It’s 4:15 am, do you know where your sanity is?

I keep thinking that I’m not pushing myself all that much out here, but certain signs indicate otherwise. My platoon sergeant had to try to wake me three times for a surprise assignment in the middle of the night. (Apparently the first time I sat up and checked my watch. Ten minutes later he started wondering where I was.) Also, the feeling of giddiness that overwhelms me as I get ready to crash on my little bunk might be a little more than an army cot should really merit. I did buy myself a Christmas present, however, in the form of one of those middle-eastern softer than really seems possible blankets, a nice big one, and that might have something to do with it.

The only other Christmas present I got (with the exception of the ones our indoor pigeons like to leave us) was from some of the Iraqi National Guard officers who really help us out with leads and information. I got a Jesus paperweight. These guys are putting their butts on the line and are one of the more encouraging parts of the situation here. The ING aren’t too bad, and they’re getting better. We’re still trying to convince the Iraqi Police that they actually do have a job to do. You may have seen some of the trouble they’ve been having in the news lately. Sooner or later they’re going to understand that they have to act like professionals or they’ll continue being targets. They hate to be out in the cold, they don’t know why they have to stay awake at night when on duty, etc. We’re working on that one.
I am staying busy. I get excited when I have enough time to go run or lift. It’s the little things. I received a care package yesterday, a pretty good one, too. I was wondering if that would happen at all, seeing as how the mail guys prefer sending my things to random FOBs all over Iraq. ‘LT gets a package.’ Sounds like a children’s book or chapter title. The only chapter of my day that would make print, anyway. ‘LT visits the Dirt Market’ or ‘LT stands in sheep innards up to his ankles’ probably wouldn’t make the cut.

Merry Christmas! (for real)

It's Christmas Eve, I ate tuna straight out of a can for lunch, the only package that made it this far yet got sent somewhere else, I can't go check my email without donning 50 plus pounds of equipment, and I miss my friends an family like crazy. But I am happy. In case anybody was worried about me, I'm such a ridiculous optimist and so willing to make the best of what I have, that I can’t really remember any considerable time when I wasn’t happy. Much of that has to do with the very family and friends I’m missing right now. I’ve been extremely blessed to have so many special people in my life. If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve crossed my mind recently as I’ve reminisced about SJU, friends at home, and gatherings I know I’m missing out on.

So “Thank You.” To everybody. Life has been good, and I have few regrets. I can make do with what I have and wish all of you the most happy and blessed of Christmases this year. I have every intention of making it home for the next one.

We did have a nice little event here this evening. Corn dogs and hamburgers for Christmas dinner. A nice bonfire, ignited by, of course, incendiary grenade. A candle-light Christmas service (in the wind, so we’ll give points for the good intentions). I was just about to get sentimental listening to “The First Noel,” until the guy next to me started snapping his tin of Copenhagen. Moment over. Altogether not too bad, though I’m sure most of us would like to avoid the reminders of the good times being missed. That and having to stand around in all our gear.

Peace

Dr. Seuss is a big, fat liar

So every couple of days I realize that it is now a couple days closer to Christmas, which for some reason continues to catch me off guard. It's just that I'm used to Christmas in the US (and Germany seems similar) in which for a solid month before the actual day, you know that it's coming from the constant reminders. And when you aren't having candy canes, lights and red and green everything shoved in your face, it actually looks like Christmas outside. The thing is, I like all that stuff, a lot. I knew it all along, but it really comes out here. I walk around for three weeks basking in the glow of 'Peace on Earth' and 'Goodwill Toward Men' and all that sappy, merry crap. A few good Tom & Jerrys are nice, too. Here, the only Christmas lights outside are on the government building. Why? I don't know. The first time I drove by was at night and I thought it was a hotel or casino or some sort of red-light business. The only vestiges of Christmas inside are a couple Charlie Brown attempts at trees and some lights and music in the kitchen. I was grabbing breakfast this morning and there was a Destiny's Child version of O Holy Night playing, which happens to be one of my favorites. Beautiful as it was, its really more of a kick in the shins than a help.

