Seriously America, you are starting to piss me the fuck off. Stop this idiotic tea party reactionary group think and take a moment to really analyze what it is you think you fear so much.
When you say that putting a mosque near the site of the 9/11 terrorist attack is insensitive or some how a slap in the face of the survivors and family members of the victims, you are saying that all of Islam is defined by the radical extremist minority. It's like saying that building a new church is somehow promoting the fanatical anti-gay protesting of the Westboro Baptist Church crack-pots. You know, those assholes who go and protest in front of the funerals of American soldiers with signs that say things like "God hates fags" and "thank God for IEDs". Do you associate your belief as a Christian with those kinds of people? No. You don't. And the vast majority Muslim world doesn't associate itself with those who seek to cause chaos and death in the name of their faith.
So stop it. Just stop being scared of things you haven't taken any time to actually understand. It's embarrassing and it's just plain upsetting to someone who put their life on the line for a country that after 234 years, still can't seem to live up to it's founding principles of religious and personal freedoms.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Paris Hilton, You're the Worst Warzone ever.
Zack and I decorated our metal living box last night. Using a variety of children's stickers and a dry erase marker we turned our plywood and metal furniture into art. Juvenile, penis themed art, but art none the less. So what if my locker now sports a shimmering glitter based Superman ass-punching some faceless Cobra operative? Who cares that I turned a stern and well defined Duke into a comically well endowed hermaphroditic chorus girl in mid can-can? This is just how we roll.
This is also not the first time we've modified our shanty existence to make spending the remainder of this deployment more palpable. When we first arrived during the hottest days of summer or primary concern was to lower the room temperature in the box from microwave to easy bake oven. Taking the (usually suspect) advice of other soldiers in similar living conditions we took wooden shipping pallets and whatever other nick-knacks we could scavenge and stacked them on the roof, the idea being that if the sun wasn't beating down directly on naked metal we might feel some indoor temperature improvement. I can't say if this actually worked or not because I recall laying on my bed half naked in a pool of my own juice both before and after the modifications were made but there is something to be said for the psychological benefits of taking control of any adverse situation. Either way it makes me laugh when ever I look up and see a mattress on my roof.
--
I suppose my biggest gripe with this job isn't that people are actively trying to kill me, it's that they are passively trying to kill me and I feel like a little more effort should go into my untimely demise. If a man (or woman) puts on a uniform, waits in ambush and attacks my truck with an RPG then sticks around to at least fire off a few rounds in my direction, I'm certain I can respect this. This is a person of conviction. A person willing to sacrifice their safety and quite possibly their life to do battle against an enemy possessing superior armament and training. It's at least noble in it's own way. But it's not like that. It's like my team is driving down a road and whether or not my truck or a van full of civilians is hit by a hidden IED on the side of the road is just coincidence. It's lazy and it makes me clench my jaw when I sleep.
I don't blame them for choosing these tactics. It's guerrilla warfare 101. I can't say I'd do anything differently if I was in their position. As it is, I've learned quite a bit about being a terrorist, insurgent, or freedom fighter or whatever you call it depending on your political beliefs. I definitely feel much more prepared now for the zombie apocalypse than I did three years ago. Ultimately it just feels like no one really gives a fuck anymore. These days anybody who's anybody knows the best place to insurge ones self against an American is in Afghanistan. Iraq is the Paris Hilton of war zones. We keep throwing money at it but no one really knows why anymore.
--
The most powerful of our senses is that of smell (I have no scientific evidence to back this up). Usually we're thankful for this. Perfume worn by a stranger can bring back memories of young love, the scent of fresh baked bread can make your mouth water and forget why you ever thought it was so important to count carbs. There are so many reasons to appreciate this gift, and then there is the Diyalla river. Meandering passively through our area of operation this liquid shit factory serves many functions for the local population. It's a bath, faucet, toilet, and highly effective garbage disposal, often simultaneously. They use it's water to grow their crops and quench the thirst of their live stock. It is the umbilicus from which this region feeds to survive and it is also completely disgusting. The color and consistency of cheap powdered chocolate milk, its waters are often choked with any number of questionable refuse coated by a distinctly pungent dark green slime. Everyone seems perfectly content to let the river, like much of the rest of this area, remain a complete dump.
The relative importance of this can be looked at a few different ways. First, the why things look here are not always the way things are. If their are violent militias roaming the streets at night threatening your family, your primary concern probably isn't whether or not an egret is going to choke on the plastic wrapper you just threw in the river. Second... well there isn't really a second, the point is that outward appearances mean shit if you can barely feed yourself.
The roads we travel are the Iraqi equivalent to highway strip malls. They are built and maintained as places of commerce with small pockets of residential areas periodically intermixed. It isn't much of a surprise that the scenery I see most often isn't beautiful. Beauty is in rare supply here even when it is actively cultivated. Also I assume this is a poorer than average district based on the other regions I've lived in but honestly it's hard to tell the difference sometimes. But regardless of the average daily income of the immediate populous, I can guarantee that the government money being spent on projects like building the giant (useless/ugly/traffic causing) brick archway over the main road heading south would be much more wisely placed in an effort to clean the waterways that, you know, keep people alive since they live in a fucking desert. Maybe I've over exaggerating and it's unfair to judge this place by the environmental standards I would back home. If the locals don't care, why should I? What do I know? All my water is bottled.
--
Getting ready to come home is giving me a man-period. One moment I'm cranky and irritable for no reason and then I'm happy. I mull over things too much. I'm always tired but it's almost impossible to nap. I have the attention span of a 4 year old. I'll watch 15 minute increments of movies (but only comedies, mind you, anything slightly dramatic sends me into an emotional tailspin) and then turn them off with out finishing. Basically I'm a fucking mess. I'd like to say I have a good reason but honestly I can't think of one. Of course I miss my family and friends but I talk to them regularly enough to not feel totally out of the loop. I eat enough and don't skip meals. I have slacked off on the exercise because my motivation has begun to wane (I also have a secret fear that my neck size no longer matches my body, and this has inexplicably ruined weight lifting for me.)
Soldiers are great companions for many things but being there to support you for baring a broken soul in not one of them, nor should it really be expected, this isn't share-share time at feelings camp. The closest thing I can get to a therapy session is a talking with the guys on my truck while we try and whittle away the hours we spend driving around God knows where doing other peoples jobs for them. These conversations are frank, heartfelt, and rude in the way you feel you can speak to your best friend or a sibling. We've spent so much time together poking at each others issues and shortcomings that there has grown the sense you know more about the person you're speaking with than they do. Not that this is entirely surprising considering one of the only things I'm sure about human nature is that we lie to ourselves far better than we are able to lie to others.
It's a not a nurturing environment in the traditional sense but it's nice to know you can cut out the bullshit that gets stacked on top of what we really mean make sure no one gets offended when we talk to one another. Soldiers don't have that problem. Men are pigs, women lie and somehow we make it work or we don't and you're only worse off if you repeat the same mistake twice. There's a good deal of relief to be found in accepting how completely imperfect you are. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you're a shit bag to your face to center your chi.
