Memoirs written in prose of Sergeant Robertson, Damon M. USMC while in Iraq | ...with frequent appearances of King Hammurabi.
If you are new to this journal, make sure to start reading in chronological order by scrolling down to the bottom of the oldest post in October 2004. Damon's letters from August 20th, 2004 - October 23rd, 2004 were all added to this blog on Oct. 23rd, 2004. All subsequent letters are posted in real time.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Re: ADDRESS INFORMATION
Dear Family and Friends: Not that I want to sound pessimistic, but at this point it seems *highly* unlikely that my absentee ballot will ever reach me in time. Indeed, even if I already had it, I wouldn't be able to mail it back to the states in time to make my vote count. A little sad story is unfolding if you read further. This will (given the lack of ability to vote this next week) signify 8 years of presidential politics I have had no say in. I was unable to vote in the Gore/Bush war of 2000 because I was in bootcamp and the DI's didn't give a rat's butt about the recruits' right to vote. Including the 4 years that are about to be ushered in with the upcoming elections, that makes 8 years. Why don't I get to vote this time? I dunno. Ask the people in SF city hall why they didn' t process my request, or maybe why my mail is stuck somewhere in an iso container in the Kuwaiti desert. I have only voted once in national elections, when I was 18 or 19. Blah blah blah. But get this. Even the Marines that have their voter's ballots here probably won't get them back in time. Mail takes forever and a day (by modern standards) to get to us and back to the states again. The military, and not so much the "powers that be," are to blame, I'm sure. Anything that has to do with our families or "back home" or mail or food or sleep gets put on the back burner. Do I need to state that my service here, in that it contributes to a democratic iraq, sort of rubs me raw when I don't even get to participate in our farcical (no real option) two-party system? Let's say, for sake of argument, that I was one of these poor army stiffs who've been involuntarily extended in my stay here, and as a result I wanted to vote for a candidate that would let me come home, all other considerations notwithstanding. NEITHER CANDIDATE OFFERS THAT AS AN OPTION. And somewhere in there, G.I. Joe manages to not get his absentee ballot. Oh well. What's the difference anyway... :D
# posted by chevas @ 3:33 PM 0 comments 
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Hey, yo: Yes, twice in one day. No, I have no restraint. On the issue of whether or not you guys respond to what I write, feel free. I'd appreciate it actually, since no one sends me pictures of kittens or green fields (foreign concept right now) or even hallmark cards with very unfunny humor inside. I may not respond individually to each one, but you're intelligent people and I respect what you say. Call me out. Give me the courtesy of checking my own (as of yet) undisputed opinions. blah blah blah :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:43 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: An interesting comment was made in response to Hammurabi 2.0, that this iraq war is a big mess and that we've only made more enemies by being here. It is a mess. No one promised me, you, or anyone else that this conflict would in any way resemble the proverbial rose garden. War is war. It is not a game of Jenga, where careful and slight moves make for no messes. The mess? We didn't make it. This place has been a hotbed of violence *forever*. That's one of the things I"m getting at with my Hammurabi dialogues. They center around the concepts of violent legacy and our current inability to see where our actions will lead us. Yes, we could have chosen to launch a few tomahawks at Iraq instead of invading. Placate the bloodlust of the media. But we're here now, involved in the mess that was in place well before our country existed. We didn't start the fire. As to whether or not we've only added fuel, even this is debateable. A good friend reminded me recently of a quote by Edmund Burke, something like "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." No matter how uncomfortable this all seems to you (remember you only see it on TV; since being here my doubts regarding "any good we're doing" have pretty much disappeared), I know for a fact that the suicide bombers and insurgents are the sort of people that are long overdue for the "extended dirt nap." Yesterday, YESTERDAY, another vehicle borne IED left a mark here. Insurgents only killed Iraqis. Great guys. Let them be. Sure. Let's whine about how long we need to stay here so the press will influence the people and the people will whine for us and eventually we'll come home (sooner?). Let the rapists and torturers sweep back into power. Let the men who justify the deaths of iraqi school children with considerations of "collateral damage" take the country back before the citizens have a chance to sieze the dream we have offered them. "Dream" is the word the parents here use. They don't believe that it will ever happen for them, but you should see how they hope for their lovely children. ... Thank you for responding, those of you who did. It makes me feel like I'm talking to people and not talking at an audience, or a brick wall. ... thank you for your love and prayers. you are free to disagree. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:43 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: Hammurabi v.2.0 [if you can handle my utter botching of verb tense, read on... sorry, rough thoughts] ... We're both in the back of a humvee, sharing the space with two other Marines, but they're not the imaginitive sort, and they don't see him. Hammurabi I mean. And I also don't mean literally. He's here, sort of, if you count "presence" as satisfied by the marks we leave in passing. I don't even look at him as we pass through the village at 20mph. I'm too locked on to what I'm seeing. Brick houses, maybe two dozen, surrounded by detritus and garbage, each home looking like its seen the business end of a soviet tank shell at some point in the not-quite-erased past. My helmet, even padded, is starting to drive my scalp crazy. I briefly imagine that ancient warriors had the same problem. "Helmets..." they'd think. "Good idea. Now if we could just make them comfortable." And you know they said the same thing about boots, er, sandals back then. Well, we still haven't figured either of those conundrums out. My head still aches and my feet still get blisters. A jawa once told me that "all things change: only the sands remain." Well, it's true for headaches and blisters. Our Marines don't much look like babylonian footmen, but we have some of the same problems. "Do you regret it sometimes?" I ask him. We're passing a rivulet of green sludge that, unsurprisingly, smells like untreated sewage and rotten garbage. A jackal, and no I'm not kidding, a jackal, solitary and scruffy looking, wanders around in the junk about 50 yds from me. It lays down in the midday heat, staring out into the wasteland to the north. People do still live here, in case you're wondering. "What's that?" he asks, having waited a few seconds before responding. Like me, he's seeing what's really here. The substance of the issue. "The eye for an eye bit," I explain. "The seminal idea you gave to people, essentially the belief that two wrongs make a right." And what I mean to say is something I hinted at earlier, that if one man accidentally or even intentionally takes out the eye or tooth of another, what good is served in visiting the same fate back on him in the guise of judicial punishment? Now you have two half-blind men. Or two toothless farmers. Or two dead men. Hammurabi doesn't respond. He extends an open hand to me by way of petitioning for a swig of my Gatorade. I hand it to him without pause. He gulps down a few swallows and the shaky humvee ride ensures that a couple tiny rivoulets of Frost flavored drink run down his emaculately kept beard. "I don't understand what you're getting at," he says. But he says it in the way people do when they understand what you're getting at perfectly. He dabs at his beard with an MRE alcohol towlette. "This legacy of violence," I spout instantly, very much aware of how much I sound like San Francisco. I cringe at my own inner hippie-ness. He looks me in the eye for the first time in miles. The village, small, perhaps home to a couple hundred people at most, is already shrinking behind us in a trail of dust. The convoy is almost through to Al Qaim. I wish I'd gotten a picture of the place, but I was too concerned-- and rightly so-- about security issues to take my hands off my rifle the whole time we were passing through. Rubble makes excellent cover for ambushes. Everyone knows it. Hammurabi even. "You know how writing works, D," he begins. "Something we didn't understand when we first started scribbling on clay way back when was the fact that folks, even educated ones, believe what they read. The faux permanence of tangible media is confusing to the human mind." I look crosswise at him. This guy just sounded educated. My brow furrows. And here I thought he was out of touch, being deceased for a few thousand years. I guess they knew more back then than I've ever given them credit for. "It took us a few years to recognize that," he continued. "Writing was still new then, but by the time ... near the end, I'd figured it out. Not only do people believe everything they read, but ... well, there's something more embarassing about it. To be honest. And I think this is the answer to your question." "What's that?" I ask. The humvee hits a rut in the road. The rear tires, pumped up to 60psi, send the force of the road straight through our skinny butts and into our lower backs. My 40lb flack jacket is my morbid butt-pain. "I don't regret anything at all," Hammurabi continued. "You have to understand that since my time, historians have called the laws of babylon my "code." Like i pulled the ideas straight out of thin air or something. I get credit for inventing this severe code of laws, get this rep as a horrible and harsh ruler, and yet, think about this: what if I didn't make that crap up at all? Look out of my palace windows for a moment. Look at the horde, the unwashed throng, and tell me what you see: people who don't respond to reason because they've never been taught to recognize it. Men who work tirelessly every day of their lives just to survive. They don't understand the finer points. They do, however, understand losing teeth, paying heavy fines, all that. When you need the attention of a man who's broken other people, break him. His jaw, his arm, whatever. You'll have his undivided attention." "So you just observed human tendency? That's the answer." "Look, man," he says, handing me the empty bottle. He doesn't mean to insult me. He's just finished it off and is too wrapped up in the conversation to notice he's just kanked me. "It's not an issue of justice at all. More like equality, but even then an equality based on the lowest common demoninator. One guy misses a tooth, and anyone involved is gonna miss one also. It's the way people work. No one wants to see someone else with more. No one wants to think they're the only one in pain. They're happier, the whole filthy lot of them, when they're all just as unhappy as the next guy. So give them harsh laws. Satisfy at once their desire for equality and their desire for a legalistic set of standards to adhere to. At the outskirts of town we pass a shepherd family. A boy, maybe five, is running alongside the road. He carries an MRE cracker packet someone must have thrown down to him from the lead vehicle. He's giving us the "thumbs up" sign, and I can't tell if he means it like we do, like us GI's could have taught him, or if he's speaking in the silent gesture talk of his culture and he's telling us "up yours." I'm not sure he answered my question. ... :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:43 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: [i sent this yesterday but my immense skill with computers, namely the address line at the top of the screen, prevented most of you from getting this] I looked at a map today in TIME magazine. Apparently the base I'm on is smack dab in the middle of what the media considers to be "rebel occupied territory" in Iraq. Some things you might find interesting: I know I've mentioned the nature of the insurgents before, but let me clarify given what I've learned in the last week. I spent some time near the Syrian border, speaking with some Civil Affairs Marines. They're the ones who go into villages and towns, "hot" or not, and give out soccer balls to kids and talk with the mayors and meet with varied interest groups. One day before I arrived, they'd lost ** marine(s) to a vehicle-borne i.e.d. I don't remember if I expressed this to any of you yet, but it was the first time I've ever participated in what we call "Final Roll Call." The names of the deceased are read off one more time. Their rifles, held by one of their comrades, are smartly turned barrel-end down, the bayonets firmly thrust into the ground. Another marine places the helmet on top of the butt-stock, another places the fallen Marine's boots in front of the rifle. Everyone present passes by the weapons to say goodbye one last time. Why these men died... Former Baathist party members and other various (foreign govt sponsored) terrorists have set up camp in Syria. They hire former Republican Guard members to plant i.e.d's (improvised explosive devices, if you *somehow* missed that term in the news), place pre-aimed rockets or mortars, etc. Generally speaking they've moved well beyond ever engaging us even on a squad level, knowing that we have enough firepower and training to turn them into hamburger. Instead, they set off an i.e.d. or drive an explosive truck into a convoy, then fire a rocket or two, maybe empty a magazine at us from an automatic rifle, and split. I guess we killed all the stupid ones (the suicide bombers notwithstanding) and what's left are some (apparently) well funded and well organized insurgents. Iraqis, by in large, don't do this. Understand this point. Most of these men, and i mean a large majority of them, aren't Iraqis. They aren't the poor guys you see in the villages struggling to fix the only truck "this side of the waddi." They're young, disenfranchised, hate-filled foreigners who come across the border. They don't have an objective like "win the war" or even "make Americans go home." They're just here to get a piece of "infidel" flesh. Think about that for a second. They set up roadblocks, kidnap contractors, terrorize the world by beheading people and sending the tapes to Al Jazeera. I watch the news, what little of it is actually broadcast to us, but even before I left the United States, I saw a trend. The beheading thing doesn't get condemned. It's like we're supposed to assume that "yeah, those guys are crude, murderous sons of B*es," but no one, not even the people who decry our mistreatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, say one thing about these *Very* disturbing gangs of thugs that get off on holding defenseless truckees on the ground and chopping away. Maybe I'm missing it. Or maybe the "gap" I see is intentional: decry US policy, whine about the length of troop deployments, show the grissly pre-death teasers on the 11 o'clock news, then just leave it to the people to figure out that "Well, if we weren't there, none of this beheading BS would be happening. Damn that white house. Oh yeah, and four more soldiers died on their way to deliver medical supplies to AL WHEREVER, but I guess we can't blame them because we're imperialistic conquerers and should feel guilty for having the power to do what we've done." Alright. Doing my best not to get political. Really just trying to talk about the news. ... But another thing, if you can stomach it, is something that my friend Gretchen preaches valiantly about, and I ask you to consider this point carefully and evaluate how, when, and why you speak about the work we (the military) are doing over here (if you ever talk about us over pizza and beer at all). "You can't support the troops if you don't support what they're doing." This makes a lot of sense. The same people who whine and complain about how long we're here, citing our safety and well being and their immense concern and love for us, are usually the same newscasters who decry the policies *we* are implementing day in and day out. Some days I figure "yeah, Kerry is right. We could use 40,000 extra trigger-pullers over here," but then I gag on my own incredulity when the next sentence he utters is something about a "more sensitive war." Meanwhile, for those of you who love Kerry and hate it when I talk trash about him because you feel you can't fire back at me... I get fairly irritated when I hear upbeat assessments of this country. Why? I've seen some of the I.P.'s, iraqi police, and even some of the newly constructed iraqi army. More on the I.P's, though: these guys are *young*. We're talking anywhere from 14-mid twenties. I didn't know my butt from a hole in the wall when I was 14. You hear and read in the news constantly that "more iraqi policemen abandon their posts in the wake of more militia violence" and no one outright calls them cowards or questions the quality of training they've had, but I bet a lot of us think it. I did before I met them. In truth, I couldn't speak to any of them, but I saw a motivated and small group of very young barely-men who wept when their Marine friends died. I'm talking *wept*. One held a hand over his face he cried so much, and even then the tears streaked out from the sides to flow down both cheeks. These guys call the MP's at night sometimes, saying "So and so is in town, they're doing such and such, please send help" but some knuckle-head, weighed down by the "we don't have enough manpower to spare" concern, says something like "deal with it yourself." And then the boy hangs up the phone in disbelief and goes outside where some very scary men are standing, carrying way more ammo and way more firepower than he and his fellow police can handle, and listens to them tell him how they're going to rape and gut his mother and burn his house to the ground. This kid joined because he believes what us Marines believe. There's something worth fighting for. Yeah, and it pays a little extra money so his little sister can attend the school in town and she won't grow up to be a piece of burkah-clad, baby-producing furniture like her our sad old mother. (i've seen these people in their own village. don't doubt me yet, folks) So what do you do? you aren't clint eastwood. you don't have enough bullets to kill these thugs, and if you inform in them, well, they'll just start acting like they did when Saddam was around and make good on their threats. You go home. You drop your weapon, leave the police station, let them blow it up who gives a damn, and maybe the next day you show back up at the Marine base for a debriefing and you gingerly take another AK47 and forty rounds (if you're lucky) and head back to town to provide a veneer of security and hope that those scary MF's with the big mustaches (like you can't grow yet) don't come back into town for awhile. ... Not an easy transition, this one. Remember: there are greedy, rich, and despotic people who don't want this to occur. Oil companies, dick cheney, and Kerry's red diaper aside, most of the stories you guys hear and read are MISSING THE POINT. Rumsfeld was right the other week when he said "the road we're on is not a gradual upward slope leading inevitably to victory." Courage, sacrifice, and lot of prayers and some friggin bullets. And a man like him who understands what sort of difficulties we face when an indigenous population loves what we do and a very small and well funded group of insurgents hate us very, very much. Remember what he said about politics? that his boss (Bush) told him that his job was too important to get it mixed up in politics/presidential debate? No one in the media (thank NBC) bothered to play that soundbite. They just focused in on the guy who asked about how long deployments would be. They didn't even give airtime to the sob who asked about what kind of shiny piece of medal bling he'd get for toughing it out here for six months. Nah. Who cares? We just wanna whine about when our boys are coming home and make the men/women here out to be victims in an international conspiracy of rich men vying to stay rich and get richer. But we support them, the poor pawns. Such a shame so many of them die so we can drive our suv's to soccer practice! ... hope the irony of the situation (and its misrepresentation) is not lost on you. ... People call this place "the wild west" where I am. It's wild, and we're in the west, and it's not a pretty place nor comfortable nor safe by any stretch of the means. I wish sincerely these IP's had the chance & means to nut up and play hard ball like our forefathers did "on the range" of American history/mythology. They could use a good Eastwood or a Bronson, or maybe just a group of motivated Yassifs that're "tired of the crap and aren't gonna take it anymore." But back then, in our country's turbulent infancy, the outlaws didn't carry RPG's. ... love you all. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:42 PM 0 comments
However, having been crapped on by my immediate supervisor doesn't give me license to forget the following: Thank you for your love and prayers. The Lord was with us, and everyone we left with came back alive and whole. The fear that the enemy uses as his weapon is not everywhere, and not all-powerful (as it can seem sometimes). Thank you all very much. Gum tastes sweeter today. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:42 PM 0 comments
The Dastardly Duo Have Returned. Unscathed. Of course, our Staff NCO had some encouraging words for us. "I see you didn't get to fire off any of your ammunition so I imagine you feel cheated and want to go back out there but I'm telling you right now if I have anything to say about it you won't ever leave the flight line again." Let me guess. "we're too valuable an asset to lose" or some such nonsense. Yeah. Right. Because apparently this place exploded and blew away in the wind while we were gone for three days. OH. Wait. IT DIDN'T. In fact, things are normal. Slow operational tempo, and very, very calm and normal. And for those of you distinguished folks in my audience, understand one thing: We were not fired upon. We did not shoot at anything. We do not feel cheated. For anyone to assume that 1) we even have some sort of blood lust and 2) that if we did we consider the satisfaction of the desire to kill more important than the lives we would have to take... Big Assumption. Understand this is the kind of thing I hear from my *leader*, who very badly wants to get outside the wire and show all of us young "upstarts" what it takes to be a real Marine. [whatever that is anyway] As Super Marine and I walked back to the flight line this morning having just come out of that *motivating* speech I laughed out loud to myself. I mean that good, gut wrenching cackling that echoes across the tarmac. Anyone could hear you within 100 yds but there's no one that close. "What, man?" asks Super Marine. "Yo, dude, like I just was thinking about the *one* card we still have left to play. The one hidden up our sleeve." "What's that?" he asks. Now, be aware that on one hand, we get the back handed praise of "you're our best operators. We can't afford to let you go." and yet on the other, we hear "you're never going to get what you want to do, so shut the F* up and sit down." Understand that Super Marine and I are VERY good at what we do. We get inside big forklifts and move other big and fragile things, which we never break. For one of us to break something is such a rare occurrence that neither of us can remember the last time we dented or bent anything out here. We're good at what we do. Some Marines would say we're "locked on," "Good to Go," etc. All that motivating trash. So there I am, still carrying my full combat load, on my way to the aircraft ramp, which is our post out on the flight line. Laughing. "We still have the S* bird card." Which, succinctly, is the following: A "S* bird" is Marine terminology for someone who is a bad Marine. Sloppy, lazy, lacking proficience in their MOS skills. Nasty is another favorite word. Super Marine and I know full well that being locked on, elite, whatever, is a matter of choice. "You are as elite as you choose to be" we were once told. So it stands, rationally speaking, that one can choose to be, as 2 Live Crew have previously demonstrated, as "Nasty as we Wanna Be." ergo, playing the "S* bird card." How does this play out in every day life, you ask? Easy. We start dropping things. Approaching loads too quickly with our forks at the wrong level and WOOPS, there they go, piercing right through some delicate engine housing or a crate of MRE's. What would that make us look like, you ask? Every *other* operator this company brought out here with us. And when the fifth "accident" in a single day finally happens, and our Staff NCO comes out of the COC (command operations center... I think...) screaming his fool head off "What the F****!!" we just stand there, shrug. "I dunno." and get back in the gear because he has no one else he can rely on. Crush crates number 6 and 7, please. "I dunno. Must be the hydraulics er... something" ... I know that most of you are thinking this would have to signify some gross dereliction of duty. Yeah, you're right. Also understand that when reason and clearly spoken English fail two very bright people as a means of communicating what they want, all us Marines have to fall back on is ... you guessed it. the S*bird card. I really don't think it will get to that extreme, but it is nice, knowing that we do at least have *some* leverage on these guys. I'm not even sure they realize it. In fact I'm confident they don't. That's only because we've always been straight shooters with these guys. They know we actually care about the quality of work we turn out. In fact, ironically, it's our dedication to the job/Corps/Country that even makes us susceptible to their inane droning in the first place. It is fair, given all this, to ask yourself "why do I care?" at which point I change the subject entirely from discussion circumstantial hardship within human relations to one of duty, oath-swearing, and personal integrity. Basically, I swore an oath, signed the dotted line, and volunteered to be here. That's why Damon cares. I don't care at all because of the overt or covert threats of these men. Big deal. Blah blah blah. I've heard it all before and I'm still on the same path I was when I started. It's a small and windy road called "righteousness" and I know the One who leads me down it. Bald, angry men aside. Here's to growing my hair out like a hippie when this is all done. Just because I can. ;) :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:41 PM 0 comments
