"It's Groundhog's Day....Again."

Wednesday, April 26th, 2006

Deployment Day 32

Baghdad, Iraq

"STRIKE UP THE MUSIC, WE'LL HAVE LOTS OF FUN..(bum-bum-bum-bum) - A PENN-SYL-VANIA POL-KA!"

Before I ever arrived here at the "cradle of civilization", I had heard many times about how deployment is a lot like the movie, "Groundhog's Day". Its the same day, over and over again, with only minor differences here and there that all blur together anyway when one looks back over any significant span of time. I would say that this outlook is mostly true, though with the caveat (at least in my own case), that a sort of Groundhog's week seems like a more appropriate expression. The weekdays all blend together, for sure. But the weekends have enough of a difference to make them markers of progress, or at least markers of difference. Allow me, kind people, to break down my week for you.

[Side Note: I'm going to be purposely a little vague here. On the one hand I don't want to invite the ire of the Orwellian higher-ups who may or may not be scanning this thing from time to time. (Click on the "Rinard" link on the side if you want to know what I mean.) And more importantly, I honestly don't want to give away any information which some insurgent could potentially use to find a good time or place to mortar us. So specific times, locales, and other details are going to be deliberately vague (or even false) on purpose. Further, I know many of you probably want me to "go off" on the Army and the situation a little more than I'm probably doing. I'm holding back on that front for many reasons. One is my constantly evolving and shifting opinion of this whole thing. Another is the whole Orwellian thing as above. And there are other issues. But rest assured, there will be a time and a place for all those things, and it may or may not be on this blog.]

Monday Thru Friday

Most of the weekdays are prettty similar. My typical day goes a little something like this. (*strums guitar*). I wake up fairly early (but not too early). Go to breakfast and eat oatmeal and get coffee. Then I roll over to sick call and end up spending the bulk of my day at the aid station. There is a 1-2 hour lunch break in there to break up the day. When I first got here, sick call was seeing about 1-3 people on average per day. So that's not very many at all. More recently, our numbers have jumped, and we see like 5-6 per day. That's still not many. Jeff, my PA, is also there, so we're really splitting the "workload" between two people. And technically, only one provider (i.e Jeff or I) is required to be there, so one of us will occasionally take a morning off to sleep in, or an afternoon off to run errands or something.

When its dead in sick call (and it often is), I spend my time either reading, drinking coffee and shooting the breeze, emailing, or playing a mindless-but-fun puzzle game called "Zuma" on the aid station computer. We also find time every day to get the "Stars and Stripes", which is the daily (and totally unbiased!) military newspaper. So I read through that and about the wonderful job we're doing over here, and then do the jumble, crossword, sudoku, and cryptic. At times someone will bring DVDs in, and I've certainly gotten through many sick calls watching episodes of South Park with my medics.

After sick call, I usually head back to the room and chill out a bit. Nap, read, email, whatever. The government computers at the aid station are good for email and work stuff but little else. So any power surfing needs to be done back in my room. Its kind of nice because they have a wireless service here at the FOB, which is called FUBI, and unnervingly stands for "For Us By Iraqis". The service works OK, and costs me about 2 bucks an hour to be logged in. But as we all know, sweet internet is worth just about any price. Apparently there is a huge dish here on the FOB which beams out the signal, and the company is actually French run. That said, I still don't do any online billing on it. (I can actually do that stuff on the government computer, which I'm betting is far more secure.)

After work and before dinner I'm just about always at the gym for an hour or two. This is my favorite part of deployment, thus far. That is, the ability to get back in really good shape. I've been in Iraq for about 28 days now, and I'm proud to say that I've missed going to the gym on only 3 of those days. (Oh, I'm toning up baby, and everyone out there better be READY for when I get back!) All the exercise is definitely good for body and mind, and I seriously haven't been working out like this since my senior year of college on the track team. I'm already seeing results - its kind of interesting what you can do in this arena if you have the time. In fact, between the constancy of diet and the regularity of exercise out here, there are many potential physiologic experiments to be performed.

After working out, its time to hit the showers (insert one of infinitely possible homo-erotic jokes here). Actually, the showers here are pretty damn nasty, and don't really lend themselves to any sort of erotic encounter. I have to wear flip flops (aka "shower shoes") the entire time. There is dirt and mud on the floor of the showers and on the floor of the general shower area. There is no where to sit, and so transitioning from toweled near-nudity to wearing underwear requires delicate balance and a precisely-timed, bastardized hop-step version of a Daniel Larusso crane kick, lest one's underwear touches ones still-dirty foot upon donning the garment. (I keep having visions of myself losing my balance at the critical moment of this process, and then taking a horrifically unceremonious spill onto the ground, rolling face first in Iraqi mud and bathroom muck, and then going fetal for about a week until they MEDEVAC me to the Landstuhl psych floor...but I digress.)