This is also not the first time we've modified our shanty existence to make spending the remainder of this deployment more palpable. When we first arrived during the hottest days of summer or primary concern was to lower the room temperature in the box from microwave to easy bake oven. Taking the (usually suspect) advice of other soldiers in similar living conditions we took wooden shipping pallets and whatever other nick-knacks we could scavenge and stacked them on the roof, the idea being that if the sun wasn't beating down directly on naked metal we might feel some indoor temperature improvement. I can't say if this actually worked or not because I recall laying on my bed half naked in a pool of my own juice both before and after the modifications were made but there is something to be said for the psychological benefits of taking control of any adverse situation. Either way it makes me laugh when ever I look up and see a mattress on my roof.
--
I suppose my biggest gripe with this job isn't that people are actively trying to kill me, it's that they are passively trying to kill me and I feel like a little more effort should go into my untimely demise. If a man (or woman) puts on a uniform, waits in ambush and attacks my truck with an RPG then sticks around to at least fire off a few rounds in my direction, I'm certain I can respect this. This is a person of conviction. A person willing to sacrifice their safety and quite possibly their life to do battle against an enemy possessing superior armament and training. It's at least noble in it's own way. But it's not like that. It's like my team is driving down a road and whether or not my truck or a van full of civilians is hit by a hidden IED on the side of the road is just coincidence. It's lazy and it makes me clench my jaw when I sleep.
I don't blame them for choosing these tactics. It's guerrilla warfare 101. I can't say I'd do anything differently if I was in their position. As it is, I've learned quite a bit about being a terrorist, insurgent, or freedom fighter or whatever you call it depending on your political beliefs. I definitely feel much more prepared now for the zombie apocalypse than I did three years ago. Ultimately it just feels like no one really gives a fuck anymore. These days anybody who's anybody knows the best place to insurge ones self against an American is in Afghanistan. Iraq is the Paris Hilton of war zones. We keep throwing money at it but no one really knows why anymore.
--
The most powerful of our senses is that of smell (I have no scientific evidence to back this up). Usually we're thankful for this. Perfume worn by a stranger can bring back memories of young love, the scent of fresh baked bread can make your mouth water and forget why you ever thought it was so important to count carbs. There are so many reasons to appreciate this gift, and then there is the Diyalla river. Meandering passively through our area of operation this liquid shit factory serves many functions for the local population. It's a bath, faucet, toilet, and highly effective garbage disposal, often simultaneously. They use it's water to grow their crops and quench the thirst of their live stock. It is the umbilicus from which this region feeds to survive and it is also completely disgusting. The color and consistency of cheap powdered chocolate milk, its waters are often choked with any number of questionable refuse coated by a distinctly pungent dark green slime. Everyone seems perfectly content to let the river, like much of the rest of this area, remain a complete dump.
The relative importance of this can be looked at a few different ways. First, the why things look here are not always the way things are. If their are violent militias roaming the streets at night threatening your family, your primary concern probably isn't whether or not an egret is going to choke on the plastic wrapper you just threw in the river. Second... well there isn't really a second, the point is that outward appearances mean shit if you can barely feed yourself.
The roads we travel are the Iraqi equivalent to highway strip malls. They are built and maintained as places of commerce with small pockets of residential areas periodically intermixed. It isn't much of a surprise that the scenery I see most often isn't beautiful. Beauty is in rare supply here even when it is actively cultivated. Also I assume this is a poorer than average district based on the other regions I've lived in but honestly it's hard to tell the difference sometimes. But regardless of the average daily income of the immediate populous, I can guarantee that the government money being spent on projects like building the giant (useless/ugly/traffic causing) brick archway over the main road heading south would be much more wisely placed in an effort to clean the waterways that, you know, keep people alive since they live in a fucking desert. Maybe I've over exaggerating and it's unfair to judge this place by the environmental standards I would back home. If the locals don't care, why should I? What do I know? All my water is bottled.
--
Getting ready to come home is giving me a man-period. One moment I'm cranky and irritable for no reason and then I'm happy. I mull over things too much. I'm always tired but it's almost impossible to nap. I have the attention span of a 4 year old. I'll watch 15 minute increments of movies (but only comedies, mind you, anything slightly dramatic sends me into an emotional tailspin) and then turn them off with out finishing. Basically I'm a fucking mess. I'd like to say I have a good reason but honestly I can't think of one. Of course I miss my family and friends but I talk to them regularly enough to not feel totally out of the loop. I eat enough and don't skip meals. I have slacked off on the exercise because my motivation has begun to wane (I also have a secret fear that my neck size no longer matches my body, and this has inexplicably ruined weight lifting for me.)
Soldiers are great companions for many things but being there to support you for baring a broken soul in not one of them, nor should it really be expected, this isn't share-share time at feelings camp. The closest thing I can get to a therapy session is a talking with the guys on my truck while we try and whittle away the hours we spend driving around God knows where doing other peoples jobs for them. These conversations are frank, heartfelt, and rude in the way you feel you can speak to your best friend or a sibling. We've spent so much time together poking at each others issues and shortcomings that there has grown the sense you know more about the person you're speaking with than they do. Not that this is entirely surprising considering one of the only things I'm sure about human nature is that we lie to ourselves far better than we are able to lie to others.
It's a not a nurturing environment in the traditional sense but it's nice to know you can cut out the bullshit that gets stacked on top of what we really mean make sure no one gets offended when we talk to one another. Soldiers don't have that problem. Men are pigs, women lie and somehow we make it work or we don't and you're only worse off if you repeat the same mistake twice. There's a good deal of relief to be found in accepting how completely imperfect you are. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you're a shit bag to your face to center your chi.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Bombs for my Birthday
Somewhere in between sleep and conscious thought in the wee hours of the morning the sound of a cat being bludgeoned to death repeatedly echos throughout the steel walls of my living box. From a purely analytical standpoint you'd expect this to be a singular event. Bludgeoning, screams, silence. But what is happening is that every 15 minutes, or however long it takes me to just start to fall asleep, someone or something is causing a cat to scream bloody murder no more that 10 feet from my wall. I'm torn. Half of me really wants to find out what the fuck is going on so that I can make it stop. I have a gun. I have an assortment of knives. I even have an ASP, a telescoping baton, and I'm positive there isn't a single thing that I will encounter that I can't negotiate some solution to this issue. The other half is asleep and doesn't want to get up or do anything that doesn't involve dreaming about Natalie Portman making me a sandwich. This half isn't even fully convinced that what it is hearing isn't just being made up. Like my idea that the inside of the building across the street from my room labeled "Filipino DFAC" actually houses cage fights, Blood Sport style. Which, I've decided either means I'm racist or confirms my suspicion that every other culture on earth is having more fun than Americans are. Regardless sleepy half is winning and so I continue to lay unmoving creating cat based scenarios. Then as unexpectedly as it began, all external noise ceases and I'm left with silence and a lot of unnecessary questions. I settle for sleep instead.