"The Dastardly Duo" My friend, Super Marine, and I are both from the same California drill center, and as such a definite minority having joined a unit entirely based in Ft. Lewis, WA. We work together on the same shift, get greasy and messed up fixing the same broken, worn out gear, have similar ambitions, etc. We've been tactfully requesting (whining) to get out off the flight line and do some "real Marine" stuff for a while, whether it be convoys or medical evacuation training or ANYTHING other than working the flight line 24/7. [remember, this is the USMC, "Unlawful Slavery Made Constitutional," so they *can* work us 24/7 and seldom hesitate :p ] Yesterday my Commanding Officer "hand picked" me to join him as a security element on a convoy. I don't know when we're leaving (nor would I say if I did). It was one of those "Get your S* ready" moments. So I went back to the barracks and did what any self-respecing Marine would do: borrowed as many fully loaded magazines from the other non-convoy bound guys as I can conceivably carry. I'm up to 15. That's 450 rounds. Take a minute to breathe that in. Smells nice, huh? The long and the short of the situation here is something I can only describe in terms of a frat party where the drunken frat boys are the insurgents and every conoy in the area akin to the freshman girls who come to the party trying to be cool. Everything gets hit. At least nowadays. As always, your prayers make all the difference. I may be gone for awhile. Love you all, may the Grace of the Lord be with you. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:41 PM 0 comments
Hammurabi steps aside, Donald Rumsfeld takes the stage Howdy: Now I know you all probably think I'm a bit lunatic for all the conversations and references I make to Hammurabi. Sure, I'm insane. A little. It's my way of mitigating the stupidity, lack of sleep, overwork, and danger (cue music) so it doesn't make me completely insane. But what I'm about to tell you is completely true, to the best of my ability to recall what was said, that is. ... I spoke with Donald Rumsfeld yesterday. Our Secretary of Defense, my "3rd from the top" boss (yes, please take this time to be reminded that the US military follows the orders of elected/appointed *civilians*. That's democracy, baby). He stopped by yesterday and addressed us. He was very pleasant. He made jokes about the media (whom he consistently locks horns with on CNN, as I'm sure you've seen). He introduced the new Iraqi Secretary of Defense, a man so short as to be invisible from where I was standing about half way back in the crowd. Even with my height I could barely see glimpses of the man's mustache. And lemme tell ya, that's one heck of a mustache that man has. Rumsfeld (am I spelling that right?) said some interesting things. Now, we'd all figured he'd just go with the canned and traditional "you're all doing a very important job and the people at home love you even if the media can't pull themselves away from your wounded/dead friends long enough to tell the world all the good things you do here." We would have accepted that. But what he said made more sense. I guess he's now serving as the 21st SecDef. He was also the 13th, under some other president I don't remember. Ford? Who knows. But back then there was another "generational war" going on, the Cold War. He described the difference between the history books that are being written now and what it was actually like to live in that time. There was no certain, constant hill to climb towards victory. That victory was not assured, and many times the free world found itself lagging behind the machine of the soviet empire. He told us that there were many members of the "free" nations of the world that wanted to quit, to stop having to choose sides, to ease the tension (yeah, because appeasement has always worked, FRANCE, SPAIN...). He reminded us that the war on terror is another generational war that will take many years and will come with a great cost, and that it will not always seem like we're kicking out enemy's rears, 'cause some days he kicks ours. Not bad (that's a summary with my own diction, mind you). At the end of the conversation, he gave us a chance to ask questions. Some moron near the front actually asked what medal we were going to get for serving in Iraq, and if it would be different from the medal awarded to men and women who've served in Afghanistan. The answer was that there would be two medals. Oh. Now I can sleep at night (funny thing is, the commanding general of the base, some dude with lots of stars on his shoulder, told us before Donnie arrived that we weren't allowed to ask any sensational political questions. "Ask about medals and stuff, and don't ask about when you get to go home.") Oh well. So someone asked about medals. Another guy near the front asked about how long our rotations would be (i.e. "when do I get to go home") and Donnie laid it out just like we'd been told it would work (whaddya know, maybe our staff and officers actually do get information from the top sometimes without screwing it up!) Another hand was raised near the front and a Marine asked Don what his opinion of John Kerry was. Rumsfeld smiled. "I'm going to tell you what my boss told me. He said "Donald, Colin: listen up. The job you do is too important to get messed up in politics. I want you to keep your mouths shut." We cheered. The whole time there was this tall guy near the middle of the crowd raising his hand. All of his friends around him looked slantwise at him every time he had, sort of incredulously like they couldn't believe he was serious about asking a question. Even the staff, standing nearby, looked nervous the way men should when approaching a moving train. Don: "Now, there's a hand way back there." The Tall Guy: "Good morning, sir. Corporal Robertson, San Francisco, CA. Sir, you made reference in your address to the path to victory, illustrating that it is not short nor certain. My question to you specifically is this: what is the current administration doing to enable future administrations to continue in the fight?" He squinted a bit. "That's an important question." [?!?!?!] I'll take that as a compliment. It was funny how, just before he asked us if we had any questions, he told us that "I"ll do my best to answer... pardon me, *respond* to any of your questions." And we all laughed. God at least some politicians know how they talk. So he responded to my question. Referenced the drastic re-organization of law enforcement depts into one Homeland Sec. Dept. Also that it is the job of our leaders to understand that the way our military is currently organized, and has traditionally been organized, is such that we fight big air battles, big land battles, big sea battles... and that's just not the way things work anymore. Furthermore, he said it was crucial that men like him understand the difficulties we encounter in a country where most of the people want us here, but there's a small and very hateful minority that does everything it can to kill as many of us as possible. So, basically, I guess "adapt and pay attention" was his answer. Not bad. Technically, they filmed the address and you might be able to dig it up somewhere online. Not so sure about who was there, probably just some dept of defense stiffs who'll hand over the tape to CNN or someone else. Little snip in the news about "Rumsfeld visists the troops, etc." Anyway. I'm boring myself by now. God bless you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:41 PM 0 comments
Hmm. Yeah, Dear Everyone: I almost forgot. Someone asked me if we were actually getting to vote this time around, since most of us didn't get to last time (wonderful how the "defenders of freedom" the politicians tout to no end got SHAFTED last time the elecitons came around and didn't get our absentee ballots in time to actually have our votes count). Yeah, we should get them. I don't know if they'll get back in time. They always *try*. Another question: which way are we voting? Most of us think Kerry is a, well, "loser" is a polite and unexplicit way of putting it. Anyone who goes into a combat zone, spends four months there, gets three purple hearts, and comes home spreading lies about the atrocities supposedly commited by US forces ... hm. Generally not so okay in our book. "gee, Damon. but Bush is the one who sent you and your friends over there to get shot at by muslim extremists." Remember that Kerry wants to add 40,000 more of us to the mix over here. I really do think that man believes this is Viet Nam 2, the sequel, and that yes, *HE* can win it by doing the same stupid things his predecessors did. *add more troops *handicap those troops by asking them to fight, and I QUOTE, a "more sensitive war." If any of you can inform me as to how I can be more sensitive when I put a 5.56mm hole in a man's body, go ahead and let me know. The again, where was that button on the side of my grenade that turned it to "vibrate and tickle" mode instead of "Kill Everything Within 30 ft."? ... Personally, I find myself inexplicably offended when I see the debates, hear the rhetoric about "our brave troops" and all this jack about "freedom" and particularly about the "Defense of our nation." It's an inexplicable offense. Don't ask me to explain it. I'm still eye-ball deep in the situation and may not ever find a way to express my frustration adequately. oh well. that's why there's such good services to support veterans of warfare in our country. (smile wryly. Yes, that was sarcasm). have a nice day. ;D
# posted by chevas @ 7:40 PM 0 comments
Dear Persons of Irreproachable Repute: I've spent the last four hours on watch, having come straight from MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program) training to a wind-chilled and lifeless post. Waking dream, panicky phantasms of camel spiders scurry through my brain. Just waiting for the day I see one of the saucer sized versions. Load. Lock. Aim. Breathe. FIRE EVERY ROUND YOU HAVE IN A SINGLE CURTAIN OF PUNISHING COPPER-JACKETED LEAD AND RUN LIKE A SCARED LITTLE GIRL. [not that I'm slamming little girls. There's nothing wrong with acting like one, so long as you actually *are* one. It's funny when you see grown men, Marines even, jump as one of these not-so-little horrors comes scurrying out of the dark. Oh, you'll scream like a girl alright.] This morning on watch, I am alone. Having never stood watch at "o-dark 30" in the morning, I have time to reflect. There is a man I know here whose story might make you laugh if you didn't know the context. I have a picture of him in his bunk, laying on top of his sleeping bag, his rifle propped on the window sill behind him. In his right hand he holds an unsheathed K-bar (Big Knife for those of you who don't know). I suppose I took the picture because it really was funny, it being the first time I'd seen anyone do that. Then, as the days progressed here, I noticed that he does it every night. All the time. And what's more you have to be careful how you wake him up, how close you're standing, because there's something legitimate about the situation. He isn't one of those wanna-be cop types who thinks he's hard as nails. He really is. And if you paid enough attention to the way he laughs, and what he laughs about, you'd see the sparkle in his eyes that isn't mirth, but mitigated pain, and you'd take a second to wonder if this is a really clueless child hidden in the chiseled body of a killer, or if this is really a killer, through and through, and like most of us he doesn't know what to do with the pain he keeps so very close inside. We're careful when we tiptoe up to his bunk, gingerly take the knife out of his hands, and set it down on the sill next to the M-16. None of us want him rolling over in his sleep and cutting himself by accident. Or cutting one of us in the morning when we go to wake him up. He doesn't jerk to life so quickly most days, but we all know