After the shower, its dinner time. I usually meet up and eat with Jeff and some of the other providers. The meals at the DFAC are pretty repetitive, with the exception of the aforementioned Friday "Surf and Turf". More on the generalized insidiousness of the DFAC in a later post. After dinner its strictly down time for the most part. Unlike some other providers at other locations, Jeff and I aren't really supposed to be going to any military meetings or the like, and thank heavens. (Poor Gwen is stuck doing this.) So upon getting back to the room, I have to make a decision about emailing, surfing, reading, playing on Jeff's X-box, listening to Jeff play on his X-box (For Nordoc!), playing the PSP, or watching DVDs. More on "the room" and our diversions there in a later post as well. Also, there is a movie night once a week over at the TMC for the providers as well. That's where we saw "The Beating of the Christ".

The Weekend

Everybody's working for it, and Friday night begins the transition to said weekend. Saturday is somewhat similar to other days - there is still sick call all day with lunch etc., exactly like the other days. Sunday is a nice break because there is no morning sick call, and thus its the only day in which I'm guaranteed to be able to sleep in. There is a short two hour afternoon sick call which is usually painless. Poker night occurs on the weekend (not saying which night, or what time, or where we play - got that mortar-happy insurgent jerks?), and that is my favorite part of the week. Its a providers-only game, usually including some docs, some PA's, our physical therapist, our psychologist, and our dentist. Sometimes less people, but never more than 12. We play Hold Em. Remember, we're Not Gambling (we're just pointing). Its kind of a tournament style set up. We theoretically (but again, only in theory) "buy in". Then everyone gets the same number of red, blue, white, and black chips. The blinds increase every twenty minutes and we play until there is one winner. Theoretical winnings (which again, don't actually exist) go to first and second place. I have no particular love of poker, but I don't dislike it either, and the game and the aura of the night itself are fun. We all sit around, open up a little, listen to music, drink near-beer, and smoke a stogie or two. (Or if you're Jeff, my roommate, you smoke about 4 stogies.)

And that's basically an average week. There is overnight call at the TMC, which all the providers (docs and PAs) split, and it comes up once every 6-9 days or so, depending on the schedule. Jeff and I have it worked out so that if either of us is on call, then the other gets a break for sick call on the before and after days, and it all works out pretty well.

And there it is - the average routine. All I need is a little daily Sonny and Cher on my wake up alarm...

This Past Week - Highlights

Poker

So I won at poker this last week, which rocked. A day or so before the game, I got a package which included some absolutely SICK cigars from the one and only Papa Roston. And there I was, sitting back at poker night, going to town on this retardedly high-quality and expensive cigar, and I'm just getting dealt hand after hand of solid cards. It had to be the PPR mojo, I'm telling you. It came down to me and my roommate for first and second, and he went "all in" on the turn card. I thought he might have a full house (there were two fours on the flop, and he went all in after a five came out on the turn), but I thought he might be bluffing too. I had a four in my hand (giving me three of a kind), and after an agonizing five minutes of debate, I called his "all in". He had two pair, but could have beaten me on the river with a jack, which would have given him said full house, but he didn't get it and I won. Greatest poker moment of my life. (Though admittedly there's not many to choose from) Anyway, I got a bunch of pats on the back and it wasn't too bad a night. And damn that cigar was mighty good.

Mortar Attack

We got mortared this past week. Or possibly it was a rocket attack. Can't say where it hit, but I can say that I was about a two minute walk from the place at the time. So not that far. Jeff and I were playing the X-box in the room, and there was this huge BOOM. Oh shit, we thought. (In a weird aside, we were playing this co-op Tom Clancy first person shooter at the time, and only a moment before we had been killed in the game by a sudden RPG ambush, which actually startled me with its suddeness. So when the real boom went off, though it was much louder and I felt in in my chest and shit in our room actually bounced a little, for a split second I thought it was the game again. But just for an instant.) So we turned the game off, and went outside. To be honest, at first we didn't know WHAT it was - for all we knew it could have been another controlled detonation of a discovered IED, which happens all the time. But when we got outside, we saw some people running around in "full battle rattle" and thus we sped off to the TMC to await casualties. Thankfully, there were absolutely NO casualties. But it shook us up a little all the same. Just another day in Iraq, I guess.

Orange Storm

There is something nutty and almost biblical about some of the various rainstorms here. A few days ago, we had a sudden thunder-storm, which lasted only an hour or so, but which drenched everything. I'm told that when these things start out here, there is a dust storm several hundred feet up in the air prior to the rain. The sky looks overcast, but its different, very hazy. And then everything goes completely ORANGE. Its very strange, like a movie set, where everything appears almost backlit by orange. This orange starts to intensify to a fiery reddish orange, surpassing even sunset orange, (and this will happen in the very middle of the day) to the point where I felt like this place was transforming itself into a portal to the very gaping maw of Hell. And then boom, the rain starts coming down with a vengeance. And its not just rain - each drop has particular sand and dust in it - forming a sort of mini sand hail so that you can see bounce off the turf as it hits. Its very, very strange. I took a few pictures of the build up, though they don't do it justice.

(PS - In the next post I'll update about the dogs - right now I have to go wail on my pecs...)



"Orange Death", prior to the storm




Immediately after, same camera settings




About a half hour after, same camera settings...

For Nordoc!

Thursday, April 20th, 2006 Deployment Day 26

Baghdad, Iraq

They stole it from us! *Gollum* *Gollum*

(Note: By 'they', I mean brigade higher-up jerks. And by 'it', I mean Pete.)