The same goes for flipping through the Armed Forces Network stations and seeing that of nine stations, four consisted of Elf, Home Alone, Miracle on 34th Street, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Not exactly what I felt like watching alone, eating an MRE (I gave in) for a half-hour between patrols. To be fair, I did thoroughly enjoy Christmas Vacation about a week ago. AFN also has this commercial running with the song lyrics "...all I want for Christmas is a soldier coming home..." Who's bright idea was it to put that one on? There might be a tiny demographic of fortunate folks having happy reunions this time of year who would find that uplifting. For everyone else, it's just wholly depressing. Sitting there with a couple random soldiers, I could actually witness spirits being crushed.

The reason it's so hard is that I've realized that Christmas isn't coming this year. Not the Christmas I know, at least. Yes, we'll have a Christmas Eve get together of some sort, but not everyone will be able to go, and directly before and after will be business as usual. I never had to 'lock and load' on the way to grandma's house. A nice attempt, maybe, to do something for us (the mandatory celebratory event), but probably not the heart-warming and spirit-lifting the holidays are meant for and that these guys need. Naturally, one cannot avoid or forget the true meaning of Christmas, but without the social and spiritual celebration, I have a feeling it's just going to be another day around these parts. No gifts, no relatives playing 500, no egg nog or stocking full of candy. No 'who-hash' except perhaps for the unidentified meat product I'm sure we'll get from the DFAC.

Sigh.

I've had a bigger post than this brewing for a few days, but my schedule has been keeping me from getting the time to write. (Bringing a laptop would have helped.)

I do wish a very merry Christmas to all of you.

Peace.

Ungrateful Bastards

I finally have a job, sort of, so instead of "movie time" and "nap time," it's now "Hey, sir, we're going out in an hour. Again." "Hey, sir, the CO needs to see you." "Hey, Black 6, we're going to call you Black 6 now." Three days ago, chow time was really the only reason I had for getting up...in the afternoon. The paset two days I've been living on Gatorade, PowerBars, Pringles and anything else I can grab out of the "Ungrateful Bastards" box, where all the rejected care-package items go. I check it daily, and each day yesterday's stuff is gone and replaced by new snacks, candy, cards, soap, baby wipes and Q-tips. I like to grab candy for the kids. The former owner of my room left me a "U.B." box of things his soldiers passed on. I don't think I'll get desperate enough to open up cold smoked oysters, vienna sausages, or Spam. To be fair, he also left me some Oreos and Little Debbie snacks. (And a desk, lamps, eye-pro, a fan, ammo, broom and dustpan, cleaning supplies, cold virus...) One of the cans of soup in the box had a homemade label "Souper Grandpa." Lest anyone speak ill of the National Guard let it be known that their dedication ought not be in question. I thought he looked awfully old.

Really, though, the food situation isn't too bad. If I really wanted an MRE, I'd grab one. They aren't bad, to be honest, you just need about a day's worth of hunger to prepare for that first one, and if I can grab snacks in between hot meals, that will work for me.

The last couple days have been busy. Most of our work in some way revolves around the Iraqi Police or National Guard, whether it be direct training, supervision, or just checking in on them. I got to fire an Iraqi Policeman's AK this morning at the range. After watching them shoot, I was pretty sure I'd be all over, but really had no problem putting together a tight shot group. So it's the user that makes the AK such a lousy weapon around here. I'm not sure whether that makes me feel better or not.

I still feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants, which will slowly diminish, but never entirely. In the Army we have a thing called the FRAGO, short for 'fragmentary order,' which in turn is a euphemism for the "Change in plans. The BC or CO just decided he needs somebody to..." The Army lives by the FRAGO. It's what makes life exciting. Not all bad, though. Sometimes you get an afternoon off because of one, like today. It's scary, though. Every time I see one of my guys with his gear on, I have to make sure I didn't miss something. (That wouldn't be the case if I was actually the PL, but the info isn't coming through me yet...)