it only takes one mishap, one unlucky moment and that irreducible pair of veins you have in your neck might get reduced. I know he has kids. Yet, one night as we sat in a small group, just four NCO's myself included, I asked him if he'd ever been married, wondering to myself whether they'd been born outside marriage, or with a live-in girlfriend, or what not. We were sipping some hard alcohol one of us had smuggled in-theatre. Not enough to get anyone drunk, but enough to make us think we are rewarding ourselves for all the self-inflicted butt-breaking work we pull off. The words were out of my mouth, as is characteristic for me, before I had the chance to do the simple equating in my head and figure it was a subject he probably didn't want broached. But he's a brave man, and honest. "I was married for six years and divorced my wife because of her infidelity." Oh. There is a pause. I look at him squarely, soberly. I am sorry. I didn't mean to pry, I say. "It's not prying," he says, sipping his sprite and *whatever* drink he's made. "It was during the first deployment to Iraq. While I was gone my best friend and her had an affair. My best friend was also my business partner, so when I came back I lost my job, too." "That's F*ing terrible," says Super Marine. The man continues with only the slightest of nods. "I got work as a construction foreman making almost the same amount of money. But basically I came home from Iraq to find I was living in a different kind of hell, so being here again is really mostly a relief." I hear all this knowing something else about him, too. Last time he was here, he got into a firefight while serving as an observer with a Recon unit (Marine special operations forces). He went through 16 magazines -- almost 500 rounds. We never ask him if he's killed bodies. We know. I know. Look at the hurt in his eyes whenever he tries to laugh, the dangerous and selfless way he pulls stunts all day long. The knife in his hands and the uneasy slumber. How seldom he steals away from the flight line, even during the down hours, to call his two lovely children. You notice a lot of things here if you look long enough. The sand, the dust, hardly ever move even though the wind never stops blowing over us from somewhere in the west. It's an odd thing, the wind, on days when the dust storms roll through. The air throbs, not so much moving in any single direction but just stirring things up into a big eye-clogging mess. I sat on watch one day during daylight hours and noticed that when the sand does blow, it's in long lines, from west to east, and those streaks of kicked up crud are like paths, the flow interrupted regularly by little dust swirls; sort of look like the impact of invisible feet trodding on the flat plain where Saddam thought it'd be good to build his Al Asad airstrip. Like spirits-- maybe I can be poetic-- the wind always blows, but the sand only moves when the spirits drift accross it (?). ... I had a conversation with my staff sergeant a few days ago (or yesterday? who knows. the days, long hours that we work with little sleep and never a day off, all drift together and move very slowly). One of the things he told me was this: "None of you are ready for combat. You're not grunts. You come here with all your motivation, wanting to get your asses shot off, and you haven't got a F*ing clue. None of you have the mentality you need to have." We've had a calm conversation up 'til now. I came to him to discuss the problem I've been having with my Marine, whose rank is below mine, but whose billet far succeeds my own. He's capable, a good Marine, except for the fact that there isn't a shred of true humility in him whatsoever. It makes it hard to punish a man you think is outstanding on so many levels but behaves, from time to time and in a very public manner, in such a way that his insubordination cannot be ignored. The Ssgt and I have been talking a long time already. He's already cracked a bit-- I say cracked rather than "opened up" -- because he started to get frustrated with all of us and he let me see his own frustration in the process. I'm not here pestering him about getting me on convoys or off to some other "real Marine" training. Other guys do that enough, and I know that because I hear him talking to them all the time, saying the same things to the same impatient people day in and day out. "When it's time, you'll know. It's not a matter of *if*, but *when*, and you will know as soon as I do." He's a grunt, or at least he was before he changed his MOS to motor transport. He was told he'd be on convoys, too, just like I was, and he's been suckered as bad as any of us. He's angry, too, and I see it through the cracks. And what he says-- the part about none of us having any sober clue about what to expect in a combat situation-- stings for more than one reason. First, it's the same tired old crap I've heard from active duty Marines since I joined the Corps 4 years ago (yay, only 2 more years left...). "You're not real Marines. You're only pretending," our old 1st Sgt used to say. Then, and I know this, they go back to their offices and wonder why we don't put out a good day's sweat when they yell and scream at us. Don't attack our hearts. Our motivation will be intact if you refrain from expressing your personal anguish and dissatisfaction in this way. Don't blame us for trusting your word. We try to follow you. Do not speak filth into our hearts and minds, and you won't see filth come out in our actions. It's a simple equation, and I know that even Neverspeaks wouldn't bother to say it it's so simple an observation. Yeah, that is if he ever opened his mouth at all. Second, I'm not a complete boot. I've seen four years, which I openly admit to him is nothing compared to his 13, but it's something precisely because I've paid attention. I'm 27. I'm educated. And while that doesn't mean everything, it stands for more than nothing as well. I know I'm not RECON hard. I know I'm not some high-speed grunt somehow saddled with an engineer's hat. I'm the engineer who spends his off time training and running and lifting weights and thank you very much, I do have the mental attitude that I'm in a combat zone. But what does it matter, I think, if I can stitch my shots so close on a target at the range that the radius of the bullet holes touch one another? It doesn't matter a bit. So long as you have leaders like this, who don't believe in you, who don't notice how hard you try to stay sharp even when the others around you let their bodies slough into bags of crap. It's the distinction that matters. Pay attention. Yeah, you're in the same boat, Ssgt, so take a look up from your oar and notice who the hell else here pulls hard like you do. We're here. You'd notice a lot of these things, if you bothered to look long enough. ... :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:39 PM 0 comments
Dear Y'all: Today, we have the results of the first ever "A" Co. "Celebrity Insect Deathmatch." Pitting the challenger, a camel spider AKA "Perfect 10" v. Clarence, the "Minister of Death," a scorpion. Though heavily outmatched in weight and reach, Clarence triumphed over his opponent early in the second round, demonstrating superior grappling skills. This is Clarence's fourth Arena Kill, though his first in a broadcast arena deathmatch. Yours truly was the announcer, broadcasting blow-by-blow coverage over the secure (encrypted) radio network for the duration of the bout (in my best Oxford English accent... it didn't seem right to go with the Scotts accent...) :P Dust storms are neat (I can qualify "neat" fairly heavily, but suffice to say, it's like fog but with no wetness, and your eyes get clogged with sand, but somehow even in the middle of the night the dust picks up ambient light from, like, nowhere, and it looks hazy and objects (the few there are) stand out in stark contrast to the glowing cloud of dust around you. oh well. I would have asked Hammurabi what he thought, but he didn't even show up for the Deathmatch. I got him front row tickets. Who knows. Maybe he's had his glut of violence. Ah well. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:39 PM 0 comments
Dear World of Lovely People: The Camel Spider, I am convinced, was the "last straw" when it came down to creating things in the world. God looked at the spider, then at Lucifer, and said "oh that's *it*" And a few years later, here we are. As much as I appreciate my brother's attempt to dispel some of the "legends" about the camel spider, any man knows he needs a good prejudice or two and doggone it if I'm going to keep my paranoia about these not so little horrors very much alive. It's not paranoia if it's real, after all. ... Okay. The convoy got kanked. For those of you who wish deeply to identify with my emotional path here, imagine the following. You get news that you've been selected to go on a convoy. You know of IED's, bandits (yes, there are bandit lords here... stretching "lord" a bit there, but I'm dramatic), terrorists, etc. You think to yourself, "Gee. I guess this makes my chances of dying in the next few days *slightly* higher." this because you're trying to be realistic about the situation. You'll even think "Maybe I should write *the* letter... give it to one of my buddies." You know. The letter that everyone opens "if I am killed," where you list your friends off by name and thank them each for the kindness and joy they have brought you. You'd say something like "this world would have been a darker place if I hadn't known you." And you'd mean it. If you're anything like me you'd spend time praying. You'd go, set yourself down on your knees in the middle of the dust-bowl equipment lot, not caring how dirty that makes you or how strange it must seem for passers by to see a Marine they don't know on his knees, indecently in front of God and everybody, crying softly to himself and his Lord, admitting the cardinal unmentionable. Father, I am afraid. "why?" Because there are things-- there are people, dreams, places-- that i love and I don't want to lose. "Lose?" [And I know what He's getting at. "What do you *really* have?" He's asking.] I don't have anything, strictly speaking. Nothing I can lay a claim over. I can say "That's my set of goggles; they were issued to me, they have my name on them," and yet they can (and were, dammit) still be stolen while I'm not around. So much for making claims. "The Lord upholds those who fall, and gives grace to the humble." ... Then they tell you your not going. Actually, they don't even tell you. The way this "informationless denial" works is you see half your unit get pieced off to go to a real hot spot, Fallujah, Al Qaim, Sadr City, etc., and your mission is conveniently forgotten about. Because *YOU*, yes, You Robertson, and your friend Super Marine, *YOU* make this flight line work. We can't very well send you out! What would happen to the mission, my boy? Neverspeaks: "The mission can go to hell. You lured me into this activation with the promise that I would actually get to provide security and protection for other Marines. That I would finally be able to test myself in combat, to see ultimately whether or not I have what it takes. I have sat here patiently, worked dilligently and industriously for you and have not, as have others, gone behind your back to lock on training and missions for themselves. I have respected the dignity of the chain of command and have upheld my terms of service. And now you tell me that I'm "mission critical" and can't be spared for the very reason I agreed to join your company. In my stead, you are sending Marines that can't even work a FLIGHT LINE in relatively peaceful conditions, perhaps thinking "they're expendable" or at the least "we can spare them." Instead, you should hammer them harder, make them learn their basic job, and get *us* to teach them, since we seem to have far exceeded your expectations, and when time comes to send your warriors out to kill their enemies, don't hold your warriors back and in their place send unprepared and unrealisticly minded boys." ... Thank you, sir, for the stress. ... But we know Neverspeaks never does. ... :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:39 PM 0 comments