Yes, Pete is gone now, back to Kuwait. With me up and running as a fully functional (and not to mention armed to the hilt) battalion surgeon, Pete's work was done here, so to speak, and thus he was yanked back to safe but desolate Camp Buehring by brigade command. And though I did spend several days squattting hunched in an underground, water-filled cavern admiring Pete, stroking him with my finger, and calling him "my precious" over and over again prior to his departure, the Gollum/Smeagol analogy doesn't end there. You see, without Pete, I'm a torn soul and a tragically unstable dual personality, and I scheme endlessly to steal him back while hopping about dressed in a loin cloth, rasping in saliva-laden gibberish, and plotting to murder those damn tricksy hobbits. (This behavior has not pleased my command, by the way). OK, I'm exagerrating. But the point is, Pete left, and it sort of bummed me out. Until now, I've had the "Pete factor" here in full effect to cushion some of the harsh realities of military deployment and spending 24/7 with "the line". People who know Pete will know what the Pete Factor (Tm - just patented that, btw) brings to the table. Without him, its just that much tougher to deal with stuff. There is no longer a good friend around to joke with or shake my head with and say, "Dude..." while trying to grasp an unreal situation. I still have Jeff, my PA, who is by all accounts a great guy (and more in a later post on him), but he's just not a close friend like Pete.

This blog has been dead anyway, for about the past week or so. Mostly because I knew Pete was leaving and thus we were just spending our remaining time hanging out, watching moviess, smoking an occasional stogie, etc. The last 10 days have been mercifully quiet in terms of FOB casualties and such. There has thanfully been no further need for any more memorial services of late. That doesn't mean that the week didn't pass without its share of intense stories from those out on patrol. I've already stock-piled tons of these from my medics - from firefights, to local interactions, and a lot of other stuff. War is chaos. And Baghdad is a mess right now. But I suppose you know that if you simply turn on CNN. Today, however, I'm focusing on our diversions.

Pete and I and some other providers watched "The Passion of the Christ" last week. Not a horrible movie if you ever wanted to see an actor playing Jesus get the living crap beat out of him for about an hour. I think South Park nailed it right on the head with their parody episode in which they proclaim that Mel Gibson, in all his uber-Catholic bravado, has an unadulterated torture fetish. Either way, and despite the onslaught of the classic stereotypical Catholic guilt, the film didn't exactly make me want to run back and embrace my Catholic roots. And speaking of South Park, we've been watching quite a bit of that lately. I got to rewatch some of my favorites, including the "Vote Bitch" episode, the "You got Served" episode, and the aforementioned "Passion of the Jew" episode. Ah, funny stuff.

Pete and I sat down and watched "The Cable Guy" as well. I hadn't seen that in a while, and Pete had never seen it. It was definitely strange watching that film out here in that the film brings back such powerful nostalgia of my San Diego boys. And certainly a bitter sweet viewing out in a place like this. That said, I still can't believe how damn funny that movie is and how enthralled I remain with it. Top five comedies ever - I don't care what anybody says.

I played much better at poker this past week, going out seventh or so (out of twelve). Not too bad considering I lost with some good hands which I call bad luck, dammit. My most surreal experience of the week was during poker. U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name" is playing on the iPOD speakers. Its a full moon, and warm outside. I have a legitimate (almost green-faced) buzz from the cigar in my mouth. Helicopters are flying over head intermittently. Sitting in a plastic chair, drinking near-beer and eating Pringles. There are all sorts of crazy looking "Middle East bugs" flying around the lights we have on outside. At one point in the song we heard some gunshots in the distance and one of the docs, without missing a beat, says, "Ah, just small arms fire - probably just a warning shot. Some Iraqi probably just got too close to a Humvee." He pauses briefly, then looks around the table, and adds, "Who's deal?" And then Bono belts out the chorus.

That just sort of stuck with me. And it seemed like a fitting song title, to boot.

Oh yeah, and finally to the title of this post. Jeff, my PA and roommate, is a big fan of RPG's (aka Role Playing Games) on his X-box. His current passion is a gladiator-based thang named (fittingly) Gladius. Anyway, I'm not a huge RPG guy - the games move way too slow in my opinion - but anyone who's seen a game like this knows the formula. Opposing sides line up to fight (and then just sort of stand there posing and ogling each other while the strategy is inputed). When the commands are finally given, and the action starts, most characters let out a war cry, yell something, or otherwise make some sort of signature sound while they perform their move, launch their attack, or whatever. The same is true when someone gets hit. Well anyway, most of the characters in this game have the usual ho-hum manner about them, and they do their thing with flair but not too much flair. But then there's this one guy. His name is Urlan the Barbarian and he's different. He's, uh, how should I say, into it. Its as if the voice actor hired to play this cat came into the studio that day with his mind made up to 'really go for it'. Anyway, Urlan, the large blonde-maned barbarian, has such a zeal for his attack that his war call stands out above all else. Its so loud, obtrusive and hilarious, that it constantly made Pete and I, who would be busy with our own activities in the room, and would never really be paying attention to the game, just stop and just bust up every time Urlan sounded off. The call itself, of course, is, "FOR NOR-DOC!"