So far I've been riding through the city listening to only the most ridiculous of arguments between the guys in my truck. They've gotten to the point of trading imaginary girlfriends. "Ok, you can have Angelina Jolie, but only for three days, and I get Kate Beckinsale for the whole week..." Followed by negotiations as to what sort of conduct with the swapped imaginary girlfriends would be permitted for the duration of the trade, etc. Kind of makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. That's one of the few discussions I even feel like attempting to reproduce for you.

My language has again deteriorated to the point of using 'f-ing' as the all purpose Army adjective, which I did on the phone with the Wife the other night. Sorry, hon. At least I recognized I did it. Mom once told me that a wise uncle said that "Cursing is a weak mind trying to express itself forcefully." Heavy. Weak or sometimes lazy, I think that assessment usually applies. It's funny the lessons that stick as a kid.

That's really all I have for now. I think that with my schedule picking up, my submissions will increasingly become random pieces of thought that I remembered wanting to write. Like this one:

I've been getting a lot of support from folks, which I greatly appreciate. One of Dad's coworkers sent me a phonecard for me to use to call my mother from Germany, which I did, and Mom was most grateful. Naturally, the 'Thank you' note I started writing while moving to Germany disappeared somewhere in transit. The other day I got a supportive email from one of Dad's coworkers, and it was a name I recognized, so I assumed it was the same kind woman who sent the phonecard. (Not that there couldn't be more than one nice person over there at the workhouse, as far as I've gathered from Dad over the years, it must be one big office party over there...but I digress) Of course, I took the opportunity to thank the wrong supportive coworker for the kind actions of the first (the one who sent the phone card and told me to call my mother, which I did.) and was thoroughly embarrassed at learning just what I had done. So, for the record, nice lady who sends phonecards to soldiers, I thank you for your generosity and moral support. It is people like you that make ungrateful dopes like me--who can't manage to send a proper thank you while he still has the address or even an email, for that matter--glad that we are doing what we do.

Peace.

Enough spacing for you Shoe?

No Respect (I tell 'ya...)

Just a quick one today. I spent the day moving into the palace next door and setting up my room. I unpacked, I organized,... I swept. (At least two women I know just passed out) The view isn't too bad. I'm going to try to get some pictures, but they're cautious about that kind of thing around here.

Anyway, I linked up with the NCO I'll primarily be working with in the made-up position they have me in for the time being. Just prior to moving out he had our driver running to get the water and gatorade powder that should already have been in the trucks. He offered to show me how to mix up the gatorade, which I immediatly assumed was going to be some high speed NCO trick for quickly getting the couple of packets in the bottle without making a mess. What did he do? You guessed it. Dumped out a little water, opened the packets and poured them in. Slightly exasperated, I made it clear that I'll probably be able to handle that in the future. Now I know that Second Lieutenants don't get a whole lot of credit, but that may be the most rediculous thing...that has happened in the last 6 hours. Oh, and our driver (see 'Travels with Joe') was quick to help by holding up his flashlight for me as I then shook the bottle, which I assured him I could do in the dark.