--
It's a bit of a sport for the local kids to sit by the side of the road and wave at us as we drive by. Well I use the term "wave" loosely as it could really encompass any number of gestures from breaking in to a full sprint along side our trucks while smiling and shouting to flipping us off. Suffice to say, the youth of Iraq spend a lot of their time on and around roads doing very little with their lives. They are mostly waiting for the rare convoy with the sympathetic hearts and minds gunner who likes to throw candy as he drives by. This is never us. But either it happens more often than I imagine or the local kids are just incredibly resilient and hopeful. Or bored. Complicating this interaction further is the fact that somewhere along the history of our involvement with this country, somebody thought it would be a good PR move to toss out soccer balls for a group of eager young Iraqis and we've been paying the price ever since. The universal sign for "give me a fucking football already" is to scream at the top of one's lungs and hold one's hands out around the outline of the imaginary sphere of hoped for ball. This is a very serious affair. No kid just kind of puts his hands up absently at the off chance he may actually get what he wishes. No, you can see it in their eyes. They believe that the course of the rest of their lives hinges upon that very moment. Somehow everything will be OK if they can just... get... that... ball. I don't get it. It's not like they can't get go to the store and get a ball. This country isn't that poor. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of black market soccer ball trade, some sort of Bombs for Balls program.
--
I'm not sure if this is really worth mentioning but thinking back over these two deployments I've realized that I've had a few notable encounters with goats (to every one of your that took that the wrong way, you're the sick bastard, not me). I've had staring contests with them, watched them be blown up like a ballon with a tire pump, seen them topple ass over head down the bank of a canal into the water, and now finally I've seen what happens when you run one over with a semi-truck. And I don't mean like I saw some random days old road-kill as we drove by at 40 mph, I mean I literally stared at a goat wedged halfway under the tire of a massive flat bed as we crept by avoiding the throngs of curious pedestrian onlookers. My gunner asked over the head set, "what do you think the last thing that went through it's mind was?" And I said, "Well... judging by what I'm seeing, I'd say it was his anus." I love a good set up.
--
Since my 21st birthday every subsequent birthday has paled in comparison. That weekend at the Frog and Peach in San Louis Obispo I played my first live show, completely drunk, partied in three different cities and got my nipples covered in whipped cream (unfortunately that picture survives). It's not that I haven't enjoyed my birthdays since, it's just that they've all failed to imprint the same lasting (good) memories as that most excellent day back in 2003. This year, however, Iraq got me something special. Not surprisingly, Iraq and I aren't always on the best of terms. I say it's the worst country in the world, it tries to kill me, I say I want to see what it would look like after a nuclear strike glasses Baghdad, it tries to kill me, I see a cute puppy while on patrol, it tries to kill me. And so on. But for one beautiful day in late August we put aside our differences and Iraq gave me what every boy really wants for his birthday, dangerous explosives!
Our task that day was to head over to FOB Hammer as an escort for an EOD element. The day was shaping up to be just another dusty scorcher, which is what I'd planned on anyway so I wasn't too disappointed. Still, there were a couple bright spots. We played a game of "guess Doc's age" and everyone was at least 2 to 3 years on the young side which either means I don't look old or I'm immature. I was strangely OK with either. As we were waiting to get our gear back on and leave to go back home something strange happened. I was sitting in the truck reading when I noticed a change, slight as it was, a degrees shift in temperature. I glanced out the window and I couldn't put my finger on it but the ground looked darker somehow, like there was something blocking the sun, something that reminded me of home. I looked up and there is was. A cloud! One big, fat, juicy, gray, cloud out of no where had drifted over us. I took my sunglasses off and turned my face to the sky and began to feel tiny drops of rain splash against my skin. Guys started laughing and dancing around like they'd won something as the drops steadily increased in size to the point where they almost hurt as they hit. Just as quickly as it arrived the rain stopped and the cloud moved on and the sun returned to make everything terrible again with the added joy of increased humidity but it was worth it to have any kind of change. Really though, this story isn't about meteorological phenomenon. On to the explosion.
As we were rolling out the gate we got word that a IED had been found on the route that we were taking to get back home. Since we had EOD assets with us anyway we became the de-facto response team and so made our way over to the grid we'd been given. Before anyone gets too excited let me remind you that the Army is the worlds leader in taking things that are awesome and making them suck. Jumping out of airplanes, shooting automatic weapons, living in a big steel box, the Army has ruined them all for me. That being said nothing can ruin blowing something up... except expecting a bigger explosion.
The offending agent in question turned out to be a small anti-personel mine that had been placed on the side of the road. This couldn't have been meant for us since even the most rookie insurgent knows the armor on our trucks wouldn't have even been scratched by it. Regardless, it had to go. So EOD took out it's Johnny-5 bot and placed a small explosive charge on it's extending hook arm. J-5 is remote controlled but watching it move it kind of like watching a giant cockroach, it skitters along on it's mini tank tracks and then suddenly stops, shifts directions and it off again, then stops as if sniffing out crumbs of food. The rest of the team pulled security around the perimeter in case the mine was just a decoy for something more complex and as the minutes passed the initial excitement of knowing something was about to violently combust began to leave me along the trails of sweat rolling down my neck. After about 30 minutes we were ordered back to the trucks as J-5 retreated from the spot where it had placed the charge next to the mine. I had a clear view from my seat and I sat forward as EOD gave the order to fire. The two explosives went up in a remarkably un-Hollywood burst of dust that was as underwhelming to watch as it was to hear. When something explodes I want to feel it in my chest. I want to be knocked over. I want to have permanent brain damage. No such luck this time, but regardless it was a nice break from the monotony and as far as birthday gifts go, I figure this country could have done much worse.
--
I ran up to the top of the sandy berm on the western border of our base and instead of taking the long way around a winding dirt path like I usually do I decided to go right up the 136 stairs that reach skyward temple like a short way from my living box. I had avoided doing this since we arrived here because of all the parts of my body I feel need work, my legs aren't top on the list and because of what I feel is a justified fear of tripping and falling 100 meters down a 50 degree slope. Iraqi construction which as a general rule doesn't follow the strictest of standards fails most spectacularly in the arena of assisting locomotion to elevated positions. The effect of looking at steps as you run up them one by one is vertigo inducing under the best conditions, coupled with my decision to make my first summit attempt long after it had gotten dark out, by the halfway point I began to second guess the value of the activity in which I was currently engaged. I took my clear lensed Oakleys off to try and get a better view but it only served to bring what was making me dizzy more clearly in focus which magnified the problem. Of course I didn't just stop like an intelligent person would, no, the same ego driven logic that has landed many a fool begrudgingly into youtube stardom took me step by step closer to my goal, which I suppose was to prove that I could run up stairs at night or to become more physically fit, or something like that. About 20 steps from the top that familiar surge of adrenaline blurred out any doubt that this in fact was a fantastic idea and as I reached the top and turned around and looked down at the dull orange bulbs illuminating my temporary home I bent over panting with my hand on my knees. I scanned the horizon enjoying my small victory and wondering just how far my line of sight was from this position. I could see for miles, which meant I could be seen for miles. I felt the sudden shiver a soldier gets when he realizes he's made a tactical error. Then I remembered why I hate this country... and that I had to walk back down all those damn stairs.
