling at pretty much... everything. Nodding over in the direction of the C.O.'s hummer, I asked him, "Hey, Fir'Sergeant... uh, you heard about-" He turned his glare to me and responded with, "Yup".
I don't remember the exact words, but we had a brief conversation regarding who would be the likely candidates to fill the leaderships' spots after what was generally agreed upon as too much temptation for the cruel gods of convoy ops.
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