During my daily dealings with the Iraqi Army, we spend quality time watching TV. TV, especially satellite TV, is something of a miracle for the Iraqis, as Saddam forbade all satellite dishes. Before 2003, Iraqis could only watch government TV channels.
Back in 2002, an Iraqi took his broken TV to a repair man. The repair man wanted 200 dollars to fix it. That’s way too much. Iraqi went to a second repairman. 150 dollars, no way! But the third repairman wanted five dollars. Five dollars? Why so little. The repairman said he’d put a picture of Saddam on the screen, it would be the same as fixing the TV…That story is much funnier in Arabic.
We always watch Arabic music channels. Arabic music is monotonous. Every single song sounds exactly the same, and they’re always disgustingly sweet poetic love songs, like diabetic Backstreet Boys. Here’s the first thing that pops out about the singers, they’re not that good looking. In America, only rock stars can be ugly. Troglodyte Pop singers on American Idle? Hell no! Some of these Arab music stars would make babies cry.
So, every song just warbles along while the singer stares at his love interest, but they never actually touch. Some songs feature dancing. Groups of men and women will dance in circles, but never together. Every so often the women whip out knives, maybe that’s why the men won’t dance with them. Arab morality is at play here. In traditional Arab society, men and women of different families never mingle before marriage. Isn’t that ironic? All these songs about love, but no one meets their spouse until the day they’re married. I’ve never been married, but by all accounts the romance stops after the honeymoon.
The root of all this irony is virginity. Arab women are supposed to be virgins when married. When I admit to my Iraqi partners that American brides are typically not virgins, they’re stunned into silence. So, in Arab society women and men are never supposed to mingle, which definitely stops them from having sex. Those giant black table clothes the women wear? Keeps men from seeing their curvy bits.
Historically, an Iraqi couple gets married and promptly retires to a private location for consummation purposes. The man will put a white sheet on the bed to, um…collect proof that his bride was a virgin when they got married. He will proudly display this sheet outside of his house to let everyone know that his wife was a virgin, and the wife’s parents take great pride in this proof. I’m not making this up! Positively barbaric, and I guarantee it still happens today in more rural areas.
Where was I…music! So, I’ve tried to show some of our interpreters proper Western music videos through the magic of YouTube. It went something like this:
Me: This is a very famous band called Disturbed, watch this video called “Inside the Fire.”
Ali (terp): That girl…she’s dead? What is this song about?
Me: Suicide and selling your soul to the devil to be with the one you loved.
Ali: They’re just screaming at each other.
Me: That’s the melody.
Ali: That girl is practically naked!
Me: You’re damned right.
Ali: What’re they saying?
Me: I’m not really sure…Where are you going?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Heat
I don’t know how to explain how hot Iraq is. There is just no equivalent that I’ve ever experienced in the United States. I’ve lived in Arizona and El Paso, Texas, so the desert is nothing new for me.
The temperature skyrockets from 90 to 125 every morning around 9 A.M. We spend the rest of the day avoiding sunlight and un-conditioned air. Riding around in humvees, walking, breathing and thinking are all undesirable activities in the Iraqi heat. The temperature will dip at night into the high 80s if we’re lucky.
Leaving any place air conditioned is a hard decision. Do I really have to go to the bathroom? The port-a-potties are stinky saunas. Nothing like doing one’s business in a cloud of poop steam and melting plastic walls.
The Iraqis deal with the heat in a truly Iraqi fashion. They do nothing. As if they ever need an excuse to do nothing. The heat hits and they just sit around in the shade, talking amongst them selves. They never sweat, which weirds me out. You’d figure that after thousands of years living next door to hell people would emigrate to cooler lands. The only people working during the day are Americans. We just can’t sit around for hours on end while there’s perfectly good brain boiling daylight!
Sandstorms are the only natural relief from the heat. A blanket of sand blocks out much of the sunlight, and keeps temperatures low. It is unusual to walk outside and the world has a Tatooine-like tan tinge to it. The downside is that the dust will clog air conditioners and cover everything with a fine layer or dirt.
