Hurricane Ivan has brought a new set of concerns to the Soldiers of this unit. Mobile, AL is home for the 375th and the storm prognosticators have projected that the current path of Ivan will carry this catageory 5 hurricane directly into the Gulf Coast at Mobile. Needless to say, the pucker factor here has gone up a few notches. Unit members have begun confirming procedures for delivering and receiving Red Cross messages as the storm approaches.
Projected Path of Hurricane Ivan
To make matters worse, many of the members of this unit are also from the Orlando, FL area. So the Group has already survived two Hurricanes within the past few weeks. No one was seriously injured in Florida, but there was property damage. Regardless, the storms caused significant worry for everyone.
I've grown to know and appreciate the members of the 375th and I feel they are now an extended part of my family. You can't live, sleep, eat and work with the same people, day in and day out, in meager, bare conditions and not begin to care about them to a certain degree. They are good and wholesome people, they get up and put their pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else in the world; the exeception is they are now doing it here in Kuwait instead of at home with their families and loved ones. And the worry they feel at a time like this can only be imagined by people who aren't in their unique position.
As always, keep these good people and all U.S. military members in your thoughts and prayers.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Monday, September 06, 2004
My Life in Kuwait
Life in Kuwait isn't all that bad, though living in the Rear keeps me entirely too close to the flag pole and the bureaucracy. Imagine working with micromanagement, triple check inventory controls, soldiers too afraid to rock the boat, senior leaders who find it necessary to distribute decrees about the displaying of flags over tents, proper wear of undergarments, and other such nonsense. It can be trying at times.
There is one inescapable fact of military life for the majority of us living in Kuwait and Iraq, the all purpose tent. Military tents are equally cursed and praised by service members. They may sometimes be uncomfortable, like when it rains or when the power goes off, but the tents of today are much better than those of the World War II and Korean War era. Tents keep us dry when it rains, they have plywood floors so we don't trod around in the dirt, and thanks to modern technology, the temperature is regulated through a heat pump which sits outside.
These tents are also easy to assemble. They are made so that anyone, regardless of mental aptitude, can put one up in a hurry. They are made of a special insulating material which helps keep in the air. Through the middle of the tent's ceiling, a plastic vent runs with holes which blows air into the tent. For thousands around the world every day, tents like these are home.
My day begins between 0500 and 0600. My first destination each morning is the bathroom trailer down the dusty road which passes through Tent City. After showering and brushing my teeth with the non-potable water, I return to the tent. I put on my uniform and head off to the S-1 Shop. I check my e-mail and inbox for any smoldering issues which may have ignited overnight, then I head to the morning Stand Up briefing which is held in a secure building a few minutes walk from my office.
Stand Up is the meeting where we get the lowdown on what's happended the night before, intel, operations, as well as equipment updates. It is always interesting and it never fails, I always hear about something going on in Iraq or Kuwait that hasn't made the news or the web and probably never will. It's fascinating. There's actually quite a bit of activity going on in the area. On several occasions our convoys have been challenged and there have been incidents of check point guards have been harrassed. Thus far no one has been shot, that I am aware of at least. Shots fired?? On a rare occasion, yes. But in Kuwait they are referred to as negligent discharges.
Following Stand Up, I hit the chow hall. That's another few minutes away. During the Surges (large influx of troops) there is a 10-minute line at the entrance. We are discouraged from calling it the "chow hall." The politically correct, originators of military etiquette would prefer that we called it the Dining Facility, DFAC for short. Apparently the word "chow" connotes visions of dog food and "the management" would prefer we didn't imply that soldiers eat dog food, or that soldiers are like dogs. Well, some days it doesn't look much better than Alpo, though most days it's not too bad. There is enough variety that no one should go away hungry.
After my morning meal, I wander into the S-1 Shop and start reading paperwork... and more paperwork.... and then more paperwork. I think you get the point. My day is filled with answering the phone, e-mails, various and sundry personnel actions, and running to the Group Commander's office to update the Command Group on the status of things at our down trace units. Occasionally we make trips to Camp Doha, Truckville, Navistar and other places where we have official business.
On a trip to deliver some official mail to Doha recently, we had an encounter with a man going from car to car at an intersection where we were sitting. He approached all the cars in our lane and actually got in the vehicle right in front of ours.... until the occupants forced him out. He moved toward our vehicle but at the last minute decided against it. I guess he saw our uniforms. I was a little nervous, had my hand on my pistol and was not thrilled about the idea of possibly having to point it at him. Thankfully he backed off and I never had to learn what his intentions were or how scared I'd be if things had progressed. He was most likely harmless but as I don't speak Arabic, it would have been difficult for me to tell. I do however speak 9mm, which does not require a translator.
It's a short walk in the dark from the S-1 Shop to my tent. On the way I pass through barricades, by construction ditches and generators, over power cords and past the lovely port-a-potties. The smell of urine, dirt and whatever is on fire and smoldering somewhere in Kuwait is always in the air. Oddly, you do get used to it.
If my day seems long, it's nothing compared to what others go through elsewhere in the Theater. Still, few people here work only an eight-hour day, and days off are rare. But then again, there's not much else to do here but work.
Once in the tent, I change, organize my gear for the next day, and before I fall asleep, I try to read a few pages from whatever book I'm reading at the time. The next morning I do it all over again.
There is one inescapable fact of military life for the majority of us living in Kuwait and Iraq, the all purpose tent. Military tents are equally cursed and praised by service members. They may sometimes be uncomfortable, like when it rains or when the power goes off, but the tents of today are much better than those of the World War II and Korean War era. Tents keep us dry when it rains, they have plywood floors so we don't trod around in the dirt, and thanks to modern technology, the temperature is regulated through a heat pump which sits outside.
These tents are also easy to assemble. They are made so that anyone, regardless of mental aptitude, can put one up in a hurry. They are made of a special insulating material which helps keep in the air. Through the middle of the tent's ceiling, a plastic vent runs with holes which blows air into the tent. For thousands around the world every day, tents like these are home.
My day begins between 0500 and 0600. My first destination each morning is the bathroom trailer down the dusty road which passes through Tent City. After showering and brushing my teeth with the non-potable water, I return to the tent. I put on my uniform and head off to the S-1 Shop. I check my e-mail and inbox for any smoldering issues which may have ignited overnight, then I head to the morning Stand Up briefing which is held in a secure building a few minutes walk from my office.
Stand Up is the meeting where we get the lowdown on what's happended the night before, intel, operations, as well as equipment updates. It is always interesting and it never fails, I always hear about something going on in Iraq or Kuwait that hasn't made the news or the web and probably never will. It's fascinating. There's actually quite a bit of activity going on in the area. On several occasions our convoys have been challenged and there have been incidents of check point guards have been harrassed. Thus far no one has been shot, that I am aware of at least. Shots fired?? On a rare occasion, yes. But in Kuwait they are referred to as negligent discharges.
Following Stand Up, I hit the chow hall. That's another few minutes away. During the Surges (large influx of troops) there is a 10-minute line at the entrance. We are discouraged from calling it the "chow hall." The politically correct, originators of military etiquette would prefer that we called it the Dining Facility, DFAC for short. Apparently the word "chow" connotes visions of dog food and "the management" would prefer we didn't imply that soldiers eat dog food, or that soldiers are like dogs. Well, some days it doesn't look much better than Alpo, though most days it's not too bad. There is enough variety that no one should go away hungry.
After my morning meal, I wander into the S-1 Shop and start reading paperwork... and more paperwork.... and then more paperwork. I think you get the point. My day is filled with answering the phone, e-mails, various and sundry personnel actions, and running to the Group Commander's office to update the Command Group on the status of things at our down trace units. Occasionally we make trips to Camp Doha, Truckville, Navistar and other places where we have official business.
On a trip to deliver some official mail to Doha recently, we had an encounter with a man going from car to car at an intersection where we were sitting. He approached all the cars in our lane and actually got in the vehicle right in front of ours.... until the occupants forced him out. He moved toward our vehicle but at the last minute decided against it. I guess he saw our uniforms. I was a little nervous, had my hand on my pistol and was not thrilled about the idea of possibly having to point it at him. Thankfully he backed off and I never had to learn what his intentions were or how scared I'd be if things had progressed. He was most likely harmless but as I don't speak Arabic, it would have been difficult for me to tell. I do however speak 9mm, which does not require a translator.
It's a short walk in the dark from the S-1 Shop to my tent. On the way I pass through barricades, by construction ditches and generators, over power cords and past the lovely port-a-potties. The smell of urine, dirt and whatever is on fire and smoldering somewhere in Kuwait is always in the air. Oddly, you do get used to it.