Dear *Audience* .... Despite my best attempts to be boring, the popularity of my sporadic emails is growing beyond my capacity to choose my audience. I feel it necessary to make the following stipulation clear to those (1) now on the list, and (2) to those who wish to join: I am not in the habit of pulling any punches or redacting truth. The majority of these messages are the direct result of my personal experience living in a war zone. As with most situations of this nature, most of my time is spent working my tail off to complete my current mission. The incessant work schedule is periodically disrupted by moments of what can only be fairly described as panic and mortal danger. 120mm rockets, however few and far between, leave a distinct impression in the subconscious. I get irritated now when one of the other heavy equipment operators slams a pallet down too hard. It sorta sounds like a mortar. Enough, anyway, to send a jolt of adrenaline through me, and not the good sporty kind. The stress kind. I'll get to my point. Be careful whose curiosity you indulge when sharing these emails. While I don't share anything I consider intensely personal, the last thing I want is some raging lunatic hippie sending me hate mail about all the Iraqi infants I've supposedly done in. If someone wants to read these, then tell them they get to accept the consequences of their curiosity and face the information like a responsible adult should be able to. If they're offended, they're offended and I'm not taking time out of my busy "trying not to die" schedule to apologize. With that being said, peace to you. ... In a number of days I will be leaving base on my first convoy operation. My friend, Super Marine, and I were the first to be chosen. This will be perilous. There are lots of nasties roaming around outside the wire. Make no mistake. They want people like me dead. Rest assured I will shoot them before they get the chance to shoot me. If that's at all possible. That being said, expect the tone of my messages, and probably their frequency, to change. I'm not so naive as to believe that these sorts of experiences won't affect me, and that will directly affect what I can and will say to you. ... Once again I thank you for your prayers, love, and support. Some days I wake up not recognizing the room I'm in. Then I pick up the stale scent of the room and think. Oh. I'm still in Iraq. then Yeah. I'd rather be snuggling with something warm and female. because this place, for whatever reason, arouses all sorts of domestic urges. Buy House. Find Wife. Raise Kids. Mow a freakin lawn. Instead yesterday I had to report the divisive and irresponsible behavior of one of my junior Marines to my chain of command. I had no choice; he was failing the mission and seeking only his personal gain in the process. I am confident that he will never trust me again. Or more specifically, that he never did truly trust me, and this latest instance shows in full color the depth of his inability to follow lawful orders without question and without hesitation. (instant and willing obedience of my lance corporals is good to anticipate/have when I might have to, oh, go root out a machine gun position that's lighting up a convoy I'm charged with protecting; the last thing I need is a Marine with slightly more than one year in the Corps doubting the four years of sweat and lessons I've built up to get the rank I have, and getting himself, someone else, or me killed because of his pride and inability to trust his leaders). Go fish. No. I mean it. Some one of you go get a rod and throw it in the water and thank God you (1) have the body of water, (2) have the free time to sit on your rear and watch God throw a meal on your hook. He provides. Some one better respond telling me they went and fished. Or drank a slurpee at 7-11 w/their sweet-heart. Or watched Arnold Schwarzenneger in a public address, fondly remembering all the aliens and slime balls he's offed in his movies, all the while thinking "Those lucky Californians... truly there is a God..." :] ... I finally saw a camel spider. Very small version. You cannot properly comprehend how truly disgusting these things are. Especially when they're not just a picture, but alive, very huge, and moving very fast. Bullets. I'm going to need lots of bullets. love you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:38 PM 0 comments
MEA MAXIMA CULPA Dear Family and Friends: And most certainly I will not forget to include Mr. Nillin in this introduction, a man I consider the best of my friends, who I forgot to include in this mass mailing thus far. I really, really thought your address was on this list, man. Sorry. To recap: I am in AL ASAD MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) helping to load/offload cargo planes. I was promised I would be guarding convoys and other such macho stuff when I was attached to this unit but all i've done since getting here is handle other people's baggage and spend hour after hour after hour fixing all the broken, run-down forklifts that were hand-me-downed to us by the unit we replaced. We work 12-14 hour days and have no days off (which may not seem like it's a big deal but, no other units on base work as much as we do, and they STILL require us in the vast open stretches of "off time" we get (about 10 hours) to stand duty, to work the chow hall, to doooooooo all sorts of other crap the other units actually have the numbers to support. ... I spoke again with Hammurabi. It was late early in the morning a few days ago (I work from 1am to 1pm, so I see the sun rise every day) and the sun was still a fierce orange disc in the eastern sky. Mile after mile of desolate, garbage strewn desert stretched out beneath it. In my cammies I had only begun to feel the furious heat of the day. An F-18 swooped in from the north, flaps down, landing gear deployed. The intense wash of fire from the engines angered the air in its wake, leaving a blurr of ripples. The sun continued to rise ever so steadily behind it. The red and orange and platinum light is everywhere. "Hokay," he says. "We never had any of those." "Yeah, I know," I say noncomittally. It is the first beautiful thing I've seen since being here. Quite remarkable what we can make. You should see those jets take off at night. The afterburners kick in and a gout of blue fire spits out the back that must be 20 feet long at least. Inside the individual jets of flame you can see white-hot rings. The engine housings literally glow like stars and sting the eyes. Yet even during the day, the light of the sun overruns the light of the jets, and all we see is the wash of super-heated air. Man's promethian fire, and the single star God gave us. I don't often imagine God sitting up there bothering to point out his inevitable one-upsmanship of every proud thing we make. I think He just lets things speak for themselves (at which point it requires us to stop and listen?). ... I may have a very, very, very good opportunity to train with an utterly savage unit of Marines in the near future. They might even allow me to transfer to their command if I play my cards right (i.e. if God blesses the attempt I'm going to make). Please pray about this (all of you who are in the habit of doing so). Anyone else? Eh, just get a slurpee and pour some out on the ground for me. I'll be back soon enough to get my portion! :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:37 PM 0 comments
Dear Folks: Yesterday I took my first aerial tour of Western Iraq. Yes. There it is, ladies and gentlemen. Iraq. The "fertile crescent." Yeah right. Of all the shades of color I saw, green certainly was not one of them. I can't for the life of me figure out how this place is the fabled "cradle of civilization." There's *nothing* out here. I mean, besides a few downed high-voltage power lines (courtesy of jealous, warring cities who thwart one another from having power so they themselves don't have to share the juice/rolling blackouts) there is nothing. The most remarkable thing I noticed on my way to Al Qaim (airbase near Syria) is that it looks like someone's been playing with a dozer in the desert here. The whole flight path we took was chewed up with random piles of dirt. I don't get it. I kinda understand how those first people, huddling between the banks of two fickle rivers, must have thought to themselves "plead to the angry and wanton god of the river, that she may spare us her wrath..." and then with all the hardness of a life forged in this inhospitable place, you get together with your neighbor and make things work. somehow. Then a few years later some dude builds the Hanging Gardens in Babylon and, well, I guess that's enough street cred to get you "civilized" status...? (i'm an obvious buff of history with nothing short of a complete understanding of this region's origins... heh) So there he was, Hammurabi himself, sitting on his throne holding his two scepters, looking for all intents and purposes like a very powerful and angry man (especially with his braided beard; BIG, braided beard). And all his peons gather round him, afraid even to breathe too loudly, for he's announced he's about to issue a set of ... rules? [I mean, what did they call his famous "code" before historians gave it that name... it maybe was the ...] "Way I say it's gonna be," he utters through a faux sneer. They gasp obediently. One man, not even closest to the king, holds a wet clay tablet and a sharp stick. He will make marks in the clay which only he and a few other humans in the world could understand. He thinks smugly to himself "we're *way* ahead of the Persian tribes..." "Hokay," says the king. They gasp again. He gives them "the look," as in the "you'd better not be kissing my butt too roughly this morning" look and they all fall really silent. "Hokay. So you guys remember Rexor? The guy who lost his eye in a bar fight, right? Well, it's not like someone can give him money and he can go buy another eye, nor could they somehow compensate him for the intense emotional trauma he's suffered. Yes, he started the fight, and he will be fined, but what to do? How can we make the eye-plucker understand the true severity of what he's inflicted on another man?" The audience chamber is a tapestry of lost and stupid faces. Somewhere, in the run-down gardens outside, an insolent cricket chirps, and is instantly silenced by unseen guards. In the silence, Hammurabi looks furious, but he's not really angry. In fact he's trying to figure out how he can scratch his, er, *self* while he's holding these two doggone scepters. Hire an official court King Scratcher? But how much to pay him? Would the title be hereditary? And who, in the name of all things pagan, does a king trust to adjust his junk? Whose idea was it to hold *two* scepters at once, anyway? "So, right," he continues. They all breathe for the first time since he fell silent. It is hard, many of them think, to be truly rapturous of this man. I hope he notices how hard we try. "I was thinking, just in a sort of 'give and take' sort of way, that the just penalty for plucking someone's eye out should be that you get *your* corresponding eye plucked out." They gasp. They bow? Have they ever actually done that before? he asks himself. Oh whatever. I should get them to do that more often. But does this make sense? I mean, yeah, there's a poetic justice to this that's just too sweet. I mean, the irony! You blind your neighbor, he blinds you, no one can say he's hurt worse than the other, no pesky monetary settlements, etc... but what good does it do to have two guys who can't see well when we only had one half blind guy to begin with? Am I really helping the situation right now? But there they are, still bowing, and that's a good sign they agree. And the scribe-- he's still making marks on that clay tablet like I said something profound. He'd better not be embellishing. I'm trying to keep this simple. "But I really want to change the subject," Hammurabi says, squirming in his throne. My butt is so numb, he thinks, all the while trying to wriggle his legs just so... "No sire, we beseach thee!" Oh heavens. Not this "beseach" crap again. "I swear to [instert any pagan polytheistic god here], Ron," interrupts Hammurabi, sweating through his beard. "There's something else I really need to address right now." They are silent again. Ahh. "Hokay, new subject. If I gotta hold these two scepters, then who's gonna ... well, you know, I need to, uh... someone's gonna have to do it if not me, I mean?" "You want us to go pluck a man's eye out, sire," says Ron. Ron is a big and stupid man, not the sort who would make a good royal scratcher, thinks Hammurabi. Oh [insert god here] this is going to be a long day. .... okay, please forgive me if this wasn't funny at all. I just went off. Trying to keep my "avenues of stress relief" on the kosher side of my options out here. I mean, I don't get to shoot at *anybody*, so what am I supposed to do? eek. I'll spare you all in the future. Maybe. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: First of all, thank you Sam and Rachael, for your words. Continuing on, When we first arrived here, our First Sergeant told us to write home that everything is fine, that nothing is wrong, that we're bored and not in any real danger at all. HOKAYYY For those of you who know me, I have this problem with concealing the truth. I'm not good at it. What's the point, right? Anyway, what on earth is going to interest you people more, the real story, or something like "In hopeful anticipation of Kerry's election the Iraqi terrorists have decided to pre-empt his "sensitive war" strategy and adopt a tactic of "compassionate terrorism" whereby they only kill us while thinking high-mindedly or at least while not yelling "die infidels" or any such potentially offensive rhetoric." ... The script "Kill the infidels" was written on one of the rockets. One funny thing about Arabic script: I've noticed it's all in the same font. Every doggone example. NO variation whatsoever. These people are in desperate need of Macintosh. (Sam, see what you can do) [Sam works at the Apple Store in SF, for those of you who hate not understanding my vague references and people who put inside jokes on their license plates] ... Alright. So where was I? Here's the deal, and I mean this sincerely. If any of you, for any reason, want to have your emails removed from my irregular updates, just let me know and I'll take you off the list, no questions asked. If you're wondering why i'm bothering to say this, the question was raised as to whether or not it is appropriate for me to mention rocket attacks and other such perils to my mother, who is of course on this list. My mother is the sort of woman who would rather know the truth than have to speculate or sift through vague (if not completely false) reports of our continued "health and well-being." ... Our first sergeant. dear GOD There are people in this world who think that they aren't leading you unless they constantly critique something about you; also, they aren't leading unless they're constantly devising new things for you to do or so hopelessly changing the old systems (which work *fine*, thank you very much) such that nothing works like it used to. Of course, 1s will come back and change the same thing two days later, or just get so hard-buttocked about the same issue you'd swear he's going to blow a vein in his neck. [remember this is the same dupe who thinks HE can make OUR lives miserable. I mean, what's he really going to do? Send me to Iraq? Make me eat in the chow hall where trained terrorist sleepers are indeed watching our every move? Oh, wait, maybe he'd make me operate gear that's so run-down by the unit that passed it off to us that we don't know whether or not the "O" ring is going to blow on the leaky tire the next time we try to fill it up... in case you don't know, that's fatal, very, very, very fatal.] Neverspeaks opens his mouth again: "I'm sorry 1s, what were you saying? I was concentrating on your neck... your about to blow a line..." But intelligible speech is beyond 1s at the moment. He is become Butt-Hurt (a barbaric name in the two-syllable tradition of "He Man"), the destroyer of moralle. His neck bursts. We are Shocked, yet somehow not quite Awed, to see hydraulic fluid spewing out of his veins. "Oh, holy mother ... 1s, hold on," I say, dismayed greatly in my heart as the light weight oil spews all over my clean set of cammies. "Let me go to one of the forklifts and get you one of the hydraulic tubes there... I guess we can operate with one set of forks down..." but i am lying. we can't. I retrieve the tube regardless and patch up his neck, but the problem persists. You see, all the hoses on our gear leak already anyway. Oh well. You can't blame a corporal for trying. ... Later that same day, 1s/Butt-Hurt drops by our little hooch on the flight line. He has this standing order that we are *never* to be cought wearing anything less than our full cammies (even when it's 115 degrees out here on the tarmac). Old Man Tate is inside the hooch. He has removed his blouse for the purpose of tucking in his shirt. When we work all day, and hard, sometimes shirts come untucked. We all know it's easier to remove the blouse, tuck in the shirt, and re-don the blouse rather than tuck the shirt in w/out the removal. Yes. Butt-Hurt walks in the door just as Old Man Tate is reaching for his blouse: A NEW PROCLAMATION ISSUETH FORTH: "The Next time I catch one of you MFers without his blouse on, you'll be wearing your flack jackets and kevlars ALL DAY at the flight line." ... Later, not having been present as the royal word was passed, I am informed of the newest threat on the matrix. "Big deal," I drawl out sarcastically. "I operate gear all day with my helmet and vest on anyway. Yeah. Don't throw Brare Rabbit in the briar patch. Dear God. No...." ... And as I sat down to journal last night I couldn't help but think of how fun it would be to soak up two pages of ink by lampooning 1s/BH and Toothless... they're really the same man, it's just that Toothless is illiterate and 1s/BH can read, he just doesn't read anything other than UCMJ Articles and Regulations. But what's the point? It's not like I need to convince myself that they're idiots. It's also not too well-concealed a fact that they aren't so much idiots as they are legalists and the way that just comes accross to us is they don't seem to be able to adapt and apply anything they learn... I get to thinking (danger, danger) and I wonder briefly whether or not these men have any grace and mercy saved up in their own hearts even for themselves. Probably not. I look at Toothless, who is two promotions below 1s. If I had to sum up what this man's problems are, it's a lack of applied education, and beyond that, an accute sense of self-awareness such that he understands, whether consciously or otherwise, that he actually doesn't have his poop wired tight, that he actually doesn't really know how to do his job, and that, ultimately, he may very well have been promoted past his ability to effectively funtion as a Marine. He's not going to hell for that. I'm not condemning him. I'm saying he needs to get help. I understand how horrible it is to go home at night and wonder whether or not I really have what it takes to do what I need to do. Nevermind he might not even wonder... he could just be convinced that he has no real control of the situations that confront us every day. What's he do? The human thing. He clamps down harder on all the things he thinks he can control. Us. The rules. The way we do things. [this is the man, the very man, who lectures us NCO's on how we're supposedly disrespecting our Commanding Officer, a man we greatly respect in fact, and then proceeds to fall to sleep while Major P. is giving his informative and concise talk. This is the man (verily, the man I didst behold) who used to get up in front of us and talk about how savage and hard our "convoy duties" would be over here and how we needed to rise up to the occasion and accept leadership from the senior staff (himself included) because they were all busting their butts to make sure we come home alive. Laugh now. Okay. Toothless was the first one to jettison the "hard talk" as soon as we got in country. Now he labors with the "soft walk" portion of his command. He will never get anywhere near a convoy, muttering all the while that it is his "mission" to work the flightline.] 1s is the same way. No small wonder Toothless is the way he is. Who does he really have to learn from? He gets all his stress from 1s, all his ideas, tasks, etc. ... All of these things occur to me in a few minutes last night as I'm in my bed. I realize even then that I spend way more time raising my eyebrows at these guys than I do thinking about what's really the problem. The way they treat themselves, and to a lesser extent, how they treat eachother. So instead of record the vitriol I did above in my journal (reproduced here for your entertainment) I took some time to pray. "Father, fill their hearts with mercy and grace for themselves." It's hard to be a jerk. I know. You're always the worst to yourself. take care of eachother. I love your hearts. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 0 comments
Dear y'All: (that's for Anna and Sam, the resident Texans) Two items today, 1) For those of you who think, having watched CNN, that this country is rife with insurgents, well, you're probably correct. Let's look at this more carefully. 60% of the male population of Iraq is illiterate. Most of them are unemployed. Further narrowing our analysis of the "insurgent," we find most of these men are teens to early twenties, unmarried, and a lot of them (especially in the west) aren't even Iraqis. They're Syrians who cross the border a few dozen miles or so for the distinct honor of firing AK-47's at our helos when we're moving supplies. The guys setting all the IED's are, for the most part, ITINERANT terrorists. It's not like the Hadji down the street has artillery rounds rotting in his basement. Lately, as in a few weeks ago, one of our Super Cobras (attack helos) tracked a truckload of these mooks to their home base and, eh, dealt with them in the only language of conflict they're prepared to understand. .... I would have more but my time is up. the second point is about telling all of you the truth, insofar as I am able. Hopefully I can get back to you. Love you all. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 0 comments
Dear Everybody: Okay. It really should look like this. Cpl. Robertson, Damon M. LS Company "A" Unit 43655 FPOAP: 96426-3655 If any of you sent me lacy underwear or copies of cosmopolitan with the second line added to the first, chances are it will still find me. I was instructed to write it that way originally and then chastized like the village idiot for following those directions. Such is the way of the Corps. *** I have some new vocabulary for you all. You'll probably see these again, and there may be more as the time goes by. P.O.G. this is an old one. Pronounced "POE-hG," an acronym that stands for "Persons Other than Grunts," i.e. someone not in the infantry of the Marines. I am a pog. I am an engineer and while, like all Marines, trained for war, it is not actually my job as an engineer (1345) to kill people. Basic rifleman is an 0311. Applicable Term: "Epiphany of POGness": When you realize that 4 out of 5 commanding officers you've had claim to be former recon and somehow never manage to get your unit any combat action, you start to wonder if they're just like Box or Toothless: marines who stand in front of groups, talk long and loud, and always act like they're "real Killers" but when it comes down to it (and it is coming down to it) they don't get us out on convoys, mumbling all the while about "mission accomplishment" or something. The real epiphany occurs when you stare at your rifle, this "weapon of iron and plastic" that you've married, and wonder what is the use of cleaning her every day. They don't even let us go to the firing range on our off hours. They haven't even issued ammunition to the machine gunners. I have 60 rounds. That's about two minutes of fire in a combat situation. I open her up, take out her insides, and yeah, whaddya know, the bolt is still clean. Dust doesn't even find any action in there. N.A.P. Basically, pronounce that like you're taking a "nap," sleeping. This one came to me yesterday and stands for "Non-Action Post." See "epiphany of POGness" above for hints as to "non-action." Interchangeable Term for "Brain Storm": INCLEMENT THINKING. That one snagged in my gray matter yesterday as I stood four hours of continuous watch on a post where I'm not actually allowed to carry a loaded weapon. Yes. You read correctly. "Condition 3 weapons are not authorized, Marine" (where condition 3 indicates "Magazine inserted, bolt forward, chamber w/o round, safety on). Given that on the same post the day before a Hadji truck pulled up and he had no I.D., and I went condition 1 on his buttocks (that's magazine inserted, round in chamber ready to fire, bolt forward, safety on, finger straight and off the trigger but oh-so ready to get real twitchy real quick). God forbid I should actually have a magazine inserted and not have to go through the few seconds it takes to do so in a real situation where I might desperately need to keep my end of things up in a rifle-to-rifle conversation. [for those of you who don't think that's important, know that fire fights are won or lost in tenths of seconds. Most last no more than a few minutes. Those are the long ones.] love, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: BEHOLD, Cpl. Robertson, Damon M., LS Company "A" Unit 43655 FPOAP: 96426-3655 This is my address. Until they change it, of course. God bless you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: That's it. I've had it with these junior Marines. I have explicitly told them the terms of my leadership: "behave with dignity and I'll treat you in a dignified manner." They don't. One of my lance corporals sleeps a lot during the downtime we have at the airfield. This isn't much of a problem: we only get 5-6 hours of sleep a night and even then we still stand watch for 1-2 hours therein, so I expect people to be tired. I'm tired. I sleep WHEN IT'S APPROPRIATE TO DO SO. When I hear a C130 come blasting down the ramp, I get off my groggy butt and operate machinery (safety first, anyone?). I don't even remember what I said last time I got done operating and came back to find him still in the same position. Another corporal made a smart-alleck comment about him sleeping. He said "F* you, I didn't sleep well last night." ? ?! Early shift groggyness aside, the camel's back is now broken. I swear I don't understand what they teach these kids at boot camp anymore. *** One thing I see a periodically on the flight line is "angels," aka "KIA's" We