Anyway, once this became a frequent thing, Pete and I decided that this kind of passion and energy couldn't just be contained to a mere video game. So we took up the battle cry. We started dedicating all sorts of our own activities around the FOB to Nordoc. We'd go to the DFAC (For Nordoc!), we'd do sick call (For Nordoc!). Hell, we'd raise the poker pot for Nordoc, brush our teeth for Nordoc, go to the gym for Nordoc, anything. Just about everything we could do out here - we started doing it for Nordoc. (Mostly just because we wanted an excuse to repeat the loud, beefy-man call of "For Nordoc!", but whatever) It was the thing to do.

And so now, Pete's gone, back to Kuwait. Hopefully I'll see him soon because it will mean our whole unit is going back down to Kuwait. But until then? Well, at first I wasn't sure what to do. I was down. I needed my Pete. My precious. But then it came to me. I'm gonna push on. I'm keeping my chin up. I'm gonna take this thing to the limit. That's right - I'm gonna give this deployment hell. Its what Pete would have done. Why you ask? Simple. For Nordoc, by God. For Nordoc!

(PS - There should be more frequent posts in the coming weeks. Here's some pics of Pete and I - acting like asses, mostly.)




Pete models his personalized Taint Kevlar



Pete naps it up at our state-of-the-art Aid Station



Mick plays "Agent Smith" in his room



No insurgents would dare mess with this duo

Who let the feral dogs out?

Tuesday April 11, 2006 - Deployment Day 17

Baghdad, Iraq

There are two reknowned constants - Death and taxes. Down here, however, the idea of "taxes" takes on a new meaning and in most cases doesn't apply at all. (For example, my tax return is NOT due this month, nor am I being charged income tax while I'm down here for the most part. Is it worth it? No. Nevertheless, its a perk.) So with taxes being debatable (and I'm not touching the "Death" portion with a ten foot pole), I offer this constant instead: If there's a chance for me to reference the Baha Men's raucous hit single "Who let the Dogs out?" in any way, shape, or form - I'm going to do it and you can take that to the bank. (Simply ask Gwen. Its at the point where if I ever even see a dog, any dog, anywhere, period, I'm instantly singing "Who let that dog out..." for at least a full chorus.) I've already referenced bomb dogs (and asked who let them out) in a previous post. And now I will turn my attention to some of our co-inhabitants here on the FOB. Feral dogs. And I ask you people rhetorically, who, indeed, let these effin ' dogs out? And why the hell are they on an army post? Its time for a story....

This story goes back to this weekend, when I walked into the provider rec room at the TMC (Troop Medical Clinic). When I strolled in to grab a snack, I was greeted by one of the PA's telling an animated story to a rapt audience of other providers. "Stup, you gotta hear this," said Pete. So I settled in.

For the telling of this tale, it is important to note that our FOB is several miles by several miles in area. For anyone wishing to go on a run, its not hard to find a decent two to three mile open loop if you pick your route carefully. The FOB is basically a large and completely enclosed area - there is high wall surrounding the entire thing, with guard towers every so often around the entire perimeter, and a couple of gates that allow vehicle access. (I have yet to leave this FOB, which is one reason why thus far I'm in much (I would almost even say "infinitely") less danger than the average person who does leave the FOB, goes on patrol, etc. and is exposed to actual downtown Baghdad.) Most regions of the FOB are somewhat inhabited, have at least mild daily activity, or in general have people around on a routine basis. That said, there remain areas of the FOB which are open, or used primarily for storage, have large CONNEX bins (which are metal storage containers about the size of a large dumpster) and are not visited all that frequently by humans. (Its probably helpful for some to picture that every piece of this FOB (to include military-looking 'props') looks exactly like some area one could potentially encounter in your average Counter-Strike level.)

As the story goes, Ronnie the PA was going for a run one day, and came across one of these more or less uninhabited areas in some corner of the FOB and began running around there. At some point, he said he felt that things were ominously quiet. (Too quiet.) Then he suddenly heard barking and growling and without warning a large, ferocious dog bolted out of the shadows from behind the CONNEX's and began charging directly at him, probably starting from about 40 meters away. Ronnie was running along side some HESCO baskets at this point (which more or less ARE actual dumpsters with walls about 8 feet high). His first thought was that he could keep going straight, then make a turn and head away from the dog and back to the main part of the FOB (and where there were soldiers carrying guns). This plan was shattered, however, when several other dogs came out of a different dark area opposite the row of dumpsters and started heading toward him as well, this time from ahead of him, probably about 30 meters away. The lone dog was behind him taking an angle and the pack of four or so dogs was in front of him taking an angle, and to his right side he was pinned by the dumpsters. So there was basically nowhere to go - directly between the two sets of dogs was not an option. He thought about turning around, but the initial dog had him cut off.

(An aside about Ronnie telling this story. Ronnie is from Oklahoma, and an animated guy when telling stories. His eyes were huge the entire time he was going on, and he divided his direct attention equally amongst those in the room listening, and spoke with lots of hand waving and gesticulation. His voice had a kind of deliberate and often hyperbolic over-enunciated mid-west/southern vernacular in the setting of frank seriousness with almost constantly raised-eyebrows and distinct pauses that only people from that region (not the deep south, but more the mid-south - think Oklahoma/Tennessee/Carolina) can muster. Picture your average NASCAR interviewee and that person describing something they found shocking or intense. This whole element of the story made it at least ten times more entertaining.)

