We are pirates and lost boys, the dreamers and downtrodden; men who gave up one life for another that few truly embrace. From all over the country and the world we came together and formed a unit and a family, bound both emotionally and contractually. Here rank and ability replace skin color and privilege, regardless of where we came from we are here now, sharing both triumph and tragedy as one. That’s not to say that we don’t have our differences, it’s just pleasing in a way to watch television and see how differently soldiers process hardship. It’s empowering in a place where you have control over so little.
I get concerned for the younger guys because I know how it feels to stare across that divide. To see on the other side your old life and friends knowing there may not be a way to bridge the distance. All I can do is help them along on their journey. It’s easy to see the anger in their eyes and hear the arguments through these thin walls. They know they are missing out on a lot by being here. Relationships are hard enough when you can sit face to face but how anyone can build a new marriage from across the world is beyond me. We aren’t that patient of a culture.
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I got to walk through one of the poorer neighborhoods in our OE (operational environment) a couple weeks ago where we were to pull security for a school opening. It’s hard to gauge how people really feel about us still being here when they seem to have day to day operations pretty well under control. To be there and see the happiness on the faces of both the children and the parents helped clear up some doubts I’d had. They understand it’s going to be a long, long journey back to normality after all the conflict but there is a strong national pride at least among the people in Baghdad. They want to see improvement and they are working toward that goal.
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There’s a giant poofy white blimp that flies over our FOB keeping a watchful eye on the surrounding area. I’ve named it Mr. Blimp and I sort of worship it like a god. I do little dances for it and in turn it never transmits video to the TOC of me picking my nose when I walk home from the DFAC after dark. It feels like a sort of Orwellian Stay-Puff Marshmellow Man is constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s comforting and creepy all at once, like family reunions.
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We’ve adopted a sort of unit mascot in the visage of the one they call Swamp Thing. If you haven’t seen the pictures of him I’ll try and describe just how awesome this guy is. Personally I think it’s an act. We thought that he was crazy when we first got here because he looked so incredibly dirty but after talking (and a few photo ops) with him I’ve come to the conclusion that he does this act for money. It’s bad luck not to give money to the needy here, so the homeless and mentally ill roll around with fat wads of cash in their hands as they walk down the street asking for more.
Swampy hangs out on a road that is pretty much entirely made up of automotive repair shops so it isn’t uncommon for people to be covered in dirt and grease from working on vehicles, but his get up is unique. His outfit is something of a cross between a burlap sack and a special needs Peter Pan tunic replete with pieces of fabric added in the way you would put camouflage on a guille suit. It looks tailored in a way but completely haphazard in another. His face and arms appear covered not just in filth but actual caked on chunks of mud, one particular piece protruding from under his left eye hasn’t seemed to change in either size or consistency in the weeks that I’ve been paying attention. His hair is a mess of semi-dreadlocked lumps forming a natural helmet that I would assume is solid to the touch… I will not test this theory.
Oddly enough he doesn’t smell. In a country where personal hygiene regiments are pliable, I’d say he’s pretty high on the standards scale. How he achieves this is a mystery of both nature and science but I believe that what ever the answer is it may also help us discover a cure for cancer.
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Our truck is somewhat of an anomaly. We actually have fun when we roll outside the wire. It’s rare to find a combination of people who can sit in a confined space for 12 hours at a time and not get bored of each other. This is the first time I’ve felt like I was working with people who I consider more than just co-workers.
A few days ago we were taking a left hand turn onto a street and cut the corner a little sharp forcing a taxi to have to back up to let us through. Our TC told our gunner to stand up and give the taxi driver a “loud shukran” by which he meant say “thank you” loud enough so the taxi driver could here us. Our gunner, who we always joke with because he isn’t very intimidating despite his size and the arsenal at his disposal, stands up and yells “LOUD SHUKRAN!” causing us to almost hit a pylon because everyone in our truck including our driver were laughing so hard we couldn’t see straight.
It reminded me of that Daniel Tosh stand-up where he wonders if there has ever been a case of polite tourrette syndrome, “LOVELY HAT!”
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