If my day seems long, it's nothing compared to what others go through elsewhere in the Theater. Still, few people here work only an eight-hour day, and days off are rare. But then again, there's not much else to do here but work.
Once in the tent, I change, organize my gear for the next day, and before I fall asleep, I try to read a few pages from whatever book I'm reading at the time. The next morning I do it all over again.
My Three Terrorists
Contributed by LTC Cindy Clagett.
"Rituals help us all cope with this environment. Most we make up ourselves. Some find us. Every night around 10 or 11, I make evening rounds in the Iraqi detainee ward. This is a medical and surgical ward that is guarded and contains bad guys who, if they were otherwise healthy, would be in Abu Ghraib or some other prisoner of war camp. Most of the patients located there have come through the ICU at one time or another so I sort of know them and their stories.
Some I have told you about before. There was the 60 year old, shot three times in the groin as he was charging a machine gun position. He had a massive heart attack. The definitive care is us (the CSH). We do not evacuate POWs back to the for advanced medical care. The way it was explained to me was that getting captured did not result in a health care plan for life.
Another is a kid, maybe 17 who was shot in the arm and both knees while he was, high as a kite, lobbing grenades at a check point. Another young guy, also was shot in the gut, chest, leg, calf and arm as he almost suicidally charged a position. I know these patients because they all spent a lot of ICU time with me. Once conscious and aware that they were in the care of the infidels, they were, shall we say, less than polite. It probably didn’t help that the day shift played Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and “Material Girl” over and over on the CD. The older guy expressed his displeasure in a particulary noxious way by depositing his scat on the floor every time he wiggled his hind portion over his cot. The others would slap at us, spit, bite and kick, pull out IVs, chest tubes, drains, bandage packing and foley bladder catheters (only once though after they discovered the internal bubble was not deflated).
I really had only two words for these men then…’Scheduled Haldol’. That stopped the physical abuse. The fecal man kept up with the other antisocial behavior until we caught on to suppositories to better empty his arsenal on our schedule.
Every morning we make mass doctor rounds. But every evening, I go into the Iraqi Ward alone, sneaking in treats from my care packages. The young men like the Oreos. Of course my heart attack guy wants anything with salt in it, which I cave in to and compensate with his blood pressure medications. (Like he is ever going to get the heart healthy low salt diet anyway).
I make a big show of listening with my stethoscope and bring cool towels and alcohol wipes. I lean over them and look them directly in the eyes. At first, none would look back. Now we have a kind of visual arc. I perform no real medicine, but tuck them in, act like I have seen God when they give me a good strong cough, and otherwise wish them goodnight. Most of this is in mime. My big fear is that the thumbs up or OK sign is an insult. I used to do a lot of fanning my hands over my chest and taking in a really big breath, pulling my cupped palms down to my navel to get them to breathe deeply. I could not get these guys to follow along with what I thought was a fairly obvious pantomime. This was until the translator told me he thought I might be giving a somewhat provocative impression. Given that they usually don’t see women uncloaked let alone running around in a sweaty, wet t-shirt, the emphasis on expansion of the chest could, I suppose be taken in other ways.
I know they are bad guys. I know they are responsible for probably innumerable deaths. But I kind of like them now. We have a gentle relationship. They are no longer on haldol and the floor no longer reeks of crap. I feel they really smile when we see each other. I have learned other methods to signal them about the breathing thing. We have worn each other down. It is a mutual Stockholm Syndrome. They are trapped by their injuries and the MPs. I am trapped by my gratitude that they responded favorably to therapy.
There is some degree of ribbing I get from the staff and the MPs who watch this interaction and probably want to vomit. I counter with the very practical explanation that if the bad guys’ buddies ever overrun us, I would stand the greatest chance of survival.
When the day is done, all I see is a frightened older man and two young boys who have all suffered and survived mortal wounds. They like Pringles, Oreos and Bigelow Orange Spiced Tea. The three of them are parked in a row on one side of the ward. They are my three terrorists. And for better or worse, I am their doctor."
"Rituals help us all cope with this environment. Most we make up ourselves. Some find us. Every night around 10 or 11, I make evening rounds in the Iraqi detainee ward. This is a medical and surgical ward that is guarded and contains bad guys who, if they were otherwise healthy, would be in Abu Ghraib or some other prisoner of war camp. Most of the patients located there have come through the ICU at one time or another so I sort of know them and their stories.
Some I have told you about before. There was the 60 year old, shot three times in the groin as he was charging a machine gun position. He had a massive heart attack. The definitive care is us (the CSH). We do not evacuate POWs back to the for advanced medical care. The way it was explained to me was that getting captured did not result in a health care plan for life.
Another is a kid, maybe 17 who was shot in the arm and both knees while he was, high as a kite, lobbing grenades at a check point. Another young guy, also was shot in the gut, chest, leg, calf and arm as he almost suicidally charged a position. I know these patients because they all spent a lot of ICU time with me. Once conscious and aware that they were in the care of the infidels, they were, shall we say, less than polite. It probably didn’t help that the day shift played Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and “Material Girl” over and over on the CD. The older guy expressed his displeasure in a particulary noxious way by depositing his scat on the floor every time he wiggled his hind portion over his cot. The others would slap at us, spit, bite and kick, pull out IVs, chest tubes, drains, bandage packing and foley bladder catheters (only once though after they discovered the internal bubble was not deflated).
I really had only two words for these men then…’Scheduled Haldol’. That stopped the physical abuse. The fecal man kept up with the other antisocial behavior until we caught on to suppositories to better empty his arsenal on our schedule.
Every morning we make mass doctor rounds. But every evening, I go into the Iraqi Ward alone, sneaking in treats from my care packages. The young men like the Oreos. Of course my heart attack guy wants anything with salt in it, which I cave in to and compensate with his blood pressure medications. (Like he is ever going to get the heart healthy low salt diet anyway).
I make a big show of listening with my stethoscope and bring cool towels and alcohol wipes. I lean over them and look them directly in the eyes. At first, none would look back. Now we have a kind of visual arc. I perform no real medicine, but tuck them in, act like I have seen God when they give me a good strong cough, and otherwise wish them goodnight. Most of this is in mime. My big fear is that the thumbs up or OK sign is an insult. I used to do a lot of fanning my hands over my chest and taking in a really big breath, pulling my cupped palms down to my navel to get them to breathe deeply. I could not get these guys to follow along with what I thought was a fairly obvious pantomime. This was until the translator told me he thought I might be giving a somewhat provocative impression. Given that they usually don’t see women uncloaked let alone running around in a sweaty, wet t-shirt, the emphasis on expansion of the chest could, I suppose be taken in other ways.
I know they are bad guys. I know they are responsible for probably innumerable deaths. But I kind of like them now. We have a gentle relationship. They are no longer on haldol and the floor no longer reeks of crap. I feel they really smile when we see each other. I have learned other methods to signal them about the breathing thing. We have worn each other down. It is a mutual Stockholm Syndrome. They are trapped by their injuries and the MPs. I am trapped by my gratitude that they responded favorably to therapy.
There is some degree of ribbing I get from the staff and the MPs who watch this interaction and probably want to vomit. I counter with the very practical explanation that if the bad guys’ buddies ever overrun us, I would stand the greatest chance of survival.
When the day is done, all I see is a frightened older man and two young boys who have all suffered and survived mortal wounds. They like Pringles, Oreos and Bigelow Orange Spiced Tea. The three of them are parked in a row on one side of the ward. They are my three terrorists. And for better or worse, I am their doctor."
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Most Memorable Experience
Contributed by SK2 Martha Allen.
My most memorable experience was at the beginning of my deployment, sometime in February. It was just after midnight and the camp was buzzing with the sound of one of many 1st AD convoys that had just rolled into Arifjan from up north. The one-way street was packed; trucks lined up as far as the eye could see. You could barely hear the camp generators over the still-running convoy engines! Yet the soldiers, packed into LMTVs, lying on top of their gear…were sleeping… PEACEFULLY! Not a sound, a light, or a movement could wake them. The soldiers, their gear, and their vehicles were almost undistinguishable. They were so covered in dirt and dust, you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began…. This was the most poignant, poetic, amazing sight… It brought tears to my eyes! And I realized, at that moment… the work we do here, no matter how small…is for the infantry men, the war fighter, the hero… our heroes!