At this point, Ronnie stopped and shook his head. "I'm telling you, them dogs was acting out a plan - a full-on trap!" This line of thinking was hilarious to me, because it elevated these wild dogs from simple hungry and territorial mutts to full-blown cognitive and deviously evil predators - something akin to Jurassic Park's velociraptors. So the dogs converged on Ronnie - and he related that he was freaking out because he was at the point where he was going to have to hit them or fight them - then at the last second he realizes he could probably shimmy up the side of the 8-foot dumpster next to him. So he launches himself up the side, feeding off adrenaline. And then, as he tells it, he swings his second leg up and over to safety just as the first dog to arrive smashes it's teeth into the side of the dumpster, at the exact spot his leg was a mere instant before. Within seconds, heart pounding in his chest, he realizes that all the dogs are there (EIGHT in all!), jumping up and snarling at him, teeth snapping, etc. But they can't quite jump up there or get him, thankfully.

So Ronnie looks around, and he's basically on top of the middle of three dumpsters aligned head to toe in a line. But there is nothing else around. The dumpsters are filled almost exclusively with dirt. At this point, he was trying to find large chunks to rain down on the dogs, but the dirt was too soft and flimsy, breaking into harmless pebbles as it left his hands and doing nothing but further inciting the dogs below, who continued to jump, snarl and generally be incredibly agitated. At this point, (and consistent with his trap theme), the dogs literally spread out around the dumpsters to prevent any escape. Ronnie then stumbled onto a broken, bent, and flattened cot pole, which was the only thing of any substance in the dumpster. Several of the dogs were still at the initial spot, still jumping and growling. Ronnie described them as fairly sizable (2-4 feet tall), probably about the size of a large lab or a doberman, but very skinny and sickly, with uneven tufts of hair and just absolutely filthy. The cot pole was probably about 4 feet long, thin and metal but difficult to grip because of its shape and the fact that it had been flattened. Regardless, Ronnie stated that he began "swinging for the fences" and apparently he clipped one in the ribs pretty good. (Picturing the scene, at this point in the story, had me just shaking my head with a smile.) But overall, the rod was ineffective and the dogs stopped jumping but kept staring and growling.

Ronnie dropped the pole and started to look around in the distance, but he was unable to see anything. He started yelling for help but no one seemed to hear. (The FOB can be loud during the day, the wind has a subtle and ongoing drone, and the generators make constant noise. Hence, the distance qualifying as "ear shot" is suprisingly low.) There was nothing around to really run to, or at least nothing he could get to before the dogs would be on him. So he continued to yell every few minutes. After a short while, the dogs "simmered down" and simply laid down at the feet of the dumpster, as if willing to wait patiently. Ronnie said he was getting freaked out, because he had no idea how long he would be stuck out there before someone saw him.

About 10-20 minutes later, Ronnie saw somebody zip by on a moped (a guy who worked in a nearby area) and he flagged him down. The moped was old, took a long time to accelerate, and was only capable of going about 20 mph. The driver, even from the distance, took the scene in and understood what had happened. (Later we found out he knew about the dogs in the area, which was good, because if he had driven straight up, it could have gotten ugly). Because of the limitations of the moped, he started looping closer and closer by making wide turns and slowly nearing the dumpster. On the second, somewhat near pass, the driver yelled out something like, "Get ready to run - they'll chase ME on the next pass", which was funny because it intimated that this sort of thing had happened before and that the driver knew exactly what a fitting 'instigation distance' was. Sure enough, after one more loop, the driver came still closer and the dogs looked up, got up, and then charged him at full boar as he zipped away in an alternate direction. Once the hounds were 50-75 meters away and completely diverted, Ronnie ambled down off the dumpster and sprinted back for the main part of the FOB, unhurt.

Afterwards, Ronnie rounded up one of the NCO's to "prove his story" and they took off on an ATV to the same area. Sure enough, the dogs were still there, waiting and surly, and gave chase when the ATV got to close. Apparently the ATV can only go about 25-30 mph, and the dogs were actually gaining briefly that time, as well, until they lost interest, or at least until the ATV was out of "their turf".

So the problem remains regarding what to do about these hellhounds. The answer seems easy with so many armed soldiers roaming around on the base. But a solution is apparently not so simple. There is supposed to be a "vector and pest control guy" who is on leave at the moment, and who normally would go out and deal with them. Because of his absence the situation was addressed with some of the FOB higher ups, one of whom literally said, "Just give them some ALPO or something and they'll settle down", as if they were somebody's lost, scared golden retriever rather than viciously territorial wild, starving, and ferocious feral dogs. This comment had us shaking our heads again. Apparently he didn't understand that if Ronnie hadn't got up onto that dumpster he likely would have been ripped to shreds in an incredibly ugly mess. Anyway, apparently the situation is "being dealt with", and hopefully nothing will happen to anyone before the dogs are disposed of.

