Lap of Luxury

For those of you that don't know, I'm currently on my four day pass. Things here in Qatar have been going swimmingly. I've done myself proud and succeeded in my mission to not do anything. So far I've managed to fit in some time at the swimming pool and jacuzzi in between my binge eating and thirteen hour sleep sessions. Yes, life is difficult here in the seventy five degree weather.

I just finished receiving my first ever full body massage. That was strange. I think I'm less relaxed than when I went in to the spa. The heavyset Indonesian woman, Julie, was friendly enough, but I have to say that I had no idea that these things HURT. I'd rather assumed that the inner thigh was not a source of pain, but she quickly disabused me of that notion as the flames from my poor nerves caused me to "suck gnats" while she pleasantly ordered me to relax. I quickly discovered that, in her lexicon, "relax" means "I'm 'bout to put a hurtin' on you". I was shown this as she found the spot on my upper thigh that I had prior to that point assumed was incapable of producing any sort of bad feeling by a woman's hands, and took me to the verge of tears as she brought her hundred-eighty pounds to bear on the nickle-sized bundles of nerves by way of her adamantine thumbs.

In short order I had my back bombarded and then had each of my vertebrae separated by an extra half inch by those unyielding digits and nearly had my shoulder muscles separated from the bones. She tossed me over onto my back and then went to work on my belly and chest, but, fortunately, my lack of physique meant that she didn't have much muscle to terrorize. My sternum bore the brunt of the abuse before she then gave up and went after my forehead and hairline. My grimace didn't keep her from doing her worst...ahem... best, and she assumed that she had taken me to the heights of rapture as all I seemed to be capable of was a muted whimper as she asked me various questions. At any rate, I poured off the rack/table and after putting
myself back together as best I could and stumbling to the front counter, I made sure to give her a sizeable extortion fee to make sure that she would let me escape.

Actually, now that I'm paying attention to it, my body does feel much better and more limp, much the way it would after seven to twelve rounds of body blows from a heavyweight boxing champion (better than when it was in the process of being beaten, mind you).

Off now to the restaurant, by way of the internal medicine division of the infirmary.

No Rest for the Weary

Mark today on your calendars. I actually escaped my FOB (my first time out since I got there on May 1st). I'm now at LSA (Logistics Support Area...I think) Anaconda, where tomorrow I'll fly to Qatar for my four day pass. Woohoo. Four days of.... well, I don't know, but it'll be different and different is good at this point. I might be off the internet for that time so don't worry. I'll get back in touch as soon as possible. I sign off with a "Happy HOLIDAYS", as I've got a theologically diverse group here (militant athiests included, Campbell).

War Stories

In the past few days there have been a couple of incidents that have shown what can happen here. I don't want to say they're extraordinary, because a sad fact of war is that bad and bizarre things will happen.

Yesterday, the enemy mortarmen screwed up their shot. Instead of landing the 82mm mortar on to one of our bases, they dropped it on a house. It killed three children between the ages of three and five and wounded the three other kids in the room (young teenagers). We had to put out an immediate press bulletin before Al Jazeera could try to say that we had done it. Great. Dead kids are now a political game.

Today a man came out of a palm grove with a gun as a US convoy was passing. Many times the enemy use the palm groves for their ambushes. The convoy stopped and tried to direct the guy to put down the weapon. He didn't comply and they shot him in the gut. They discovered it was a toy gun. They were later told by the man's family that he's retarded.

Anyhoo, that's my little slice of sunshine to brighten up your holiday spirits.

Who We're Dealing With (Update)

A minor addendum to my tales I shared about the Iraqis. A friend of mine (Jim) that works up at a higher echelon had this to say:

"Oh, to add to your story about what your pilot buddy saw: Amongst the other things they've found in the computers that the bad guys were using in Fallujah is the history in the web browser: Some terrorist sites visited... and LOTS of gay porn sites!"

So there you have it. As I told Jim, "They have commercials in the States now that say that if you buy drugs you are funding terrorism. Do you think they'll start commercials saying that if you make gay porn you entertain terrorists?"