Bad climate is the real reason countries establish empires. Ever been to England? Cold wet and miserable. It’s the ‘Blighted Isle’ for a reason. So what to the English people do? They run around, settle North America, conquer every tropical island and costal vacation spot they can. Going native in India sure beats sitting in freezing fog and eating Sheppard’s Pie.
We drink a lot of water. One of the best treats a Soldier can have is a frozen water bottle. Take out a liter of bottled ice and carry it around. After awhile, it’ll turn to slush, which is just what the doctor ordered when the sun is three inches from your face. The hard part is keeping the Iraqi workers away from the cold drinks. Iraqis will never bring their own water to anything. So, the workers do an hour or so of work when they first show up, spend the next six hours guzzling Gatorade, then work for another hour in the early evening. Ever wonder why this war costs 12 billion USD a month? Gatorade for the Iraqis.
Constantly oozing sweat is takes a toll on clothing. We don’t have ready access to washers and dryers, so we try to get as much wear out of a uniform as we can before sending it off to the cleaners. If a uniform has salt deposits from evaporated sweat, then it is time for that uniform to get washed.
If you want to replicate the Soldier’s experience in an Iraqi summer, I suggest you:
Turn a hair dryer up to eleven and hold it about three inches from your face…24/7.
Strap 60 pounds of metal to your body and do jumping jacks in a sauna for ten minutes. Rest for 2 minutes. Repeat.
Throw a blanket in the oven until it’s nice and scalding, then wrap that around your body.
The temperature skyrockets from 90 to 125 every morning around 9 A.M. We spend the rest of the day avoiding sunlight and un-conditioned air. Riding around in humvees, walking, breathing and thinking are all undesirable activities in the Iraqi heat. The temperature will dip at night into the high 80s if we’re lucky.
Leaving any place air conditioned is a hard decision. Do I really have to go to the bathroom? The port-a-potties are stinky saunas. Nothing like doing one’s business in a cloud of poop steam and melting plastic walls.
The Iraqis deal with the heat in a truly Iraqi fashion. They do nothing. As if they ever need an excuse to do nothing. The heat hits and they just sit around in the shade, talking amongst them selves. They never sweat, which weirds me out. You’d figure that after thousands of years living next door to hell people would emigrate to cooler lands. The only people working during the day are Americans. We just can’t sit around for hours on end while there’s perfectly good brain boiling daylight!
Sandstorms are the only natural relief from the heat. A blanket of sand blocks out much of the sunlight, and keeps temperatures low. It is unusual to walk outside and the world has a Tatooine-like tan tinge to it. The downside is that the dust will clog air conditioners and cover everything with a fine layer or dirt.
Bad climate is the real reason countries establish empires. Ever been to England? Cold wet and miserable. It’s the ‘Blighted Isle’ for a reason. So what to the English people do? They run around, settle North America, conquer every tropical island and costal vacation spot they can. Going native in India sure beats sitting in freezing fog and eating Sheppard’s Pie.
We drink a lot of water. One of the best treats a Soldier can have is a frozen water bottle. Take out a liter of bottled ice and carry it around. After awhile, it’ll turn to slush, which is just what the doctor ordered when the sun is three inches from your face. The hard part is keeping the Iraqi workers away from the cold drinks. Iraqis will never bring their own water to anything. So, the workers do an hour or so of work when they first show up, spend the next six hours guzzling Gatorade, then work for another hour in the early evening. Ever wonder why this war costs 12 billion USD a month? Gatorade for the Iraqis.
Constantly oozing sweat is takes a toll on clothing. We don’t have ready access to washers and dryers, so we try to get as much wear out of a uniform as we can before sending it off to the cleaners. If a uniform has salt deposits from evaporated sweat, then it is time for that uniform to get washed.
If you want to replicate the Soldier’s experience in an Iraqi summer, I suggest you:
Turn a hair dryer up to eleven and hold it about three inches from your face…24/7.
Strap 60 pounds of metal to your body and do jumping jacks in a sauna for ten minutes. Rest for 2 minutes. Repeat.