take them off the planes/helos in a very ceremonial manner. Respect for the dead. But we (I mean all of us if I can be so bold to make this generalization) wonder about this... they come in ones, twos, nothing so overwhelming. We don't know who they are, where they're going (ostensibly back the U.S.). They arrive in black body bags and leave in flag draped coffins. Some of you are going to be disturbed by this stuff. All engines are shut down on the flight line, planes, equipment or otherwise, and everyone within eyesight stands at attention until the angel has passed. We render salute. The angel departs. "if the army and the navy ever looked on heaven's scenes, they would find the streets are guarded by United States Marines." That's the last line of our hymn. For a bunch of men who go around calling themselves "devil dogs" (from the German Teufelhunden) it strikes me as a bit awkward the name "angels." These guys prefer to call their "battle buddies" by the name "guardian demon" instead of angel... whatever. But when *** rockets hit near me yesterday, I couldn't help but start thinking about a whole bunch of stuff. The tricky thing with indirect fire is you can't really do anything about it. The rocket/mortar will land where it's going to and the attacks are over almost the same instant you hear the sound of the projectiles launching. You have enough time to hit the deck whispering "jesus please save me" and hold on to your junk and ... afterwards you lay there a bit stupid, wondering if it's okay to get up or if there are more coming. Afterwards, and having nothing to do with the rockets, an angel passed by us on our flight line. I wanted to cry. It's frustrating not being able to fire back. Nevermind I'm going to wear this doggone flack jacket everywhere I go, maybe the helmet too. But when it all comes down to it, there isn't really a point in doing so. I assure you. The rocket will hit where it will. It will be lethal if it hits close enough. No body armor or cover on this earth will save a human life in that moment. I secretly refer to this haphazard lethality as the "death lotto." You're the first people to hear me refer to it as such. I only say this because from our human and innately flawed perspective, this crap really does seem random as to "who goes and who stays." We (all of us here) have heard the story (which may be complete bunk) about a man who was one day away from shipping home, talking to his wife on the phone, and was killed that very instant by mortar fire (none of this occurred at my duty station). We all secretly hope that when our replacements arrive, that means we'll be safe. "I'm off duty" we tell ourselves and somehow our guard relaxes a little bit. How much more when it's finally time to ship home? Who wouldn't call their spouse? Have a good giggly conversation about "what are you wearing tonight" or something.... why not? You're alive, right? But the next minute that's changed. No safety in thinking your work is done, is there? The mortar begs to differ. The bottom line is, the 747 could wreck itself on its way home. Or maybe Mr. X could exit his plane and meet his girl and get whacked by the bus as he steps out of ther airport terminal. I think Isaiah has something to say. "I delight in my inheritance." To which Job would add "only the Lord numbers the days of men," and King Solomon would nudge me with his elbow and whisper "these questions-- they mean nothing, you know" as his father, King David, sang "I am confident that I will see the promises of God while I am yet in the land of the living... surely goodness and mercy will follow me all of my days, and afterward... I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." I stood at attention on the flightline and wanted to cry (that is where I left off, right?). I heard the Lord whisper "The second death cannot harm you... why are you afraid?" I don't know. I really don't. love you all :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:32 PM 0 comments
Dear God... I mean, Family and Friends: Ahem. Try this on for a functional definition of... huh. How to put this? Monotony. Yes. I think drudgery too drastic a word and boredom too tame. Wake up at 2300 hours. Dress. Shave. Speed walk to chow hall for the same food they always cook at "mid-rats" (midnight rations). Eat in under 10 minutes. Rush back to barracks for formation. Stand there waiting for bus that's always late. Get to flight line. Work hiney off for 13 hours. Return home. Run to chow hall. Try to work out at gym but give up for abundance of fatigue. Clean yourself. Sleep for five hours. *REPEAT* No, we don't get days off. There's only so many C130's you can offload, day in and day out, until you start to lose your mind. Our command keeps promising us the chance to get on convoys or train with MP units or grunts on our "off" time (which we actually don't have much of) but then they keep shuffling the date further and further back. Now it's 3 weeks minimum until we can start integrating with other units. It was 2 weeks one week ago. Oh well. Not my decision to make. I had to chew out one of my junior Marines today and given that he managed to yank my chain at the worst hour of the day (the hour or so after you wake up not having had more than 5 hours of sleep a night for about 12 days). I hate yelling at people. But when I stand there and say his name 3 times, each time a bit louder, honestly believing he couldn't hear me (flight line is noisy, maybe he had earplugs in, etc.), only to find out he's just ignoring me... Oh my Oh my... be the one. I don't know what they teach these kids in boot camp anymore. Ever since we adopted the new digitized camouflage uniforms it seems like every private and lance corporal addresses his superiors as "dude" or "dawg" or just by our last name. ?? We don't have to polish our boots anymore (we've gone suede) and we don't have to iron our cammies (the diggies are wrinkle proof... I mean, PROOF). What DO they do at bootcamp all those hours now anyway? Apparently it hasn't got a whole lot to do with instilling respect for the chain of command. Me and the other corporals are sitting here scratching our heads wondering "what on earth?" ... we would have NEVER talked that way to an NCO when we were junior Marines... Nevermind their behavior is causing me to second guess my whole "dignity first" approach to leadership. I figure I treat people like Marines, they'll act like Marines (honor, courage, commitment, all that good stuff). Maybe not. Maybe these kids need to be yelled at. They all seem to interpret grace and mercy as a sign of weakness. Spare the rod, spoil the child? Who knew? I hate yelling. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:32 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: I don't have much time today. Allow me to entertain you. Yesterday, as with all afternoons in Iraq, it's hot. Surprised? Probably not. Now, what is surprising is that I've already worked 12 hours by 1pm. I want to go home, get cleaned up, sleep. You know. The whole "I don't want to die of fatigue" approach to living. So, of course, for the THIRD day in a row, someone with high rank calls a formation. We're the only company with leaders still stupid enough to make us all stand in formation in Iraq. But it's not about the weather. Well, maybe, if you consider mortar fire a form of natural precipitation. Mortars *do* fall here more often than rain, so maybe we could make that argument... So there we are. Our First Sergeant, who so far can only be described as a "nano-manager" (like unto "micro-manager" but on a much more intimate, small, and infuriating scale). He's screaming and yelling at us, particularly the NCO's (Corporals like myself and our sergeants) ... yelling about *something* I don't know the particulars of. I don't know who knows what we're getting chewed on for. I was busting my rear operating and unloading aircraft on the blazing tarmac. Who had time to mess up? Then he gets to one of the old Marine Corps favorites: "You wanna play games?!?! OH. We'll play games all day!!!" [while the planes unload themselves? by the way, "games" are all the hazing and humiliating things the staff make us do when they can't reconcile the pain in their own hearts in a rational or healthy way... hence they take their frustrations out on us] "Who thinks I won't do it?" [that's the problem; you seem stupid enough to actually try. How did you get that much rank again?] "Anyone?" [no one raises their hands. No one ever does.] "I can make your life here a living hell if I want to." [NeverSpeaks raises his hand. I actually gasp audibly. The first sergeant turns a deeper shade of red] "You want it? You got it!" NeverSpeaks opens his mouth, speaking softly: "First Sergeant? [whose mouth still issues insults like the unstopped gushing of a fool] "First sergeant?" "WHAT?" NeverSpeaks waits a moment. Clears his throat. "If what you can do to me is worse than what was done to me when I was in my crib, go for it. If not, I've seen worse, and you ain't got S***." ... But NeverSpeaks doesn't talk, and yesterday the 1st Sergeant completed another rant at our expense, to his own vain aggrandizement, and yeah, he got away with it. No one told him what we all really think. ... or at least what I think. The flowers may fade, and the mouths of fools will be stilled, but the Word of the Lord stands forever. I need to go clean my forklift(s). love you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:31 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: It's thursday, 16th of September here. We're 11 hours ahead of you (makes calling anyone a bit difficult, at least on your end of things... you couldn't call me and disturb my sleep if you wanted to). For those of you inquiring after an address, read my lips Something Fishy IS Going On. Units never wait this long to get an address. We are. We don't know why. Last activation I had addresses pouring out of my pockets. Now we don't hear squat. No one knows why, or at least if they know, they're not telling. I'm inclined to think that it's all the outcome of ineptitude on behalf of the staff, but most of them seem like straight shooters, so who knows... A little story: Did you know that Camel Spiders, besides growing as large as a dinner plate, have what is referred to as Hemotoxin venom? Hemotoxin is a digestive enzime/bacteria/something that necrifies (kills) the flesh it's injected into. The spiders get their names because they're traditional prey is, you guessed it, the Camel. They jump up on the belly of the camel and bite them there. Just wait. This gets more disgusting. (sorry Wolphin) ...(she hates spiders, y'all) The females of the species lay their eggs in the newly necrofying flesh. As it rots on the living body (be it camel or otherwise), the larvae eat their fill of it... Anyway. How does the spider get on the belly of the camel, you ask? Oh. They jump. .... Whatever God was thinking when he made a spider that large an acrobat is ANYONE'S guess. I bet they can walk on water, too. Why not? It would only be more terrifying if they could fly I suppose. Furthermore, their legs secrete a topical anesthetic: numbs the skin so you can't feel them crawling all up on your junk. Yeah. They like to "hang out" in the porta-johns. Them and scorpions (who knew?) Their mouths... anyone seen Predator, where Gov. Arnie faces the beast and says "you're one ugly mother ****"? The mouth of a camel spider is the same. Opens four ways. SO DISGUSTING. Stand up. Shake yourselves off. The imaginary camel spider you feel can't hurt you. I killed a tiny one in the barracks last night. "Executed with extreme prejudice" is the terminology that applies. Last night I tried to sleep but was awoken by gun fire. There are machine gun ranges here, so it's not out of the ordinary to hear weapons systems doing whatever kind of exercise. Well, they were doing "Talking Guns," a term we use to descibe the cohesion of gun teams to keep a constant stream of suppressing fire on a single target area or kill zone. One gun fires, lets up, and the other fires, lets up, as the other fires again. I heard this, though the weapons were firing abnormally small bursts. Normal bursts are 5-7 rounds, these were more like 3-4. Target's weren't all that visible? Recon by fire? Who knows. Then I heard them go "Cyclic." The fastest rate of fire. That's when you lay on the trigger and pour red-hot lead out the barrel as fast as the machine can cycle ammunition. Understand that some of these weapons cycle at nearly 1,000 rounds per minute. Then there was nothing else. I guess the guards found some, eh, "camel spiders" to shoot at last night. A report we heard this morning confirmed as much (the details of which I cannot divulge for reasons I hope are obvious). I prayed and went back to sleep. love you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:30 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: I arrived in Iraq in the early morning hours of September 11, 2004. As I stepped off the c-130 Hercules (transport aircraft, prop