Army of Dude

The Ides of March

2011-03-20T19:00:00.001-05:00

Since most of Battle Company, second platoon disbanded, we've moved on. Careers have been launched, schools attended and families started. We're not the kids that filled out Army uniforms so long ago. As close as we were then, both geographic distance and the rigors of post-military life have left us isolated. There was a time that you could reach in any direction and grab the shoulder of a brother. These days, the best we can muster is a phone call or an email, with makeshift reunions of a few men happening quick and infrequently.

We went camping and I let him borrow a tent not knowing it had a hole in it. He walked out of the tent the next morning soaked from the knees down. - Dozer

March is for moving forward. But for second platoon, the month is swallowed by memories of a particular man in a particular place on a particular day: March 14, 2007. Brian Chevalier, a lean and baby-faced Georgia boy, was the driver for first squad. He faced the enemy before the rest of his squad every time they mounted up. I never heard him complain about a thankless job like ferrying infantryman into battle.

Thompson and me were on CQ and fucking Chevy came by covered in mud and looking like he just got tag teamed by a bunch of forest animals. He celebrated his 21st birthday at the casino, tried to walk to post and passed out in a ditch. - Dodo

There was no whimper, no cries for mother or last words when Chevy died. The explosion that blew him out of the Stryker made him, for a brief moment, a creature of flight. He didn't suffer. The next few hours were spent fighting out of a kill zone expertly crafted by gunmen lying in wait. In our unit's history, The Ides of March became a bloody smear on the calendar.

On the first anniversary of Chevy's death, many of the guys around Ft. Lewis were able to get together, along with a CBS reporter to cover the story. We sang and drank and traded memories about Chevy. Three years later, it's not so easy. Many of us relied on Facebook to tell the same old stories or share new ones.

I remember that fool planning his redneck wedding. Also remember him telling Hernandez that he wouldn't be his battle buddy to the chow hall in Mosul. After a while he would hide out in his room just to avoid him. - Dodo

I've never worked or went to school on March 14. Last year I spent the day with Dodo and another friend in New York, but last week I found myself alone. I decided to spend the day where another group of young men struggled and died: Antietam. The park system contains two monuments to the 20th Infantry NY Regulars, which were the predecessors of our unit, 5th Battalion 20th Infantry Regiment. The engagement is remembered with a striped battle streamer on the regimental colors. Us, though, we remember Chevy with late night phone calls and laughter through tears.

We have moved on since then, but March carries a weight that loads us down. Spring is just around the corner, but not for our best.

In that kid I saw the best in all of you. No matter how bad it got, he and you all persevered. He would remind me that you all were kids and to lighten up. Leave fucking with the Army of Dude for another day. It was an honor to serve with each and everyone of you. As long as we don't forget him, he will live longer than all of us. - Richard Kellar, Chevy's squad leader

Bring It In!

2010-11-08T12:38:00.004-06:00

Nearly half a decade ago in a stuffy barracks room corner, I created this blog for a very simple reason: to communicate to my family the curious aspects of Army life. Before I committed, I enjoyed writing but never had an impulse to do so. Writing for sheer pleasure was a difficult concept to grasp; the act was often sullenly attached to school assignments I habitually ignored in favor of reading dry military history texts. But after I got started, writing became my only creative outlet, a way to relay thoughts and experiences that I would never dare speak out loud. Emails, letters and occasionally blog postings were sent from the grounds of Fort Lewis and enormous bases carved out of Iraqi soil. My only audience was an assembly of blood – family members and close friends were the only ones following my travels. In an all male infantry unit, writing was the furthest thing from grunt machismo. This blog was a closely guarded secret.

Violent explosions have the power to transform bodies and minds. They also have the ability to transform perspectives. A decimated house in Mosul brought me from snarky spectator to battlefield observer once I saw bricks scattered about the street like violent confetti. I decided at that moment to record as much as I saw through writing and photographs to relay thoughts and images that were nearly impossible to articulate. It was my way of talking out the often painful and difficult situations during my unit’s deployment. Writing was catharsis long before I understood the meaning of the word. As the deployment crawled past the one year mark during the worst period of violence of the entire war, hand written letters seemed like they were being delivered to another galaxy. Writing here became my only connection to a place that didn't feel quite like home anymore.

The Third Stryker Brigade completed its mission when we razed the home of the Islamic State of Iraq in the summer of 2007. My own mission of serving in the Army was accomplished shortly after we returned home. After I got out, I set my sights on an education, which felt like a battle unto itself. My high school grades were impressive in their mediocrity - I failed, among many other classes, freshman and sophomore English. College seemed like a task far outside my abilities, but I quickly found my military experience prepared me with the discipline I didn't have as a teenager. The most difficult part of school was making sure my VA benefits came when they were due.

Along with thousands of veterans going to school, I found myself without a monthly living stipend when the Post-9/11 GI Bill went live last year. Simply navigating a complex benefit package like the GI Bill required research and painful lessons learned, but how to tell a landlord I couldn't make rent wasn't in any FAQ provided by the federal government. I sent my grievances to the only person I knew at the Department of Veterans Affairs - Brandon Friedman - and within hours I was speaking with Keith Wilson, the Director of Education Services for the Department. He was able to answer enough questions to spur a followup post, which went far to explain some confusing and frustrating aspects of the GI Bill.

Apart from my posts written from Iraq, this blog has been mainly introspective and nostalgic in nature; a look back at the good old days. The two posts dealing with the GI Bill were a departure for the norm. It felt great to step outside my own experiences and help other veterans who needed the right information directly from the right source. I spent the next few months burying myself in homework and working part time before Brandon came to me with some news: the Department of Veterans Affairs was expanding its new media reach, and it needed someone to helm a forthcoming blog.

I took Brandon up on his offer after much deliberation. I still had school to finish, but it was rather unsatisfying. I missed the challenges of the Army. I missed having a mission.

Today I announce a new mission: the launch of VA's blog. It's called VAntage Point, and its purpose is simple: to transform the mode of communication between veterans and VA. The main column will be written by staff writers: myself and Lauren Bailey, the Special Assistant to the Chief Technology Officer. Brandon is the editor, and will occasionally chime in when not covering my drafts in red ink. We are set to tackle issues affecting veterans, with emphasis on getting the right information to the right veteran at the right time. The exciting part for everyone involved is the Guest Post column. Anyone can submit a post on a topic concerning veterans, and it will be published as long as it's coherent and competently argued. We're not just looking for fluff pieces either. If you had a bad experience with a VA doctor or couldn't get through on a help line, we want to hear about it. We're looking for a cross section of guest writers - anyone from a student struggling with reintegration to a VA surgeon to a Vietnam veteran and everyone in between. For the first time in the history of the Department of Veterans Affairs, ideas and communication will flow two ways.

Of course, my new job carries with it some implications for this blog. Now that I work for the government (again), I relinquish a bit of editorial freedom of what I can say here. That's the downside to increasing the reach of my words. But with it I gain legitimacy and authority to speak about veterans' issues, and I have a hard time thinking of a better way to use my energy. That is not to say I won't have enough time for Army of Dude. Whenever I have a post in mind that doesn't fit at VAntage Point, it will go here. But sadly, I can't focus on my writing here like I once did. Things will change around here, but this blog will remain. VA wanted me to write for them, and with me comes my style and personality unabridged. Both will survive the migration. I encourage my readers interested in veteran issues to bookmark VAntage Point and check back often.

I cannot imagine where I'd be without the people I've met along the way. It'd take all day to mention all the talented writers in the milblog community that have linked to me for years, or to list all the readers who have left countless messages of support both here and through emails. I've made many friends and luckily few enemies through my writing, and I hope that is something that continues both here and my new home. Thank you for reading. I look forward to my new mission, and I know I can count on many of you for support.

Through Darkness We See

2010-10-21T23:40:00.005-05:00

As the steady flow of commuters emptied out of the subway, I stood to the side, watching down avenues of approach with my head on a swivel. Jesse’s assault pack dug into my shoulders, heavy not from grenades or textbooks, but from enough clothes for a long weekend. I decided on a whim to take a long bus ride from Washington, DC to New York for Comic-Con. Dodo had gone last year and it seemed a perfect reason to visit him in Brooklyn. It had only been a few months since he came down to Washington, but I had missed him terribly. He remains one of my closest friends from our old platoon, and seeing him released the nostalgic pressure that builds in between visits with guys from the unit.

Peculiar things happen when you catch up with a guy from the platoon. Voices change, conversation becomes hurried and the wall between thoughts and speech, usually reserved for polite society, crumbles to dust. The social experiment of a platoon stuffed together for fifteen continuous months of combat breeds words, phrases and nicknames that are buried when those men finally disperse, only to be resurrected later during brief reunions. If the men of second platoon spoke as they did in the filthy outposts of Baqubah, most would be divorced and none would be employed. Reintegrating into society means you must leave those words, phrases and tones behind, mostly for the reason that civilians would simply not understand them. When old friends get together, those words come tumbling out from the deepest recesses of the mind.

When civilians ask me what I miss most about the Army, I always tell them it’s the people. Many are one of a kind and others are destined to be friends for life. Given a few years separation between the end of a military career and the return to civilian life, it becomes easy to romanticize the way things used to be. Even sheer moments of terror and unimaginable brutality seem tolerable in retrospect because of the men to the left and right. Love is a difficult emotion to conceptualize, and I did not understand it until I saw guys sharing their last swallows of water or offering to carry some of the heavy load for a struggling friend. Once we got home and everyone went their separate ways, or stayed for another tour, that support system fell apart. It was worth the agony of war to experience that kind of commitment.

It came as no surprise to hear that the Chilean miners almost immediately began to have what I call adversity withdrawal. In the two months they were underground, everything in their lives – their wives and girlfriends, their homes, their paychecks- melted away the moment they were trapped. Their only concern was survival, and they began to live moment to moment with an outcome far from certain. Undoubtedly, the bonds they forged deep underground helped them get through what must have been a truly horrifying experience. One sentence from a recent report nearly knocked me out of my seat:

“What we’re seeing is the miners are almost longing to be in that group together.”

For the third time this year, I spent quality time with Dodo, one of my best friends from the platoon. We always talk about work and girlfriends and who is up to what, but the topic always drifts towards the Army and Iraq, as if the conversation is a compass that points to what is really on our minds. I have discovered that several guys from the platoon have thought about joining up again. Going back to a job or the unemployment line or school just isn’t for them. If everyone is a puzzle piece that fits into society in a certain way, our edges come back frayed and worn. Everything doesn’t go back together quite right. But what I want to tell everyone who wants to go back is this: It’s not what we did that you miss, it’s the people you served next to. Just like now, as we’re scattered all over the country, bringing the men of second platoon together for another tour remains an impossible task. If it wasn’t, I doubt I could resist the opportunity. I know what the miners know – those terrible days were the best days because of who was with them in the dark.

Spoils

2010-07-01T02:30:00.001-05:00

The amount of stuff a soldier brings home from war can be limitless. Books, bootleg DVDs, letters, pictures, memories, post traumatic stress, TBI - without fail, everyone comes home with more than what they left with. The worth of some of those things can be easily determined, but others carry a more intrinsic value. Go on a backpacking trip through Europe and you might collect train tickets or pub coasters for mementos, but grabbing a keepsake from the battlefield earns an entirely different description: war trophy. Look in a thousand houses or rummage through a hundred caches and you might find something worth stuffing into your pocket.

There are strict guidelines that describe what can be taken and what should be left alone. Nothing can ever be taken from a civilian, but enemy equipment (limited to non-firearms) is mostly fair game. I kept my bayonets but had to get rid of a zip gun and an insurgent ammo bearing vest punctured by bullet holes and stained with blood. During my mid tour leave in Europe, I picked up a rock from Omaha Beach and a piece of concrete from a destroyed bunker at Pointe du Hoc, only to throw them into a patch of gravel outside of customs in Kuwait. Tangible pieces of history were lost to conform to the strict no soil policy. Brass shell casings from my first firefight were stuffed into a amnesty bin. Thousands of those ejected casings burned our necks and rolled around the floor of our vehicles, but they had to be discarded like common aluminum cans. I wanted to save a few to show my grandchildren, maybe tell them the story about how they were left behind. They'd roll them around in their hands and stick their pinkie into the top of the casing. I'd tell them, "It was in these moments that made me who I am."

Mostly everyone came back with at least one interesting thing. Al Qaeda flags were rare and treasured while bayonets produced yawns; everyone seemed to have one (I brought two home). Another common souvenir was an ammo vest. They were essential to any enemy cache and easily stuffed into a cargo pocket. I managed a unique find; a camouflage ammo vest with an Iraqi flag printed on the back, stuffed deep in a box in an insurgent safe house.

Somewhere in Baghdad, Dodo found a rare gem: a pistol holder with a golden seal of the Republican Guard affixed below a stamp reading "1984," which was about the midpoint of the Iran-Iraq War. It was attached to an ammo belt more suitable for the Old West than the Middle East. When he showed them to me, I couldn't believe those things were found together in what can only be described as a trailblazing attempt at insurgent chic. He offered them to me and I declined, but he insisted, true to his selfless and giving nature. With his generous donation to the Musée d'Dude, I put together a tiny space for war trophies centered around the concept drawing of the 3rd Stryker Brigade Memorial statue.

The sword is perhaps the most storied item in the platoon's war trophy collection. In a house littered with insurgent accoutrements, I uncovered the weapon hidden underneath a pile of blankets. I was already carrying a heavy folding litter on my back and jammed two AK47s into the carrying case. The sword barely managed to fit. Along the blade were dried streaks of blood, a peculiar fact considering it wasn't very sharp. Across the street, another platoon discovered a torture chamber utilized by insurgents operating in the area. We openly wondered if the sword was used for sadistic purposes.

My squad leader determined it was critical to mission success and took it to headquarters during my post mission shower. I had carried it for several days until we came back to base, and it was mine based on the international rules of Finder's Keepers. The battalion staff was less than impressed with its story and sent it to be blown to bits in a hole alongside dozens of captured weapons. The Snack Master just happened to be walking by the collection and just happened to spot the sword, and in a rare moment of thoughtfulness, grabbed the weapon and brought it back.

Bringing home weapons from war is a tradition as old itself, but that doesn't mean all war trophies are of death's construction. I consider myself lucky for finding not one, but two gems. After clearing an abandoned house, I looked through piles of books and papers on the floor for any important documents. I uncovered a curious portrait of one of the world's most hated dictators:

GQ Saddam now hangs on my bathroom wall. A piece of history saved.

Metal Memorials

2010-05-31T00:52:00.004-05:00

“Hey man, just so you know, I’m going to set this thing off.”

I don’t have a metal plate in my head or shrapnel in my legs, but I carry with me something that might as well be lodged deep under my skin. After Vietnam, soldiers and civilians alike would wear bracelets etched with the names of prisoners of war so their memory would live on even if they never came home. Veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continued the practice, but with a twist. The same bracelets are adorned with the names of friends killed in action. The date and the place are also included as a testament to where they took their last steps. One of the first things my platoon did after coming home was order memorial bracelets from the few websites that specialize in military memorabilia. You don’t even have to type in the name or the date; their system uses the DOD casualty list. All you have to do is filter by name and a software aided laser will burn the selection onto an aluminum or steel bracelet. What emerges out of this casual and disinterested practice is jewelry teeming with the amount of love and commitment found in ten wedding rings.

Every trip to the airport has the same outcome: additional security checks and a pat down from a TSA agent. I tell them it’s the bracelet that the metal detector shrieks at. “Can you take it off?” is always the question. “I don’t want to take it off” is always the answer. To some screeners my answer is a poke in the eye of their authority, a wrench in the system of their daily routine. Others recognize the bracelet and give me a gentle nod and a quick pat down. I suspect they have encountered other veterans like me and realize the futility of asking to have it removed. In a glass booth at the security gate is where I most often get the question, “Who’s on the bracelet?” Those who realize the significance of it usually want to know the name. I stare down and rub my fingers over the lettering. “Brian Chevalier, but we called him Chevy.”

At times the memorial bracelets seem almost redundant. The names of the fallen are written on steel and skin, but are they not also carved into the hearts of men? Are the faces of the valiant not emblazoned in the memories of those who called them brothers? No amount of ink or steel can be used to represent what those days signify. My bracelet says “14 March 2007,” but it does not describe the blazing heat that day, or the smell of open sewers trampled underfoot or the sight of a Stryker, overturned and smoke-filled as the school adjacent exploded under tremendous fire. It was as if God chose to end the world within one city block. When Chevy was lovingly placed into a body bag under exploding RPGs and machine gun tracers, worlds ended. Others began.

The concept of Memorial Day nearly approaches superfluous ritual to some veterans. It's absurd to ask a combat veteran to take out a single day to remember those fell in battle, as if the other 364 days were not marked by their memories in one way or another. I try to look at pictures of my friends, both alive and dead, at least once a day to remember their smiles or the way they wore their kits. I talk to them online and send emails and texts and on rare occasions, visit them in person. We drink and laugh and recall the old days and tell the same war stories everyone has heard a thousand times but still manage to produce streams of furious laughter. I get the same feeling with them; Memorial Day does not begin or end on a single day. It ebbs and flows in torrents of memory, sometimes to a crippling degree. Most of us have become talented at hiding our service and safeguard the moments when we become awash in memories like March 14. The bracelet is the only physical reminder of the tide we find ourselves in.

Perhaps it's best to let civilians hold onto Memorial Day and hope they use the time to reflect wisely. A time to remember old friends or distant relatives that they did not necessarily serve with but still honor their sacrifice. Not just soldiers are touched by war. Chevy was a father and a son, and his loss not only rippled through the platoon and company but a small town in Georgia. The day serves as a reminder that there are men and women who have only come back as memories. Maybe the reflection on those who did not return is a key to helping civilians bridge the gap with veterans. Occasionally my bracelet spurs conversations with friends and coworkers who did not know I was in the Army or deployed to Iraq. I still don't feel completely comfortable answering their questions but I'm always happy to talk about the name on my wrist. His name was Brian Chevalier, but we called him Chevy.

Haiku Review: Green Zone

2010-03-25T00:28:00.002-05:00

Green Zone (2010):

Shaky cam shakes man

Bourne is on the hunt for WMD

We too find nothing

***

(Previous haiku reviews: Redacted, Home of the Brave, Stop Loss and In The Valley of Elah)

The Best: Yet To Come?

2010-03-11T00:27:00.001-06:00

The Hurt Locker was far from my favorite movie of 2009. Out of the ten nominees for Best Picture, I liked four films more than Kathryn Bigelow's entry. It wasn't even the best movie that dealt with the Iraq War; that distinction goes to In The Loop, a comedy about the spread of misinformation that brilliantly leaves the word "Iraq" out of the entire script. But it was The Hurt Locker that won big on Sunday night, to the surprise of few that have been following the awards circuit. Even though it wasn't a box office smash (it made only six million dollars more than its production budget), critics loved the film, as did most of the public sans veterans. More importantly, its win washed away the fear and apprehension studios had about bankrolling a film centered on modern conflict. Every Iraq or Afghanistan themed movie before the The Hurt Locker has tanked in the theater, and you can't blame studio executives for shying away from a broken model. Sunday's sweep at the Oscars could mean that studios will ease their concerns and jump at a script that promises to be the next Hurt Locker. Veteran disapproval of the film was not overlooked in Hollywood. It is not unreasonable to suggest that the next movie would bring aboard combat veterans as technical advisers (or critics) to see if anything is out of place. Greyhawk has the same line of thinking, and he's willing to tolerate five bad war movies for every great one.

Even if you didn't like the film, The Hurt Locker's impressive victory at the Oscars bodes well for modern war movies. It means the good ones Greyhawk looks forward to have a better chance at finding their way to theaters. Who knows, maybe a veteran felt so strongly about the inaccuracies in The Hurt Locker that he's well on his way to writing the next Platoon. All that is certain is that our stories need to be told. We can only do so much from a series of tubes and the media has never done us any favors. A film we can call our own is something we need, to point to and say, This, this is what it was like. The Hurt Locker isn't that movie, but it made that movie possible.

***

This is the end of my Hurt Locker posts, which I'm sure is a relief to many of you. I'm off to New York City tomorrow for spring break, so I won't be able to see Green Zone this week. If you were unhappy about the licenses The Hurt Locker took, I would suggest you stay 500 feet from the nearest multiplex, lest you suffer a heart attack by proxy. Have a good week dear readers, I will be back soon.

Circling The Wagons

2010-03-03T02:02:00.003-06:00

or: Hurt Locker updates will continue until Iraq movies improve

While The Hurt Locker is still considered to be the heavy favorite to pick up a few Oscars this Sunday, the negative reviews are pouring in from the last people Kathryn Bigelow Mark Boal wanted to hear from: veterans and war savvy journalists. The nearly unanimous criticism of the film from our camp is the baffling level of cowboy machismo imbued in James, the leader of a three man EOD team that leads his subordinates (literally) down a dangerous path in the streets of Baghdad. Coupled with laughable breaches of real life protocol and enormous leaps of artistic license, it's difficult to argue with those who know the intimate details of combat.

As I've touched on before, many civilians use movies as a stand-in connection to a war when they personally don't know a soldier or veteran. The reservations I have about The Hurt Locker center on reality versus perceived reality, be it with people or procedure. I don't want people to think that men like James not only exist but knowingly and actively send men into deadly situations to get an adrenaline fix. It would be irresponsible of Hollywood to cast soldiers and veterans in a negative light while the real life difficulties of reintegration challenge veterans to once again be a part of society instead of apart from it. But can veteran-civilian relations be any more tenuous than they already are? A fellow student veteran recently brought up his deployment to Afghanistan in a class discussion about how people live around the world. As soon as the word Afghanistan came off his lips, the mood of the class palpably shifted. Whispers and murmurs were cut off in mid sentence and everyone in the room looked at him, but only for a moment. As he continued on, they looked at anything but him. Here is a film that has people talking about the wars again, even if it's simply within the context of the movie. It can only help to elevate the subjects of Iraq and Afghanistan out of the lurid, unmentionable void many people subconsciously place them in.

What does this mean for the Oscar voting? I doubt anyone holding an awards ballot really cares what veterans think (how else would you explain the greenlight of Redacted and In The Valley of Elah, Mark Boal's unforgivable celluloid excrement?). This criticism seems to come too little, too late. Producer Nicolas Chartier might be the biggest threat to The Hurt Locker's chances after sending out inappropriate (yet true!) emails to Academy members. That intense lobbying might have turned off would be voters. While I have defended The Locker on this electronic rag, I don't think it deserves to win Best Picture for what amounts to a bunch of contrived action scenes attached to one flawless, beautifully expressive scene. I found A Serious Man, Inglourious Basterds and District 9 to be shades more enjoyable than The Hurt Locker and would gladly substitute Precious: A Stupidly Long Title and The Blind Side with Moon and In The Loop. Still, I wouldn't mind if The Hurt Locker won Best Picture if it means Dances with Wolves in Space loses.

Addendum: Fox News published a couple lines from my Hurt Locker review that gave me a case of deja vu.

From the Wikipedia entry of The Hurt Locker:

At the blog Army of Dude, infantryman and Iraq veteran Alex Horton noted that "the way the team goes about their missions is completely absurd," though he went on to call the film "the best Iraq movie to date."

From the Fox News article:

Alex Horton, for example, wrote on the ARMY of Dude blog that “the way the team goes about their missions is completely absurd,” but he added that it was still “the best Iraq war movie to date.”

Bang up job, Ed Barnes. What would get me an F in an English essay passes as journalism these days. Barnes even paraphrases without attribution the wildly popular and controversial review of The Hurt Locker written by my friend and fellow milblogger Kate (thanks to Richard for pointing that out).

Opening Up The Hurt Locker

2010-02-16T23:23:00.004-06:00

If you're not a regular at the Holiday Inn or stopped reading so called news-papers, head on over to USA Today for a piece on veterans opining about The Hurt Locker (including Troy from Bouhammer and yours truly). The word polarizing does not begin to describe the effect the movie has on combat veterans, and I might be the sole dissenter among my former platoon-mates who have showered aspersions on the film via Facebook status updates. I have argued that anyone with combat experience has to sever their intimate knowledge of what it's 'really like' from their mind to have any chance of enjoying contemporary war films. Many cannot undo the inextricable link between their time overseas and what they see portrayed onscreen.

I hate to get zen on anyone, but in these times I turn to the words of Roger Ebert, who has been fond of saying, "A movie is not about what it is about. It is about how it is about it." In other words, the movie isn't just about a trio of EOD techs disarming bombs in Baghdad. It is about how the adrenaline rush of combat and all the danger that comes from the next fix. The most important scene in the movie doesn't come from a bomb defusal or a fiery explosion. It comes from James at home, baffled at life moving at an ordinary, pedestrian, boring pace. How it is about it is contrasting the feeling of home and all the inadequacies that come with it, with subtle yet powerful imagery and incredibly sparse dialogue. That is why the film succeeds where others before it have failed. It is by no means a perfect movie and sacrificed technical accuracy for few genuine and many artificial dramatic scenes, but how it is about its own thesis of war is a drug is why the movie is a landmark in the genre of contemporary war films. In the years to come, there will be many more films about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. There will be a handful that are the total package, technically accurate but legitimately and realistically dramatic. Those films will be better than The Hurt Locker, but only because it was there to set the bar far above what we have already seen.

My original review can be found here, and my critique of a review from Big Hollywood can be found here.

Rocksteady Restrepo

2010-02-02T11:12:00.005-06:00

My ex girlfriend's best friend and former roommate had an odd, expensive and time consuming hobby. She would collect magazines, dozens of them, and clip out pictures she liked. I'm not sure what she did with them, but I couldn't help but see the consequences of it. Copies of Cosmopolitan and Vogue were littered across the living room and stacked onto bookshelves. Back issues of People were stuffed into drawers. I couldn't help but pick up an occasional magazine and flip through the cut and torn pages. A copy of Vanity Fair caught my attention with the words "Into the Valley of Death," a sharp contrast to Katherine Heigl's upturned smirk on the cover. I read the entire piece standing up, my mouth agape and mind racing. It was the most gruesome account of the wars I had ever read, and two years later I can still remember the chill I got from holding that magazine.

It was quite a surprise to learn that a documentary called Restrepo would be released by the journalists who covered the story for Vanity Fair, writer Sebastian Junger and photographer Tim Hetherington. They wove together combat footage with interviews with the men from second platoon, Battle Company 2/503, with no narration whatsoever. The trailer speaks to the impact of the decision to let the men and the footage do the talking. There seems to be no date for theatrical release quite yet, but the film has won The Grand Jury prize for best documentary at Sundance (a Sundance win usually secures distribution, but like the article says, does not guarantee commercial vitality). National Geographic Channel has secured television rights for this fall, but the possibility of it being edited for language and content would seriously damage the intent and purpose of the film.

For you Hurt Locker haters out there, I'm sorry to report that along with Avatar, it leads the Oscar pack with nine nominations, including best picture, director and actor. Am I the only one who thinks it's a farce that Up is in both best picture and best animated feature categories? And Sam Rockwell deserved both a best actor and best supporting actor nomination for playing himself twice in Moon.

On Getting By

2010-01-13T02:21:00.007-06:00

In my previous post, I outlined some basic principles needed to successfully navigate the murky waters of education under the GI Bill. The challenges in dealing with the VA for education benefits are considerable, yet veterans new to college face an unfamiliar, unpredictable and strange environment on campus. If taken all at once, these hurdles can quickly overwhelm a student veteran and distract from the overall goal: to finish a degree on time with benefits to spare. Next week I will be in class for my fifth semester of higher education, and in my time I have tinkered with a system of how to bring up my veteran status, discussing Iraq and Afghanistan in the classroom and dealing with the myriad reactions fellow students have had. The system cannot be expected to work for everyone, but as veterans file into classrooms for the first time this spring, these tips could help in the development of a coping system better tailored for you. These should simply help to get you started.