The Problem of Iraq

By far, the singlemost annoying aspect of living in this country is that it affects my equilibrium so strangely. For example, I can I drink a liter and a half bottle of water while I'm sitting on shift and might have to pee once during my twelve hours; however if I take a thimbleful before I sleep, I invariably am rousted from my dancing visions of busty bikini babes (or dragons and demons; I have weird dreams here) in order to relieve myself at least three times a night. Do I need to start sleeping standing up? I just do not get it at all. Perhaps it's some sort of MidEastern Hemispherical Cariolis effect? Is it because I sleep during the day, when my cicadian rhythm is used to me being awake? Whatever it is I would just like to get a full night's sleep.

Uh Oh

They moved us into a fancier building today. It's very bright in here and there's lots of stained wood, charts, and monitors everywhere. They even have little speakers hung up all over the place for the PA system. It makes me think of Dr. Strangelove, in that it's absolutely imperative to have a "war room" to do our jobs. Actually, we were told we're not allowed to cuss in here. Heaven forbid that we use naughty language while we plan out ways to kill people. Oh, and yesterday my battalion was ordered to change the name to a mission. It had been called "Garotte", but that was deemed too violent. I offered up "Hugs and Feelings" as the alternate, but they didn't appreciate that at all. Oh, well.

Who We're Dealing With (Moderately Risque)

In the past twenty four hours I have had the good fortune to have been relayed two tales that portray the Iraqis on the street, so to speak, a bit differently from how they might seem just from the TV reports.

Last night my battalion escorted over one hundred Iraqi police trainees back from Baghdad, where they'd flown in having received their training in Jordan. There was a minor delay getting them sent downtown, so they stayed here on FOB Warhorse for a few hours. I saw them all when I went to chow last night and ate with the patrol leader.

What I discovered this morning when I went to the gym was that after chow the soon to be policemen, representatives of the Iraqi government, had been herded over to the MWR hangar (Morale, Welfare, and Recreation; it has ping-pong and foosball tables and lights in it so we can keep security on large groups of foreign nationals). They were not the ideal guests.

Besides defecating everywhere (in the hangar, next to the port o' potties, outside, etc), they also took the opportunity to destroy the soccer balls that they were lent from the MWR facility to occupy their time while they waited. It wasn't that the balls were kicked around and were accidently popped; nope, they had been torn apart. Of course, that was merely passive aggression, as opposed to when one of them punted a basketball at a landing Blackhawk helicopter (the guy working the gym showed me the shorn remnant of the ball, along with
the mangled carcasses of the soccer balls). The rotor made quick work of the ball and the pilot came out with his pistol drawn, looking for the "@#@#$#@#$#er" that did it.

In addition to that, one of the US soldiers went over to use the port o potty, next to which a gaggle of the Iraqis was squatting (just talking to the best of my knowledge, though that may have been when they decided to play there aforementioned prank). Upon seeing the soldier advancing, one of the Iraqis jumped up, ran over to the port o' potty, and grabbed the door, though he did not go in. The Iraqi just smiled at the soldier as the soldier explained that he needed to use it. After the third time, the soldier had his fill and politely informed the Iraqi "@#$#@#$##er" that he was "gonna kick (his) $#$#", the Iraqi said, "You mean!" and proceeded square up. An MP that was supposed to be keeping an eye on things saw what was about to happen and removed the Iraqis from beside the source of contention.

This evening, while at chow, I was told a story by the Kiowa pilots (they do reconnaissance work for us) that gave me yet another reason to be glad I'm not a pilot. While doing their normal route clearance patrol, they came across two Iraqi cab drivers in what I can only relay as being an "indelicate" circumstance. The pilots said that they were still trying to come up for an alternate explanation for what they could have been doing. Of course, the sheepish smile on their faces, and the man watching from the back seat of the taxi, was very puzzling. I mentioned to one of the pilots, a lieutenant, that he needed to take the positive view of the whole situation and be thankful that he'd gone twenty five years without ever having to witness that sort of thing before.

So, other than that (aggression from allies, sodomy) things here have been pretty much the same as normal.

First Person From Fallujah

This blurb comes from my buddy Chris who is acting as a fire support officer in Fallujah right now. My explanations and remarks are in parentheses.