Throw a blanket in the oven until it’s nice and scalding, then wrap that around your body.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
4th of July
Ah, the 4th of July. Back in the States everyone can celebrate with BBQ, fireworks and cold tasty beer.
We decorated our meager mess hall with a few patriotic plastic tablecloths and set up our own BBQ. If Bobby Flay could see it, his head would explode. Our lone cook started grilling chicken, steak…things and hot dogs early in the morning. The smell of carcinogens and evaporated beef fat teased me throughout the day.
In an effort to increase rapport with the Iraqi Army, we invited some of the senior officers over for dinner. It’s very rare that we ever get the Iraqis over to eat. They won’t eat food prepared by the Hindu Indian chefs at the larger mess halls (they’re an impure people according to the Koran) and out at the more austere patrol bases, the food is just terrible.
At my lovely patrol base, we rarely cook anything. Everything is pre-cooked in the States, vacuum sealed and shipped over to Iraq. Then we reheat and enjoy. TV dinners for dozens of people, Yum-o!
Iraqi fare is pretty fresh. Sometimes the goat is still alive when we show up for dinner. But, Iraqi food looks like road kill.
I’ve been eating Iraqi food for the entire deployment, so I’m pretty much immune to whatever evil spirits lurk in the kabobs and eggplant wraps. I took two of my soldiers to eat with our Iraqi counterparts, and they weren’t so lucky. They spent the next three days sweating to death, and puking all over the place. Me? Just fine. They’re a little gun shy about eating anything that has an expiration date before 2015.
So, what does inviting the Iraqis over for dinner mean for me? Sweet revenge! Now the Iraqis can ponder and smile politely as they eat our reheated-beef-substance. Ha ha! Keep me in Iraqi for 15 months will you? Enjoy some of that rubber chicken with BBQ sauce from the lowest bidder! The best part of any American meal is that we don’t need antibiotics as the dessert course.
The Iraqis were terrified by our 4th of July feast. They gently poked at the steak and picked at the chicken. They didn’t know what the corn on the cob was. Maybe if I said it was goat penis they would have tried it.
I tried to fool myself into having a good time with a near-beer. Beer with no alcohol, who came up with this idea? No one drinks beer for the taste! I told the Iraqis about the 4th of July in the States, why we celebrate, etc. The Iraqis had a period of English occupation that ended in the 1920s, so they could empathize a little bit.
No fireworks! Random explosions around people with guns is never a good idea. Iraq has forever ruined fireworks for me. The Iraqis celebrate by firing off the family AK-47 in the back yard, that may catch on in the States after recent Supreme Court rulings.
We decorated our meager mess hall with a few patriotic plastic tablecloths and set up our own BBQ. If Bobby Flay could see it, his head would explode. Our lone cook started grilling chicken, steak…things and hot dogs early in the morning. The smell of carcinogens and evaporated beef fat teased me throughout the day.
In an effort to increase rapport with the Iraqi Army, we invited some of the senior officers over for dinner. It’s very rare that we ever get the Iraqis over to eat. They won’t eat food prepared by the Hindu Indian chefs at the larger mess halls (they’re an impure people according to the Koran) and out at the more austere patrol bases, the food is just terrible.
At my lovely patrol base, we rarely cook anything. Everything is pre-cooked in the States, vacuum sealed and shipped over to Iraq. Then we reheat and enjoy. TV dinners for dozens of people, Yum-o!
Iraqi fare is pretty fresh. Sometimes the goat is still alive when we show up for dinner. But, Iraqi food looks like road kill.
I’ve been eating Iraqi food for the entire deployment, so I’m pretty much immune to whatever evil spirits lurk in the kabobs and eggplant wraps. I took two of my soldiers to eat with our Iraqi counterparts, and they weren’t so lucky. They spent the next three days sweating to death, and puking all over the place. Me? Just fine. They’re a little gun shy about eating anything that has an expiration date before 2015.
So, what does inviting the Iraqis over for dinner mean for me? Sweet revenge! Now the Iraqis can ponder and smile politely as they eat our reheated-beef-substance. Ha ha! Keep me in Iraqi for 15 months will you? Enjoy some of that rubber chicken with BBQ sauce from the lowest bidder! The best part of any American meal is that we don’t need antibiotics as the dessert course.