After hearing the story, I asked Pete (who goes running around the FOB) if he had seen them, but he said no, that he goes running in a different area. The last few days we've been mildly tempted to see if we could lay eyes on the dogs, and maybe snap a few pics, but nothing has come of it. Neither of us is too excited to get anywhere close to the mongrels. And we've had daily updates from Ronnie, who has made it his personal mission to see the dogs destroyed and his expressions of disbelief at the inefficiency of the process of removing them have been almost as priceless as the original story.

The whole thing is bazaar. Here we are on this supposedly high speed and squared away army post. Only in one corner, we have a pack of crazed mongrels, (and possible descendants of Cerebrus to hear Ronnie tell it) who demand the rights to their turf. AND, despite the presence of countless pistols, rifles, ammunition, (and hell, even tanks) they are somehow impossible to get rid of. Its almost documentary worthy, a la a twisted version of "Grizzly Man" or something.

Anyway, I thought it was a funny story (though it would have been horrible if anyone had been hurt). I could imagine muyself running over to that part of the FOB, not knowing, and thinking - "Oh shit, who let those dogs out?" as the pack kicked it into gear from the shadows and came after me while I burst into a full sprint. But now I'm keeping my distance, as good as that song opportunity is...


I'll post an update once the situation is "resolved".

If You're Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands...

Friday, April 7th, 2005, Deployment Day 13

Southern Baghdad, Iraq

Its Friday night, and here at the FOB that can only mean one thing. That's right - its "Surf and Turf" night at the FOB Dining Facility. (I would have written the successive acronyms "FOB DFAC" to end that last sentence, but I feared some non-military heads might explode.) The crab legs are quite solid, actually. The turf portion, however, falls short, by being both dry and tough. And I'm pretty sure the top steak places worldwide don't use heat lamps like our DFAC does, but I could be wrong. Regardless, beggars can't be choosers.

By this weekend I will have been "in theater" for two weeks. On the one hand it already seems like an eternity, yet that thought is laughable in that I obviously have quite a long way to go. My strategy is to NOT, at all, look forward to when its time to leave. For one thing, I have no idea when that time is. I don't even know how long we'll be up here in Baghdad, much less in theater in general. I would like to say it can't possibly extend past October/November at all, but I already know that this brigage was extended last time they were here in Iraq, staying for a full fifteen months that time back in 2003. So there is really nothing that can be counted on. Given this, all I'm really trying to do is focus on one day at a time.

Our command has indicated that (though they are unsure how long we'll be staying here in Iraq specifically) we should plan on being here at least another month. Upon hearing that, I sent out a mass email with my address here on it. If for some reason you are reading this and were one of the people seeking my address, and didn't receive the email, simply email me (or leave a comment) and I can send it to you. I'm not sure all my email addresses are perfectly up to date, but I'm not going to post the address here. Overall, I'm trying to be as vague as possible about any details of this place or what we're doing here. It would be nice to have a completely unfiltered blog about it, but alas, it is not to be. (When I get back, see me over beers and you'll be able to get the full story. If you're lucky, you'll also get to see my soon-to-be finely honed "thousand yard stare".)

This past week has been good in that a routine is slowly starting to settle in. My schedule has changed in that we are now required to man the aid station all day for about 8 hours, but its still not very busy. And between Jeff, Pete, and I, there are three "providers", and only one of us is required to be there at any one time, so the day remains flexible. Most days I sit around in the aid station and read a book, check email, do the daily crossword/jumble/sudoku/cryptic in the daily "Stars and Stripes", or shoot the shit with the medics and other guys. Nights mostly remain our own, with the exception of an infrequent overnight call in the TMC. We've been watching episodes of "Scrubs" in our room, as well as various movies.

In my free time I've been exercising a good bit - there is an adequate gym here with a full array of weights and cardio machines. I'll be curious to see if I gain or lose weight during my time here. I'm going to be exercising more than I have since college, but I'm also probably going to be eating significantly more. Every meal is free and plentiful here - there are multiple options at every meal and unlimited helpings. The ice cream in our DFAC is real and very good and I haven't been able to say no to it on a single night since I've been here. You might say that it's schooling me - because it is. Pete, of course, is a maniac about working out - he does two-a-days basically every day to include weights and cardio. He's also incredibly disciplined in the dieting department, as always. Overall, the guy is looking pretty toned, I must say.

Having Pete around has made this whole experience much more tolerable. Its good to have a close friend in a situation such as this. Pete and I will have these little back and forths in which we ask each other, in mock-serious tones, something like, "Hey, let me ask you something. Would you rather be skiing in Colorado right now, or stay here?" Then the other pretends to ponder it before throwing up there hands. "Not sure - I really like the constant burning trash smell here." So its good having Pete around to make those kinds of jokes with. Its those types of things, and their comforting inanity, which help keep me sane.