--
Two reasons I'm sure that evolutionarily speaking I'm a dead end: 1. My natural initial response to being startled is to scream like a girl and fail my arms around. 2. My natural initial response to the sound of an incoming rocket is to kind shift my body weight to one side and crouch a little like I'm dodging a Nerf football that I didn't expect to be thrown at me. Genius.
--
It's a bit of a sport for the local kids to sit by the side of the road and wave at us as we drive by. Well I use the term "wave" loosely as it could really encompass any number of gestures from breaking in to a full sprint along side our trucks while smiling and shouting to flipping us off. Suffice to say, the youth of Iraq spend a lot of their time on and around roads doing very little with their lives. They are mostly waiting for the rare convoy with the sympathetic hearts and minds gunner who likes to throw candy as he drives by. This is never us. But either it happens more often than I imagine or the local kids are just incredibly resilient and hopeful. Or bored. Complicating this interaction further is the fact that somewhere along the history of our involvement with this country, somebody thought it would be a good PR move to toss out soccer balls for a group of eager young Iraqis and we've been paying the price ever since. The universal sign for "give me a fucking football already" is to scream at the top of one's lungs and hold one's hands out around the outline of the imaginary sphere of hoped for ball. This is a very serious affair. No kid just kind of puts his hands up absently at the off chance he may actually get what he wishes. No, you can see it in their eyes. They believe that the course of the rest of their lives hinges upon that very moment. Somehow everything will be OK if they can just... get... that... ball. I don't get it. It's not like they can't get go to the store and get a ball. This country isn't that poor. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of black market soccer ball trade, some sort of Bombs for Balls program.
--
I'm not sure if this is really worth mentioning but thinking back over these two deployments I've realized that I've had a few notable encounters with goats (to every one of your that took that the wrong way, you're the sick bastard, not me). I've had staring contests with them, watched them be blown up like a ballon with a tire pump, seen them topple ass over head down the bank of a canal into the water, and now finally I've seen what happens when you run one over with a semi-truck. And I don't mean like I saw some random days old road-kill as we drove by at 40 mph, I mean I literally stared at a goat wedged halfway under the tire of a massive flat bed as we crept by avoiding the throngs of curious pedestrian onlookers. My gunner asked over the head set, "what do you think the last thing that went through it's mind was?" And I said, "Well... judging by what I'm seeing, I'd say it was his anus." I love a good set up.
--
Since my 21st birthday every subsequent birthday has paled in comparison. That weekend at the Frog and Peach in San Louis Obispo I played my first live show, completely drunk, partied in three different cities and got my nipples covered in whipped cream (unfortunately that picture survives). It's not that I haven't enjoyed my birthdays since, it's just that they've all failed to imprint the same lasting (good) memories as that most excellent day back in 2003. This year, however, Iraq got me something special. Not surprisingly, Iraq and I aren't always on the best of terms. I say it's the worst country in the world, it tries to kill me, I say I want to see what it would look like after a nuclear strike glasses Baghdad, it tries to kill me, I see a cute puppy while on patrol, it tries to kill me. And so on. But for one beautiful day in late August we put aside our differences and Iraq gave me what every boy really wants for his birthday, dangerous explosives!
Our task that day was to head over to FOB Hammer as an escort for an EOD element. The day was shaping up to be just another dusty scorcher, which is what I'd planned on anyway so I wasn't too disappointed. Still, there were a couple bright spots. We played a game of "guess Doc's age" and everyone was at least 2 to 3 years on the young side which either means I don't look old or I'm immature. I was strangely OK with either. As we were waiting to get our gear back on and leave to go back home something strange happened. I was sitting in the truck reading when I noticed a change, slight as it was, a degrees shift in temperature. I glanced out the window and I couldn't put my finger on it but the ground looked darker somehow, like there was something blocking the sun, something that reminded me of home. I looked up and there is was. A cloud! One big, fat, juicy, gray, cloud out of no where had drifted over us. I took my sunglasses off and turned my face to the sky and began to feel tiny drops of rain splash against my skin. Guys started laughing and dancing around like they'd won something as the drops steadily increased in size to the point where they almost hurt as they hit. Just as quickly as it arrived the rain stopped and the cloud moved on and the sun returned to make everything terrible again with the added joy of increased humidity but it was worth it to have any kind of change. Really though, this story isn't about meteorological phenomenon. On to the explosion.
As we were rolling out the gate we got word that a IED had been found on the route that we were taking to get back home. Since we had EOD assets with us anyway we became the de-facto response team and so made our way over to the grid we'd been given. Before anyone gets too excited let me remind you that the Army is the worlds leader in taking things that are awesome and making them suck. Jumping out of airplanes, shooting automatic weapons, living in a big steel box, the Army has ruined them all for me. That being said nothing can ruin blowing something up... except expecting a bigger explosion.
The offending agent in question turned out to be a small anti-personel mine that had been placed on the side of the road. This couldn't have been meant for us since even the most rookie insurgent knows the armor on our trucks wouldn't have even been scratched by it. Regardless, it had to go. So EOD took out it's Johnny-5 bot and placed a small explosive charge on it's extending hook arm. J-5 is remote controlled but watching it move it kind of like watching a giant cockroach, it skitters along on it's mini tank tracks and then suddenly stops, shifts directions and it off again, then stops as if sniffing out crumbs of food. The rest of the team pulled security around the perimeter in case the mine was just a decoy for something more complex and as the minutes passed the initial excitement of knowing something was about to violently combust began to leave me along the trails of sweat rolling down my neck. After about 30 minutes we were ordered back to the trucks as J-5 retreated from the spot where it had placed the charge next to the mine. I had a clear view from my seat and I sat forward as EOD gave the order to fire. The two explosives went up in a remarkably un-Hollywood burst of dust that was as underwhelming to watch as it was to hear. When something explodes I want to feel it in my chest. I want to be knocked over. I want to have permanent brain damage. No such luck this time, but regardless it was a nice break from the monotony and as far as birthday gifts go, I figure this country could have done much worse.
--
I ran up to the top of the sandy berm on the western border of our base and instead of taking the long way around a winding dirt path like I usually do I decided to go right up the 136 stairs that reach skyward temple like a short way from my living box. I had avoided doing this since we arrived here because of all the parts of my body I feel need work, my legs aren't top on the list and because of what I feel is a justified fear of tripping and falling 100 meters down a 50 degree slope. Iraqi construction which as a general rule doesn't follow the strictest of standards fails most spectacularly in the arena of assisting locomotion to elevated positions. The effect of looking at steps as you run up them one by one is vertigo inducing under the best conditions, coupled with my decision to make my first summit attempt long after it had gotten dark out, by the halfway point I began to second guess the value of the activity in which I was currently engaged. I took my clear lensed Oakleys off to try and get a better view but it only served to bring what was making me dizzy more clearly in focus which magnified the problem. Of course I didn't just stop like an intelligent person would, no, the same ego driven logic that has landed many a fool begrudgingly into youtube stardom took me step by step closer to my goal, which I suppose was to prove that I could run up stairs at night or to become more physically fit, or something like that. About 20 steps from the top that familiar surge of adrenaline blurred out any doubt that this in fact was a fantastic idea and as I reached the top and turned around and looked down at the dull orange bulbs illuminating my temporary home I bent over panting with my hand on my knees. I scanned the horizon enjoying my small victory and wondering just how far my line of sight was from this position. I could see for miles, which meant I could be seen for miles. I felt the sudden shiver a soldier gets when he realizes he's made a tactical error. Then I remembered why I hate this country... and that I had to walk back down all those damn stairs.