The Iraqis were terrified by our 4th of July feast. They gently poked at the steak and picked at the chicken. They didn’t know what the corn on the cob was. Maybe if I said it was goat penis they would have tried it.
I tried to fool myself into having a good time with a near-beer. Beer with no alcohol, who came up with this idea? No one drinks beer for the taste! I told the Iraqis about the 4th of July in the States, why we celebrate, etc. The Iraqis had a period of English occupation that ended in the 1920s, so they could empathize a little bit.
No fireworks! Random explosions around people with guns is never a good idea. Iraq has forever ruined fireworks for me. The Iraqis celebrate by firing off the family AK-47 in the back yard, that may catch on in the States after recent Supreme Court rulings.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Leave
After much waiting and worrying, I went on leave. The Army sends all Soldiers away from Iraq for 15-18 days, depending on the length of their tour in Iraq. We can go just about anywhere, so long as we have a passport.
I left my lovely patrol base and waited at Baghdad International Air Port for a flight to Kuwait. There was a great deal of ‘manifesting,’ which means showing up for a roll call, and then learning that we have to show up for another roll call in three hours. I had numerous formations into the wee hours of the morning, ending with an early morning C-17 flight to Kuwait.
Kuwait is as I remember it. There’s nothing there but sand and prefabricated buildings. We’ve heard fairy tales about “Kuwaitis,” natives to the sandy country. I’ve seen plenty of Pakistanis and Americans, but never a “Kuwaiti.” The entire country is a giant sand dune with oil pipelines.
We landed in Kuwait and the Soldiers stationed there gave us many customs briefings, asked where we wanted to go for leave and cut us loose for a few hours. I decided to take a shower, and walked out into the brisk 120 degree Fahrenheit Kuwaiti morning. 120 degrees! That’s like turning a hair dryer up to eleven and blasting it an inch from your face. I took a shower, and needed a new shower after walking back to the holding tent.
The customs briefings were long and repetitive. It is NOT OK to bring hand grenades, smoke grenades, bullets, dead animals, Swedish porn, hashish, etc. back to the US of A. They wouldn’t tell us this unless Someone had tried to bring those sort of things onto the airplane. Yes really, they have pictures to prove it.
After the litany of things we couldn’t bring, our bags were searched and then we were sent to the terminal…or so we thought. On the way to the terminal, the walkway is fenced in on all sides, was another inspection station! This place was complete with x-ray machines and rubber gloves. Criminy.
Me and my fellow travelers sat in another holding area, scrambled to get our tickets, and slowly lost confidence as some Air Force person would pop into the tent, tease us with a flight time then come back minutes later and tell us the flight was cancelled. Tee hee!
Eventually we got on a civilian airliner and we were off. This wasn’t Delta or something fancy like ATA, this was World Airways. No, you’ve probably never flown on World Airways. Apparently, they’re chartered only by the United States Government to bring Soldiers to and from Iraq. In all honesty, it wasn’t that bad.
We first landed in Leipzig, Germany. Leipzig’s claim to fame is that it’s the home of the German metal band Rammstein. Don’t Google that, you won’t like what you find. The little Rammstein shrine won’t draw many tourist families, I’ll tell you that much. While in Kuwait, the Soldiers there told us over and over again that alcohol is strictly forbidden until we reach our final destination. But in Leipzig, there was alcohol for sale everywhere. We’re not talking about Spaten beer, we’re talking Absinthe. The green stuff that’ll drive you out of your mind! Can’t buy any for later consumption, they’ll send you right back to Iraq, no leave for you!
I sense the Germans are still a little bitter about the bombings in WWII, and this is some sort of subtle vengeance. Torturing Soldiers with good booze.
Apparently, people used to drink on the way back from Iraq. No doubt, some jack ass got drunk in Germany and woke up in Ukraine missing a kidney and that ruined the fun for everyone.
