PTSD et Finis

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whoever says that they’re not affected by having been in a war zone is lying, in denial, or a sociopath. It’s just a question of how. It took me two years from the time I returned home from Iraq to start feeling normal again. Upon first arriving home, I would rage inside at the smallest of things. My Army buddies that were with me all confirm this. After I got home, I would silently beg for someone to cut me off on the road so I could get out at a traffic light and beat them senseless. Kenny, Bill, and Keith all agree that if we got together in a bar shortly after returning home, we probably would have initiated a bar fight and beat up everyone in the room. Christine and Sally agree. Women are not immune. After about two years, I feel back to normal on that score. Another one is dogs. I had a dog growing up. I loved dogs. After seeing dogs feasting on human flesh, I can no longer stand to be around them. I’ll never own one again. I can tolerate being in the same room or house as a dog, but I don’t touch them or relate to them in any way. If a dog jumps up on me in excitement, I no longer politely push them aside or pet it.

Roadside debris, trash, or dead animals. I still give them a wide berth, or at least find myself staring at them to look for protruding wires or explosives. These were often used to hide IED’s. Right after I first got home, I used to wildly swerve out of the way of any of these objects on the road when I first sited them. I’m sure I’ve startled many a fellow driver doing this. Now, I just stare for the most part.

War is like bungee jumping, skydiving, surfing a tsunami wave, and having sex all in the same day. Every day. Invading and conquering a country is the ultimate Alpha Male (and female) experience – like “Capture the Flag” for adults. No drug or any other experience even comes close. Lots of soldiers bought motorcycles when they came home, found isolated stretches of road, and rode them as fast as they could go without a helmet or any other protective gear in order to try and feel the same adrenaline rush. I hear that out in the Midwest they were near setting land speed records, 160mph plus on the interstate.

Of course, the reverse is also true. Since I’ve come back from Iraq, not much scares or excites me. You put a lot of things into perspective. Outside of death, nothing really compares to war. Yawn. I’m not saying that I’m bored, far from it. It’s just that I don’t get spun up about things like I used to.

War affects different people in different ways. Many are permanently scarred by the experience. Also, no one really knows how they will react under those circumstances. I was doubly surprised – folks that I thought would acquit themselves well often acted disgracefully. Conversely, folks that I assumed would be basket cases turned out to have balls of steel. This includes most of the women that I served with. I was opposed to women in combat when I went over. In fact, I openly questioned women even serving in the military. I’ve returned a convert. So much for that stereotype – another one in the can.
As for stereotypes in general, they all go right out the window in downtown Baghdad. When you’re in a tight spot – or someone else is – and you see an American soldier with an American flag patch on his shoulder and you make eye contact, you give each other the “thumbs up”. Nobody’s checking for race, ethnicity, or gender. That bullshit is so out the door in a war zone that I can’t even conceive of it. Over there, we’re all AMERICANS. And for detractors who say we don’t have a culture or a history, I’ll meet you on Haifa Street in Baghdad and you can then try to convince me.
The expression “Army buddies” takes on a whole new meaning once you’ve served in a combat zone. These guys and gals are a second immediate family. Ever let your answering machine pick up while you’re eating dinner? We all do that – except if it’s a Baghdad brother or sister on the line, I pick up. I’ll do anything I can for any of my “Army buddies”, a lifetime guarantee. We all made sure that each of us would return home alive and lived and spent LITERALLY 24/7 together for a year. How can I express this in a way a civilian could understand? My biggest fear was being sent home early because I was either wounded, sick, or got orders for an early discharge. The thought of leaving my buddies in a combat zone while I went back to the states was unbearable to me. Many guys I know that got wounded fought return to the states. They insisted on remaining in Iraq until they got better, and then would return to their buddies in the unit. In fact, only amputees or other serious injury would see soldiers return to the states. They simply wouldn’t go otherwise.

But that’s about it. The memory bank is empty. I’m lucky. I really liked being in a war zone for a year. Conquering a country, helping to rid it of a totalitarian dictator. I would do it again, but never as a volunteer. I have a family and I want to be there for them. If I was single, I’d still be over there – rotating back and forth between Iraq and Afghanistan with maybe a little Horn of Africa thrown in. But if ordered, I would gladly go. I’m a patriotic adrenaline junkie, really no different from USAID folks or NGO’s who go to developing countries and build school houses and wells in war zones. Except I have a gun…..


This is my last blog entry. Thanks to all of my readers, and I hope that this was for the most part worth your time. If I go anywhere else before I retire from the military, I’ll keep you posted……

Pics

Quick! Stand in front of the window that's been shot out by snipers. Not one of my brighter moments. I clearly need to be sent out of the gene pool and not allowed to reproduce any more.

Roof top hot tub at our house. Note the antenna for satellite radio behind me. Rough life.

Baghdad traffic jam, er, normal traffic flow in Baghdad.

Meeting up with the locals soon after we got there. We were met with friendship and gratitude.

Taking a walking tour of our surroundings.

The Republican Palace, or "Big Head Shed". There were four heads - all Saddam - dressed as a Babylonian General. No humility problems whatsoever.

Furnishing our houses shortly after arrival.

Baghdad skyline - looking east over the Tigris River.

The Green Zone.

The Headquarters building of our unit, the 352nd Civil Affairs Command.

Just one of the many homes in the neighborhood where we lived. This one was eventually used by our Motor Sergeant.

Just arrived in town.

Walking into the Baghdad Convention Center. This would become our workplace and office for the next year.

Checking out Saddam's bedroom in the Baghdad Convention Center. Victory seldom tastes so sweet as laying on the bed of a dictator that you've just overthrown!

Picture of Saddam with a face cut out so that we could take post card pics. Kilroy was here.

War Stories

Since coming back, a major peeve of mine (and anyone else who’s been to Iraq or Afghanistan) is having to hear insufferable war stories from guys who served during the Cold War. Now, this is an “inside the house” thing that most civilians won’t get, but nevertheless I want to lay it out there. A Cold Warrior is a guy who generally came into the Army post-Vietnam and retired in the mid to late 1990’s. If he didn’t do Grenada in ’83, Panama in ’89, or Desert Storm in ’91, this guy saw no action. And even Desert Storm we Iraq vets call “The Three Day War”. But you get two or more of them together, and they just won’t shut up! You spend hours listening to harrowing tales of field exercises in Germany in winter when it was twenty below zero (been there, done that), or being in Korea on the DMZ (which I grant you is no small thing, but still doesn’t compare). Or visiting East Berlin and starring down the commies (which I also did, BTW, as a young lieutenant). One time shortly after I arrived home, I attended a function in downtown Washington. Across the table from me was a Vietnam War vet. The other six guys at the table were Cold Warriors. They wouldn’t shut up. The Vietnam Vet and I stared at each other, rolled our eyes. Finally, when one of these guys paused to take a breath, I looked over at the Vietnam vet and said, “tell me, in Nam did your fatigues ever dry out, or was it too humid?” His eyes lit up and he knew exactly where I was going. We started in talking about the weather differences between Iraq and Vietnam and took it from there. At least the Cold Warriors got to eat their dinners before they got cold.

Road Trip Doha, and home - Part 4

March 22, time to go. We went to the airfield. There, the most heartrending moment of our tour occurred. We passed once more through the “tax exempt” line and had our ID cards swiped through the magic machine. Our income was now taxable from this point on. At least we knew that there was no turning back, we were definitely going home. We waited at the tent city at the airfield for about three hours. I went to the local PX and bumped into Myiik! A great morale boost. He was on his way to some other destination, but I hadn’t seen him in months. Finally, our plane arrived and we went through customs. This was handled by the Air Force and as we were flying a commercial airliner, we had to be subjected to civilian search standards. We lined up in rows of thirty and emptied the contents of our raptor packs on to tables for inspection. An airman opened my shaving kit bag. Took out my nail clipper and broke off the one inch nail file, saying “you can’t have this”. I was standing there with my M-16 in my hand and ammunition in my pocket. How Mickey Mouse can you get? Rules. I looked at him and said, “you broke my nail file!” The guys to the right and left of me acknowledged what I had said (they were getting the same treatment) and I literally felt like pulling another “Custer Battles” episode. I could see that I would get a lot of support. But no, we’re getting on a plane to go home. Calm down. We stopped for a layover in Prague. As we were now out of the theater of operations, we could legally drink. The Commander led off and we lined up at the airport bar for a brew. Back on the plane, then landed at Pope Air Force Base next to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, where we initially mobilized to go over. We were there from March 22-31. First order of business: get a rental car. It was brutal a year ago being there with no wheels and having to walk everywhere. So that’s the first thing I did. I parked it right next to the crappy barracks that we stayed in. What did we do there? Turned in weapons, exit physicals, dental exams, records exams, leave forms, immunizations, financial forms, new ID cards. Over the weekend, I drove out to Ashville, North Carolina, and saw the Biltmore Estate, the largest private home in North America. Very relaxing.