Peace

Cultural Long Division

I made it over to the MWR Palace today. Yes, we have a palace dedicated solely to recreation. (Mind you, this is Saddam’s presidential compound we’re in. The rest of the Army lives in tin shacks.) I discovered there the likely cause of economic turnaround for all the countries our Armed Forces ‘visit.’ (We’re all about euphemisms here.) AAFES somehow gets a hold of local national vendors to come in and sell what can generally only be categorized as “crap” to soldiers at bargain prices. With everybody more than willing to use dollars to buy old Iraqi money which is now worth precisely nothing, it’s no wonder the exchange rate has gone to crap.
Not everything was worthless, though. I got the best army haircut I’ve ever received there. The guy didn’t even look at my head. He was talking to the other guy, looking out the door, all while shaving away. With a 100% tip, total price, $2. I’m also thinking about having a three piece suit tailored there for me. They have really nice cushy sweaters, too, but those are worn buy the same guys who have kitties on their fur-lined dashboard, and I just can’t go there. Ladies, looking for the spa treatment? I added up everything offered at the ‘Beauty Salon’ and it came to $31. You can get oil paintings made for you at the ‘Bazaar,’ which I would love to say was misspelled, but I’d be lying. I saw a table full of Rolexes that certainly looked authentic. I’m not even going to speculate as to where those came from. Same goes for the $10 cartons of Marlboro and $5 ‘Lucky Smokes.’ Gulf War Syndrome my ass. It was chain-smoking cheap Arabian cigarettes.
Some of the other things were so funny I actually had to write them down. For a culture that literally puts women in the back seat, they certainly fancy themselves the romantic type. Perfumes and oils, mood-setting incense, and a bunch of things that resembled grown up versions of the valentines kids give out in the US. I did a double-take at one of the perfumes that was labeled 'oK,' instead of 'cK.' That’s not giving one’s self a whole lot of credit, but when you smell like many of the folks here do, ‘ok’ would be more than acceptable.
There was a stack of RC trucks there too, all with “Vincible” printed on the box in fierce, jagged letters. I know that ‘vincible’ isn’t a word (yes, I had to double-check), but in theory it would have to be the opposite of ‘invincible,’ which again really isn’t shooting very high. It was starting to make me think that either this is a culture of people more than willing to settle or they’re just brutally honest. Imagine that kind of honesty in the US: “Ride Valleyfair’s new ‘Slightly-taller-and-faster-than-our-other-coasters Thing,’” or “Come test-drive the new Chevy Adequate,” etc.
They also have a table full of obviously unlicensed DVDs for sale. You pay a little extra for the discs with two or four movies on them and in theory are a great deal, but I can’t for the life of me figure out the combination scheme. You might expect some kind of correlation, same actor or director, maybe, I’d even settle for same era. But no such luck. Who wants Falling in Love and Queen of the Damned, or Midnight Cowboy and Along Came Polly? Want to confuse your child? Give him the Flubber/Full Monty DVD for his birthday. What the hell? I might want the Italian Job and the Bourne Identity, but when they’re on the same disc as Big Momma’s House and Crossroads, I just have to walk away. If that isn’t a cultural divide, I don’t know what is.
And finally, just browsing, I overheard someone ask the vendor if a particular lighter was butane, and while my exterior gave no indication, I was mentally butt-stroking him in the head with my M16. This particular lighter was the epitome of all things tacky. Imagine if you will: a grey heart-shaped lighter with the bas relief faces of Bush and Saddam on either side of a small turquoise F16, and mounted on top of this heart, somehow incorporated in the lighting mechanism, is another miniature grey fighter jet. You just can’t make this stuff up.

Peace

Anybody have a tissue?