My most memorable experience was at the beginning of my deployment, sometime in February. It was just after midnight and the camp was buzzing with the sound of one of many 1st AD convoys that had just rolled into Arifjan from up north. The one-way street was packed; trucks lined up as far as the eye could see. You could barely hear the camp generators over the still-running convoy engines! Yet the soldiers, packed into LMTVs, lying on top of their gear…were sleeping… PEACEFULLY! Not a sound, a light, or a movement could wake them. The soldiers, their gear, and their vehicles were almost undistinguishable. They were so covered in dirt and dust, you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began…. This was the most poignant, poetic, amazing sight… It brought tears to my eyes! And I realized, at that moment… the work we do here, no matter how small…is for the infantry men, the war fighter, the hero… our heroes!
Finding Humor ... and Dignity
Here is a portion of a letter I recently received from my doctor friend up north. In it she illustrates how it is possible to find humor even under the worst of circumstances.
"Courtesy, respect and good manners have ganged up on doctors over the past generation or so to dissuade us from referring to a patient as 'the gallbladder', 'the seizure', or 'foreign body impaction' (use imagination). We have gone to great lengths to encourage the use of formal names and titles in an effort to preserve dignity and to create an atmosphere of equal footing between doctor and patient.
The way things are organized here, the soldiers, department of defense employees, contractors, coalition forces-otherwise the good guys, are listed by their names. The Iraqi civilians and prisoners are listed by a number. Many times, we receive unconscious casualties without any information. These are the 'drive-bys' dropped off by field medics, MPs or, very often, dragged to the front gate and left there by who knows. I have discovered that a lot of the numbered patients are brown and so assumed to be Iraqi and are all considered bad guys until we get the real story. In fact, there are a lot of brown people here who actually are KBR (Kellog-Brown and Root, the US government's contractor of choice) sub-contractors and employees. But starting out brown and unconscious, the assumption is that you're a bad guy and you get a number. I guess it's like John Doe, but there are so many, we'd be numbering the JDs anyway (we are well into the four digits).
On the positive side, except for the depersonalizing number system, the human body wounds, bleeds, and heals the same, good guy or bad guy. This is fortunate because learning just one human physiology is more than enough for me and so we treat all patients the same. The only clear difference in care is in the evacuation. We can evacuate to higher level medical facilities any American or coalition civilian if they are stable enough for transport. The natives of course remain here. As it turns out, even with all our limitations, the US Combat Support Hospital System is the highest level of care in the whole country at this time.
As a result, our very critically ill Iraqis and other brown people stay with us for weeks or even months. We get to know them in a way we can't with others who are here and gone, usually within 1-3 days.
It is impossible to care for someone day after day and refer to them as #6492. We can't even go back to our old habits of naming them by their malady like 'the gallbladder' because we would have to say something like 'the multiple fragmentation injury to the abdomen with a through and through to the left chest, a comminuted femur fracture and multiple gun shot wounds to the lower extremities.' It doesn't roll off the tongue.
So, one way or another, the patients acquire names. We don't ever, that I can see, actually think about names, they just sort of take hold and spread so that the only people who really care about the number nomenclature are the admin, lab and pharmacy. Or the politicos.
I have taken pains to set this up or else I'm afraid the names I am about to tell you would seem callous. Hopefully, you can take this in some context. So here goes:
One patient had crushed arms, in splints with traction causing him to have two large, white bandage wrapped extremities held extended above his head for quite some time. Again, I don't know how or even when it happened, but he slowly became known as "Touchdown". Another man who was actually an Iraqi Interim Government Police Chief, had charged through gunfire to throw himself over an RPG (big rocket) which exploded in his belly. He did this to save a group of 6 or 7 high ranking American officials he was escorting. We ended up calling him 'The Sheriff'(again, clearly a good guy, but gets a number anyway). This stuck like glue since the only radio station we get in the ICU plays the same limited mix of 70s music everyday and so we hear 'I Shot the Sheriff' with annoying regularity. It was a natural.
A real bad guy had been shot and had his right arm vaporized below the elbow during a firefight. He was captured and was being evacuated back to the CSH for treatment. On the way, his own insurgency cell hit the evac vehicle with a booby-trapped explosive (IED). This then blew one of his legs off. He had a long recovery and came to be known as "Lucky".
Another man is called "Blue". No one seems to remember how that came about. He has been here for over 4 months and has had multple, staged, orthopedic, skin and muscle flap/graft surgeries complicted by bone infections. I can't follow the link, but he is worth mentioning because he is a true obsessive-compulsive. He spends his entire day cleaning himself with q-tips, and gauze. He looks about 70, although he is probably 50. He has a 12 inch long, snow-white, meticulously combed and trimmed white beard. I estimate he is about 5 feet tall and weighs 100 lbs not couting his external fixator devices (scaffolding for the leg). He has been placed in the part of the tent that actually has a 'window', (plastic and opague, but a window none the less) which gets diffused sunlight. His longevity, age and the fact that the nurses have turned over all wound care and dressing changes to him have earned him the prime real estate.
One thing about Blue though is disturbing. Although we have given him dental floss, he insists on pulling strings of gauze from his wet to dry leg dressings to floss his teeth. Given he is so clean otherwise, this is unusual. I am told he prefers the taste to our mint flavored waxed, packaged American floss.
There are so many more -- a guy with scars demonstrating very old, recent past, recent, and brand new fresh gunshot wounds to every part of his body. We call him Tu-Pak. One man who required massive transfusions which depleted our blood supply and so required an emergency blood drive. We drained every person with his blood type who was on duty in the hospital that day. We named him Sponge-Bob. Another guy with incredibly thick, curly black hair combed straight upward is known as Kramer. A turkish guy is "The Turk" which is not original but feels good to say.
Every name is a replacement for the anonymity of a number and a reflection of something personal about our injured people. Perhaps that is a rationalization for our behavior but I think it is on the benign end of the spectrum given the circumstances. I understand from the translators that the awake and alert ward patients have named us as well. For some reason, I am called Dr. "Mama" which they assure me is a term of respect (I'm too flattered). It's better than what they call the big Ortho guy who examines wounds, changes dressings at the bedside and adjusts traction. They call him Dr. Ala'am which means 'pain'. Mama is just fine."
"Courtesy, respect and good manners have ganged up on doctors over the past generation or so to dissuade us from referring to a patient as 'the gallbladder', 'the seizure', or 'foreign body impaction' (use imagination). We have gone to great lengths to encourage the use of formal names and titles in an effort to preserve dignity and to create an atmosphere of equal footing between doctor and patient.
The way things are organized here, the soldiers, department of defense employees, contractors, coalition forces-otherwise the good guys, are listed by their names. The Iraqi civilians and prisoners are listed by a number. Many times, we receive unconscious casualties without any information. These are the 'drive-bys' dropped off by field medics, MPs or, very often, dragged to the front gate and left there by who knows. I have discovered that a lot of the numbered patients are brown and so assumed to be Iraqi and are all considered bad guys until we get the real story. In fact, there are a lot of brown people here who actually are KBR (Kellog-Brown and Root, the US government's contractor of choice) sub-contractors and employees. But starting out brown and unconscious, the assumption is that you're a bad guy and you get a number. I guess it's like John Doe, but there are so many, we'd be numbering the JDs anyway (we are well into the four digits).
On the positive side, except for the depersonalizing number system, the human body wounds, bleeds, and heals the same, good guy or bad guy. This is fortunate because learning just one human physiology is more than enough for me and so we treat all patients the same. The only clear difference in care is in the evacuation. We can evacuate to higher level medical facilities any American or coalition civilian if they are stable enough for transport. The natives of course remain here. As it turns out, even with all our limitations, the US Combat Support Hospital System is the highest level of care in the whole country at this time.
As a result, our very critically ill Iraqis and other brown people stay with us for weeks or even months. We get to know them in a way we can't with others who are here and gone, usually within 1-3 days.
It is impossible to care for someone day after day and refer to them as #6492. We can't even go back to our old habits of naming them by their malady like 'the gallbladder' because we would have to say something like 'the multiple fragmentation injury to the abdomen with a through and through to the left chest, a comminuted femur fracture and multiple gun shot wounds to the lower extremities.' It doesn't roll off the tongue.
So, one way or another, the patients acquire names. We don't ever, that I can see, actually think about names, they just sort of take hold and spread so that the only people who really care about the number nomenclature are the admin, lab and pharmacy. Or the politicos.