March 31. Time to go home! We had a final brief, loaded our bags onto buses and boarded in a driving rain storm. Five and a half hours to our reserve center in Maryland. They were timing our arrival with the press and the arrival of dignitaries, so we had to stop several times. One final hassle. At long last, we pulled into the reserve center parking lot. I was one of the last guys off the bus. My wife and daughter ran up to me. It was so great to see them! Christine was there (she had returned the previous October) and took our picture. We drove home. Our house had been decorated by our friends and neighbors – balloons, signs, etc. Really nice. I was home, but didn’t feel like I was at home…………

IT AIN’T OVER YET, READERS! I STILL HAVE A FEW MORE STORIES, SO PLEASE DON’T GO AWAY.

Road Trip Doha - and home, Part 3

We spent the night and the next day, March 3, we entered Kuwait. The border guards were watching us pass by bored as hell. When we drove by, we waved and cheered. I think they figured out that we were going home and perked up, waving back and smiling. After the whole unit cleared the Kuwait border, we pulled off to the side of the road for a rest break. Out came the footballs and Frisbees. Lunch. Finally, we drove on to the Kuwait town of Doha, which contained a major US Army base. Doha is an easy drive of Kuwait City, to the north of the city. It had its own beaches and all the comforts of any American base in the States. The movie theater had first run movies that we saw before they hit the screens back home. There was a mall and a food court. But we had to stay in those blasted warehouses again. But this time individual cots, no bunk beds. This was our home from March 3 – 22. What did we do? Turned in our equipment. That meant that our Hummers had to be cleaned at this industrial wash rack. You put on your wet weather gear, grabbed a hose, and cleaned every square inch of your Hummer – for hours. Inspectors would look for Iraqi mud, dirt, and dust. None of that could come back to the US! We cleaned and turned all of our tentage. We lived in houses in Baghdad and lugged dozens of tents with us all the way up and all the way back. And so it went. Cleaned weapons but held onto them. We had plenty of down time. There was a beautiful Olympic size pool on post next to the beach. If you were a female soldier and liked male attention, at a ratio of 30-to-1, you wouldn’t be disappointed if you showed up at the pool with a bikini on. Talk about flies on honey!

The camp staff organized trips to Kuwait City for us. We went by the busload and had an escort of Military Police from the base who constantly gave us “threat briefings” and wanted to take us around the city in groups, herded by them. So this is the picture: about 100 soldiers who have spent a year in Baghdad, in civilian clothes, being herded by a handful of MP’s who had never been to Iraq and lecturing us about the “dangers” of Kuwait City. We bolted – en mass and right in the middle of yet another threat brief. The MP’s ordered us to stop and threatened dire consequences. We walked into town, with our colonels taking the lead in giving the MP’s the finger. Colonels, Lt. Colonels, Majors, NCO’s, privates, all of us. We split up into our groups of friends and had a great time in downtown Kuwait City. We all managed to meet back at the busses at the appointed time. Imagine that. All accounted for. And very grouchy MP’s telling us how much trouble we were in. Right. Never heard another word on the topic.

We spent one day driving our vehicles to the sea port. It was uneventful except for the fact that we didn’t see the logic of all that washing. We drove the Hummers down the dusty highways of Kuwait and the staging area for our vehicles was in a dirt surfaced holding area. With everything turned in and a week to go for our flight, we had a lot of time on our hands. We had a brigade volleyball tournament. We formed teams basically by rank. The officers had a team of majors and colonels that were self-selected by height. They were all at least 5 foot 10. I was on a team made up of NCO’s. We won the championship. It was sheer willpower – we weren’t going to get beaten by a bunch of tall officers!

Road Trip Doha - and home, Part 2

February 27, 2004, was the last day that the four of us were together, so I got them out of bed and had a couple of photos taken (see “The Bitter Enders” series). On the 28th, Bill had to go up to the airport and guard the unit’s equipment that was stored in connexes, Kenny went up on the 29th with the rest of the 352nd, and I left on March 1 with the 354th to begin the next phase of my odyssey. Keith had to move out of the HOC House and into his new quarters on the 29th. So I spent the last night in the HOC House with none of my friends and by myself in my room. It was creepy. Everyone in the house by that time were new, having been there from the last 2-3 months or sooner. Col Edwards, Christine, the Koreans, the Latvians, Top Carruthers, Kenny, Bill and Keith – all gone. By mid-Feb, the new guys started to come in and take over rooms. But Sidko and Bakumenko hadn’t left yet. The new guys would put little signs with their names on the rooms to show who would be staying where when the rooms became available. As these guys put a sign on Sidko’s room, he had just come back from a mission. He walked up in full view of the new guys, most of who outranked him, and pulled their sign off his door and put it in the trash! They meekly mumbled to themselves about jumping the gun and shuffled out of the house. You go, Sergei!

March 1 had arrived. I drove the lead vehicle for the entire convoy. Riding with me was Major Henry Norcom, 1st Lieutenant Idong Esiet, and Captain Kozar. I was on a first name basis with Henry as we were majors together. The lower ranking officers didn’t know what to make of that, but everyone was OK. We had a homemade armored Hummer which was much better than the ones they have now. It was high in the back and had firing ports. Anyway, the back was now stuffed with all of our gear. I showed up late with my Hummer and the new commander just shook his head and laughed. The departure time had been changed but no one told me. Not my bad. We formed up and headed out of the Green Zone for the last time. Heather Coyne and Bruce Fein both had extended their tours. On the way out, they were on the roadside and saluted us as we drove by. Nice. We made an uneventful trip to the airport. There, we were billeted in tent city for the day. We spent the day reviewing convoy procedures, the route of march, and “actions on contact” – what to do if we got ambushed or IED’d. I found Kenny and Bill at tent city. They were hanging out, waiting to fly home the next day. Lucky bastards.

March 2. We hit the main cloverleaf outside of Baghdad and headed back south by the same way that we came up. On the cloverleaf I noticed a mound of earth by one of the guardrails. I paid it no mind as were leaving the country. This was at 8 am. At 830, another convoy following us got hit with an IED at that spot. They were going home too. They lost a man. If the bomber hadn’t slept in or had an extra helping of eggs for breakfast, that IED would have been me. Halfway through the trip we deviated from the highway and went onto Route Tampa. This was a dirt track that went through the desert and avoided the main highway. It was now a major thoroughfare. We saw long columns of Marines passing us heading north to begin their tours. Hot. Dusty. Blinded by dust clouds from vehicles in front of us. But we made it without incident to Tallil Air Base, known as Cedars II. This place sure had changed from when we drove through the year before. It was now a major US Air Force base with several mess halls, and acres of beautiful, air conditioned tents. Stores, fast food. The works. Very nice. At the refueling point, we noticed a sign that read, “No Urinating at the Fuel Point”. The thought never crossed our minds – until we read the sign! What were they going to do to us? Send to Iraq? Watch your step, fuel point supply weenies.

Road Trip Doha - and home, Part 1

In the beginning of February 2004, we had one of those rare “all hands” meetings at the 352nd Command HQ. After chatting with folks that we hadn’t seen in months, we got down to business. Going home. The new Commander, now Brigadier General Blackledge (who was our 354th Brigade Commander) presided. First order of business: we were being replaced by the 350th Civil Affairs Command on February 20. At the time, all attached personnel would return to their parent units – no exceptions. Shit. I was attached. That meant that I had to go back to the 354th CA Brigade. Worse still, they had to drive all of their vehicles from Baghdad all the way back down the way we came to Kuwait and put them on ships to send home. The 352nd guys got to leave their vehicles with the 350th and fly straight home from Baghdad! Of the Bitter Enders, Keith had volunteered to extend his tour of duty in country for a year, and Kenny and Bill were in the 352nd, so they were flying home. I reported to the 354th on February 20 with a heavy heart. I knew that they were going to put me in the personnel section. I served there as an officer and did good work. So you know what that means: you’re the “personnel guy” in perpetuity. Fortunately, the NCO in charge was a delightful Jamaican named Master Sergeant Falby. She gave me the day off! She knew that I wasn’t in the best of moods. It pissed off her crew, but she knew what she was doing. I came back the next day with my attitude adjusted. From February 21 – 29, I did my personnel duty: processing awards, making sure soldiers files were straight, and monitoring evaluations. We had a giant awards ceremony for everyone at the same time. I followed the Commander (now Colonel Jacobs) through the formation with a giant silver platter of medals. As Colonel Jacobs worked his way through the formation, he would stop at each soldier. The Adjutant would read the award citation I got to look at everyone’s face as they received their awards. Those that got Bronze Stars were beaming – this is a very prestigious award that can only be obtained in a combat zone. Those that got Army Commendation medals were mad, or in the case of several female soldiers, started to cry. This medal is a goob award that anyone can get in peacetime or war. So the award you received was a direct function of the commander’s and your peer’s perception of how you handled yourself in a combat zone. I got a Bronze Star, a Joint Service Commendation Medal, and a Certificate of Service from Amb Paul Bremer (why do you think I went down this path of narrative?).

Several folks knew in advance what medal they were getting. Those receiving Army Commendation Medals didn't want to be "awarded" their medals - and suffer the humiliation - in front of the whole unit. Colonel Jacobs insisted that everyone, no exceptions, would receive their awards in public. Upon our return from Iraq, Colonel Jacobs' award came through. It was an Army Commendation Medal. He didn't receive it in front of the unit.