***

Modesty is the Best Policy

There are only two kinds of veterans in school: those who prattle on about their time in the military and overseas, and those who do not. The former will find any opportunity to bring up their time in Afghanistan or Iraq, even if it is not relevant to class discussion. They forget one of the tenets of military experience - the role of the consummate professional. Joining the military and serving in a time of war are sacred acts and carry a certain degree of respect and modesty. We owe it to our injured buddies and fallen friends not to brag about our exploits overseas. We have done our fair share of things that set us apart from others in the classroom, and that is exactly why it is best to retain an understated presence among others.

This is a difficult situation as it applies to reintegration, as the chasm between veterans and civilians has never been wider. From World War II to Vietnam, it would have been a difficult task to know someone that neither served overseas nor had a family member or friend who did. Now there are whole classrooms filled with those people. As Matthew McConaughey spoke prophetically in Dazed and Confused, "I get older, they stay the same age." An 18 year old in college this year would have been nine years old during the invasion of Afghanistan and eleven years old during the invasion of Iraq. They have grown up with war to the point of it becoming a mind numbingly prosaic concept. It would be a frustrating battle to try and close the rift with those who don't see a rift at all. The best thing to do is use your judgment when bringing up your veteran status in the classroom. I've done it just a few times and felt uncomfortable enough to think twice about the next time. Now I tend to mention it in private conversation, not when I have the floor in public, and even then it is a casual touch on the subject. When you are ready to talk...

...Prepare for a Question Salvo

No matter how much you try to keep it stashed away from students and coworkers, your military experience will come out sooner or later. There are things you simply cannot hide forever, like going to prison or reading Twilight. Once you begin to move past casual conversation, it's only a matter of time before that period of your life is visited. It usually begins with a discussion of age . When I tell people I'm 24, the followup questions are almost always, "What have you done since high school?" or, "Why did you wait so long to go to school?" People tend to catch on if you mention extended vacations in the Middle East or recite monologues, so at that point it is best to come clean. However, be prepared for the questions they are more than willing to hurl your way. They might not know anyone who has deployed, but our hyperviolent culture has removed any restraint left in the world and enables them to ask any question that comes to mind. Here is what you can expect, in order of the most frequently asked:

1. What's it like?
2. Was it really hot?
3. Did you kill anyone?
4. Seriously, how hot was it?
5. Do you regret it?
6. Did you see any camel spiders?
7. Were you in Iran?

It's hard to get upset at some of those questions, as I find it difficult to think of what I'd ask if the roles were switched. #3 can be blamed on ignorance and apathy, but #5 is the most troubling I've heard. It suggests that there is something shameful about service, duty and sacrifice. Both questions trivialize an important part of our lives. The best answer to #3 I've heard comes from the The Kitchen Dispatch comment section: "I will forgive you for asking that question if you forgive me for not answering it." Something that personal should never be asked, only told.

The flip side to some of those cavalier probes are questions that handle the topic with kid gloves. Once a coworker found out I was in the Army, she asked, "Did you go to...one of those places they send people?" It was uncomfortable for her just to utter those dirty 'I' and 'A' words, like we were speaking about some subversive topic. The kind of questions you will get will be all over the map, spanning from a place of genuine interest to the depths of sheer morbidity. Be prepared to answer anything, or politely let them know the subject isn't appropriate for casual banter.

Let The Right Ones In

Popular culture is replete with images of the maladjusted veteran, from Rambo to Travis Bickle to Red Forman. These characters are ingrained in our national conscious and typically become placeholders in the event someone doesn't personally know a veteran. When these sources are taken at face value, war veterans are invariably crazy, depressive, easily startled, quick to anger and alcoholics. We come from broken homes, trying to escape jailtime and were too dumb or poor to go to college after high school. The best way to combat these silly notions is to let people get to know you, the person, before you, the veteran. Those stereotypes aren't going anywhere soon, so the best idea is to take the concept of guarding your veteran status in the classroom and carry it over to blossoming relationships. That way your service and overseas experience complement your personality and don't define it. Revealing too much at one time can damage a friendship before it takes off. Just like in the classroom, take it slow. If they are worth keeping around, they'll understand why. We have met our lifelong friends already; we can afford to be picky.

Try to Keep a Straight Face

There's a huge disparity between what you have been asked to do in the service and what you will be asked to do in school. At the very basic level you were asked to maintain a clean weapon and uniform. Many of you were tasked with watching the back of your fellow soldiers while in imminent danger or operate complex machinery and vehicles. At school, you'll be held responsible for showing up and turning in work before deadlines. That's it. Like I mentioned in the earlier post, college seems like an insurmountable gauntlet of crushed dreams when you're in the military. Once you transition to civilian life and take a few classes, you'll be astounded at the lack of discipline and drive in some of your classmates. It's a big joke, but try to maintain composure. I'm not saying it's easy the whole way through, but I guarantee you've done something harder than a five page essay. As they say, the rest is downhill.

Find Another Brother

If you were in active duty, the friends you met along the way are now scattered across the country. Perhaps I've always been an introvert, but I don't make friends as easy as some people. I've met just two people in fourteen classes that I consider friends, and one of them is an Afghanistan veteran. It's easy to understand why we get along. Do your best to find other veterans in your class and say hello. Talking to them will come easier than the 18 year old hipster next to you about his passion for ironic hats. Find out if there is a veteran's organization on campus, but be wary of their motives. While some will join to find support and befriend fellow veterans, others will use it for recognition (see principle #1: don't be a douche).

Enjoy the Ride

Besides getting a degree or learning new skills, people go to college to meet new people and to experience a different life. If you've served since Sept. 12, 2001, you've already had a bit of each. But don't let that stop you from enjoying everything school has to offer. It's the last time very little will be expected of you, unless you get another government job. Then you're golden.

***

If you are recently out of the military and on your way to college, these tenets, coupled with the GI Bill pointers, should help you get started in academia. Like most things, your experience may vary, and I would hope you don't safeguard your veteran status like it's a dark secret or the true location of Jimmy Hoffa's body. It's something to be proud of, but not flaunted. It's something to share with your friends who genuinely want to know about the world you lived in, but not with the people who have twisted notions of what you have done overseas. The last thing you want people to know you as is the guy who went to Iraq. You want them to say "Hey, that's Alex, he's good people," and not "I wonder how many ear necklaces he has. I'm betting two." Hopefully these tips will help even just a tiny bit in that regard.

***

Special thanks to Mendi, Jeff, Josh, Justin, Clinton and Jason for their candid and thoughtful responses that helped formulate the content of this post.

Here to There: Tips and Tricks for the Student Veteran

2009-12-29T03:51:00.005-06:00

For many student veterans across the country, the first semester under the Post 9/11 GI Bill is in the books. Some of the smarter folks opted to stay with the old Chapter 30 until the new bill, Chapter 33, was fully worked out. Others chose to put their faith into the VA and went with the Post 9/11 GI Bill, much to the chagrin of bill collectors and landlords. It is not clear what the VA has learned since the Great GI Bill Kerfuffle of 2009, but it is evident that problems will continue into the new year. Its fully automated system won't be in place until December 2010, so for the next year the crush of new applicants will have to be processed by a team of monkeys pounding on the keyboard of a Commodore 64. According to the VA, less than 5,000 eligible students are still waiting for payments. Take a stroll through the many comments left on the Post 9/11 GI Bill Facebook page and it might give you a reason not to believe such an estimate. The comments left by students still waiting for tuition payments read like a digital Trail of Tears, with many pleading for help months after submitting their paperwork. One post from early December challenges Facebook users to amass 10,000 followers by 2010. Perhaps a real goal, like completing 10,000 applications by the end of the fall semester, was too bold a prospect.

Student veterans have suffered at the hands of the VA's negligence this fall, but we've developed a knack for pressing on in less than hospitable environments. With the spring semester approaching, there will be many new veterans going to class for the first time. Just like beginning a military career, starting college can be a bit daunting. This spring will be my fifth semester in school, and along the way I've learned the ropes of not only the VA system, but how to successfully get along in the classroom. This week I have prepared a list of pointers useful for a new student facing college life with the VA for the first time. After the New Year, I'll be back with the human side of school and how to best adapt to the peculiar nature of school post enlistment.

***

Back to School, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Wrapped Myself In Red Tape

Know Their Role

On every campus, there is a certifying official that works in the VA system. While a counselor helps you select courses, a certifying official ensures those classes will be paid for by the VA. Only courses in your chosen degree plan will go on the VA's tab; anything extra comes out of your pocket. If there is a hangup in the application and certification process, there are only two reasons why: the VA is using your paperwork to keep their furnace going, or your school official has dropped the ball. Save their number in your phone and hassle them until they send everything on their end. Unlike professors, you cannot choose your certifying officials. Mine aren't the greatest, but it's always a good idea to visit their office so you can double check your classes and make sure everything is set for the next semester. You don't want to be stuck with the bill, as many veterans found out this year. Which leads to the next point...

Choose Wisely

Whether you're on Chapter 30 or Chapter 33, you have 36 months of eligibility (36 months to attend classes, not three years of school). Going full time, you can squeak out a degree in four years if you waste as little time as possible. Avoid the temptation to choose courses pertinent to your degree when you start school. Almost everyone changes their degree at least once, and you don't want to be stuck with useless credits and diminishing months of eligibility. Start out with basic courses that have to be taken to fulfill any degree plan. Good places to start: English I and II, US History and beginning science courses. Consult with your school counselor to nail down what classes satisfy the basics that align with your chosen major, then go back to your certifying official to double check your schedule to make sure all your classes will be certified.

Start Small

Like many other student veterans, I began my collegiate effort at my local community college. Straight out of the Army, no university would take an unproven goofball with no SAT score and a high school GPA hovering between 1.5 and 2. Most universities have a credit threshold where they consider a student for enrollment just by looking at college level work, not SATs or high school GPA. Not only is community college a surefire way into a university, but it's a place to once again familiarize yourself with the classroom and get a feel for homework, professors and the climate of college level work before moving on to a traditional four year institution. It's a great confidence builder in what seemed like an indomitable place when you were enlisted. While I was deployed and dreaming about going to school, the university in my fantasy was a baffling obelisk of hardship where only the most cunning would succeed. Now I'm holding a 3.8 transferable GPA and yawn in the general direction of essays. A few semesters in community college will help tear down the notion that college is an overly difficult experience, and if you're using Chapter 30, it's more money in your pocket. But remember, you cannot stay there forever.

Know The Endgame

I'm going to school at Austin Community College and I'm going to transfer to St. Edward's University to get a degree in global studies. As I mentioned above, you have to take classes that apply to your degree plan. ACC does not have a degree plan for global studies and I've taken just about every basic course offered, so I have to moonlight as a liberal arts general education major to get my classes certified by the VA. If you start in community college, figure out what university you want to attend and get a transfer guide to make sure every credit will transfer over with no fuss. If you slip up and decide to change schools or majors, you will have a difficult time getting everything to transfer neatly. For example, I took an introductory speech class to fulfill the international studies (AKA global studies) degree plan at Texas State, but now I'm going to St. Edwards. They require public speaking, so now I have to retake what is essentially the same class. Since the moonlighting degree I'm on requires just one speech class, I have fulfilled that class permanently. It can't come off my record, and the VA won't pay for my public speaking class because it's not on my current degree plan. I'll be paying out of pocket for that class because I didn't stick to the plan. The GI Bill is generous only when you're on point. You cannot afford to play grab ass and screw around for years trying to decide what to do like your civilian counterparts. Figure out what you want to study before you finish your basics or pay the consequences, either with lost time or a thinner wallet.

Less Hurry Up, More Wait

Hope that your certifying officials are high speed, but prepare for frustrations ahead. Even the most basic of questions directed at your certifying official will likely be met with a perpetual shrugging of the shoulders, though it's not entirely their fault. Call me a cynic, but it would seem the line of communication between the certifying officials and the VA are less than optimal. They don't seem to know a great deal, especially in the midst of an unprecedented program like the Post 9/11 GI Bill. I had two fairly succinct questions for my school certifying official when my application got lost in the sauce:

1. What the hell is going on?

2. Where's my green at?

The answer I got to both questions was a resounding "I don't know," so I had to go straight to the top to get a clear picture. Unfortunately, not everyone has a blog that complains loud enough for VA officials to take notice. Just like playing the ETS game, find other veterans to compare experiences with and see what works and doesn't work. Another veteran at the same school can hold valuable insight into which certifying officials are good, which are not so good, and how to best navigate through the system with the least amount of stress. School is about going to class and making the grades, not fighting a bureaucracy, but that's the nature of the game. Battle buddies make everything easier, and school is no exception.

Slow is Smooth

If the military was the path you took out of high school, it's likely you are not from the privileged class. A part time or full time job is usually a good idea to supplement the housing allowance under Chapter 33. Even though BAH rates changed for the year 2010, housing for student veterans will be calculated using the 2009 amounts. Be sure to check the amount you'll be getting to give yourself a clear financial picture (select E-5 as the pay grade; the amount for an E-5 with dependents will be your housing allowance). If you still need a job but don't think you can handle a full school schedule, find out what your school considers half time, and go a credit over that amount. As long as you take just a credit more than half time, you can get get the full housing allowance without taking a lot of classes (and you will only be charged 3/4 of a month instead of a whole month). For example, half time at my school is six credit hours. If I were to take six hours, I would get several hundred dollars less in my housing allowance than if I took seven. Consult with your certifying official to confirm this, as every school has different rules and ways to figure hours, especially those weirdos on the west coast. This option is definitely slower than taking a full load, but it would be wise to consider when juggling a job and family.

***

I hope these few pointers are enough for fellow veterans to feel a little more prepared to take the plunge into academia. School is the next logical step after an enlistment, so take the considerable opportunity you've been given with the GI Bill (and cross your fingers some clerk in Washington D.C. won't make paper airplanes out of your application). With any luck and these tips in hand, school should be just a tiny bit easier to take on. Just be sure to look before you leap.

Next week: coming to terms with the idea that you're just a little bit different than the 18 year old hipster sitting behind you.

The Guns Fall Silent

2009-12-16T16:47:00.004-06:00

After a long hiatus I was set to post something today, but I caught wind of Blackfive leading a blackout of all milblog posting for today and in some cases, the rest of the week or more. The blackout is a show of solidarity for CJ Grisham, the founder of A Soldier's Perspective who has come under fire from his command after having the audacity to challenge PTA rulings at his children's school. Take a moment to read his story, and after you are sickened, donate to his legal fund:

Grisham Legal Fund
c/o Redstone Federal Credit Union
220 Wynn Drive
Huntsville, AL 35893

This is a terrible thing that couldn't happen to a nicer and more talented guy. I had the pleasure of meeting CJ earlier this year and found him to be very cordial and sharp. I ask all of you to spread the word, kick some money in his fund and keep this story alive. It's the least you can do for a career soldier that has fought the toughest battles not only overseas but here at home.

The Thing I Carried - Special Edition

2009-11-17T01:25:00.008-06:00

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of hearing Tim O'Brien speak at Texas State University about the art of writing. He read from a recent magazine article and entertained a few questions. During his book signing I presented a copy of "The Things They Carried" that I literally did carry in Iraq. Its edges were torn and bent, the pages browned by dust and sand. I brought an edited copy of an old favorite entry on here, The Thing I Carried, thanked him for the reading, and handed over the copy. The version I gave him is reproduced here. Enjoy.

The Thing I Carried

Out of the Army and into school. That was the simple plan that many of us adopted before we deployed in the summer of 2006. In between crusty Army lifers were shortimers, soldiers approaching the twilight of their enlistment. For some, two deployments to Iraq were enough for a lifetime. Others made plans to get out before desert boots touched foreign sand.

When it came time to sort out, pack and load equipment, a lot of guys were buying their own gear to take with them. Any junior enlisted soldier knows the issued equipment is inferior to anything you can go out and buy for yourself. The assault pack was one of those things. Its dimensions fit the criteria of a regular backpack, save for the digital camouflage and extra utility pouches. The zippers are what you come to expect from the Army’s lowest bidding contractor. They were difficult to shut and snagged easily on the sides. The compartments were more suited for textbooks and notepads, not the instruments of war that infantrymen would need to carry. Knives, batteries, carabiners, socks, water, rations, folded up letters. The things I needed to carry grew larger than my capacity to carry them.

Jesse hooked our whole squad up with aftermarket equipment weeks before we boarded an eastbound plane. His father’s company sponsored us with enough money to buy essentials like magazine and utility pouches, vests and grenade bandoleers. He budgeted himself enough money to buy a brand new assault pack. He didn't need the one from his first deployment, so he passed it down to me.

"You can use it the whole time we’re over there, but you have to give it back to me," he said.

"But if you decide to reenlist, you can keep it."

"You'll definitely be getting it back," I replied.

The assault pack was worn out after one deployment but still held together fairly well. The bottom corner was tearing and foam cushioning was exposed and damaged. Jesse had written his Hawaiian name, Keawe, in thick black lettering on the front. I sewed on a nametape across the hand drawn letters. On the bottom pouch I wrote in small print, 24 Nov 2007, the day I was getting out of the Army. It was below a message Jesse had written, perhaps before his first deployment - For those who would NOT serve

***

It was becoming a routine to leave our base outside of Baghdad and spend up to a week in smaller bases sprinkled around the heart of the city. The capital proved to be an underwhelming backdrop to a mission that was starting to grow more frustrating as the days melted together into a pool of hazy memories. Snipers took pot shots as we cleared swaths of neighborhoods, only to reclear them later. For every time we met the enemy face to face we returned fire ten times, mostly at nothing. The action was so dismal that assault packs held things to combat boredom instead of insurgents. Mp3 players, books, movies, chess sets, snacks. I carried all of Lauren's letters with me so I could read them over and over in the middle of the night. The rain had stained the notebook paper blue and red.

By the time we got to Baqubah, Jesse had moved to another platoon. I saw him less than before but he never stopped asking me when I was going to get a girlfriend. On the day I went on leave, Josh mentioned that a young college student named Lauren was writing to me from Seattle. My platoon was getting their gear on and heading out to surveil possible arms traffickers, but I stayed behind to watch them as I told Jesse the unlikely story of my budding romance with a girl thousands of miles away.

"Damn dude, good luck with that shit," he said.

In case my platoon got the call to move out while I was gone, my assault pack and rucksack were left behind and packed neatly on my mattress. I headed to the flightline and took the next chopper out to Baghdad. My best friend and I decided traveling around in Europe by train would be easier than going home to sleep in our old beds. In many ways, we had grown out of them.

***

As I made the long trek back to the desert from the fertile landscapes of Italy and Germany, Jesse was on another plane bound for the States. He lay inside a flag draped coffin aboard a transport plane among others killed in theater. He had spent a total of twenty-two months in combat before a sniper found his brown eyes through a scope.

When I walked back into the platoon tent for the first time in three weeks, it was dark and completely empty except for Josh. He stayed back from missions after sustaining a concussion from a personnel mine. He didn’t say anything at first, but motioned for me to sit on his bed. He dug out a copy of Jesse’s memorial program and stuffed it into my hands. I looked over to my bunk to see Jesse’s assault pack still on my bed. Keawe playfully stood out from behind the nametape.

***

From the moment our feet touched American soil for the first time in fifteen months, the assault pack became a backpack. A year later I was in school with the same sand colored bag at my feet . I traded grenades for pens and ammunition magazines for textbooks. Around campus I can spot other veterans of the wars easily; they still carry their assault packs too. They may have moved on to get an education, but they have chosen to carry part of their former lives with them. The burden of readjustment and the malignant feeling of wanting to be back there weigh heavily on their shoulders. The things they carry in their assault packs weigh more than a thousand books.

Somewhere in the dense palm groves of the Diyala River Valley is my true self. I left behind a boisterous and outspoken personality for a muted and introverted existence in the classroom. I volunteer answers enough to get by with a passing grade for class participation, but I can only yield the topics of Iraq and war to the daftly opinionated classmates that surround me like a pack of oblivious wolves. I was raised in the same era as my peers, but I did not grow up with them. The chasm between us only grows larger when I want to speak up about war, but cannot find the words.

For those who would NOT serve – the words fade a little more each day. I secretly wish that another veteran will read it, see the dangling 550 cord hanging from one of the buckles and deliver the standard icebreaking question, "Where did you deploy?" At least then I could be myself with someone that carries the same load on their shoulders.

11/11

2009-11-11T00:13:00.003-06:00

Today my literature class continues our unit discussion of poetry. The instructor asked us to bring in our favorite poems and read them aloud. I try to sequester the words 'vet,' 'Iraq,' and 'war' from my my vocabulary when I'm rubbing elbows with teenagers and twentysomethings, but I might need to break the habit so they can understand my eyes misting up when reading this:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Stop by the New York Times to read about the price of coming home a marked man. I find a bit of solace knowing that warriors have felt the same way going back a few thousand years.

I've been hosting an Army buddy of mine the past few days, and for the first time in a long time, I've been my true self, not the quiet student I've pretended to be. My true self only peeks out from behind the mask when another veteran is there to speak the language and listen to the stories with a knowing smile and a simple nod. They don't change the subject or shy away or languish under the pressure of uttering the I-word or the A-word. They don't secretly wonder when your next outburst or flashback is going to come out. They get it, but the problem is, there are too few around that get it. So each Veteran's Day, the mask stays on until I come across another wearing the same disguise.

In between tweets and twats, Facebook status updates and snores, I'm going to read In Flanders Fields, not for me or the instructor or the other students, but for my father, grandfathers and uncle that served honorably so many years ago. I'll read it for my brothers still in the fight, and those who continue the battle long after the guns have fallen silent.

Funny Name, Serious Movie

2009-10-28T19:49:00.007-05:00

When I think of sublime director-actor couplings in cinema the past thirty years, only a few come to mind. Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, The Coen Brothers and John Goodman, Tommy Wiseau and himself. Another pair is sure to join the list: Paul Greengrass and Matt Damon. Greengrass is the shaky cam zen master, taking the helm for the excellent Bourne Supremacy and Ultimatium, United 93 and Bloody Sunday. His new collaboration with his protege is Green Zone, slated for March 10 of next year:

If you're wondering about the title (was REMF For A Dream taken?), it's based on the book Imperial Life in the Emerald City. I'm assuming very loosely based; no one on earth is enough of a bad ass to live the life of a rejected Greengrass espionage screenplay. I join Tom Ricks in hoping it breaks the annual tradition of awful Iraq movies. It would be a good start to the year. If we can get through the release without Michelle Malkin feigning outrage about Damon's keffiyeh, I'll call it a win.

Terrrrrrrorist!

What do you guys think about the trailer? I'm confident in Greengrass' discretion and I'm a fan of Matt Damon. It looks promising if you suspend a bit of that pesky disbelief.

Update: Here's the international trailer, now with 50% more Pentagon conspiracy!

Make It Rain!

2009-10-21T16:55:00.003-05:00

Have you been stop-lossed? Like wads of cash? You can get $500 bucks for every month you were retained by the pleasure of the government. Grab your DD-214 and go here to start the registration process. The full press release provides email contacts for alternative routes. You have one year to do this, so get to it!

VA to call students to discuss GI Bill, timeshare opportunities in Florida

2009-10-20T18:50:00.001-05:00

The VA will be conducting a special telephone outreach this week to students enrolled in the Post 9/11 GI Bill. The staff will be ready to answer questions you may have, the most pressing likely being, "Where my money?" But wait, there's more! The full release:

Representatives of the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) will be telephoning Veterans across the country to explain their education benefits under the new Post-9/11 GI Bill and ensure beneficiaries are able to receive payments due them.

“The Post-9/11 GI Bill is one of our highest priorities,” said Secretary of Veterans Affairs Eric K. Shinseki. “Instead of making people wait to hear from us, we’re reaching out to Veterans, so they can get the money they need to stay in school.

”The Department is conducting this outreach as part of VA’s ongoing efforts to ensure delivery of this historic, earned benefit for our Nation’s Veterans. VA is ensuring the large number of Veterans who are attending classes during the fall 2009 semester have received the education benefits they have earned. The calls are scheduled to go to Veterans who have applied for benefits under the new educational assistance program. Those who registered for advanced payments will be called as well, to ensure they received their benefits.

To protect the personal identity of Veterans, VA representatives will not ask for any personal information. Information such as birthdates, bank account or social security numbers will not be requested.

“Our procedures and policies to provide advanced payments remain in effect,” Shinseki said. “Meanwhile, we’re completing the on-time development of our automated processing system that will ensure timely delivery of checks in the future.”

I hope the VA reveals its goals for this mass outreach. Will they be flagging cases to resolve specific issues? I imagine it's more like, "On a scale of 1 to 10, please identify the level of blinding rage we've caused you."

If you get a call from the VA this week, please let me know the questions asked and and if any issues were resolved.

The Defenders Need You

2009-10-07T19:25:00.005-05:00

If you've been following the news from Afghanistan, then you no doubt have heard about the Taliban assault on COP Keating that left eight soldiers dead and the outpost destroyed. What the media hasn't told you is that the soldiers stationed at the remote outpost not only lost their comrades but all of the gear inside the base. The American Legion has stepped in and is currently accepting donations for a relief fund:

In the battle for Combat Outpost Keating, the men of Bravo Troop 361 Cavalry lost every possession they had, save for the clothes on their backs. Following this blog posting is information on how to donate to the Combat Outpost Keating Relief Fund. These men havelost friends, their outpost, and all their belongings. One soldier who made it out wrote that "most people back home dont even know, no one gives a shit". Well, many of us do. And you can prove it by giving whatever you can. These guys need things like running shoes, and other essentials, as well as some comfort items like iPods and DVD players. The American Legion has kicked in $1000 to start the fund, and your humble blogger will be the first to donate $100. I intend to get these items out by the end of next week. ANY amount you can give, no matter how small will help us prove that we care.

Tankerbabe has the lowdown on the specific items listed if you'd like to contribute that way.

The American Legion blog The Burn Pit has details of the fight. Those guys are some Grade A badasses; they were giving the wounded blood transfusions while pushing back an enemy force at least four times as big. And right now Terry Taliban is in his cave watching season six of the Gilmore Girls on their portable DVD players. For shame. So forgo coffee this week, cook dinner at home and kick some money in the fund you cheap bastards. It's the best cause you can find.

Update: Tankerbabe says "Mission Accomplished."

Square One

2009-10-04T13:25:00.002-05:00

If you picked up your emergency VA check last week but your bank refuses to cash anything written hastily on the back of a cocktail napkin, the VA has a solution:

VA is soliciting the support of local and national banks to honor and cash these emergency checks written to our Nation's Veteran-students.

In many cases these checks are handwritten and could pose concerns of fraud from banks. Therefore, VA has established the following special customer service call-in numbers for banks to verify the validity of any US Bank check brought to them by a Veteran.

1-800-827-2166

Banks calling these numbers will be connected directly to a VA employee who can access to all necessary information to verify who the check was issued to, the check number and dollar amount of the check, and whether the check was previously cashed or not.

I hate to say I told you so, but opting for direct deposit would have eliminated this problem. Now veterans are not only relying on the VA, but the good graces of banks to make an exception to their own procedures.

Now excuse me, I have a betting pool to collect.

Little. Mobile. Different.

2009-10-01T09:20:00.003-05:00

The Army is scrapping two heavy brigades for Stryker units:

The move to convert two heavy brigades to Stryker units signals the Army's shift toward a lighter, more quickly deployable formation that is infantry-focused and proven to be highly mobile in diverse environments.

And it further reduces the Army's number of heavy brigades. Defense Secretary Robert Gates had announced in April that the Army would hold the total number of brigade combat teams at 45 rather than the planned 48, and the Army nixed a plan to grow three heavy brigades.