I have taken pains to set this up or else I'm afraid the names I am about to tell you would seem callous. Hopefully, you can take this in some context. So here goes:
One patient had crushed arms, in splints with traction causing him to have two large, white bandage wrapped extremities held extended above his head for quite some time. Again, I don't know how or even when it happened, but he slowly became known as "Touchdown". Another man who was actually an Iraqi Interim Government Police Chief, had charged through gunfire to throw himself over an RPG (big rocket) which exploded in his belly. He did this to save a group of 6 or 7 high ranking American officials he was escorting. We ended up calling him 'The Sheriff'(again, clearly a good guy, but gets a number anyway). This stuck like glue since the only radio station we get in the ICU plays the same limited mix of 70s music everyday and so we hear 'I Shot the Sheriff' with annoying regularity. It was a natural.
A real bad guy had been shot and had his right arm vaporized below the elbow during a firefight. He was captured and was being evacuated back to the CSH for treatment. On the way, his own insurgency cell hit the evac vehicle with a booby-trapped explosive (IED). This then blew one of his legs off. He had a long recovery and came to be known as "Lucky".
Another man is called "Blue". No one seems to remember how that came about. He has been here for over 4 months and has had multple, staged, orthopedic, skin and muscle flap/graft surgeries complicted by bone infections. I can't follow the link, but he is worth mentioning because he is a true obsessive-compulsive. He spends his entire day cleaning himself with q-tips, and gauze. He looks about 70, although he is probably 50. He has a 12 inch long, snow-white, meticulously combed and trimmed white beard. I estimate he is about 5 feet tall and weighs 100 lbs not couting his external fixator devices (scaffolding for the leg). He has been placed in the part of the tent that actually has a 'window', (plastic and opague, but a window none the less) which gets diffused sunlight. His longevity, age and the fact that the nurses have turned over all wound care and dressing changes to him have earned him the prime real estate.
One thing about Blue though is disturbing. Although we have given him dental floss, he insists on pulling strings of gauze from his wet to dry leg dressings to floss his teeth. Given he is so clean otherwise, this is unusual. I am told he prefers the taste to our mint flavored waxed, packaged American floss.
There are so many more -- a guy with scars demonstrating very old, recent past, recent, and brand new fresh gunshot wounds to every part of his body. We call him Tu-Pak. One man who required massive transfusions which depleted our blood supply and so required an emergency blood drive. We drained every person with his blood type who was on duty in the hospital that day. We named him Sponge-Bob. Another guy with incredibly thick, curly black hair combed straight upward is known as Kramer. A turkish guy is "The Turk" which is not original but feels good to say.
Every name is a replacement for the anonymity of a number and a reflection of something personal about our injured people. Perhaps that is a rationalization for our behavior but I think it is on the benign end of the spectrum given the circumstances. I understand from the translators that the awake and alert ward patients have named us as well. For some reason, I am called Dr. "Mama" which they assure me is a term of respect (I'm too flattered). It's better than what they call the big Ortho guy who examines wounds, changes dressings at the bedside and adjusts traction. They call him Dr. Ala'am which means 'pain'. Mama is just fine."
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Selfless Service and Loyalty: Love
Selfless service and loyalty are values that many of us were taught as children and, for some, in our early religious educations. These values, and others, are the moral compasses which guide us in our everyday lives, through every decision we make, and in every action we undertake. These same values also compel soldiers to fight through all conditions to victory no matter how long it takes and no matter how much effort is required. They define a soldier's selfless commitment to the nation, mission, unit, and fellow soldiers. It is this professional attitude that inspires every American soldier. Selfless-Service: Put the welfare of the nation, the Army, and your subordinates before your own.
Selfless service is a key component of the "Warrior Ethos." The "Warrior Ethos" is a set of professional, moral and ethical values that is the basis for all U.S. soldier behavior and professional development. These standards are taught to soldiers in basic training and reinforced throughout our careers. Members of the military simply would not be able to do their jobs if they were not, to a certain degree, selfless. Otherwise, they wouldn't be willing to put up with even the ordinary hardships of military life, much less be willing to risk their lives.
Selfless service and loyalty go hand in hand. One has to replace a desire for personal gratification with a desire to elevate someone else to achieve selfless service. Loyalty is the act of binding oneself intellectually or emotionally to a course of action, a person, organization or a way of life. Loyalty requires that one place another's interests above those of all others. Selfless service and loyalty are synonymous with love. The act of selfless service and loyalty are demonstrations of the highest form of love. Only the one who loves can truly serve and show true loyalty.
Religions have preached selfless service and loyalty for thousands of years. Christianity and Hinduism both value these principals. According to Hindu beliefs, selfless service through work leads to a union with God. The morality of Jesus teaches us to do unto others as you would have them do unto you; love your neighbor as yourself; love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. It is a morality of love, of selfless service and commitment, and loyalty to "the least of these." Love is the attempt at or accomplishment of satisfying the needs (not wants) of others, and not the satisfying of personal needs or vanities. "True Love" expects no return. "True Love" is not a give in order to receive relationship.
I think that these qualities are well illustrated by the actions of many of the soliders serving overseas. An example of this dedication to duty, selfless sacrifice and service can be found in the 518th Gun Truck company. This company is the first of its kind in the Army. It was created in theater and its purpose is to provide overwatch and protection for convoys traveling in Iraq.
These are really amazing people. The typical rank of a member of this unit is E4 or E5 and their salary is approx. equivalent to someone who works for Wal-Mart. Each day they wake up, run to their vehicles, climb in the gun turrets, and drive down the road escorting convoys -- willingly and with a great sense of pride. The convoys they protect are primarily commercial contract convoys composed of civilian drivers from countries all around the world.
Commercial drivers earn big bucks over here and they get to leave whenever they want. Joe Snuffy Soldier will be here long after that commercial driver, his replacement, and the replacment after that has come and gone. Joe Snuffy, the guy (or gal) on their Wal-Mart salary, will gladly ride in front of any of them acting as their human shield. And he or she will take a bullet for them on their Wal-Mart salary. It is what they do. It is who they are. This is the essense of selfless sacrifice and it is an expression of their love for their fellow man.
Selfless service is a key component of the "Warrior Ethos." The "Warrior Ethos" is a set of professional, moral and ethical values that is the basis for all U.S. soldier behavior and professional development. These standards are taught to soldiers in basic training and reinforced throughout our careers. Members of the military simply would not be able to do their jobs if they were not, to a certain degree, selfless. Otherwise, they wouldn't be willing to put up with even the ordinary hardships of military life, much less be willing to risk their lives.
Selfless service and loyalty go hand in hand. One has to replace a desire for personal gratification with a desire to elevate someone else to achieve selfless service. Loyalty is the act of binding oneself intellectually or emotionally to a course of action, a person, organization or a way of life. Loyalty requires that one place another's interests above those of all others. Selfless service and loyalty are synonymous with love. The act of selfless service and loyalty are demonstrations of the highest form of love. Only the one who loves can truly serve and show true loyalty.
Religions have preached selfless service and loyalty for thousands of years. Christianity and Hinduism both value these principals. According to Hindu beliefs, selfless service through work leads to a union with God. The morality of Jesus teaches us to do unto others as you would have them do unto you; love your neighbor as yourself; love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. It is a morality of love, of selfless service and commitment, and loyalty to "the least of these." Love is the attempt at or accomplishment of satisfying the needs (not wants) of others, and not the satisfying of personal needs or vanities. "True Love" expects no return. "True Love" is not a give in order to receive relationship.
I think that these qualities are well illustrated by the actions of many of the soliders serving overseas. An example of this dedication to duty, selfless sacrifice and service can be found in the 518th Gun Truck company. This company is the first of its kind in the Army. It was created in theater and its purpose is to provide overwatch and protection for convoys traveling in Iraq.
These are really amazing people. The typical rank of a member of this unit is E4 or E5 and their salary is approx. equivalent to someone who works for Wal-Mart. Each day they wake up, run to their vehicles, climb in the gun turrets, and drive down the road escorting convoys -- willingly and with a great sense of pride. The convoys they protect are primarily commercial contract convoys composed of civilian drivers from countries all around the world.
Commercial drivers earn big bucks over here and they get to leave whenever they want. Joe Snuffy Soldier will be here long after that commercial driver, his replacement, and the replacment after that has come and gone. Joe Snuffy, the guy (or gal) on their Wal-Mart salary, will gladly ride in front of any of them acting as their human shield. And he or she will take a bullet for them on their Wal-Mart salary. It is what they do. It is who they are. This is the essense of selfless sacrifice and it is an expression of their love for their fellow man.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
"Dear John ... "
The earliest reference to a "Dear John" letter appeared in an American publication in 1945. Here's the exact quote: "'Dear John,' the letter began, 'I have found someone else whom I think the world of. I think the only way out is for us to get a divorce,' it said. They usually began like that, those letters that told of infidelity on the part of the wives of servicemen. The men called them 'Dear Johns'."