Fresh Meat

February 2004. Within weeks of departure. I began my morning routine. Coffee. In my Iraqi prison garb, flip flops, checking the Hummers for bombs. I look down the road to my left and on both sides of the road in two columns come a bunch of guys in brand new uniforms and new M-4 carbines with custom slings, marching in column formation but with their rifles pointed outward in tactical style. Must be our replacements. Practicing. As I watched them come closer, Keith came out of the house and up to the sidewalk where I was standing. Never in a good mood in the morning, he had a mission first thing that day. He was in his usual mission garb: a desert brown “drive-on rag” on his head, back “bear” jacket, regulation army trousers, boots. Sunglasses and a non-regulation MP-3 submachine gun slung on his shoulder. Smoking a cigarette. He saw the newbies coming but didn’t say anything. Next comes Kenny. Going with Keith on the mission. Mohawk haircut. Biker jacket on. Trousers, boots, Russian RPK machine gun with bi-pod. Also smoking a cigarette. Finally, the new troops start walking by in front of us. Keith says, “who are these guys?” I said, “fresh meat”, loud enough for them to hear. Kenny starts to sniff the air, turns to us and says, “I smell clothing sales”. New uniforms. So there we were. The three of us, deeply-tanned-could-almost-pass-for-Arab, outlandishly dressed, been there - done that, watching pale faced, sunburned goobs who didn’t have a clue, our replacements. We didn’t want to know them. They could be dead tomorrow.

The Interpreters

Until now, I have only obliquely referred to our interpreters. We had around 45 of them at any one time and they were some of the finest, bravest people I have ever known. Iraq is a very cosmopolitan country and Baghdad is a microcosm. There are Sunni Muslim Arabs, Shia Muslim Arabs, ethnic Kurds (both Sunni and Shia), Christians (almost a million when we arrived) who are descendents of Assyrians and not technically Arab, Turks, and several smaller people groups. There are also about 70,000 Nabeteans (followers of John the Baptist) as well. We had all of these groups represented in our interpreter staff. The men dressed in western style and the women from tight blue jeans to abayas (the black head-to-toe coverings). They were largely a very idealistic group of people and saw us as their ticket to a democratic society after nearly 25 years of Saddam. Almost from the beginning, they were under threat of violence from insurgents and fellow Iraqis who didn’t think that they should be working for us. Several of them had relatives kidnapped while we were there. The women all traveled to work in abayas so that they couldn’t be recognized. They lived in Baghdad proper and were lucky to have six hours of electricity a day – this in a country where the thermometer tops 100 degrees for the first time in April and doesn’t dip below 100 again until October. After the Green Zone was established, we nearly always had electricity, 24/7. These folks ran a number of agencies that we set up so that they could provide walk-in social services to their fellow countrymen. They went shopping for us downtown and coordinated catering services so that we could get good Iraqi food for parties and home dining.

After we departed and our replacements took over, the situation in Iraq started to deteriorate. Many of our interpreters were seeking asylum and/or to immigrate to the US. At first, the Bush administration was very slow in setting up a way to streamline their entrance into the US. But the logjams were eventually cleared and they can come in more easily. Several of our interpreters are already in the US with their families and have green cards – well on their way to becoming citizens. There is a large population of Iraqis that live in the Detroit area. But they are now second and third generation and have never been to Iraq. Most of our interpreters have tried living there, but left. They weary of explaining to these nostalgic Arab Americans that have never been to Iraq that it’s not the idyllic place that they had been told about. They also found them to be very militant (easy to do when your butt isn’t in the firing line). So they continue to come to the Washington, DC, area. And like the Vietnamese before them, they will be excellent examples of our great melting pot.

The Squeegee Men

No journal of Iraq would be complete without a brief story about the Squeegee Men. Iraq is a very sandy, dusty place as I have already laid out. In order to keep any interior of any building looking clean, an army of men in blue jumpsuits spend an entire day pushing broom handles with squeegees attached across all the smooth surfaces of any floor that wasn’t carpeted. They were everywhere, like an army of janitors. And they were needed! In the course of a day, the floor would be squeegeed in the morning and I’ll be damned if there wasn’t a thin layer of dust on the floor by late afternoon. I tried to get a blue jumpsuit, but the Squeegee Man supervisor wouldn’t part with one. I got an orange one, but it wasn’t the same. This was the only item in Iraq that I was unable to successfully wheel, deal, or scrounge for.

The Third Guard Rotation

By February 2004 the Baghdad Convention Center was on its third rotation of guards. The first were the 3rd Infantry Division. They were followed by an infantry company of the Florida National Guard. One of their guys was killed on a mission to Baghdad University. It greatly affected their morale for the rest of their tour. Casualties I think affect reservists and guardsmen more because in addition to being in the same unit, they know each other from home. Anyway, they were replaced by the 82nd Airborne Division. This is America’s “Ready Division” and these paratroopers are usually the most gung-ho warriors in the Army. They took over guarding the Convention Center and on day one we rolled up in our SUV’s to go to work: Army reservists who were approaching one year in country, older than the active duty guys, and not really too patient with new guys who hadn’t seen any combat. We were made to stop, disembark our SUV’s, and submit to an extensive search of our vehicle (what did we they think we were, insurgents in disguise? With American accents?). Kept asking where we got the SUV’s. The Staff Sergeant in charge was the same rank as me but probably 20 years younger. So, there I was, an old Staff Sergeant and a reservist to boot – therefore not making much of a positive impression on our young man. I was patiently submitting to this asinine vehicle inspection and the rookie’s asinine questions when he noted my 9mm walnut handled Baretta sitting on the arm rest. He asked to look at it and admired it very greatly. By this time, I was running late to the office and lost my patience. He asked, “where did you get this?” I said: “YOU HAD TO BE HERE FOR THE INVASION TO GET ONE!” Even this arrogant little shit got the message and let us through. No more hassles from then on.

M-I-C, K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E

In the past, I’ve referred to the fact that the longer the Army is in a place, the more that “Mickey Mouse” rules are put in place and enforced. Here are four examples of rules that slowly evolved after we were in Baghdad for nearly a year.

PT Tests. PT stands for Physical Training. In the Army, you have to have one at least once a year. Push-ups, sit-ups, 2 mile run. Now mind you, when you’re mobilizing to go to war, nobody cares. The main reason is that if they made passing the test a pre-condition for going to war, there would be a lot of fakers. But once you’re there, eventually it becomes a priority again. Ours was scheduled for January 30, 2004, in the Green Zone. It was in part a fun time because we re-connected with folks in our unit that we hadn’t seen in several months as everyone was scattered all over the Green Zone and the country conducting their missions. Anyway, we were put through the motions of doing our push-ups and sit-ups. So far so good. Then came the 2 mile run. Some genius had the run routed up to the Assassins Gate and back. Hello! The Assassins Gate was the scene of an earlier car bomb attack! Needless to say, even though the gate was at the half way mark of the run, everyone somehow had a burst of energy at the point and pivoted around the gate almost at a full sprint. Kenny threw up on the way back. Couldn’t we have done this when we got back to the states?

Speed limits. The Military Police (MP) started to enforce a 25 mph speed limit. We had a few questions for them: If we’re caught in an ambush, do we get an exemption on enforcement? Is there a Traffic Court that we can appeal to? Does the ticket involve a fine? If so, how much and who do we pay? Do I get points on my military driver’s license? What happens if I get too many, does that mean I can’t drive my Hummer anymore? Do you need to see proof of insurance and vehicle registration? You know, when we were driving to Baghdad in 2003, we couldn’t get there fast enough!!

Seat belts. The MP’s also started to enforce the wearing of seat belts in our 25 mph New World. We vehemently protested. What if there is a blocked ambush and we have to un-ass our vehicles? The answer (I’m not kidding): “There haven’t been any reported cases of occupants getting killed because they couldn’t get out of their seat belts.” So you see, before we consider changing the policy, someone has to die. We refused to obey this rule, and were stopped repeatedly. We told the MP’s to just write us up, because we were not going to obey and we didn’t care who they told. After awhile, they didn’t stop us anymore. After all, what were they really going to do? Send us to Baghdad? Pull us off combat missions that were vital to our unit’s operations because of a seat belt rule?

Gas. The Army has big gas tankers just like you see on the road, except ours are painted camouflage. For the first 10 months or so, you simply pulled up to the first tanker you saw and pumped your own diesel directly out of the tanker. Then one morning, we went to our usual place to get gas and were told that we weren’t authorized to get it at the tanker anymore! Why not? Well, we didn’t belong to the unit that the tanker was assigned to. But isn’t it all ultimately the Army’s gas? I mean, it’s not like you have proprietary brands like Exxon or BP. So we almost ran out of gas trying to find “our” tanker. Ridiculous.

All of these things reminded me of why I originally left active duty and can only stay in uniform for about 12 months at a time. The Army can’t help itself: after a certain period of time, they OCD on Mickey Mouse and drive everyone crazy.