I'll say it now: Stryker units are to Iraq and Afghanistan as airborne units are to WWII. The future of irregular warfare is here, and it's on eight wheels.

(H/T Sal)

Check please!

2009-09-30T18:31:00.003-05:00

Those students who were about to drive 400 miles to their VA regional office, heed this press release:

Last week Shinseki announced that on Friday, Oct. 2, VA’s 57 regional benefits offices will begin providing on-the-spot emergency payments up to $3,000 to students who have applied for their education benefits but who have not yet received a government payment.

Citing the distance many Veterans would have to travel to apply in person at a VA benefits office, Shinseki announced Veterans can also apply online at www.va.gov, starting Oct. 2. The online application will guide Veterans through the process to supply needed information. Shinseki noted that online applicants will receive their emergency payments through the mail after processing.

That clears up question #1 from yesterday. No word on question #2.

The press release also describes a free van service that departs from your local VA medical facility. So if you drive or take the van, make triple sure you have proof of enrollment (acceptable documentation are vague, so bring your class schedule, enrollment certification letter from the VA and lucky rabbit's foot). Personally I would not want to take the van. In the inevitable event of someone leaving empty handed, waiting around for everyone else to collect would be pretty frustrating. Plus I do not know what is involved in a VA van ride. I imagine filling out three forms, waiting in a line and scheduling an appointment to take a piss at a rest stop.

For the cynics, the online registration seems like the safest bet. You don't have to go anywhere and it'll take up to three business days to process. Then it's up to the guiding hand of the US Postal Service. If you register on Friday, you will likely get your check by the end of next week barring any difficulties.

I acknowledge that we should never have gotten to the point of emergency checks, but this could be the best solution considering the circumstances. I hope it goes off without a hitch. After the tensions in DC cool, I hope the VA takes a hard look at its program implementation staff and protocol. That they reacted to the crisis with a reasonable solution is commendable. That they had to react in the first place is disconcerting at best. Friend of the blog Ryan dropped out of his first semester, and there is no telling how many took out high interest loans just to stay afloat when funds from the VA should have been the least of their worries.

A Closer Look at the Gift Horse

2009-09-29T10:56:00.002-05:00

Not everyone has been impressed with the VA's too little, too late response to the newest GI Bill misadventure. Jonn from This Ain't Hell brings up salient points about the implementation side of the $3000 dollar payout:

To get your partial payment of your GI Bill benefits which you earned and filed for months ago, you have to go to one of 57 Regional Offices.

I went to SUNY Oswego - my regional office was Buffalo. A four hour drive each way. But not to worry, the same VA who couldn’t get your benefit to you on time will send representatives to your school to arrange transportation to the regional office. How dependable will that be?

I can schedule buses, for Pete’s sake - the veterans don’t need an eight hour bus ride (how many buses will be late, and how many veterans will ride for hours to find out their paperwork is screwed up, how many buses will break down?) they need their money that the government has been promising since before the last election!

A lot of folks were swept up in the news of the VA doing anything that they didn't consider how poorly this plan is being assembled (myself included). I'm one of the lucky few who have been paid under Chapter 33 (thanks to Squeaky Wheel Syndrome), but veterans who haven't been as lucky will need to make the trek to their regional office. Recently resurrected Joe from Fobbits Need Ice Cream 2.0 notes that he would have to skip school to get what is owed to him (note: the VA cuts you off like a frostbitten leg if you don't keep up good grades). Now, I'm no student of the inner workings of government bureaucracies, but I have two questions:

1. Why can't the VA send the checks through mail or direct deposit accounts they already have on file?

2. Why can't any VA facility cut a check?

I don't think of the VA as a health care and benefits distribution service. I think of them as a claims denial service. This action seems to weed out any of those veterans unwilling or unable to make the long drive to their regional office. God help you if you live out in the sticks or don't bring the proper documentation. The more I look at this eleventh hour peace offering, the more it looks like a dead fish.

The exception to the USAF pogue rule

2009-09-27T11:07:00.004-05:00

Mike Yon sent this with the words, "These are the guys you needed when you broke your arm." Seriously. It would have been worth the accident to see their bird descend on northbound Mopac and shoot flares at horrified soccer moms. Beats driving yourself to the hospital with a mangled arm in your lap.

Frogs, checks falling from the sky

2009-09-25T17:56:00.005-05:00

The VA has taken a huge step forward in righting its wrongs with the GI Bill brouhaha by issuing $3,000 emergency checks to veterans who have yet to receive housing benefits. The money quote:

Starting Friday, Oct. 2, 2009, students can go to one of VA’s 57 regional benefit offices with a photo ID and a course schedule to request advance payment of their education benefits. Because not all these offices are located near students, VA expects to send representatives to schools with large Veteran-student bodies and work with Veteran Service Organizations to help students with transportation needs.A list of those VA regional offices is available here.

The VA deserves recognition for this. They've taken a lot of heat for this fiasco, but their decision to take emergency measures was the right course of action. It'll save many veterans from getting tossed out on their ass. Well done.

Update: Perhaps my celebration was premature. Ryan has dropped out of school due to lack of funds. To say the VA was late on this is a gross understatement. Their negligence is inexcusable no matter how you look at it. I can only hope this debacle will be the last obscene miscalculation they make, but I'm not terribly faithful when it comes to the VA.

Reality Bites

2009-09-25T09:53:00.006-05:00

Note: While my arm is healing, I'll do my best to drop by and divvy out small, decadent portions of interesting links like so many amuse-bouche.

There's a war in Afghanistan that hasn't reached the media by its design: the information counterinsurgency. Mike Yon has been disembedded from the much sought after unit 2 Rifles following his criticism of the purseholders of the Ministry of Defense (namely the shameful lack of helicopters in theater). The media ops of the British military made it their mission to complicate Mike's critical job of reporting on the soldiers in Helmand Province, the flashpoint of Taliban resistance. He has a clear and indelible respect for the British fighting men, so to see him tossed out on his ear by some desk riding pogue is most alarming. One particular line about a media ops major caught my attention:

"Media Ops people—who do not leave their base or go on missions—who are spooling out “the message” to the media. They are clueless about the state of the war in Afghanistan. For instance, many of the Media Ops officers will insist that we have enough helicopters in Afghanistan. Those officers are either completely oblivious to the actuality of the situation or lying."

Shades of experience. In the 15th month of our tour, my platoon was called on our rest day to take part in a meticulously crafted PR stunt in downtown Baqubah. We were to escort the deputy prime minister of Iraq to demonstrate that the city's security situation had improved (it had) and that it was safe to mill about the city (it wasn't). Each Stryker was crammed with lite colonels, full bird colonels and generals - layabout officers that clearly did not get out much, judging from their jacked up chinstraps and alarming lack of weapons. In my truck, two Associated Press reporters chatted with a public affairs lieutenant from the Air Force.

I developed a system of determining the amount of time someone spends outside the wire by evaluating the uniform and equipment of a soldier:

[] Magazine pouch attached to the receiver
[] Immaculate weapon
[] Two or less magazine pouches attached to body armor
[] Crisp, distinctive crease on the sleeves indicating a uniform press
[] Lack of night vision goggle mount
[] Bright digital patterns on body armor
[] Boots show visible signs of cleaning

For the lieutenant, I checked all the above. Now, I understand everyone has a role to play and sometimes that means not going outside the wire. I get it. But as a public affairs officer, she was, as Mike put it, spooling out the message to the media. In her five months in Iraq, it was her first time in the wild brown yonder. The AP reporters were pressing her about the improved security situation, namely the role the Sons of Iraq played in the new security apparatus. As a base dweller, it was patently impossible for her to see a SoI volunteer, much less work with one.

Sprinkled among the brass and reporters were pitifully dirty soldiers with very little rest. Their body armor vests were faded to a light brown hue like they were dragged behind a pickup on a dusty back road. Their desert tan boots bore shades of black that could only result from wallowing in the open sewers of Iraq's most deplorable slums. At their feet were myriad brass shell casings from firefights deadly and ubiquitous. Yet the public affairs officer enlightens the press of the situation on the ground. As it happened in Iraq 2007, so it happens in Afghanistan 2009. The story of the war is kept away from those intimately involved in favor of those far removed and easily corruptible. This is the starting point of ill-equipped soldiers getting killed: message control and a strong aversion to the realities of protracted counterinsurgency operations.

Tough Break

2009-09-22T16:50:00.006-05:00

I haven't typed with one hand since I was a thirteen year old trying to figure out what a/s/l stood for, but here I am again. This past Saturday I was on my way to the Austin gun show (the biggest in Texas!), yet fate had a different plan that didn't involve trying to find a decently priced SKS. Just before my exit, I rear-ended a car that changed lanes a little too swiftly. My truck is a little banged up and I walked away with a broken arm. The other driver and his passenger were thankfully unhurt but came away with a ticket and liability for the accident. Unfortunately, I cannot type efficiently or quickly with a cast, which means I'll be incommunicado on this blog until my arm is once again unfettered. In the meantime, I suggest keeping up with the Joneses of the milblogging community. Any link found on the left sidebar should do the trick. Feel free to browse my archives, check out my photo album or follow me on Facebook while I'm out of commission. Thanks for stopping by.

Your humbly gimp wordsmith,

Alex

Edit 9/25/2009 5:PM - Welcome Michael Yon Twitter followers. I should take the time to update my current condition. My left arm (the dominant one) suffered direct trauma referred to as a nightstick fracture, "named because of the injury that results when attempting to block the downward blow of a nightstick with the raised forearm." My x-ray looked much like this:

My arm was put into an infantry blue cast yesterday. The doctor estimated it will be on for five weeks at least. The cast almost reaches my shoulder and is very obtrusive. As for my financial status, I'll be paid lost wages by the liable insurance company plus a small settlement.

Typing with my less dominant hand will take getting used to, but my speed and accuracy are greatly diminished. Homework will not be as fun as it was before the accident. Rest assured, though, by November I should be back to full strength, less one atrophied arm.

The Empire Strikes Back: GI Bill Questions Answered

2009-09-10T01:07:00.012-05:00

Not much has changed since I posted my love letter to the VA last week. Just from today's Facebook status updates I saw these messages from friends in my old company:

"VA has not finished processing my CH33 app after at least 2 months... now I'm stuck with the bill"

"VA can go to hell! I'm screwed...again..."

Many student veterans are still dealing with issues that are systemic of a large bureaucracy where answers to common questions are lost in the shuffle. The first and last contact for veterans is the school certifying official on their campus. As evidenced in my previous post, the professionalism and tenacity of these officials vary greatly from campus to campus. Some give wise advice, some go the extra mile for the veterans they assist. Some, like mine, laugh at legitimate questions and wait until the last minute to certify enrollment. As this generation of veterans is painfully realizing, you roll the dice any time you interact with the VA system.

Last week I had another opportunity to speak with Keith Wilson, the Veterans Benefits Administration Director of Education Service at the VA. I compiled a list of questions for him to answer, some from me, some from other veterans that have similar problems but haven't received satisfying answers.

***

Onto the questions, starting with the big one:

"When the hell am I getting paid, dammit?"

Not every veteran can piss and moan on a blog loud enough to get a VA official as high as Keith to handle their individual case. He gave me an approximate time frame to expect my housing allowance and stipend money. That is well and good, but what about everyone else? His reply: "First, the certifying official should have the same info I provided. If not available there, it is available by calling VA. Also, I'd be happy to put it on our web and Facebook pages. It should be up in a couple days."

My certifying official provides the same level of care you would expect from a Tijuana back alley vasectomy; he couldn't answer that question after the many calls, voice mails, emails, smoke signals and carrier pigeon messages I relayed to him. I figure I am not an isolated case and assume there must be more apathetic certifying officials out there. As an alternative, Keith recommends calling the VA. If you have three hours and your sanity to spare, give that a shot. The wait is excruciating when you have to juggle a commute, school and work daily, but you might be able to get answers to questions that your school official cannot (or will not) answer.

"How is the Chapter 33 housing allowance paid?"

After you get the first delayed check, expect to see the housing allowance paid just like Chapter 30 payments are made, just without the monthly certification (which will now be automatic). They will come a few days after the beginning of the month, and just like Chapter 30, are paid in arrears (which is hilariously defined as a "delay in payment"). When I asked why the payments are in arrears and not in "real time," Keith had this to say:

"All monthly Federal benefit checks I am aware of, including all recurring VA benefit payments, are paid in arrears. That is because the law requires the person be entitled (in our case having pursued and attended class) before payments can be made. In other words, we can't pay until classes have been attended."

In other words, registering for classes and buying expensive books no longer qualify as reliable indicators of ones interest in schooling. The government and the VA by proxy require a month's worth of sitting in a hard plastic chair to determine eligibility. Registration for the fall semester was open in June at my school. Presumably, I could sign up for classes, have my classes and enrollment certified and housing allowance figured more than two months before classes began. If I would drop a class, I would repay the money. There is already a system in place to deal with that; the VA sends you a bill or simply withholds the due amount the next time you are set to receive a payment. So why the delay? The government's logic is best explained by the most shrewd of businessmen, Whimpy:

"I'll gladly give you an IOU Tuesday for rent due today."

"Will the housing allowance be paid year round?"

No, only during the months you are enrolled in classes. That means if you take the summer off, you will not get paid housing for the months in between the spring and fall semesters. However, for the break in between fall and spring (Christmas break), the VA will "bridge" the gap and continue paying. The same thing goes for the break between the summer and fall semester if you are enrolled in both. The amount of housing allowance received isn't figured just on months accumulated on active duty and the amount of credit hours. The number of days you are enrolled in a particular month figures into the payment amount as well. For example, I took summer classes that ended August 13. The fall semester did not start until August 24, so for the month of August, I was in class twenty days. I will receive the maximum housing allowance payment. If I wouldn't have taken the summer semester, I would have been in class for seven days in August. The payment this September would have been prorated to only include housing for those seven days. At the time of the Q&A, Keith did not have an answer for the amount of enrollment days the VA considers high enough to give the maximum payment.

"What if I'm an overachiever and want to take summer classes? Will I get additional book stipend money to cover that period?"

Negative. The $1000 stipend for books and supplies is meant for a calender year, not an academic year. They figure that $500 a semester, fall and spring respectively, is enough to cover everything. They're correct if you buy your books used, online or rent them, but what about those of us who want to punish ourselves and opt for summer classes? There will be no additional funds handed out to summer semester students, so use your stipend wisely. I suggest putting the $1000 into a separate account so you don't drop it all on a new Kegerator. The $1000 will be paid in two payments of roughly $500 over the next few days (so I'm told). That means I will have to sit tight until next year for another stipend. You might have to dip into your housing allowance a little, but you should be able to stretch that money pretty far if you take the time to hunt for textbooks outside of your overpriced campus bookstore.

"Why did I get a letter asking me to not contact the VA in case I have a question or concern?"

The matter is being looked into. I've heard this a few times and it is particularly unsettling.

"What is taking so long? Didn't the VA anticipate a burden on the system?"

The VA was met with incredible demand for the Post 9/11 GI Bill. Having said that, the VA has been playing catch-up since the bill became law a year ago. According to the AP, the process is done by hand and can take up to two hours to determine the benefits for a single veteran. Keith adds: "Processing claims is currently a labor intensive process due to the limited time allowed to set up this program (i.e. create and modify IT systems, etc). Therefore, VA has hired over 750 additional claims processors. This is a temporary measure because we are moving to an automated system that will require significantly less human interaction in the claims process. Doing so will require significantly less staff and, most importantly, will greatly improve claims processing speed. The system is currently scheduled for full deployment in December 2010."

This is pure speculation on my part, but this initial crush of applications would seem to be the greatest burden on the system. The process will not be automated until next year, but the number of new applications should drop considerably after this fall. With any luck, Chapter 33 applications will be processed in a timely fashion next spring and thereafter.

***

Like I said before, taking on the VA at any time is a gamble. Relying on them to cover your bills is an incredibly risky calculation. Making the switch from Chapter 30 to Chapter 33 this semester was a bad move on the part of many veterans, myself included. Tuition and rent due in August sit heavy on the chest of exhausted students who just want to go to school with few hassles as possible. Tuition payment and housing allowances are not bonuses or lavish gifts or superflous spending. They are benefits earned through sweat on the brow and blood in the sand. I understand that the VA is overtasked and doing the best they can with what they have. We are told that the system will be fixed soon. Unfortunately, promises do not keep the lights on, nor do they do little to assuage the worries of veterans who have earned the right for a little peace of mind.

***

Thanks to Keith Wilson for the generous use of his time answering my questions. If he isn't displeased at my remarks here, hopefully he can return to answer more specific questions that some of you may have. New media and the government should be operating in a way like this, and it shows a great deal of fortitude and transparency for an official like Keith to answer questions from us non-media folk.

***

Useful links:

The VA's GI Bill Homepage
IAVA's GI Bill Info Dump
IAVA's GI Bill Benefits Calculator

Through Amber Lenses, A Light

2009-09-04T11:40:00.004-05:00

At times he must have been no more than two hundred feet from me, but I never had the privilege to meet Jordan Shay. Together we chewed up the most inhospitable terrain on earth, and back on Ft. Lewis, we worked daily in the same dilapidated Korean War era barracks. The only connection I shared with Jordan was through the comments section of his blog, which I keep linked on the top of the page under our unit crest. Though our companies faced a heated inter-battalion rivalry, Attack Company was always in the thick of combat with my company, Battle. They shouldered a far greater burden than us, sustaining eight KIAs to our two. Jordan, at 22 years old, saw more combat than a lot of crusty old vets before he could legally buy a beer. For his second combat tour with the 3rd Stryker Brigade, Jordan started a blog to chronicle his experience. He named it Through Amber Lenses, the color of his sunglasses. He wanted to explain to the world what he saw with a bright amber tint.

What I read when I checked his most recent comment section hit me straight in the gut. "RIP Jordan." I rushed to the DoD announcement page and found nothing. Through a Google search I confirmed my worst fear: Jordan Shay, 22 years young, killed in Iraq.

It will always be difficult to hear a Regular soldier has been killed, but to see Jordan leave us too soon hits me especially hard. I didn't know Jordan personally, but I knew him well. I understand his need to commit his thoughts to writing to share with the rest of us. He spoke of his teachers and his mother pushing him to write more. I'm eternally grateful for their efforts, and to Jordan to take them up on their challenge. We did not only lose a great soldier, but a gifted writer. We suffer doubly at his loss, for his talent bridged the gap of understanding between soldier and civilian. Jordan's time on earth allowed just sixteen posts to be written in the span of four months, but his writing was honest, measured and disciplined. He must have thought he was bound for something great, but he never realized he was already there.

The United States lost a brave soldier, and the military blog community lost a brave new voice. I ask that you take the time to read his blog from beginning to end. In his comments section, his girlfriend tells us the blog was important to him. I hope he realized how important it was to those who read it.

"We are respected in Baqubah. We are also feared. Our battalion has a fantastic opportunity to use these facts to our advantage and make a real difference before the withdrawal of all combat forces in the summer of next year. We made a difference in 2007, we could do it again in 2009. I fear we will not."

Rest easy, Jordan. You've made a difference to more than you know.

Update 9:00 PM central - The Department of Defense has officially announced the death of Jordan and fellow soldier SSG Todd Selge. Unlike Jordan, I met Todd at Javelin School on Ft. Lewis. He was a quiet professional, confident in his skills as a leader. I believe he graduated at the top of the class, but it would be no surprise if you had talked to the man for more than a minute. The nation is lesser for the loss of these two soldiers.

The Politics of Purse Strings

2009-09-01T02:40:00.007-05:00

I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened." - The one true prophet, Obi-Wan Kenobi

When the Post 9/11 Bill passed through Congress with a veto-proof majority, I cheered. When it was signed into law, I was elated. But on August 1 of this year, when the bill went live after almost three years of legislation, hopes, dreams and well-wishes, I was silent. I did not want to commemorate a non-event as a moment of triumph. I took part in lobbying on Capitol Hill for the bill when it was just that - a scrap of paper that promised financial security in a post-Army life where almost everything feels uncertain and nebulous. I knew it would take at least a month after August 1 to see how it would play out. Through fears that the VA would fumble this rare opportunity to make good on a solemn promise made by FDR sixty-five years ago, I watched August crawl by, swept up in a lazy mosaic of final exams and term papers that capped a full semester. With the old GI Bill in hand and the new one on the way, I took a leap of faith. With my bank account dwindling and rent, utility bills, school tuition and other obligations on the table, coupled with the advice of my VA counselor, I bet it all on the Post 9/11 GI Bill.

And I lost.

A bit about the old GI Bill first. Most people generally misunderstand how the old GI Bill, hereafter referred to as Chapter 30, is paid to veterans. When a veteran enrolls in college, he must go to a VA counselor at the campus and fill out paperwork. First you must declare a major and select classes that specifically fulfill that major's criteria. I originally signed up for journalism, so I was restricted to only take core curriculum or journalism-centric classes. The amount of money received is calculated by the amount of semester hours taken. A full load of twelve hours with my optional pay-in (a kicker) of $600 yielded $1400 for every month enrolled. That money is paid directly to the student to pay for tuition, books, school fees and other expenses. If enrolled at a state school where tuition exceeded that amount, the difference is up to the student to make up.

The payments from Chapter 30 are retroactive by a month. For example, I started summer school in June, but my first payment was not made until the first week of July. I was paid for July the first week of August. This window does not allow for tuition to be paid when it is due, typically before classes start. The student must come up with that money on their own. Many veterans depend on Chapter 30 not only to pay for classes but for sustainability. That always-late payment is the difference between a warm bed and an eviction notice in many cases.

The Post 9/11 GI Bill, also known as Chapter 33, is more akin to the original GI Bill of 1944. Instead of a flat rate that fails to keep up with ever-rising tuition, the VA pays the school the tuition up front at the beginning of the semester and will pay up to the most expensive in-state school. Additionally, housing allowance equivalent to a married E-5 with dependents is paid to the student each month, based on the school's ZIP code. To sweeten the deal, a stipend of $1000 per year is paid to the student for books and other miscellaneous expenses. These payments go straight to the student, so if they can get their budgets in order, it can translate to a decent amount of pocket change to mitigate the burden of balancing full time loads of work and school.

Those education benefits are law - they must be dished out for anyone who qualifies for them. But the unstoppable force of government mandates did not anticipate the immovable object that oversees the transition from Chapter 30 to Chapter 33 - the Department of Veteran's Affairs. Despite Chapter 33 becoming law more than a year ago, the VA, in a signature move, was slow to implement rules and conditions that clearly defined how and what veteran students would be paid. Even though they anticipated a huge upswing in applications, they did not start accepting paperwork on Chapter 33 until July. Now they're getting crushed with a six week backlog, but the VA staffers aren't the ones suffering with the surge of applications, the students are.

Under the old bill, Chapter 30, the student must call a hot line on the last day of the month to certify that their status has not changed since the previous month. The payment is then sent to the student in seven to ten days. It has become a ritual for veteran students, a promise to see that beautiful deposit in a week's time. But today, some who have submitted paperwork for Chapter 33 might find the certification for Chapter 30 a bit of a challenge. My school's VA counselor assured a seamless transition - he told me those who were switching over would get paid for the months they already paid tuition for. Once again, someone forgot to forward the memo. Since my claim for Chapter 33 is still being processed, I'm locked out of Chapter 30. Even though I paid for the summer semester, I am not getting paid for August. My case is in limbo, familiar territory for the VA. My bills, on the other hand, are very clearly defined. They pile up as fast as the VA's backlogs.

The VA counselors at my school buy salt in bulk to pour into the wounds of the students they are purported to serve. One in particular lambasts me whenever I call with a legitimate question regarding veteran benefits. With his trademark condescending tone, he sharply rebuked my questions about a delay in payments, suggesting that I should have been following the news of backlogged certifications, despite his assurance that the transition would not allow a payment disparity. Oh, to be tongue-lashed for not doing his job for him! He heartily laughed at my question of when to expect my next payment. In that brief moment, he acknowledged the absurdity of my situation - he didn't know, and there is no way to find out. He could not even venture a guess but did not rule out weeks or even a month. The check is in the mail, I am told. That old line doesn't work for my landlord, and it wouldn't get past my utility company. But for the government agency responsible for the benefits going out to the men and women who have served this country in a time of war, with the basic sustenance of thousands of veterans in the balance, it's business as usual.

I believe in the idea that people get the government they deserve. But do veterans get the VA they deserve? How many obscene scandals, misappropriations and misdiagnoses does it take to see there's a rotten core at the center? The VA's budget shot up and Shienseki was brought in to clean house. I'm waiting for answers from him while racking up a lot more questions.

From the Huffington Post, Secretary of Veterans Affairs Eric Shinseki:

We face tremendous uncertainties and challenges as a Nation--economic, diplomatic, environmental, and social. We need motivated, energetic and highly educated young people to help us find solutions. We need to find ways, as America has before, to turn uncertainty into opportunity. The Post-9/11 G.I. Bill is a very good place to start.

Update: September 1, 1 PM - Within hours of this post going live, I was given the opportunity to discuss my situation with Keith Wilson, the Veterans Benefits Administration Director of Education Service at the VA. Keith was eager to assist me with my situation and is looking into the matter. I still have many questions to ask, not only for myself but on the behalf of other veterans who find themselves between a rock and the VA. I will keep you all updated, but in the meantime, fellow student veterans, use the comments section or my email (hortonhearsit at hotmail dot com) to send me questions or concerns you may have. The more detailed the picture I can present to the head honchos, the better they will be at finding solutions.

Lockheed Martin's "hard to tip over" vehicle tips over during demonstration

2009-08-14T16:48:00.000-05:00

The Titanic of the ground tipped over during a media demonstration of Lockheed Martin's combat vehicle, the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle. The vehicle will likely replace Humvees for the Army and Marines. For some reason, they let a journalist test drive the vehicle. "Coming to you live from my broken femur!"

Couldn't they just put a turret in a Canyonero and save us a few million bucks?

5th Stryker Brigade hits Afghan dirt

2009-08-08T11:40:00.000-05:00

As the 3rd Stryker Brigade arrives in Kuwait, the 5th Stryker Brigade is boots on the ground in Afghanistan. The News Tribune sends along a few AP photos on base and outside the wire. The captions reveal their location as Spin Baldak, a city "about 63 miles southeast of Kandahar." Their proximity to Kandahar isn't as important as their distance from Pakistan. It's a town about five miles from the Durant Line and the second major entry point for Afghanistan and Pakistan. This location might be an indicator of 5th Brigade's mission in the coming months.

(H/T: Stryker News.)

The Gamble

2009-08-05T16:54:00.000-05:00

From behind his chip stack, Dozer looked unbeatable.

The nightly Mosul poker game saw the regulars leave in a predictable fashion. Mark built up a strong stack in the most unlikely string of winning hands, only to fall after his luck ran out. Steve played tight to his chest as his chips slowly melted into other stacks. Bill let it ride one too many times, sipping Mountain Dew as the other players siphoned his chips. Dozer and I emerged with nearly equal stacks in a game of head-to-head poker. A full poker game means playing the cards you're dealt. In head-to-head, the cards are almost irrelevant. You play the man, using your chips as a battle ax or a scalpel, depending on your playing style. In just a few rounds, his chips barely outnumbered mine. I chose to use the battle ax.

I peeked underneath my fingers before the flop. Pocket twos. Not ideal for a pocket, but a pair off the bat is a good place to start. The flop came out: 2-3-J. Three of a kind! I maintained my cool and placed a healthy bet. Dozer immediately called. I quickly assumed he was holding another Jack. He rarely bluffs, and with a slim lead, he didn't have to. The turn came: 7. Just what I wanted to see. Even if he held two pair, it didn't beat my three of a kind. I bet even larger than before. Without hesitation, Dozer raised. That threw me off. What the hell was he holding? I called his raise, less confident this time.

