Not Exactly "Having it My Way"

Ask yourself this question: At what price would you, of your own volition, submit yourself to sitting out in the 115° heat in 50 pounds of gear?

Answer: For some Burger King, but only when you missed lunch and can’t remember the last time you had a decent burger and fries.

I had to rewrite/think that scenario a couple times to even make it sound remarkable to me. When put like this, though, well that’s just sad. Many of the more substantial FOBs in Iraq have amenities like fast food of various types, to include BK, Taco Bell, Popeye's, Pizza Inn, and Cinnabon.

Camp Ramadi didn’t, though, and neither does Falcon. You have to be on one of the big ‘safe’ (perhaps, instead, 'important') FOBs to get that kind of thing. The kinds of places that also have “MWR” (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation) programs like fishing contests, bodybuilding competitions, and Salsa or R&B nights at the local (non-alcoholic) watering hole (usually horribly named, like our own “Velvet Camel”).

The group of people who get to take advantage of those kinds of activities are largely from the support and service elements. Your grunts tend to get run ragged for a year, with the only personal developments being an intensification of their disdain for the non-combat types. (I've been trying to spend more time doing PT, too, but it's usually a stop I make while making my rounds throughout the day. I know my role.)

We had run a Log Weenie (that’s what I’ve become) convoy to the BIAP complex of FOBs to run some supply and admin errands, only to find that they were having some kind of full gear exercise there (probably a ‘See if you can find your kit and still know how to wear it’ exercise for some of the Fobbit types permanently entrenched there).

The temperature makes such an effort all the more miserable. The dryness of the heat, though oven-like, also means that perspiring actually helps to regulate your body temp. Wearing an IBA makes sure that doesn’t happen.

I’m glad it took until mid-May to get this bad. We broke the 120° barrier today, and we’re just getting warmed up.

The War Machine (Part 2)

We sat in the A/DAGC (Arrival/Departure Air Ground Control, pronounced Ā-dăk) for another couple of hours entertaining meager hopes that the flights would resume despite the weather. While helicopter pilots are known for their dedication when someone’s life is on the line, it seems that in all other circumstances, the risks taken in flying are almost nil, and additionally, once your schedule gets off track, there’s no hope of recovery. At about 0530 (up all night again, mind you) the flight personnel let us know that our options at that point were A) jump on the Blackhawks for their return trip to their base, which would be moving a significant distance in the wrong direction, and hoping for a return flight that evening to BIAP/Liberty to try and start all over again; or B) stay there and hope for a flight that night to BIAP/Liberty, where we could start all over again, and where I was sure I would not be so lucky a second time. They were essentially telling us that either way we’d have to make our way back to one of the primary flight crossroads and try to get a flight, which, by regulation, requires a 48 hour pre-manifest.

I couldn’t hide my frustration, largely because this is not how transportation in a war zone is supposed to happen. Not in good fiction, anyway. You’re supposed to be able to wander out to a spinning bird and catch a member of the flight crew, say “Hey, man, where you headed?” and have him tell you “Sure, catch a lift!” Then you throw your gear on the bird, hang a leg out the door, let your chinstrap hang like John Wayne’s, light up a cigarette…

Or you hitchhike a truck convoy traveling behind the lines to link up with your company holed up for refit in some small French town where the locals give you wine and baguettes and their daughters are friendlier than they ought be…

War used to be so much cooler. There are no “lines” anymore. Wine is out. Daughters are definitely out.

My choice was B) so as to minimize the number of flights and locations at which things could go wrong. We went to billeting to check in, dropped our gear, and I went to breakfast and once it was light, did a mini-recon of the area to figure out where I was and identify anything I might need before checking in for the flight that evening. Once again, I crashed all day, getting up in time for dinner. I then called the Wife.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

This is technically true because, while I did know that I was at a place called FOB Kalsu (named after an NFL player killed in Vietnam), I did not actually know where it was in relation to Baghdad or to where I wanted to end up. It sounds more dramatic that way, though.

I went to Mass. I had missed Easter because I was traveling, learning the hard way to take advantage of services where/whenever they happen.

Then I checked out of billeting and went back to the A/DAGC for the wait. We had been told that should there not be any other flights coming through, we would probably at the least be able to get out on a helicopter mail run, if the weather held out.