Hawkeye, Trapper, Houlihan, and Father Mulcahy go to Amman - Part 3

The next day was the last day of the convention. So we started planning the convention “follow-up”, otherwise known as two days of touring Jordan. Through Bill’s travel contacts we got a driver. All four of us went to the Red Sea, Mount Nebo, and Petra. First was Mount Nebo. Now owned by the Catholic Church, this is the place where God showed Moses the Holy Land (BTW – you can in fact see the whole thing from this location). After Mt. Nebo, we went down to the Red Sea. Bill and I went “swimming”, Sally did not. It’s impossible to sink in the Dead Sea. You are so buoyant that I laid on my back and stuck both arms and legs in the air and could still turn my head and have a conversation with Bill. But don’t get any of that water in your eyes! It’s like rubbing Tabasco sauce in them. The sea floor is smooth mud. After a half hour or so of playing around, our eyes had had it, so we went ashore, changed and had lunch. On to Petra. If you’ve seen “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”, this is where the end of the movie was filmed. It has miles of ruins and cave structures from several past civilizations. We spent the whole day there. We got a local hotel for the night and Bill and I fell asleep laughing and watching episodes of “The Family Guy” that he had on his computer. The next day we were back in Amman and checked back in to the Grand Hyatt. One more night out and then off to the military airport. This time, a Royal Jordanian Airlines charter would take us back to Baghdad. I remember that morning waking up hung over, but chugging the last half bottle of white wine with Bill until there was no wine left. We were drunk getting on the plane. It was a small prop job that seated around 40 people. I remember flying over Ramadi and Fallujah. Easy trip and sober by the time we landed. The boys from the IAC met us at the airport. They had many things on their agenda that day and picking us up was just one. They asked if we wanted to stop at the Burger King (by that time, there was a Burger King at the Baghdad Airport). We told them no thanks, we had room service for breakfast. That led to nice comment from Keith. So we went from a five star hotel back to our bombed out, fly bitten reality in Baghdad. Sigh.

POSTSCRIPT: About a year later, the Grand Hyatt Amman was attacked by a suicide bomber from Iraq. Nine people were killed.

Hawkeye, Trapper, Houlihan, and Father Mulcahy go to Amman - Part 2

There was, however, a convention going on. And we had to set up and man a booth. It wasn’t in the hotel. So we had to get a taxi there. First things first. Breakfast. Most magnificent buffet I’ve ever seen. Jordanians say they have the best olives in the world. They’re right. They had at least a dozen different kinds of olives, along with the usual Sunday Brunch buffet line, eggs to order, etc. I ate two plates full of olives and some coffee. This was my breakfast the whole time I was there. The rest of that day was uneventful. Found the convention site, set up our booth. But we did go to the military terminal and pick up Colonel Edwards. Coinciding with our trip, he had transferred to the job at Amman and left the IAC in command of Lt. Colonel Arenas. So he was out of the HOC house and had all of his gear with him. He was in civilian clothes and was wearing a black leather trench coat that he had made in Baghdad. That night, the boys went out. Simon didn’t drink and didn’t go. Sally was prepping for the next day. Me, Bill, and COL E hit the town. Amman is quite cosmopolitan and you can bar hop quite easily. There are also a number of American chain restaurants there, like TGI Fridays. So we moved about from nightclub to nightclub, and eventually dropped off COL E at his hotel. The nightclub scene in Jordan is different in one very important way. In the same way that western girls dance with each other here because guys won’t dance, in Jordan men dance together because no self-respecting Arab girl would be out at a night club. So that was weird. Bill and I danced together once (no, it wasn't a slow dance!) and that was all the cultural immersion that we needed.
Next day, Sally went with me as I went clothes shopping. I needed a pair of shoes and a tie for the convention. We stopped at a mall that looked like anything you’d find in the states and made the purchases. Bill was busy putting together all his stuff for the convention. First day went without a hitch. The usual convention stuff: speakers, plenary sessions, trade show. That night we went to the Dutch Embassy for a reception that they were hosting for the convention attendees and hosts. Simon got us invites. Nice guy, but he came to regret it. The Dutch Embassy is very nice, and they have a large, well appointed Grand Ballroom. Bill and I loaded up on the free bar and were pretty tanked by the time they brought out the buffet. We stuffed our faces and drank some more. Just as we were leaving the buffet for the third time, the Dutch Ambassador was announced. Everyone applauded and he went to the podium, which coincidentally was right at the end of the buffet line, but elevated on a platform. Bill and I were at that spot. When he arrived at the podium, I did my best Mike Myers imitation from the movie “Goldmember” and shouted, “I think he’s Dutch, isn’t that funny!” The room went silent except for Bill, who laughed. Simon buried his head in his hands. Sally had no clue what was happening. She was in the back of the room fending off the attentions of two Dutch lesbians that worked at the Embassy. I wasn’t so drunk that I hadn’t realized this was a major faux pas, was ecstatic that I wasn’t in uniform, and with Bill slunk off to the rear of the ballroom. The Ambassador made his speech and the reception carried on.

Hawkeye, Trapper, Houlihan, and Father Mulcahy go to Amman - Part 1

If you’ve seen the movie MASH, this was like the trip that Hawkeye and Trapper took to Tokyo to operate on a General Officer. This trip happened in January 2004. The brainchild of Bill Kaminsky, it involved us going to Amman, Jordan, to set up a booth and take part in an Iraq business development convention. During my tour of duty, I had made sure that all of my guys had gotten to go on junkets. Colonel Edwards insisted that I go on this one as I hadn’t been on any. So I went. With me were Bill, Sally, and Simon Lefevre, who as the only officer was in charge.

On the appointed day, we went to the Baghdad Airport and took a C-130 to Amman’s military airport. It was about one and a half hours. Once on the ground, passports were checked and US soldiers assigned to the Embassy took us to the Grand Hyatt Amman. All the way there, these guys kept hassling us about the fact there we were in uniform. This is a big no-no in Jordan. Too high a profile and you could be a terrorist target. Well, first of all no one told us and second you had to be in uniform to fly an Air Force aircraft. So we told them we would change as soon as we got to the hotel, which they took us to in vehicles rented for them by the embassy – rough life!
We got to the hotel and as we were waiting in line to check in they continued to bug us about being in uniform! What do you want us to do, strip right here in the lobby? Give me a break already. I get it. We got our rooms: Bill and I shared one, Sally had hers, and Simon his. So picture this: three people already nearly a year in a combat zone (Simon was a new arrival at that time) arrive at a five star hotel with no transition. WHO LET THE DOGS OUT? WOOF. WOOF. In our room, we had twin queen size beds with these enormous comforters on them. So Bill and I took turns doing swan dives into the comforters. After that, we investigated the rest of the room. The bathroom had huge whirlpool tub. Dead Sea Bath Salts. Ointments and lotions. Me first! I stripped off right then and started the bath. I spent about an hour in there jet spraying Iraqi dust off of me. As I was drying off, I heard Bill ordering room service. He asked about the red wine selection. After a few seconds, I heard him say, “oh never mind, just send up a bottle of your best!”. Within minutes, we got a $110 bottle of really nice French wine. We killed it in minutes and got another one. And so it went the whole time we were there. Some perspective: the US government was being charged $99 a night for the rooms. We stayed four nights. Our bill was $2300. After the second bottle of wine, we went to Sally’s room. She had ordered a meal. Food! We hadn’t thought about that. So we ordered to her room as well. Steaks. Lobster. More wine. Bill in his capacity as the employment counselor in Baghdad had made a lot of contacts. One such contact was a guy that owned a travel agency in Amman. He called and this guy’s assistant showed up at Sally’s door with a satchel filled with food and another six bottles of Jordanian wine! Ten percent of Jordan’s population is Christian and they own a number of up and coming vineyards. Simon came over to Sally’s room and we ate, drank, and partied. Except Simon. He didn’t drink. He went back to his room around 11pm and I quite frankly don’t remember when Bill and I stumbled back to our room.

HOW MANY OF THE 10 BIBLICAL PLAGUES DO WE HAVE IN IRAQ?

Frogs - YES
Flies - YES
Locusts - NO
Flaming Hail - YES
Darkness - YES
Angel of Death - YES
Boils - YES
River turning to blood - NO
Gnats - YES
Livestock dying - YES

R & R Leave - Part 3

All good things come to an end. She dropped me off at the American side of the airbase and drove off. It was tough. I spent one more night at the Air Force quarters. Getting back to Iraq was more problematic. I had to wait several flights before I could get on. Finally, a commercial charter had room and I was off – to Qatar by way of Bahrain! That’s what you have to do, get close to where you want to go and wait for a plane to take you on in. So we stopped in Bahrain for a short layover, then back on the plane to Qatar. The air base is literally in the middle of a white sand desert – you need sunglasses two walk around outside. Spent the night in Qatar, then caught an Air Force C-130 propeller driven cargo aircraft. It stopped in Bahrain – again – for a short layover then on to Baghdad. On the plane with me was a reserve unit that was just arriving in country! So I was the only “veteran” on the plane. These guys were green, nervous. When we got over Baghdad, I grabbed the cargo straps above me and yelled, “hang on!”. They didn’t know what I was talking about. The aircrew immediately manned their positions and started to look for SAFIRE, surface-to-air fire attempting to shoot down the plane. Instead of the usual glide path to the tarmac, you had to arrive 20,000 feet over Baghdad and then corkscrew in to the tarmac. It was a wild roller coaster ride! Some guys were losing their lunch. Once on the ground, I yelled out “Welcome to Baghdad!”. The shaken troops proceeded off the plane and grabbed their gear. Once on the ground, they did quickly regain composure and moved out with determination. Since I couldn’t predict when I would be back, no one was there to meet me. So I had to take the dreaded airport shuttle bus back to the Green Zone. Scariest ride of my life! Remember, I had no weapons. The bus left at dusk and had an escort, an Military Police Hummer in the front and one in the back. Armored Hummers with .50 cal machine guns. Inside was the driver, a retired Marine who wasn’t phased by anything, and a “couple”. They were two enlisted folks who spent the whole trip necking. Just the three of us passengers. I didn’t have a helmet but the savvy driver had a spare for me to wear. As we were leaving and while the couple were necking, I moved through the bus and closed all the curtains. Then, I sat on the floor right behind the driver. Didn’t want to be in a seat should we get ambushed. The driver was really cool guy. He was a Vietnam veteran from Texas and they were paying him so much money that he was able to save up enough to send his two kids to college. He had a few months to go and he’d be home. We made it back safely. The bus dropped us off at the palace, so I had to walk home the last mile. I brought back a bottle of Jagermeister and one of Apfelkorn. In those days, the Air Force didn’t check your bags. There was a movie on at the house when I came in and I was warmly greeted by my comrades. Home.