We stopped in Atlanta and then off to Dallas. We stopped in Dallas on Memorial Day, of all days. There was a long and thick line of civilians there to greet Soldiers as we got off the plane. People shook our hands, thanked us for our service, and Girl Scouts passed out their signature cookies. Score! I was very impressed by the people in Dallas, nice to know folks care about us and are aware that there’s still a war going on.
The USO in Dallas is top notch. There’s free internet, free snacks, comfy chairs, showers, phones, cable, etc. Anyone in the military would do well to run by that USO and take a load off.
The power that be in Dallas passed out a paper informing us that if we get arrested by the Dallas Airport PD because of drunken stupidity, the time spent in jail will count against your leave dates. They wouldn’t tell us this unless Someone had gotten drunk and hijacked one of those terminal bus thingies.
I got on a flight to LAX, and spent the next 18 days with family and friends.
I left my lovely patrol base and waited at Baghdad International Air Port for a flight to Kuwait. There was a great deal of ‘manifesting,’ which means showing up for a roll call, and then learning that we have to show up for another roll call in three hours. I had numerous formations into the wee hours of the morning, ending with an early morning C-17 flight to Kuwait.
Kuwait is as I remember it. There’s nothing there but sand and prefabricated buildings. We’ve heard fairy tales about “Kuwaitis,” natives to the sandy country. I’ve seen plenty of Pakistanis and Americans, but never a “Kuwaiti.” The entire country is a giant sand dune with oil pipelines.
We landed in Kuwait and the Soldiers stationed there gave us many customs briefings, asked where we wanted to go for leave and cut us loose for a few hours. I decided to take a shower, and walked out into the brisk 120 degree Fahrenheit Kuwaiti morning. 120 degrees! That’s like turning a hair dryer up to eleven and blasting it an inch from your face. I took a shower, and needed a new shower after walking back to the holding tent.
The customs briefings were long and repetitive. It is NOT OK to bring hand grenades, smoke grenades, bullets, dead animals, Swedish porn, hashish, etc. back to the US of A. They wouldn’t tell us this unless Someone had tried to bring those sort of things onto the airplane. Yes really, they have pictures to prove it.
After the litany of things we couldn’t bring, our bags were searched and then we were sent to the terminal…or so we thought. On the way to the terminal, the walkway is fenced in on all sides, was another inspection station! This place was complete with x-ray machines and rubber gloves. Criminy.
Me and my fellow travelers sat in another holding area, scrambled to get our tickets, and slowly lost confidence as some Air Force person would pop into the tent, tease us with a flight time then come back minutes later and tell us the flight was cancelled. Tee hee!
Eventually we got on a civilian airliner and we were off. This wasn’t Delta or something fancy like ATA, this was World Airways. No, you’ve probably never flown on World Airways. Apparently, they’re chartered only by the United States Government to bring Soldiers to and from Iraq. In all honesty, it wasn’t that bad.
We first landed in Leipzig, Germany. Leipzig’s claim to fame is that it’s the home of the German metal band Rammstein. Don’t Google that, you won’t like what you find. The little Rammstein shrine won’t draw many tourist families, I’ll tell you that much. While in Kuwait, the Soldiers there told us over and over again that alcohol is strictly forbidden until we reach our final destination. But in Leipzig, there was alcohol for sale everywhere. We’re not talking about Spaten beer, we’re talking Absinthe. The green stuff that’ll drive you out of your mind! Can’t buy any for later consumption, they’ll send you right back to Iraq, no leave for you!
I sense the Germans are still a little bitter about the bombings in WWII, and this is some sort of subtle vengeance. Torturing Soldiers with good booze.
Apparently, people used to drink on the way back from Iraq. No doubt, some jack ass got drunk in Germany and woke up in Ukraine missing a kidney and that ruined the fun for everyone.
We stopped in Atlanta and then off to Dallas. We stopped in Dallas on Memorial Day, of all days. There was a long and thick line of civilians there to greet Soldiers as we got off the plane. People shook our hands, thanked us for our service, and Girl Scouts passed out their signature cookies. Score! I was very impressed by the people in Dallas, nice to know folks care about us and are aware that there’s still a war going on.