A nine flopped on the river. My tensions cooled. Staring at the big pot, I decided to go for the gold and make a big dent in Dozer's stack. "All in," I said, a hint of arrogance carried from my throat. Dozer didn't even hesitate. "Call." I flipped my cards over and pushed them forward, expecting to see a frown appear over his face. "Three of a kind twos, dude." Dozer still shielded his cards from view. He erupted in laughter. "No way dude!" He tossed his cards toward the pot. Pocket threes. His three of a kind threes beat my twos. Holy shit.

The countless poker games in Iraq weren't so much about the money as they were about escapism. Once you get on that plane, there is no going back unless you're injured or dead. The heat, the dust, that saccharine septic smell - it swirls overhead like a black cloud. Distractions like poker and endless DVD libraries prove to be valuable tools to keep that overwhelming feeling from slowly eroding morale into dust. Outside the wire was the time to take it all in, to be masters of our own senses. Back on base though, one has to relax. Tension, they say, is a killer.

The Third Stryker Brigade is in the process of heading back to Iraq for the third time in six years. The brigade has proven itself in combat - From Tal Afar, Samarra and Mosul in 2003-2004, to Mosul, Baghdad and Baqubah in 2006-2007. My old company, Bravo 5/20, has been the tip of the spear in both deployments. Bravo company was legendary in its recovery of a Kiowa helicopter in 2005, a story later made into a documentary on the Military Channel. In March of 2007, Bravo Company, along with Alpha and Headquarters Company, moved into Baqubah to take it back from al-Qaeda in Iraq. What ensued in those bloody months form the core of this blog and forever shaped the lives of the men who were there.

5/20 has seen more than its fair share of combat in Iraq. For once, I hope their tour is memorable for all night poker sessions and gathering around a small TV at three in the morning to watch the Super Bowl. I hope firefights this tour are as showers were the last tour. The first thing I want to hear when Bravo Company 5/20 returns is "Man, that tour was fucking boring." 5/20 is notorious for finding trouble. This tour, I'm praying they find time to play poker so I can hear all the great stories of full houses beating flushes. I want pranks and jokes to be what the men come back with. We've seen enough scars, thrashed minds and body bags. We've heard Taps far too many times.

I dug up this video from the waning months of our deployment. It's all doom and gloom (typical of the media), but there are moments of hilarity featuring the Snack Master. Second platoon, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

Good luck, Bravo Company. I wish you all the best and I'll be following your tour closely. Bring it home, and I'll see you on the other side.

It IS a drug

2009-07-26T11:45:00.000-05:00

For the many things The Hurt Locker got wrong from a technical standpoint, they nailed the epitaph 'War is a drug':

"In the first years after returning from deployment, veterans of the two wars are 75 percent more likely to die in motor vehicle accidents than civilians of comparable age, race, and sex, according to a 2008 VA study. The rate for motorcycle deaths is an astounding 148 percent higher."

I never had a speeding ticket until I came home from Iraq. Now I have five. The hefty fines have taught me a lesson, but the guys and gals who can flash their military IDs and get off with a warning are at great risk. It's a tragedy to have someone come home from combat only to get splattered across the highway. I'm glad the VA is taking steps to mitigate the problem, but this is an issue of readjustment and mortality. Asking soldiers to slow down on their crotch rockets is akin to rewiring their brain out of combat mode. It isn't that easy, and sadly, these accidents will continue.

War movies and the public

2009-07-24T10:12:00.000-05:00

If you live in the greater Milwaukee area, be sure to pick up a copy of the Journal Sentinel today. There is a great discussion about the public perception of war movies in the entertainment section. It's an interesting read, regardless of the small detail of my name (Alex Norton?).

Pick up a copy today and do your part to save journalism from its last throes.

Review: The Hurt Locker

2009-07-22T03:47:00.001-05:00

Warning: There are minor spoilers below. Read at your own risk.

Enjoying a good war movie after you've been there, done that requires a bit of finesse. The casual moviegoer doesn't watch closely for errors in rank, patches, vernacular or procedure. They simply want to be entertained for a couple of hours. A veteran, conversely, is tortured with an onslaught of technical blunders that the average viewer will miss. Filmmakers must walk a tightrope to appease both sides; technical and accurate enough for the discriminating military crowd but still accessible to viewers who don't know the difference between CAS and SAF. So far, no Iraq-themed movies have walked that fine line. The bar has been set ridiculously low; Redacted, the reigning champ of tasteless war movies, makes Stop Loss look like A Bridge Too Far. But don't let the sad state of Iraq movies keep you away from the cineplex this week. Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker is not without its narrative problems, but it's a solid and dramatic entry that can satisfy both sides of the fence.

The story follows a three man team of EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) techs in the final month of their deployment in Baghdad in 2004. The team is headed by SSG James (Jeremy Renner), a reckless cowboy that routinely puts his life and the lives of his men in constant danger. The movie's epitaph lingers on the screen long after the words fade. War is a drug. It is clear from James' first mission that he feeds off the adrenaline rush of bomb defusing at any cost. When he should be wearing his suit or utilizing a remote-driven robot, James goes right for his clippers, wearing nothing more than his uniform. His two subordinates, Sgt. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Eldridge (Brian Geraghy), quickly grow weary of James' vigilante ways. As James becomes more cavalier with his work, the calendar slowly crawls toward the date they are supposed to redeploy. Sanborn and Eldridge briefly discuss fragging James to save their own skins. With James in charge, they figure, it's only a matter of time before they get killed.

The way the team goes about their missions is completely absurd. The three men drive alone, all over Baghdad and its periphery, in a single Humvee. No escorts, no convoy, just a gun truck and three soldiers. To leave a FOB in the real world, you need a minimum of three trucks, and even that is stretching it. In one scene, the solitary truck arrives on an empty street where soldiers should be setting a cordon. James, puzzled by an empty Humvee in the road, finds an infantry platoon hunkered down in a courtyard like a box full of helpless puppies. One of them manages to point him in the direction of a suspected VBIED. Only then do soldiers beyond the EOD trio emerge to cordon off the area and evacuate local Iraqis.

In a later scene, James leaves the base by himself to confront an Iraqi man about a local boy that peddles DVDs on the base. I had to bite my tongue from erupting in laughter when James, left by his hostage taxi driver, had to run all the way back to base dressed in fatigues and a sweatshirt. He couldn't have been more obvious if he had shot his pistol into the air and shouted, "COME AND GET ME!" His life expectancy would have been measured in seconds by that point.

I understand why Bigelow kept scenes mostly free of extras. The audience can only take so many characters in combat gear before they all start looking the same. Directing EOD to a possible bomb is tricky and cumbersome in combat. Striving for complete accuracy by showing each step of the way would bog down a movie that relies on suspenseful and a fluid narrative. The time between finding an IED and its eventual destruction can flow into hours of tedium that climax into a few moments of spectacular explosions. The script is taut and disciplined, willing to trim away the superfluous moments and get to the core of what EOD techs do. The rest of the war drops away in the margins and the audience is left with the essence of three men doing incredibly dangerous work. There is no war, or even earth, beyond the cordon. Just three soldiers left to tinker with homemade destruction.

My chief complaint about the film is that it goes too far with this view. Besides a scene with a team of mercenaries, the team is alone outside the wire constantly. Civilians can overlook that, but those with field experience might be rolling their eyes at yet another scene involving James cutting the right wire just in time. I've seen dozens of controlled detonations, and I can't think of any that had an EOD tech waltzing up to the bomb to clip wires. That's what the robot is for. It does happen, but not as frequently as the writer has you believe.

In one of the final scenes, the team is called out to assess the damage of a VBIED detonation. James spots a possible escape route for the triggerman, and in a wildly implausible decision, takes his team into three separate alleys in the dead of night. Shockingly, one of the men is nearly carted off by militants. Instead of a close call changing the way James thinks about his leadership, he keeps on with his reckless self. In the end he learns nothing. Of course, who knows what happens when he comes back to the FOB to find a stack of Article 15s.

I don't think it was out of neglect that such unrealistic moments crept into a generally realistic movie. I applaud the efforts of the technical advisers that worked on this film. The movement of the soldiers, particularly inside an IED factory, was textbook perfect. They operated in concert, double clearing hallways and moving with an air of urgency and flow. Combat scenes from Home of the Brave and Redacted looked like they were filmed in Brian de Palma's backyard. The Hurt Locker, filmed in Jordan, has an authentic feeling that is light years ahead of any Iraq movie released. They nailed the environment, the crushing paranoia of watching Iraqi bystanders eyeballing you, everything.

Toward the end of the film, James is back home, crippled with Sudden Civilian Syndrome. He gazes at a wall of breakfast cereals in a grocery store, confounded about the sheer amount of choice. It is here where we see James suffering from combat withdrawal. In Iraq he was on his game, disarming bombs with a few snips. The EOD suit he wears is his real skin. When it comes off, he's an alien on a planet he doesn't understand. As he explains to his infant son, there is only one thing he loves in the world. His body is home safe, but his heart and mind are still in the desert.

The (few) criticisms I've read are largely without merit. From Breitbart's Big Hollywood, dueling bozos of bromance Alexander Marlow and John Nolte both decry the characterization of Iraqis in the movie. This is a part of the narrative that should follow reality as close as possible, and it succeeds for the most part. Outside the wire, you shake kid's hands, you kick around a soccer ball and you act like a decent human being. But not for one second should your guard come down when it comes to the locals. Nolte feigns outrage about a scene involving a taxi driver running a roadblock. After a tense standoff, a soldier takes down the driver and violently handcuffs him. With what I imagine is a straight face, Nolte takes umbrage with the quote, "If he wasn't an insurgent, he sure as hell is now." Man, that was a favorite joke of mine! I said that about a man who owned a courtyard where I found two Molotov cocktails. Moments before he opened his trunk for us. It was full of whiskey, a rarity to see in a Muslim country. We laughed and pretended to stumble around drunk, but after I found those cocktails and the IP shoved his face into a brick wall, we weren't laughing anymore. I joked that next time, there would be a spring loaded boxing glove that came out.

Nolte doesn't realize that most people weren't too happy to see us, or consider the possibility that combat operations are a societal irritant. No, that is too complex a notion. He just decides to phone it in as a liberal slight and call it a day. There must be a shortage of veterans in West Hollywood (tip: if someone describes their residence with a cardinal direction, they probably have a gargantuan chip on their shoulder). Nolte could have passed his hissy fit about Iraqis to someone who knew what they were talking about. Quoth the Noltmeister: "The [Iraqi] men are alternately terrorists, a menacing presence, victims, the butt of jokes or utterly clueless." The movie is about guys who go find bombs buried in the road. What kind of person lingers around that environment John? You guessed it. Terrorists, menacing civilians, victims and clueless people.

I can agree with Marlow and Nolte that the order from a full bird to let an insurgent bleed to death is out of place, poorly staged and irrelevant to the plot. I could see what they were going for, but it translated horribly to the screen. Things like that do happen, as some of you might remember (long story short: we watched some insurgents bleed to death, and we watched a blindfolded guy die in slow agony after his house exploded and fell on top of him). A field grade officer ordering his men to let an insurgent bleed out is over the line though, and should have been left on the cutting room floor.

It's a shame some people can't look past their narrow view to enjoy the best Iraq movie to date. Though flawed with a serious case of the WTFs, The Hurt Locker more than makes up for it with technical prowess and unbelievably tense moments. In the only theater in Austin currently playing the movie, I heard a steady stream of gasps and "Oh shit!" moments in a nearly packed house. That kind of audience involvement is a testament to how well crafted the story is, regardless of the basic absurdity of the plot. General moviegoers will have plenty to rave about, and seasoned vets can walk away satisfied if they willfully suspend their disbelief for a couple of hours. I'm sure your wife or girlfriend won't mind that you stop whispering "That totally wouldn't happen" every five minutes.

Final Verdict: 3 1/2 Burning Cars out of 5

Update: West Hollywood is a town apart from Hollywood? Holy crap. I guess H-Town reached critical mass of people like John Nolte. A Manifest Douchery, westward to the sea!

High Crimes

2009-07-21T00:23:00.000-05:00

There aren't many things that instantly burn me up, but Ralph Peters just bested his personal low with remarks so outrageously ballsy it's difficult not to admire his brazen viciousness. The skinny-chested, former lieutenant colonel REMF spewed his bile all over the Fox newsroom yesterday, calling for the Taliban to execute captured American soldier Bowe Berghdal:

In his mad rush to condemn Berghdal, Peters disregards those pesky laws about jury by trial and gets down to the nitty gritty of the situation. Instead of the current rescue operations to bring Berghdal back alive, he cooly suggests the Taliban could save us "a lot of legal hassle and a lot of legal bills." A cursory search of his work will yield a lot about killing. Killing prisoners, killing journalists. His Wikipedia entry reveals the softer side of his military career. He enlisted in 1976, a year after the Vietnam War ended. What the hell was he up to before that? Must have been a writing a sequel to Dave Grossman's book - On Killing (Except In War, and Except By Me).

The story of Berghdal's disappearance and subsequent capture has been shrouded in mystery since the story broke. Berghdal himself says he was captured after lagging behind on a patrol, but some have suggested he simply deserted, citing unverifiable sources. Berghdal's story of his capture sounds ridiculously fishy. But it's not up to anyone, certainly not a coward like Peters, to condemn this soldier. The true story doesn't matter right now, Berghdal's safe recovery does. If he deserted his unit in the middle of the night, especially in the midst of the huge offensive in Afghanistan, he belongs in the brig until the walls crumble into dust. In the end though, no one gets left behind, especially in the hands of fanatics. Peters would have learned that if he didn't spend his career licking boots in Germany. He has handed the Taliban a golden goose eggs of propaganda. Such division and apathy are exactly what the Taliban and al-Qaeda hope to achieve in the US. It's like that old joke about an American soldier messing up so bad he was awarded an Iron Cross. Peters is meeting the Taliban retention quota with gusto.

We don't know if Berghdal is guilty of desertion and defection, but I have seen with my own eyes a citizen calling for an American soldier to be killed by militants. Peters qualifies for an involuntary inversion from a lightpole a tad bit more than a soldier captured under nebulous circumstances.

Get the man back safely. The hows and whys come later.

Informative, Corny Post 9/11 GI Bill video

2009-07-15T15:15:00.000-05:00

For those still on the fence about which GI Bill to partake in:

Keep in mind this new bill is not a silver bullet. You might be better off sticking with the old GI Bill. Do some research and see which one suits you better. If you are close to exhuasting the old one, stick with it. You can get a 12 month extension with the Post 9/11 Bill only if you completely use Chapter 30. And if you live in California, move somewhere else.

(H/T TAH)

Haiku Review: Redacted

2009-07-11T11:28:00.000-05:00

Redacted (2007):

Modern snuff disgusts

De Palma disposes talent

For outlandish farce

(I'll be seeing The Hurt Locker later tonight. Expect to see an unabridged review sometime soon.)

Haiku Review: Home of the Brave

2009-07-10T04:00:00.000-05:00

Home of the Brave (2006):

War drama derails

Despite genuine intentions

50 Cent sucks at acting too

(Tomorrow, the final haiku review of the reprehensible Redacted.)

Haiku Review: Stop Loss

2009-07-09T09:23:00.000-05:00

Stop Loss (2008):

Requisite drawl here

Back door draft is plot device

Phillipe runs from script

(Tommorow: Home of The Brave.)

Haiku Review: In The Valley of Elah

2009-07-08T10:25:00.000-05:00

In The Valley of Elah (2007):

Soldiers behave badly

Dubious characters aplenty

Audience cruelly suffers

(Tomorrow: Stop Loss.)

All Quiet on the Celluloid Front

2009-07-07T15:35:00.001-05:00

I always liked movies as much as the next kid growing up. I remember watching Batman Returns every Saturday morning until the tape nearly gave out. But I never moved beyond a general interest of film until I watched The Usual Suspects and The Godfather back to back one unforgettable afternoon. From them on I couldn't get enough of movies. Old or classic, color or black & white, foreign or domestic - I overtook my parent's Netflix account and drowned the queue in every film I researched. Pretty soon I was renting 25 to 30 movies a month. My high school grades were inversely related to the amount of movies I watched - Fellini and Kurosawa soon replaced Algebra and English. I didn't mind; I was still getting a good education.

Digging through my film library, you will find war movies sprinkled liberally among French New Wave and Quentin Tarantino movies. From Paths of Glory to Black Hawk Down, I cannot resist a good war yarn, which brings me to the question of the day: Why do the few Iraq-based movies suck worse than an asthmatic prostitute? Can a war movie be good without waiting for an honest historical perspective? It took three years after Vietnam for The Deer Hunter to come out. Based on what I've seen, it might take the end of the war in Iraq to produce a good movie about Iraq.

My grades have improved since high school, but unfortunately the time dedicated to watching (and reviewing) movies has been greatly diminished. But in anticipation for the release of The Hurt Locker on Friday, I will take one for the team and review a few of the currently released Iraq war movies in the form of haiku. It turns out the Japanese are good for things beyond tentacle porn.

Please come back tomorrow for the haiku review of In The Valley of Elah. As for The Hurt Locker, I intend to review it in more than seventeen syllables when I see it this weekend.

Pink, White and Blue

2009-07-05T16:55:00.000-05:00

Zachary Boyd, the E-4 who took on the Taliban in pink boxers, had a safe Independence Day at home. I had a feeling he was from Texas. Welcome back to his unit.

I remember getting bitched at by our brigade commander for not wearing gloves during a three mile hike under an Iraqi summer sun. I'm glad to see he didn't get in trouble for being a bad ass.

(H/T Sheri.)

The most entertaining movie review ever

2009-06-29T16:13:00.000-05:00

It was inevitable. For all the reviewers that threw a temper tantrum when an Iraq movie had political undertones, there had to be one guy that goes further and laments a lack of the right kind of political undertones. That (dubiously) brave man is Alexander Marlow, a Breitbart.com columnist whose review of The Hurt Locker is serious deadpan masquerading as high-satire.

If you get past the use of the word "bromance," Marlow beclowns himself by not actually talking to someone in the military before he rushes to conclude what they must feel about war at the physiological level. He takes issue with the movie's tagline "War is a drug" by breaking it down to moral terms. If war is a drug, and drugs are inherently bad, then war is bad, and eureka! Marlow dug long and hard enough find a nugget of anti-war, leftist, Hollyweird propaganda. By applying the phrase to a peculiar model of moral and political equivalence, Marlow tries to shove the square peg through the round circle to make a claim about the movie's secret perspective.

Marlow quickly neutralizes himself by failing to understand the nature of war. In a bizarre acknowledgment, he tells the reader that he "has not ruled out a stint in the military." That must give his readership pause; he has at least considered service. His strenuous claim is a feeble attempt to put forth some understanding of the military and war. Sadly, Marlow investigates the political significance of "war is a drug" rather than consider what the phrase actually implies. War is indeed is a drug, a horribly destructive thing men do to themselves that gives a rush unlike anything you can find on this planet. I've never had heroin or cocaine, but I bet it hovers near the feeling of a sniper's bullet missing your head by inches. Or the tremor in your guts when you have a live body in your sights - how the world drops away, and there isn't a thing on the planet that matters more than you, him and the rifle in your hands. And when those rounds explode out of the barrel in a brilliant flash and the acrid smell of gunpowder burns your nostrils, you know that no amount of skydiving or drag racing or sex will ever come close to what war makes you feel in your bones. That's why I can't stop getting speeding tickets or rewatching old videos from my deployment. I want that feeling back. I haven't kicked the war habit yet.

One particular criticism of the movie is rife with unintentional hilarity. Marlow quips, "There is no plot. Just a series of unrelated missions. Much like my high school dates, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this thing wasn’t going anywhere." Marlow, to his credit, accidentally quoted the thought of every infantryman in history without ever speaking to one. From the street level, there is no plot in war, just a series of unrelated missions that fit in The Big Picture on some Powerpoint presentation. Especially in EOD units where there literally is no mission, just bomb interdiction. They get a call to check out a possible threat and move to disarm it. Over and over like Groundhog Day. There is nothing romantic about that procedure. That's the nature of the game. In my infantry unit, protecting each other and bringing everyone home safe was the primary goal. Bringing democracy to the proud people of Iraq and "quashing evil" was an afterthought. There is no way those elements could come across in a movie without feeling forced or stilted. Unfortunately, obtuse people like Marlow absolutely hate it when a movie, book, TV show without an overt political agenda emerges and forces the audience to make up their own mind. They'd rather watch Autobots kick over commie tanks with American soldiers in the background than watch an Iraq movie and weigh the contents seriously.

You have to wonder about a writer when he bemoans "Won't you please think of the Iraqis?!" in a review of a movie about American soldiers. It's like asking why James Cameron didn't focus more on the iceberg in Titanic. While important, it's secondary to the conflict. The same goes for The Hurt Locker. The conflict is between a man and his EOD team, and from what I can tell, the inner conflict he faces when he goes outside the wire to confront buried IEDs. It's almost an art form to be so intellectually dishonest, and Marlow seems to be an up and coming Picasso.

Above: The lack of Iraqis in this picture is absurd. It just has an American soldier tugging on an IED wire! OUTRAGEOUS!

Even if you take away his silly posturing about what a war movie should be, he's just not very convincing with his argument. Iraq movies have been absolute garbage so far, but each should be taken individually instead of blurting out a kneejerk "liberal bullshit!" before the previews start. It's base, it's silly, and if you depend on vacuous reviews to provide insight, you might let a good movie slip by. I'll see the movie on opening day and write a review here, but I'll have to leave my rose-colored glasses and handheld patriotism detector in the closet and judge the movies on its own merits. You know, the way movie reviews used to be written.

Edit: 7:45 PM central 6/29/09 - Removed ad-hominem comments. I'm trying to broaden discourse, not debase it.

Father and Son

2009-06-26T10:01:00.001-05:00

Click out of that Michael Jackson retrospective and read about the life and death of someone who mattered.

(Thanks Sal for the link.)

The Baqubah Dilemma

2009-06-26T00:14:00.000-05:00

While Mosul is getting a lot of press lately (thanks Stars and Stripes), the residents of another smorgasbord of insurgent activity are rethinking the June 30 pullout deadline. Baqubah is still a tangled mess of weapons trafficking, cross border movement and militia activity (the bad kind, not the sometimes-good kind). As of late 2007, they had the most shoddy, unprofessional and lazy Iraqi units I saw from Nineveh to Baghdad. Mosul and Baghdad won't be the cities to look at when June 30 rolls around. All eyes will be on Baqubah and the ISF there. The locals don't seem to have a vote of confidence, so let's hope they can hold the line. If it's going to break anywhere, it will be there.

Spoiler Alert!

2009-06-25T16:44:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I hate war movies. Mistakes in uniforms, rank, SOPs and military vernacular that should have been caught by technical advisers are left staring at you in the face (the spec-4 master sergeant in Basic comes to mind). I hope the upcoming Iraq movie The Hurt Locker is generally free of errors, but I could not help but notice the nametape switcheroo from this clip:

For the uninitiated, the U.S. Army goes on the left side of your chest. Last name on the right.

Hey, Hollywood. I'm looking for a job, and you guys need some help. Just sayin'.

First Cav and MND-N show their ass in Mosul

2009-06-24T12:16:00.000-05:00

This is everywhere, as it should be:

In a story on its Web site, the newspaper known as Stripes said the military violated a congressional mandate of editorial independence by rejecting a request to embed reporter Heath Druzin with the U.S. Army's 1st Cavalry Division, which is attempting to secure the city of Mosul.

Public affairs officer Major Ramona Bellard denied the request of Heath Druzin, a Stripes reporter, to embed in Mosul after "various problems" in his reporting. Major Bellard injected herself into the paper's editorial process after Druzin reported "many Mosul residents would like the American soldiers to leave and hand over security tasks to Iraqi forces," a shocking revelation to a public affairs officer whose only interaction with real Iraqis is probably a visit to her FOB's Pizza Hut.

A spokesman for MND-N pumps up volume:

"U.S. Army units in Iraq remain committed to the media embed program and appreciate objective media reporting," said Lt. Col. David H. Patterson Jr., a spokesman for Multi-National Corps-Iraq. "The relationship that Druzin established with the command during a previous embed did not facilitate being invited back."

Translation? "You didn't pick the stories we wanted. Get lost."

The problem with the whole scenario is the Stars and Stripes is a DOD funded newspaper that retains First Amendment rights. Congress created the newspaper in the 1940s with those guidelines specifically to prevent interference from commanders, the kind interference that we're seeing now. The Army is showing a pretty weak hand with their decision. Their best argument is Druzin didn't purposely seek out a fuzzy, feel good sunshine story. What the good colonel and major fail to realize is that the opinion of Mosul residents is a very important story. Especially on the heels of an Iraqi city pullout that may or may not include Mosul. That the story doesn't sit well with some lite colonel is trivial when considering the men and women on the ground in Mosul. They need to know if there is a certain resentment to their presence, especially in specific neighborhoods, so they can tailor operations to it. Counterinsurgency principles demand acute awareness of surroundings, house to house and sheik to sheik. That includes the amount of gratitude, or resentment, that is in the air.

When I went to DC for the Milblogger's Conference a couple months ago, it included a visit to the Pentagon to meet with public affairs liaisons to trumpet the military's outreach to social networking and new media. They sought to bring down the wall that has traditionally separated the public and the military so a free exchange of information could occur. This whole debacle flies in the face of the hardworking PAOs in the Pentagon trying to coexist with the new and old media. Denying an embed and giving the flimsiest of reasons isn't helping anyone and instead halts the advance of the information warfare front.

UPDATE: Helpful reader LL links to two of Druzin's reports from Mosul. One of them appears to be the offending article. The other is pretty positive. Both are evenhanded and fair. Like I said in the comments section, it's up to MND-N to come up with some compelling evidence beyond "he should have picked better stories."

US on track to pull out of Iraqi cities

2009-06-23T16:45:00.000-05:00

Not so fast, Mosul:

American soldiers who had been expected to withdraw from their bases within Mosul by the June 30 deadline might be allowed to stay under an agreement being finalized with the Iraqi government, United States officials say.

"We're waiting for a final decision, and we're prepared to execute whatever they tell us to execute," says Col. Gary Volesky, commander of the 1st Cavalry Division's 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team.

BoB: Redux

2009-06-22T22:43:00.000-05:00

Band of Brothers solidified my desire to be in the Army. I couldn't get enough of the series when it premiered when I was in high school. Now years later, Spielberg and Tom Hanks are at it again. The Pacific isn't set to air until 2010, but you van check out the trailer here. It's a ten part miniseries, so I imagine it'll have the same narrative structure as Band of Brothers.

Stupid premium channels. I might have to wait for the Blu-Ray release.

UPDATE: Darrell "Shifty" Powers, the sharpshooting Southern gentleman from Band of Brothers, has died at the age of 86. Farewell paratrooper.

An Iraq movie that might not suck

2009-06-21T17:46:00.000-05:00

The Hurt Locker is an upcoming movie about EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) in Iraq. From IMDB:

An intense portrayal of elite soldiers who have one of the most dangerous jobs in the world: disarming bombs in the heat of combat. When a new sergeant, James, takes over a highly trained bomb disposal team amidst violent conflict, he surprises his two subordinates, Sanborn and Eldridge, by recklessly plunging them into a deadly game of urban combat.

Check out the trailer. Sure to raise some goosebumps.

New Photo Album

2009-06-21T17:15:00.000-05:00

The photos I took in Iraq have always complemented the narratives I've spun over the years. I never did anything special to them, just a simple resize and that was it. But now that I've been playing with Picasa for awhile, I thought it was time I revamped my pictures. Please take a moment to browse through my new Flickr account. There you will find not just familiar images, but never before seen photos. Enjoy!