R & R Leave - Part 2

I had one full day there before my wife came. I rented a car. I mailed all my loot home. My brother showed me around. That night, he had some friends over. Not a single one asked me about Iraq. They talked about everything but Iraq. Here they were, sitting at a training base with no one to train (because everyone was in Iraq) and nothing to do. I didn't get it. My wife flew into Munich. I borrowed my brother's big honking SUV instead of taking the compact I rented and hung T-shirts on the clothes hooks to cover all the windows. More room for the “reception” in the airport parking lot. Nice to have a two week break from happy socks before returning to another six months of celibacy. We used my brother's house as a base and made four mini-trips. The first one was to Prague. We took a train there. We stayed at the Hotel Palais for three nights. My dad paid for it. A five star hotel with everything, right in the middle of Prague. We did the tourist thing and went back to Hohenfels. Next trip was a 2-day jaunt to Starnberger See, a large lake south of Munich. We rented bikes and rode around the lake, staying at a hotel at the southern tip of the lake. This was the lake that Mad King Ludwig, the founder of the Oktoberfest, drowned in. What a great man! Trip three was to eastern Germany and Poland. We stayed in the town of Bautzen. It was your typical beautiful Medieval German town. From there, we went into Poland. I bought a glass portrait of Lenin which I have in my office at home next to my bas relief of Stalin and posters of Saddam (on my “trophy” wall). We did some touring around Silesian Poland and then back to my brother's house. Last trip was to Oktoberfest. This was by train. No driving after Oktoberfest. It was my brother's first, so this was a special bonus for me. My wife and I had gone in 1989. So this was her second, my fourth. We went to the Lowenbrau "Beer Tent" - a cavernous place that probably held at least 2-3000 people. We were lucky to get a table close to the band with a group of Australians. Perfect. We could talk about the Germans while getting drunk. Which we did. Had a great time. Managed to catch the right train home. The room spun that night for hours.

R & R Leave - Part 1

R & R. Rest and Relaxation. I was the first person in the IAC to go on leave. I wanted to go before they made rules. My hunch was right. Shortly after I came back, the Army had set up a very elaborate set of rules for R & R leave. First, you had to go to the States. Second, you flew out in groups on assigned dates. You couldn’t pick your own. Use it or lose it. Third, you had a block of 14 days that you had to take. No more or less. I didn’t want to go home for several reasons: everyone would want to see you, no time to yourself, by the time you’re acclimated you have to go back, and most importantly you’d have to say goodbye all over again. I was vindicated in this position as our guys started to go on R & R leave the Army way. Not a single person that took leave said it was worth it for all the reasons I’ve stated. As time went on, more and more guys just didn’t take leave. They cashed it in when they came home. Colonel Edwards approved the leave and I was off from September 9-23. I planned this very carefully. I was meeting my wife in Germany. She left our daughter at home at my request. She was four at the time and wouldn’t remember any of it. She stayed with my brother, his wife and five kids. Oktoberfest in Munich started on September 20. So I wanted to end the trip there. Another brother was stationed in Hohenfels, Germany, at the American Army base there. The plan was to hop an Air Force plane to Frankfurt and then a train to Hohenfels. I was stationed in Germany for three years while on active duty, so getting around wouldn’t be a hassle. On September 9, my buds drove me to the airport. I had to leave my weapons, which was really strange. I felt unprotected. Naked. I had my raptor pack (army backpack with a camel drinking pouch inside – hydrate or die!) and my kit bag stuffed with booty that would soon be listed as contraband by the Army. I went to the Air Force hut that served as a passenger terminal and presented my leave papers. I was matter-of-factly processed and steered into what you might call a gate area. It was a large Quonset hut, air conditioned, theater seating, water, stacks of MRE’s (meals-ready-to-eat), and a large screen TV with movies playing 24/7. You just sat there and watched movies and ate until they called your destination. I was very lucky flying out. I was one of the first and even though I was standby no one was really flying to Germany in any great numbers. I only waited a few hours when they came in and yelled, “Germany!”. All of us going went outside and placed our bags on wooden pallets to be tied down and loaded on the plane. We sat on the ground by the pallets outside for another hour or so. By this time it was dark. Finally, a bus showed up. After showing our leave papers and ID’s for the hundredth time, we headed toward the bus. On the way, we noticed tracer fire above our heads. I said, “big sky, little bullet, don’t worry about it”. And then someone took up a chant, “get on the plane, get on the plane”. Some guys were getting a little sketchy. But everyone got on. It was a C-17. Huge new cargo plane. It was so stable in flight that we had to be told that we took off and that we landed. You could have played basketball in the cargo hold. After takeoff, we lounged around, spread out on the floor, slept, watched DVD’s on computers. The flight was five hours. When we landed, we were directed to Air Force transient headquarters. It was too late to get anywhere, and we were on the Air Force side of Frankfurt airport and the shuttle busses had stopped running for the day. I had to get to the Frankfurt side because that’s where the train station was. The Air Force issued me a towel, pillow, sheets, and a blanket and I had to share a room with three other guys. Hey, it was free. I wasn’t complaining. And the mess hall was free with leave papers. The next morning I had breakfast and took the first shuttle to the Frankfurt Airport side. I had no trouble finding a train to take me to Hohenfels. I was in my desert brown camouflage and my raptor pack had Iraq dust on it. I got into a compartment on the train with three Germans. One look at my uniform and the two of them were disgusted/horrified. One of them asked if the dust on my raptor pack was from Iraq. I said yes and he shifted away from me. Hours later as we got off the train, the one guy who didn’t give me any grief got off last, shook my hand, and said thank you. If you’re pro-American in Germany these days, you have to keep it under wraps. So much for saving your kraut asses from the Soviet Union for 45 years. Pricks. At Hohenfels, I had to wait for the only taxi in town and she was on a lunch break. So I went into a local Gasthaus for lunch. I was in Bavaria now and close to an American Army base. So the locals were very nice and helpful. After lunch, I took a taxi to my borther’s house. His wife was there. I crashed on the sofa fully clothed. She put a blanket on me as I passed out. Day One.

Senator Clinton Visits the Troops

Almost from the very start of our occupation of Iraq, we were inundated with visits by members of Congress on “factfinding” missions and (their real reason for visiting), getting photo ops with the troops. One day, I was coming back from lunch at the Al Rasheed when I noticed that the door to my office complex in the Baghdad Convention Center was locked. Strange. Oh well, there were three doors. I proceeded down the hall to the second door and it too was locked. Very strange. So I rounded the corner to the third and final door, which was a double door that opened out into a visitors lobby. That door was open, and as I walked inside everyone the office was scurrying around and barricading the two locked doors from the inside! I immediately thought that insurgents had penetrated the building and asked what the threat was. Christine said, “Hillary Clinton is in the building!” I immediately grasped the urgency of the situation and closed the double doors behind me. I locked the doors, slid my desk in front of the door and others assisted me in adding more boxes, chairs, etc., to the barricade. Once completed, around 15 or so of us sat in silence like a submarine crew trying to avoid being depth-charged by a destroyer on the surface. All the lights out. We had one of our Iraqi interpreters call us to let us know when the coast was clear. Now mind you, EVERYONE in the office was of one mind on this: white soldiers, black soldiers, coalition soldiers, male/female, you get the picture. If Senator Clinton came in, she would have a camera crew in tow and no one wanted to be posted to her webpage. We found out later that her staff was looking for a black soldier and a female soldier to eat lunch with her. No volunteers. So said soldiers were ORDERED to each lunch with her. I’ve seen the publicity photo. Both of the unfortunate soldiers are looking away from her and have that look on their faces like they would rather be in a firefight than sitting there. Note to politicians: please leave us alone.