"We are waxing some serious ass, man. Never imagined we could bring this much combat power to bear insuch a small area. Remember they used to have a "Million dollar minute"? Yeah. that wasn't anything. CAS (Close Air Support; Air Force Jets with precision bombs) , AC -130 (a big airplane with a 105mm cannon in it that fires approximately 40 rounds a minute and is accurate to one meter; it has a 35 meter kill circumference), Rotary Wing (Helicopters; Apaches), Fixed Wing (same as CAS), 155 (Artillery cannons), 120, 81, 60, (these three are all mortars; mortars fire more rounds a minute than artillery but aren't as accurate) TOWs (fiber optic guided missiles), Tanks, Machine Guns, and the occasional AT-4 (what most consider a bazooka) are always exploding. They pushed through the city faster than they expected. You wouldn't believe all the toys they have here. Fuller (the Artillery platoon leader) bet that he wouldn't shoot 100 HE (High Explosive; standard Artillery munition) shells. I told him he needs to plan better. He gave me that condencendng look and bet a hundred dollars. Yeah, they are scrambling for shells now because they are amber (dangerously low), almost black (no mo ammo). We have shot over 30 fire missions and over 200 shells, 120 (mortar) and 155 (Artillery). Gator (my old battery) leveled a Mosque being used as a C2 (Command and Control) node today. 20 EKIA (Enemy Killed in Action) in one shot. Crazy. They even shot about three MICLICs (a rocket with a string of 2200 pounds of C4 dragged behind it used to clear mine fields) in an urban environment. The weird thing is they haven't seen one civillian. Not one. So, that's the update."

The only US KIA from Chris' battalion, the one that I was attached to when we first arrived in Iraq, was the Sergeant Major. I rode up with him from Kuwait back in March. He was a good man.

Short Story Long

As some of you might know I grapple with theological issues as a hobbie. Indeed, my degree in Classical Studies, useful for little else, helps me to verify sources and translations. I have been reading the works of a French theological cryptologist, Dr. Philippe de Merd, whose field of study involves considering biblical texts as sources for augury. This "science" was made famous a few years ago with the publishing of "The Bible Code", which claimed among other things, that by scanning the text of the Torah the phrase "Assassin will be Assassinated" was linked to the date that Yitzhak Rabin was killed. As opposed to applying decryption techniques to the Torah, Dr. de Merd's expertise lies in trying to discern the hidden messages of the Book of Revelation from the original Greek.

At any rate, I made a startling discovery today as I was perusing my copy of the Greek B.O.R. I found that by converting the letters of the greek Alphabet to numbers (there are 24), then adding the numbers together of each verse, deviding the sum's by pi times phi (the two famous irrational numbers; I hold that irrationality is the true nature of God and man) I was able to convert every passage down to a sum of 24 or less (using estimation to round to whole numbers), which I assumed would have to be reconverted to Greek.

Dr. de Merd's studies have shown that results from his methods usually provide anagramic answers so I spent hours rearranging the various letters but could find no real insight. At the end of the day, on a whim while doodling at my desk as I attempted to rest my noodle, I simply converted the twenty four possible letters to the first twenty four in the English alphabet.

I came up with this:

dienphtibnooogmipsnctiitarddeanereertapanethalsenofllidbewibegrmttoeaptvexnerseochersi

Amazingly, I found the proper order and when I did I dropped my pen. It read:

"chapter six verse one: The opening of the seals will be initiated Ajax Carpenter being promoted to captain"

Which makes perfect when melded into the existing Revelations 6:1

...and I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see."

Too late. I got promoted yesterday.

Andre gets bored and you get this...

For those of y'all that may not have grasped just how sad (and cushy) my life is, I just thought that I'd share a little interchange between myself and one of the sergeants here, but first I want to set the stage.

It being the Fall here doesn't represent the fact that I'm four and a half months from getting out of here or that Ramadan has started (two days ago). No, to me, that means two things and two things only: football season (pro and college) and playoff baseball. Those are the two things that give me the will to drag myself every night over to the TOC and sit for twelve hours (Can you imagine being put on a twelve hour "time out" as a child? I know what I'm gonna do to Andre Jr.); however tonight, a Saturday night and thus a college football and two games of playoff baseball night, the commo sergeant tried to hijack the TV and put on Nascar, of all things

Me: "What do you think you're doing?"