--
Two reasons I'm sure that evolutionarily speaking I'm a dead end: 1. My natural initial response to being startled is to scream like a girl and fail my arms around. 2. My natural initial response to the sound of an incoming rocket is to kind shift my body weight to one side and crouch a little like I'm dodging a Nerf football that I didn't expect to be thrown at me. Genius.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow
It's quite these days. This isn't the Iraq I remember. I mean it is still miserably hot and filled with people who don't like me, but the passion is gone. Now when a local flips me off he doesn't even fear for his life, where's the fun in that? Tom finally caught Jerry but he spent so much time on the chase that he forgot why he wanted him in the first place. Yeah I got it. It's time for the Iraqis to flex a little national pride. It's officially their country now. We are but guests now and believe me in most places that's exactly how we are treated. But there's a undercurrent of distain flowing through these city streets. It's as if society here is at once on the brink of sudden collapse as well as eternally unchangeable, like we came and ruined everything while doing absolutely nothing these last six years.
--
With barely any real danger to be concerned by, I've become jumpy at little things. Ok, a M109 Paladin isn't exactly a little thing. But it's friendly enough when it's not pointed at you. The problem is, for what ever reason, they have been firing them off at odd hours of the night over the last week. These artillery tanks fire a 155mm round that produces a testicle retracting kaboom accompanied by a hollow organ rattling shock wave that is especially exciting if you aren't expecting it as you come out of your door at 10:30 at night. At least I didn't need to walk all the way to the bathroom anymore.
--
There is something biting me. Not right now but at night occasionally there is something that bites my hands and toes and legs and feet and leaves red itchy little bumps that I scratch in my sleep and wake myself up. I hate these things. I have no idea what they are. Some people call them sand fleas, but apparently those don't exist, at least according to the internet. So there is this mystery bug that bites me in my bed and when I stand for more than a few minutes in one place outside and I have no idea what it looks like or how to destroy it and it's entire family. This must be what it feels like to become schizophrenic.
--
With 10 months left in the service I spend a lot of time looking forward to what's next and looking back on what I've experienced and how it's shaped the person I am today. To say that this job has been an eye opening experience would be the grossest of understatements. I grew up in a world where parents stayed together, kids graduated high school and went to college, and arguments were solved with words not fists. That's not to say things always happened that way but when they didn't it was the exception to the rule and I could always turn back to my family, stare normal in the eye and let the worries of other peoples lives fade away. It was a great place to become an adult but like too much of any good thing, while enjoyable, it persuaded me to turn a blind eye to reality. Now my family is a volatile mixture of delinquents, thieves, liars, immigrants who gained their citizenship through the service, farm boys from Kansas, runaways, and more than a couple sociopaths. It's not always easy but dealing with that diversity teaches you that there are not good or evil people. We are all just people, capable of incredible kindness and terrible hate. And someone who you think you hate can turn out to be your best friend.
One of my favorite memories from my training days was sitting in this terrible mexican joint on Fort Benning that was within walking distance from the airborne school barracks. I would head up there every few days and order a beer and something that tried to pass for carnitas and just sit by myself and watch what ever was on the television hanging above the bar. I'd hit on the waitress who as I recall was neither particularly good looking nor interesting but conversation of any kind was good to have. My only friend that I'd come from AIT to airborne with had failed the PT test to get in... or rather her had been failed because he pissed off the instructor and they counted his push ups to 42 and then stayed there regardless of how correct his form was. You need 43 minimum to get in. This is called joining the 42 club.
My ritual continued this way for weeks. Beer, quasi-carnitas, and the wooing of the shrew. On our last week of training, sitting there at the bar I noticed another guy from my company come in and sit at a booth over against the wall to my left. I didn't know him personally but he had the reputation of being a bit of a country bumpkin and not very friendly. I went back to my food until about five minutes later when another figure came storming in the room and came to a halt directly in front of country's booth. I looked at and recognized the figure of a girl who I also knew by reputation, the kind you get by indiscriminately sleeping with anything that walks, and immediately my interest was peaked. Let me clarify first that I really do not care what other people do with their bodies. I'd heard about this girls exploits and the various names she was called and I remember thinking how typical it was that she did exactly what guys wanted but then they would turn around and look down on her... I'll save my feelings about sex rolls and the poor state of American sexual intelligence for another time though.
Standing with her hand on her cocked hip, with out a word she presented a home pregnancy test stick from her pocket and slammed it down on the table. Thinking back on that later I realized how those tests are taken and though "eew". But in the moment I was rapt which curiosity. Country took a bite of his taco looked at the stick and without even looking up said through a mouth full of food, "That shit ain't mine." Oh man, this was going to be some Jerry Springer type shit. I wasn't even trying to hide the fact that I was watching now. I had completely turned on my bar stool to watch the scene unfold while I sipped on my beer. What I expected to happen, having her explode in to some kind of white trash tirade, didn't. She angrily shot her hand out and grabbed the stick and was gone. Country looked up at me and I raised my eye brows signaling that unspoken male understanding that woman are generally completely incomprehensible. The end of his mouth curled into a half grin and shrugged as he went back to the business of consuming.
I later found out that he was not the first or the last of the guys she pulled this move on that day. I found this at once tragic and hilarious, and that is the Army to me. A place so ordered and regimented that you get to a point where you really have to just expect the unexpected. The undercurrent of human needs and wants covered by the gloss and shine of medals and uniforms, its a universe rife with extremes. I'll miss it I'm sure, but at the same time I'll probably spend the rest of my life getting as far away from it as I can.
--
With barely any real danger to be concerned by, I've become jumpy at little things. Ok, a M109 Paladin isn't exactly a little thing. But it's friendly enough when it's not pointed at you. The problem is, for what ever reason, they have been firing them off at odd hours of the night over the last week. These artillery tanks fire a 155mm round that produces a testicle retracting kaboom accompanied by a hollow organ rattling shock wave that is especially exciting if you aren't expecting it as you come out of your door at 10:30 at night. At least I didn't need to walk all the way to the bathroom anymore.
--
There is something biting me. Not right now but at night occasionally there is something that bites my hands and toes and legs and feet and leaves red itchy little bumps that I scratch in my sleep and wake myself up. I hate these things. I have no idea what they are. Some people call them sand fleas, but apparently those don't exist, at least according to the internet. So there is this mystery bug that bites me in my bed and when I stand for more than a few minutes in one place outside and I have no idea what it looks like or how to destroy it and it's entire family. This must be what it feels like to become schizophrenic.