The Bitter Enders - Kenny

Kenny Kratman. Kenny. Kenny. Kenny. Where do I begin? Kenny was my battle buddy. This meant that we looked out for each other when we went on a mission. I wanted Kenny to be my battle buddy because he was an ex-Marine who had done a tour in East Timor when that place was going to hell in 1999. I first met Kenny when I moved into the HOC house. He’s about six feet tall, skinny, Mohawk haircut. A biker. Gray Ghosts, Virginia Chapter. Brought his own ammo to the war – match grade M-16 ammo. This stuff would penetrate tank armor. He was a crack shot. Not a sniper trained, but close. Tattoos. The Misfits logo on his left forearm. I noticed that he addressed me as “Staff Sergeant”, my full rank, instead of just “sergeant”. The Army addresses all NCO’s as “sergeant” except for First Sergeants and Sergeants Major. The Marines address each NCO rank by their full title. That’s how Kenny stood out to me originally. His father was Jewish and his mother Irish. He spent his early childhood in South Boston. Good training for the Marines. They divorced and his mom remarried. Moved to New Mexico. Mother became an alcoholic and a drug addict. Kenny revered his step-father, who was a Marine. Step-father died young. Kenny had no formal education after High School and preferred to work in the trades. He was a stone mason. But if you’ve seen the movie, “Good Will Hunting”, he had a lot in common with the Matt Damon character. He had a natural proficiency for languages, spoken and written. After Iraq, I went to a Thai restaurant with him. He spoke the waitress in Thai (he “picked it up” in Thailand on a Marine tour there). When I say he spoke to her, I mean they had a conversation in Thai. It wasn’t “Hello, I’ll have the number 37”, it was a full blown conversation. After she took our order, he proceeded to tell me all about her. On another occasion in Baghdad, we were hosting a party at our house (at this point the reader should take that phrase as a redundancy). One of the female soldiers had a Japanese symbol tattooed on her forearm. She proceeded to tell us what it meant. Kenny contradicted her, and dissecting the symbol showed her what it really meant (I’ve since forgotten). He “picked up” Japanese calligraphy also while in the Marines.

Kenny was a total slob. A slob’s slob. He made enough room to lie down on his bed, but his surroundings were the detritus of his existence. Want to know what he had for dinner four days ago? It’s there. Want to see what he wore last week? He’s still wearing it. One time, he asked me if I wanted to try some brownies that a relative had sent him. Foolishly, I said yes. He picked up a pair of filthy combat boots and underneath them wrapped in wax paper were the brownies. I had no idea how long they had been there. They were a little stale. I munched on a corner of one and feigned going to the bathroom where I disposed of said brownie. But aside from the smoking (I told him to smoke outside) his sloppiness didn’t bother me. And my snoring didn’t bother him. We were the perfect roommates. Poor Enzo. Kenny was a smoker. Like a chimney and always out. Bumming cigs off of fellow smokers. A total mooch. Kenny knew all the Iraqi vendors in the Green Zone that sold alcohol. Kenny was an alcoholic. He could drink a case of Heineken and not feel it. He was a shitty drunk. Not a happy, “everyone into the pool” kind of drunk, but a mean, surly, want-to-kick-your-ass kind of drunk. Sober, he was Dr. Jekyl. One the kindest, nicest guys you could ever meet – unless you were an insurgent. A real softie. He would feed stray cats that came by. He named one of them “DC”, because to survive as an animal in Baghdad, you had to be tough. Down the street from us were a contingent of the Kuwaiti National Police. They were looking for their fellow nationals that Saddam had kidnapped and taken back to Iraq during Desert Storm (they found none alive). There were 8 of them. Initially, they were a big help to us. Speaking Arabic and having no fear of Iraqis, they would go downtown and shop for us. But they were products of their culture. They were Sunni Muslims. Like most Sunnis, they believed that Shia Muslims were little better than dogs, and treated them as such. They had “acquired” a 15 year old Shia girl who had run away from home. Using her for sexual favors and housekeeping. Kenny rescued her from the house and brought her over to our house. But we couldn’t let her stay there. We had to release her into the general population of Baghdad. Kenny was shattered. I had to console him for some time after that. But it was better for her to run to a Shia neighborhood that to go back to the Kuwaitis. Kenny used to tell tall tales about the female soldiers in our unit and how they all wanted him. It was funny. He actually thought that we believed him. Of course, we would confirm with the girls that they had no interest. But on two separate occasions, Kenny asked permission to visit some “old flames” that were also in the Army and were passing through the Green Zone. He described them both as “hotties”. I had to see for myself to report back on the veracity of this story – especially in light of his “popularity” with the girls in our unit. They were hotties. You go, Kenny.
In addition to being an “idiot savant” with regard to languages, Kenny was also that way with computers. In fact, when we lost our IT guy (the Latvian warrant officer Mareks Skangalis), Kenny stepped in. He became the network administrator for the IAC and the Help Desk. No training. Kenny got into trouble a lot. And it all involved drinking. Twice in our tour, he had to receive a personal dressing down from Col Edwards and forced to abstain. When he wasn’t working, he was a prospective felon looking for a felony to commit. Bill says that that Kenny “is a junk yard dog that bites everyone, but he’s our junkyard dog.” When he was working, there was no one you would rather have on your side. Even though he was a junior sergeant, I would routinely designate him as “mission commander” whenever we went outside the wire. He was tactically smart and fearless. Although before going on a mission, he would often have “premonitions” that this would be a bad one. The first two times he did that, nothing happened. So the superstition arose that whenever Kenny had a “bad feeling”, things would go alright. Kenny was awarded twice for his coolness under fire. During our unit’s Change of Command ceremony, Kenny spotted a sniper on a nearby rooftop and “neutralized” him. On another occasion, he extracted a group that he was in charge of that were about to be ambushed from the rooftops on both sides of the street in downtown Baghdad. He found an old beat up motorcycle shortly after we arrived there and spent the rest of the tour fixing it up – literally dissembling and reassembling the whole thing. He was a patient instructor and taught me how to shoot better. He ran – with Mareks – a computer class for our Iraqi interpreters, their first experience with computers. While in Iraq, his wife instituted divorce proceedings against him. Each letter would bring more horrendous news: his house sold out from under him, all his possessions save his motorcycle sold or thrown away. He had given his wife Power of Attorney over all his estate while he was in Iraq. What a honey. And to this day my wife still gets mad at me when I refused to do the same before I left! Kenny had panic attacks. Sometimes they were so bad that I had to just hold him for several minutes. He would just lock up. Couldn’t move. I guess war and your whole world as you knew back home being dissolved will do that to you.
Kenny flew out of Iraq three weeks ahead of me. I met up with him last in Iraq at the airport. He had “befriended” a female Colonel! They were an item. The 28 year-old sergeant and the 40-something Colonel. When he got back from Iraq, he went back to stone mason work. Got in a lot of trouble outside of work. Asked for and received permission to go to Afghanistan for a year. Came back, got into a lot more trouble. Diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Kenny’s now at the Federal Prison at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, for two felonies. I’ll not say what they are and will visit him when I can. He was my Battle Buddy.

Me. Kenny. Bill. Keith. The “Bitter Enders”. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave Iraq from the IAC. The Four Amigos. My screen saver is always the last picture taken of us together in Iraq, February 27, 2004. My brothers.

That’s the people I served with, now back to our story…….. THESE ARE THE LAST OF THE PERSONAL PROFILES. THE NEXT POST WILL TAKE US BACK TO OUR STORY WHERE WE LEFT OFF A FEW MONTHS AGO…..

The Bitter Enders - Bill

Bill Kaminsky. Bill. Mother and father from Poland. Another linguist, but nothing like Kenny. Also late twenties (this is a pleasant phenomenon about being in the reserves – the average age of a reservist is late twenties as opposed to active duty which is early twenties. The extra 5-7 years does wonders for maturity and judgment). Earned his Bachelor’s degree online while we were in Iraq. Spoke Polish like a native. Prior service in the Air Force. Trained linguist. Hebrew. Could also work his way through any other Slavic language. I’ve heard him converse with Russians and Ukrainians. After Iraq, he married a Serbian girl. She speaks English but they can converse in Serb. Smith and Bill had set up a nice little room for themselves – satellite radio, laptop computers, mini-fridge, TV with VHS player, and custom made beds. These beds were made to spec by Iraqi carpenters. They were single beds but wide and with higher than normal legs so that all of our gear could fit under them. But that isn’t why I wanted to move up there after Smith left. Bill and I were pretty much on the same wave length. Also, he didn’t smoke and I didn’t have to worry about the drama-filled existence of living with Kenny, which could be taxing at times. Bill was the guy responsible for hiring and paying all of our translators, which wound up in the 40+ range. I first met Bill shortly after we moved into our house. His initial specialty was looting Iraqi foodstuffs from vacant homes and shops. He procured burlap bags of tea and dates. The dates he found hadn’t been cured yet, but that didn’t stop Bill from chowing down and getting sick. In fact, Bill spent much of his time eating the local food from mangy food stalls and getting sick. He wanted to interact with the Iraqis and try the local cuisine. Bill was a happy drunk. Too happy. When lit, he would make out with any female that sat next to him. At one party, he started necking with the ugliest girl at the party. She also weighed more than he did. Bill is around six feet tall and medium build. Handsome guy. Kenny walked up to him and yelled like you would yell at your dog, “Bill, no! Bad boy!” but he wouldn’t stop. We discussed it and thought the best option would be to get a spray bottle out of the kitchen, spray water in his face and yell “no!”. So we did this, and after the third time he looked up and said “No?”. We repeated “no” and he stopped and gently removed the dominatrix from his lap. Bill was a talker. And he liked to talk about really deep subjects. No idle banter. So you had to really focus on what he was saying. He’s naturally like this, plus with working on his degree online he was pre-disposed to talking about things he was studying. Usually at night, his voice was the last thing I heard before I dozed off. My snoring was his signal to stop talking. He snored too, so we cancelled each other out. Bill was proud of this Polish heritage and had several VHS movies of Polish military heroes – in Polish of course and produced by Polish TV. But they had English subtitles. I fell asleep many an evening watching the Polish Army defeat the Turks before the gates of Vienna in 1683. Bill always had more irons in the fire than most normal people could handle. He was a fabulous multi-tasker. Getting bored with supervising the activities of 40+ interpreters, he set up the first Job Bank in Iraq and organized the largest hiring event at the time in Iraq at the Convention Center. He offered a resume writing service and linked up over 300 unemployed Iraqis with companies looking to hire. He was a great boss to his interpreters, but also a stern taskmaster. He was one of those guys who could look a long time employee in the eye and fire him without blinking. Not without cause, but still very cold-blooded. Which I saw as an asset, because I’m such a softy in those situations. Toward the end of our tour, a new Civil Affairs Command was taking over on February 20, 2004. The new guys in town, unlike our own commanders, would tolerate no alcohol and announced that they would strongly enforce General Order Number One. Our Commanders not only looked the other way (announcing “health and welfare inspections” a week in advance so that you could hide/dispose of contraband), but often sent us on procurement missions. The new Sheriffs in town would have none of this. But they knew that we drank and had the decency to give a week to clean up our act. Bill and I had just made a major purchase and stocked the liquor cabinet in our room. The mini-fridge was stocked with beer. What to do? PARTY. In our room, every night for a week. Bill, Sally and I knocked off a half gallon of Jack Daniels over three nights. We had one more day to go. In the morning of that day, Bill woke up and said, “I don’t think I can drink any more”. I said, “Bill, you have to”. We made it. Spent the last 10 days in Iraq dry.