It's a sad, but true fact that "Dear John" letters are a real part of every military deployment, and the deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom is no exception. However, in these "modern times," the "Dear John" arrives not only by letter, but via email and "morale calls" as well. (About.com)
Here's a note from a member of About.com's message forum: "I think it's extremely sad that the wives or the husbands or girlfriends or boyfriends can't even stand a period of seperation (no matter for whatever reason, deployment or not). I understand it is very difficult for everyone who's deployed and their spouses/bf/gf. But you marry someone because you love that person, not so you'll have someone to sleep with or so you don't feel alone. Those soldiers are fighting for their lives and their safety, and what support do they get from back home? A dear john letter/email/phone call? Now they have nothing to look forward to."
With the advent of technology -- e-mail, cell phones, instant messanger and calling cards -- a soldier can stay in touch with home on a daily basis. This is mostly a good thing; however, it can sometimes be a bad thing. Just as those phone lines and e-mails deliver good news, they also deliver bad news. War causes stress. That is an understatement. When you add the stress of family situations and other problems from home on top of the tribulations of combat, and an unforgiving and austeer environment, it can become almost unbearable for some.
Here's how one British unit chose to address the 'Dear John' problem in their unit. "In 161 Battery it was traditional that if any member of the Battery got a 'Dear John' while the Battery was away anywhere, then the letter was pinned on the Battery Notice Board and each and every member of the Unit wrote back a 'Dirty Bitch' letter to his 'ex' just to let her know that what she had done was a shitty thing and that we all hoped that her new found love gave her Herpes. I think I approve.
It's a sad, but true fact that "Dear John" letters are a real part of every military deployment, and the deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom is no exception. However, in these "modern times," the "Dear John" arrives not only by letter, but via email and "morale calls" as well. (About.com)
Here's a note from a member of About.com's message forum: "I think it's extremely sad that the wives or the husbands or girlfriends or boyfriends can't even stand a period of seperation (no matter for whatever reason, deployment or not). I understand it is very difficult for everyone who's deployed and their spouses/bf/gf. But you marry someone because you love that person, not so you'll have someone to sleep with or so you don't feel alone. Those soldiers are fighting for their lives and their safety, and what support do they get from back home? A dear john letter/email/phone call? Now they have nothing to look forward to."
With the advent of technology -- e-mail, cell phones, instant messanger and calling cards -- a soldier can stay in touch with home on a daily basis. This is mostly a good thing; however, it can sometimes be a bad thing. Just as those phone lines and e-mails deliver good news, they also deliver bad news. War causes stress. That is an understatement. When you add the stress of family situations and other problems from home on top of the tribulations of combat, and an unforgiving and austeer environment, it can become almost unbearable for some.
Here's how one British unit chose to address the 'Dear John' problem in their unit. "In 161 Battery it was traditional that if any member of the Battery got a 'Dear John' while the Battery was away anywhere, then the letter was pinned on the Battery Notice Board and each and every member of the Unit wrote back a 'Dirty Bitch' letter to his 'ex' just to let her know that what she had done was a shitty thing and that we all hoped that her new found love gave her Herpes. I think I approve.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Jihadist's Influence on Operations
The latest in kidnapping incidents has reached out and had an influence on our operations. The impact is indirect for now but the potential exists for our part in the distribution of supplies within the theater to be seriously disrupted. As a result we are in constant communication with the UN, keeping them abreast of a potentially disasterous matter for the U. S. military.
Those taken hostage are not employed by the trucking firm which works for our Group. Further, India, Egypt and Kenya do not have troops in Iraq but a large number of the civilian company's employees are Indian and India has banned its citizens from traveling to Iraq. Other countries could be influenced to do the same or even worse, order the withdrawal of all their citizens in light of the threats and flamboyant actions of fanatics who have choosen to bastardize the Muslim religion.
Beheadings have a much more dramatic effect on the public, more so than other forms of executions. The nature of decapitation is horrific and the jihadists capitalize on the fear the act places in nations. The final result of such acts could be the loss of troops and contract workers in Iraq thus creating the need for EVEN MORE U.S. troops to fill the gap.
http://www.iraq.net/displayarticle4390.html
http://www.news24.com/News24/World/News/0,6119,2-10-1462_1547114,00.html
Those taken hostage are not employed by the trucking firm which works for our Group. Further, India, Egypt and Kenya do not have troops in Iraq but a large number of the civilian company's employees are Indian and India has banned its citizens from traveling to Iraq. Other countries could be influenced to do the same or even worse, order the withdrawal of all their citizens in light of the threats and flamboyant actions of fanatics who have choosen to bastardize the Muslim religion.
Beheadings have a much more dramatic effect on the public, more so than other forms of executions. The nature of decapitation is horrific and the jihadists capitalize on the fear the act places in nations. The final result of such acts could be the loss of troops and contract workers in Iraq thus creating the need for EVEN MORE U.S. troops to fill the gap.
http://www.iraq.net/displayarticle4390.html
http://www.news24.com/News24/World/News/0,6119,2-10-1462_1547114,00.html
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Lying: An Integral Part of Arab Culture
Within Arab culture, lying is a way of life and it is endorsed by religious authorities. Here are some interesting articles which explain an Arabic social element that is foreign to most westerners.
http://www.acpr.org.il/ENGLISH-NATIV/issue1/bukay-1.htm
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/news/687950/posts
http://www.acpr.org.il/ENGLISH-NATIV/issue1/bukay-1.htm
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/news/687950/posts
Friday, July 16, 2004
Camp Arifjan and BOG
I am currently stationed at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait. Camp Arifjan (also known as Araifjan, Arefjan and Urayfijan) is a joint project between U.S. engineers assets and the Kuwaiti government. It literally sits in the middle of the desert but in spite of it's location, it is a hub of activity. Arifjan provides permanent support facilities for American troops in Kuwait and is the starting place and ending place for many units entering and leaving Iraq.
The camp is divided into several zones, some of which are more improved than others. As per the usual, unwritten, standard operating procedure, the active component resides in the permanent facilities on the side of the camp with more amenities while the Guard and Reserve live in tents in the zone that is more transient and lacking in improvements. This disparity is a sign of the institutional bigotry that exists between the active component and all reserve forces. I'm not complaining though, there are many more people in this war who have it much worse than me. I'm fortunate to be where I am. However, if the bias towards the active component is as obvious as it seems to be here, what's it like out there in the hinterland?
I'm assigned to a Transportation Group and work in the S-1 shop (personnel), which is completely new for me. I've always worked in operations before this. This unit's deployment is winding down and the resulting amount of paperwork coming into our office is comparable to water flooding from a broken fire hydrant. We have awards to process, evaluations, various and sundry things related to redeployments, leave requests, etc. It just goes on and on and we have to complete it all long before we depart (I say "we." I may not be included in "we.").
Since I arrived here as a cross-leveled asset, my fate is still up in the air. My original orders as an individual replacement entitled me to depart the theater with my unit of assignment, regardless of the number of days active duty indicated on my orders. Since I was cross-leveled to another unit after I arrived in theater, the length of my stay is now open to interpretation and the Commander may or may not have any input into my situation.
For the Army reserve, mobilization now means a call-up could last as long as 18 months. This gives units time to train up for deployment, spend a year "boots on the ground" (BOG), and to demobilize. My orders say I will be here for 408 days and the clock didn't start ticking until my I.D. was swiped after I entered the theater. If I'm forced to stick to the strick interpretation of BOG, then I could be here until sometime in mid-2005. In light of that, I'm not pinning my hopes on going home early.
The camp is divided into several zones, some of which are more improved than others. As per the usual, unwritten, standard operating procedure, the active component resides in the permanent facilities on the side of the camp with more amenities while the Guard and Reserve live in tents in the zone that is more transient and lacking in improvements. This disparity is a sign of the institutional bigotry that exists between the active component and all reserve forces. I'm not complaining though, there are many more people in this war who have it much worse than me. I'm fortunate to be where I am. However, if the bias towards the active component is as obvious as it seems to be here, what's it like out there in the hinterland?
