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.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
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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