Commo Sergeant (CS): "I'm watching the race, sir."

Me: "Oh hell no! You gotta be crazy!" (I change the channel to the baseball game)

CS: That's messed up, sir; using your rank like that.

Me: Who wants to watch a bunch of guys go round and round for three hours? The only cool parts are the wrecks.

CS: Baseball's just watching the ball go around.

Me (ignoring him; to someone else): The Japanese dude just hit a homer!

CS: 'Japanese dude'? There's an EO (equal opportunity; our version of thought police) complaint.

Me: Oh, the guy that wants to watch a bunch of southern white guys take left turns is saying I'm rascist for watching a baseball game that has Blacks, Hispanics, and Orientals...

CS: So now you're saying it's about race?

Me: Hey, don't look at me. You're the one that keeps going on and on, complaining because you're not getting to see "THE" race. Way to go...bigot. Can you make it any more obvious than that, Hitler?

The commo sergeant got flustered and left. I got to watch my baseball game in peace. Life is good.

Yet Another Stupid Andre Story from Iraq...

Tonight I had a rather odd experience. We have turned back the clocks here before y'all in the States and so, when I am on my way to work it is already dark. As I was walking along talking or singing to myself (either way I'm sure it would be frightening to witness), I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of what I thought to be the the flash of mortars being fired at us on the horizon. I immediately looked for the nearest place to take cover when I saw another flash off in the distance in a different location. I considered hitting the dirt right there as the bombardment should strike any minute, when I saw yet another flash and it finally dawned on me: there was a rainstorm brewing. Seeing as it has been five months since since we last had any rain, it hadn't occurred to me that there had actually been clouds in the sky lately.

I muttered to myself, "What am I, four years old and scared of thunder and lightning again?" When the next lightning flashed I was able to answer myself with an unqualified "Yes!" and I scurried on to get to work. Yippee! I don't have to wait. I get to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder while I'm still in Iraq.

I hope this wasn't a Freudian slip...

Yesterday, a lot of the people here got mail and I didn't. Without thinking it through, I told the thirty-five- year- old black sergeant who'd gotten sent a giant box, "I'm jealous of your 'package.'" Then I realized what I said and stammered " I mean your mail...I mean M-A-I-L, not M-A-L-E. What? I gotta go." Suffice it to say that it was moderately embarrassing.

Tenuous Grip! (Continued)

Since I last wrote I have since spoken to the Public Affairs Officer who told me that he had seen the same article in the New York Times and wrote them, politely asked how the reporter could claim to know much of anything about Baqubah, as he's never come here, and then invited him to see the town and talk to us. Apparently, absentee reporting, ala Jayson Blair, has yet to be stamped out at the Times.

Tenuous Grip!

What a load of horsecrap! We are very stable here. Wow. That is really, really off base and just flat out wrong. No, you know what? It's all true. I'm typing this from the bunker with my left hand while I shoot all of the attackers with my right. Oh Lord, I just shot a suicide bomber between the eyes! Oh no, theres one hundred thousand behind him... and they're all women and children! Aaaahhhh.... It's all slipping away! Thank God the media finally told it like it is!!!!

P.S. We're on the edge of the city.

Wyman Carpenter@earthlink.net wrote:

"I just read an article from the NYTimes (listed below) with the line below. I didn't realize it had gotten so bad in your city. Are you in Baquba or outside of the city? Take care.--Y

September 19, 2004
U.S. Plans Year-End Drive to Take Iraqi Rebel Areas

American forces have lost control over at least one provincial capital, Ramadi, in Al Anbar Province, and have only a tenuous grip over a second, Baquba, the capital of Diyala Province northeast of Baghdad."

Iraq Education

Iraq has been an education. Many things that I'd held to be true I've since had to reconsider based on what I've experienced in my time here.

What I've learned so far:

Math and Standards & Ethics- if her face is a two and her body is a five, she's a seven… and there's nothing wrong with a seven.

Foreign Relations- all foreign soldiers stink to high hell and appear starved, despite the fact that they use up all the water by taking thirty- minute showers, and they horde food from the mess hall, escaping back to wherever with loaves of bread, cookies, and basically anything not already eaten or under armed guard.