So there I was, standing in the middle of traffic today, in the middle of town, watching drivers watch me as they passed by. I know that in the US, we consider ourselves the point of origin for all that is ‘cool’ in the world, but for some reason, it is fashionable in Iraq to deck your car out like a NYC cabbie, a trend not found in the US save for the cars of fringe hippies. Anyway, among other things, flowers around the windshield or stickers of roses are a common sight; that might be a throwback to traditional Islamic art, and may be associated with “Free Iraq” as I saw a couple stickers of hands holding roses and the Iraqi flag with those words. I thought that was interesting.
The most common thing I saw, however, was the number of cars having some sort of carpet or more commonly fur (looks faux) up on the dash and behind the rear seats. Try as I might, I just couldn’t come up with a reason for that. Americans are all about sleek, clutter-free cars, but in Iraq, if your car ain’t fuzzy, you’re just not with it. I thought maybe the stuff served some purpose like keeping you from melting to your vinyl seats on a 140 degree summer day (which apparently has been known to happen--the heat I mean, not melting to your seats), but I don’t think that’s it.
The other odd thing was the number of Kleenex boxes visible in the vehicles. Think about it; if you need a Kleenex in your car, it’s either dig through somebody’s purse or fish under the seats for an old, hopefully unused, Dairy Queen napkin. But there they were, front or rear windshield, big old house-sized Kleenex boxes, as though these 60 degree winter days give everybody here a crazy case of the sniffles. It wasn’t the boxes that first got my attention (as I’m trying to keep a sharp eye out; there’s me distracted by shiny objects in cars that sound like they’re about to fall apart—in a combat zone), but rather the various Kleenex-box-covers that seemed all the rage. I’m not sure how many fancy metallic bejeweled Kleenex-box-covers I saw in the short time that I was standing there in traffic. Enough to peak my interest, obviously. Placing myself in the shoes of a tyrannized, generally poor populace driving cars that look and sound like they have to be on the way to the junkyard, I don’t know that the fancy metallic Kleenex-box-cover is my first priority of what to do with my $100/month. (If that.) I also saw two ‘fuzzy-kitty, so-cutsey-I-thought-I-was-going-to-puke-on-my-boots, Kleenex-box-covers,’ in cars driven by men with no women present. Obviously, the defined acceptable appearance for men and women is a little different here. No man I know would be caught dead with that on his dash, cat-obsessed-wife present or not. You know who I mean. There are some other gender issues that deserve addressing (moreso than car décor, sheesh) but I want to wait until I’ve seen more in person before I get into that.
Other than that, not much to report. I should officially have a job here in the next couple of days. I’ll wait on writing about that, too. The unit is pretty much on a routine here. We try and keep ourselves a visible and positive element in the city. We keep an eye out, collect bad guys, find weapons…every couple of days there’s a new pile of guns in the hall. A word about the Kalashnikov; somehow the Russians made a weapon that is both so cheap that every nation on earth could purchase a few million, and yet is still able to withstand any and all abuse that humans can throw at them. I’m not kidding; someday all that will be left are cockroaches and AKs. The things are made out of plastic, particle board, and old soda cans (though to be fair, they could be the cans from around here, which seem to be made of a light industrial grade steel. I finish my pop and keep trying to get more out; the cans are that heavy. And they have pulltabs!). Some primitive culture will dig up a pile of working operational AKs a million years from now and it will be like planet of the apes all over again. So long story short, that’s why everybody had an AK before we got here.
“Happy tenth birthday, Hassan, here’s a rifle.” “Another one? I was hoping for a bicycle…”

Peace

Chinook.mp3

First of all, and most importantly, Happy Birthday Mom! Best mom ever.

So among the equipment (toys) I bought before heading to Iraq was a marked-down mp3 player which the salespeople at AAFES assured me was complete and functional. Of course half the goodies included were missing, including the actual earphones, which is completely ridiculous, but I was nearly out the door at that point and wanted one, so I brought it. Naturally, I left the instructions behind and have been experimenting with it ever since. I was testing the record and playback functions today and discovered a couple inadvertent recordings that I knew I had made. Then I came across something odd that I didn’t recognize. After a few seconds I realized that the noise which sounded like helicopter rotors had to be in fact from the Chinook ride from LSA Anaconda to here. Mind you I wasn’t playing with my mp3 player while flying over hostile territory; I was too busy fending off hypothermia as I was seated next to the open door where one of the three machine guns was mounted. So I somehow turned on my player, hit record, stopped the recording, and turned off the player, all while the thing was in my buttpack.

My question is, would anyone like an mp3 of 4+ minutes of helicopter noise?

What, you may be wondering, would I do with 4+ minutes of Chinook rotor? The only good thing I could think of was using it as background for a permanent breakup with some crazed boy/girlfriend.
Imagine if you will: “shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc …Hey babe, it’s me… shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc …I’m calling from the chopper, I don’t have much time… shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc …the government has asked me to perform a secret mission somewhere in the far western near east. I really shouldn’t be telling you all this… shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc …it’s been great, but I don’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t try to call me, my home phone may be tapped… shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc…I’m really going to miss you, but seriously, don’t call… shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc …Goodbye forever. Remember, we'll always have St. Cloud...shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc shuc...”

So? You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Email if you want it.

Reading Eyes

I went out on my first excursion a few days ago into the city and then the countryside. One minute I was IMing online with the Starving Artist (aka, the Shoe. Ha. I get to make up aliases) Half an hour later I was armed, armored, locked and loaded on a Hummer leaving the gate. (“Hey LT, you're going to go with these guys, um, now.”) No high-speed mission or anything, just checking on the progress of voter registration and then to view a couple schools in an attempt to get some outside funding.