I'm assigned to a Transportation Group and work in the S-1 shop (personnel), which is completely new for me. I've always worked in operations before this. This unit's deployment is winding down and the resulting amount of paperwork coming into our office is comparable to water flooding from a broken fire hydrant. We have awards to process, evaluations, various and sundry things related to redeployments, leave requests, etc. It just goes on and on and we have to complete it all long before we depart (I say "we." I may not be included in "we.").
Since I arrived here as a cross-leveled asset, my fate is still up in the air. My original orders as an individual replacement entitled me to depart the theater with my unit of assignment, regardless of the number of days active duty indicated on my orders. Since I was cross-leveled to another unit after I arrived in theater, the length of my stay is now open to interpretation and the Commander may or may not have any input into my situation.
For the Army reserve, mobilization now means a call-up could last as long as 18 months. This gives units time to train up for deployment, spend a year "boots on the ground" (BOG), and to demobilize. My orders say I will be here for 408 days and the clock didn't start ticking until my I.D. was swiped after I entered the theater. If I'm forced to stick to the strick interpretation of BOG, then I could be here until sometime in mid-2005. In light of that, I'm not pinning my hopes on going home early.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Conditions in the Middle East
I'm working in a pretty safe place, relatively speaking. As long as I don't step outside the gate, the worst thing that will probably happen to me inside Camp Arifjan is dust, heat, the occasional camel spider and a mild case of the Kuwaiti Crud. Northern Iraq, the Baghdad area, and anywhere inside the Sunni Triangle are much worse places to be.
The same day I departed for Camp Arifjan, Doc headed out for Iraq. She's currently working in an intensive care unit at a hospital. She's e-mailed me about the conditions where she is.
The area where Doc is gets shelled every day. She works 30 hours at a time and gets little sleep. Her patients are a steady stream of shrapnel, blast, and burn patients. Tragically most of them are young kids, though no one is immune. She's also seen senior enlisted soldiers and officers from the command group level come through her unit. Many of them have sustained horrible, life-altering, career ending injuries.
It's strange to think that Doc and I are only a few hours and miles apart and the conditions are so dramatically different. Though we aren't getting shelled every day, Kuwait is not completely safe either; and it gets increasingly worse as you drive toward the Iraqi border. I hear briefings every day that warn us about suspicious activities in the area and the U.S. State Department is warning travelers to stay away from most Middle East and North African countries.
When westerners go to bed at night, each and every one should thank God they live in a safe place.
The same day I departed for Camp Arifjan, Doc headed out for Iraq. She's currently working in an intensive care unit at a hospital. She's e-mailed me about the conditions where she is.
The area where Doc is gets shelled every day. She works 30 hours at a time and gets little sleep. Her patients are a steady stream of shrapnel, blast, and burn patients. Tragically most of them are young kids, though no one is immune. She's also seen senior enlisted soldiers and officers from the command group level come through her unit. Many of them have sustained horrible, life-altering, career ending injuries.
It's strange to think that Doc and I are only a few hours and miles apart and the conditions are so dramatically different. Though we aren't getting shelled every day, Kuwait is not completely safe either; and it gets increasingly worse as you drive toward the Iraqi border. I hear briefings every day that warn us about suspicious activities in the area and the U.S. State Department is warning travelers to stay away from most Middle East and North African countries.
When westerners go to bed at night, each and every one should thank God they live in a safe place.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Camp Doha
After relocating to Bay 99, my priorites shifted to adjusting my internal clock to Kuwaiti time, staying on top of the outgoing flight schedule, and keeping my you-know-what in a square pile. The last thing I wanted to do was unpack a bunch of stuff and then have to frantically cram it back from whence it came.
I was still pretty wound up from all the activity and having trouble relaxing in my new environment. It took three days for me to completely wind down. Doc was getting a little worried about me too. She said I was starting to get a real frazzled looking. She gave me a few Ambien, though the first one didn't have any effect. Another night passed before I got any good rest.
To complicate matters, my back had been aching a little too. I tried to ignore it and hoped it would get better. However, it didn't get better and during my sleepless nights, the pain had worsened. About the third day, I decided to go down to the clinic and have it checked out. Doc escorted me and then walked down to check the flight schedule, which by this time had become a thrice a day activity. A nurse prescribed me some anti-inflammatories and told me to take it easy for the next few days. I wondered how I was going to "take it easy" if I suddenly had to grab all my crap and haul it back down to catch a flight. Carrying 300 pounds of luggage is not a proper prescription for a spasming back. As I was leaving the clinic, Doc met me and pronounced that my name had mysteriously dropped off the flight manifest and her name was still very low on the list. For the moment, my problem was solved.
The next couple of days were spent checking the flight manifest three times a day, e-mailing people at home about 10 times a day, IMing people at every opportunity, reading, and generally lying around waiting on a flight north to magically appear. By the fifth day, my back was feeling better and I was getting antsy to get the show on the road.
Click here to see the view from Bay 99. The soldiers call these smokestacks "Scud Goalposts".
While wandering around on Friday, we stumbled upon the Coalition Forces Land Component Command (CFLCC) office. I remembered from a conversation with a Major while still at home station, that the CFLCC office is where individual replacement orders are generated. From the get-go, my orders had been questionable and fuzzy at best. And the Reserve Readiness Command (RRC) into which I was transferred didn't provide any good explanation. I decided to contact the unit directly.
The unit itself has a very active Family Readiness Group and a good website so they are very well connected with people back home. I emailed the Company Commander through the website and totally caught him off guard. In fact, those were his exact words. He explained to me that he had no knowledge of any replacements coming his way. The unit First Sergeant agreed. When I asked the RRC about it, they shockingly couldn't provide any input. So, when I saw the CFLCC office during my wanderings at Camp Doha, I jumped at the opportunity to look into the validity of my orders.
For the next couple of days, I talked back and forth with several different offices and finally found someone who could research my situation. On Saturday morning I learned that my orders had in fact been generated by mistake and I should not have been assigned to the unit in Iraq. Instead I was supposed to be assigned to a higher headquarters in Kuwait.
This turn of events made me pretty happy and I knew it would make my family and friends happy too. The hostilities were increasing up north as the deadline for the power hand over from the U.S. back to the Iraqi government approached. And the location where I was going was getting mortared more frequently as a consequence. Needless to say, the worsening conditions added to the stress my family, friends, and I were feeling about my deployment.
While I was not opposed to being assigned to a unit that really needed a replacement, the position I was going to was a couple of steps backwards for me in terms of career progression. In Iraq I would have been a transportation platoon leader. As a senior Captain, I've already been a platoon leader, detachment commander and company commander. I was hoping for a job on staff, somewhere I could gain some experience managing larger groups of people and equipment. This was my opportunity and I would report the next day.
Looking back on my experience at Camp Doha, I realize now that the back spasm, dropping off the flight manifest, and stumbling on the CFLCC office were all fortunate coincidences. It's easy to get frustrated when stumbling blocks are thrown in our path and we generally only look at them pessimistically. It's hard to slow down and look at the big picture and realize that an event, seemingly negative, can turn out to be a positive thing. Coincidences are seen in hindsight, not predicted. Perhaps it just wasn't my destiny to go to Iraq. All I can say is "Thanks!" Thanks to all the people back home, those who I know and those I don't know, who sent me wonderful prayers and positive energy.
I was still pretty wound up from all the activity and having trouble relaxing in my new environment. It took three days for me to completely wind down. Doc was getting a little worried about me too. She said I was starting to get a real frazzled looking. She gave me a few Ambien, though the first one didn't have any effect. Another night passed before I got any good rest.
To complicate matters, my back had been aching a little too. I tried to ignore it and hoped it would get better. However, it didn't get better and during my sleepless nights, the pain had worsened. About the third day, I decided to go down to the clinic and have it checked out. Doc escorted me and then walked down to check the flight schedule, which by this time had become a thrice a day activity. A nurse prescribed me some anti-inflammatories and told me to take it easy for the next few days. I wondered how I was going to "take it easy" if I suddenly had to grab all my crap and haul it back down to catch a flight. Carrying 300 pounds of luggage is not a proper prescription for a spasming back. As I was leaving the clinic, Doc met me and pronounced that my name had mysteriously dropped off the flight manifest and her name was still very low on the list. For the moment, my problem was solved.
The next couple of days were spent checking the flight manifest three times a day, e-mailing people at home about 10 times a day, IMing people at every opportunity, reading, and generally lying around waiting on a flight north to magically appear. By the fifth day, my back was feeling better and I was getting antsy to get the show on the road.
Click here to see the view from Bay 99. The soldiers call these smokestacks "Scud Goalposts".