driven, noisy, oh my LORD uncomfortable ride) the first object I saw twinkling in the night sky was Mars. Just before I stepped on the bus that took me to my hooch (tent dwelling) I saw it again. I have had an undercurrent of feeling, a substantial sense of warning, this whole time, about potential violence in the coming weeks. I wish I could tell you guys a lot more than I can, but rumor has it that Hadji (pronounced "Hodgie") can screen our servers and we shouldn't say as much as we'd like. This place is hot, and it's only going to get hotter (I'm not talking temperature). I am on the top of the list from our unit to provide convoy security. As always, I welcome and Need your prayers. Today I am sick, with fever and allergic reaction to the dust (I think). The dust here is like talcom powder it's so fine. I won't keep you long (or myself) but here's a story for you: Just before leaving, my girlfriend took the time to ever-so-carefully write a series of scriptures on a rectangle of cardboard. On the reverse side, she drew a cross and around it the words "I asked the Lord how much he loved me. He stretched out his arms... and he died." I keep this piece of cardboard in the front flap of my flack jacket, just over my SAPI (small arms protective insert) plate that's supposed to stop bullets. The other day it was funny.... one of the marines I'm replacing tried to give me his collection of porn magazines. I refused, offhandedly remarking that "I just don't look at that stuff" so he gave it to another marine, who promptly stuffed the mags in the front flap of his flack jacket, over his sapi plate. Who guards your heart? love to you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:30 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: Interesting news. This afternoon my sergeant pulled me aside and told me I'd be running the Heavy Equipment detachment at an airbase in ****. This means that I have **** Marines under my command and ... that's pretty neat... "We looked at what we had," said Postal (my sgt's nickname). "With your operational abilities and your leadership skills, you're the obvious choice." [eyebrows raise. polite applause issues from a room next door; alas, not for me, but for some swank fellow named Bond who has this irritating habit of saying his name twice when he introduces himself] What this really means is that I get to be the "Detachment Head," despite my relatively low rank, and what THAT means is I get to butt heads with men like Toothless and Box when they tell my operators to do stupid (and therefore inherently dangerous) things. When there are a bunch of 0481's scurrying around your heavy equipment there isn't a lot of margin for error-- I know of at least one fire hydrant that lies, to this day, in a ruddy puddle at port Hueneme, in mute attestation to the lethality of my operating skills. Ahem. [600 gallons per minute. this is a random fact and has nothing at all, whatsoever, to do with the amount of water a fire hydrant provides upon being neatly severed] I need to hurry this up. I'm in the library on Camp Pendleton and will have to surrender the computer when my time is up. Suffice to say, the place I'm heading to is no longer the Sunny, Sandy, Shady, Bikini-Clad-Women-Infested resort originally promised to me by Halliburton. I have entertained, briefly and at regular intervals, the idea of complaining about the apparent discrepancy that seems to exist between my pamphlet and actual pictures of the place they're sending me... but perhaps there actually are some moments in our lives when complaining will not actually change anything. At all. [honestly I'm very excited about going to ****. I want the chance to lead Marines and be the one for whom the buck stops. I'm just ribbing Halliburton. Why waste time you ask? Well, sillies, they're watching, of course! Haven't you read 1984?!?!] Today we're all packed and ready to head out. We won't actually leave camp pendleton until sometime early tomorrow morning. When I say, early, I mean it. It's a good thing we have our gear staged 17 hours early... I mean, without that, the trucks coming to pick us up wouldn't have time to get lost! :] I have bought many toys. By "toys" I mean anything from a k-bar knife (tonto style blade with serrations, tactical grey blade... >:D ... drop holster for magazines, Wiley-X glasses, etc. For those of you still convinced that women shop differently than men, take a man to a tactical gear store. Your preconceptions of gender behavior will be sorely tested. Do this only if you *actually* want your understanding of socio-economic gender relations to change drastically. For all those who wish to remain oblivious to Man's True Shopping Power, ignore this last paragraph. [For the record, a tactical drop holster, complete with rigger's belt to carry the extra load, costs MUCH MORE, per "Square Inch of Covered Body Space," than does women's lacy unmentionables. Not that I've ever looked at a Vicky's Secret catalogue. Never. Ahem.] God's Peace, and (dare I say it?) ... no, I don't... something about "pieces of my enemies" or whatever... God Bless you all, Semper Fidelis :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:29 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: For those of you just joining the long list of recipients, I apologize for the lack of a colorful background explanation. Here's what you get: I'm going to Iraq this Thursday. Now if you're up for sassy commentary, like most of the folks included on the mass mailing list, by all means, stay tuned. Like spoiled wine turned to vinegar is the active duty experience in the Marine corps... oh wait... did that sound pessimistic? Shozbot. I've been out in the sun here at camp Pendleton all day and I'm burned, dehydrated, and undernourished. I haven't seen the business end of a chow hall all day. Tomorrow is the day we bring all our gear out, stage it, move it, stage it again, etc. until at last we move close enough to an airfield to be in danger of catching a plane. The flight is supposed to take about 24 hours, and Lord only knows when that actually starts because flights get bumped all the time and we'll sit there, having hurried ourselves I assure you, and wait until the doggone plane arrives. This afternoon, some of the 0481 sergeants got up in front of us in the blazing back parking lot of our company "office" and disseminated some wisdom from the last activation. Unlike myself and my fellow marines from Concord, the Fort Lewis marines actually got to go to Iraq. Musta been nice. But before I get too far ahead of myself, an 0481 is an MOS designation (military occupational specialty). They're basically glorified ground guides. As a 1345 myself (Heavy Equipment Operator) I usually try not to run them over when I'm moving heavy things around or running over fire hydrants (long story). With me? So this bloated dude, we'll call him "Box," gets up in front of us and starts talking a bunch of trash about how he had to load plan aircraft for the air force and how "nasty" they were, and the same for the army, and etc. etc. [in the Marines we use "nasty" to indicate anything that isn't "locked on," "Squared Away," "hard core," etc. It's basically stupid] Box makes the comment "The air force is nasty, but they're nice, 'cuz they know how nasty they are compared to us." I shake my head. SuperMarine, my best friend here, silently cusses to himself. I know we're both wondering the same thing: Where does a glorified ground guide get off talking like he's Rambo, just because he's a Marine? I mean, I move big boxes with Big machines and in a port or airfield, people like me are responsible for effecting most of the physical changes in the environment people tend to call "work." We don't talk like we're Rambo. We know we're engineers. The likelihood of seeing the "serious action" portrayed in all our briefings is pretty limited, to be quite honest. Yeah, I bought a high-speed sling for my rifle, some other cool gadgets that cost me a pretty penny, but c'mon. Am I really going to use my Big Knife? Probably to trim my boot laces... Anyway. I didn't see much of Toothless today, but he did manage to keep us out in the sun for two hours more than anyone else. What, after all, is the use of being Staff NCO, I ask, if you can't make everyone else wait for you? I dunno. Sounds neat. Thank God I won't stay in the Marines long enough to figure it out, though. Enough rosy commentary! These next few days will be hectic and I might not have the chance to email you all for awhile. I might not end up having any access to "gmail" while in Iraq and I'll have to use some "Secure" server the Marines provide. Come what may, I'll do my best to keep you all informed. Make sure you check your email regularly for updates on all the Top Secret info I can find! [JUST KIDDING] God bless you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:28 PM 0 comments
Dear Family and Friends: This makes two days in a row that I have gotten time on the computer. Let's hope it doesn't trip the circuit breaker again. Lemme tell ya. The only thing better than writing mass emails is having to write them twice. And if you believe that, I have another story to tell you (which is actually true, so pay attention). For those of you who pray, and even for those of you who don't but think that spending your time "thinking good thoughts" in my general direction helps :) please read the following: As with every Marine unit I've ever served with, there's at least a small gaggle of complete JERKS who manage to get all sorts of rank and authority while at the same time failing to obtain any leadership skills whatsoever. We will call our current subject "Toothless" for reasons I hope are obvious (to both protect his identity and to express one of the most amazingly funny things about him you could ever hope to see :) This is the sort of man who lords his authority over others-- particularly the sergeants, who are one step below him in rank but outnumber him 10:1. He has very specific expectations, as most men do, but fails to communicate them in any effective manner, expecting the sergeants to read his mind (some women do this, I've heard). So he's really irritating. The kind of guy we should all go and pray for (because I can tell you, I've seen guys break up with girls because they communicate this way, and I've seen countless others stay with such women and... eh, misery, anyone?) DOGGONE IT my library computer time is up. Only one crash and some sweat and this is all I have to share with you. Oh, yeah, and I'm going to go pray for my leaders, the good ones and the bad ones, because these puffed up ... (whatevers) ... are the kind who get to give me orders while bullets (fired in anger) are coming in my general direction. :] We do have good leaders. It's just a shame they don't stand out as much as the, eh, not so good ones (be proud of me: I'm not swearing like a Marine!). I got an extra few minutes here. Grace comes in small packets, like "get off the computer... oh, wait, no one's in line... nevermind..." :) Tomorrow we are executing convoy operations. This means we will beat the sun by, oh, three hours or so in getting up. We will hopefully learn useful things about maneuvering HumVees through unfriendly terrain, how to jump out of the back of a truck that's 8' off the ground without losing teeth, ACL's, ankles, larger bones and the like (the sorts of things we tend to think ourselves "happy" for never having lost/broken). I'll get to see first hand which of my sergeants can cook and which ones are still wondering which setting the metaphorical micorwave should be set on... But let's be honest. I need to take time to accurately measure my own leadership skills, and the responsibilities I have are nowhere near as large as those men who are in charge of me. Vainglory is a danger, and pride, yeah, no kidding. I'm going to take some time tonight to evaluate my heart. One of the sergeants from another platoon decided to "jump in my rear" today... for whatever reason; the extra stripe on his arm sort of gives him the right to do that without explaining himself. The thing is, he's one of those "sarcasm is better than straight talk" people so I didn't even realize he was trying to say anything other than, you know, what he was saying. Later, having been made aware of his disgruntlement, I tried to approach him to rectify any misunderstanding, but he wouldn't even talk to me: he straight up blew me off. One of those times you bend over backwards to patch up a situation and someone holds onto the grudge that never needed to be there in the first place. It's alright. Something tells me the sands of Iraq will be the great sifter. We'll see what's left when the sifting is done. I apologize if this is too much information, or too long for any of you. Let me know. I just went off a bit. Hopefully some of this is entertaining (!!). And NO, none of you want to see how horrible my small pox vaccination site looks. God bless you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:28 PM 0 comments