This part of Iraq is much like it was described to me. The river valley and the lowlands fairly densely vegetated, but scrub or nothing just about everywhere else. You see piles of garbage in random locations and pieces of trash almost everywhere. Most structures look like they’re in a general state of disrepair, but I suppose even a new solid earth and brick home would tend to appear that way. Along the highways you’ll see small markets or a small shack full of fruit, or soda. I saw one man sitting beside what appeared to be a hanging goat carcass; I guess if you want goat for dinner you just drive down the road, buy a leg, and take it home. The homesteads outside of the city are usually small farms. They might have a small field, though I didn’t see much of anything growing. (It does get all the way down to a chilly 40 degrees at night. Wussy plants. Actually, almost all the vegetation is brownish right now.) A couple cows or a few goats and some chickens. The gas stations are backed up a few hundred meters. The garb is a mix of western and traditional dress.All day, I only saw one woman driving . (Looked like a woman, at least.) One LT said he hasn't ever seen one.

When you stop at a location, if there are children are around, they swarm. Actually, just the boys. They want to know your name, where you’re from. They start picking at your equipment asking “What this?” The sense of personal space here is different from the US. I had about 15 kids gathered around about foot away, with questions and small hands coming from all directions. Some speak English much better than others, but the one phrase they all know is “Meester, give me.” They want candy or pencils, usually. I must have had ten kids ask for my watch, though, which wasn’t even visible. Some know that the begging is annoying and mock the “baby Iraqi no good” asking for stuff. They scattered in a hurry when the schoolmaster came out, jumping over walls and behind buildings, but the mass can reassemble just as quickly. Eventually they get bored and move en masse to the next truck or soldier.

At one stop a small boy was trying to encourage his two or three-year-old sister to come over by us, unsuccessfully. Eventually, they came by with her father, who also seemed to encourage the little one to come up to us. She wouldn’t get too close, though, despite my best attempts to smile and look un-menacing. You try that wearing full body armor and a weapon. It made me realize though that whatever attitudes and prejudices we develop with maturity, the innocence of a child is universal. Imagine the stirred-up cauldron of emotions that brought out. I really enjoy the little kids, too. We brought some candy over to the kids peering at us from behind a wall (all houses have walls) who were either too small, shy, well behaved, or whose parents wouldn’t let them join the packs of boys swarming our vehicles.

The other thing that struck me in the few hours we were out was that as we passed, every set of eyes was on us. There are soldiers out as much as possible, but still we draw everyone’s attention. The children and many of the women will wave or do the ‘thumbs up’ as we pass, even from considerable distances. But the men are generally emotionless. Not all, but most of them. I must have tried to read a thousand pairs of eyes that day. Am I welcome here? Would you prefer if I had not come? Would you prefer if I was dead? I didn’t find much in the way of answers.

I’d like to think that it was the conduct of the American Soldier that won us the near universal favor and welcome Americans once received in Europe, Japan, and elsewhere. I hope that this generation of children will grow up to welcome American visitors in 20, 40, 60 years. I don’t think that goal is impossible.
We’re doing what we can.

Peace.

Oh, and "Happy Birthday" to the bigger little brother. Let me know if you want something sent from here.

The Rigors of Palace life

Living in Saddam’s former hometown, it seems he must have given a handful of cronies some prime real estate in this compound, as I think we currently have the nicest living arrangements of the forces in Iraq. ‘To the victors’ and all that. While talking to the wife (subsequently to be known as the Wife, to protect her anonymity. From embarrassment) I kept referring to this place as a palace, not really knowing what else to call it. So now up for debate is what exactly makes a palace a palace. Is it the status of the person living there? The size of the place? The decor? Perhaps a combination thereof. Dictionary.com seems to think so. The Wife suggested that the place needed some 60 or 70 rooms to be a palace, which, sorry to say, my fairytale Princess, it most certainly does not. So I think it is up to me to make the call on this one. Let’s see, marble flooring-check. Ornate woodwork-check. A polished stone or marble lucky banister going up the staircase-check. Romanesque columns and 10-ft chandelier(s) in our weight room-check and check. Yes, I’m officially going to have to go with: ‘Palace.’
To be fair, it seems this palace is made up from the crap leftover from the “Definitely a Palace” palace on the hill. I’m not sure if that doorknob was real gold, but I’m not too sure that it wasn’t.
It’s good to be the king.