The USO in Dallas is top notch. There’s free internet, free snacks, comfy chairs, showers, phones, cable, etc. Anyone in the military would do well to run by that USO and take a load off.
The power that be in Dallas passed out a paper informing us that if we get arrested by the Dallas Airport PD because of drunken stupidity, the time spent in jail will count against your leave dates. They wouldn’t tell us this unless Someone had gotten drunk and hijacked one of those terminal bus thingies.
I got on a flight to LAX, and spent the next 18 days with family and friends.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Chai Boys and the Iraqi Army
I spend much of my time with the Iraqi Army, and it is good. I learn about the culture, see how they do things and learn a bit of Arabic here and there.
But, there are some odd requests. One of the Iraqi officers learned I was on my way home in a few weeks, and asked me to look in on a medical issue for him. Sure, why not? He has ‘weak sperm’ issues.
Today on Things I Never Thought I’d Have to Deal With: weak Iraqi sperm.
No, I don’t know what to do with weak sperm. Eat an oyster? Would anyone trust seafood from the Persian Gulf?
At captain, Iraqi officer get all manner of perks. They must buy an office full of ostentatious and uncomfortable furniture. And, they get dedicated chai (tea) boys to answer their every whim. Most officers have a call button that will summon their chai boy at any moment. Push the button: Tea! Here comes some tea. Push the button: Dinner! A plate full of chicken, rice and goat balls.
These chai boys are uniformly…effeminate. Is this some sort of ancient Babylonian custom that strong men must be waited on by THIS GUY:
Yes, an actual chai boy. His name is Alicia (dead serious).
Here’s a custom the United States Army will NOT adopt. Every so often I sit in with the Iraqi colonel and there’s Alicia ready and able to provide tea and redecorate the office with something tasteful from Versace Dictator Furnishings.
But, there are some odd requests. One of the Iraqi officers learned I was on my way home in a few weeks, and asked me to look in on a medical issue for him. Sure, why not? He has ‘weak sperm’ issues.
Today on Things I Never Thought I’d Have to Deal With: weak Iraqi sperm.
No, I don’t know what to do with weak sperm. Eat an oyster? Would anyone trust seafood from the Persian Gulf?
At captain, Iraqi officer get all manner of perks. They must buy an office full of ostentatious and uncomfortable furniture. And, they get dedicated chai (tea) boys to answer their every whim. Most officers have a call button that will summon their chai boy at any moment. Push the button: Tea! Here comes some tea. Push the button: Dinner! A plate full of chicken, rice and goat balls.
These chai boys are uniformly…effeminate. Is this some sort of ancient Babylonian custom that strong men must be waited on by THIS GUY:
Yes, an actual chai boy. His name is Alicia (dead serious).
Here’s a custom the United States Army will NOT adopt. Every so often I sit in with the Iraqi colonel and there’s Alicia ready and able to provide tea and redecorate the office with something tasteful from Versace Dictator Furnishings.
FOB Dog
Americans love their pets. When the United States Army deploys to garden spots like Iraq, we adopt local mutts as ‘FOB dogs.’
A FOB dog’s life is simple; eat left-overs, bark at strange things, let Soldiers pet them. In return, we take good care of our little mascots. Iraqis, for some reason, hate dogs. They don’t keep them as pets, they don’t like to touch them, nothing. Despite the fact that Iraqis hate dogs, they’re everywhere.
The Afghanis take the cake in dog hating. The Russians left behind millions and millions of land mines, which are still active. To clear the land, the Afghans will fence off a mine field and then put a pack of dogs inside the fence. Fetch, Rover! BOOM! One less land mine.
Our FOB Dog is Daisy. She is a little unusual for a FOB Dog. She hates all Iraqis and other dogs, and enjoys swimming in the pond/cess-pool behind the base. A few days ago, I saw her gnawing away at a very long bone, which looked like a human femur. What was I supposed to do? My family had a little chiuahua/rat mix named Gizmo who’d put up a real fight if I tried to take away something he was eating. This dog is five times that size and was apparently Eating A Human Bone. Bad dog! Very bad!
Upon further investigation, it turns out the bone belonged to another dog. Whew! Wait…so our FOB dog is a cannibal. It’s a dog eat – No! No I can’t go through with that cliché.