I’m not sure why the experience felt so taxing, but after about three hours of waiting, with hope diminishing by the minute, I found myself contemplating how much I really wanted to live, if this is what I had to look forward to for the next week. A vagabond existence. Traveling to unfamiliar locations by night. Sleeping all day. A couple of Lieutenant Colonels came through who looked like I felt, as though they had been trying to reach their destination for about 40 years. People started asking aloud if anyone had live rounds. Significantly contributing to the mood was sitting first through Van Helsing, which was bad enough the first time I saw it, but oh, so much worse this time, and then RV, which was more depressing than funny. It was about the time Robin Williams found himself covered in raw sewage that all collective hope seemed to give out in that A/DAGC.

It was shortly thereafter, 2330 or so, that they announced the mail run was still scheduled to depart and we stood a reasonable chance of departing. We happily donned our gear, signed out, and went outside. They called us together for a briefing in which they discussed the procedures for reacting to a mortar attack. I thought it odd at the time. We didn’t get that briefing anywhere else. OK. Roger.

We stood for a few minutes waiting with gear on to move out to the flight line, when we were informed it would be another half-hour or so. I executed an oft-practiced (in Ranger School) Rucksack Flop, which involves using your ruck to cushion your exhausted collapse to the earth where you assume a reclined position still wearing your ruck, but where sleep is in fact possible if you are not careful.

A mere moment after my flop, I heard the deafened

thump

thump

that occurred to me to sound much like the launching of mortars somewhere in the distance. It may have been that I was drifting to sleep a bit, but I recall that thought happening almost simultaneously with the unmistakable second-and-a-half scream of a mortar that is landing way too close, and the subsequent way too close explosion, followed by lined-up travelers taking off for mortar shelters like some sort of cartoon where everyone disappears and all that remains is a cloud of dust and a line of baggage.

The round probably landed 100m or more away (and beyond a couple concrete walls), but that still falls under the way too close category for a big mortar. Mortar attacks are pretty much over before they start because of the time they spend in the air means the person firing is moving before the rounds land (or he better be) and because there’s nothing you can do but get down and pray. There almost isn’t enough time for that, even. The rush that happens at the sound of the scream or explosion has peaked by the time you get to a shelter to wait for the all clear.

Mortars and all, the mail run was still underway, and we eventually made our way to the Chinooks. The Chinook, by the way, is the limousine of helicopters. Plenty of space for troops and cargo, and turbine engines to push it along with some haste. I think I heard once that the twin-rotor setup of the Chinook cannot be explained by physics; it just doesn’t compute. Watching one in the air only serves to solidify this claim. Nothing that big should be able to float that way or do things like pivot in midair. I’ve ridden in the front bird of a Chinook tandem and watched the one tailing as it hovered precariously, like a marionette suspended by the hand of an inexperienced puppeteer, bouncing and wobbling just enough to be both comical and fascinating.

A side note: I think helicopters are cool. Every time, without fail. The ride is sometimes miserable, but there’s just something about a chopper. I find them exciting even if just from the pounding of the rotors when they move overhead. That thump reaches deep inside your chest when they are close. Back when I was blindly picking out Army branches for my wish list, the recruiting commander, somewhat hintingly, asked if I wanted to put Aviation on my list. I gave him the same “nah” that I had given the Navy recruiter who told me my scores qualified me to apply as a pilot. (I was getting into Military Intelligence. Ha.) The first time I got on a Blackhawk in Ranger School I kicked myself for that “nah” and I do so every time I get on a bird. The chances of actually getting branched Aviation would have been small, but a chance is a chance.

For the record, though, I like my crossed rifles.

The Chinook ride at 0100ish was largely uneventful with the exception of the release of some countermeasure flares from just outside where I was sitting, which naturally scared the crap out of me the first time they went off. I soon found myself back at BIAP, fearing the worst in terms of prospects of traveling any time in the next day. I dropped my gear and looked up the flight desk who pointed me to a liason for my brigade. Great. That last encounter with a unit L/O went over swimmingly. I told him where I was trying to get to and he said that was quite the coincidence because he had just made a drug deal to get some other guys from my BN on a flight to Falcon and had lied about the number of spaces he needed. No less than five minutes after leaving the flightline I was following the L/O back to the Baghdad Int’l runway to wait for my bird. Drug deals, lies, begging and bartering. That’s how military air travel is supposed to work.