More Stryker brigades on the way?

2009-06-19T13:45:00.001-05:00

I've said it many times: the Stryker is the perfect vehicle for counterinsurgency operations in Iraq. Tougher than a Humvee and smaller than a tank, it moves nimbly through crowded markets and streets that would otherwise thwart a Bradley. While the 5th Stryker Brigade will test its mettle in Afghanistan for the first time this summer, the Army is looking to add more Stryker brigades to the arsenal:

“There are about 3,600 Stryker vehicles, and over 2,700 have been fielded to-date. There are seven Stryker brigades. One of the things the Army is looking at in terms of force structure is, do we need more Stryker brigades to provide a balanced force with different capabilities across the spectrum?” said Lt. Gen. Ross Thompson, military deputy to the Asst. Secretary of the Army for Acquisition, Logistics and Technology.

A Noble Undertaking

2009-06-06T14:10:00.000-05:00

On leave in April, 2007:

Pointe-du-Hoc, Normandy

American Cemetery Statue

Steve, reflecting on wars past and present

Among the fallen

A roundup of required reading.

AoD: The True Hollywood Story

2009-06-04T14:54:00.000-05:00

Question: What does rotten.com, Craigslist and this blog have in common? Besides being read by degenerates and fecal maniacs (please don't Google that), those sites comprise the list of Switched.com's The Web's Most Controversial Web Sites feature. So in spirit of raising a good ol' fashioned ruckus, I dug up some old pictures from my deployment that relate a bit to the topic. For longtime readers of the blog, it'll be a stroll down memory lane. For you new cats, I hope you enjoy and take a look around.

Mistaken Identity

Much has been said about the effectiveness of flipping insurgent loyalties to the home team, but in the beginning things were very tense indeed. The 1920 Revolution Brigade was our enemy for the better part of the year, but in a surreal twist, they broke with Al-Qaeda and began to work with us against their former partners. From the start we shared a mutual distrust but followed through with our orders. That didn't curtail the complications and confusion of urban warfare; we often killed members of the new militia force because they looked just like the other bad guys. The car pictured above was the aftermath after one such instance, torn to pieces by a gunship. Look closely and you can see the blood among the grass.

Enemies with Benefits

Things weren't always so tense with the 1920s folks. After working with them for a few weeks, it was common to see their checkpoints all around Baqubah. After a rash of accidental killings, they adopted a simple uniform: brown army t-shirts and orange reflective belts. That would help discriminating American soldiers with discerning quasi-foe and foe. But their power and influence grew by the day, and soon they were operating with little supervision from us and likely no guidance from legitimate Iraqi security forces. The image above comes from a checkpoint run exclusively by the 1920s - checking the ID papers of anyone that ventured past.

Blackwater Down

I've detailed the events of the downing of a Blackwater Security helicopter in downdown Baghdad before, but I haven't shown the angle of the crash that you see above. You can see where the bodies of the operators were dragged out of the chopper and onto the ground, nearly taken away by vicious insurgents before we chased them off. The mission quickly turned from a rescue to the recovery of five dead Americans, climaxing into an hour long shootout among high rise buildings. Fortunately we recovered the remains but arrived too late to save lives.

Above: James after the firefight. Spent shell casings litter the ground.

PR Stunt

One of the more puzzling moments of the deployment came in our fifteen and final month. Our undermanned unit held the city of Baqubah months before reinforcements arrived to help us overtake and pacify the city completely. Diyala Province, as a result, was kicked firmly out of the "enemy stronghold" column into "troubled region" status. To witness the dramatic change, the deputy prime minister of Iraq came to visit our neck of the woods to show what kind of progress was being made. In tow were members of the media - the LA Times, New York Times and Associated Press. What they didn't cover in their reports was the complete lockdown of the sector once the deputy prime minister arrived. Photographers were snapping images of crowded markets and cafes. People were trying to leave out of concern there would be an attempt on the deputy's life, but the cordon was sealed. No one in our out. The result? "Salih told reporters he was encouraged by what he saw in Baqubah, the provincial capital: streets full of shoppers, produce and sodas for sale in the market, and men with graying beards smoking cigarettes and sipping tea at a cafe."

And who could forget: mooning Apache helicopters after a long, hard day on patrol:

Live Free, Die Well

2009-05-25T10:17:00.000-05:00

My old team leader Jesse was a curious mix of disarming humor and overt seriousness. He would joke and jump around, shouting quotes from Rambo and countless Schwarzenegger movies. His laugh, deep from the belly, echoed down the halls of the barracks and in between the plaster and brick homes of very bewildered Iraqis. Just as quick, though, he'd delve into moments of austere reflection on the tide of war that swept over us. While training to deploy, he hunched over to Josh and me and let us in on a secret ritual that he did during his first deployment with the scouts. Right before the ramp dropped, he would shout, "Live Free!" to which we would reply, "Die Well!" Even though we were about to dismount to shoot blanks and throw fake grenades at people pretending to be insurgents, he said it exactly like he would in combat.

When I was younger, I took the time on Memorial Day to think about men I never met. The Marines that didn't come back with my uncle from Vietnam, and the infantrymen who gave their all with my grandfather in Korea. I thought about a distant relative, killed in battle at Gettysburg. Now that I'm on the other side of the civilian coin, I'm not sure what to think or do on this day. Like I've described before, every day is Memorial Day when you spend months and years with someone, learning their favorite movies and parent's names and their least favorite Spice Girl, only to see their lives end much too soon. The moment you leave a memorial service for someone killed in action, the feelings that come out on Memorial Day are amplified and refracted across the spectrum of emotion. You get a bit each day, forever.

Jesse and Chevy will never be with us again, but their spirits carry on. I can't even look at my backpack without sparking a memory of Jesse. Chevy's name is etched across the bracelet of my wrist, never to be removed. Reminders of their sacrifice are not limited to the attachment of physical objects, but to the future itself. They died well so we could live free. Keep that in mind today, for tomorrow the flags will come down, the barbecues will simmer and the memories of the fallen will quietly fade away.

Please use the comments section to post a story of someone you knew that fell in battle. Doesn't matter who, doesn't matter what war.

New Progress in the Old Hood

2009-04-19T10:25:00.000-05:00

A recent piece on C-SPAN features a reporter embedded with a Stryker unit in Baqubah, the old stomping grounds of my unit and nearly every Stryker brigade since we left. Those familar with the area might laugh at using metal detectors in open fields and clearing the palm groves. Again.

Money quote: "It's a little bit difficult to figure out exactly who's the most honest people over in Iraq, but the soldiers are pretty much willing to deal with anyone who's not an insurgent."

I can haz shaky alliance?

War Games

2009-04-09T08:51:00.000-05:00

I had two loves in high school: military history and videogames. Both subjects kept girls and a social life at bay, but I was satisfied with sitting at home on a Friday night playing Medal of Honor or watching Black Hawk Down for the 100th time. So imagine my excitement over the announcement of a videogame based on actual events in the Battle of Fallujah. Six Days of Fallujah, a third person tactical shooter (more Full Spectrum Warrior than Call of Duty) is set to release next year, with the narrative lifted from the experiences, pictures and diaries from the Marines in the battle.

Battle of Fallujah will be the first major game released while the war in Iraq still rages. But it got me thinking - what other games could have been released so far?

Legend of VBIED: The Opel of Time

Sorry Link, but your VBIED is in another AO!

Gamers are transported to an ancient land forgotten by modern technology with one of few exceptions: the legendary Opel sedan. They crisscross Iraq in the thousands, their cheap and reliable models a favorite in the hands of insurgents. Players will set out in a 3-D world with one mission: to find an Opel, loaded with hundreds of pounds of explosives, with only the color of the car as their guide. The player earns points by pulling over suspicious Opels and searching the car, only to find jerry-rigged water bottle radiators and twenty year old cassette tapes. The game ends when the player finds an Opel that is actually driven by insurgents, making the replay value nearly endless.

Euphrates City Ransom

Is he carrying a stick or a hot dog?

In this game, you play as Ahmed, an up and coming Son of Iraq that witnesses his donkey being kidnapped by al-Qaeda terrorists. Fuming with anger, Ahmed embarks on a cross-country war of retribution against the merciless organization. The game is a classic style side scrolling beat 'em up featuring weapons ranging from pool cues to rocket propelled grenades. Gamers will be required to finish complex puzzles like IED construction and severing the heads of nonbelievers. The final level of the game is set in a three dimensional puzzle where the player must navigate the 99 Levels of Iraqi Government to claim the Goblet of Legitimate Security, but beware of Prime Minister Maliki and his dual Gatling guns!

Duke Chuck 'Em 3D

Have you ever wanted to recreate the act of Iraqi journalist Muntadhar al-Zeidi, but don't want to rot in a Baghdad prison for a year? In this thrilling first person shooter, you play as Zeidi, a calm and cool undercover agent sent on a top secret mission to chuck a shoe at President Bush. Through twenty-four levels spanning from Camp Victory to the Green Zone, the player will encounter enemies, like pogue chow hall guards and feral dogs covered in shit, and throw wingtips at them. The final boss is George W. Bush, an agile an elusive enemy. Show that brush clearing imperialist who's boss!

Super Hussein Bros.

You'll be fighting over the controller with your 72 virgins when you play this fun platformer! You play as Captain X, a special forces operator hunting for two of the most wanted men in Iraq, Saddam's sons Uday and Qusay Hussein. Levels include underwater lairs, torture dungeons and unpredictable spider holes. Track down the elusive brothers alone or with a team. You'll be packing heat with fireflowers, super mushrooms and daisy cutting MOABs.

Petraeus

This isn't a rip off of Tetris, it's a...re-imagining. Rush to fit all the pieces of the Iraq war together before the SOFA time limit expires! The most important rule: do not let the Paul Bremer piece touch the Iraq piece. The results are catastrophic to the game and could extend the level for seven plus years.

(This post is dedicated to SSG Jesse Williams, my former team leader and fellow gamer. He always made fun of me for my penchant for videogames but always found time to play. He died from wounds suffered in Baqubah two years ago yesterday.)

The 2009 Milblogging Conference

2009-03-22T12:54:00.000-05:00

This time next month, many of your favorite military bloggers will descend on Washington, D.C. in a whirlwind of snark, booze and insightful panels at The Milblogging Conference. Someone made the grave error in inviting me to join a panel of my peers, and before they realized their mistake, I graciously accepted. I join a crowd that's really a who's who in the military blogging community and look forward to meeting a few heroes of mine. The panels are slowly coming together, so below are the panels already set for Saturday, April 25:

****

New Media Agora: What is the impact of the “new media” on issues concerning national security, military doctrine and concept development, training, education, and lessons learned? A discussion of the issue by those at the frontlines of the debate.

Moderator: Greyhawk

Dave Dilegge
Andrew Exum
Bill Roggio

****

Beyond MilBlogging: Taking the blog to the next level. From book deals to paid writing assignments, documentaries, speaking engagements, television and radio appearances and much, much more, many milbloggers have been able to branch out beyond the blog. We’ll find out how a few of them did it, and what projects they have in the works.

Moderator: David Stanford from The Sandbox

JD Johannes
Uncle Jimbo
Lily Burana
airforcewife
Craig Stewart

****

Back to Our Roots: Some say the “Golden Age” of milblogging has passed. The age when milbloggers were a small, tight community. Today, there are so many interesting milblogs. We'll meet some milbloggers you may or may not have heard of and get back to the finest tradition of milblogging - celebrating and highlighting the diversity of voices within our community.

Moderator: Matt from Blackfive

Alex Horton
Solomon Fein (Tentative)
Maggie of Boston Maggie and Castle Argghhh!
Rebekah Sanderlin

Would you like to be there to witness the shrewd wisdom of Abu Muqawama, the keen insight of Bill Roggio, and the disturbing laughter of Uncle Jimbo? Registration is still open! At last count, 75 seats were still available, and they sold out in 2007. It costs only $50 to attend, so reserve your seat now. The conference is held at the Arlington Westin, so it would be wise to book your room there.

I hope to see many of you at the conference!

A Man at Sunset

2009-03-12T22:33:00.000-05:00

As the days turn into months that become years, it becomes difficult to imagine that the collective experiences of second platoon Bravo company grow more distant from the present, drifting in a sea of time away from the shores of what was known, and loved. One fights to recall the names and faces of certain characters that were surely there, but not so easily remembered. Firefights and shootouts, dismembered bodies covering the earth (and below it), and uproarious fits of laughter grow fuzzy, their events occasionally muddied in skepticism - did they happen quite the way I remember, or did I simply fill in the gaps with piecemeal memories?

Some events transcend space and time, full of vivid color and smells and gut-feeling that will never go away, no matter what the calendar seems to read. Soon it will be two years since March 14, 2007 - a day that has been on the minds and hearts of everyone that knew and cared for Brian Chevalier.

He was a man that did his job without reservation and without complaint, far outshining and outclassing those of us that bitched at the slightest notion of additional work. His job in combat was a vital one: to navigate the treacherous roads, fields and alleys of Iraq and drop off his squad safely and quickly so they may carry out their mission. He was rarely seen by others not in his squad; the position of driver carries with it extra maintenance and care for the vehicle. While others in the platoon played videogames, smoked cigarettes and sat at the poker table, Chevy was in the thick mud of the motorpool making sure his vehicle was in peak condition. And he did it for his squad.

Perhaps it was best that Chevy never saw it coming. The only indication that something was about to go terribly, horribly wrong was the children on the outside of the school. They seemed to be the only living creatures along the far-reaching road our column of Strykers and Bradleys were on. The children watched each vehicle pass with dark, detached eyes. Baqubah was a city where insurgents operated with impunity, a place where a few men could cut into the street with a concrete saw and bury a massive bomb - and nothing would seem out of the ordinary. The children had a front row street to the mayhem, and almost in unison, they all plugged their ears with their fingers in anticipation for what they knew what was coming: an explosion from deep underground.

What happened next replays in my mind every single day. In an instant, a loving father and a good soldier lay dead on the ground, and the squad he so readily guided was a tangled mass of limbs in the back of the vehicle, turned sideways from the force of the blast. For just a a brief moment, Chevy was airborne. Even in death he was elevated far above his contemporaries. Yet the blast didn't just end his life. For each of us that knew him, it was the defining moment of our lives when we became not only familar with death, but intimate with it. We were a band of young soldiers, many in our early to late 20s. We were not accustomed to the idea of departed souls, and that explosion was the catalyst that set in motion a new reckoning of what it meant to truly love someone, only to see them go. From that day on, we fully understood the power of the bonds forged in the dusty plains of Yakima, in the sand-blasted tents of Kuwait, and on the muddied streets of Iraq. In a snapshot of time, we aged well beyond our years and gained a luminous insight into life and loss that we will forever carry with us in our hearts.

A friend from the platoon recently came to me, worried that he was thinking about Iraq, especially the time of year that Chevy passed.

"I don't know man, I've been thinking about him a lot lately," he said.

"Don't worry," I replied. I think about it every day. Almost anything reminds me of something."

"Yeah, me too."

I realized I wasn't the only one trying to sort out Chevy's death two years later, to search for the meaning behind it all. The explosion that shook our world to its core and ended the life of an honorable man changed something inside of us, a subtle transformation that we felt but continue to define as the years wear on. It took the loss of Chevy to make us whole, and for that, I cannot thank him enough for being a part of second platoon and the spirit for all of our successes and triumphs already accomplished and not yet realized. He brought us home, and for that we owe him a debt of gratitude measured only in prosaic terms.

On March 14 and every day, I'll be thinking of him.

A Man at Sunrise

2009-03-03T17:57:00.000-06:00

For the past month I've been writing about my best friend Steve. He had been out of the Army for more than a year before he was ordered to report for medical screening and inevitably a deployment to Iraq. Having done more for his country in three years than the sum of whole organizations (I'm looking at you, College Republicans), Steve was once again called upon to do the work so many have shunned over the last eight years. I am more than relieved to report that today his exemption from involuntary mobilization has been granted and his orders canceled. Many people congratulate you when you get out of the Army like you're getting out of jail, but getting out of the IRR is like leaving purgatory behind. So many congratulations for Steve. Your future is back in your able hands. Now squeeze that GI Bill for all its worth!

As for the many more veterans in the IRR, I'm not giving up on this plight now that my friend is safe. There are still daily injustices that must be corrected, not only dealing with recall but the other back door draft of stop loss.

Thank you all for your e-mails and comments of support for Steve and others in his unenviable position. I truly appreciate it.

Keeping the Faith: A Letter to President Obama

2009-02-09T06:30:00.000-06:00

Dear President Obama,

This letter comes to you from an unlikely supporter: a young Iraq War vet from the blood-red state of Texas. As an Army recruit in basic training, I cast my vote for George W. Bush in 2004 because I felt he was the best choice for a responsible prosecution of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Five years and a combat tour later, I have come to understand the consequences of that decision. Last November I pulled the lever for you after hearing about the refreshing notion of a new era of government accountability that never existed in my adult life. I was sold when you promised to end the practice of involuntary mobilization, a program that reactivates veterans out of the service and sends them back to war. Given the new era of responsibility ushered in by your administration, it is imperative that you keep a promise made to the tens of thousands of veterans across the country.

I am writing to you on behalf of Steve Lewey, one of Illinois' bravest sons. Steve grew up in a working class family not too far from your old stomping grounds of Chicago. He did well in high school and went on to college to study architectural design. After realizing he and his parents could not afford to continue his education, Steve enlisted in the United States Army at the age of nineteen. He did so not only for education benefits but to satisfy the intense need to serve his country in a time of war. As an infantryman, Steve completed a fifteen month tour in 2007, distinguishing himself in the Battle of Baqubah, the deadliest battle of the surge. In one instance, after an insurgent attack claimed the life of our comrade, Steve completely exposed himself to enemy fighters by climbing on top of a Stryker vehicle and firing at three insurgents, killing them instantly. On a dirty and blood-soaked street in Iraq, no one seemed to notice the kid from Chicago in an act of remarkable gallantry. Many of my fellow soldiers are walking examples of his bravery - without his incredibly selfless act, more American soldiers would have surely fallen in that battle.

With his GI Bill in hand, Steve left the service after an extended combat deployment and headed back home to Chicago in the winter of 2007. Filled with the fire of discipline and motivation he found in the Army, he settled into a job and waited patiently for the new GI Bill to become law. He wanted to finish the schooling he started so many years ago. That dream came to an abrupt end late last month when he came home to find a thick brown envelope on his doorstep. Inside were instructions on where to report for medical screening for a deployment back to Iraq.

The IRR has been used in the past as an emergency pool of trained soldiers to augment forces overseas, but recently history has shown it has been badly abused following 9/11. The link between Iraq and the Global War on Terror is tenuous at best, yet the Presidential Reserve Call Up Authority still exists to mobilize and deploy inactive soldiers even in cases of non-emergencies, Iraq being a clear example. Though repeated and lengthy deployments are causing a terrible strain on active duty soldiers, there was no concern on the part of your colleagues to expand the size of the military to meet the rigorous demand of two wars. Instead, the Department of Defense has overindulged on inactive soldiers meant to fix temporary problems, not become long term solutions. Though you seek to draw down forces in Iraq, Mr. President, the recalls continue in the twilight of a six year war.

For combat veterans, the task of integrating back into society has been a difficult journey as old as war itself. From Odysseus to eighteen year old soldiers coming from the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, the path to normalcy is wrought with post traumatic stress and a disconnect between soldiers and their civilian counterparts. The added weight of a potential involuntary recall is more undue pressure on the fragile mind of combat veterans. Army career counselors exacerbate the duress with threatening phone calls and ominous visits to the homes of veterans, suggesting recall is a certainty if they don't join the Guard or Reserves. For Steve and over 20,000 inactive soldiers across the country, their worst fears have been realized in the form of mobilization orders. For them it's another crushing defeat in an already burdensome mission to find peace after war.

For years, you have spoken extensively about the need for a more robust civil service program in the country. I cannot think of a greater civil service than serving in the military, especially in a time of war. For eight years, soldiers have sacrificed their bodies, minds, and in the most tragic of cases, their lives, to complete the mission. We have stared into the black abyss of war to see an inner reflection of triumph and tragedy. There are pieces of us, physical and otherwise, that are left on the battlefield forever. That is what we gave up for this nation. Now that the war in Iraq is coming to a close, it's time to end the recalls immediately. Every soldier in the military stands ready to report, mobilize and deploy in any corner of the world in 96 hours or less. The abrupt cancellation of the Presidential Reserve Call Up Authority and subsequent orders would seem effortless in comparison to what soldiers stand ready for each and every day.

"Keeping faith with those who serve must always be a core American value and a cornerstone of American patriotism. Because America's commitment to its servicemen and women begins at enlistment, and it must never end."

The words above should look familiar. You said them on the presidential campaign trail as my unit conducted combat patrols in the fifteenth month of our tour in Iraq. It must be realized that above all else, the American soldier is the most valuable thing this country has to offer. The bodies, minds and lives of our fighting men and women cannot be taken for granted. There is too much at stake. Ending the involuntary recalls is a step in the right direction to repair the ties that bind the military to the citizens they stand to protect. You were Steve Lewey's senator in the great state of Illinois, and you are now his President. You must keep the faith with him and the many thousands of veterans that hold recall orders in their hand and uncertainty in their hearts. For more than two hundred years, soldiers have fought to protect this land. Now it is time to ask you, Mr. President, to fulfill your commitment to end recalls and put veterans back onto their long journey to peace and prosperity.

Very Respectfully,

Alex Horton

******

I have never expected any politician to keep their word, but this issue is too important to remain pessimistic about. Lives and futures literally hang in the balance as we wait for the president to pick up his red pen and cancel the Executive Order allowing the involuntary mobilizations to continue. Please take a moment to send a message to the White House comment page. There is a 500 character limit, so please include the link to this post ( http://armyofdude.blogspot.com/2009/02/keeping-faith-letter-to-president-obama.html ). You can also contact your House representative and let them know about the issue. Anyone that can get the gears turning - newspapers, magazines, local and state politicians - let them know. This is not something to remain quiet about. Spread the word, help some veterans. Now it is your turn to protect them this time.

Best of Friends

2009-02-02T08:19:00.000-06:00

The two car convoy came to a stop at the departure section of the Seattle International Airport. With the engine running, I climbed out of the car and waited on the sidewalk as Steve grabbed his bags from the trunk of Chris' car. The loudspeakers reminded us to make it quick - "This area for loading or unloading only" played on a constant loop as security guards leered in our direction. After seeing Steve nearly every single day for three years, I was there to see him off on his one way trip back home to Chicago. The brisk December wind whisked around us as we cracked our final jokes together. Being tough infantry types, I thought a couple of handshakes and a "Later, dude" would be enough before we parted ways. Instead, Chris and Steve came together for an emotional embrace. Then it was my turn to hug my best friend for the first and only time. "Take it easy, man." My voice cracked as the words came out. He turned and walked through the automatic door, leaving Chris and me on the sidewalk.

With a heavy heart, I got back into my car and headed back to Fort Lewis. In less than five minutes my pocket began to buzz. I pulled out my cellphone and saw a new text from Steve.

"I miss you guys already."

**

Nearly everyone I knew in the Army had one inseparable friend that they were around constantly. Steve was that person for me. We grew up a thousand miles away from each other but our paths were nearly identical. We both came from working class families and grew up on Nintendo and action movies. We joined the Army for many of the same reasons, mostly money for college that we didn't dare ask our parents for. What made us connect at the beginning was our intense love for debate and reasoning. For hours we could argue about anything. On a train from Geneva to Rome during our two weeks of leave, we debated for more than an hour about the main ingredient of salad. Anyone from my platoon can attest to our spirited, three year long argument about which band was better, The Eagles or Led Zeppelin. Of course it's Zep, but we're currently in a stalemate.

At the many combat outposts that we inhabited in Iraq, Steve and I talked about what we'd do after the Army. We both decided that one tour was enough and that higher education would be the next chapter in our lives. He wanted to be an architect and I wanted to write. We yearned to create something after wallowing in death and destruction for more than a year. The plan was simple: take the GI Bill and run with it.

After coming home from Iraq we started the separation process together, running all over post to collect requisite signatures and dodge work at the barracks whenever possible. We sat through countless briefings that warned us about the perils of getting tossed into the IRR, a group of inactive soldiers that can be activated individually and mobilized for duty in Iraq. To get out of it, one simply needed to join the Guard or Reserve and get exemption from deployments. Steve and I both had a few promises broken by the Army, so we weren't going to be fooled once more. We decided to take our chances, load up the IRR revolver, and pull the trigger.

There is no warning that a former soldier is about to be recalled. There is no way of knowing that the game of Russian Roulette is over and your brains are splattered all over the wall. There is only an unassuming brown envelope left on the front porch to say what is already known: Uncle Sam doesn't run out of bullets.

**
Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in.

-Michael Corleone

I was at work when my pocket sent out a cheerful tone alerting me of a new text message. I pulled out my phone to see a new message from Steve. I figured it was some trivia question. I could tell he carried his debating persona back home from the messages he sent me. He asked about actors in movies and lesser known points of history that must have come up in discussions with his friends. I opened it to see that it had nothing to do with trivia.

"I just got official orders to go back dude."

My knees almost gave way after reading and rereading the message. I called him right away to offer any kind of help I could. As the phone rang, I looked down at my silver KIA bracelet and ran my fingers over the etched lettering - CPL BRIAN L. CHEVALIER 14 MARCH 2007 BAQUBAH, IRAQ.

A thousand miles away, Steve was wearing the same bracelet.

I relayed to Steve all the information I had gathered on the IRR. I spent countless hours hunched over my computer researching IRR callups, a challenge considering the intentionally scant information put out by the DoD and Army Human Resources Command. I told him to sign up for any classes, get a doctor's note for any condition, anything that could delay or exempt him from mobilization. There is no shame in it. Steve volunteered during a war, knowing that he would be sent into combat. Not only combat ensued, but the bloodiest fight in Iraq since Fallujah. Steve did his time, and more. His place is at home, not on the battlefield anymore.

By way of Lt. Nixon, Thomas Ricks notes a Pentagon study that reveals troop levels have remained relatively the same since 9/11. A more alarming statistic: 6% of active duty troops have served more than 25 months in a combat zone while 74% have less than twelve months in. The study concludes that the lower to mid enlisted and company grade officers are carrying the most burden. Senior officers and NCOs are hiding like cockroaches in the cracks of TRADOC posts and non-deployable slots while lower level soldiers march to the steady drumbeat of repeated deployments, failed marriages and ever-mounting cases of suicide. On top of that, the IRR continues to mobilize soldiers that have moved on, going to school or beginning careers and families. The only way to lessen the burden is to grow the size of the force. One idea: take the database of the newly minted Red State Strike Force members and dump them into mobilization slots. Those pathetic goons want to wear patches styled after special forces to fight on a battlefield of snark. They want to organize. I can think of no better way to organize than a shout of, "Dress right, dress!" The slack has to be picked up somewhere, lest our forces remain so broken that we must rely on involuntary callups to get bodies to the fight.

Steve's future hangs in the balance. School has been put on hold until a review board decides if he is fit to go back to Iraq. I have described the looming threat of recall as an ubiquitous afterthought, constantly degrading the sense of normalcy and safety as the days pile on. Now that recall has manifested itself as a clumsy destroyer of futures, the feeling has changed. Not only mental, the dread has become physical, hanging in my stomach like a sharply cornered anvil. My old infantry sore spots - back, knees and ankles - throb in a dull ache. The burden is back squarely on my shoulders, but I cannot imagine what Steve is feeling right now. I just know that as his best friend, a thousand miles away, I must carry some for him.

A few days after getting Steve's text, I got a call from our buddy Mark. We were the three biggest poker fiends in the platoon, always at the table no matter the time or the buy-in. He said to me, "You better sit down before I tell you this."