After Iraq, Bill spent a few months at home then went to Kosovo. This time as a civilian contractor handling linguists and being one himself between American and Polish/Ukrainian forces. He met and married his Serbian wife. They have a son and are expecting another child. He came back to the US and worked for Northrop Grumman. Then, back to Iraq as a civilian contractor doing the same work he did in the military for four times the pay. He has also in the meantime purchased five houses in Connecticut (he’s from there) that he rents out to university students. All this at the same time. Amazing. He's currently a civilian contractor in Afghanistan, working for the Polish Army.

The Bitter Enders - Keith

I call Keith, Bill, Kenny and myself the "Bitter Enders" because we were among the first to arrive and the last to leave the original line-up of guys assigned to the Iraqi Assistance Center (IAC). This picture (date is accurate) was taken on the last day that we were together in Iraq.

Keith Jocobs. Keith was also a former Marine. In the Marines he was a supply guy. Even though he was a Civil Affairs reservist, he became our unofficial Supply Sergeant at the IAC. No one could have done a better job. Keith was the ultimate scrounger. He could get you literally anything with enough time, but always with the same caveat: “don’t ask me how I got it or where it came from.” Roger that. He had a two man bedroom on the ground floor of the house. His room had built in floor-to-ceiling closets with shelving. It looked like a grocery store. It was better stocked than the PX, and with more variety. Where’d he get it? Who knows. Keith had exotic weaponry: an AT-3 antitank rocket, lots of grenades, pistols, machine pistols, sniper rifle. With the exception of the AT-3, all foreign made. Under his bed, hanging by hooks on the wall, in his closet. Keith could open a store in there and sell sundries and guns. Keith was definitely the most even-tempered of my three Amigos (Keith, Kenny, Bill), but if he got pissed off, you better be in the next country. One time, Keith and I were leaving a meeting in a Hummer. I noticed an Iraqi guy running across the street and to a house on the other side. I mentioned this to Keith. He said, “So?”. I said, “Iraqis don’t run”. “You’re right!”, so he took off down the street and we pulled into the driveway of the house where the man ran to. He was sweeping the driveway with a palm frond and singing to himself. He looked over and saw two soldiers in a Hummer with guns pointed at him and I thought he was going to shit himself. He started nervously sweeping to show us what he was doing. We apologized and drove on. Keith liked to man the machine gun on our missions outside the wire. He liked the wind in his face and all that firepower at his command. I sent him on a mission once by helicopter to the customs outpost on the Syrian border. He loved it. Right up his alley. Keith took lots – hundreds – of pictures. He gave me three CD’s of photos. Keith was also tall, over six feet, early thirties, married, two sons. His marriage was also in trouble while we were in Iraq. He patched things up when he got home, but then his wife (who was in the Justice Department) deployed herself to Kuwait and filed for divorce within weeks of arriving there (I wonder what his name is). Keith was the main party organizer for the house. You give him two days notice and he’ll throw and cater a party with dozens of attendees. I don’t know how he managed to get the word out, but he did. The HOC House was known for its parties and hospitality while we were there. He also liked to dress up for parties. Sometimes he would dress in an Arab dish dash (man dress). For Halloween he dressed up as a devil complete with the horns. For Christmas, he dressed up as Santa and we drove around the Iraqi neighborhoods in the Green Zone and he threw candy to the kids. A Santa with a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster. I have a picture of Santa clearing his pistol at an amnesty barrel. Keith had a female friend (not a girl friend) who was from Iowa. A real farm girl. One night, they went out to the pond across the street and brained one of the geese that lived there. Not quite dead, she wrung its neck and then beat it with a rock. They took it home and cooked it. All this while the rest of us were asleep. In the morning, I went outside with my coffee in my PJ’s to do my usual morning routine checking the vehicles for explosives. I noticed a blood trail leading from the front door of the house to the pond. I woke up Colonel Edwards. He looked at it and we went over to the pond, praying that we wouldn’t find any of our guys in it. None found. When Keith woke up we found out what the real story was. We cleaned up the blood quickly to avoid anyone else seeing it. They feasted on another goose later on, but were cleaner this time around.

When we got home, Keith always helped me set up our annual reunions, which we held the first three years after our return home. As usual, he did all the catering and cooking. He loves to throw a party. Keith joined the Active Army and got re-married, his new bride also in the Army. They've done a tour in Iraq and are going to Afghanistan later this year.

Bonham and Frey

Colonel Bonham (forget first name) was the younger brother of our first commanding officer, Brigadier General Joe Bonham. Now Joe I’d follow to hell and back. His younger brother must have made Colonel because of his brother. He was assigned to the 354th Civil Affairs Brigade, my home unit. They were designing armor for their Hummers and working with Iraqi iron workers to outfit their vehicles. One night, he decided to see if the plating was bulletproof. Without telling anyone, he fired off several rounds at the side of an armor-plated Hummer! Of course, this isn’t a good idea in Baghdad in the middle of the night. Actually, it’s not a good idea, period. What about ricochets, Colonel? Next door was a mansion that was inhabited by all the majors in the brigade. Upon hearing the shots fired, they came pouring out of the house in full battle gear and manned their defensive positions. There was Colonel Bonham, holding his pistol that was still smoking wondering what all the fuss was about! Worse still, from a range of 10 feet, he actually missed with one shot. It penetrated the wheel well and flattened a tire. Nothing happened to him. Wonder why?


Sergeant Frey. I don’t really know him that well, except that he was one of the most worthless NCO’s I ever met. Kenny tells the story of when he and I were at the headquarters building one day close to when we were about to leave. They had just posted the promotion list. I went up the list and started to read. I saw that Sergeant Frey had been promoted to Staff Sergeant. Here's the conversation that followed:
I said, “Frey made staff sergeant? What a waste of human flesh.”
“Jay?”
“Yes, Kenny.”
“He’s standing right behind you.”

Sure enough, Frey was next in line waiting to check the list! I just glared at him and moved on.

ON TO THE BITTER ENDERS……and then back to our story.

354 Bubbas

Wes Sumner. Mark St. Laurent. Clay Edwards. All captains, friends of mine from the 354th Civil Affairs Brigade. I would go over to their house occasionally and hang out. They had way better digs than we did, a mini palace that included a pool that I used to swim in after work. But it was all officers and if any one person objected to alcohol in the building, they couldn’t have any. Such was the case. Wes was the Staff Archeologist, had a masters in it. The first one to freak out about the Iraqi National Museum being looted. He predicted it and tried to get protection there, but to no avail. He's just an Army Reserve Captain, what does he know? Wes was also instrumental in saving the Baghdad Zoo and he was the one that alerted us to the Antelope refuge that the Marines had occupied and were snacking on. In fact, Wes just this year wrote and published a book on the topic, Saving the Baghdad Zoo. It’s a great book and is in its second printing. He’s a buddy of mine, so buy one! Mark was the Headquarters Company Executive Officer and the hero of our deployment to Iraq. Clay Edwards was a veteran of Desert Storm. Former Infantry Officer. We all of course followed his every word and move until we ourselves became comfortable with operating in a combat zone. He was injured in an automobile accident early on and almost died. The commander at the time thought he was faking it, trying to get a ticket home. The doctors convinced him that he really was injured and they flew him to Germany. But the damage was done. Clay retired as a captain on full disability.