Chemistry- combining clothes detergent and water will result in clothes appearing far dirtier and far older. All clothes, regardless of original color, will become brown with blotches of darker brown, which, depending on the garment, can be highly distressing or highly amusing, depending on one's affinity to that sort of humor.

Relativity- Not only does one hundred degrees feel cool after one hundred thirty, but it's a reason to go play full court basketball or finally get in that long run you've been meaning to get to when the weather got better.

Literature- Every terrible dime- store romance, fantasy, and thriller novel comes here when people finally clean out their attics. They are all uniformly as bad as expected, though they are read regardless.

Psychology- Though a camel spider is technically not an spider, as it has ten legs, it has the same effect on a full grown, hundred eighty pound Arachnophobe, namely shrieking like a small child and bolting, despite the fact that said Arachnophobe is a member of the greatest military the world has ever seen and is armed with an assault rifle, is carrying two hundred ten rounds of ammunition, and is wearing a Kevlar helmet, ballistic goggles, and thirty pound flak/ bullet-proof vest (with genitals protection flap).

Darwinian Theory- If one shoots all the dogs, the cats get out of control. If one shoots all of the cats, the mice run wild. Therefore, shoot all of the dogs, punt cats whenever the opportunity arises, and keep the mice as pets. The snakes have no natural predators. Scorpions will beat camel spiders every time in ammo-can death matches.

Journalism- if there is no way that your audience can see for themselves what you are writing about, you can pretty much mail it in and write whatever the hell you want, using your position to push your political views. When criticized, refute by explaining that you are just receiving flak for not buying into the official propaganda and for writing about the WHOLE story.

One Night

I refuse to go over there. Gonna sit right here and play solitaire. Not gonna join the crowd and watch the night’s entertainment on the screen. The aerial camera is only so riveting. They’re watching the camera struggle to stay on the truck that might have been the one that rockets got launched from onto one of the camps. Me watching it isn’t gonna do anything. Soldiers are on their way. Helicopters are criss- crossing the screen above the truck.

 
Nope, just gonna zone out and enjoy my thirteenth hour of sitting here. It’ll be nice when battalion sends over John Buck to help cover down so I can go back to twelve hour days. Huh? A vehicle accident at the front gate?
 

- Hey, Sergeant, what unit is that?

- 1/6, sir.

 
Shit, more work. Well, not work, but just a hassle.

- What happened?

- Rollover, sir.

 
That’s not good. Not good at all.

- Are there injuries?

- Roger, sir, five or six. 

 
Go over to where the RTO is taking down information so I can hear the radio. Whoa!

- What’s this in your notes about CPR?

- One of the guys is having a hard time breathing. They’ve called for oxygen.

- Isn’t CPR when someone’s died? Are there any fatalities?

- No sir, no fatalities.

- Find out the bumper number of the vehicle. Do you know who these guys are?

- They’re the R and R guys going back to Gabe.

- It’s a five-ton?

- No, sir, a humvee. I’ll find out the bumper number.

 
Call battalion to give them the head’s up. Everyone is still watching the camera. Who gives a shit about that?

 
Okay, battalion knows about it. Find out who these guys are. Back over to the RTO. They can’t read the bumper, but they have the trailer number. Why would a humvee have a trailer going down for R and R pickup? It could, but…

- Hey, double check that this is a humvee. It should be a five-ton truck.

- They say it’s a humvee sir.

 
Pass this trailer number to battalion. Maybe they know which vehicle it’s with. Oh, the battalion commander picked up the phone.

- No sir, no fatalities. Five or six wounded right now. They’ve gotta get a crane to lift the vehicle off one of the guys arm. They’re talking about doing CPR now on one of them who’s having a hard time breathing. We’re still getting information. Roger sir, I’ll pass it immediately.

 
What did the Battle Captain just say to me? Oh, yeah, probably should go over to the Aid Station and check on the soldiers. Get all my gear on. Shit. Hope they’re not all messed up. God, please. I don’t wanna see gore and amputations.

 
Out in the dark, over to the Aid Station. Where’s my flashlight? Crap, left it in the room this morning. Make sure I don’t get run over crossing the road in the dark. At least there’s some moon out. Gotta watch my step over there because the ground’s uneven. Mini clouds of dust erupt around my feet as I stomp through the silt. It’s quiet.