"Is it about Steve?", I asked.

"What about Steve?"

"He got recalled a couple of days ago. Got his orders in the mail."

"Fuck, I did too!", he shouted into the phone. "They got me. They got me."

**

As the weeks and months tick off the calendar, the game of Russian Roulette claims more soldiers foolish enough to play. It was nearly manageable to keep the thoughts of recall at bay before my friends started to get sucked in. Now, a family in in the suburbs of Chicago is contemplating what the future might bring for their son. The same is happening in the hills of Ohio and in cities and towns across the country. The burden that veterans carry may lessen, but it comes back with a terrible vengeance. All it takes is one envelope to throw a life off a path that was so delicately created in the humid and dust-choked outposts of Iraq.

The Weblog Awards Draw to a Close

2009-01-14T00:11:00.000-06:00

Faithful readers,

Earlier today, the 2008 Weblog Awards closed, with Michael Yon once again the winner of the Best Military Blog category. Send your congratulations to him by visiting his fine blog.

A big thank you goes out to everyone that supported my efforts by voting the past week. I placed third because of people sending e-mails, posting threads on message boards and getting family and friends riled up. Hell, there was even a Facebook group started by Lauren's sister to help the cause. Thank you a thousand times over to everyone that read, commented and voted the past week. Though I placed third, I was glad to be in the running with a great group of guys. A special nod goes to Big Tobacco for his great showing as the new kid on the block.

The top three:

1. Michael Yon - 4,318
2. Blackfive - 3,320
3. Army of Dude - 1,650

Thank you all once again. Keep an eye on this space for new posts in the future.

-Alex

Sensing Combat: Taste

2009-01-11T14:49:00.000-06:00

(This is the fifth and final part of a series. Scroll down below for the previous entries.)

The high-pitched squeal of the Stryker engines stretched along the dusty back road on the edge of the Diyala River Valley. One by one, the ramps dropped to reveal squads of infantrymen under the strain of heavy equipment needed in counterinsurgency operations: shotguns, bolt cutters, pry bars and shoulder fired rockets. Food and water are transformed into luxuries as assault packs were stuffed with extra ammunition magazines and grenades instead of bottles of water and meal rations. The beleaguered soldiers filtered into the palm groves one by one, gaining a foothold before an all-out clearing mission began to destroy pockets of resistance. Assaults into enemy-held territory in the heart of Baqubah yielded numerous caches and dead insurgents, cut to ribbons by rifle and machine gun fire in the beginning days of the Battle of Baqubah. Intelligence suggested that more caches and insurgent bases were hidden in the dense and humid date palm groves that engulfed the banks of the Diyala River Valley. As I stepped off the road and into the jungle, the hum from the Stryker engines became more distant and muted as I made my way through the bush. Twenty yards in, the Strykers could not be heard at all. Our evacuation, our makeshift homes, our lifeblood - cut off by thick foliage. The wind pierced the canopies of the trees, rustling fiercely in the afternoon sun.

I only had room in my assault pack for two bottles of water. The third sat in my open cargo pocket, sploshing quietly with each lunge over the slippery irrigation ditches etched deep into the ground. The sun hung low in the cloudless March sky, pounding the earth with its merciless rays. The mission was to last from early morning to sunset, so I had to be careful and ration the three liters of water throughout the day. The water bottle in my cargo pocket was accessible but awfully warm. After every security halt I put the bottle to my lips, the torrid water bringing little relief to my quickly overheating body. Despite the revolting taste of near boiling water, I finished my last drop halfway through the day. My dry throat ached for relief as my body sweat out liquids that had no replacement. Dehydration was quickly becoming a threat.

Over the crest of a hill brought heavenly solace. Lush orange trees towered above the afternoon patrol. Low hanging oranges and grapefruits were ripe for the picking as we walked along the occasional dirt path. I filled my cargo pockets with oranges, peeling them as we continued our push into the valley. On a security halt, I gingerly bit into a slice, sending cool, bitter juice into my throat. They didn't taste much like the sweet and crisp Florida oranges found in a grocery store. They were sharp and tart, the juice reminiscent of a dry Chianti rather than Tropicana. The fruit was too sour to eat whole, so I sucked out the juice and flung the leftovers into the tall grass. As the orange trees became less frequent, I stocked up on the last few ripe specimens as we marched slowly to the river.

Some good ones fell into the muck

**

Combat is a difficult thing to get across in conversation far removed from the battlefield. The hardest part is relating what it feels like, smells like, sounds like to be in a war zone for fifteen months or longer. The gap of understanding between civilians and veterans is a hard one to overcome without an insight into what exactly those in the military are perceiving when they are off in a faraway land. I hope these small vignettes provided, at the very least, a glimpse into what young men and women are experiencing in Iraq and Afghanistan as you read these words. A combat deployment is, among other things, an assault on the senses that carry on long after a soldier returns home. As the years pass, it will be the sights, the sounds and the smells of war that remain most vividly in the memories of those who have taken that long journey to Hell and back again.

Next post on the weekend

2009-01-08T18:54:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow morning I have to be at work ridiculously early, so I'm going to hold off on my final post in the sense series until the weekend. Thanks to everyone who has been following the series so closely and voting so diligently.

Speaking of voting, I'm proud to be in a category where everything has remained exceptionally civil. Other blogs are turning the voting into a circus. Though I'm getting curb-stomped into oblivion by Mike Yon and Blackfive, it's good to just be in the running.

Sensing Combat: Touch

2009-01-08T01:03:00.000-06:00

(This is part four of a five part series. Scroll down for the previous entries.)

**

I'm a left hander living in a right hand world. I learned that the hard way in elementary school when, in the big box of scissors for the class, only one or two left handed scissors could be found. Most of the time they were loose and coated with rust, practically unusable anyway. When I scribbled out words in a pathetic attempt at handwriting, it would smear across the page and on the underside of my hand. In gym class when we played baseball, everyone got a baseball glove to fit their appropriate hand. I had to catch with my left hand, take off the glove and then throw the ball. Needless to say, I wasn't the first one picked on the team.

My abnormality followed me all the way to Iraq. As a private I was handed an M4 and a 203 grenade launcher attached to it. It became my weapon for my entire enlistment. Sadly, the Army does not issue ambidextrous rifles. Shell casings fire out of the ejection port on the right side of the weapon, which is an unfortunate trait for someone that likes to put their face up close to the sight. During firefights, piping hot shell casings would eject into my cheekbone, leaving circular marks on the side of my face. The sting subsided after awhile, but the marks remained for hours.

**

"Get ready to dismount!"

The Stryker came to a stop in a muddy Baghdad intersection. I had been in the airguard hatch on the half-hour ride up. Half of my body was exposed to the cold, biting wind that rolled across the top of the vehicle. A light drizzle started the morning off, but as we approached our dismount point, the rain began to subside, leaving behind massive mudholes and puddles everywhere. I asked Payday to attach a crowbar to my back by slipping it into jerry rigged zip-tie rings on my armor. He slid the whole thing into the bottom ring, leaving the crowbar hanging down to my knee. There was no time to fix it; the ramp was already dropping.

As the first one out of the vehicle, it was my job to lead to the first house to gain a foothold in the area. That meant jumping over a rather sizable shit stream. It looked doable - I jumped over plenty bigger in my day. I backed up to get a running start, stepped forward and lept-

As I left the ground, the crowbar lifted up and slammed into the back of my leg, sending me off balance and into the shit river.

I miserably crawled out of the muck, everything below my shins covered in freezing sludge. I prayed that it wouldn't seep into my boots as I got up in shame after my epic fall. As I walked down the street, my worst fears were realized: my feet started to become soaked in the cold septic water. Each step carried a loud squish squish as my socks sopped up the excremental liquid. My feet began to freeze. It was only 45 seconds into the mission and I was already miserable.

As my squad walked along courtyard walls down the street, I trailed behind, dragging my left leg up against the wall in an effort to wipe away the sludge that stuck to my pants and boots. The rough, uneven concrete scraped my wet skin through my pants. It hardly did anything. The black muck remained on my leg as a pungent reminder of my fall.

We rounded the corner and made our way into a dress maker's factory, where I had a brilliant idea. A heap of cloth scraps were kept in the corner ready to be tossed out. While the factory was being searched, I held a scrap tight and ran it down my leg like a squeegee to get the biggest chunks off. But there wasn't enough time to take off my boots and wring out my socks. Even as the hours ticked away, the crisp winter air didn't allow my feet to dry. Throughout the day I carried my wet and wrinkled feet as a frigid reminder of one wrong misstep.




Some shit rivers were too big to jump

Sensing Combat: Smell

2009-01-07T02:01:00.000-06:00

(This is part three of a five part series. Scroll down for the previous entries. And vote, damnit!)

***

Some doors are more stubborn than others. A particular door in Baghdad was the bane of my squad's existence. On a routine clearing mission where every single house had to be searched and searched thoroughly, a reinforced door stood to deny the mission's success. Nothing could bring it down - kicks, shotgun rounds, the old fashioned shoulder charge. The door's metal frame rejected all modes of entry. My squad leader Lee was determined to simply pry the frame out of the cinderblock wall after all other measures failed.

In the cramped courtyard, the whole squad stood around the doorway to watch the ongoing madness of the insurmountable door. Jeun, a super quiet Korean guy from the Bronx, stood behind Lee as he put all of his weight into the pry bar and pulled back. The frame gave way and sent Lee tumbling backward. Jeun, seeing 200 pounds of Alabama fury coming toward him, gingerly stepped out of the way. Lee rolled into the corner and stepped right into an open septic tank, drenching his leg up to his shin in jet black tar. My first reaction was to laugh, but with Lee's famously short temper, I stifled my giggles. Instead I gave him a bottle of water to wash his leg off. The smell that carried off of him made me gag almost instantly.

That same sweet, thick smell of shit swirls around just about every street in Iraq. The country has no plumbing infrastructure in place, so citizens have to be clever about waste disposal. From porcelain bowls in the floor, plastic tubes filter waste into the street where it pools with the waste from other houses on the street, creating puddles and streams of liquid excrement that bake and ferment under the desert sun. It takes a while to grow accustomed to a pungent smell that mingles with rotting garbage (surprise: no modern trash collection either).

The smell, overwhelming in the first couple of months, tends to wear away as the days drag on. Digging up bodies that had been rotting in the ground for 42 days brought a smell only marginally worse than the open sewers of the street. The odors were so strong that I have not been able to smell as well since. I feel like I have a permanent head cold when it comes to using my olfactories.

Anyone up for a dip?

If only cameras could capture smell

***

Putting rounds into an insurgent's body always brought back memories of Fourth of July in my backyard. Lighting Black Cats and M80s and watching them pop in the air. Setting a pinwheel up on the fence and waiting for it to start its furious spin in an explosion of color and sound. The smell of gunpowder would hang in a cloud of lazy smoke long after the fireworks were expended. The same smell from childhood came rushing back during firefights as spent shell casings went flying through the air, ejected from the bolt in a spurt of gas and sent tumbling toward the ground.

When in the confines of a room, the sulfur smell attaches to everything: clothes, armor, gloves. It's not an attractive smell; inhaling too much of the gas coming out of the barrel will send your head spinning. But the smell is addicting. Once it permeates throughout the air, you can't wait for the next time it fills your nostrils and ignites the rest of your senses. The scent of war is remarkably the same as an American childhood in the summer, waiting for the next opportunity to set off explosions in brilliant displays of color and sound while the musk of gunpowder settles on the warm wind.

Sensing Combat: Sight

2009-01-06T02:00:00.000-06:00

(This post is part two in a five part series. See the previous post: Hearing. And don't forget to vote!)

**

"Put your fucking NODS down, Horton."

For the hundredth time, my platoon sergeant whisper-yelled at me to put my night vision goggles back over my eye. I resented every second that I had to peer through the muddy neon green peephole so I could stumble my way through the dark. While boosting the ability to see further in the dead of night, night vision plays a dangerous game with depth perception. When focused on objects close up, things around you (like the ground) appear to be more distant than they actually are. When tweaked to see further, objects up close take on a fish-eye appearance; everything appears rounded and blurry. After being scolded yet again for my reluctance to use my equipment, I shoved the bright green monocular lens into my eye and followed after my team leader.

Walking through a field strewn with garbage and septic waste, it isn't clear what is solid ground and what is a cesspool of festering human feces when looking through night vision. I used my team leader as a pathway guinea pig: anywhere he stepped in shit, I would walk around with boots free of black sludge. Just feet in front of me, Matt walked cautiously along, probing with his foot for stable soil. He made it nearly halfway across the field before he appeared to shrink nearly a foot, letting a quiet "FUCK!" slip out before pulling half his leg out of excremental quicksand. I lifted up my goggles to see where he had fallen prey. A septic wasteland the size of a swimming pool, and he barely slipped into the edge of it. It glistened under the moonlight but looked like ground through night vision. He never saw it coming.

Payday made it through the field, but not unscathed (look at his right foot for the dreaded poop boot)

"Did you fucking see that?"

Sadr City was almost a mythical fortress of pure evil to us. Deadly battles with Shiite militias raged there after the invasion, and by the winter of 2006 it was completely off limits to any coalition force. It was simply too dangerous to walk into. Instead, the higher-ups insisted that we probe the physical boundary of Sadr City by setting up a position across the street from where the neighborhood began. To nestle up to the hornet's nest before throwing a big fucking rock at it.

Staring over the scattered brown houses in Sadr City became a paranoid frenzy. Little old ladies doing their laundry on a rooftop looked perfectly ordinary anywhere else in Baghdad. In Sadr City limits they could have been men setting up mortar tubes and machine gun positions. Kids playing soccer in the street seemed to be giving our position away to insurgents waiting in ambush. Nothing was as it appeared to be.

It took only twenty minutes for a brave yet dumb insurgent to climb to the roof of a house across the street and open fire on us. With a spray of AK-47 rounds he shot up the wall below our position, eliciting a measured response of rifle and machine gun fire that peppered the doorway he stood in. It wasn't clear if he had died in the initial wave of fire, so we kept shooting until either blood or body became apparent. I glanced down to street level to ensure the shootout wasn't a distraction for something bigger while we were distracted by a single guy with an AK . Out of nowhere, an elderly man came walking out of his house with a plastic chair in tow. As rounds crackled thirty feet above him, he positioned his chair at the midway point between Baghdad and Hell and took a seat as the firing continued unabated.

"Dude. Did you fucking see that?" I yelled to Bill over the din of semi-automatic fire.

"See what?" he shouted back.

"Some old dude...just watching this shit."

"Nah."

In flashes of combat, one sees very little of what is actually going on. The most anyone can perceive is tiny flickers of human motion caught in a whirlwind of sensory overload. But if you look in the right place at the right time, you might see something that no one ever noticed.

The man quickly walked back into his house after the firefight ended. There was nothing left to see that morning. Surrounded by spent shell casings and the smell of gunpowder swirling in the air, our eyes went back to Sadr City to watch for anything else the fortress might have in store for us.

The polls are open!

2009-01-05T18:02:00.000-06:00

Voting has begun for Best Military Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards. Please go here to vote! Remember, you can vote once per 24 hours, so come back every day this week to vote again. Don't forget to spread the word to your friends and family as well.

New posts will be added early in the morning every day this week, so stop by often to check out new material. Thanks, and happy voting.

Sensing Combat: Hearing

2009-01-05T00:31:00.001-06:00

(Author's note: Voting for the Best Military Blog begins today. Go here to vote.)

"So, what's Iraq like?"

For the number of times that question has been asked since I've come home from Iraq, it remains one of the great unanswered questions of my life (Why are we here? and Why did they cancel Arrested Development? are up there as well). I have to closely consider my audience before I answer. Most people pose the question to confirm their suspicions or bias about the war and the military. If they lean right, they want to hear how many Iraqis thanked me for their new found freedom, or they want to find out if Iraq is safer than the inherently evil media portrays it. If they lean left, they want to hear about how much it sucked being a tool in George Bush's war for oil. In nearly all cases it leads to the same place: getting a leg-up on their friends in a discussion of the war by saying, "I know a guy in Iraq who said..."

Thankfully some are genuinely interested in what it was like being in Iraq at the height of the surge. Yet I still find it difficult to describe it beyond seven words: It's hot and it smells like shit. A million little things need to be described before one thing is explained, especially to a civilian that knows very little about combat and the military. It is this disconnect where a good description of what actually goes on in Iraq fails. I intend to remedy this. For the next week I'm going to describe in detail the feeling of being in Iraq using the five senses as a guide. As rockumentary director Marty DiBergi might have put it, I want to capture the sights, the sounds...the smells of deployed life.

***

Hearing

The most awful sound in Iraq is what we would hear five times a day like clockwork. From the mosques and high, cylindrical minarets all over the city, megaphones boomed with prayers. Often they reflected the mood within the city itself. If things were going well and firefights were at a minimum, the prayers would be said with a neutral voice. If a lot of violence was flaring up, the voice became angry and belligerent, almost like a call to action to fight against us. If anything the prayers were bewildering and a bit scary to young soldiers thrust into an entirely different culture. The droning voice blanketing the city could be anyone; an imam lobbying for peace or an insurgent sending out a war cry. We couldn't tell the difference.

The prayers at night were particularly unsettling. In Mosul we developed a strategy to insert small teams to watch areas where IEDs were typically planted. No more than ten men infiltrated a house in the middle of the night to set up a position. We effectively immersed ourselves in the city hoping to remain undiscovered. At night the prayers went on as scheduled, but I could never sleep through them. To me, the prayers sounded like the ramblings of the undead.

Hat-tip to Dozer for the video

***

"Is that a dude?"

"I think it's a dead dude."

On a patrol through Baqubah, someone spotted a couple of guys dressed in black running around on a rooftop. Black is the color of choice for insurgent attire, and it was apparent they were up to no good. Our platoon set up shop in an abandoned school about 300 meters away and quickly positioned machine guns in the open windows before the insurgents had a chance to set up weapons of their own.

Crack-crack-crack!

The machine guns erupted, sending a volley of rounds that crashed into the brick building and blew apart the previously sharp-dressed men. It was unknown if the house they were in contained any more nefarious characters, so a helicopter was called in to level the house with a Hellfire missile. Before they could fire, they had to be certain what house to destroy. The machine guns continued to rake the outside of the house to confirm the insurgent's location, setting it up for the missile:

The video shows a proportionate amount of action versus bullshitting that you're likely to hear during a deployment. Short bursts from a pair of machine guns and a Hellfire missile slamming into a house give way to a casual conversation about dead insurgents hanging out of a hole on the roof.

I have a feeling my hearing won't be so great in twenty years. Almost daily a sharp piercing tone will overtake my left ear (my firing side) for a minute or so. Earplugs are recommended but unacceptable for the common grunt to wear. Hearing is perhaps the most valuable sense to a soldier on patrol or in a firefight, giving the ability to pinpoint incoming enemy fire or an approaching enemy's footsteps. In less extreme cases, however, your ears can be used to enjoy Pink Floyd while watching the desert endlessly drift on.

2008 Weblog Awards Finalists Announced

2008-12-31T18:13:00.000-06:00

When I started this blog over two years ago, I never imagined my audience would grow beyond my family and friends. I hardly read blogs back then, but if I did I still called them websites. After writing my first post, I had no idea I was entering a large realm of military bloggers.

Flash forward two years and I'm once again a nominee for Best Military Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards. Like last year, the competition will be tough. Last time I was naive about going up against Blackfive and Michael Yon, both godfathers of the milblogging community. Now I know all too well their influence. But I'm more in tune with the community this year. The War on Big Tobacco is a finalist and I'm proud to call him a friend. He's also the only deployed blogger in the competition, armed with a unique writing style he likes to call sargeasmic. His female readers will confirm the effectiveness of his prose, amongst other things.

Like me, Big Tobacco realizes the importance of winning this competition. He and I are both trying to make a career out of this whole writing thing, and a blog award can only help finding a publishing agent. Even though he's relatively new to the scene, Big Tobacco has amassed a following that will be hard to beat. It should be a good competition this year.

I hope to at least bring it home for Team Enlisted this year. Blackfive and ~~Michael Yon~~ are former officers while Big Tobacco and I are/were enlisted men, the working class of the soldiering profession.

Voting will begin next Monday and will last one week. As polls become available, I will post the full list of nominees here. Don't forget to check back often for new posts and new banners throughout the voting process.

Loose Interpretation

2008-12-25T00:40:00.001-06:00

"Battle Five, Battle Five, this is White 7 Romeo. Radio check, over."

"Roger out."

Besides the soft, quiet hum of the radio at my side, there wasn't a sound in the makeshift combat outpost in the heart of Old Baqubah. After an impossibly long day of patrolling in the summer heat, we bedded down in an occupied house to await the next groundhog day of patrols, weapons cache destruction and ubiquitous firefights. At sundown we had filled a filthy kitchen sink with ice to cool down bottles of water and Gatorade. Hours later, only a warm pool remained in the sink, the bottles offering little relief from the torrid wind that swirled in from the open front door. It was barely fifteen minutes into my one hour watch when my eyelids began to betray my only task: to keep my sleeping platoon safe from anyone who might come through the courtyard gate.

A faint metal-on-metal clanking sound drew me out of my lethargy. It came from the other side of the courtyard wall. Was it the intermittent rustling of an unknown intruder? Jolted out of my chair and out of my loose and sweat-soaked boots, I reached for my short barreled shotgun. Without boots and body armor, I crept slowly to the wall, my feet leaving behind moist footprints barely noticeable under the silver glow of a full moon. With my platoon resting for a few precious hours inside the house, I had but two lifelines with me. One was the ten pound clunker of a radio. The other was the shotgun I held in my hands. I racked it as slowly as possible, the sound of double-aught buckshot shells rubbing against the chamber barely audible. I thumbed the safety on top of the weapon to red. The noise on the other side of the wall grew louder and more menacing. I stepped on top of an empty barrel, one hand on the shotgun pistol grip and the other on the courtyard wall. Taking one last deep breath, I stood up and swung the shotgun over the wall and pointed the barrel at what was making the noise: a piece of sheet metal rattling in the wind against a steel cabinet. My paranoia assuaged, I stepped down off the barrel, put the shotgun on safe and walked back to the chair. My senses heightened, I listened as the metal clanking blended with the radio static and counted the seconds until my watch was over.

***

Make no mistake: the Army owns your ass even when you're not in it anymore. When you sign an enlistment contract for three, four or five years, there is a period of inactive service tacked on for a total of eight years. Once you leave active duty, you are placed in the Individual Ready Reserve (IRR). At any time and without warning, an inactive soldier is subject to recall and mobilization for a deployment. The reason is simple: in times of emergency, a pool of trained soldiers is readily available to once again answer the call of duty.

Reality, of course, is not so simple. While the ashes of September 11th were still warm, it was pledged that this nation would fight its enemies abroad, its will redoubled in the fires of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Our government declared a global war to combat our enemies with the American people behind the military every step of the way. But a call to arms was not sounded from the White House. There was no effort to get young men and women into recruiting stations, only a suggestion from President Bush to go to Disney World instead of the mountains of Afghanistan. A wise man once said: You go to war with the military you have and not the military you want. It soon became a doctrine instead of a red flag of personnel shortage. You cannot fight a war without soldiers. With recruitment down and units constantly rotating in and out of Iraq and Afghanistan, it became clear that the demand for warm bodies far outweighed the supply. The National Guard and Reserve were tapped. Where to turn?

Before the Pentagon raided the IRR cookie jar in 2004, fears were calmed by recruiters and career counselors. If a recruit had a question about the IRR and the chances of getting recalled, the standard line given was, "Only if World War III breaks out." It was generally regarded as an absurd possibility to get recalled, thrown back into active duty and sent to a war zone. These days, career counselors have changed their tactics. Instead of characterizing an involuntary recall as a remote possibility, they will tell a soldier with a straight face that there is no escape from the looming shadow of the IRR.

***

"You might not want to pack just yet, but I would get ready."

A single sentence from my father on the other end of the phone was enough to send my head spinning, every drop of blood drained from my face. It was spring, and I had just moved from Seattle to Austin for school and began working in a warehouse for a wine distributor. All of my Army records listed my parent's house as my mailing address. Without notice, two Army career counselors on the hunt for inactive troops showed up at my parents' doorstep looking for me. They were dressed in sharp combat uniforms and wanted to discuss with me the possibility of joining the Army Reserves. If I did not, they warned my father, I would be on my way to being recalled.

"He's 11-Bravo infantry, a trigger puller," the ranking sergeant grumbled to my father. "His job is in high demand and infantry will be the first they recall." The only way to keep me from getting deployed again, they insisted, was to join the reserves with a guarantee to not be deployed for at least a year. "It'd be the smart thing to do," he said. I knew the line well, but I wasn't a trigger puller anymore. I was trying to make a home somewhere else, far from where the Army could interfere with the lives of my family. I sat alone, crumpled and defeated. What if they were right?

***

It was no accident they spoke in such a way that made my dad feel uneasy about the prospect of me going back to Iraq involuntarily. Since recalls became routine four years ago, government civilians and military counselors have used the same fear tactics to push soldiers to their breaking point with the veiled threat of recall. Other tactics are beginning to emerge, however. Not long after the two counselors showed up at my parent's door decked out in combat fatigues, two different counselors showed up again, both of them women dressed in casual civilian clothes. They were much more informal than the previous pair, keeping recall talk to a minimum yet sticking to their insistence that I take a look at the reserves. Some counselors are more nefarious. One even suggested that with the election of Barack Obama, two years is enough time to avoid a deployment since we'll be out of Iraq anyway. Shit, sign me up. Does it come with a juicer?

***

"This area is under surveillance by undercover police."

The banner, hanging low over a street a few blocks away, lets everyone know who is watching. My neighborhood is not a shining example of safe city life; prostitutes keep an eye out for potential johns within spitting distance of my front door step while stray dogs roam the streets in small, desperate packs. Drug deals are made under the few trees that line the intersection. While Lauren and I were moving in, a friendly old woman welcomed us to the neighborhood with a stern warning. "Be careful to always lock up and don't set any patterns," she said. "People on this street will watch you until they recognize a pattern, then they'll rob you," she added, her smile still intact. "Happened just last week."

I never owned a gun until that weekend. I went out and bought a pistol for home defense. I had an irrational fear of burglars since I was young, terrified to come home from elementary school by myself. Most of the time I waited for my older sister's bus to drop her off before I spent an unbearable few seconds alone. When I was brave enough to be in the house by myself, I was armed with a large steak knife, hoping the time wouldn't come where I would have to shove the tip into an intruder. It was inconceivable for my ten year old mind, the feeling of slicing open another person. Years later, I have no trouble with the thought of putting bullets into someone, sending brain matter scattering across the floor or plastered onto the wall in a fine pink mist. I'm a trigger puller after all. Or I used to be.

The first few months in the house didn't feel the least bit dangerous despite our seedy surroundings. I could usually count on a good night's sleep even with the bass from passing cars shaking the windows and nightly block parties blasting mariachi music. But the noises come back, and with it, the paranoia. Five times a night, ten times a night, I'm drawn out of sleep by sudden creaks and cracks around the house. One night, a pounding on the window sent Lauren and I five feet into the air and me scrambling for my gun. After chambering a round, I bent the blinds back slightly to peer out the window. The wind was knocking a trash can lid into the window with each powerful gust. Relieved but not yet calm, I went outside and secured the lid. It took me a long while to find the right state of mind to sleep again.