There are a number of things I did not anticipate about Iraq. Former terrorists who’re now my friends, eating sheep ass and cannibal FOB dogs. Why is everything in this country bat-shit insane?
There are some complications. The FOB Dogs do not appreciate the military working dog teams who visit the base, which results in an “Old Yeller” moment if the FOB dog attacks the working dog.
Some times Soldiers can ship FOB dogs back to the States, but the process is expensive and complicated. New units normally inherit FOB dogs…and their puppies. But, there are traveling vets who stop by for a little snip-snip to prevent that issue.
I can imagine that conversation:
FOB Dog: Yeah, the Soldiers let me sleep in peace, feed me and play with me.
Wild dog: Damn, that sounds awesome.
FOB Dog: It’s the life, but they cut my balls off.
Wild dog: @#@* that.
I do my best to stay away from the FOB dogs. Who knows when we’ll move elsewhere, and then who’ll take care of my dog? I have enough to worry about.
Here’s Daisy sleeping on a sun screen, her own improvised hammock.
A FOB dog’s life is simple; eat left-overs, bark at strange things, let Soldiers pet them. In return, we take good care of our little mascots. Iraqis, for some reason, hate dogs. They don’t keep them as pets, they don’t like to touch them, nothing. Despite the fact that Iraqis hate dogs, they’re everywhere.
The Afghanis take the cake in dog hating. The Russians left behind millions and millions of land mines, which are still active. To clear the land, the Afghans will fence off a mine field and then put a pack of dogs inside the fence. Fetch, Rover! BOOM! One less land mine.
Our FOB Dog is Daisy. She is a little unusual for a FOB Dog. She hates all Iraqis and other dogs, and enjoys swimming in the pond/cess-pool behind the base. A few days ago, I saw her gnawing away at a very long bone, which looked like a human femur. What was I supposed to do? My family had a little chiuahua/rat mix named Gizmo who’d put up a real fight if I tried to take away something he was eating. This dog is five times that size and was apparently Eating A Human Bone. Bad dog! Very bad!
Upon further investigation, it turns out the bone belonged to another dog. Whew! Wait…so our FOB dog is a cannibal. It’s a dog eat – No! No I can’t go through with that cliché.
There are a number of things I did not anticipate about Iraq. Former terrorists who’re now my friends, eating sheep ass and cannibal FOB dogs. Why is everything in this country bat-shit insane?
There are some complications. The FOB Dogs do not appreciate the military working dog teams who visit the base, which results in an “Old Yeller” moment if the FOB dog attacks the working dog.
Some times Soldiers can ship FOB dogs back to the States, but the process is expensive and complicated. New units normally inherit FOB dogs…and their puppies. But, there are traveling vets who stop by for a little snip-snip to prevent that issue.
I can imagine that conversation:
FOB Dog: Yeah, the Soldiers let me sleep in peace, feed me and play with me.
Wild dog: Damn, that sounds awesome.
FOB Dog: It’s the life, but they cut my balls off.
Wild dog: @#@* that.
I do my best to stay away from the FOB dogs. Who knows when we’ll move elsewhere, and then who’ll take care of my dog? I have enough to worry about.
Here’s Daisy sleeping on a sun screen, her own improvised hammock.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Ready! Fire! Aim!
Last week I was at my desk, minding my own business, when the shop sergeant asks me “Hey, sir. You know you’re moving to a new unit in three days?” This was news to me! I immediately hunted down one of the many colonels I work for and confirmed that yes, I was moving in three days.
A number of questions came up:
Who am I replacing? Who’s replacing me? What will I be doing? Will this affect my leave? How do I get down there?
I got zero answers from anyone! No one had a clue why this was happening, or if they did they didn’t want to share. So, I cleaned out my desk and packed up my crap. I finagled my way onto a convoy of virgin MRAPs heading to the new base.
Moving is never a fun experience for me. I moved around a lot as a kid, and it always meant leaving friends. This time was no different. Plus, all the uncertainty in this move did not leave me confident at all.
