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, November 29, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: [First, i apologize for the numerous spelling errors in my emails. Most of the time I'm too lazy or forgetful to hit the "check spelling" button. Yesterday, however, that button resulted in the loss of my email, unfortunately justifying three months of correspondence laziness that will now never be truly cured. This being said, ...] Four Like Sensations: 1. Getting woken up during a nap you undertook at the point of extreme exhaustion. 2. Getting slammed in the gut in the middle of a much-needed stretch. 3. Working for my bosses in Iraq. 4. Having a really good friend of the opposite sex tell you "you're a good friend." While you have flowers for her/him in your hand. ... "You Only Live Twice" Hammurabi is slurping real coffee out of my new mug. You know, the kind that seal at the top with the little carabeener handle that lets an operator like myself attach it to the inside of the vehicle cab on any one of the numerous dull metal protrusions therin. Long gone are the days in which I would operate my multi-ton equipment with thoughts of preserving an open Coffee container. Nevermore. Now I will drive like an idiot, smashing and crashing into things. Generals are top points, particularly the sort that execute dogs, only to be exceeded by my senior staff, my bosses; that because the emotional and professional frustration of working with them every day seems like so much more bull honkey than anything else. Ever. The sun isn't even up yet. It's cold, about 36 degrees not counting wind chill. I'm indulging my reservoir of self-hatred by sitting outside for a few minutes. In my hands I hold a heavy box filled with coffee of all sorts. One of the bags is ruptured because of the careless handling of our mail by the couriers that see it delivered to the middle of Iraq. I guess I can't complain about the handlers: they're the only ones brave enough to fly in here on a regular basis, despite the fact that none of them have ever been shot down. So what if some of them are disgruntled Moldovian bomb makers? I got my coffee. Others get their mail. And now we storm random planes when they land. Big deal. Yawn. Here's a 5.56 shoulder mounted rifle in your face, there, Vlad. Now can I have my mail? The obfuscating detail about the package is that the Secretary of the UN has attached a letter of complaint to the outside. It is a simple slip of white paper with a red and white checkered border. *So* European. "We regretfully inform you..." blah blah blah "the amount of coffee herein is in excess of..." blah blah blah, "your associate Aileen Sanchez will be arrested promptly for her immense generosity..." signed, Kofi Anan, UN Secretary. "Coffi AnneAnne?" I spit incredulously. "Way to make the power of the UN known. Arrest care package givers. Overlook the lighter offenses of world despots..." "That's Koffi Ann-- er, Coffee Ana... " Hammurabi, too, is at a loss to pronounce the man's name. He isn't paying attention to my tirade and it's all the better in the end. "Can they do that?" I ask. "What, arrest your friend for sending you coffee?" He responds. "Sure. Why not. 60% of the UN budget is unaccounted for. Did you think it was all going in to his pocket or that maybe some of it actually gets wasted doing silly things in the shadier places of the world?" Heh. I never thought of it that way. "Anyway, man. Don't sweat it. I'll take care of this," Hammurabi offers. He reaches into his gore-tex jacket and produces an iridium phone, the kind that chat with sattelites and charge you something like 75 cents a minute. The sheath on the antenna is huge. I back away nevertheless, fearing for my future children. He hits speed dial and in a few seconds, he's talking. "Yeah. COffi? Kofe? Kofeeef? Whatever. Hey. Lay off on that Sanchez dame. Why? Do you have any idea who this is? ... Uh huh. Yeah. Okay, look..." The wind is searing my eyes and defeating the little neck gator I'm wearing. My hands are cold, but just cold enough to make me believe that a real man wouldn't put gloves on just yet. Nevermind put his hands in his pockets while he sits in the chill wind. That's "unsatisfactory," or "unsat" for short in Marine lingo. People like my first sergeant, who honestly have no work to do here, get driven to the office at 10am every morning, driven home at around 2pm, and chew the butts of Marines like myself the whole way for giving in to the weakness of warm hands in pockets. Because, and YES God himself did forbid this, Marines should never be warm or comfortable. But that is another story. Something just nibbled my hand. Charlie? Yes. There he is. The dog himself. I thought he was dead, taken away two days ago. The iridium phone claps shut. "S'alright, Robertson," Hammurabi says. "I just had to rib him about the food-for-oil scandal he and his nephew are enmeshed in and he had a change of heart. Aileen will not be serving time in the Hague." "Nice work, ma--" but I'm cut off as Charlie uses a new pinpoint snout strike technique to hit me in my junk. I squak like a bird and reach over his furry hide with my long arms, scooping the side of his canine hiney and flinging him around in a dizzying circle. He recovers and begins consuming my right hand. Gently of course. "You didn't hear about the dog I take it?" he asks. "no, what?" "Well, i don't think this is the first time he's been able to dodge a death warrant. In fact, if you'll remember, the best cover for a secret agent is being dead. Remember your Bond. There were a few things we needed him to take care of, eh, elsewhere. Just routine, I swear." I grin. Charlie nibbles my knee. Little turd. ... Yes, Charlie is still with us. Abducted briefly and then returned after my shift was over yesterday. Apparently the Hadji vet couldn't make his way here. Maybe IED's are useful after all. :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:53 PM 