***

Hearing things on watch in Iraq. The constant torment of waiting for recall orders. Looming noises in a broken down neighborhood. All took place thousands of miles away and months apart from each other, yet they all produce the same feeling of despair and malignant desperation. The battle for peace in a soldier's mind isn't settled in the streets of Iraq or the mountains of Afghanistan. It's waged for months and years later in cycles of inner reflection that can take a lifetime to interpret. With the possibility of recall hanging overhead like a dark, lurid cloud, that interpretation is sped up until it crashes head on with a stark realization: I could be going back to face those demons once again. If my time comes to accept recall orders and inevitable mobilization, so it goes. I always told my friends that I'd ignore the orders and not show up. Why do the job I've already done, that so many have resisted for seven years? But my obligation towers above that line of selfish reasoning. I've been out of the Army for a little more than a year now. I'd have a hell of a time waking up everyday at 5:30 and my infantry tactics might be a little rusty. But I haven't forgotten how to pull a trigger if the time comes for me to do it once more. I just hope that I can face the unseen terror that hides in the night.

On Strykers

2008-11-20T20:21:00.001-06:00

For every ten silly questions I get about the Army and being in Iraq ("Are there any hot chicks?" being the most practical), I get one good natured, serious question. One that keeps coming up is, "What is a Stryker?" I have a hard time answering that question if the person asking is not familar with military hardware. I usually describe it as a smaller tank (it isn't) or like an armored bus. More informed folks are satisfied with the answer of it being an APC (armored personnel carrier). But because it has only been in combat for five years, little is known about the Stryker outside of the military community. Hopefully I can shed just a little light on this.

Forward thinking propelled the Stryker into 21st century warfare. Its necessity rises from the philosophy that big, conventional tank-on-tank wars were a Cold War relic and unconventional, smaller wars were going to be all the rage. Egghead thinking prevailed if Iraq and Afghanistan are any indication.

The Stryker is an eight-wheeled armored infantry carrier specifically designed for urban conflict. Its thinner armor relative to the Bradley and Abrams Main Battle Tank gives it the mobility and speed needed to meet unconventional threats. Think blitzkrieg meets mujaheddin. Unlike the Brad and Abrams, the Stryker sits on top of eight huge tires, each capable of running completely flat. For defense, each Stryker is fitted with either a .50 cal machine gun or a Mk-19 grenade launcher, fed by linked grenades for automatic fire. The Mobile Gun System variant, in contrast, boasts a 105mm cannon. In combat, the armor can stand .50 cal fire but crumbles under the explosions of RPG fire. To combat this effect, a cage was built around the vehicle. Slat armor is just narrow enough to force the warhead to explode several feet from the Stryker, displacing deadly shrapnel.

Bottom center: Slat armor

The most common variant is the Infantry Carrying Vehicle, the kind I rode in for my entire enlistment. A vehicle commander guides the driver, the squad leader observes from the front, and two men in the back watch the flanks of the vehicle. With retrofitted armor, these positions leave the soldiers vulnerable from the neck up or the chest up, depending on the defilade. Inside, two benches seat three men on one side and four on the other. Situations on the ground dictated how many men could be crammed into a moving vehicle in combat. Seventeen fully armored men and one dog was the unofficial platoon record. Some have asked me what it's like to ride in a Stryker. Here's your answer:

Diehards of OPSEC, I hope you are pleased. I edited out our terp and super duper tech equipment. Credit goes to Dozer for the video. Shauu!

When the Stryker was first in combat in 2003, pundits, analysts and dudes stuck in the 80s were falling over themselves to declare the Stryker a failure. In actuality, it has risen from a strange new vehicle to a must have in combat.

The Stryker is the only vehicle in the American arsenal capable of dropping a fully equipped squad onto an insurgent's doorstep, and it will do it quietly. My brigade earned the nickname Ghostriders in its first deployment for their ability to sneak into neighborhoods in the silence of night, nab potential bad guys and leave unnoticed. As a weapons platform, Strykers have the ability to have three barrels and a crew served weapon pointed at any direction at any given time.

Modern COIN doctrine requires that two Stryker brigades operate in Iraq at any given time. It's a testament to the ferocious tenacity of Stryker soldiers to bring the fight to the enemy at every turn. It's no coincidence that Strykers have led in nearly every major campaign since the invasion. From Tal Alfar and Mosul in 2003-2004, to Baghdad in 2006 and Diyala Province from 2007 to present, Strykers have been in the thick of it. In Baqubah, IEDs became such a nuisance that we only used the vehicles for infiltration and exfil. Still, we were able to subdue most of the city before reinforcements arrived months later. It is clear that it isn't only the Strykers that make a difference, but the soldiers inside of them. No fight was tougher in 2007 than the battle for Baqubah, and it was conducted with a minimal amount of vehicle support. The capital of al-Qaeda in Iraq was toppled by Stryker soldiers, never deterred over the loss of the vehicle itself.

Strykers are the future of the Army, if it isn't already clear. The days of tank-on-tank warfare are over, and no other unit is better prepared to fight a sustained battle than a Stryker brigade. Yet Strykers are hardly recognized for helping to turn the tide in Iraq despite the 3rd Stryker Brigade leading in both Baghdad and Diyala Province, places that were hotly contested by both American and insurgent forces for the past several years. If anything, the early critics of the Stryker can be finally silenced as it becomes the centerpiece of American counterinsurgency operations.

The most important part of a Stryker unit

AH

That Time of the Year

2008-11-19T22:05:00.001-06:00

It's fall again. The leaves are turning a golden brown, the Texas weather is still trying to decide what to do, and of course, the Blog Awards are full-on. Once again, faithful readers have tossed my name into the ring, so I thought I'd post this for anyone else wanting to contribute:

Click on the image above to go directly to the military blog nomination page, scroll to the bottom and add your own comment or simply click the "+" icon next to a nomination you want to second.

All the usual suspects like Michael Yon and Blackfive are listed, but more importantly are the new guys that have made a name for themselves. Big Tobacco is a must-read while LT Nixon is the most informed libertarian ever to own less than fifty guns. If I'm fortunate to become a finalist once again this year, I hope it is with those fine fellows. Then it can be assured that civility and good sportsmanship will rule the day instead of, well, this.

Voting will begin some time in December, so I'll keep you all posted.

AH

Edit 11/22: Nominations are closed. Thanks to all who nominated me!

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day...

2008-11-11T11:00:00.000-06:00

In my classroom, I sit toward the front, flanked by students on opposite sides of the room. Their thumbs move in a mindless text message symphony, waiting for class to start. Their hair and clothes are impeccable. As the instructor walks in and greets us, the two students don't look up to say hello. They instead respond with a deafening click-click-click-click. I almost feel like apologizing for them.

Are these the people I chose to surround myself with?

Every day that goes by is a day apart from the men of second platoon. I have replaced my battlefield peers with classrooms full of students that don't know the stories or even the names of each other. I haven't tried to make friends. Why bother? My friends are not in Austin. They're in Chicago, Brooklyn, Green Bay, San Diego. They're everywhere except here, carving out their own destinies. Our shared past becomes more of a distant memory as time goes on. In a month, we will have spent the same amount of time home as we did in combat. The last fifteen months have flown by like a fading dream. At least in war, time moved impossibly slow. You could really squeeze every minute out of a day.

Whether at work, school or home, I cannot go ten minutes without thinking of the men I came home with, or the men we brought back home. Like I've said before, every day is Memorial Day. Every day is Veterans Day. My entire being is seared by the tragedy and triumph of war, an invisible mark I wear at every waking moment. My life will be spent trying to sort out what happened out there in the desert, but today is a reflection on the men I served with, both living and dead. It's to pay respect to the uniform that millions of Americans have worn and will wear. When I'm in class and I inevitably begin to space out, I'll be thinking of Chevy and Jesse, their lives gone too soon. I'll be thinking of playing craps on the floor and poker on the table. I'll remember a time when stepping ankle deep into septic waste was barely the worst part of a day, and that first sip of cold water was always the best.

Ever seen college kids moon an attack helicopter? Didn't think so

These memories rushing back will not take place in a dimly lit bar outside Ft. Lewis or on a sweltering rooftop deep inside Diyala Province. They'll be within the confines of my own mind, tucked away in a classroom full of delicate, protected students that tend to forget we're still at war, that men are still not coming back home with their limbs and their lives intact. Veterans Day is not just for us, it's for everyone to remember, lest we forget the cost of war. Today I'll be thinking not just of the men I served with, but my family as well. My grandpa in the Korean War, my uncle in Vietnam and my father off the coast of Beirut and Grenada will all be on my mind.

If you're a veteran or a family member of one, please leave a comment telling a favorite story of yours.

AH

Election Night Open Thread

2008-11-04T19:02:00.000-06:00

I hope none of you have been looking to this blog as a source for news regarding the presidential election, as I tend to write about politics with a focus on military matters. I exhaustively covered the GI Bill issue, and I've touched on foreign policy a number of times when it pertains to the United States military. But tonight in an AoD first, I'd like to hear your thoughts on what it means for the future of active duty military and veterans when one man is elected president tonight - Barack Obama or John McCain, either through the lens of domestic policy or foreign policy. I'll be sitting here with plenty of Blue Moon on hand to witness history.

Feature in the St. Petersburg Times

2008-10-26T11:44:00.000-05:00

For all you AoD readers in the Tampa Bay area: pick up a copy of the St. Petersburg Times this afternoon. The Thing I Carried is in the feature section, likely buried somewhere near the back. And if you're wondering what I have to do with Florida, well, me too buddy. If you want to contribute to the death of newspapers (or simply don't live in America's Wang), you can read the full article here.

AH

And now, an important message

2008-10-19T11:50:00.000-05:00

I received a bit of feedback from my post about the feelings of coming home from a deployment, but a couple of emails asked for advice on the flip side of that coin - how to deal with a returning soldier. I've never set foot in an FRG meeting so I'm not familiar with the concerns and worries of wives and girlfriends of a deployed soldier. In any case, I hope this benefits the kind women who inquired and those out there that have unanswered questions gnawing away at them. Following are questions sent by women who have a romantic link to a deployed soldier, answered here not just for their benefit but for everyone in the same predicament.

How often do soldiers want to receive letters? (especially if you have rare access to internet/phone.)

The answer is simple: all the time, especially if contact by phone and internet is limited. Forget mp3 players, DVDs and X Box 360s- letters from home, and especially from a woman, provide the ultimate comfort and peace of mind to a soldier in a war zone. No matter how long a deployment feels, they're ultimately finite. The link back home must remain strong to keep a soldier's head level, and writing letters to them is instrumental. When a young lady named Lauren was writing to me, I treasured every letter sent, reading them over and over. They came with me everywhere. As long as there has been war, there have been letters sent from home to the men fighting as a delicate reminder of what was left behind.

Ideally, what do you want to hear from your friends?

This is a tough one. All my loser friends from home couldn't be relied upon to send an occasional e-mail while I was deployed. My only friends were to the left and right of me in Iraq. But if you're a better friend than what I had, let them know what you have planned for their return. If it's a party, a get-together with other friends, a getaway to a favorite spot, whatever. It provides something to look forward to, a familar setting for a place that will seem a world of difference when the soldier returns. A year, fifteen months, however long the deployment is - a lot has changed in society. Familiarity is key to reintegration. When I left, the coolest thing cell phones did was flip open. When I came back, phones had keyboards. It was incredible, strange and confusing all at the same time.

Be sure to keep them up to date with news. Toward the end of my deployment, we spent anywhere from 3-10 days in the urban wilderness of Baqubah. When we came back to the base, sweaty, filthy and exhausted, the only news we caught was at the dining facility, which was permanently set on Fox News. I could only rely on Bill O'Reilly and Fox & Friends for news, which is like relying on a prostitute to give you safe-sex tips. Let them know what's going on in the world using whatever means you like - phone, emails or letters.

What do you NOT want to hear from your friends?

Don't ask obtuse questions like "how hot is it?" and "did you kill anybody?" It's offensive and flippant. Let them know how things are going in your life, but don't approach it as something they're "missing." They know. Don't press the issue.

What can a friend do to bring her soldier out of his darkness, besides consistent messages of support and willingness to listen or just sit with him?

Let them decide when to open up. It's not something to coerce out of him. He knows you'll listen intently with empathy and support. That's not the issue. The issue is him being comfortable enough with what he has seen and done to talk about it openly. It takes time, and unfortunately everyone is different regarding this issue. War does not leave anyone untouched, physically or mentally. Something about him will change. Your best bet is to recognize that and do your best to understand why the change happened. It could take six months or six years for him to come out of his shell. Be patient.

From another inquirer:

Is him wanting to be alone to decompress and adjust normal for someone coming home from war, even when you have loved ones who want to be with you?

This is a position of extremes. A soldier will either want to be surrounded by loved ones immediately, or he'll want to be alone to sort out his feelings. Everyone is different, so there's no real solution to this if he wants to do something contrary to your wishes. He knows what's best for him to do, so go along with it. Just be sure he doesn't get on that slippery slope of alcohol abuse. It happens like clockwork to returning units, and the first line of defense is other soldiers and loved ones. Keep an eye on him but don't be intrusive.

Hopefully this provides at least a shred of insight for those looking for answers during trying times. If you want answers to your own questions, either leave a comment or email me at hortonhearsit at hotmail dot com.

Also, this is my 100th post. Thanks for keeping up with me dear readers. It has been rewarding beyond belief to stick around this long.

AH

The Thing I Carried

2008-10-05T18:04:00.000-05:00

Out of the Army and into school. That was the simple two step plan that many of us adopted before we deployed in the summer of 2006. Nearly half of my platoon would be getting out if and when we made it back home from Iraq. We focused the best we could when it came to preparing for the mission, but there is no helping the excitement in the prospect of starting a new chapter of life on the government's dime.

In the run-up to the deployment, a lot of guys were buying their own equipment to take with them. It is generally accepted that government issued equipment is inferior to what you can go out and buy yourself. The assault pack was one of those things. It's just like a backpack except with a sweetass name. The only problem was the zipper sucked something fierce and it held no more than what a high school backpack could carry. I'm the kind of person to carry backups of everything. Extra knives, batteries, carabiners, socks. I needed to haul a lot more than what the issue assault pack could carry.

Jesse hooked our whole squad up with aftermarket equipment. His dad's company sponsored us with thousands of dollars to buy magazine and utility pouches, vests and other luxuries. Jesse budgeted himself enough to buy a new civilian assault pack. He didn't need his old one, so he gave it to me.

"You can use it for the deployment, but you have to give it back to me," he said. "But if you decide to reenlist, you can keep it."

"You'll definitely be getting it back," I replied.

I made the secondhand assault pack my own. It was worn out after one deployment but still held together fairly well. The bottom corner was tearing. Jesse had written his Hawaiian name, Keawe, in thick, black lettering on the front. I sewed on a nametape to cover it up. I wrote in small print 24 Nov 2007, the day I was getting out of the Army. It was below a message Jesse had written - For those who would NOT serve

In Baghdad, I carried my assault pack everywhere we went. It was becoming a routine to leave our base in Taji and spend up to a week in smaller bases in the heart of the city. We began to live out of our assault packs, bringing whatever we could stuff in there. Mp3 players, books, movies, chess sets, snacks. I carried all of Lauren's letters with me so I could read them over and over. The rain had stained the notebook paper blue and red.

Jesse was always asking me when I was going to get a girlfriend. On the day I was going on leave, Josh told him I had a girl writing to me in Seattle. While my platoon went out to check out insurgents loading weapons into a car, I stayed behind and told Jesse the unlikely story of our relationship. "Damn dude, good luck with that shit," he said.

Two weeks later, Jesse would be cut down by small-arms fire in Baqubah. He would survive some time before passing away. I could not possibly avenge him; I was two thousand miles away. I heard about his death in the most undignified way; a Myspace bulletin read in an internet cafe in Rome.

Coming back to Iraq after leave, I looked at Jesse's assault pack a lot differently. I still carried it with me everywhere, but I treated it a lot better. I no longer tossed it off the Stryker into the dust. I didn't shove it into small spaces on top of the vehicle. In the outposts where we lived, I used it as a pillow.

The assault pack is not an assault pack anymore. It's a backpack. I no longer stuff it with extra grenades, ammunition magazines or packages of Kool Aid. It now carries textbooks, calculators and pencils. I started my first classes a few months ago to fulfill the plan two years in the making. I imagined it to be a seamless transition into civilian life. Boy, I was fucking naive, even when I came home. I saw some guys falling apart from PTSD, getting drunk or doing drugs to drown it out. I thought I made it out okay, relatively.

With my unassuming tan backpack at my feet, I break out in a sweat if I even think about mentioning Iraq in the classroom. I let it slide nearly every time, yielding the topic to daftly opinionated classmates. I feel like a foreign exchange student, confused about the motivation of my peers. I literally carry the burden of readjustment on my back, not wanting to let go my past but anxious to get to the future. Fractured into part war veteran and part journalism student, who I am speaking to determines which part of me is actually there in the room. To many, my past is my best kept secret. For all they know, my parents pay my tuition and do my laundry. I can be honest here. It's terrifying to be honest out there. Perhaps it's best that way.

For those who would NOT serve - it's faded now, not easily read unless you look closely. I secretly wish that another veteran will read it, see the dangling 550 cord hanging from one of the buckles and ask, "what unit were you in?" At least then I could be myself with someone that carries the same load on their shoulders.

AH

Blogs of Note

2008-09-28T18:29:00.001-05:00

I've never been a big reader of military blogs. I started this one two years ago when I barely knew what a blog actually was, and I never thought there was a military subsection. The first time I ever heard of the biggest one, Blackfive, was from a Playboy article I read at my outpost in Diyala Province.

Now that I've been out of the deployed loop for awhile now, I've started to read more and more milblogs to satisfy my hunger for first person perspectives in Iraq, Afghanistan and the home front. The media has fallen flat on its face on covering the wars, from the bird's eye view to the grunt's eye view. Milbloggers have become the best reporters in the field, for good reason.

I've always thought it was a good thing to be proactive and spread the good word, so today I'll be starting a feature called Blogs of Note. Every so often, I'll link to deserving blogs, hoping to boost their traffic just a little. I'll try to keep it varied, from infantryman to sailors to just regular folks.

This week: Fobbits Need Ice Cream Too

For the uninitiated, fobbits are the miserable soldiers on a FOB (forward operating base) that are deployed for no clear purpose other than to guard gates, buy 50-inch TVs at the base exchange and take pictures of the desert sunset. If you do not leave the security of the wire on a semi-regular basis, congratulations, you're a fobbit.

Fobbits Need Ice Cream Too is written by Joe, a junior enlisted soldier in the National Guard. He's infantry, but the merciless gods that assign units to their area of operations had Joe's unit based in Kuwait. His job is simple: take outlandish amenities like ice cream, X Box 360s and folding lawn chairs across the border into Iraq to feed the never ending appetite for fobbits from Striker to Marez. They provide security for KBR truckers, usually Iraqi nationals that are working hard to run up Cheney's severance check. As any anonymous junior enlisted soldier would, Joe rails against the lazy assholes who depend on him to deliver their absurd spoils. He has no love for incompetent leaders above him or the pogue units that rule Kuwait with an iron PT belt. I found myself laughing hysterically at all the ridiculous things he goes through (endless formations because of graffiti are among the highlights. The offending word? Breastmilk.).

Joe is getting great buzz within the community for good reason. He's not swayed by politics or concerned with telling the most dramatic combat story. He recounts day to day life in combat, trials of incredible highs and devastating lows. If you want to immerse yourself in the view of the common grunt, look no further.

Money Post: Donkey IEDs, Flat Tires And Ramadan

AH

365: A Guide To Coming Back

2008-09-11T03:00:00.000-05:00

It was appropriate that my journey to Iraq ended like it began - on September 11. Six years earlier (September 2001) as a sophomore in high school, I had already made up my mind about joining the Army. The attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon simply sealed the deal. I didn't discuss what kind of job I wanted with my recruiter or the dude that signed my papers. I wanted to go infantry. I wanted to put a bullet in the heart of any Taliban that crossed my path. I wanted them to pay dearly with their lives.

As fate would have it, I wasn't bound for the mountains of Afghanistan but the septic waste strewn cities of Iraq. I don't regret for one second my experiences there, both of triumph and tragedy. My battalion led the way in perhaps the most daring offensive of the whole war to capture al-Qaeda in Iraq's self proclaimed capital of Baqubah. The men I had the utmost pleasure to serve with will be my closest friends until the day I die. It's all downhill from here; I'll never make new friends that are on the same level of the men I shared life, love and loss with during our fifteen month combat deployment.

This Friday marks one year since the bulk of my battalion landed outside of Tacoma, Washington. I wasn't fully prepared to have clean air infiltrate my lungs as as we departed the plane after nearly 24 hours of flying. Though nearly half of my fellow soldiers had one tour under their belts, it was difficult to anticipate how we would deal with coming home. With that said, I hope to be of assistance to those coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan by dishing out a bit of advice based on my experience of redeploying, getting out of the Army, finding a job and starting school.

Sensory Overload

-You'll notice right way that your senses are in overdrive, from hearing and vision to motor functions. As a result of keeping alert and constantly scanning, everything will be felt in high contrast. To test this, go to a club with loud rap music where everything used to be one loud noise. This time, you will hear several individual conversations and every note in Low by Flo Rida, which in this case isn't exactly a good thing.

-Loud noises are going to happen, and at first, you're going to either A: jump or B: pretend not to react. I opt for option B, which is useful working in a warehouse with other dudes. Any unexpected loud noise still drains the blood from my face. This will never go away. It will only be less frequent. Learn to deal with this new aspect of your life.

-When you get into a car for the first time, try to be in the passenger seat. I rode in a windowless Stryker for over a year, losing my concept of speed and distance after never going faster than 45 miles an hour. The first time I got on a highway, it felt like I was going down a runway in a fucking space shuttle.

-You're likely well aware of that rifle or pistol that you've been toting around for a year or more. You'll be glad to get rid of it, but you might wake up in the middle of the night and feel around for a weapon that isn't there. Luckily, this will go away.

The Public

-Dealing with the uninformed and apathetic public will be a frustrating ordeal if you trend left, right or middle. When I joined the Army in 2004, people were still in 'support the troops' mode, however superficial that support was. Just a few months after I came home, only 28% of the public could correctly identify the number of American soldier deaths in Iraq by rounding to the nearest THOUSAND. If you spent the last year fighting for your life in a place other than Baghdad, don't expect anyone to know where you were. As a bonus dose of ignorance, some might ask if you were deployed to Iran, like my first boss out of the military asked. Worse, if you were in Afghanistan, you might get the question, "we're still there?" To this day, I've only met only one civilian outside the news and political world that knew where Baqubah was. He was in his twenties, high as a kite and lived in Bellingham, Washington, a city so liberal that it makes Castro Street look like a Huckabee family reunion by comparison.

-After spending your career stateside preparing for combat, going over for the big show and returning home again, you might find it peculiar to see little or no indication there are two wars happening this very second. People are talking about high gas prices, the presidential election and who got eliminated on Project Runway (last week it was that douchey old lady, thankfully). Whether you get out of the military after your deployment or decide to stay in, the men and women that served by your side will be the only people you can comfortably discuss your experiences with. In my communications class, I can't bring myself to mention my time in Iraq when it's pertinent to the discussion because I simply feel out of place among the other students. Talking to my Army buddies, I feel fine asking, "remember when that guy on the motorcycle caught on fire and mother-fuckin' exploded?"

-While dodging sniper fire outside Sadr City, you might have missed the hoopla over the new GI Bill, the most important pro-veteran bill passed since, well, the original one in 1944. Of the two presidential candidates, only one of them voted for it, and his name rhymes with 'diorama.' Keep that in your back pocket.

Going Back

No matter your thoughts on the war and the military, you will want to go back. You will crave the adrenaline rush of a firefight and the intertwining smell of gunpowder and rotting trash under the desert sun. Compared to the civilian world, deployed life is resoundingly simple. You're not concerned with car payments, traffic, American Idol or getting your hair to do that flippy thing. In combat, you're looking to avoid your ass getting shot. You aren't worried about how many carbs you're eating but that you're eating more than once a day. Fuck Miller Lite and Jagerbombs when you're dropping iodine tablets in Iraqi water to make it safe to drink. It's wake, eat, patrol, kill, sleep. Over and over. When you get the bill for textbooks in your first semester and add it to your other costs, you'll realize how simple life used to be. And you'll crave it again. Everyone does whether they admit it or not. We were there not only making history, but writing it. Back in the states, you're another face in the crowd, paying taxes like every other sucker. Take away our guns and we're nothing. Not a damn thing.

On the flipside, life is sweeter coming out the other side. I'm still amazed to drive down the road, pick up groceries and arrive back safely. The satisfaction of a completed deployment will not lift any time soon. We have earned through blood and sweat a fresh, shrewd perspective on the world that many in our country are not afforded. It might not be apparent yet, but a whole lifetime of experience is crammed into a deployment. You have a different way of looking at things when you realize it was you at the other end of the sniper's scope. Life will forever be different, for better and for worse. But you certainly will enjoy it a hell of a lot more.

AH

For those who have deployed in any war or know someone who has, please feel free to leave a comment with your own advice on coming back home. Below are some resources for those coming back from a deployment and/or getting out of the military.

PTSD Resources
IRR Information
Veteran's Administration
GI Bill Information
USA Cares - Financial Assistance for Servicemembers

A Veteran's Case Against John McCain

2008-09-01T15:30:00.000-05:00

This November will mark the second time that I have been eligible to vote in a presidential election. I was barely nineteen years old when it came time to cast my ballot in 2004. Like any other teenager, I was clueless about the world of politics. I read only the front page of newspapers. I didn't know what a blog was, much less read them. It's safe to say that I was in the realm of the uninformed but not undecided; my parents were voting for George W. Bush. I shook his hand at a 5K in Dallas when he was still my governor. I figured that was good enough.

My vote wasn't cast in a school gym or a courthouse. I filled out my absentee ballot on the floor of my company area in the closing weeks of basic infantry training at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Though our superiors were to remain apolitical during the process and not recommend one candidate over another, it was our first foray into the belief that the military heavily favors conservatives. They told us how badly in shape Bill Clinton left the Army, and any liberal was sure to do it again. My drill sergeant, "Hurricane" Harris, told us the news of who won in an unusual way. He asked those who voted for Kerry to raise their hands. A few hands went up in an embarrassingly slow movement. "Well, he didn't win!" Hurricane proclaimed with a laugh. Most of us breathed a sigh of relief.

With an entire enlistment and a fifteen month tour in Iraq behind me, I'm a bit more in tune with politics and the candidates than I was four years ago. I consume news and information at an obsessive rate, but my attention is focused on veteran's issues and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I don't care about Obama's smugness or McCain's ridiculous amount of houses. I don't give a shit about Michelle's lack of patriotism or Cindy getting high on her own supply of painkillers. In the end, it comes down to the treatment of veterans and what to do with those sticky territories where we still have American soldiers under fire.

I really want to like John McCain. He gets automatic points for being a fellow veteran and his well-known experience of a POW for 5 1/2 years. He should know the VA system like the back of his hand, I imagine. But by the belief that conservatives will always have the military in the tank, they can afford to burn us when it comes to pro-veteran and pro-military legislation. Even if some of us notice their betrayals, we still make up a tiny constituency. To them, we don't hold any sway. Otherwise they wouldn't treat us like scraggly dogs - smacking our nose after tossing us the table scraps.

There are plenty of minuses in the column of John McCain regarding these issues, but I'll cover the main reasons he has turned me away from his vote this year.

1. Opposition to the new GI Bill

This is the big one, the vote where veterans watched with bated breath to see if a new GI Bill would replace the outdated and underwhelming education benefits package. The outcome was literally going to change lives. With its passing, veterans could attend any school they want and have it paid for. If it was struck down, only a fraction of tuition costs would be covered. It came to no surprise that the bill was extraordinarily well received by politicians in an election year, but there were a few unsurprising holdouts. President Bush and his administration opposed it as being overly generous. My own senator, John Cornyn, opposed it for the same reason. When I called his office to learn why, his aide offered nothing more than it would encourage too many people to leave the service (that claim was later destroyed by the same report they cited). Cornyn stood by McCain as he offered his own watered down, toothless counter-bill, an insult to veterans who didn't luck out and land a slot in a military academy. It was a pathetic attempt to derail popular support for Webb's bill.