While wandering around on Friday, we stumbled upon the Coalition Forces Land Component Command (CFLCC) office. I remembered from a conversation with a Major while still at home station, that the CFLCC office is where individual replacement orders are generated. From the get-go, my orders had been questionable and fuzzy at best. And the Reserve Readiness Command (RRC) into which I was transferred didn't provide any good explanation. I decided to contact the unit directly.
The unit itself has a very active Family Readiness Group and a good website so they are very well connected with people back home. I emailed the Company Commander through the website and totally caught him off guard. In fact, those were his exact words. He explained to me that he had no knowledge of any replacements coming his way. The unit First Sergeant agreed. When I asked the RRC about it, they shockingly couldn't provide any input. So, when I saw the CFLCC office during my wanderings at Camp Doha, I jumped at the opportunity to look into the validity of my orders.
For the next couple of days, I talked back and forth with several different offices and finally found someone who could research my situation. On Saturday morning I learned that my orders had in fact been generated by mistake and I should not have been assigned to the unit in Iraq. Instead I was supposed to be assigned to a higher headquarters in Kuwait.
This turn of events made me pretty happy and I knew it would make my family and friends happy too. The hostilities were increasing up north as the deadline for the power hand over from the U.S. back to the Iraqi government approached. And the location where I was going was getting mortared more frequently as a consequence. Needless to say, the worsening conditions added to the stress my family, friends, and I were feeling about my deployment.
While I was not opposed to being assigned to a unit that really needed a replacement, the position I was going to was a couple of steps backwards for me in terms of career progression. In Iraq I would have been a transportation platoon leader. As a senior Captain, I've already been a platoon leader, detachment commander and company commander. I was hoping for a job on staff, somewhere I could gain some experience managing larger groups of people and equipment. This was my opportunity and I would report the next day.
Looking back on my experience at Camp Doha, I realize now that the back spasm, dropping off the flight manifest, and stumbling on the CFLCC office were all fortunate coincidences. It's easy to get frustrated when stumbling blocks are thrown in our path and we generally only look at them pessimistically. It's hard to slow down and look at the big picture and realize that an event, seemingly negative, can turn out to be a positive thing. Coincidences are seen in hindsight, not predicted. Perhaps it just wasn't my destiny to go to Iraq. All I can say is "Thanks!" Thanks to all the people back home, those who I know and those I don't know, who sent me wonderful prayers and positive energy.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Doc
Before I tell you about my experience at Camp Doha, let me tell you a little bit about my doctor friend.
Doc is not like the average doctor you will find in the military. She didn't start out as a doctor, she was first enlisted (I think she said she made it to E-6) with a military intelligence MOS. She has also jumped out of planes.... repeatedly... on purpose. She is small in stature and unassuming looking so you don't immediately make the mental leap from doctor to Airborne. She is smart, witty and a fun person. Her only weakness, which she admits to freely, is that she is directionally impaired. That brings me to my next story.
After completing one of the mind numbing tasks at Ft. Bliss, I mentioned that I would like to go to the PX. Doc overheard me and offered me a ride in her rental car. I accepted without hesitation. Well, it didn't take me long to realize that we were taking a cercuitous route to the PX. Doc just kept talking to me and driving and I tried to mentally keep up with which cardinal direction we were driving and how many turns we had made. We approached a red light and before I could say anything we ran right through it. I didn't say a word, only looked around to see if the MPs were coming at us from all directions.
We kept driving round and round, going in circles but finally did make it to the PX. It's a good thing Ft. Bliss is practically deserted or we might have been stopped. Except for people deploying, those returning from overseas, and a bunch of Military Police, there aren't many people there.
We repeated the process on the way back to CRC, minus the red light incident. I didn't mind the drive a bit though. It was the first time I had been away from the group in several days and the free tour of Ft. Bliss was kind of fun. I didn't realize it at the time but Doc and I would spend many more days together.
Doc is not like the average doctor you will find in the military. She didn't start out as a doctor, she was first enlisted (I think she said she made it to E-6) with a military intelligence MOS. She has also jumped out of planes.... repeatedly... on purpose. She is small in stature and unassuming looking so you don't immediately make the mental leap from doctor to Airborne. She is smart, witty and a fun person. Her only weakness, which she admits to freely, is that she is directionally impaired. That brings me to my next story.
After completing one of the mind numbing tasks at Ft. Bliss, I mentioned that I would like to go to the PX. Doc overheard me and offered me a ride in her rental car. I accepted without hesitation. Well, it didn't take me long to realize that we were taking a cercuitous route to the PX. Doc just kept talking to me and driving and I tried to mentally keep up with which cardinal direction we were driving and how many turns we had made. We approached a red light and before I could say anything we ran right through it. I didn't say a word, only looked around to see if the MPs were coming at us from all directions.
We kept driving round and round, going in circles but finally did make it to the PX. It's a good thing Ft. Bliss is practically deserted or we might have been stopped. Except for people deploying, those returning from overseas, and a bunch of Military Police, there aren't many people there.
We repeated the process on the way back to CRC, minus the red light incident. I didn't mind the drive a bit though. It was the first time I had been away from the group in several days and the free tour of Ft. Bliss was kind of fun. I didn't realize it at the time but Doc and I would spend many more days together.
Waiting in Kuwait
As per usual, my arrival in Kuwait was followed by much running around and waiting. We off loaded the plane at Kuwaiti International Airport and boarded buses bound for Camp Doha to the north. Our duffle bags were loaded indiscriminately into large conexs on the back of two flat bed trucks. Our arrival coincided with the arrival of other soldiers, sailors and marines on their way to various locations. There were over 600 people wandering around trying to figure out where to go next. And figuring out where to go next was pretty much an individual responsibility. The staff assigned to help us only generally pointed us in the right direction.
Come to find out, the barracks we were assigned to were quite a ways away. Each person had over 300 pounds of luggage, duffle bags and equipment to lug the distance to the barracks. But first you had to find your duffle bags. Duffle bags all pretty much look the same in the dark and ours were spread out over an area about the size of two baskeball courts.
I finally made it to the barracks and was reunited with my LTC doctor friend I had met at Ft. Bliss. We claimed two bunks and got our names on the list for flights into Iraq. Flight assignments to Iraq are made on a first come first serve basis. Since we were part of such a large group, we decided that it was safe to assume we wouldn't be flying out the next day. We crashed onto our bunks and fell asleep for a few hours.
Doc referred to these barracks as "Troglodyte Hell." I think her terminology was right on target. It was actually a huge warehouse that had been partitioned off into smaller sections, and each section held as many bunk beds as could be cramed into the available space. It was dark, smelly and depressing, sort of like being in a cave.
After sleeping for a few hours, we got up and decided to wander around and see what Camp Doha had to offer. We went to the dining facility and had a bite to eat, then we decided to find the PX. Since you can't take weapons into the PX, I had to check mine into a temporary holding facility. That's when we found our relative bliss, Bay 99.
Bay 99 is transient housing mostly for people who are traveling back and forth between Iraq and Kuwait. Doc noticed the phone, big screen t.v., computers and improved beds before I did. She started asking questions and found out that we could move to Bay 99 if we wanted. Well, she wanted to right away. I was reluctant because of all the luggage we'd have to carry and because it would take multiple trips. Lo and behold they offered to drive us to Troglodyte Hell, pick up our luggage and bring us back. I was sold at that point. It is good to have a LTC for a friend.
I'm glad we moved to Bay 99 because as it turns out, we were stuck at Camp Doha for 7 more days. And the waiting turned out to be a good thing rather than a bad thing. While we were there, several festering issues were resolved in a positive way.
Come to find out, the barracks we were assigned to were quite a ways away. Each person had over 300 pounds of luggage, duffle bags and equipment to lug the distance to the barracks. But first you had to find your duffle bags. Duffle bags all pretty much look the same in the dark and ours were spread out over an area about the size of two baskeball courts.
I finally made it to the barracks and was reunited with my LTC doctor friend I had met at Ft. Bliss. We claimed two bunks and got our names on the list for flights into Iraq. Flight assignments to Iraq are made on a first come first serve basis. Since we were part of such a large group, we decided that it was safe to assume we wouldn't be flying out the next day. We crashed onto our bunks and fell asleep for a few hours.
Doc referred to these barracks as "Troglodyte Hell." I think her terminology was right on target. It was actually a huge warehouse that had been partitioned off into smaller sections, and each section held as many bunk beds as could be cramed into the available space. It was dark, smelly and depressing, sort of like being in a cave.