--
With 10 months left in the service I spend a lot of time looking forward to what's next and looking back on what I've experienced and how it's shaped the person I am today. To say that this job has been an eye opening experience would be the grossest of understatements. I grew up in a world where parents stayed together, kids graduated high school and went to college, and arguments were solved with words not fists. That's not to say things always happened that way but when they didn't it was the exception to the rule and I could always turn back to my family, stare normal in the eye and let the worries of other peoples lives fade away. It was a great place to become an adult but like too much of any good thing, while enjoyable, it persuaded me to turn a blind eye to reality. Now my family is a volatile mixture of delinquents, thieves, liars, immigrants who gained their citizenship through the service, farm boys from Kansas, runaways, and more than a couple sociopaths. It's not always easy but dealing with that diversity teaches you that there are not good or evil people. We are all just people, capable of incredible kindness and terrible hate. And someone who you think you hate can turn out to be your best friend.
One of my favorite memories from my training days was sitting in this terrible mexican joint on Fort Benning that was within walking distance from the airborne school barracks. I would head up there every few days and order a beer and something that tried to pass for carnitas and just sit by myself and watch what ever was on the television hanging above the bar. I'd hit on the waitress who as I recall was neither particularly good looking nor interesting but conversation of any kind was good to have. My only friend that I'd come from AIT to airborne with had failed the PT test to get in... or rather her had been failed because he pissed off the instructor and they counted his push ups to 42 and then stayed there regardless of how correct his form was. You need 43 minimum to get in. This is called joining the 42 club.
My ritual continued this way for weeks. Beer, quasi-carnitas, and the wooing of the shrew. On our last week of training, sitting there at the bar I noticed another guy from my company come in and sit at a booth over against the wall to my left. I didn't know him personally but he had the reputation of being a bit of a country bumpkin and not very friendly. I went back to my food until about five minutes later when another figure came storming in the room and came to a halt directly in front of country's booth. I looked at and recognized the figure of a girl who I also knew by reputation, the kind you get by indiscriminately sleeping with anything that walks, and immediately my interest was peaked. Let me clarify first that I really do not care what other people do with their bodies. I'd heard about this girls exploits and the various names she was called and I remember thinking how typical it was that she did exactly what guys wanted but then they would turn around and look down on her... I'll save my feelings about sex rolls and the poor state of American sexual intelligence for another time though.
Standing with her hand on her cocked hip, with out a word she presented a home pregnancy test stick from her pocket and slammed it down on the table. Thinking back on that later I realized how those tests are taken and though "eew". But in the moment I was rapt which curiosity. Country took a bite of his taco looked at the stick and without even looking up said through a mouth full of food, "That shit ain't mine." Oh man, this was going to be some Jerry Springer type shit. I wasn't even trying to hide the fact that I was watching now. I had completely turned on my bar stool to watch the scene unfold while I sipped on my beer. What I expected to happen, having her explode in to some kind of white trash tirade, didn't. She angrily shot her hand out and grabbed the stick and was gone. Country looked up at me and I raised my eye brows signaling that unspoken male understanding that woman are generally completely incomprehensible. The end of his mouth curled into a half grin and shrugged as he went back to the business of consuming.
I later found out that he was not the first or the last of the guys she pulled this move on that day. I found this at once tragic and hilarious, and that is the Army to me. A place so ordered and regimented that you get to a point where you really have to just expect the unexpected. The undercurrent of human needs and wants covered by the gloss and shine of medals and uniforms, its a universe rife with extremes. I'll miss it I'm sure, but at the same time I'll probably spend the rest of my life getting as far away from it as I can.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
These Endless Numbered Days
Touching down on the tarmac I looked out my window noted passivly that we hadn't crashed in a giant fire storm of jet fuel and jagged metal scraps. Having not been granted my one wish upon returning to theater I sat back in my seat and pushed the slumbering ox of a staff sergeant off my shoulder for what I hoped would be the last time before we deplaned. The sour remains of what had once been 200 happy vacationing soldiers oozed into the fading afternoon sun light to begin the long and arduous process of getting from Kuwait to Baghdad International Airport and points beyond. There's likely no fix for it. Processing that many moving bodies is a nightmare. Compounded by the fact that we are salaried and that we get paid on the 1st and 15th regardless of output and that our movement liaisons likely acquired their position by being deemed unfit to serve in any other capacity, I had prepared myself to spend at least a week trying to get back to my unit. It gave me time to think back and unravel the last two weeks I'd spent in various stages of intoxication over the northern half of California.
Leave is fascinating, like a biopsy of the tissue of my friends lives. I get a little piece to look at a couple times a year and try to paint the bigger picture of their experience since I've been away. We're all growing older, finishing school, girls I use to date are getting married and even more frighteningly, reproducing. I get asked a lot about the war and my opinion on this and that. It bothers some soldiers to have to talk about work but I figure I'm the closest thing to a military expert that most people I know have. Why wouldn't you refer to someone with first hand knowledge? It was so nice to put on clothes that were appropriately designed for the weather, eat meat that I recognized, and of course get behind the wheel of a normal car... then turn the traction control off and put it in to a four wheel drift in skyline forrest on my way to Chipotle! (that absolutely never happened)
I was surprised to find that my tolerance for alcohol had stayed pretty much the same as before I left which either means I'm just genetically pre-dispositioned to party (highly likely) or that I've just pickled myself. I was reminded however that it is a terrible Idea to bar hop with people who are friends with the bar tenders. Taco's, however, are never a bad idea, especially on Tuesdays when they are a dollar at Chivo's in San Luis Obispo. In fact the seven $1 tacos I ate may have been what saved me from blacking out and dying in a gutter on Higuera St. I spent the next day recovered and buying ridiculous amounts of clothes from my favorite surf shops. I know I wont get to wear them until November but I don't care, retail therapy is still therapy.
One of my best friends got married and I got to finally wear my kilt. It was a big hit, except with the guy with the bored looking wife at my table who asked me if it was some kind of gag. Yes, centuries of tradition in the land of my ancestors is some pretty funny shit. Not so funny when a thousand drunk men in skirts come charging at you with the blades of their claymores glinting in the hazy morning sunshine of the last day of your life! Laugh then Mr. Stocks and Bonds. Several gin and tonics later I still could not be dragged on to the dance floor by my own mother and I thought how strange it is that I want attention so bad but am still so shy about certain things. She asked me if I was sad, it must have shown in my face that I was in a way. Beneath every joy I had while home there was always this tiny nagging voice telling me how temporary it all was. That every moment I spent took me closer to being far away again. The invincibility of youth wears off slowly and you start to see your parents as people who will not always be around and sometimes it just becomes too much to handle out of no where. Sometimes I feel like I sold off some of the best days of my life that I could have spent getting to know these people who have taken the last 26 years of their life doing everything they can to make my life easier. How do you repay that if you aren't around to go fishing or to eat lunch with?