I get down to the new base, and no one knows what the hell is going on. After a few days chilling out in a windowless trailer, I pushed out to my new assignment.
The base I’m at has got to be the FOB At The End Of The Universe. It looks like it was bombed yesterday. Literally. The gym is only surviving room in a building the USAF dropped a bomb on. I live in a plywood shack. The Iraqi Army compound is easy to find, just follow the smell of raw sewage (Yum-o!)
Still, this could be worse. At one point, during my first tour, I lived at a place called FOB Duke. FOB Duke was one of Saddam’s old arms depots. There was nothing there but sand and a few bunkers. Remember Tatooine from Star Wars? Looks just like that. We had a slit trench and three port-a-potties for several hundred soldiers. We all slept next to the vehicles with no protection from the elements.
No one knew what the purpose of the FOB was, until the first morning. Everything was perfectly normal until KA-BOOM, a huge explosion rocked everyone. I looked over in the direction of the blast, and saw a huge mushroom cloud. I kid you not. There were thousands of tons of munitions that a contractor was blowing up on a regular basis. No one bothered to tell me about that little fact until after the explosion. Doh.
Anyway, so long as I have walls, electricity and food that doesn’t come in a plastic bag, I’m doing all right.
The reason for the sudden officer shuffle is genitalia. Female soldiers are not allowed to fill certain positions in combat units. The battalion I moved to had a female officer in a position she shouldn’t have been in (but was doing a fine job). Someone somewhere raised a stink about a female soldier in a position she wasn’t supposed to be in. Once the dreaded words “15-6 Investigation” start circulating, suddenly every unit realizes they may have someone in a position they shouldn’t be, and there’s a race to fix everything. So, here I am.
Yeah, this is retarded and not the way to manage people. One more week until I make a break for Birkenstocks and facial hair.
A number of questions came up:
Who am I replacing? Who’s replacing me? What will I be doing? Will this affect my leave? How do I get down there?
I got zero answers from anyone! No one had a clue why this was happening, or if they did they didn’t want to share. So, I cleaned out my desk and packed up my crap. I finagled my way onto a convoy of virgin MRAPs heading to the new base.
Moving is never a fun experience for me. I moved around a lot as a kid, and it always meant leaving friends. This time was no different. Plus, all the uncertainty in this move did not leave me confident at all.
I get down to the new base, and no one knows what the hell is going on. After a few days chilling out in a windowless trailer, I pushed out to my new assignment.
The base I’m at has got to be the FOB At The End Of The Universe. It looks like it was bombed yesterday. Literally. The gym is only surviving room in a building the USAF dropped a bomb on. I live in a plywood shack. The Iraqi Army compound is easy to find, just follow the smell of raw sewage (Yum-o!)
Still, this could be worse. At one point, during my first tour, I lived at a place called FOB Duke. FOB Duke was one of Saddam’s old arms depots. There was nothing there but sand and a few bunkers. Remember Tatooine from Star Wars? Looks just like that. We had a slit trench and three port-a-potties for several hundred soldiers. We all slept next to the vehicles with no protection from the elements.
No one knew what the purpose of the FOB was, until the first morning. Everything was perfectly normal until KA-BOOM, a huge explosion rocked everyone. I looked over in the direction of the blast, and saw a huge mushroom cloud. I kid you not. There were thousands of tons of munitions that a contractor was blowing up on a regular basis. No one bothered to tell me about that little fact until after the explosion. Doh.
Anyway, so long as I have walls, electricity and food that doesn’t come in a plastic bag, I’m doing all right.
The reason for the sudden officer shuffle is genitalia. Female soldiers are not allowed to fill certain positions in combat units. The battalion I moved to had a female officer in a position she shouldn’t have been in (but was doing a fine job). Someone somewhere raised a stink about a female soldier in a position she wasn’t supposed to be in. Once the dreaded words “15-6 Investigation” start circulating, suddenly every unit realizes they may have someone in a position they shouldn’t be, and there’s a race to fix everything. So, here I am.
Yeah, this is retarded and not the way to manage people. One more week until I make a break for Birkenstocks and facial hair.
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