Just 48 hours after my first flight left Ramadi, I was on the ground at my new FOB, sweet FOB, in Baghdad. My sleep schedule was thoroughly fried, and I still wasn’t sure exactly where I was or had been for most of the journey, but I was there. Here. Wherever.

The War Machine (Part 1)

Or,

The best way to travel 100 miles in Iraq:

I recently changed jobs and, consequently, locations here and starting anew I want to try to write more. I left my old company on a Friday, saying goodbyes to friends and coworkers that had become close after a year and a half of Army. Hugs and other inappropriate comments and physical contact you wouldn’t expect among soldiers were many. We drove down to the flightline to begin this journey. Ten minutes later I was back. My flight was pushed to 0330 and hell if I was going to sit there for five hours. So much for poetic goodbyes. I should have recognized this as a bad sign, but strangely enough, didn’t.

Helicopter flights are short and the first leg of the journey was over by shortly after four AM. To ensure my reservation took me all the way to my final destination, the flightline guy told me to check in at 0800, so I found some time-killing opportunities that kept me up until then, completing the first of three full sleepless nights. At 0800 I found our unit’s liason who assured me that my reservation did include flights all the way to Falcon, one of many FOBs in the Baghdad area, and there was no reason to wait around. All I needed to do was be in Tent A at 1900 to wait for the flight manifest for the 2130 flight. Too easy. I went back to the billeting tent and crashed most of the day. I got up for dinner, packed up and headed to tent A. Around 2130 I went from the tent to the flight desk to make sure things were still in order. I gave my reservation number and was informed I had missed my flight because I hadn’t checked in. I insisted that I had spoken with the L/O as instructed at 0800. I was told the Liason doesn’t count. Great. My options were to sit there another day and hope to roll my reservation back or try to get to another FOB in Baghdad. I took option B as it at least moved me in the right direction, at least. There was no telling what option A might get me.

There was plenty of space on the flight. Two short hops to Liberty and the lovely Baghdad International Airport. (All duty-free, all the time.) The flight crew kept trying to check my hand for reservation and destination numbers which, of course, I didn’t have. I’d try to yell ‘Liberty’ but with their crew helmets and the giant rotors spinning outside the cabin, I’m sure it just looked like I was mouthing “I’m an idiot!” That was their reaction, anyway.

At Liberty I checked in at about 0100 (this is Saturday morning, now) and told them where I was trying to go. He made a phone call and just like that I had another flight in an hour that would (eventually) take me to Falcon. The guy over the phone asked if I was aware of a warrant for my arrest, which I assumed could only be for missing movement at the last location. It turns out he was kidding, but funny stops at about 2300 and it seems I ruined the joke for everybody.
The next flight, as far as I could tell, was stopping at every LZ within 20 miles of Baghdad. We had to stop for gas at the FOB before my stop at Falcon. While standing there watching the crew refuel, we started seeing lightning in the distance. I thought that was the end of the trip, but they soon ushered us back on to the Blackhawk. I eagerly took a window seat. Stupid Ranger.

All the flights prior to this one had been on cargo helicopters with spacious cabins. Not so much with the Blackhawk. For the first part of this flight I had been protected by the mounds of gear piled on top of all the passengers. By now, though, most had gotten out leaving no resistance whatsoever for the wind, which, as I consider it now, was powerful enough to be keeping the school bus-sized craft in the air in the first place. Sitting next to the door on the inside of the bird, then, was more or less like it might be to ride shotgun at Talladega, but with your head out the window. I had to face the wind directly to keep it from tearing my ballistic glasses off my face, and it felt like my helmet would at any minute go flying off my head and out the other side of the craft. I was even concerned about my 60 pound ruck getting picked up and tossed out.

Staring out the bird, the lightning (toward which we seemed to be flying, generally) would occasionally light up the mostly open country below. Cool. Then came the rain. Not cool. My mind was at this time torn between concern for the mechanics of flying a helicopter in the rain, which I didn’t suspect to be a particularly good idea, and the needle-like stinging of the mist now buffeting my face. A more vain part of me was still calculating how many years my face was losing with each passing minute of the wind stretching my cheeks to where my ears typically are. A couple more flashes of lightning and the Blackhawk went into a long 180 degree turn that I didn’t imagine to be a landing approach.

A few minutes later we did land and in the dark followed the glowing green chemlite held by the flight-ops personnel. It was soon apparent that our U-turn had been just that and we were back where we had just refueled.

That was the first 24 hours of the trip.