Peace.

Travels with Joe (again)

OK, I’m going to make use of the ridiculous amount of free time that I temporarily have to start adding to this blog. And I’m going to save my writings elsewhere this time so I don’t lose over an hour’s worth of writing…again.

As you may have heard, I’ve made it to Tikrit. In typical army style, it took my little group of travelers a full work week to get there as we essentially had to hitchhike Air Force flights to Iraq and Army aviation to our final destination. Over the course of the week, I made a couple of new observations.
The first thing that struck me as particular was the incredible amount of energy expended by the soldier in transition to and from Iraq in the form of essays on the walls of every stall and portable toilet between Turkey and the Persian Gulf. What exactly possesses the soldier to carve his idiocy into the side of every available restroom is beyond the capacities of my usually creative imagination. The best summation I can make of these satellite scholars’ etchings is that Army Reserve, National Guard, and active duty soldiers; those permanently in Kuwait, those traveling to or from Iraq; high speed combat types and service and support soldiers; soldiers from Mississippi, West Virginia, Puerto Rico, and Texas; Brits, Aussies, the Dutch, American and Iraqi soldiers; and soldiers of every race, religion and sexual orientation; all somehow, in fact, “suck.” Perhaps the competitive nature of your average soldier is to blame for this slanderous rivalry. I know I certainly feel enlightened.
The other observation of note made over the last week pertains to the nature of “Joe.” For those of you non-Army types (which is pretty much everyone I know who might be reading this), “Joe” is the term used by Army leaders to anonymously describe and categorize the more dense members of this prestigious organization who are known for doing things of a particularly idiotic sort. The term is used as in the following situation, taken from an all too near future:
Amanda: (noticing that Chris walks in the door late in the evening and looking years older than he did when he left that particular Monday morning) “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Chris: “Aargh…you will absolutely not believe what Joe did this weekend” (followed by some tale so ridiculous that you would never have believed it possible had your commander not personally chewed your hide for having soldiers so foolish, as if you have any way of preventing Joe from, say…lighting a roman candle in his room and nearly burning the entire barracks down).
(Warning: gross generalizations ahead)
A few more words about Joe…Joe is generally a member of the lower enlisted, though not all privates will individually qualify as ‘Joe.’ Joe usually doesn’t last too long in the Army as nobody wants to be a private forever and promotions are hard to come by when one loses or wrecks things and generally annoys the chain of command. Joe finds drinking to be the most rewarding of all recreation activities, and believes that it is his right to get wasted after a long week of playing football in the motorpool. Joe talks about sex more than anything else, followed closely by his dominance in HALO or Madden, the types of weapons he owns, how much he likes Copenhagen, and NASCAR. Joe’s opinions and preferences regarding the miracle of human reproduction, however, would make sailors blush. Joe’s opinion about sailors would make sailors violent. Joe is sometimes married and if so has multiple children sometimes of unknown origin. Joe needs work on his parenting skills, as does “Joe’s Wife,” who is also easily distinguishable. Joe is particularly enthusiastic about the death and destruction aspect of his job, and tends to care little for the winning of hearts and minds. Joe can compose an entire paragraph out of vulgarities. Joe is reasonably certain he is the biggest, baddest soldier since Audie Murphy, but is also pretty sure his lieutenant is out to get him. Joe will spend two months pay on rims for his 1992 Ford Taurus. Joe, while traveling to Iraq from Germany buys four knives in as many days, and relishes in the eye-rolling frustration of the LTs he travels with. While stranded at various bases en route to Iraq, Joe will also repeatedly offer to commandeer vehicles and weapons (including those already belonging to the military) but only does so when out of arm’s reach of the nearest Lieutenant.
Joe…writes on bathroom walls.

Peace.