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.