 
Open the door. Bright. Blink a few times. Chaos. People scurrying around everywhere, clumping in pockets around… Ugh. Pale, naked, bruised, bloated body. Oxygen mask. Clothes cut off, in scrap heaps on the floor around the stretcher up on sawhorses. What’s that mothers always say? “Always wear clean underwear. You never know when you’ll be in a car accident.” Pull yourself together. Get information. No, don’t mess with people working on soldiers. Know what to do. Do it. Over to the check- in desk.

 
Get there, look in the window. Oh, excuse me. The Colonel? How did he get here ahead of me? Shit. Someone just said KIA. Need to call battalion. Colonel’s on the phone.

- Hey sergeant, I don’t want to get in the way. I need to get information about the wounded for my battalion.

- Talk to her there. You know about the KIA.

- I just heard.

 
Colonel’s talking to the battalion commander. Expressing regrets for the KIA. Hands the phone to me. Nothing to say.

- Sir, I’m getting information now. They’re in the middle of working on them. I’ll call back ASAP when I get more.

 
Off the phone. Talk to that female soldier that’s getting the information. Someone coming in here. Hey, that’s SGT Perdidas. Young, twenty two or so. Drenched through in sweat, crying, gash on his chin, hyperventilating. Some Staff Sergeant sitting him down, handing him forms, beating him up about doing his statement.

- Hey Sergeant, I’ll take care of this.

- Oh, roger, sir.

 
Good, the Staff Sergeant’s gone.

- Try to catch your breath. Calm down.

 
SGT Perdidas is trying to. The crying is messing with his breathing. He’s gasping in little staccato bursts, trying to rein himself in. He’s trying to write. His hands are shaking. Take the pad from him, talk to him, calm him down, get the information.

- I’ll do the statement for you. You just tell me what to write. What happened? Take it easy. Take it slow.

- We were leaving, going back to Gabe.

- In a humvee?

- No, in a five ton.

- Who was in the truck?

 
I pull the story slowly from him. He was in the cab with the driver and some sergeant that he didn’t know. Four were in the back. John was one of them. They were driving in blackout drive. What?!! No NVGs?!! Okay, he’s hyperventilating again. Oh, yeah, he’s got that gash on his chin. Need to take care of him.

- Hey, can I get one of y’all to clean him up? We’ll get to this later. Okay? Get patched up.

 
Better call battalion.

- Yes, sir. I’ve got some of the story. Still getting details. They were driving without lights without NVGs and went into the drainage ditch. I have some of their names. Here they are. CPT Buck’s one of em.

- How is John?

- I don’t know sir.

- I mean is he fucked up? How’s he look?

- I haven’t gotten a look sir. I’m over here getting information right now. I didn’t want to get in the docs’ way. I’ll find out and get back to you, sir.

 
Get the rest of the information from that female soldier. She’s filling out the fatality paperwork. Specialist Javier Esperando. Find out the rest of the guys’ initial diagnoses.

Find John. Said he had abdominal injuries. Check the clumps of docs. He’s the one I saw at first. Looks like he’s in the worst shape by all the activity around him. He’s awake though. Some medic is holding his saline and blood bag since the clamp for the bag hangers isn’t working. I can do that.

- Hey. I’ll do that so you can do something else.

- Add pressure so that we can get this in him

- Got it.

 
Make eye contact with John. Nod at him. Don’t show any fear. Don’t want to upset him. Be strong, calm.

- Hey buddy.

 
He acknowledges me. Ask a doc. They think he has a fractured pelvis. Glance. There’s a hand towel over his lap, but the medic’s got her hand under it with a tube. Don’t look at that. Squeeze the blood bag. Squeeze the saline. Keep an eye on John. He’s awake still. Talk to him a little. What to say? Dumb stuff, normal stuff. They’re getting you stabilized. You’re gonna be okay. Your blood pressure and pulse are going back to normal.

- Hey doc, can you give him anything?

- No, we can’t now. He’s stabilizing and now he’s gonna start being in a lot of pain.

 
Something catches my eye. Oh shit. No more hand towel. Medic’s got something in his hand. Ugh, he’s bleeding from down there. Look away. Another medic is fixing the clamp. They need litter carriers to get the guys on the birds.