After sleeping for a few hours, we got up and decided to wander around and see what Camp Doha had to offer. We went to the dining facility and had a bite to eat, then we decided to find the PX. Since you can't take weapons into the PX, I had to check mine into a temporary holding facility. That's when we found our relative bliss, Bay 99.
Bay 99 is transient housing mostly for people who are traveling back and forth between Iraq and Kuwait. Doc noticed the phone, big screen t.v., computers and improved beds before I did. She started asking questions and found out that we could move to Bay 99 if we wanted. Well, she wanted to right away. I was reluctant because of all the luggage we'd have to carry and because it would take multiple trips. Lo and behold they offered to drive us to Troglodyte Hell, pick up our luggage and bring us back. I was sold at that point. It is good to have a LTC for a friend.
I'm glad we moved to Bay 99 because as it turns out, we were stuck at Camp Doha for 7 more days. And the waiting turned out to be a good thing rather than a bad thing. While we were there, several festering issues were resolved in a positive way.
Getting the Call and Moving Out
It was a little before noon on 11 May 2004 when I got the call that I had been involuntarily transfered to a reserve transporation company that had been in Iraq since Jan. 2004. I was a little caught off guard but not terribly surprised because I'd received two other such calls before this. Neither of the first two incidents panned out due to one reason or another.
I immediately told my boss and began packing my things as I was ordered to report to my home station ASAP and prepare for mobilization as an individual replacement. It was a sad and stressful day. Talking to my co-workers, telling my family and friends, and walking out of my office were all difficult things to do.
I reported to my unit that same day and began asking all the usual questions, "Where am I going?", "To what unit am I assigned?", "What do I need to do next?", etc. I only got answers to a couple of my questions and new questions developed as time passed. I would spend the next 26 days preparing for mobilization, getting my life in order, straightening out my finances and making multiple copies of legal documents like my will and power of attorney, all of which were very somber activities.
In just a matter of a few minutes, my life had been transformed into something I only barely recognized. I was on my way to a war zone, a defining moment in my life, and my emotions were running pretty high. People came out of the woodwork to wish me well and out of a sense of obligation, I rushed around trying to say goodbye to every one of them, probably neglecting the people I cared about the most. Luckily I have a very understanding family.
On 5 June 2004, I left Arkansas for a CONUS Replacement Center (CRC) in Ft. Bliss, TX. The first week was spent re-doing all the paperwork I had completed at home station. Much of that week, save the weapons class, medical and finance, was a colossal waste of time. The second week was spent mostly in the desert. About half of my group was selected for a first time ever, additional week of desert training. The cadre and instructors organized and executed on the fly. We put on our brand new desert boots and uniforms and marched out into the 115 degree temperatures and trained without any acclimation. Several people had to stay an extra week on medical hold to recover from the damage that was done during our three days in the sand box. The next phase of replacements didn't have to stay for the second week of desert training.
The cadre NCOs at Ft. Bliss were great. They reacted to the last minute changes and always treated everyone with respect and courtesy. I will always remember their professionalism and I made it a point to thank a few of them before I left. The Major in charge of Operations was also very helpful and engaged. She impressed me during our last formation when she took the time to shake everyone's hand before we were dismissed. It was a small gesture but it had a big impact on me.
The third Sunday at Ft. Bliss found me at the APOD awaiting departure for the Middle East. Our bags were sniffed by the drug and bomb dogs, we ate our pre-flight meal and received services from the CRC chaplain. We finally boarded the plane and some lucky saps got to sit in first class. I was crammed in a middle seat in coach and sat there for the better part of the next 15 hours, approximately. We made a couple of stops along the way before reaching Kuwait at around 9:00 p.m. When the door of the plane opened, a blast of warm dusty air hit us in the face like a solid mass. It was not a pleasant welcoming.
------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer #1: I needed a name for this blog and Sojack immediately came to mind. It also satisifes the requirements for OPSEC and just plain ole' personal anonymity. The word "Sojac" comes from the Smokey Stover comic strip that was popular in the 1920's and 30's. The phrase "Notary Sojac" was frequently used in the comic strip and few people knew what it meant. Supposedly in Gaelic it means Merry Christmas. I don't speak Gaelic so I can't confirm this. My dad grew up reading the comic strip and Notary Sojac became one of his favorite sayings. He still uses it today. Out of deference to my dad, I've purposely misspelled "Sojac" as "Sojack." One Notary Sojac in the family is enough.
Disclaimer #2: This website is privately operated and is designed to provide personal information, views and commentary about the authors experiences during Operation Iraqi Freedom. The opinions on this website are solely those of the author and contributors and not those of any agency of the United States Government. Further, this site is not designed, authorized, sanctioned, or affiliated, by or with, any agency of the United States Government. The author cannot confirm nor deny that any of this information is at all true, or a complete work of fiction. Users accept and agree to this disclaimer in the use of any information accessed in this website. Thank you.
E-mail: taylorlf1@aristotle.net
I immediately told my boss and began packing my things as I was ordered to report to my home station ASAP and prepare for mobilization as an individual replacement. It was a sad and stressful day. Talking to my co-workers, telling my family and friends, and walking out of my office were all difficult things to do.
I reported to my unit that same day and began asking all the usual questions, "Where am I going?", "To what unit am I assigned?", "What do I need to do next?", etc. I only got answers to a couple of my questions and new questions developed as time passed. I would spend the next 26 days preparing for mobilization, getting my life in order, straightening out my finances and making multiple copies of legal documents like my will and power of attorney, all of which were very somber activities.
In just a matter of a few minutes, my life had been transformed into something I only barely recognized. I was on my way to a war zone, a defining moment in my life, and my emotions were running pretty high. People came out of the woodwork to wish me well and out of a sense of obligation, I rushed around trying to say goodbye to every one of them, probably neglecting the people I cared about the most. Luckily I have a very understanding family.
On 5 June 2004, I left Arkansas for a CONUS Replacement Center (CRC) in Ft. Bliss, TX. The first week was spent re-doing all the paperwork I had completed at home station. Much of that week, save the weapons class, medical and finance, was a colossal waste of time. The second week was spent mostly in the desert. About half of my group was selected for a first time ever, additional week of desert training. The cadre and instructors organized and executed on the fly. We put on our brand new desert boots and uniforms and marched out into the 115 degree temperatures and trained without any acclimation. Several people had to stay an extra week on medical hold to recover from the damage that was done during our three days in the sand box. The next phase of replacements didn't have to stay for the second week of desert training.
The cadre NCOs at Ft. Bliss were great. They reacted to the last minute changes and always treated everyone with respect and courtesy. I will always remember their professionalism and I made it a point to thank a few of them before I left. The Major in charge of Operations was also very helpful and engaged. She impressed me during our last formation when she took the time to shake everyone's hand before we were dismissed. It was a small gesture but it had a big impact on me.
The third Sunday at Ft. Bliss found me at the APOD awaiting departure for the Middle East. Our bags were sniffed by the drug and bomb dogs, we ate our pre-flight meal and received services from the CRC chaplain. We finally boarded the plane and some lucky saps got to sit in first class. I was crammed in a middle seat in coach and sat there for the better part of the next 15 hours, approximately. We made a couple of stops along the way before reaching Kuwait at around 9:00 p.m. When the door of the plane opened, a blast of warm dusty air hit us in the face like a solid mass. It was not a pleasant welcoming.
------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer #1: I needed a name for this blog and Sojack immediately came to mind. It also satisifes the requirements for OPSEC and just plain ole' personal anonymity. The word "Sojac" comes from the Smokey Stover comic strip that was popular in the 1920's and 30's. The phrase "Notary Sojac" was frequently used in the comic strip and few people knew what it meant. Supposedly in Gaelic it means Merry Christmas. I don't speak Gaelic so I can't confirm this. My dad grew up reading the comic strip and Notary Sojac became one of his favorite sayings. He still uses it today. Out of deference to my dad, I've purposely misspelled "Sojac" as "Sojack." One Notary Sojac in the family is enough.
Disclaimer #2: This website is privately operated and is designed to provide personal information, views and commentary about the authors experiences during Operation Iraqi Freedom. The opinions on this website are solely those of the author and contributors and not those of any agency of the United States Government. Further, this site is not designed, authorized, sanctioned, or affiliated, by or with, any agency of the United States Government. The author cannot confirm nor deny that any of this information is at all true, or a complete work of fiction. Users accept and agree to this disclaimer in the use of any information accessed in this website. Thank you.
E-mail: taylorlf1@aristotle.net
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