Just before leave was over I went up to Alameda with my dad to see my grandmother and while I was at her house I walked upstairs and in to my late aunt Sue's old room. I don't think I'd ever really been in there before. When she was alive I felt like she was a woman who enjoyed her personal space. She fell ill and died during my first deployment while I was searching houses for weapons in the middle of the night. I looked at the books on the shelves and aging pictures of my aunt as a young woman competing at horse shows in full English style regalia. She was a breeder of champion standard poodles and I think in a way she liked them more than people which I used to think was odd but makes more and more sense the older I get. You can learn a lot about someone by what they leave behind. Bottles of herbal supplements, a calendar with pictures of old pagan runes, books on American history, small trinkets picked up from a life time of travel. A white plastic alarm clock with time becoming more the color of an egg shell, hands stopped at 4:31 with no one there to wind it. Everyday things now artifacts, clues to a woman who I never got to know in life. As I shut the door to go back downstairs it felt like waving goodbye to a friend who had already turned to walk away.
Leave is fascinating, like a biopsy of the tissue of my friends lives. I get a little piece to look at a couple times a year and try to paint the bigger picture of their experience since I've been away. We're all growing older, finishing school, girls I use to date are getting married and even more frighteningly, reproducing. I get asked a lot about the war and my opinion on this and that. It bothers some soldiers to have to talk about work but I figure I'm the closest thing to a military expert that most people I know have. Why wouldn't you refer to someone with first hand knowledge? It was so nice to put on clothes that were appropriately designed for the weather, eat meat that I recognized, and of course get behind the wheel of a normal car... then turn the traction control off and put it in to a four wheel drift in skyline forrest on my way to Chipotle! (that absolutely never happened)
I was surprised to find that my tolerance for alcohol had stayed pretty much the same as before I left which either means I'm just genetically pre-dispositioned to party (highly likely) or that I've just pickled myself. I was reminded however that it is a terrible Idea to bar hop with people who are friends with the bar tenders. Taco's, however, are never a bad idea, especially on Tuesdays when they are a dollar at Chivo's in San Luis Obispo. In fact the seven $1 tacos I ate may have been what saved me from blacking out and dying in a gutter on Higuera St. I spent the next day recovered and buying ridiculous amounts of clothes from my favorite surf shops. I know I wont get to wear them until November but I don't care, retail therapy is still therapy.
One of my best friends got married and I got to finally wear my kilt. It was a big hit, except with the guy with the bored looking wife at my table who asked me if it was some kind of gag. Yes, centuries of tradition in the land of my ancestors is some pretty funny shit. Not so funny when a thousand drunk men in skirts come charging at you with the blades of their claymores glinting in the hazy morning sunshine of the last day of your life! Laugh then Mr. Stocks and Bonds. Several gin and tonics later I still could not be dragged on to the dance floor by my own mother and I thought how strange it is that I want attention so bad but am still so shy about certain things. She asked me if I was sad, it must have shown in my face that I was in a way. Beneath every joy I had while home there was always this tiny nagging voice telling me how temporary it all was. That every moment I spent took me closer to being far away again. The invincibility of youth wears off slowly and you start to see your parents as people who will not always be around and sometimes it just becomes too much to handle out of no where. Sometimes I feel like I sold off some of the best days of my life that I could have spent getting to know these people who have taken the last 26 years of their life doing everything they can to make my life easier. How do you repay that if you aren't around to go fishing or to eat lunch with?
Just before leave was over I went up to Alameda with my dad to see my grandmother and while I was at her house I walked upstairs and in to my late aunt Sue's old room. I don't think I'd ever really been in there before. When she was alive I felt like she was a woman who enjoyed her personal space. She fell ill and died during my first deployment while I was searching houses for weapons in the middle of the night. I looked at the books on the shelves and aging pictures of my aunt as a young woman competing at horse shows in full English style regalia. She was a breeder of champion standard poodles and I think in a way she liked them more than people which I used to think was odd but makes more and more sense the older I get. You can learn a lot about someone by what they leave behind. Bottles of herbal supplements, a calendar with pictures of old pagan runes, books on American history, small trinkets picked up from a life time of travel. A white plastic alarm clock with time becoming more the color of an egg shell, hands stopped at 4:31 with no one there to wind it. Everyday things now artifacts, clues to a woman who I never got to know in life. As I shut the door to go back downstairs it felt like waving goodbye to a friend who had already turned to walk away.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Shower of Power
The shower is a great place to let the mind wonder. No matter where you are or what you do, when you close that curtain behind you, the world collapses down in to something more manageable, a place with control over temperature and time, to wash away dirt both real and imagined. And in that space the thoughts that never really found space to merge into the mind's daily traffic slowly climb their way up with the steam off your skin. Questions about the nature of meaning, what matters. Do the things that matter to you matter universally or is relevance more compartmentalized?
I start with the assumption that things do matter. Why even ask the questions if life and consciousness are meaningless? With that settled, for the moment anyway, I wander over to doubt. Doubt in myself, my abilities in comparison to others and why I care to rate myself to begin with. Happiness weaves it's way into the maw. Is it important to be happy with what you do in your life? Is it more important that say, duty? Should we seek out pleasure or rather a code to live by? There is solace in structure but some life's most memorable moments happen by accident. One question leads to another and even the answers carry along a few questions in tow.
Occasionally a feeling like crippling fear blacks everything out. Most often it's when I feel like I've got the important stuff under control. Out of nowhere something will come along and kick over my Lego castle scattering the pieces across the carpet and under the bed. What's left to do but rebuild? I could do it like it says on the box or maybe not. Maybe a space ship this time. My castle was cool but it seemed so very average, anyone can build the castle, it comes with directions, but this space ship is unique and interesting. It flies and shoots and explores the farthest reaches of the galaxy, it's exciting but it's new and as with any new thing it isn't without flaws. It's phase drive is unreliable, some contractor skimped on the material for support welds for the wings and they need to be replaced almost every time it reenters Earths atmosphere, the cockpit has a terrible blind spot, but the hull is painted Ferrari red (first impressions being what they are) and chicks dig it. So that's where the fear creeps in, castle or space ship, old or new, I can make either but which one is more right, right now? How many times can I break the pieces apart before they start to wear out? Why is it so hard to choose!?
Why not make Lego metaphors? These are my brains computer models of the path of my life's tornado, I can try and predict the effects with out creating any real damage. Thanks to the shower, I can be completely wrong or come to a life changing epiphany and either way I've completed my initial objective of cleanliness and so have become a winner, if only for a moment.
I start with the assumption that things do matter. Why even ask the questions if life and consciousness are meaningless? With that settled, for the moment anyway, I wander over to doubt. Doubt in myself, my abilities in comparison to others and why I care to rate myself to begin with. Happiness weaves it's way into the maw. Is it important to be happy with what you do in your life? Is it more important that say, duty? Should we seek out pleasure or rather a code to live by? There is solace in structure but some life's most memorable moments happen by accident. One question leads to another and even the answers carry along a few questions in tow.