- Hey, John, hang in there buddy; I’ll be right back. Gonna get the boys on the bird.

 
Follow the group of soldiers that went running out into the night. Dark. Can’t see. Eyes haven’t adjusted. One of them has a flashlight. Follow him. We follow the ambulance. Not even thinking about being tired and I’m running in boots. Guess this is adrenaline.

 
Ambulance stops. Uh- huh. Uh- huh. One, two, three, lift. Head down, going to the Blackhawk. Don’t want my head cut in half. Not gonna happen since the crew chief is standing there, but then that’s irrational fear isn’t it? Roar of the rotors. Wind beating down on my neck. Lean in to hear what the crew chief is saying. Barely make him out. Tell him what’s wrong with this soldier. Load him on. Run, hunched over, back to the ambulance. Share a glance with the other guys. Make a break back for the Aid Station.

 
Get in. Call and report. Back to John. The clamp is still messed up. They’re getting ready to move him. Hold the saline and blood while they prep him.

-John , this is gonna suck.

 
They roll him over to put a hard board underneath him. He groans, growls, curses. They cover him with a woolen blanket. They start to strap him down, slide a small oxygen tank between his legs and under the strap.

- Hey be careful where you put that.

- We gotta get this on here.

- Yeah, but he has a broken pelvis. Be careful.

 
Idiots. Okay. Time to lift. Crap, my left hand. Damn frozen finger. Concentrate. Help with the other hand. Don’t drop him. One, two, three, lift. Scurry over to the Ambulance. Load in with him. Hold his blood and saline.

- Hey, keep that shit off his lap.

- It’s gotta go somewhere sir.

- Fine, hold it. Keep it off his fucking lap.

 
Okay, well I’m not gonna be that kid’s best friend. John mumbles thanks. No problem.

- Hey, I think your ballet career is over.

 
He groans. Maybe joking wasn’t the right thing to do. Crap. Time to unload him. Keep all the tubes untangled. Get him on the bird.

 
Flashback to when we did MEDEVAC training in Macedonia. Remember that rotor wash in the face. Looking up at the blades is something you never want to see again. Snap back. Get John loaded. Run back. Get next soldier loaded. They’re all loaded. Hustle out from under the blades. Stand next to the ambulance. Take a breath. Walk back to the Aid Station. Gotta report. Gotta get the rest of the information. Gonna be tired when this wears off.

 
Get in there. There’s a staff sergeant bawling out his eyes, talking, mumbling to a captain. He isn’t one of my guys, is he? Ask someone. Oh, he’s the patrol leader that was escorting the five- ton back. Sees me. The captain bolts.

- If we didn’t leave he wouldn’t be dead. (Sob, sob). Why did I take them out? (Sob, sob) We could have just stayed. This didn’t have to happen.

 
Console him. Wasn’t his fault, doing his job, he isn’t God, etc. He sees SGT Perdidas, goes over and hugs him, whispering in his ear. They cry together.

Liaisons

We liaison officers are a motley bunch. We are the discards from our battalions who’ve been deemed incompetent, warranted or not. Indeed, no battalion sacrifices its best or someone perceived useful, especially for a job that amounts to playing operator. Due to a grossly inflated ego from an awareness of my stellar, exemplary, stupendous character, I have treated my time as a liaison officer as a vacation, not as a banishment. Yesterday was a banner day with my co-workers. It began at lunch.

I sauntered off to eat round about noon and, as I was having a poor day from distressing information I’d received earlier, I opted to sit with some of my colleagues. Captain Adams, a former Navy SEAL but current pilot, had been promoted just at the beginning of the month. He was sitting with Captain Wingard, a National Guard Special Forces Captain (that a unit would relegate an apparently valuable piece to this job speaks volumes) and LT Terpstra, the Brigade Movement Control Officer. LT Terpstra is a bit slow on the uptake to put it mildly, though I find him amusing. CPT Adams, while a bit of a blowhard, is a good enough guy. CPT Wingard has never seemed to be anything other than a foul tempered, smug… well, we’ll just cede the point that I’m not a fan of the man.

