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.

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.

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.

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.

Citizenship Ceremony

Two of my interpreters are now American citizens. I’ve never been to a citizenship ceremony, so I had to go.

Fatima, side-kicking interpreter, had to pass a test before she took the oath. The test shouldn’t be a challenge to any high school graduate, but I doubt most Americans can find Iraq on a map. She had some trouble understanding the Judicial branch, so I directed her to the world famous “How a Bill Becomes a Law” video, presented by YouTube. She didn’t get it. Anyway, she passed the test.

There were over 250 soldiers there to swear the citizenship oath. A big part of the oath is about ‘picking up arms’ to defend America. That part was kind of ‘Well…duh.” Non-American citizens who join the Army have their citizenship procedure accelerated; it only takes them a year.



After the oath and the ever motivational Lee Greenwood “Proud to be an American” video, each new American received a certificate. That part felt like a high school graduation, everyone had their name read off. I felt sorry for the MC, she had to pronounce names like “Juris Ghorstrofayabrokoffdais” and “Nak Clikclikbazoontiki.” God Bless America!

The ceremony was in the Al Faw palace. Saddam built the palace to celebrate his victory over Iran. The Iranians built a suicide bombing training course to celebrate their victory over Saddam. The palace looks impressive, check out the Mother of all Chandeliers:



But here’s the fun part. The chandeliers are all made of plastic. Dead serious. I spelunked around some of Saddam’s palaces we’d bombed, and more than one chandelier fell from the ceiling. Each of those little crystals is made of plastic, not crystal like you’d think.

The marble is all imported from Italy, and hideously expensive. Saddam dropped the big dinar on the marble but he couldn’t spend the cash for glass chandeliers? Cheap bastard! He also drove Rolls Royce cars with 8 track players and pleather seat covers.

It felt great to see so many people who want to be Americans, and will put their lives in danger to get their citizenship. Fatima had to give up her home country passport, and she can’t go back because they’d throw her in jail, possibly cut her head off. They’re crazy like that.

Man Kissing

The American military has a long history of sharing our culture with the countries we’ve…occupied. The Japanese picked up baseball. The Germans stopped invading countries for no good reason…wait, forget that one. So, you’d figure the Iraqis would learn something from us, and vice versa.

On the surface, the Iraqis don’t have much to offer. Women dressing in black sheets, mosques wailing to the RPG gods five times a day and a language that sounds like gargling. There is one social custom that the United States Army has begrudgingly accepted; the Man Kiss.

Iraqi men who barely know each other will kiss each other on the cheek during greetings. It is a little unusual to see, as men never kiss each other in America. First time I saw this, I was a bit surprised. Do I call the cops? Is it contagious?

Once two Iraqi men get to know each other well enough, the Man Kiss is expected. My boss sees enough important people around the area that he’s reached That Point with a number of Iraqis. They come up, shake hands, and lean in just enough to freak out my boss.

An American Soldier’s reaction to the Man Kiss is horror. The Army isn’t the most receptive organization to anything resembling homosexual conduct (but the current rule is Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Don’t Care). Now we’re surrounded by men who kiss each other and hold hands. Is their a power point presentation to explain this?

Ever had someone you weren’t too thrilled with try and kiss you? You can bob and weave, arm bar, fake a seizure, etc to avoid the unwelcome attention. Do this with an Iraqi and you’re incredibly rude. What do we do?

My boss has begrudgingly accepted the Man Kiss. I got a picture of his first Man Kiss, I’m saving it for a special occasion, like when he isn’t my boss anymore. Or right now.



What have the Iraqis learned from us? I tried to introduce them to the magic of bacon bits, but those are against their religion. Bacon bits aren’t technically food, shouldn’t be a problem.

They will show up for meetings on time. First tour, you tell an Iraqi to show up at 6, and he hears “Show up whenever you feel like.” It drove us nuts, we could never get a meeting going because the Iraqis wouldn’t show up. Now, they understand that Americans don’t do Iraqi time. Why? We have the money. They want to do business with us, they show up on time dadgummit.

What will the Army do with the Man Kiss once our Iraq misadventure ends? Pretend it never happened. Ask any Iraq vet if he was Man Kissed. The answer is no.

And now for fun: A wind chime made out of spent shell casings.

Celebrity Visit

Every so often, celebrities visit Iraq. There are always rumors of musicians and comedians touring about, but I rarely if ever see them. Some celebrities make regular visits. Kid Rock will occasionally emerge from his trailer to try and sing for troops, why can’t a mortar land on THAT guy? Harsh, yes. He volunteers his time to entertain troops, but he got the name ‘Kid Rock’ by selling crack cocaine. Drug dealer = scum bag. And I’ve got news for him; if you’re from Detroit you will never be a cowboy! But I digress.

My first tour, there was a rumor that Robin Williams was in town. So I grabbed his “Live on Broadway” CD and ran off to see him. We waited for a half hour, and guess who showed up? The Sergeant Major of the Army and his singing neice. Not what I was expecting. I wanted a hairy man doing a gay John Wayne impression and I got “Oh Holy Night” and a lecture. Joy!

A few days ago, I walked into the quad and there was a table with three absurdly hot civilian women. What’s this? Absurdly hot women always get my attention. An impromptu USO tour had landed itself in the brigade headquarters. They weren’t scheduled to be here, they normally push out to the smaller patrol bases to visit Soldiers. Bad weather for the win!

Next to the absurdly hot women was a very large man, Diamond Dallas Page! Yes, the professional wrestler. I watched him on many a Monday night. The man is huge, he had his championship belt with him, and was taking pictures with Soldiers. What do I do? Will he hit me with a steel chair if I ask him nicely enough? People always get hit with steel chairs in professional wrestling, why don’t more sports do this?

I stopped at the absurdlies’, and got their autographs. One of them asked what I do out here, and I said that I take notes. Damn it! If ever there was a time to fib, that was it! ‘I research Iraqi personalities.’ ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ ‘I kick ass and chew bubble gum, but I’m all out of gum!’ Bah.

Then, Diamond Dallas Page. I hoisted the belt over my shoulder, and posed with him. We did the “Diamond Cutter” move. I had my fingers in to begin with, but he tightened his grip around my neck and grumbled “Fingers out.” When a 6’6 250lb man who makes his living crushing people says ‘fingers out,’ you listen and you obey.



Also in line was a lieutenant who didn’t have a camera, so I got a picture of her. After the first photo, I told Diamond Dallas Page that she wanted a ‘head lock photo.’ Voila!



Lieutenants must be abused at all times. Builds character.
I do appreciate these visits. That celebrities keep visiting five years into the war shows support for our efforts. They may not care for the war, but they care for the Soldiers. We were buzzing the whole rest of the week about the visit. Some folks have the pictures with DDP or the absurdly hot women as computer wallpaper or tacked up on a wall near their work station.