The most sobering event of the week was clearly the memorial service for the two deceased soldiers. It was definitely another surreal experience to add to the list I've accumulated in the past several weeks. More than surreal, though, it was just incredibly sad. I was found myself fighting back tears a couple of times. And not just for the soldiers (though that was a huge part), but for the situation. The eulogy by the chaplain was solid, but I definitely have mixed feelings about the partial twisting of a memorial service for fallen soldiers into still more pro-military "mission first" propaganda. On the one hand I understand the necessity, from a military perspective, of doing this when speaking to those remaining who still have a "mission" to carry out. This is classic army mentality at work. But for me its difficult to swallow when those deceased suddenly become, by the words of eulogists, pedastalized as "true soldiers in the purest sense", above all else, as if they were manufactured Army-Value robots rather than real people with individual lives, dreams, admirable attributes, and yet flawed all at once. For me, at least, it is those things that make them human. It is those things that make their sacrifice greatest and worth remembering. It is those things I want to hear about and grieve about. And because of this, I found that the most touching comments were those spoken by the lower-ranking close friends of those killed - talking about when they first met that person or relating individual anecdotes about how THAT guy specifically used to joke around in the barracks. Other comments, mostly by the higher ups tended to be too generically "soldier" for me - as if they were reading the script for a recruitment commercial. And this facet left a bitter taste in my mouth. But overall the ceremony was well done. And sad.

The memorial was at sunset and lasted about an hour. Many people came. At one point Amazing Grace was sung and later "Taps", the haunting military melody, known to me only from movies until now, was played while we all stood there and saluted. Most chilling was a "final roll call" in which the 1st SGT read the squad rosters of those deceased. The soldiers remaining from their squads all responded to their own name with a resounding "Here Sergeant!", but when the deceased were called, three times each in all, there was only silence. The effect was incredibly powerful. And again, just so damn sad - I start tearing up just thinking back on it. Then there was a firearms salute follwed by silent tributes as people approached the memorial site, which consisted of two rifles stuck in the ground with the soldiers' helmets on top of each and dog tags hung on as well. (The actual remains of deceased soldiers are sent backward and quickly, to the families.)

There were prayers read, as well. At one point, a very strange thing occurred. All was quiet except for the chaplain's voice as he read a Psalm from the Bible aloud. Outside the FOB, there was islamic music playing from one of the nearby mosques. And in that relative silence, the music escalated to mix in with and almost drown out the Chaplain's voice. The effect of the competing Islamic and Christian elements and the ugly distorted audiologic mess that resulted was disheartening and disturbing, to say the least, and perhaps profoundly metaphoric in the context of the greater situation as well. It was certainly food for thought for me as I stood there, feeling sad for the death of two specific people, and then realizing, once again, that thousands, American and otherwise, have already died in this utter mess. And then lastly I was left wondering sadly if I, or anyone, will ever truly be able to make heads or tails of this gigantic and ongoing nightmare in the middle east.

My New Life

Monday, April 3rd, 2006 Deployment Day 9

FOB Falcon, Southern Baghdad, Iraq

At first I thought I this FOB was actually located "south of Baghdad". Since my arrival, however, I've learned that I'm actually in "Southern Baghdad," proper. I learned all this after visiting our TOC (aka Tactical Operations Center, Hoo-ah!), where I got to see the "Big Board" of sorts. (Anyone who's seen "Dr. Strangelove" should get that reference.) The Big Board, or "Battle Board", is a series of TV screens with all sorts of secret military info, but most importantly for me it included a large map of Baghdad and the surrounding region, and all the little FOBs therein. And it turns out, that FOB Falcon is in the southern part of the city, but in the city nevertheless.

I've been told that the local town in this region of Baghdad is a tenuous place because it has a mixed population of Sunni and Shite muslims. Apparently there are even "dueling mosques" both very close to the front of our FOB, one Sunni, the other Shite. In the evenings when commotion on the FOB itself is slower, I can often hear music blaring from one mosque or the other. I find the music disturbing, and completely because of the context in which I hear it. These two mosques are at odds with each other, and apparently per the general media the recent surge in violence is secretarian and not directed specifically against US personnel. Someone here was telling me that some time ago these two mosques tried to outdo each other with the volume of their music, and the contest actually escalated to the point of gunfire across the town. This is beyond ridiculous, of course, and just serves as another reminder of how far I am removed from the group of people who live no more than 800 meters from where I sleep. And despite the secretarian focus of attacks recently, the area still presents a stark danger to our guys who go "outside the wire" on patrols, because there are IEDs everywhere. Its out of control.

I've adjusted a little to my new surroundings, and I guess today would be my fifth full day on this FOB. Its a smallish place, as far as FOBs go - I suspect the perimeter is about 2 miles max, but I'm not certain. (Contrast this to the huge FOB where Gwen is located, which I think she said is like 20 miles long and has its own shuttle service.) Life here (or as I refer to it - "My New Life") continues to be very surreal. Just when the comforting grip of something that resembles a routine seems near, something happens which jolts my world back into a wartime reality. Not a day has gone by where I haven't heard explosions, usually several per day. Often these indicate IED's in the area have been triggered. Sometimes mortars are suspected, and other times it may be "controlled detonations" of discovered explosives. Once, I believe WE were actually firing artillery from here, though I can't be sure. These explosions can occur anytime - sometimes while walking around the FOB, sometimes when I'm lying in bed, and once while I was shopping in the PX. Every time it happens its just another little nudge to the proverbial ribs which mockingly says, "Hey you, guess what? You're still in Iraq. Pretty sweet, huh?"