At any rate, as I sat down the two captains were berating the poor LT Terpstra, who’d made the mistake of unveiling his Boston- bred, liberal opinions. Adams and Wingard were making the enlightened point that Islam needed to be wiped off the face of the planet and the befuddled, flustered lieutenant was trying to make the counter-argument that Christianity was responsible for its fair share of blood and mayhem. I quietly listened along, which some might find astonishing given my supposed propensity for verbosity, though I submit that I was genuinely fascinated by grown men debating earnestly with a skill which recalled grade school. I finally spoke out, with only the intention of acting as umpire, after CPT Adams, trying to deflect LT Terpstra’s point, made reference to Cortes’ slaughter of the Aztecs having happened in the THIRTEENTH century. I looked at him strangely to see if he were kidding and when it was apparent that he wasn’t, I reminded him that Columbus had landed in 1492. He began to argue with me.

I thought that perhaps he was following a technique that I often employ, where I’ll argue vehemently for an absolutely ridiculous point as a method of adding levity to a discussion that has become a tad too heated, but, no, that did not turn out to be the case. Perhaps he felt that as a Captain he could not admit that he was capable of being incorrect, a trait that I have seen in many superior officers. Perhaps he truly did have the poorest exploration historical education that I’ve witnessed in a college- educated man. Regardless, he stuck to his guns.

His argument was that, sure, Columbus had landed in 1492 but Cortes was earlier, and so was De Leon for that matter. What absolutely floored me though was that then Wingard started backing him up as they fabricated the official Moronic Captain’s History (MCH). They both snidely laughed to each other about how the little lieutenants had been taught all the wrong things out of their school history books, which they claimed were propagandized (though they didn’t state how fabricating Columbus as the discoverer over their champions was a benefit). I was apoplectic. How on earth could this actually be going on? I was just stunned. They both went on to include in their MCH that St. Augustine had been founded in the 1470s but that it wasn’t the oldest town in the US because there was one up in Maryland that had been settled in the 1300s. CPT Wingard’s evidence was that his brother “used to live in that town.” CPT Adams went on to add that the Santa Maria had landed at Plymouth Rock. I nearly had an aneurysm, but, fortunately, not even CPT Wingard would back him on that fantasy, so he said “oops” and went back to his previous blathering.

Finally, it came down to a matter of wagering. I had no cash and it felt flat- out wrong to take money that easily, so I proposed forty pushups in the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) where we work. Wingard elegantly called me a “pussy.” Adams accepted my wager of pushups and Terpstra’s wager of ten dollars, though I watched the two Captains bamboozle Terpstra by having him exchange bills back and forth until I’m pretty sure they conned five off of him. I left them as they continued to bicker because I’d had all the stupidity I could take.

When I got back in the TOC, the computer that we were to use to settle the argument was occupied, so I waited. As I read a book, the three schmucks came in and Wingard snidely questioned what the answer was. I explained that the computer was occupied and went back to playing solitaire on my computer, which, sadly, appears to be my real occupation here. I saw that CPT Adams had gotten on the computer and so I sat next to him to get a good look at him when he ate crow. I suspect he finally realized he was wrong because he refused to look up the answer, instead checking on finance. I went back to my seat. After a while, I faintly heard CPT Adams mention that “technically” I was right. I gave him a wee bit of hell.

When he finally came back to his accustomed spot he tried to save face by saying that De Leon hadn’t gone before Columbus but had been on the trip with him. Then Wingard asked which one had gotten off the boat first. Adams said something about De Leon being a foot soldier. Then he tried to say that he had been right because De Leon was in Florida before Columbus. At that point, I’d had enough.

“If you see an Olympic weightlifter, you’re not going to challenge him to a weightlifting competition, right?” I queried, a smirk on my face.

“Yeah…,” followed along Adams

“Well, then why in the hell would you think to argue with ME about anything?”

“Wait, are you saying you’re better at arguing” perplexedly chimed in Terpstra.

“No, I’m merely stating that I’m the smartest person in the Brigade Sector and that it is asinine to compete with me about this…Tell you what,” I said to CPT Adams, “I won’t try to tell you about being a SEAL, and you don’t try to tell me about ANYTHING ELSE.”

I rolled with laughter. They were pissed. I laughed harder.