Occasionally a feeling like crippling fear blacks everything out. Most often it's when I feel like I've got the important stuff under control. Out of nowhere something will come along and kick over my Lego castle scattering the pieces across the carpet and under the bed. What's left to do but rebuild? I could do it like it says on the box or maybe not. Maybe a space ship this time. My castle was cool but it seemed so very average, anyone can build the castle, it comes with directions, but this space ship is unique and interesting. It flies and shoots and explores the farthest reaches of the galaxy, it's exciting but it's new and as with any new thing it isn't without flaws. It's phase drive is unreliable, some contractor skimped on the material for support welds for the wings and they need to be replaced almost every time it reenters Earths atmosphere, the cockpit has a terrible blind spot, but the hull is painted Ferrari red (first impressions being what they are) and chicks dig it. So that's where the fear creeps in, castle or space ship, old or new, I can make either but which one is more right, right now? How many times can I break the pieces apart before they start to wear out? Why is it so hard to choose!?
Why not make Lego metaphors? These are my brains computer models of the path of my life's tornado, I can try and predict the effects with out creating any real damage. Thanks to the shower, I can be completely wrong or come to a life changing epiphany and either way I've completed my initial objective of cleanliness and so have become a winner, if only for a moment.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Truth?! You Can't Handle the Truth!
This article ran in today's Stars and Stripes and I'd like to set the record straight on a couple points because it never fails that what I say doesn't necessarily translate into what shows up in print. My additions will be in bold.
BAGHDAD — Almost every unit has one: The guy with the guitar. Whether in the CHU or around the burn barrel, he’s the one who’s all too eager to pick up his acoustic and play a song for everyone. Sometimes even when no one wants him to. Ok, that's borderline harsh, I'm not that guy. Many of the people in my unit had no idea that I even played before we deployed, and even now I generally practice in the storage room where no one can hear me for just that reason.
Sgt. Stephen Covell is one of those guys No, I'm not. for Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 3rd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division’s 5th Squadron, 73rd U.S. Cavalry Regiment.
Covell has taken it beyond playing for the fellas, though. The 26-year-old medic from Pacific Grove, Calif., has recorded and toured on the strength of his music.
He also contributed a song to an album of rock songs by Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans on the label To the Fallen Records.
Covell first deployed with the 5-73 in 2006 (2007) to the volatile Diyala province, even though he was supposed volunteered for, was accepted to be a part of Fort Bragg’s All-American Chorus.
"A week into it they called me and said ‘Bad news, you’re a combat-critical [military occupational specialty],’ " Covell said earlier this month at Baghdad’s Forward Operating Base Loyalty. "Looking back on it, I’m glad I deployed and got the combat experience I did." That's true.
Returning home inspired Covell to write "Sand Hills to Sandals," a song about what it feels like to come back to the normal world after more than a year (just under six months) in Iraq.
"I wanted to give people a piece of what I experienced," he said. "It’s about coming home and being happy you’re back and realizing the things you took for granted when you left."
While Covell said his military experience doesn’t influence a ton of his music, some people have responded to the song about getting out of Iraq. Finally. I'm not exactly sure what this sentence means. I think what he meant to say was that I don't write songs about the military... which I don't, but I really can't salvage the second half.
"A lot of people asked me what it was like to be there," he said. "I’ve heard from family members (of other service members) who said it (my song) helped them understand what it’s like (for their loved ones to be) over here."
Covell picked up the guitar at 18, but had played piano before that. "And I had a terrible run-in with the trumpet for about a year," he added.
His influences include John Mayer, Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews. And Jason Mraz! I Said that!
"I don’t want to say adult contemporary because it sounds kind of lame," Covell said. "I guess it’s acoustic rock."Progressive indie acoustic folk pop?
For up-and-coming musicians, Covell’s advice is to learn the basics on their own but get with instructors or other players once they plateau to try to take their skills to the next level. That's just what worked for me.
Writing songs just takes persistence, he said.
"Some songs write themselves in 15 minutes, some I’ve been working on since high school," Covell said. "Keep writing. The more you write the more you define your own style."
Not exactly the hard hitting expose I was hoping for but hey no publicity is bad publicity. I was upset because it's unfair to the guys that spent the whole deployment over here last time to say I did the entire 15 months with them when I didn't even do half. And I'm not that guy!
BAGHDAD — Almost every unit has one: The guy with the guitar. Whether in the CHU or around the burn barrel, he’s the one who’s all too eager to pick up his acoustic and play a song for everyone. Sometimes even when no one wants him to. Ok, that's borderline harsh, I'm not that guy. Many of the people in my unit had no idea that I even played before we deployed, and even now I generally practice in the storage room where no one can hear me for just that reason.
Sgt. Stephen Covell is one of those guys No, I'm not. for Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 3rd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division’s 5th Squadron, 73rd U.S. Cavalry Regiment.
Covell has taken it beyond playing for the fellas, though. The 26-year-old medic from Pacific Grove, Calif., has recorded and toured on the strength of his music.
He also contributed a song to an album of rock songs by Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans on the label To the Fallen Records.
Covell first deployed with the 5-73 in 2006 (2007) to the volatile Diyala province, even though he was supposed volunteered for, was accepted to be a part of Fort Bragg’s All-American Chorus.
"A week into it they called me and said ‘Bad news, you’re a combat-critical [military occupational specialty],’ " Covell said earlier this month at Baghdad’s Forward Operating Base Loyalty. "Looking back on it, I’m glad I deployed and got the combat experience I did." That's true.
Returning home inspired Covell to write "Sand Hills to Sandals," a song about what it feels like to come back to the normal world after more than a year (just under six months) in Iraq.
"I wanted to give people a piece of what I experienced," he said. "It’s about coming home and being happy you’re back and realizing the things you took for granted when you left."
While Covell said his military experience doesn’t influence a ton of his music, some people have responded to the song about getting out of Iraq. Finally. I'm not exactly sure what this sentence means. I think what he meant to say was that I don't write songs about the military... which I don't, but I really can't salvage the second half.
"A lot of people asked me what it was like to be there," he said. "I’ve heard from family members (of other service members) who said it (my song) helped them understand what it’s like (for their loved ones to be) over here."
Covell picked up the guitar at 18, but had played piano before that. "And I had a terrible run-in with the trumpet for about a year," he added.
His influences include John Mayer, Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews. And Jason Mraz! I Said that!
"I don’t want to say adult contemporary because it sounds kind of lame," Covell said. "I guess it’s acoustic rock."Progressive indie acoustic folk pop?
For up-and-coming musicians, Covell’s advice is to learn the basics on their own but get with instructors or other players once they plateau to try to take their skills to the next level. That's just what worked for me.
Writing songs just takes persistence, he said.
"Some songs write themselves in 15 minutes, some I’ve been working on since high school," Covell said. "Keep writing. The more you write the more you define your own style."
Not exactly the hard hitting expose I was hoping for but hey no publicity is bad publicity. I was upset because it's unfair to the guys that spent the whole deployment over here last time to say I did the entire 15 months with them when I didn't even do half. And I'm not that guy!
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