The schedule for a provider isn't bad here. There is a 1-hour "sick call" (like a brief clinic) which occurs twice per day except Sunday when it is only in the afternoon. Pete, Jeff, and I run this for our Task Force in a small aid station, which is located next to the much larger TMC (Troop Medical Clinic), which belongs to the 4th Infantry Division, who is our parent division while we are up here in Iraq. There are several other providers working there. Jeff, Pete, and I also share the overnight call schedule with the 4th ID guys - call is not too frequent per provider, occuring somewhere between once every 1-2 weeks. But when Jeff, Pete, or I is "on", then the other two take back-up call. The rest of the time is more or less "down time", although various administrative activities have a way of filling up large chunks of the day out of nowhere. When there are battle casualties, there is of course extra work for providers, both medically and administratively. Luckily most of the hard-core trauma goes into central Baghdad where the hospital and all the surgeons are located.

The providers from 4th ID (the 4th ID has been here about 4 months out of their planned 12) have established a weekly poker game. Pete and Jeff have been involved for the past two weeks (Pete had even won the game his first week, despite not ever having played Hold Em before, prompting taunts and the nickname of "The Hustler" from other providers), and so this weekend I joined in as well. The game is a fairly rigidly structured game of Texas Hold 'em, and since per General Order number 1 there is NO GAMBLING allowed while deployed, we simply play with poker chips. I will say this again, we are not allowed to gamble with money, and so we simply use chips. Hey wait, why are you laughing? I'm not kidding. Yes, again, for the official government record, we only use chips. Only chips.

Anyway, the game uses standard Hold 'em rules with escalating big and little blinds every 15-30 minutes. Everyone "buys in" (remember, only chips, for the record) for the same amount. I haven't personally played poker in about 7 years or so, but I remembered enough to not play like a total idiot. Despite this, I was the second one out of the game. It was fun, though, to pretend we had a social life for at least a little while. One of the most fascinating concepts of the entire night was that of Near-Beer (Tm). There is, of course, no alcohol allowed in theatre, but the PXs and DFAC are chock full of imitation beer. On most days, when nothing in the world sounds better than a sweet, cold, edge-softening beer to take you away from this harsh reality, the mere sight of this imitation crap is a slap in the face. On poker night, however, it becomes a source of amusement.

I had never drank near-beer before, and when I asked Pete about it, he kind of shrugged. He summed it up as, "Its like this. Its not terrible, but the taste is off, and every time you have a sip, and realize the taste is off, its just another not-so-subtle reminder that you're in some shitty place you don't really want to be in. Its no substitute." By about my second near-beer, I found he was exactly right. Regardless, the game was fun. Some people were smoking cigars. Some people were bitching about stuff. There was a little stereo with an iPOD playing - one of the older PA's had plugged his particular iPOD in for the evening - and I found myself taken aback when runs of sixties music and classic rock came on. There I was, sitting around a dirty table outside near a helipad, unclean, on an army post, playing poker in a camoflauge uniform, with guns lying around, cigar smoke in the air, and Vietnam-era music like The Zombies ("what's your name, who's your daddy...") and Jefferson Airplane coming on. It was like having a Vietnam flashback through the portal of another, newer war, even though I was never at the first one. Then I realized that deployed people have been doing this shit for years. Doing anything to try and get a mental break from the grind of being deployed. No, this is not southeast Asia. Not even close. (It's south WEST Asia, actually.) But there are similarities.

Poker was fun for a break until the unfortunate occurred. It started when we saw two pilots running for the choppers. Somebody yelled, "Grab the cards!" as the rotors started up. The wind picked up and people were slapping hands down on cards, papers, and anything else light to prevent the artificial wind from blowing things everywhere.

"That's not good," someone remarked as the Blackhawk took off. But we resumed playing. After about 20 minutes, the chopper came back. There had apparently been an IED in the area. A routine patrol had stumbled upon it, and the thing detonated, and two soldiers were killed. Two of OUR soldiers. A third was injured, but not badly. And so what started as a fun poker night of diversion turned into a long and depressing reality check about what we are actually doing up here, which is continuing to be at war. One of the deceased soldiers was very popular amongst our medics, and his death has made the last few days very somber indeed. I had met the guy before myself, only briefly, and back in Germany. It was very much a shock.

The two deceased soldiers had been taken elsewhere. The third, injured soldier was brought here and evaluated by Jeff. He had some hearing loss and a headache, and was shell-shocked and shaken up, but was otherwise doing relatively OK. He had been probably 30 meters from the blast. The next day we spoke to our Task Force Chaplain, who said he had been up late talking with other soldiers about the casualties. He intimated that several soldiers are asking the question, "What are we even doing here? Did they (the deceased) die for nothing?" Nobody has a good answer for that question, of course. Since the chaplain told me that, i've been trying to formulate my own response to such a question should it ever be presented to me. Obviously, I would never let my politics get in the way of answering something like that, but it remains a difficult, if not impossible question to answer in any situation. And certainly in this one it takes the cake.

At this point, it remains unclear how long we will be here for. We heard we were leaving soon, then that we are staying longer. No one is quite sure, and the flow of information around here through official channels and down to us is poor at best. Normally, our best info about our potential goings or stayings comes from a day-old "Stars and Stripes" newspaper. And that fact....is sad. All we can do is shake our heads about it.

By the next post I should have an address. Hope all is well in "civilization" to anyone who is reading this.