When the time to vote came, only two senators sat it out. One of them was Ted Kennedy, at home recovering from his brain surgery. The other was John McCain. He managed to miss the vote not once but twice, his maverick image tarnished by not taking a stand with a vote after publicly opposing the bill. Much to the chagrin of Bush and McCain, the GI Bill passed resoundingly. But what followed after that was even more outrageous. Forgetting about the newfangled internet, McCain went out took credit for the GI Bill, using the imaginary transferability issue to claim victory:

A lot of people put work into the bill. Politicians like Jim Webb and Chuck Hagel wrote and carried the bill under fire from Bush. Veteran's organizations like Vote Vets, IAVA, the VFW and American Legion helped to raise public awareness about the bill and lobby Washington. McCain, on the other hand, had a simple choice: to stand with fellow veterans and get the bill done, or side with the conservatives he hoped to woo in the election. Clearly, he went with the latter while taking the credit of the former.

2. The Elephant in Afghanistan

For the life of me, I can't recall John McCain having any sensible plan for Afghanistan, a place more dangerous per capita than Iraq and with a fraction of the troops. While the surge brigades crowded Baghdad, Afghanistan demanded attention that still has not been met. Obama has pledged at least two brigades to be sent there, a decision that would immediately ease the chaos on the porous border with Pakistan. McCain cannot make that same pledge; those brigades would be tied up in Iraq waiting for that ever so vague moment of victory. We're starting to see the price of not enough eyes on the objective when bombs start falling. Our resources are elsewhere, and that hinders American forces in Afghanistan that are trying to keep a lid on escalating violence.

3. Underwhelming Voting Record

I'll let the numbers speak for themselves here. IAVA scored legislative voting in 2006 after identifying what would benefit active duty servicemen and veterans. McCain gets a D, Obama a B+. It'll be interesting when they release the 2008 scores this fall. To read up on the methodology and to see a bunch of (R)s get Ds, download this document.

A little less damning is the Disabled American Veteran's group scoring, simply "with us" and "against us." John McCain scored 11 with us and 16 against us, with 5 not scored. And Obama? 17-1-1.

4. Plans for Leaving Iraq

This issue is almost baffling in its simplicity. Obama's plan to get out of Iraq is pretty similar to what the Iraqis want. McCain opposes this, insisting on a blank check approach. There is no telling if McCain would reverse any agreement made by the two governments on a definite date of departure.

Some might suggest that I should vote for McCain because he is a fellow veteran. These are the same people that suggested Kerry was a bad choice four years ago. Despite his many, many detractions, he still set foot in Vietnam when his opponent did not. Though Obama hasn't served, he has proven to have a positive impact when it comes to veterans. I admire McCain's past, but I cast much doubt on his vision of the future.

The Last Patrol

2008-08-24T09:00:00.000-05:00

It had to end, someday.

We had been at Combat Outpost Battle II for a few weeks, trying to leave it in the best shape possible for our beautiful, wonderful relief unit, our sister brigade from the other side of Ft. Lewis.

Operation Arrowhead Ripper was the cherry on top of a grueling five month adventure in Baqubah, a place we didn't know of in 2006 but one we'd get to know all-too well toward the end of 2007. After that big offensive, there was one last hurrah: the clearing and holding of the neighborhood of Old Baqubah.

It proved to be the most dangerous of neighborhoods, one left relatively untouched during the massive clearing operation in June and July. While elements from our brigade held ground on the west side of town, we began clearing operations in Old Baq' in the hopes of setting up a new outpost. For my twenty-second birthday, I read a book cover to cover inside a Stryker in between guard shifts. It was a gift from my platoon to not go on patrol.

We quickly found a suitable outpost, an abandoned two story whiskey distillery. To make enough room for a motor pool, we blew up a man's house that had been in his family for decades. For days, he came by our front door to collect the bricks, sprinkled over dozens of yards. He wanted to rebuild.

The days felt longer than any other point in the deployment. It had a lot to do with the heat; the building had no electricity and poor ventilation. The high ceilings gave way to several windows that let in plenty of sunlight. The concrete building and floor held the heat during the day and released it during the night. Most of us slept outside on the roof to escape the dreadful, choking air that filled the building. Half the time was spent stealing and re-stealing cots the Iraqi Army took upon themselves to grab when we were on patrol.

It was three days at the outpost, three days off. "Off" was a relative term. We spent that time on the FOB rearming and regrouping in between supply runs to the outpost. Time evaporated during our off periods, but came back with a vengeance back at COP Battle II.

Day in, day out. Going through the motions of scheduled patrols like the good ol' days of Mosul. It was all building to the inevitable. Our replacements were ready to show up near the end of August to effectively relieve our positions. Soon, we'd be going home.

By the luck of the draw, my squad was the last from my platoon to conduct a foot patrol during the day.

Right out the door, we came upon a group of sheep rummaging through one of the trash piles next to the outpost. One in particular was gnawing on a sheet of plastic. As we walked past, they momentarily stopped to watch us. The one with the plastic kept on gnawing.

Rounding around the block, we came upon a huge gathering in the street. Evidently there was a wedding going on, as throngs of people were singing, clapping and chanting down the street. We were bookended by kids riding bicycles and shouting slogans to us.

The most boring video of Iraq you'll find on the internets

Before heading out, we got the ubiquitous word that our BFFs, the 1920s, was possibly going to ambush us for old times sake. We were told to keep an eye on them, to not turn our backs to them even once.

We passed a couple of their checkpoints along the way, stopping to remind them to wear their reflective belts so they don't get shot in the face with a Hellfire missile. Walking in between us - a group of women under black head dresses, paying no heed to the American squad on either side of the street.

Matt gives Last Patrol 2: Insurgent Boogaloo two thumbs up!

You'd think that simple, vital things like smoke grenades would be in endless supply to the most senior unit in Iraq at the time. You'd be wrong. When our white screening smoke ran out, we were forced to use colored smoke (usually reserved for signaling). When our colored smoke ran out, we used training smoke grenades. The biggest concern wasn't that we were using smoke that barely lasted ten seconds, it was that we had training smoke in fucking combat. After the training smokes were gone, smoke grenades shot from grenade launchers were used. Imagine shielding yourself from machine gun fire with what amounts to fine colored chalk floating in the air. It'll definitely put some pep in your step.

On this patrol, we had managed to scrounge up enough smoke grenades. They were casually tossed to get rid of them, as they would be useless to us in ten minutes. Our platoon leader tried to play kick the can with an Iraqi kid, but he wasn't sure what to do with it.

Sure, NOW we get them...

The patrol didn't last longer than 45 minutes, but I had a tremendous sense of finality walking back to the outpost. As I looked around, I realized it would be the last time I'd have my feet down on hostile territory, the last time I peered habitually to rooftops and doorways, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It'd be the last time my sense of smell would be subdued by the intertwined smell of human waste and garbage (and the last time I'd have the privilege of stepping in both). But it was the first time I realized that our deployment was finite, that the end was drawing near toward an uncertain future of civilian life, with all its beautiful complexities we weren't afforded for fifteen months. We were going home.

AH

Enemies With Benefits

2008-07-27T14:53:00.000-05:00

Don't tell the pathetic non-serving members of the old media (and new media), but the surge wasn't wholly responsible for the drop in violence seen in Iraq over the last year. I have outlined the three main reasons violence has subsided, but one of the more important aspects is still largely misunderstood and mischaracterized by the punditry across the country.

The 'awakening group' movement first appeared in Anbar in late 2005 (or if you're John McCain, it started in a time warp before and after the surge) and has since grown to a large, lethal force that battles elements of al-Qaeda in Iraq and the Islamic State of Iraq. That is usually where the media narrative leaves you, insinuating that these groups are patriotic volunteers casting out the demons of al-Qaeda. What they don't mention is both the original motivations for these groups and their history of battling American soldiers. One of the latest to operate (and propped up by my unit in Diyala Province) is the 1920 Revolution Brigade. I covered their nationalist history a year ago, citing their name was a throwback to the 1920 revolution to oust British influence. So this group in particular didn't start in 2005, 2006 or even 2007, but in 2003 for one reason: to attack and kill Americans.

They got pretty good at it. While in Baghdad in late 2006 and early 2007, any group that we battled that wasn't Sadr's militia was likely the 1920s. Their most dramatic act?

Above is the crash site of a Blackwater Security helicopter, downed by the 1920s Brigade. My platoon responded to the crash, found the crew members executed and were caught up in a firefight started by anti-aircraft guns in high rise buildings.

The insurgent group met us head on in Baqubah, being present in the attack that killed my friend and an IED ambush that resulted in four explosions on three Strykers in just seconds. Yet somehow, it was deemed not only acceptable but advantageous to work with these killers. Two months later, we began our first patrols with them.

Without any remorse on our part, many of the 1920s (called "concerned local nationals" at this point) were killed accidentally by our hands at the start of that shaky alliance. American rifle and helicopter fire was the biggest 'concern' of these local nationals until they began wearing reflective belts and brown t-shirts. Some even brought up the notion of killing them once they outpaced their usefulness. Our battalion surgeon, a well respected medical doctor in the civilian world, had the best idea: "kick the Stryker up to sixty and throw them out the open door."

~~Insurgent~~ "Concerned local national" checkpoint stops a deadly kid on a bike as an old man looks on

Unfortunately, we couldn't take out the trash that easily. We grudingly worked with the 1920s as per our orders. We were moderately successful in tracking down al-Qaeda operatives (or possibly doing in-house cleaning) and caches. But the point isn't the success of turning over a new leaf with insurgents, though. We traded in our values, our self reliance to get things done, for $300 a head. We did not destroy our enemy but rather aided them. We secured not only their future success, but the future instability with the Iraqi government. Maliki and his Shia government adamantly oppose the Sunni groups and have said in the past that they will never become a permanent part of Iraqi forces.

But they don't pay the former insurgents, we do, as taxpayers. That's why they're trying to leverage the American military into giving them more money, the ol' "pay me more or I'm going back to killing you" ruse. And for their part, they'll probably be successful. Commanders know that they're important not for killing al-Qaeda, but for not fighting us. They're not allies, they're enemies with benefits. And they're holding the cards.

Why isn't there an outcry from the media and citizenry about these people? Quite simply, the military led the media by its nose when they characterized insurgents as "concerned" and proudly spoke of them as volunteers. To further confuse people, they were renamed 'Baqubah Guardians' and then finally 'Sons of Iraq,' each name a brighter shade of lipstick for the same dirty pig. They're only growing stronger and more experienced as time goes on, watching coalition forces close up, looking for every weakness. They've already discovered a big one: our over-reliance on their dirty, sectarian work.

A 1920s member who likely lifted a bullet-proof vest off a dead Iraqi policeman

You can only pay someone not to fight you for so long before they ask for more and more. We're past that point now, and approaching another tough reality on the horizon. If we're as successful as defeating al-Qaeda as the media says we are, who will our new friends fight, if not us?

The very definition of 'a friendship of convenience'

AH

From Nation Building To Net Roots

2008-07-14T23:30:00.000-05:00

It's a strange concept to me, being home ten months, yet I left for Iraq more than two years ago. To put that into perspective, I got on that big, beautiful plane as a clueless twenty year old. This week, I'll be turning 23.

These days, I have a less deadly (and therefore less exciting) job in a warehouse. A regular 9-5 until I wait for school to start. I was always a quiet guy, never really the kind to strike up a conversation with someone I didn't know well. Introverted as all get out.

Lately, I feel that personality trait rearing its head again. I thought it was gone; anyone from my platoon can tell you that I absolutely loved to debate anyone and anything with my partner in crime, Steve. We were an arguing force to be reckoned with, and I always carried a big voice when we discussed everything from capital punishment to evolution.

Now in the break room, civilian as hell, I can barely muster a hello or keep a conversation going. It's not shyness, it's a breakdown of understanding the culture I left and readjusting to it. While deployed, we knew society moved on without us. What we didn't realize is that it would keep going even after we got home, still without us.

The two dueling wars, fought by neighbor's cousins and friends from high school, have little to do with day to day life. When I tell someone where I was the past two years, they usually respond with "oh." They're either too embarrassed to ask about it or too bored at the prospect. Questions begin and end with, really, what was it like? I often give two descriptions: hot and shitty. There's no point in telling the truth, that for better and for worse, my time there changed me. There's no point in describing the feeling I get walking down the street in my run down neighborhood, a sinking uneasiness when I imagine the passing cars could explode. The same exact feeling when you hear a bullet whiz by you for the first time, coming close enough to ring your ears. No, I just tell them how stepping in human shit can really damper an afternoon stroll in Baghdad.

L to R: A rare picture of Chi's face, Dude, Jesse and Payday on our maiden voyage

Two years ago this week. I'm getting old.

My antics here and at Vet Voice got me a spot at the milblogging panel at Net Roots Nation this week. I don't know what I'll be discussing, but let's see if I can get over that whole 'not talking' thing. If you're attending, let me know and I'll tell you how to get around Austin (hint: don't get on I-35).

AH

Final Salute

2008-06-22T18:39:00.000-05:00

I just finished a book called "Final Salute: A Story of Unfinished Lives," a book by Pulitzer Prize winner Jim Sheeler. It centers around a Marine casualty assistance officer and the stories of the families most affected by the war. It'd behoove the nation to read it. I wrote a little something about it on VetVoice. Please do take a look!

AH

Photo Story Monday - Burning Sensations

2008-06-16T20:09:00.001-05:00

I was kind of lucky going on leave when I did. We arrived in Diyala Province just ten days before my scheduled day to go. My friend Steve and I decided to go to Europe together, and we were the very last in the platoon for a much needed break. Everybody knew it, too, and if you were ever in the military, you know that anything that could be made of, will be made fun of. My leave date was no different.

"Hey dude, when you going on leave, two weeks before we go home?" Some would ask.

"It must suuuuck not to go on leave yet," said others, regaling me with stories of their two weeks at home that came months prior.

I gave them all a quick fuck you and playfully told them I wished they would have twice the work to do while I was gone. Sadly, that came true.

In the near month I was gone, my company saw some of the most intense fighting of our deployment. Firefights became more routine than patrols, and for the first 45 days of operations in Baqubah, 40 of them were spent outside the wire, sleeping in abandoned Iraqi houses as the summer slowly crept on.

By the time I got back, my former team leader was killed and my squad leader was shot in the arm by a sniper. I had missed a lot, but was a bit anxious to be back in the mix. There was no point in looking forward to home. When I left for Europe, it was only two months away. When I came back, it was five.

I wasn't placed gently back into missions but thrown violently into a new phase of our deployment. Before my departure, it was standard operating procedure to call EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) any time we found a cache or an IED. We didn't find many in Baghdad, but they kept popping up in Baqubah. Imagine a road where every few yards, a bomb buried deep in the ground was waiting for you like a starving predator waiting for the next meal.

It was too much for the EOD guys to handle, bless 'em. They were overloaded, and that meant that blowin' up stuff was going to be a new addition to our endless list of side jobs.

I was stunned the first time Matt uncovered an IED wire, picked it up and followed it to a HUGE FUCKING BOMB in the middle of the road. It eviscerated every rule I knew about IEDs, which all amounted to 'don't go near them.' It was all too routine for Matt and others in my company to simply find the bomb, mark it and wait for EOD to come.

You just follow that wire. I'll be back here

The culprit: Underneath our metal can marker

We left some guys to watch it and continued on our patrol. We got word later that EOD had placed charges on it, so it would be in our best interest to take cover.

On our way back to COP Battle I, we passed by the crater the blast had left. We had to run by it, actually. To our left was a huge open field with scattered palm trees - a perfect hideout for snipers. Everyone was running in pairs past the hole, except Bill. Bill wanted me to take his picture inside of it. Matt decided to join him. I accepted the invitation to take the picture as my fellow platoon mates sprinted ahead of me.

It took me awhile to wrap my head around that. Before, we didn't go near IEDs. Now we were walking directly to them to give it a once-over. Let the EOD team know, hey, you got some land mines taped to a can of gasoline. Good luck.

Pretty soon after that, we were finding so much bullshit that we could take things a step beyond and blow stuff ourselves. A couple of guys carried C4, detonation cord and all the other goodies necessary for homemade boom.

Dozer was always finding caches, like it was a sixth sense. In one particular courtyard, he uncovered a buried water tank filled with RPGs, launchers and machine gun ammo. In other words, a lot of shit.

If you spend enough time on the ground in Iraq, you're bound to come across a screaming, hysterical woman that will cry and yell right in your face before she slaps herself over and over. It's one of those things that transcend culture and human dignity; women striking themselves in fits of rage.

I caught one of those moments from across the street. I was standing in the courtyard with a bunch o' weapons while the people in the houses near us were told to leave while we destroyed the cache, for their safety.

Obviously, the lady in the blue wasn't going to go quietly, but we managed to get her family to take her away to a neighbor's house.

The guy who laid the charges on the cache let us know it was going to be, for the lack of a better term, a big one. We moved several blocks, took off our helmets, and waited.

One minute.

Thirty seconds.

Burning.

For the truly impatient, go to 1:00

The explosion threw so much shit into the air that I heard chunks of concrete falling near us, several blocks away. The house that contained the cache was completely destroyed, as was the house next to it.

Winning hearts and minds

The force of the blast was great enough to destroy the courtyard gate across the street and start a small fire on the roof.

The oozing septic pond next to the house was thrown all over the neighborhood as bricks from the house are strewn about

I learned quite a bit in my first week back in the game. It was okay to approach a massive IED like an injured bunny and place other bombs on top of them. It was okay to tug on its wires and hack at it with a crowbar to get a better look. It was at one time profane, but eventually it became nothing more than ordinary.

AH

Photo Story Monday - Recollections

2008-05-26T22:14:00.000-05:00

On a radio interview I did for Memorial Day, I had a hard time describing how I would spend it this year. Before I enlisted, Memorial Day seemed a convenient way to have a long weekend away from school. In my first year in the Army, it was spent sleeping in without having to do any PT. No push ups in the mushy Ft. Lewis grass for us that day.

A year ago, Memorial Day was spent in the confines of our small outpost on the east side of Baqubah. We had converted a two story house into a fortress deep within the city to keep close to the roads and buildings that concealed homemade bombs, waiting for us to wander helplessly into them. It was part of the surge strategy: total immersion in the communities we patrolled.

1/2 of Team Destructon talking to Omar

I don't know why I'm being dressed in the background

The outpost was a home away from home, one where we spent four days out of seven without plumbing, running water or relative safety. All that was found miles away at a huge forward base. We were on our own, two platoon's worth of scrawny, hungry, tired and irritable men heading into month twelve of the deployment. On the day we were supposed to be home, everyone gathered on cots on the second floor, shouting phrases like "fifth quarter, fuck yeah!" and "Overtime baby!". We were, as you can imagine, a little disappointed in June of 2007. We were supposed to be on American soil by then, sipping beers and laughing about the deployment and how cold Washington was. Instead we were chugging boiling water in between guard shifts and slapping mosquitoes off our necks in the Diyala River Valley.

We named the place COP (Combat Outpost) Battle, after our company motto of Battle Hard. It was here where routine almost started happening again, a schedule of patrols and raids that weren't too hard to follow. As I've tried to explain before, war is a time spent largely on your ass or on your feet, waiting for some guy in some office to tell some other guy what to do. COP Battle wasn't so much of a base as it was a lounge for second platoon. Sure, it didn't have furniture and we burned our own trash outside, but it was all we had for a couple months. A place you dreaded going to, but when you got there, you figured it was alright.

OK Kyle, here's a picture of you without a shirt. Can I have my $10 now?

Not too many places to cut hair in an abandoned city

Whoopsies

How do I spend Memorial Day? Like any other. If the occasion is about somber reflection of the valorous dead, killed in battle, then every day is Memorial Day to me, and I imagine, to my friends. I cannot get through a day without thinking of Chevy or Jesse, without their images running through my head over and over, thinking about how they gave their lives in the most selfless way imaginable so that we may live through the war and carry their spirit home with us. It was easy at first to separate my time in Iraq from the present, here in civilian life in the states. Now it has become a constant battle not to be drawn back into that past, that reality left behind.

It's bafflingly difficult to explain the feeling of wanting to go back, but when you think of those times, like at COP Battle, it doesn't feel out of place. I remember watching bootleg DVDs of The O.C. in between patrols. In passing, people would ask "Is that the fucking O.C.?" in a disapproving voice, only to join in and become entranced. I remember the Iraqi Army stealing flip-flops and CD players from us, almost resulting in cross-culture fist fights. I remember standing on the roof in shorts and a t-shirt, trying to get cell phone reception on the shitty Iraqi service long enough to call Lauren. I remember the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life: a truckload of water and rations falling off a flatbed truck in an attempt to smoothly place it on the ground (see above for the aftermath).

Most of all, I remember the jokes and laughs heard throughout COP Battle, where the worst times of our life turned out to be pretty good. Where memories of Chevy and Jesse carried on every single day after their deaths, their sacrifices heavy in our hearts and in our minds. Memorial Day isn't so much about remembering the dead as it is remembering why they died for us, their brothers. It was to get us closer to home, if only by a few seconds, so that we may live.

How do I spend Memorial Day? By carrying on, like Chevy and Jesse wanted us to.

AH

New Ad Campaign From Vote Vets

2008-05-20T11:34:00.000-05:00

Today, VoteVets.org released a double barrel ad campaign on a subject near and dear to me, reformed education benefits for veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. The two adds plead with two key Republicans to sign onto Senator Webb's GI Bill, Senator Cornyn from Texas (my senator), and Senator McCain.

Senator Cornyn

Senator McCain

This really should have not been a political issue, but allegiances to parties before soldiers and veterans forced it to be.

AH

Truth or Consequences - The Quest for a New G.I. Bill

2008-05-16T11:40:00.000-05:00

When I heard about the new G.I. Bill some time ago, I thought it was too good to be true. With the pitiful peacetime, 80s era education benefits being offered to veterans today, it seemed a far cry to see those benefits improve drastically to assist those who, you know, did the heavy lifting for this country for the past seven years and counting. I've been following this development for some time now, writing this piece for Vet Voice and later this little thing.

The good news is the revamped G.I. Bill cleared the House by an overwhelming vote of 256-166. Here's a handy list of who voted for and against it, so when supporting America's troops is quantified, you can see who gave a big, sleazy meh.

The good news doesn't stop there! McCain-Graham's cowardly, toothless version of the G.I. Bill was struck down with great vengeance and furious anger as it tried to sneak in before the Memorial Day break.

But you might ask me, "Alex, what's the difference between all these bills? Can't we just have the best one?" Well, here's a comparison of the current G.I. Bill, McCain-Graham's version and Webb's version.

Current G.I. Bill

$1,200 nonrefundable contribution from the first year of a soldier's paycheck

Maximum benefits of $1,100 per month for a total of $39,600 (Reservists and National Guardsmen get a fraction of that)

A time frame of ten years to use the benefits

McCain-Graham's G.I. Bill (S. 2938 - The Enhancement of Recruitment, Retention, and Readjustment Through Education Act)

Twelve years of service for maximum benefits of $2,000 a month, six years yields $1,500. This figure is fixed and does not address rising tuition

Touted transferability to veteran's family members (this has been a feature of the G.I. Bill since 2002)

Around fifteen Senate cosponsors (just conservatives)

Webb's G.I. Bill (S. 22 - the Post-9/11 Veterans Educational Assistance Act)

Complete tuition costs after three years of service, with benefits maxed out at the most expensive public school in the veteran's state. Costs will cover a private school if a compromise is met with the school and student

A monthly living stipend equal to a married E-5 living in the area (that's BAH for you veterans)

Books and other costs are completely taken care of

58 Senate cosponsors and strong bipartisan support

Does it come to any surprise the Pentagon and Bush administration adamantly oppose Webb's proposal, which is clearly the best? Here's their take from a press conference a couple of weeks ago:

You know, we are mostly concerned with the harm it would do to troop retention. We have no issue with the fact that Senator Webb wishes to, you know, provide a more generous education benefit to troops, but we are certainly concerned that this would be eligible to them after only two years of service.

We think pegging it to a longer period of service -- the number we have in mind at this point is six years of service -- that the longer you stay in, the sweeter the benefits are to you. Six years would show a commitment to service. In fact, it would allow for at least, at that point, one reenlistment for another tour of duty. And having done that, we believe that they should certainly have the ability to transfer their unused education benefits to their spouse or to their children, and that we believe to be very family friendly and would also enhance retention among our troops. The last thing we want to do is provide a benefit -- or last thing we want to do is create a situation in which we are losing our men and women who we have worked so hard to train.

Translation: Three years (minimum enlistment time) doesn't cut it for sacrifice and commitment anymore, only a reenlistment at the very least.

It is definitely not the Pentagon's job to define commitment to service in terms of years. One infantryman could deploy twice in three years and get separated for PTSD (or their new favorite, adjustment disorder), and a desk jockey could never deploy in six. According to those tucked safely away in the Pentagon, the guy riding the desk deserves more benefits than the grunt with a messed up head. A sliding scale of education payments is a disgrace and insult, attempting to hold hostage as many people as possible until they reach the finish line of 6-12 years.

There's an obvious philosophical difference between Webb's bill and McCain-Graham's bill. Webb's bill recognizes service after 9/11 as an honorable commitment because it meant volunteering in a time of war. Just that act garners recognition and education benefits that every service member is entitled to. It's aware that almost three quarters of enlisted personnel separate after their first enlistment, so increasing benefits will not do much to hinder the size of our forces. It also recognizes that education is a direct cost of war, just like beans, bullets and bombers. It's vital for reintegrating back into a society that the soldier risked their life for.

McCain-Graham's bill is a bit different. It pushes aside the fact that most people want to get out after their first enlistment is up. It aims to recreate separate-but equal standards by awarding those who stay in the service and punishing those who get out. It has a fixed level of monthly payments that does nothing to address rising tuition, whereas Webb's version is dynamically set to change as tuition inevitably goes up. It completely ignores how compelling Webb's bill would be in terms for first time enlistees. In the internet age, any would-be recruit can easily look at the current G.I. Bill to see how inadequate it is. Or I can do it for you. For those interested in getting college money by joining the military, you won't be getting much. Sorry to break it to you. But if Webb's G.I. Bill passes, you won't have to worry about deciding between food or school once you get out of the military. Education benefits is the number one reason people enlist in the military. Only a fraction go on to multiple enlistments, so the military isn't losing anyone they wouldn't lose anyway. Those scare tactics about rising benefits dealing a blow to retention are completely without merit, and I'm not the only one who thinks so.

This will all come to a head next week when the bill goes onto the Senate floor. In the meantime, go here to see if your senators are on board. If not, call or email them and ask why they're against giving our veterans what they need.

I've written my own form letter you can copy and send to your own senator*.

Senator ______________,

Dude, it has come to my attention that you are not currently a cosponsor for S. 22, the Post-9/11 Veterans Educational Assistance Act. To which I ask a succinct question: what the hell? Veterans of the war of Iraq and Afghanistan, if only a small number of your constituents, deserve your attention and approval of this vital bill for education assistance. Luckily, only a small number of you were tricked by the introduction of S. 2938, Senator Graham's pathetic shadow of S. 22. Congratulations for knowing the difference between a bill and an insult! But we need more from you. Please, pretty please, at least two of you add your names and realize what it means to really support the troops. Tomorrow's doctors, lawyers, firefighters and lobbyists are waiting for their education to be secured. I know you can't deal without any of those groups! Thank you for your time.

Respectfully,

______________

AH
*Please don't send this to any public official. They deserve respect!