Heather Coyne. First Lieutenant. Single. Former White House staffer in the Clinton White House. Brilliant. Driven. Masters degree from Johns Hopkins Center for Strategic and International Studies. When she heard that the Army had Civil Affairs, she volunteered and wrangled a direct commission as an officer. Taught herself to shoot a pistol, bought one at a gun store. Went to Defense Language Institute for Arabic and spoke passable Arabic for us in Iraq. She was the training officer at Ft. Bragg responsible for getting us trained to go to Iraq. She did a great job, but was stymied by the buffoon of a company commander that we had. She was in the 354th and worked a lot with the Coalition Provisional Authority on women’s issues and with NGO’s. She stayed on in Iraq for two years afterwards as the Country Director for the US Institute of Peace. We are very good friends and she continues to work at USIP in another position. Also, she and I are in the same reserve detachment at the Pentagon. I got her the position. She’s a captain now and is currently serving a tour in Afghanistan, I'm sure continuing to operate way above her pay grade.

The Deputy Commanders

The Deputy Commanders: Lt. Colonel Gore and Lt. Colonel Arenas. Gore was the first and longest one, from April – November 2003. I drove him into Baghdad. He was the best planner in the Command. Very smart, analytical guy and had no problem going downtown with just a pistol. From Wisconsin, you could tell by the accent. He spent a lot of his time in the secure room working on classified plans. In Colonel Edwards' absence, he would assume command. He didn’t live with us, so I don’t have much to report. His reason: “plausible deniability”. I see his point. We were never caught at anything, but everyone knew we were guilty. We see/talk to each other weekly if not daily since getting home. We travel in the same circles work-wise and help each other out with contacts, projects, etc.

Arenas is from Puerto Rico. A medical service officer, a nurse in fact. He was deputy from November - December 2003 and then IAC Commander until March 2004 when we left. Very nice to enlisted and very hard on officers. He instituted weekly meetings with all the coalition liaison officers and demanded nothing less than professional, up-to-date briefings on their areas of responsibility. Held them to account, but in a good way. When I was the FOO Funds NCO, he was the Officer. Weekly, he would come to the house and we would settle accounts – thousands of dollars – on the table in my bedroom. He followed Colonel Edwards on to Jordan and was his deputy at the US Embassy in Amman.

The Koreans

Last but not least, the Koreans: Lt. Colonel Yoon and Staff Sergeant Woo. Korean Air Force. The Koreans always send their best to other armies because they regard it as a national honor and they don’t want to send any dirt bags to make the country look bad. These guys were no exception. Lt Colonel Yoon was a fighter pilot. Very proficient, good English, although shy about using it in public. He served as Colonel Brennan’s coalition deputy. He was generally quiet and introverted, but a true professional.

His alter ego was Sergeant Woo. Tall, young guy, around 22. Woo had graduated from a unique institution: Air Force High School. They have one such school in Korea and it’s very prestigious. If you graduate from AF High, you are automatically a sergeant, you don’t start out as a private. Woo hardly spoke a word of English when he arrived. So Christine took him under her wing. A few days later, he reported to me at my desk and said, “Jay, Christine teach me the Engrish!” I said, “great! Say something.” “Fucka this place, I want to go home!” He was all smiles. He obviously had no clue what he just said. Christine was running out of the office laughing. It was funny as hell. Over time, Woo’s English improved drastically. By the time he left, he sounded like any US Army sergeant with a Korean accent and Army vocabulary. I had river guard with him one night. We had a parapet at the shoreline of the Tigris River at the base of the 352nd CA Command headquarters. If there was an uptick in insurgent activity, or if we had intel that they might try a river crossing, we had to man these parapets at night. Anyway, he told me stories about AF High School that kept me laughing all night long. Funny guy. He was also very technically oriented and could help out with IT stuff in a pinch. He and Yoon left the same day. We were sad to see them go.

The Dutch

We now leave our Warsaw Pact brethren and move on to other allies.

The Dutch. Klooster. Lefevre. Pannenkoek. Schimmel. Van Groen. The Dutch have gotten a bad rap, especially from the American Army for their lack of proficiency at the height of the Cold War. But they have recovered from that magnificently and didn’t hesitate to provide outstanding officers and soldiers for Iraq. They offered 1,500 soldiers for six months and guarded a large part of southern Iraq. Faithful Ally. We had more Dutch come through our larger command than any other nationality. And the majority of them volunteered to extend their tours of duty.

Sergeant Major Klooster. Rob. Tall, beefy guy. Spoke English with a South African accent. As we were all to discover, most of our Dutch had several tours of peacekeeping or in other combat zones. Rob had been to Bosnia and Afghanistan. He worked primarily with our air operations: he worked with Myiik on the reservations, and worked with our guy Steve Goldblatt at the Humanitarian airfield. He was a key player in getting the Iraqi Jews out of the country.

Sergeant Major Paul Pannenkoek. Rob’s replacement. His name in English is “pancake”. Same military profile as Rob, but with more of a supply background. He was also more of a blue collar guy. This cracks me up because he let us all know last year that they had made him an officer. Kind of a step down, we thought.

Lt. Colonel Henk Schimmel. Hydrologist and engineer. Reservist, worked on the Netherlands dike system. He sort of bolted the IAC on his own shortly after he arrived and worked at the Palace with the CPA. He was an absent-minded professor type. Used to drive himself – alone – up to the airport until we told him that it might be dangerous, i.e. he could get killed! You know what, it didn’t stop him. In a way, he was right. Insurgents are looking for military convoys or SUV’s. One guy in a sedan would be relatively invisible. He developed a way for Iraqis to obtain drinking water by collecting the overnight dew that fell on the ground. Smart guy. He doesn’t stay in touch.

Major Simon Lefevre. Descended from French Huguenots escaping France and Catholic persecution. Centuries later, they converted to Catholicism and he is a devout Catholic. And a proud Dutch patriot! Those words kind of don’t go together, but don’t EVER belittle the Netherlands in front of this man or you’ll have to fight. Simon was diverted back to us by Colonel Brennan after Schimmel tried to get him hooked up at the Palace. He was a good officer, very conscientious. Very proper. I’ll have more on him in a future story. His claim to fame was the fact that he was standing at one of the mess halls in line behind a jersey barrier when a rocket landed on the other side. No jersey barrier, he would have been shredded. A major head rush. Another adrenaline junkie. Since Iraq, he did a tour in Afghanistan. We keep in touch and I'm having a heck of a time trying to get someone in our Army to approve a justly deserved award for him. I keep trying.

Major Roef (pronounced “roof”) Van Groen. Arrived shortly before we left. A great, good-natured guy. Very gregarious. In fact, when he came over to the house we would chant: “The Roof, the Roof, the Roof is on fire!” He loved it. Even though we only interfaced for about a month, he keeps in touch with all of us.

Out for vacation again! Can you believe it? Back again on August 4.

The Ukrainians

My Ukrainian buddies first mentioned in “Custer Battles”.

Sergei Sidko. Captain, Ukrainian Army. Infantry company commander for six years. Former officer in the Soviet Union. Mother Ukrainian, father Russian. Considered himself a Russian living in Ukraine. Short, stocky, bald, in his mid thirties, good English. We got off to a bad start. Shortly after I met him we were at our house and I made some disparaging remark about Cuba. He said something to the effect of “what’s so bad about communism?” This is like waving a red flag in my face. I launched. Everyone in the living room went quiet. He outranked me, but I didn’t care. After my tirade, he said nothing. The room returned to normal. But he respected me for that and we were good friends from that point on. Russians respect that kind of stuff, and are totally dismissive of people who don’t defend their positions. He was my number one pick for who I would want with me in a firefight, including Kenny. We had to get our boys trained in how to drive a Hummer and get them licenses. After doing do, Sergei said to me: “My grandfather was Soviet officer, my father was Soviet officer, and I was Soviet Officer. Now I have license to drive American Army Hummer. My grandfather and father are rolling in their graves!” Sergei also took part in the body building competition and finished fifth behind me. He listened to a lot of Country & Western music that he appreciated from his several postings to US Army schools for training as an exchange officer and noted that there are a lot of patriotic songs (not so many in the Rock & Roll genre – who knew?) So he brought a CD into work that featured a Russian folk singer, singing in Russian of course. Here is rundown of the songs as I remember Sergei telling us about them:
“This one about mother mourning for son lost in Chechnya.”
“This one about soldier who lost leg in Chechnya.”
“This one about soldier who was tortured to death by Chechens.”
You get the picture.
He didn’t go out of his way to stay in touch with any of us, but Bakumenko lets us know what he’s up to.

Roman Bakumenko. Captain, Ukrainian Army. Public Affairs Bureau. A military journalist. Sigh. At least the Ukrainian met their requirement to provide us with two officers. But Roman was a really nice guy. And he went wherever Sergei went and like him wasn’t afraid to go on missions. Short, skinny, coke bottle lens glasses, thick black hair. Weakest English skills of all of our coalition partners. In fact, our joke was that after he and Sidko boarded the plane home after nine months with us, Sidko would then tell him that he had been in Iraq! His wife made him some knee-length shorts out of what must have been the living room curtains – white with a blue floral design. He was proud of them! We always insisted that he wore them to parties for the entertainment of our guests. Cruel, I know. But in a war zone humor is usually dark, cruel, and callous. He still stays in touch and is working on his English. He must have done well enough in Iraq for the Ukrainian Army to send him to their Command and Staff College, a rather high honor for a military journalist. He currently lives in Kiev.